Hostage (4 page)

Chapter Six

Casper Mountain, Wyoming, USA

30th November, 6.06 p.m., North American Mountain Time

As predicted, the skinny guy had told Danny and Spartak everything they needed to know. Also as predicted, the skinny guy's accent was NYC. Queens. Born and bred. The same as Danny himself. Danny's instincts had been dead on. These guys were amateurs. They'd messed up bad. Now Danny was making them pay.

The skinny guy was now lying flat on his stomach in the back of the stationary black Ford Transit. Hog-tied. Blindfolded. Gagged.

Whatever drugs had earlier pumped him up had now worn off, taking all his bravado with it. He was hurt. The bruising around his face was turning black. His urine glistened on the cold metal floor.

Danny was sitting up front in the driver's seat, already dressed in black stealth clothing, buckling up a heavy Kevlar vest. The hulking silhouette of Spartak Sidarov was kneeling on the skinny guy's spine, gently rocking.

‘So dumb-ass-face,' Spartak was saying, ‘you go messing with me, and you are making my day.' Spartak jabbed two claw-like fingers into the backs of the skinny guy's knees. ‘First I shoot you here and here. Then when you fall, maybe I shoot you a new asshole also, capiche?'

Spartak was a sucker for 80s Hollywood action movies. In another life, he claimed, he could have been an actor. An Eastwood, Arnie, Vin Diesel or Van Damme. He'd confided in Danny that it was his passion for these movies which had “maken for his English to be so naturalised and off the street” – a revelation which hadn't surprised Danny one bit.

Spartak was six and a half feet tall. With shoulders not quite as wide as a car. Black-eyed and pony-tailed, he loomed over their prisoner like a werewolf – an impression that was only reinforced by his long shovel of a face, which tapered down into a messy and prematurely silvered beard.

The skinny guy squirmed in agony, whimpering like a puppy. Spartak continued to rock. He had no patience for complaining westerners at the best of times. Even less for one who'd just threatened to execute his closest friend.

Danny appreciated the loyalty. And in Spartak's case, he could understand the xenophobia too.

Spartak had been a teenager when the nuclear meltdown had occurred in his home town of Chernobyl in 1986. His father had been a member of the firefighter brigade that had been first on the scene. They thought they'd been called out to deal with a regular electrical fire. But the radiation had killed Spartak's father within the week. Before he'd lost consciousness, he'd told his only son it felt like having the skin slowly clawed from his body by rats.

Spartak had once told Danny that if he'd been a man then, he would have suffocated his father with a pillow to save him from the pain.

He'd also told Danny that when rich and healthy westerners complained about their lot, it made him sick to his core.

Spartak told the skinny guy now: ‘Since you make me leave my comfortable apartment with my Playstation and iPad and plasma TV, and bring me instead here to the middle of damn well nowhere, Wyoming, I have been reading from books in my hotel room. This town of Caspar is named for a Lieutenant Caspar Collins. A soldier who fight against a Chief Red Cloud and his army of Lakota warriors.'

Danny glanced back as Spartak continued his lecture. Danny had read a lot of history as a kid. Especially about the Indian wars and frontiersmen and Davy Crockett. He'd used them as an escape. He'd even entertained the idea of becoming an explorer himself when he grew up. But then life had got in the way.

Life and death.

‘This soldier Collins was extraordinary brave,' Spartak said. ‘He risk his life for friends. But like you, he lose control of situation. His horse, it gallop into heart of Lakota army. This Collins, he last seen alive with horse reins in his teeth, two pistols in his hands, and arrow sticking out from his head … '

Spartak rubbed thoughtfully at his beard. The skinny guy hyperventilated through his gag. He sounded as if he was going to choke.

‘They later find body of Collins like porcupine. Twenty-five arrows shot through him.' Spartak knelt down harder on the skinny guy's spine. The skinny guy's face twisted with pain. ‘You screw with me, Yankee,' Spartak said, ‘and I will do to you worse. Capiche?'

