A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (34 page)

Who shrugged and spoke, gently enough. ‘No threat. Not really an incentive. I have, I think, learned too much of the reasons behind this series of contracts. The snag is that there is no way to confirm it other than by watching and observing what happens as the pieces fall. The pattern behind the contract isn’t just a series of deceased accountants. It appears to be more a removal of funding. The final targets, the end-users, appear to be those being paid, not those doing the paying. One recipient in particular seems to be especially unpopular with the customer.’

‘Does this curiosity bring benefits?’ Stoner sounded genuinely interested. ‘I just got . . . tired of it all. It is very wearying.’

‘No. No benefits. Knowledge is like cancer. Once it takes a hold it’s impossible to stop it growing without surgery. And the surgery looks like murder to me. More murder. What we’re doing now feels like surgery . . . butchery. We’re contracted to remove someone else’s problem. Our problem is that we understand it too much. When I say “we” I mean
I
understand it, Chas doesn’t care. She cares less and less about less and less. That’s the escalation you’re seeing. She’s way beyond the brief now.’

‘Can’t you cool that yourselves? Involving someone else seems damned risky to me.’

‘Not while the contract is ongoing. Not easily.’

‘And you’re not going to tell me who the target actually is?’

‘No. Mostly because I might be wrong. You’re going to follow me away from here, are you not?’

Stoner met her gaze. ‘Of course. Yes.’

‘I can’t stop you, but there would be no point. I have no reason to lie about that.’ She seemed nervous, suddenly. Watching the passers-by.

‘You seem nervous,’ Stoner remarked, solicitously.

‘Surprise. You can pay. Thanks for breakfast.’

‘That’s fine. You’re a cheap date.’ She’d drunk four coffees and eaten nothing. Stoner placed a large note on the table and followed her out.

‘You’re following me. I’d prefer it if you didn’t. You have nothing to gain by following me. I’ll just lead you around in circles, call in interference and a block and lose you. Accept that and enjoy your day. Play the guitar, sing a song. Screw someone.’

‘And you.’ Stoner stood and watched as she walked to her car. Stood by its door, as if waiting for something. Then unlocked it, fired up and drove away.

32

PARK AND RIDE

Stoner drove. The skies leaked softly towards the end of the day and into the night’s dark. The roads smeared beneath the wheels of the Transporter. He watched everything and he waited for anything. He varied his speed. He took alternate lefts and rights. He found a three-lane and he drove down the centre lane at twenty under the limit. Vehicles passed him on the left and on the right. He picked out his cell phones one by one, flicked them open in turn and read their displays. No one called.

The dirty blonde maintained her recent silence. He thumbed her a text message. One word. ‘Dinner?’ Dropped the phone into the dashtop tray and watched it. It failed to respond with the electronic delight of an incoming call. He steered the Transporter through the same series of road junctions in a creative and varied way. When being followed, it was Stoner’s view that a chap should provide both challenge and entertainment for whoever was struggling with the tedious routine of following.

A phone buzzed. He swerved from one lane to another, then back, as he picked up the phone from the dashtop. It was mute. Another phone buzzed its irritation, or possibly its joy at being
a messenger. He replaced the silent device and flicked open the second. The Hard Man.

‘Where are you?’ Direct. To the point.

‘On the road again. Being followed again.’ Stoner could also produce oblique when it was needed.

‘Do you have a report for me?’

‘Yes. Of sorts.’

‘Now is a bad time?’

‘Is there urgency from your end? I’m driving in ever-increasing circles here. Should I be bringing someone to your office door? If we carry on waltzing around the city like this they are going to get dizzy soon. They’d probably appreciate a nice warm chat and a cup of that which refreshes in convivial company. Which is not me, not exactly, not at this moment.’

The Hard Man produced a competent impression of a man with nothing to say. Maybe he was thinking. Eventually, he spoke: ‘Will it wait till tomorrow?’

‘You called me, remember? Of course it will. When I reverse the tail, who knows what I’ll discover. They’re determined. Why are they following me? Do you know?’

A pause. ‘How the hell would I know who’s following you? Probably some half-stoned guitar groupie from that loud club of yours.’

‘Wouldn’t that be nice? I’m going to turn the tail. Do you have a time I should call?’

‘I’ll call you. I shall aim for maximum inconvenience, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Stoner closed the phone. Swung the Transporter into an industrial development, accelerated as hard as the heavy engine would let him, which was very hard indeed, swept through the wide and empty night-time roads, cutting the corners and sweeping the bends, taking efficient racing lines and apexing, assuming there would be no oncoming traffic and uncaring if there was,
then, as soon as he’d made enough distance to create invisibility in the eyes of his pursuers, he offed the lights, braked hard into a small service road between two dark warehouses and hand-brake-spun the Transporter to a stop; straightened it against the kerb.

Switched off. Silent in the night.

