Kill Fee (30 page)

A
cross the concourse at gate A13, Parkerson sat with the asset and watched the cops search the Philadelphia crowd.

There were three of them, a black woman and two men, one older and one young. The young guy had a bandage on his cheek, and they all wore the same look of grim determination. FBI, Parkerson figured. Maybe they were the same agents who’d tracked Comm. Maybe they’d even broken into Killswitch.

Parkerson shivered a little, watching them. They’d gone straight to the Philadelphia gate. That meant they knew where Lind was based. He was compromised. Parkerson cursed himself again for not killing the kid in Florida when he’d had the chance.
One moment of weakness,
he thought,
and this whole program’s in jeopardy.

Across the aisle, the FBI agents were boarding the Philadelphia flight. They stood at the front of the line and checked faces and ID cards against the passenger manifest. It was a slow process.

Parkerson checked his watch. Then he looked at the asset. The asset stared at the carpet. Looked like he was sleeping. “Don’t move,” Parkerson told him. “Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even make eye contact, understand? I’ll be back.”

The asset didn’t look up. “Okay,” he said.

Parkerson stood and walked to the check-in desk. “Howdy,” he told the gate agent. “What do you think? Are we leaving on time?”

The agent smiled back at him. “Pretty close,” she said. “Sounds like they wanted to shut down the airport, but I don’t think that’s happening. Maybe they caught the guy. I don’t know.”

“Good stuff.” Parkerson winked at her. “Wife’ll kill me if I get home too late.” He grinned at the gate agent again, and then hurried back to rejoin the asset. Sat beside him and stared across the aisle, watching the FBI agents and praying they didn’t look in his direction.

G
od damn it,” said Windermere. “He’s not here.”

They’d worked through the entire manifest. Boarded the whole flight. The gate agent stood at the top of the Jetway, eyebrow raised. “Everyone checked in,” she said. “Can I go ahead and close the aircraft doors?”

Stevens and Windermere swapped glances. “Guess we have to,” said Stevens. “If he’s not here, he’s not here.”

“So where is he?” said Mathers.

“Maybe he took a connecting flight,” said Windermere. “Or maybe he caught the bus.”

“Or maybe he’s hiding out in Las Vegas somewhere,” said Stevens. “He had a later flight. Or he’s afraid to come to the airport.”

“In which case, what?” Windermere frowned. “We sit back and wait for him to turn up?” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it. Answered. “Windermere.” She listened. Frowned. Stevens watched her, hoping for good news but not seeing it on her face. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Appreciate it. Thanks for looking.”

She ended the call and looked across the concourse. “That was my FAA pal,” she said. “Figured since he couldn’t shut down the airport, he’d do me a favor and check for O’Brien’s name on any passenger manifests out of Philadelphia or Las Vegas this weekend.”

Stevens studied her face. “And?”

“And if it was good news, Stevens, I’d be hauling ass somewhere.” She looked at him. At Mathers. “No O’Brien, R, either airport, all weekend.”

“So, what?” said Mathers. “He took a bus here?”

“Or he used another alias,” said Stevens. “Killswitch knew we were onto him after the Miami job. He swapped out O’Brien’s name for some other identity. Slipped him right under our radar.”

Mathers scratched his head. “So what do we do?”

Windermere and Stevens looked at each other. “We comb passenger manifests,” said Windermere. “Look for patterns. I’ll call my FAA guy back. Ask him to hook me up with everything Philadelphia to Vegas this weekend.”

“Back to square one,” said Stevens. “God damn it.” He surveyed the concourse. Across the aisle, another flight was boarding, another long line of passengers with a couple of city cops at the end, staring at their printouts of O’Brien. He watched passengers file aboard the plane, and felt like he was seeing the case slip away.

T
here was no sign of O’Brien anywhere, no matter which alias he was using. Stevens worked the airport with Windermere and Mathers all afternoon and into the night. Divvied up the departures and worked every flight they could, assisting the airport cops and LVPD in screening departing passengers, slow-boarding the planes and studying faces, searching for the skinny kid who’d shot up Sin City.

Stevens looked at thousands of faces. Checked off hundreds of names on countless manifests. Endured complaints and half-muttered insults from worn-out gamblers and exhausted parents, his own nerves frayed to threads by the ever-present clamor of the slot machines in the terminal. He didn’t find O’Brien.

Finally, as dusk settled over the airport and the twinkling lights of the distant Strip, Stevens ran into Windermere walking away from an Aeromexico flight.
“Aguas calientes,”
she said, rueful. “Figured maybe he made a run for the border.”

