Contract to Kill (32 page)

The passenger door of the van flew open, knocking the gunman sideways.

Way to go, Chip.

Mason used the opportunity to finish the man. He pivoted around the fender, lined up on the guy before he could recover his balance, and fired three quick shots. The shimmering laser jumped with each discharge, but didn’t wander from the gunman’s forehead.

The man’s expression went blank, and his mouth formed an O shape.

Then, as if tired of standing, the man sat down to die.

Mason stepped forward and twisted the Glock out of the gunman’s hand, then tossed it into the van.

The man who’d pushed the cart had abandoned his cargo. Making a beeline for the wharf, the guy ran at a full sprint. If he made it to the edge, he might jump in and try to swim under the docks for cover.

“Darla, do you see a gun on the rabbit?”

“Negative.”

“Shoot center mass.”

Mason leaned against the van to steady his aim and painted the laser on the man’s back. He heard Darla’s rifle report at the same instant he fired. As before, the subsonic shots were barely audible. The man shuddered but kept going. Mason aimed dead center and sent two more bullets, hoping for a spinal cord hit.

The fleeing man reached back as if trying to wave off a swarm of bees and changed direction. The guy had taken at least five bullets, but they hadn’t slowed him down much. Mason knew subsonic .22s didn’t deliver a lot of energy, but they had to sting like the devil, and some of them—depending on the thickness of his clothes—might’ve punctured a lung.

Rather than jump into the water, the guy turned south and paralleled the wharf. He was probably worried he couldn’t swim with bullets lodged in his back.

Mason took off in pursuit. He couldn’t let that guy report this heist to Alisio.

After he cleared the row of parked cars, Mason angled toward the marina’s office building and triggered his radio. “Darla, switch to your handgun and sprint south along the parking lot’s perimeter fence. I’ll try to drive him to you. I’ll be coming in from the north. Let me know if you lose sight of me.”

“Copy.”

“Chip, make sure Michaels is secure and load the duffels into the van. Do your best to conceal the bodies under the parked cars. Stand by to bug out.”

“Michaels is out cold, but I’ll cuff him anyway.”

Mason saw the cart pusher’s head bobbing as he ran. Through a hole in the parked cars, he also saw a handgun in the guy’s hand. “Darla, he’s got a nonsuppressed pistol.”

“Copy. I’ve still got eyes on you.”

The fleeing man looked over his shoulder.

Mason was ready for him to stop and return fire, but the guy kept running. At the wharf, Mason turned south and saw the man run past the access gate to the dock. He disappeared on the far side of the office building inside a group of small boats suspended on blocks.

Mason inserted a full magazine into his pistol. “He’s hiding in the dry-docked boats just south of the office. Stay east of them and be ready to move. I’m going to pepper the area. Copy?”

“I’ll be ready.”

Mason saw the camera above the dock’s gate and avoided its cone of vision. He diverted to the west side of the office building, used its wall for cover, and toggled his laser.

“I lost you
,
”
Darla said.

“I’m holding position at the office’s northwest corner.”

“Affirm. I’ve got you.”

“I’m giving you cover fire . . . Now.” He painted the hull of the nearest boat, then lowered his aim to the ground and opened fire, walking the rounds along the underside of its keel. Some of the small-caliber bullets whistled as their deformed shapes cartwheeled at 950 feet per second. His goal wasn’t to score a direct hit; he just wanted the guy distracted so that he wouldn’t see Darla’s flanking maneuver.

“Darla?”

“Nothing yet.”

Mason changed magazines and sent another barrage.

“I’ve got a bead,”
Darla said.

Mason stopped firing and listened for the report of Darla’s handgun. A muted clap rang out.

“Affirm: he’s down.”

“Make sure he’s dead and conceal the body as best you can. We’re leaving in thirty seconds. Chip?”

“All set.”

Back at the van, he found Chip behind the wheel, ready to go. He looked through the driver’s side window and saw the duffels piled up next to Michaels. Excitement stirred. He was tempted to open one of them, but it could wait until they cleared the area.

“Darla, cruise out of here without speeding. Get eyes on Harbor Drive, we’ll be right behind you.”

“Copy.”