The skinny guy's scream came out a strangled growl.

Lifting his weight off the skinny guy's back, Spartak took a can of Dr Pepper from on top of his rifle case, and drained its contents in one. He let out a spectacularly long, loud belch, before crushing the can in his fist. The skinny guy grunted as the can bounced off his head.

‘OK, Danny,' Spartak said. ‘Our new friend here. I educate him so now he comprehend our needs. I think I make a good teacher, no?'

‘Sure,' Danny answered. ‘I can see any number of Swiss finishing schools queuing up for your services.'

Spartak laughed and made some wisecrack, but Danny was no longer listening. He was staring through a pair of night binoculars out through the Transit's tinted windshield.

A hundred yards farther up the mountain canyon, a Winnebago caravan stood at the centre of a small clearing. The surrounding branches shivered in the wind. But apart from that, nothing moved.

Danny's mind raced. He imagined slipping into the woods. Like a ghost. Through the trees. He was carving out directions in his mind. Approaches. Ways to get in and out of that Winnebago in one piece.

The engine was overheated from their drive out here. It was too late to call for back up. Or call in the cops. Already too many bodies for that. And time was running out. All thanks to the skinny guy trussed up in the back.

His name was Anthony Arwin. A high school drop-out. A petty thief. Not even part of a gang. His story was he'd followed a girlfriend to Washington DC eighteen months ago. He took a job as a night watchman for the Watts Property Group. Got himself a big crystal meth habit. Bigger gambling debts. Broke up with the girl, but stuck with the job. Until two months ago, when he'd been fired after a wad of petty cash had gone missing from a senior exec's desk drawer.

That was when Anthony Arwin had decided to kidnap Ricky Watts's wife. Partly out of financial necessity. Partly jealousy and revenge. Partly because he could. He'd once overseen the delivery of a home-office set-up to Ricky Watts's opulent Georgetown mansion. After that, deciding when to track down Mary and snatch her had been a cinch.

Arwin was the so-called brains behind the kidnapping. Although, glancing in the rear-view mirror now, Danny guessed he sure as hell wasn't feeling too smart right now. Arwin's dead buddies' names were Bob Harris and Maurice Shapiro.

Shapiro was another meth head. A loser. In it for the buzz and the money. Bob just wanted money. He was Arwin's little cousin. A low-rent hacker who'd run a credit card scam back east. A clever kid, whose learning curve had just flatlined. He'd nearly got himself busted, before he'd hooked up with Arwin. He'd come in on the kidnap, because he'd needed a quick way to raise himself some capital and go legit. And because his cousin Arwin had promised him that no one would get hurt.

Arwin had lied. He'd suckered his cousin in because he'd needed his technical know-how. Arwin hadn't even tried to stop Maurice from hurting Mary Watts. Or prevent Ross Dalio from doing what he'd done to her. Over and over, during the three days since Mary had been grabbed.

Ross Dalio was the only member of the gang who'd done time. Statutory rape. Robbery. The way Danny saw it, this was his third strike. It was time he was taken out.

Dalio was inside the blacked-out Winnebago now. Mary with him. Alive, Arwin had sworn. Mary Watts was still alive. But only so long as Arwin, Shapiro and Bob turned up with the bonds. Which clearly wasn't going to happen. Not now that two of them were dead.

Danny checked his watch. ‘Eight minutes,' he said.

‘Check,' Spartak agreed.

A no-show from Dalio's accomplices by 6.15 p.m., and Dalio's job was to kill Mary. Then get the hell out. He'd do it too, Arwin swore. For the fun of it. According to Arwin, Ross Dalio was a real psycho. A headcase. So tough he didn't give a damn.

Danny would soon see about that.

‘Let's move,' he said.

Spartak opened the Transit's back doors and dragged the skinny guy out feet first. There was a thud and a groan as Arwin hit the wet ground. Spartak tore off Arwin's blindfold, cut his ankles free and jerked him to his feet.