Stevens glanced out at the plane. “No luck, though.”

“No luck,” she said, “anywhere.”

“Heard from Mathers?”

Windermere shook her head. “Guess if he found something, we’d know it.”

“What about your FAA guy?”

“Still collecting the manifests,” she said. “He’s going to fax them our way when he gets them.” She looked at Stevens. “Kirk, this guy’s gone. I can feel it.”

“Maybe he’s still in Vegas,” said Stevens. “Hiding out somewhere. Takes a lot of guts to roll through an airport like this after you just killed a man.”

Windermere shook her head. “You saw this guy, Stevens. Guts he has in spades. He’s gone, and we lost him. We lost our best shot.”

“Got the FAA manifests. We’ll find him again.”

“That’s all catch-up,” she said. “We’re playing from behind. I want to get ahead of this guy for once. Preferably before more people die.”

“Sure,” he said. “But how?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We need some goddamn luck, partner.”

She looked exhausted, utterly depleted. Stevens surveyed the concourse again. Saw Mathers in the crowd, far off, hurrying their way. The kid looked excited about something. “Luck, huh?” he said. “Looks like Mathers might just have our share of it.”

Windermere turned and they watched Mathers approach, as eager as a retriever with a tennis ball. “Youthful exuberance,” said Stevens. “You find O’Brien?”

Mathers shook him off. Turned to Windermere, his eyes bright. “Not quite,” he said. “But I did hear from LVPD. Sounds like our witness just woke.”

T
he plane was quiet. Parkerson sat beside the asset and stared over his shoulder out into the night sky, trying to focus his thoughts.

They’d made it out of Las Vegas alive. Slipped out right under the FBI’s nose. Parkerson had made eye contact with one of the agents, the older white man, just as he boarded the plane. Had felt an electric jolt of
fear as he met the man’s gaze. The man stared at him, though, without any recognition. Watched him board the plane and didn’t move or react.

They were safe. Assuming there were no FBI agents waiting on the ground when the plane landed, the Las Vegas mission had been a success. More than a success. He’d earned half a million dollars for the job. And he’d broken in a new asset who’d proved he could kill.

Parkerson looked at the asset beside him. The kid stared out the window, docile as a lobotomy patient, no sign of the kill-happy psychopath he’d become at the Gold Coast. Parkerson nudged him. “Look at me.”

The asset turned and looked at Parkerson. Looked through him, more like. No sign of comprehension. “You did good today,” Parkerson told him. “You did really good. You completed your assignment, just as instructed.”

The asset didn’t say anything. Parkerson glanced around the plane, saw nobody watching. No one listening. He reached across the armrest and took the asset’s hand in his own.

“However,” he said, “when the mission was complete, you showed weakness. You disobeyed a direct order to cease fire and retreat.”

The asset didn’t speak. Parkerson took the kid’s index finger. Bent it slowly back. Watched the kid’s face. “Do you understand, soldier?”

The asset glanced at his finger. Parkerson had it bent back nearly to breaking point. He winced. “Yes, sir.”

“Your primary task in all missions is to eliminate your target. Your secondary task is to remove yourself from the scene without being detected. I will provide you with the tools with which to extricate yourself. You simply have to maintain your focus and composure and walk away from the scene. Is that clear?”

The flight attendant appeared before the asset could answer. Parkerson released the asset’s finger. The flight attendant smiled down. “Water, sir?”

Parkerson smiled at her. “No, thanks.” He waited until she’d continued up the aisle. Then he took the asset’s finger in his hand again. Bent it back. “Are we clear?”

The asset winced again. “Yes, sir.”

“I can help you with the visions,” Parkerson told him, “but I need you to obey me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the asset said, staring at him. “I understand.”

Parkerson held the kid’s gaze. Wrenched his finger back a little farther. Then he released it. “Good,” he said. “Because I have another assignment for you.”

C
aity Sherman sat on the couch, watching reality TV and listening to Richard O’Brien sleep in the bedroom.

He was not a sound sleeper. In fact, she wondered how he slept at all. He seemed to cry out every four or five minutes. Woke up gasping. He’d tangled the sheets around his skinny legs before she’d even walked from the room.

Another charity case. Another dysfunctional creature. Caity could hear her mom already. “Pick a nice guy, for Christ’s sake. A
man
. Stop adopting these losers. It’s sad, Caitlin. It’s
dangerous
.”

