Kill Fee (12 page)

M
athers stood up from his computer. “Whoa,” he said. “Holy shit.”

Stevens and Windermere hurried over. “What’s up?”

“Richard O’Brien just disappeared from the Liberty system.” Mathers pointed at his computer. “Like, literally just now.”

Windermere peered at the screen. “Peter Cook,” she read. “You’re sure you have the right file?”

“Damn sure,” said Mathers. “Same red Chevy Cruze. Same plates.”

“Same credit card,” said Stevens.

“Exactly. This is the same account. Just somebody switched out O’Brien’s name.”

Windermere looked at Stevens. Stevens shrugged. “Any word from Miami PD?” he said. “Or your guys on the ground? Anybody see anything?”

Windermere shook her head. “It’s noon there,” she said. “O’Brien’s flight home leaves in just over two hours. If he’s going to kill someone, it’s now.”

“Maybe he’s not there to kill anyone,” said Mathers. Then he shook his head. “Nah, that’s bullshit. Maybe he’s done it and nobody’s found the body.”

Stevens nodded. “He’s down there to kill,” he said, feeling frustration rise like a flood tide. “He’s down there to kill, and we’re too late to stop him.”

P
arkerson barely heard the shot. Didn’t see the muzzle flare. Saw the target go down and still couldn’t find Lind.

He was watching the target cross the slip to the
Kyla Dawn
. The big man paused at the gangway, said something to the captain, and glanced back at the Lexus. Then his gaze swept the pier. He looked straight at Parkerson in the big Cadillac and Parkerson ducked back, feeling his heart syncopate.

When Parkerson looked up again, the target was at the top of the gangway, stepping aboard the yacht. He stood on the deck a moment, catching his breath. Then he started across to where the man in the white suit stood, waiting.

There was a pop like a firecracker in the distance. The bearded man staggered backward, his shirt blossoming crimson. The captain stared. A steward hurried out to the deck. Someone screamed. Then the target’s head exploded. Parkerson gasped.
“Holy shit.”

The target dropped to the deck. The steward rushed to his side, crouched low, head up, searching for the shooter. The captain drew a pistol. He, too, searched the dock. His eyes fell on Parkerson in the Cadillac. Then kept moving.

Parkerson stayed low. Watched the chaos grow on the
Kyla Dawn
. More people approaching from aboard other boats. The steward now, shouting something. Gesturing with his hands.

In the distance, on Terminal Island, a little red Chevy backed away from the shore.

LIND MISSED LOW
with the first shot. Caught the target in the chest. His second shot put him to bed.

Lind watched the man fall. Kept the scope on him to make sure he stayed down. Then, satisfied, he lowered the rifle and clambered over to the front seat of the car.

He backed away from the shore. Drove out of the parking lot and up the island to the ramp where the road joined the MacArthur Causeway. He drove halfway up the ramp and then slowed and rolled down the driver’s-side window. Glanced in the rearview mirror; the ramp was deserted. Lind took the rifle from the backseat and hurled it over the bridge. It arced far out, over the guardrails, and fell out of sight, just as a green sedan pulled onto the ramp behind him.

Lind rolled up the window and stepped on the gas. Drove up the ramp and onto the causeway and merged with the traffic speeding toward Miami.

R
eports of a shooting.” Mathers’s voice was tight. “Miami Beach Marina. Some guy on a yacht just got capped.”

Stevens felt his stomach drop. “Tell me someone made the shooter.”

Mathers held the phone tight to his ear. “Long-range,” he said, shaking his head. “Came from across the water. Nobody saw anything.”

“Jesus Christ. Who’s the victim?”

“Nobody knows. Boat’s called the
Kyla Dawn
. Owned by some rich guy, an importer or something.”

Stevens looked at Windermere. Windermere’s mouth was tight, her eyes hard. “Well, it happened,” she said. “Now for the big test.”

“We have guys in position?”

She nodded. “Miami PD and FBI. Airport security. They’re all inside the terminal, waiting on O’Brien.”

“Christ.” Stevens paced the floor. “Christ, I wish we were there.”

Windermere nodded. “Me, too.”

S
omething was definitely wrong.

Parkerson didn’t see it at first. He’d tailed Lind back to the airport, admiring the asset’s apparent calm behind the wheel of the Chevy. He blended in with the rest of the traffic, didn’t attract attention. Drove past a couple of police cruisers and showed no signs of panic.

Parkerson felt his own nervousness dissipate as he drove. The asset was damn good. The job was done. Another hour, tops, and the show would be over.

As they approached the airport, however, Parkerson felt his internal alarm trigger. Everything was not normal. He could feel it.

There were more police cars on the road than there should be, unmarked sedans and patrol cars alike. They sat waiting on the sides of the highway, both directions, their drivers staring out into traffic, watching. Parkerson watched the asset cruise past a navy blue Crown Victoria on the side of the road. The cop inside spoke into his radio, his eyes following the little Chevy as it passed him. He pulled out, slow, and merged into traffic. Fell in just behind. Shit.

