Cut and Run (14 page)

‘You wanted her tortured first, remember? Someone – I suspect it was Hunter – tipped off the police and they arrived before I could get it done.’

‘And the boathouse?’

‘It wasn’t as deserted as your people thought. I was disturbed by the owners and had to get out before the police arrived.’

‘You couldn’t just kill her before you left?’

Rickard wasn’t about to say that Imogen had caught him off-guard and knocked him into the water before tearing free from the rotted beam he’d cuffed her to. In hindsight, both had been supreme errors of judgement. Slips like that would plant more than a seed of doubt into his employer’s mind about his ability to finish the job. And that simply wouldn’t do.

‘Circumstances overtook me,’ was all he’d say in reply.

‘Then let us ensure that circumstances always bend our way in future.’

The dial tone cut in.

Hung up on again? Rickard jammed his phone into his pocket. He fucking hated that. And he fucking hated his employer. If it wasn’t for the huge sum of money he was being paid he would forfeit the work in exchange for putting a bullet in the unctuous bastard’s face, after he’d introduced the serpent by way of its ceramic-bladed fangs.

He was in the private parking lot under the tower where he lived with Alisha. Thirteen floors above him, in the converted loft, his beautiful young wife would be waiting for him. She wouldn’t be expecting him back yet. Nice surprise coming, Alisha honey.

He locked his Lexus, the tools of his trade secure in a hidden compartment under the back seat, and walked through the silence and faint exhaust fumes of the underground lot. Other cars were parked in their allotted spaces, but it was a work day and many of the tower’s residents were out, so much of the lot was empty. His heels tapped the concrete, the echo a faint drum roll in his ears. It was like the build-up to a shocking turn of events.

He wondered again about his employer’s words. Where are you?

He stopped and listened.

Checked the shadows.

Nothing.

Don’t get paranoid, he told himself.

He called the elevator, taking out his keys that would allow him private access to the uppermost floor. While the elevator descended with a mechanical roar, he placed his back to the doors and spied back into the parking lot. There was no movement, no subtle sounds of a man in hiding. He exhaled. Turned as the doors swept open and he took a step inside.

The man standing in the elevator held something in his right hand. He was in the process of lifting it.

Rickard jerked, and so did the man.

But then the man came forwards with a sheepish grin on his face.

‘Jeez! Don’t you just hate it when that happens?’ he said.

‘Gave me the fright of my life,’ Rickard laughed.

The man weaved round Rickard, continuing to bring his mobile phone to his ear. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘Have a nice day, buddy.’

‘You too,’ Rickard said, as he pushed his key into the override control and flicked it to the extreme right and jabbed fourteen. Rickard’s fingers were trembling as he watched the man walk away to his Mercedes.

His shivering wasn’t fear. It was a release of the violence that jolted through his system at the man’s appearance. The man had been a split second from having his windpipe collapsed before Rickard had checked himself. He didn’t recognise the man as a tenant of the building, but he’d never socialised with any of them before so he could very well be. What he had recognised was that the object in his hand was nothing more dangerous than a mobile phone.

The doors closed with a hiss and started the steady climb to his loft. The enclosed space was full of the man’s cologne. His back to the wall, he counted each floor as he passed, steadying himself. At twelve he let out a ragged breath as he felt the elevator slow on pneumatic brakes. Unlucky thirteen was never a factor in any hotel, and it wasn’t here either. The doors opened on to floor fourteen. He pulled out his key and moved out into the short corridor leading to his apartment. He could hear the soft strains of music wafting along the corridor. Amy Winehouse feeling sorry for herself for being no good. Interesting choice of music, he thought.

He inserted his key in his door, pushed it open silently and stepped inside. He couldn’t see Alisha anywhere in the open space of the living room. The music volume was high. Depressing song, but uplifting in its force. He closed the door and stood while the music throbbed round him. He inhaled. He could smell her. And something else. Cologne. It was as musky as it had been in the elevator.

He exhaled.

He wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe the scent had been carried in on his own clothes.

That was the plan, but he stalked quickly across the room and threw open the door that led to his bedroom. Alisha wasn’t there either. He checked the spare bedroom and the gymnasium, went back into his bedroom and checked the en-suite bath. Empty. Steam and heat still permeated the air. Someone had showered recently. He checked the toilet. Then he backed out of the room and went through into the living room again. The cologne had dissipated, but its memory was still there. He noticed that the door to the roof was unlatched.

A short flight of stairs led up to the roof. He didn’t have time for gardening, but in her spare time he knew that Alisha liked to go up there and sit among the palms and fronds she’d imported. She had a deckchair and a little table beside it where she’d rest those damn paperbacks she was so fond of reading. Often she’d have a margarita while devouring her latest book.

She wasn’t in her customary position.

Alisha was standing with her arms resting on the rail at the side of the building. She was looking down. Probably watching as the Mercedes was driven away. Her blond hair was loose and hung halfway down her back, damp from a recent shower. She was wearing a sheer gown over equally sheer underwear. Her tanned legs looked just great. One ankle was bent as she rolled her toes in her sandals. He thought about touching that ankle. Snaking his fingers round it. Good leverage for flipping her over the guard rail.

Chapter 18

‘He thinks that there’s a serpent inside him.’

‘Another loon,’ Rink said. ‘What’s with all these fruitcakes anyway?’

‘I must attract them.’

‘It seems like Imogen has the knack, as well.’

‘She’s lucky to have survived,’ I said.

