Fire and ice

6:05 a.m

Pete McCray was in Nitko’s security office dumping sugar into a cup of coffee when Kevin Radowski marched in and shot him five times in the chest. McCray dropped to the tile floor facedown, knocking his ceramic coffee mug and the glass sugar dispenser off the table in the process. The blood oozing from his body mingled with the hot coffee and the sugar granules, creating a ghastly stew that, remarkably, smelled like grape jelly. Kevin finished him off with a shot to the back of the head.

“Have a nice day,” Kevin said, tipping his Nitko cap to the fallen officer.

Kevin had grown up in one of the shitty little company houses on the dirt road behind the plant. He’d had a happy childhood, mostly, but on a shelf somewhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of his subconscious cellar stood a row of Mason jars marked Bathtime with Mama. All of these jars were filled with splish-splash warmth and joy, with Mr. Bubble and toy boats and a rubber dinosaur named Roscoe.

All of them, that is, except one.

In this one particularly cloudy sample, two-year-old Kevin did something horrible, something vile and disgusting and practically unforgivable.

But he was only two, after all. He thought massaging Mama’s back with poo-poo was a good thing. He did it while she rinsed her hair, and she told him it felt oh so good. But when she looked in the mirror and discovered what Kevin had actually done to her, she cursed and shouted and violently beat his tender little ass raw with the palm of her hand.

It was the last time he ever took a bath with Mama, and the painful memory was repressed almost immediately.

Despite the nightmares and frequent bouts of constipation related to his grave mistake as a toddler, Kevin Radowski did well in school and managed to project an appearance of normalcy. In tenth grade he even tried out and made the baseball team. Some of the guys started calling him K-Rad that year, using the great major league infielder Alex Rodriguez-A-Rod-as inspiration.

The nickname stuck.

K-Rad graduated from high school with a B average, but he lacked focus and discipline and flunked out of college after two semesters. That’s when he started working for Nitko. That was twelve years ago.

K-Rad had never been arrested, had never been in any trouble with the law, and had obtained a Florida concealed-weapons permit with no problem. He owned a pair of Berettas, the M9 model used by the U.S. military and scores of police agencies, and he owned two twenty-round magazines and a silencer and a LaserMax for each pistol. He went to the firing range every chance he got. It was his hobby. It excited him in ways that a woman couldn’t.

He grabbed Officer McCray’s pistol and cell phone and shoved the items into his backpack. He knew the silenced gunshots from his Berettas would attract very little attention. Nitko was a noisy place, even in the offices. Booms and clanks and whistles and horns, electric motors blending product and pneumatic pumps sucking it through the presses and into packaging machines, forklifts whining and ventilation fans humming and every other kind of noise pollution imaginable filtered in from the production area all day every day. And on top of all that, many of the front-office employees listened to music through earbuds while they worked at their computers. An army tank could blast through the front door and they wouldn’t know it.

K-Rad closed the security office door, poured himself a cup of coffee, and waited. In a little over an hour, the real fun would begin.