Parkerson stood on the gas pedal. Pulled out to pass the cop and the
asset just beyond, sped past them both toward the terminal in the distance. The asset was compromised, after all, and Parkerson was damned if he was going to sit around and watch.

LIND STARED
after the gray sedan that had passed him, his foot wavering on the accelerator. The car looked familiar. It looked like the man’s car. It looked like the car that had taken him away.

Lind watched the car speed toward the airport. The car had out-of-state plates. They didn’t mean anything to Lind. He hadn’t caught sight of the driver.

The car weaved in and out of traffic ahead. The driver didn’t bother to signal. Lind watched until the car had disappeared into the mix. Then he stepped on the gas pedal again.

IN MINNEAPOLIS,
Mathers dropped the phone from his ear.

“He’s on his way to the airport,” he told Stevens and Windermere. “Miami PD’s got him tailed. We’ll move on him as soon as he pulls into the rental car lot.”

Stevens nodded, pacing, the adrenaline pumping. The bullpen around him was silent. Everyone in the office seemed to be watching. Even Harris, Windermere’s boss, had come to the doorway. He caught Stevens’s eye, his expression inscrutable.

Windermere paced a parallel track to Stevens. “Come on,” she muttered. “Don’t fuck this up.”

T
here were police everywhere. Plainclothes and uniform, in cruisers and on foot. Parkerson drove into the airport complex, followed the signs toward the rental car return lots. Slowed the Caddy and waited on the shoulder for the asset to appear in the little red Chevy.

The asset drove slow, drove the speed limit, like he didn’t see the tail behind him. Like he didn’t realize the whole Miami police force was waiting to pounce. Parkerson waited until the Chevy was a few car lengths back. Then he pulled out into traffic ahead of it. Paced the asset into the vast rental car return structure. The cop in the Crown Vic followed, a few cars behind.

Wish I had a gun,
Parkerson thought.
The kid’s going to need help.

Ahead of the Cadillac, the roadway curved and narrowed into a single lane. Concrete barriers on both sides. Parkerson stopped the Cadillac and climbed out, the engine still running. Behind him, the asset stopped the Chevy. The driver behind him leaned on his horn. So did the next driver. Soon the whole structure was filled with an angry chorus of horns and impatient shouting. Parkerson ignored the cacophony and hurried back to the Chevy. Stared past at the angry drivers beyond. The road curved out and away from the parking structure. The cop was stuck somewhere in the lineup, out of sight. He’d figure something was up soon enough. Time to hurry.

Parkerson opened the Chevy’s door and peered in at the asset. The kid’s eyes were devoid of emotion, his face slack. He stared up at Parkerson like he was sleepwalking. Parkerson shivered. “Killswitch,” he said.

The asset blinked. “Change of plans,” Parkerson told him. “Come on.”

The asset let Parkerson unbuckle his seat belt and pull him out of the Chevy. Followed him back to the Cadillac and into the passenger seat. Parkerson buckled the kid in and circled around to the driver’s side. Slid behind the wheel of the big sedan, his heart pounding sixteenth notes. Shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas. The Caddy squealed away through the garage, leaving the little red Chevy marooned, the cop somewhere behind.

MATHERS FROWNED.
“Still waiting,” he said. “No sign of O’Brien.”

Windermere checked her watch. “Should have happened by now,” she said. “You’re sure they didn’t miss him?”

“They didn’t miss him. O’Brien hasn’t shown up at the Liberty desk.”

“What about his tail?” said Stevens.

“The tail followed him into the rental car return center,” said Mathers. “So we know he’s in there, somewhere. Radio reception isn’t great—all that concrete—so nobody’s really sure what the holdup is.”

“Any sign of Cook?”

“Cook’s about fifty years old and he’s got a family with him,” said Mathers. “He cleared security, and he’s waiting at his gate. Should I tell our guys to take him?”

Stevens glanced at Windermere. Windermere shook her head. “Wait on O’Brien,” she said. “Damn it, make sure they’re combing that Liberty lot. We can’t lose this guy, Mathers. Make sure they know it.”

“Roger.”

“Jesus Christ.” Windermere looked at Stevens. “What the hell’s taking so long?”

T
he asset sat in silence as Parkerson drove away from the airport. Barely moved. Just stared out the window and watched the city fly by.

Parkerson glanced at him. “You know what happened?” The asset looked at him, blank-faced. “They were waiting for you,” Parkerson said. “You know why?”

The asset shifted. “I don’t know.”

“You were careless in Minneapolis. They picked you up.”

The asset said nothing.

“Duluth, too. Someone saw you, maybe. Called in your description, your car. You were careless and they followed you down here. Now you’re fucked.”

The asset stared out the window and didn’t say anything. Parkerson searched the rearview mirror, his hands beating a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel. Saw no police cars behind him. The cops hadn’t followed. The asset was safe. Killswitch was safe—for the moment.

Parkerson kept driving. No destination in mind. Just away.