Arwin didn't look so much the Hollywood hero now. More like a little kid next to the massive bulk of his Ukrainian minder. He looked terrified. And why wouldn't he? Spartak prodded his rifle into Arwin's chest.

‘I am watching and I am listening,' he said. Calmly. Informatively. Like a computerised message system listing options. ‘Cross me,' he said, ‘and I will shoot to kill and I will not miss.'

Arwin looked like he wanted to cry. He turned in desperation to Danny, who was now standing beside Spartak, clipping a fresh magazine into his MK 23 pistol.

‘Please,' Arwin said, his voice now quavering like he was speeding over bumps in a car. ‘Ross sees me turn up on my own and he'll do her. I swear it. He'll know we've screwed up. He'll do me and then he'll do the bitch.'

Bitch … it took all of Danny's self-control not to knock him right back to the ground again.

‘You let me worry about that,' Danny said. ‘You just keep him talking.'

‘And think about the barrel of this gun pointing at the back of your head,' Spartak said. ‘Do not try and be brave like a cowboy, Yankee. Do not end up dead like that Lieutenant Collins or your John Wayne.'

Danny stared into the cold, dark woods. There were many places he'd rather be. But his work was here. And so was Mary. It was time to finish what Anthony Arwin had begun.

‘Give me a one minute start,' Danny told his friend. ‘Then cut him loose.'

Chapter Seven

Casper Mountain, Wyoming, USA

30th November, 6.09 p.m., North American Mountain Time

The icy wind hissed like static in the trees. The air was heavy with moisture and the dank scent of pine. Danny ran due south to begin with. Away from the Winnebago. Into the undergrowth. Balaclava down. Night-vision goggles on.

The goggles fed off light thrown down from the stars and the faint miasma cast up from the nearby city of Casper. They were auto-focussing. Retina-guided. Smart-chipped. A world away from the spy-shop crap Arwin and his team had been tooled up with.

The goggles turned Danny's vision night-green but crystal clear also. As if he was lancing through stagnant water, a ravenous pike in search of prey.

The thermal-imaging sub-programme in the goggles showed up rabbits and mule deer as patches of red. But Danny saw nothing any bigger than these. Certainly no people. And Danny was lucky in this at least. Because there could have been campers up here. Hunters too, here to kill pronghorn and elk. He had the weather to thank for the fact that there weren't.

As he ran across the wet ground, Danny hardly made a sound. He was in his element now. Even before he'd joined the military, his father had taught him how to hunt at night.

After a hundred yards, Danny began his loop. First round to the west. Then north. Hurdling fallen branches. Weaving through the bushes and trees. Until the long rectangular silhouette of the Winnebago finally came back into sight. This time from the rear.

Danny slowed. Thirty yards out now. Moving in.

Arwin had told him that Ross Dalio was the only one in there. But Danny only ever believed what he saw with his own eyes. He scanned the ground around the back of the Winnebago. Plenty of bootprints. Could be those of Arwin and the dead guys. Or maybe there were more of them inside.

There was a single door at the back of the Winnebago. A crack of light showed. Which meant the door was either loose or unlocked. Two windows. Blinds down. Danny's goggles showed a patch of fierce red to the right of the door. Most likely a stove. A lighter patch to the left. Down low.

Could be someone slumped in a confined space against the back wall. Danny was guessing Mary. Just like in the photo. In the toilet. Limbs bunched up. Most likely gagged and tied. Or drugged.

Danny ditched his goggles. Dalio had the lights on inside. Bust in there with his goggles on and he would be left blind.

He checked the luminous hands on his watch. Three minutes left till Dalio was due to execute Mary and clear out.

Spartak would be out there in the woods just like Danny. Both of them settling into position. Moving with precision. Like two lethal dancers.

Danny moved in closer to the Winnebago. He waited with his back pressed close against a tree.