Climbed into the back. Swung into a black leather jacket, zipped it, unhooked a crash helmet from its shelf, hit the handlebar-mounted switch which motivated the hydraulic struts which lifted the rear door as high as it would lift, and carefully, near-silently, bounced the trailbike out into the night. Sat on it in silence as the van’s door closed, and watched the moving patterns of headlights as they approached, seeking the Transporter. Which sat, silent, one more anonymous van parked in a service road with at least another half dozen, their varied colours muted to mud beneath the industrial sodium yellow of the street lighting – what there was of it.

The followed becomes the follower. Prey becomes hunter. The conspicuous becomes hidden. Only one car had been following the heavy Transporter. Only one car was searching for it now. It cruised the roads, unlit. Stoner watched in dark silence. Until it moved slowly away. Stoner started the bike, it ticked over very quietly. No lights. Not even the instruments lit. He praised the military minds at NATO who had specified a bike for the battlefield. A bike which could run almost silently and without lighting. They even specified that particular and unusual ability along with the drab green paint, which was allegedly radar-fooling paint, and the large pannier boxes slung each side of the front wheel, making it look very unbikelike from many angles and particularly in the dark, an incomprehensible silhouette; they had specified a blackout switch, intended for those battlefield moments when being invisible would most certainly be an aid to survival.

Taking advantage of the studded off-road tyres and the long-travel
off-road suspension, he pottered at walking pace along the neat grassy lawns of the industrial park. Keeping close to the buildings. Drifting from pool of shadow to dimly-lit corner to another shadow. So long as the car’s engine was running, they’d not hear the bike’s muted muttering. And they would be looking for a van or a man. Not the strange angular asymmetry which is an unlit motorcycle in the dark.

He could see the car. It was cruising towards the Transporter now, slowing to check out each of the parked vans as it passed them. Well driven, smoothly done. Quiet. No fuss. No histrionics. It drew level with the Transporter, passed it slowly, paused, passed on. No more pauses; the van had been identified. Stoner watched, silently. Wondering. Would the driver leave the car to take a closer look? That would be best; that way Stoner would have some chance of identifying his followers, could even intercept them if he felt like it.

The car reached the end of the road. And with a sudden explosion of noise and illumination, the driver spun it in a wheel-spinning tyre-shredding display of precision stunt driving which ended with the car, the dull saloon, facing the Transporter, which sat, mute, immobile and inscrutable in the full glare of the follower’s headlights. A dark rabbit, caught in the hunter’s beam.

Positions held for several minutes. Stoner watched his watchers, who watched the empty van. By now they would have worked out that the van was empty, this bird had flown.

The car door opened. A woman stepped out. Trim. Very blonde. Moved with an excellent and striking fluidity. Charity? That was not Charity’s car. At least it was not the car she’d been driving earlier, and there was no reason for her to change it – it is difficult enough to spot a professional tail in the dark, it is impossible to identify make and model of pursuing vehicle from the brightness of its headlights, so she had no reason to swap, no reason at all.

Chastity, then. The killer sister. The dangerous sister. The deadly blonde sister. The extreme and increasingly disturbed sister. Apparently.

She walked smoothly to the Transporter. She moved easily. Fascinatingly fluidly. Her walk was nothing like her sister’s walk. She prowled where Charity stalked. She walked soundless over the background music provided by the idling car’s subdued engine. Leaned her back against the driver’s door of the Transporter. Rocked the van a little. No alarms. Of course there were no alarms. What use are alarms? All they do is annoy the neighbours and awaken leashed dogs. She leaned there for perhaps a half minute, gazing around her, silently interrogating the darkness but evidently receiving few answers in return. She prowled to the front of the van, leaned her ass against the VW logo on the front, spread her lowered arms out to her sides, resting her hands on the edges of the front panels. And she laughed. Once. Not loud. Not soft. Not harsh. Neither with nor without humour. And she leaned back there, lit up like a lamp dancer on a stage, for a second half minute.

Then she was moving again. Was back inside the bland car and reversing it fast to the end of the road, to the junction. Reversed without pause across the bigger road, stopped, shifted gears and pulled away forward. No hurry, no racing, just a normal pace. Fast and fluid.

Stoner was ready. The bike was moving to intercept the car as it left the industrial park, as it headed off into the rural dark. Stoner was being led, of that he had no doubt, but he needed to be sure she was really leaving. She would know he was following her. He felt respect for that. A soldier, then. Another soldier. Fighting another war.

And she drove like the soldier she surely was. Steadily. No attention-seeking speeding. Well within the limits. All lights lit and clean. Perfect positioning and careful consideration for the
few other users out in the evening. Stoner rode behind her, unlit.

The road led into the countryside, the air cooled. She was definitely leaving the scene. Stoner braked smoothly to a stop. He watched the car’s lights fade into the gloom; when they had vanished he turned, headed back to the Transporter. Why follow further? He knew who she was.