Imogen was shaken but other than a few scrapes and bumps she was going to be all right. The doctors were still trying to identify the drug used to sedate her, and until they were confident that her system was clear of the residue they wouldn’t sign her out. The feebie, SAC Hubbard, wanted to conduct a thorough debrief with her once she was released from the hospital and he promised that afterwards he would put a guard on her until this was all finished with. Now that he’d heard from Imogen, Walter and Bryce Lang, he’d come to the same conclusion as I had, that the killer had disguised himself as me, dropped my name to Linden Case, because he’d been trying to set me up for his crimes. Hubbard wasn’t so sour, and his raisin eyes held a more genuine twinkle now. Maybe my first opinion of him had been a little misguided: he proved a decent enough sort. Officially, he pulled off the hunt for me, but asked that no one inform the media just yet. Let my enemies think I was still hindered by the law enforcement community and they’d be overconfident and wouldn’t be as difficult to find.

I’d been given five minutes with Imogen and it was nowhere near enough. For most of it she’d cried in my arms. Her ordeal had brought everything flooding back and she cried for her dead sister; to be frank, so did I. Then she’d told me all about her latest nightmare and I toughened up again. The man who’d taken her had intended murdering her in order to punish me, but first he wanted to sate another desire. He was the worst kind of monster imaginable.

When my time was up, she wouldn’t let go of me. I gently extricated myself from her arms. Then I leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, just as she lifted her head to look at me. Our lips brushed. She’d blinked in astonishment, but then had watched me all the way to the door. Something in her gaze made me regret the intimacy, but that was overwhelmed by the sense that it was the right thing to do.

Now we were in Walter’s private jet heading south. There was me, Rink, Bryce and Walter, plus two who were the CIA man’s bodyguards. They sat behind us, iPod wires trailing from their ears.

‘Whoever or whatever he is, he’s just the man doing the dirty work,’ Walter said. ‘Someone is behind him, and it’s important we find out who that is.’

‘I’m still going with Abadia,’ Bryce said.

‘Abadia died.’ Walter was sitting in a plush leather chair, one of six in the Lear’s cabin. The plane was strictly non-smoking but he had a cigar between his teeth. The cigar wasn’t alight. He pulled it out and studied the tip. ‘He was cremated.’

Walter’s words came back to me from when I’d stopped Tubal Cain:
we don’t bury the living
. My seat was directly opposite his and I could stare into his eyes. He returned my look, and the skin at the corner of his mouth tweaked. He aimed the cigar at me. ‘You were there, Hunter. Nice and close. Did Abadia look dead to you?’

Schilling’s rounds had torn cavities in his chest. Then I thought about Jimena and the small boy and I had to shake loose the image.

‘He was dead, no doubt about it.’

‘So we forget about him and start looking for who’s really responsible,’ Walter said. It was a command, and Bryce dipped his head in acquiescence.

Back in the sheriff’s office, Walter had offered me a deal. The deal also extended to Rink. Come back to work for him. He’d offered immunity from prosecution, sanction to use deadly force and a reward package for a job well done. Neither of us had given him our answer yet, but it looked like our old controller had taken it as a given. I was prepared to go along with that misconception while his resources would help us find and kill those responsible for murdering my team.

‘When we find this lunatic, we’ll make him tell us who’s responsible.’

‘Yeah.’ Rink was as loquacious as usual.

I told Walter about our suspicions and how Harvey was cross-referencing spec-ops who had been on active duty in Colombia and who had also trained at Quantico. ‘I’m hopeful that it will point us in the right direction.’

Walter didn’t question how a retired soldier still had the wherewithal to enter the necessary databases, and I didn’t enlighten him. But maybe in future I should negotiate the same deal for Harvey that Walter had offered us.

‘We should widen the search,’ Walter pointed out. ‘Primarily it has been US and British specialists who have trained the Jungla. But other allies have been involved. I’ll get our analysts on to it.’

The Jungla are a crack team set up by the Colombian government whose express mission is to eradicate the problem of cocaine production in the country. They’re highly trained specialists, on a par with many military special forces, but they’re not military, they’re police. Where DAS are akin to the secret police, the Jungla are the storm troopers.

One of the bodyguards stood up and leaned over to whisper in Walter’s ear. Walter nodded slowly.

As the bodyguard sat down again, Walter said, ‘They obviously have a network inside the country. The man who kidnapped Imogen couldn’t have been working on his own. A boat, a delivery truck and a plane were all necessary to his plans and he needed others to set that up. We have been looking at this angle. We’ve found the plane.’

‘Great,’ I said.

Before I could ask, Walter went on, ‘It’s at a private airstrip outside of Miami. But the pilot isn’t speaking.’

‘Give me a couple minutes with him,’ Rink said.

‘Still won’t speak,’ Walter said. ‘He’s dead. A single round to the back of the head. His body was found jammed into a dumpster.’

‘So the killer’s covering his tracks, eliminating anyone who can identify him?’ It didn’t bode well for Imogen.

Walter read my meaning. ‘I’ll contact Hubbard and have her guard doubled. But I wouldn’t worry.’

Easier said than done, but I knew what he was getting at. The killer had moved on to the next part of his plan.

‘You have people on this already,’ I said. ‘Where has their investigation led?’

‘Initially they were looking at you.’

‘But you knew there was no truth in that.’ I nodded at Bryce, who’d already confirmed that. ‘They must have been looking at others.’