He didn't need to worry about Spartak. If anything, the Ukrainian was better trained than Danny himself. Ex-KGB and FSB. But like Danny he was a freelancer now. He wasn't afraid of anything except drowning. And the nearest deep river was three kilometres away.

Danny trusted Spartak Sidarov with his life.

Arwin's voice broke the silence of the cool night air. Round the front of the Winnebago. Beyond Danny's line of sight.

‘Ross,' he called out. ‘It's me, Tony.'

Silence, then:

‘What about the others?' another man called back.

Ross Dalio. The rapist. The one who'd been taking his time with Mary. Again, Danny pictured the bruises on her face and neck. He nodded to himself. Not long now, before the two of them met.

‘They're back down the trail,' Arwin yelled back. ‘We blew a tyre. So come on out here. We're gonna need your help.'

So far, so good, Danny was thinking. Arwin was doing what he'd been told, drawing his accomplice out.

But then Dalio shouted. ‘Where's your bike?'

‘Back there in the trees.'

‘I never heard you coming.'

Arwin didn't answer.

Dalio called out, ‘Come out where I can see you.' There was a pause. ‘Do it, or I ain't coming out at all.'

‘OK, man. OK.'

Another pause, then Dalio's voice exploded with fury. ‘What the fuck?' he shouted. ‘What the fuck is wrong with your face?'

The bruising. Dalio must have spotted it, even in the dark.

Danny moved quickly. Up to the Winnebago, beneath the window. Using a palm mirror, he searched the curtain for a gap, a way to see in. But he couldn't even get a glimpse.

Out front, Arwin shrieked. ‘No. Don't. It's not what you think. It's …'

Then Danny heard what he'd hoped he wouldn't.

A shotgun roared. Once. Twice. It echoed through the night. Its retort sounded like a double barrel to Danny. This wasn't the kind of thing he'd normally bet his life on, but tonight he had no choice.

Arwin was most likely already dead. Mary would be next. The time for caution had gone.

Danny drew his pistol and busted shoulder-first through the back door of the Winnebago.

He scrambled inside. Sprawled. But then his pistol flew from his grip and skittered across the laminate floor. He had been snagged by a tripwire. This Dalio clearly wasn't as dumb as his friends.

But fortunately he wasn't a genius either.

Black-bearded, long-haired, with tattoos running the lengths of his arms – Dalio was crouched by the front door. As he spun round to face Danny, Danny saw that he'd been right: the shotgun Dalio was holding was a Benelli. Double barrelled, not pump.

Dalio swung round, aimed at Danny, and pulled the trigger. But all the gun did was click. As Danny scrabbled to his feet and dived for his pistol, Dalio did the math that Danny'd already done. Two shots fired. No shots left. He leapt to his feet and raised the gun like a club above his head. Then brought it swinging down.

Danny rolled left, crashing into the table. A fold-out. The surface went from ninety degrees right through to one-eighty. It slammed Danny down hard against the wall. Plastic plates and steel pans clattered to the floor. Danny lunged for his pistol. But Dalio got there first. He kicked it spinning away. Under the stove. Out of reach.

Dalio roared, swung again. Again Danny rolled. Again he escaped the blow. This time, Dalio's momentum carried him on past Danny. He teetered in the open back doorway. Danny didn't hesitate. He kicked out and sent him tumbling into the night.

Danny was on him in less than two seconds.

Dalio was strong, stronger than Danny. But Danny was better trained. He took him round the throat. Cut off his oxygen supply. Cut off his strength. The bigger man made a high-pitched keening sound as Danny upped the pressure. Only a matter of time now until he passed out.

But Dalio still wouldn't quit. He kept flapping his arms around, trying to pull Danny off.

Then Danny heard a schnicking noise. Metal on metal. The unmistakable sound of a stiletto knife being drawn.

Danny didn't try to disarm him. Too big a risk. He couldn't even know which hand the knife was in. He did the only thing he could to ensure his and Mary's safety. He quit trying to pacify Dalio. He decided to kill him instead.