“Get going, Chip. Normal speed like Darla.” As inviting as it was to run, Mason walked over to his SUV. He knew the bodies would be discovered before too long, but he planned to be miles away by then. At best, a witness might be able to offer a general description of some vehicles leaving the marina, but Mason wasn’t concerned. The entire gun battle had taken less than two minutes.

Before getting behind the wheel, he scanned the area and didn’t see anyone watching him.

“Darla, Chip and I are mobile. Turn right at Harbor, left on Nimitz, then right on Rosecrans. Wait for us to catch up. Chip’s driving the van.”

“Copy
.
”

In his rearview mirror, Mason saw the prone forms of dead men stuffed under the parked cars and had mixed feelings. He hadn’t relished killing them, but if they were associated with Alisio, that made them complicit in murder, human trafficking, smuggling, and everything else illegal.

Three less scumbags walking the planet
.

A pleasing thought, but he still felt unsatisfied. For scheming with a scumbag like Alisio, the South Koreans needed a bigger black eye. He made a U-turn, drove down to the wharf, and grabbed his M4 from the backseat.

After a quick look around, he climbed out, leveled the assault rifle at the closest fishing boat, and pulled the trigger.

With a tremendous roar, the M4 answered the call. A curved procession of spent brass flew into the water as he unloaded the entire magazine into a tight group at the waterline of the hull. Fiberglass splintered and cracked. Within a few minutes, that fishing boat would need a submarine for an inspection.

“Mason, you okay? I just heard gunfire.”

“Affirm, Chip, just indulging myself. I’m right behind you.” He felt relief when he turned onto Harbor and didn’t hear any sirens. Darla’s vehicle was gone, but he saw the van’s taillights just ahead.

Adrenaline stirred as he imagined what 300 million pesos looked like.

He’d know soon enough.

Traffic on Rosecrans was light, and Mason had no trouble spotting the van.

“Chip, I’ve got eyes on you,” Mason said. “Go east on the Eight.”

Both Chip and Darla copied they’d heard his transmission.

Now what?
Michaels said he got the exchange location via a cell call about an hour after the delivery to the marina. But that assumed there hadn’t been a firefight. Mason didn’t have a lot of options at this point. He’d keep Michaels alive and hope the call came anyway. He didn’t think any of the South Koreans were alive to report the raid, but that didn’t mean whoever made the call about the exchange location wouldn’t learn of it.
More proof that shit happens
, thought Mason. At least he had 300 million state-of-the-art counterfeit pesos and had ruined Alisio’s deal—not the end of the world.

He passed the Econoline and the sedan and radioed for them to follow him onto eastbound I-8. He took the Hotel Circle exit, led them under the freeway over to the Fashion Valley mall, and pulled into the closest parking structure. He scanned the area for security patrols before driving up to the fourth level. At 0615, the parking structure was all but empty. To avoid drawing attention from a security patrol, Mason didn’t intend to be in here longer than a few minutes.

The three vehicles parked side by side in the middle of an open expanse of concrete. Mason asked about Top Hat’s status, and Chip relayed he was still unconscious.

With Darla at his side, Mason joined Hahn at the van’s rear bumper.

“Let’s have a look,” Mason said. He opened the double doors and pulled his knife. The image from Mullah Sanjari’s compound flitted through his mind. A box of cash, ripe for the taking but equally untouchable. Now, things were different. He’d earned this, and he didn’t feel any guilt having it.

He cut the plastic tie and pulled the two zippers apart.

What he saw astonished him.

He wasn’t looking at bundles of counterfeit pesos but worthless South Korean fashion magazines held together by parcel twine. Red-lipped models with seductive smiles sneered at him.

“What the fuck is this?” Chip asked.

Thinking the money might be underneath, Mason tore the top layer of magazines out and was rewarded with a second layer of equally worthless periodicals. He turned the bag over and dumped its contents on the concrete. Not a single bundle of pesos fell out.

Chip stepped forward and opened a second bag.

More magazines.

Mason opened a third and fourth and found the same thing. “Check the magazines,” he said. “Maybe the money’s inside.”

Darla reached down and grabbed a bundle from the ground. She cut the twine and thumbed through the pages. Nothing fell out but subscription cards. She got the same result with ten other bundles.

“Fuck!” Chip yelled.