He neared the Transporter, parked, dark and silent. Switched off everything. Lifted the visor of his helmet and listened to the night. The only audible engines were a way away, a steady drone. None under big throttle, none approaching fast. He fired up and rode to the van, flicked the button on the remote and watched the rear door open. A flip of the throttle wrist, a shift of his body mass to the rear of the seat and a haul on the handlebars; the front wheel rose just enough to ride over the van’s low floor. Stoner leaned forward to avoid decapitation, rolled to a stop, killed the engine, and dismounted. Propped the bike, ratcheted it into the grip of a pair of restraining straps and flicked the remote again. Stripped off helmet and gloves, and slid between the two front seats and into bright – unexpected and unwelcome – light.

The drab saloon was back, face to face with the heavy Transporter. Stoner shook his head slowly, reached for the driver’s door and stepping down into the road. She was standing away from her car, making the most of the disfiguring shadow. He started to walk towards her. She spoke.

‘This is a gun. I dislike them myself, but this one would stop a man who, say, took one more step from . . . now.’

He stopped. Stood still. It was a night for surprises, not a night for heroics.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was quite, quite different. Not like Charity’s at all. A different pitch. Far, far less inflection. She droned her voice. Tight control then. She would fire without hesitation, of that he had no doubt at all.

‘Gut shot?’ He spoke with all the calm in the world. ‘Leg?’

‘Gut. Easier target. The light’s not good enough for cowboy tricks.’ No hostility. No emotion he could detect. ‘You got an emergency kit in the lorry? Reckon you’d survive it?’ She sounded genuinely interested. In a way. A remote way.

‘Yes and yes, but it would be a considerable inconvenience. I would need to delegate. And I do not like to do that.’

‘So I understand, Mr Stoner. That is your reputation. I admire your reputation, and I’m flattered that you’ve been set on me.’ The gun was unwavering, held in her left hand. Pointed directly at his midriff. ‘What should we talk about? We should provide the audience with some creative smalltalk, some badinage before the negotiation.’

‘If you say so, Chastity. Is that really your name? Who names their daughters Chastity and Charity? And are you really left-handed? The men you destroyed were destroyed by a right-hander.’ Stoner took a step back, leaned against the mute Transporter. If he needed to move suddenly he could gain traction from both arms as well as both legs. His options were increased.

Chastity leaned against the saloon’s own front panels. The gun’s dark eye wavered not at all.

‘Right-handed, JJ. I’m right-handed. I’m keeping my preferred hand free in case it needs to perform duties of its own. I really do dislike guns. Nasty, noisy, clumsy, toys for boys. Is it OK to call you JJ, JJ?’ There should have been a smile behind the words, but there was none. Just that gentle, smooth, purring and emotion-free voice. Educated. Very English.

‘I prefer the intimacy of a blade.’ Her right hand was suddenly and surprisingly lifting a matt black combat knife into a better light.

‘That the one you used on the heads?’ Stoner’s voice was as steady as her own. No force, no stresses.

‘Yes. Non-stick coating, y’know. The many wonders of science.’

‘Saves on the washing up, I suppose,’ Stoner spoke flatly.

‘Many unexpected benefits. Easier on the wrists.’ The knife had vanished again. The gun was steady. Both parties stood still.

‘You any preferences, JJ?’

‘About my weapons of choice or about the way I’m likely to die?’

‘Good question. Well done. OK. Enough badinage. You’ve been employed to take me down.’

‘Not so. I’ve been employed to find you. As I already told your sister. To find the whacko who chops accountants’ heads off and poses them for the camera. That would be you?’

‘Correct. I might have chosen a less dismissive expression than “whacko”, but it really doesn’t matter. You’ve found me. Well, let’s be generous, we found each other. Charity helped. She’s like that. She does like to supply a little kindness now and again. It’s that big sister routine, I think.’

‘She’s older than you?’

‘Indeed. Doesn’t look it though, does she? It’s the bathing in asses’ milk I expect. I expect she spends her days doing that. And her nails.’

‘Sibling rivalry, huh? Must be tough.’

‘No. No rivalry. What’s your plan, cowboy? You going to run me outta town? Turn me in to the law? Gun me down? Gunfight at the OK Diner?’

‘Not so far. I’m simply reporting that you’re identified and then either I or someone else will receive further instructions. Probably terminal, you know how it is, but you might get an offer of gainful employment. These are strange days. Dangerous days.’

‘They are. Yes, they are. But you don’t have a clue who I am. You don’t know where to find me. You have no contact details at all. Ditto for Charity, sweet thing that she is, she isn’t stupid. You know what I look like. What I look like at this moment, that is.
Girls can change their appearance, you know. It’s all make-up. Scary stuff for you guys. We’ve met before. Did you know that?’