He did it quick. Like he'd been taught to. Cranked the neck. Whipped the chin sideways. Forced the crown down hard the opposite way. Dalio's body spasmed. Then went slack.

Danny tightened his grip on Dalio's neck, just to be sure. He clamped Dalio's head tight against his chest. Then stared into his eyes. Dalio's pupils dilated in the rectangle of light thrown down from the open Winnebago door. It was the last movement they made.

A creaking sound. A shadow fell. Danny twisted round to see Spartak standing in the open doorway.

‘Clear,' he said. He must have broken in the other side.

‘How is she?' Danny asked. She. Mary. The reason they were here.

‘Alive. Handcuffed. She will not speak to me.'

‘What about Arwin?'

‘Roadkill. And that guy?'

‘The same.'

Danny turned Dalio's corpse over and went through his pockets. He found a golden Zippo lighter engraved with Dalio's initials. A tobacco pouch and two twenty-dollar bills. Then what Danny had been looking for: keys for the cuffs.

He stood. He slipped Dalio's Zippo into his pocket.

‘Call Crane,' he said. ‘Tell him it's done. Tell him how many bodies he's going to have to make disappear.'

Four dead. And Danny didn't give a damn about any of them, except for maybe Bob. Camp follower. Most likely bullied and coerced. As for the rest of Arwin's crew, they'd got what they deserved. Never start a fight you can't finish. They should have thought about that, before they'd decided to destroy Mary's life.

It wouldn't take Crane long to get here. He was only a few miles away, waiting for news with Ricky Watts. He had a clean-up team with him. The fact that there were no survivors meant a lot less hassle for everyone involved. It meant there was no need to involve the police. All they needed to do was dispose of the bodies. The Winnebago would be burned. It would be like none of this had happened.

Except for Mary. For her the last three days might never end.

Danny went back inside to tend to her. He noticed the smells now. Cheap cigarettes. Spilt beer. Pizza. He pulled a blanket off one of the bunks as he passed.

He found Mary in the toilet cubicle. Bruised. Filthy. Her eyes were glazed. She stared through him as he knelt down beside her and gently covered her with the blanket.

‘You're safe now,' he said as he took off her restraints. ‘It's over.' Her wrists were black and bloody. Three of her fingers were broken. He was still full of adrenaline, but he forced his voice to be calm. ‘I work for your husband,' he said. ‘He sent me to find you. I'm here to take you home.'

Her eyes registered nothing. She didn't even blink. Danny checked her pulse. It was regular. She might have been at home watching TV. It was obvious to him that something inside her had switched off. Had been snapped.

‘You need to come with me now,' he said, slipping his hands beneath her arms and raising her up.

She didn't resist. Didn't do anything. Didn't even try to support herself. He lifted her out of the cubicle and up onto him, her chin resting on his shoulder, looking back. She didn't move. She was dead weight. A casualty.

But when he walked towards the open front door through which Spartak had entered, her body went rigid. It was as if she'd been electrocuted. Then she started screaming. She tore herself free.

Danny looked back and saw Dalio. Raised up high the way she'd been, Mary had seen his body behind them. Out through the open back door. Lying there in the dirt.

Now she ran at it and threw herself upon it. She started screeching, cursing, beating it, clawing, ripping at Dalio's warm dead flesh with her jagged nails and teeth.

Danny didn't try to stop her. He understood. He looked away and waited for her to burn herself out.

He went to her then. He wrapped the blanket around her once more and held her in his arms. Mucus encrusted her lips. Her eyes were slits. Her breathing slowed. Within seconds, he knew, she'd be asleep.

‘Can you hear me, Mary?'

When she didn't respond at the second time of asking, he lifted her onto his shoulder and walked with her into the dark. He'd carry her to the Transit. Into the warmth. He'd keep her safe until her husband came to take her away.