She figured he could use a friend. That’s why she’d left him her number. Mostly, she hadn’t expected him to call, and when she’d seen him at the airport and he’d acted all weird, she’d written him off and figured she’d forget about him. But then he had called her, and sounded desperate and miserable, a couple steps from a breakdown. And, try as she might, she couldn’t just ignore him.

Maybe it was a mistake to come over. He could be a killer, for all she knew. The way he looked at her sometimes, it was like he didn’t even
remember who she was. But she’d come anyway. Something told her the guy didn’t have many friends.

He hadn’t said much. She’d sat with him, tried to comfort him, convinced him to relax a little. She’d calmed him down some, she could tell. And he hadn’t tried to kill her, or even pull a move.

She’d put him to bed. Tucked him in and sat with him until he seemed to drift off. Now he was sleeping, but it sure didn’t sound peaceful. He needed help; that much was obvious. More help than Caity figured she could give him. Still, she couldn’t just walk away now, could she?

I’ll stay a little longer,
she thought, turning back to the TV.
Just until he calms down. Then I’ll go.

T
he witness was an older man from Boise, Idaho. His name was Larry Klein. His wife met Stevens and the FBI agents outside his hospital room.

“We’d just come out of the casino,” she told them. “We were headed to the Strip for the Wayne Newton show. We’d almost reached the car when we heard the gunshots. Screams. Larry figured he should investigate.”

“Didn’t think about calling security?” said Stevens.

Klein shook her head. “Not my husband.” She gave Stevens a weak smile. “He was in the Navy, a long time ago. Figured that made him invincible.”

“So he went to have a look,” said Windermere. “You didn’t.”

“I waited by the car,” she said. “I left the engine running in case the bad guys came for us. Larry got there just as they tried to drive away.”

“You see the car?”

“It was blue,” she said. “Dark blue. That’s all I remember. I put my head down and prayed Larry wouldn’t get shot.”

“Then they ran him over,” said Stevens. “You get a look at them?”

Klein shook her head. “I didn’t,” she said. “But Larry did.”

Windermere looked at Stevens. “So let’s talk to Larry.”

LARRY KLEIN GAVE THEM
a weak smile as they entered his room. He was a barrel-chested guy with thick white hair and jowls, and his breathing was labored as he lay on the hospital bed. “G-men,” he said, “and G-woman. Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s ours,” said Stevens. “You feeling okay?”

“Nothing a little bed rest won’t fix.” Klein glanced at his wife. “Just a shame we have to miss Wayne Newton.”

Mary Klein clucked. Stevens laughed. “I’m sure he’ll stick around.”

Windermere handled the introductions. Mathers, then Stevens. Klein’s eyes narrowed. “BCA?” he said. “What’s Minnesota want with me?”

“Long story,” said Windermere. “We’re hoping you saw something today, Mr. Klein.”

Klein nodded. “It’s a lot of it hazy,” he said. “Had a couple of those dollar beers at the Gold Coast before we left the casino. Then with the car accident . . .” He shrugged at Windermere. “You know.”

“Anything you remember,” said Stevens. “Anything at all.”

Klein thought. “Was a little blue car,” he said. “One of those foreign jobs. Japscrap. Couple guys in it.”

Stevens frowned at Windermere. “Two guys?”

“An older guy driving. Maybe forty or so. A weak chin. His partner was younger. Had hair past his shoulders, dark brown. He looked tall.”

Windermere and Stevens swapped glances. Richard O’Brien had still
had a buzz cut in the Bellagio’s security footage. “Maybe he wore a wig,” said Windermere.

“They both wore sunglasses,” Klein said. “And baseball caps. It all happened so fast, like I said.”

“So who’s the second guy?” Stevens asked Windermere. “Killswitch?”

“Does that sound familiar?” Windermere asked Larry Klein. “Killswitch? Did you hear any mention of that word?”

Klein frowned. Shook his head. “It’s all so hazy,” he said. “I did hear some shouting, but I don’t think I heard that word.”

“What did you hear?” said Stevens. “Anything distinct?”

“The older man.” Klein thought for a moment. “A kind of southern accent. He sounded like a drill sergeant. Like he was giving orders. I think he even said the word ‘soldier.’”

Stevens glanced at Windermere. “Anything else?”

Klein thought some more. “A name,” he said. “I couldn’t quite make it out. It was loud, you see. I was a little bit tipsy. And it happened so fast.”

“Try and remember,” said Stevens. “What kind of name?”

“It all happened so fast.” Klein stared up at the ceiling. “I’m trying to recall. I think the man called his friend—” He exhaled. “Wendy.”