Darla smacked the van’s side with an open hand.

“Now what?” Chip asked. “We’ve got shit.”

It was worse than that. Not only had they sacrificed their jobs, they were likely on the FBI’s most-wanted list. Murder, coupled with kidnapping, was a federal crime. At best, the three of them had around $100,000 stashed at the safe house, but that wasn’t going to last long. They could flee the country and scratch out a living for a few years, but that was a far cry from the lifestyle Mason had imagined.

“We can’t let Alisio get away with this,” Chip said.

“What if it wasn’t Alisio?” Darla offered. “Maybe it was the South Koreans, or even Ramiro.”

“You mean he set us up?” Hahn asked.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Mason said. “Right now, we’re out of here. Set an IED for ninety seconds. We’re torching the van.”

Mason thought about Darla’s question. It seemed outrageous. Why would Ramiro betray him, and why now? It didn’t make sense. Mason held Ramiro’s fate in his hands. Mason didn’t believe Ramiro would risk an agonizing death by double-crossing him. Ramiro was well aware of how horribly Special Agent Hutch had died. No way. It was far more likely the phony duffels were a sting to test Top Hat’s loyalty, and if so, there would be no follow-up call relaying the location of the real exchange. Thinking about it more, it answered lots of questions. The bottom line? It didn’t matter because the end result was the same: they had nothing.

“What about Michaels?” Chip asked.

“He’s worthless now.” Mason climbed in and put three bullets into Michaels’s head.
The world won’t miss a low-life scumbag like you.

Anger flared toward the old man, but he knew that wasn’t fair. Beaumont had given him another chance when no one else would touch him. For that, he’d always be grateful. He knew Beaumont had cash and other liquid assets, but robbing the old man wasn’t an option. There were certain lines he simply wouldn’t cross.

One thing was certain, that slimy troll Alisio wasn’t off the hook. He pictured the asshole in his lavish lifestyle, complete with expensive cars and homes, wine and women, gold and jewels, suitcases of cash, and the smug certainty he was untouchable. The thought made Mason ill. One way or the other, he’d find a way to kill Alisio, with or without stealing his money. Vengeance was merely delayed, not finished. They’d survive off their reserve cash and use the downtime to plan another move against Alisio.

He looked at Darla and Chip. They needed to hear something positive, something to give them hope.

“Listen up, this is far from over. Alisio’s not getting away with this shit. We’re going to regroup at the safe house and come up with a new plan. We aren’t going to beat ourselves up, and we aren’t pulling a
Thelma and Louise
. None of us could’ve predicted this. I’m going to initiate contact with Ramiro and figure out our next move. Darla, you’re with me. Chip, you’re in the SUV. Let’s get going.”

CHAPTER 31

When Special Agent Mary Grangeland stepped out of her car in First Security’s parking lot, Nathan and Harv stared despite themselves. Granted, it hadn’t been all that long since Nathan had seen her, but Harv hadn’t laid eyes on her in several years. Her shoulder-length blond hair was tied in a ponytail. Gleaming in the morning sun, she looked amazing, her light-blue eyes intense. What was her secret? Somehow Grangeland managed to look younger than ever. In any case, it felt good to see their friend again.

“Oh, man . . . ” Nathan said under his breath.

“Amen to that.”

She rushed forward, wrapped Harv in a bear hug, and took the weight off her feet. Nathan smiled at seeing Grangeland suspended in Harv’s grasp. She let go of Harv and gave Nathan a tight hug as well.

They called her Grangeland, not Mary, because she liked it that way. Everyone had been calling her Grangeland since her freshman year in high school, even her teachers. Only her mother used her first name, and only when she was in trouble.

Dressed in khaki 5.11 Tactical pants and a white golf shirt with an embroidered FBI logo, SA Grangeland was the real deal. There was nothing artificial about her, physically or mentally. He and Harv trusted her with their lives—a litmus test for any friend. The reverse was also true; either of them would lay down his life for hers.

“I must say,” Nathan offered, “your clothes . . . They, uh . . . fit you well.”

Harv offered a low whistle.

She rolled her eyes. “Hasn’t our new chief of staff been here for three days . . .
and
nights?”

Nathan looked at Harv and shrugged as if asking:
And her point is
. . .
?