by James Hilton
Danny let Clay do the talking. Garnett seemed to take it in his stride, only occasionally interrupting to ask clarifying questions. When Clay had finished he nodded thoughtfully. “So, what’s your next move?”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Danny.
“Uh oh…”
Andrea nudged Clay then placed her index finger against her pursed lips. This elicited a wry smile from the Texan.
Danny’s next comment made Andrea pale momentarily. “We have to assume that the Trident team or someone like them will find us sooner or later. So we need to have a strike-back strategy before that happens. The psycho in the video, Strathclyde, has the most to lose. But also the British government in general would be severely damaged. With all the shit that’s come out over the last few years, the last thing that they would want is a scandal of this magnitude.”
Garnett looked into the top of his bottle as if some secret was hidden within. “Why don’t you just email the video and pictures to every news channel we can think of? Fox News and CNN would kill for something like this. I don’t think they would be too bothered about upsetting some pencil-necked pervert in the UK. Once it’s out there this asshole would be toast.”
“That was my first impulse as well, but we have to be sure that it would be taken seriously. There’s so much fake footage floating around on the Internet it may well be treated as a hoax.”
Andrea shook her head. “Once they watch it they’ll know it’s not faked. It’s… horrible.”
“But so-called torture-porn was really big in the movies for a while. You know, Hostel and Saw,” Danny pointed out. He knew the authenticity of the footage would be called into question, and despite Garnett’s opinions on the cut-throat nature of the news networks, they would not launch an attack against a foreign politician without conferring with their British contacts first.
“Are you one hundred per cent sure that the guy in the video is the same one in the photographs?” asked Garnett.
“Pretty damned sure,” Danny replied. “I can show you if you want to see. I’ll warn you, though, it’s not pleasant viewing.”
“Okay.”
Andrea handed the laptop to Danny with the proviso: “I don’t want to see it again.”
“We could go for a walk into the town if you want. The original Sloppy Joe’s is only ten minutes away,” offered Clay. “Would it be a problem if we came back a bit late?”
Garnett waved them away. “Have at it. Captain Tony’s and the Lazy Gecko are worth a visit as well. I’ll leave the door unlocked. We’ll probably still be up and at it anyway.”
Once Andrea and Clay had left the house Danny powered up the laptop, inserted the flash drive into one of the USB ports and activated the media player. He double clicked the video file icon.
Garnett’s expression betrayed nothing as he watched the man in the mask slowly taunt then eviscerate the captive woman. Only after the whole film had played through did he speak. “So how did you identify the man? The only part of his face you can see clearly are those damned eyes.”
Danny moved the progress button back to approximately halfway through the footage. After less than ten seconds he hit pause. “See those three moles on his right shoulder and the scar down his back? Well, now look at this.”
Garnett curled his upper lip in disgust as Danny loaded the publicity pictures taken at the school fundraiser. “How the hell did that maggot get himself alongside a swim team?”
“He’s a politician.” The ire in Danny’s voice matched the deep-set loathing he felt for predators such as Strathclyde.
Garnett nodded in understanding. “That fucker needs the electric chair.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Unfortunately the death penalty doesn’t apply in the UK.”
“Oh, Christ, I just had a thought. If this was filmed back in the nineties, how many more poor women has he done this to? He could have done this dozens of times.”
“I know. And there’s no indication that he’s ever been linked to any crime let alone something as rotten as this.” Danny stared again at the twin images on the screen. The contrast between the blood-flecked demon mask and the smiling politician defied belief. Yet he knew them to be one and the same. He tapped his fingertips against his forehead as he pondered what to do next. It wasn’t as simple as going back to England and putting a bullet between the man’s eyes. Sure, it would achieve the desired result but he had no wish to spend the rest of his days eating prison food. Also, the more immediate problem of the hit team required some thought. Danny had no way of knowing the reach and connections of the PMC outfit.
Garnett broke the silence. “I’d appreciate it if Edith didn’t see any of this. She’s a tough enough gal but this would freak her out.”
“Of course,” replied Danny. “I still feel awkward us being in your home. We should have booked into a cheap hotel. The last thing I want is to bring any danger to your front door.”
Garnett dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Clay and me go back quite a-ways. He fronted me a lot of dough when no one else would give me a second glance. Without him I could have never gone legit. I’d still be smuggling weed and Cubans for a living.”
Danny smiled. “I’ve done worse.”
“No doubt, but you’re one of those crazy Highlander types. It’s all that running around in a skirt you guys do. No wonder you’re always fighting with each other.”
“It’s called a kilt.” Danny furrowed his brow in mock consternation. “And I’ve never worn one in my life.”
Garnett burst into unbridled laughter. “Maybe I’ll get myself the full outfit. Can you imagine a black man in a kilt waving one of those big-assed swords around? It’d scare the white folks half to death.”
* * *
The house was quiet upon Clay and Andrea’s return. The others had already turned in for the night. Despite having consumed a half-dozen margaritas in various flavours, Clay was still steady on his feet. Andrea, however, was grateful of the supportive arm that encircled her shoulders.
The tequila cocktails had had a somewhat therapeutic effect. Over the space of the three hours she’d spent in Clay’s company she had cried, laughed and talked through her very real fears. She was scared to die. She was scared to go home yet desperately wanted familiar surroundings. She still needed to speak to her parents, to tell them the details of the terrible fate that had befallen Greg and Bruce. She had no way of knowing if her parents had been informed through official channels of their deaths. They would be sick with fear, not knowing if she was dead or alive. Yet Danny had advised against calling home. It hurt to admit it, but he was right. The reach of the PMC was an unknown quantity. Did they have the resources to tap her parents’ phone? If so, any information she gave her parents could be used to find her and could put them in danger.
They made their way to their respective rooms.
“Well little lady, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Clay, wait. I just want to say… I…” A tear traced a path down her cheek.
The big Texan squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “See you in the morning.”
Andrea’s room was lit only by the meagre streetlight spilling through the single window. She didn’t bother to switch on the lights. She sat on the bed and thought about her parents. How much more could she tell them? There had been no reply to the email she’d sent in the Internet café in Vegas.
Cupping her head in her hands she moved to the top of the bed and closed her eyes.
40
The Calico machine pistol was uncomfortable in the shoulder sling; it was not designed with concealment in mind, yet Lincoln was loath to carry a more compact weapon. What it lacked in comfort it more than made up for in firepower.
He, Bush, Washington and Kennedy disembarked from their plane into the darkness of the Florida night, and clambered into the waiting minivan that Trident had organised for their arrival. Bush huffed noisily that there was no bike for him to use, eventually declaring that he wo
uld add it to his ever-growing list of reasons to slice and dice the targets when they finally laid hands on them. The driver of the family-sized Chrysler turned to Lincoln. The man was bald and had a distinctive bullet-shaped head. He introduced himself as Chad Casey.
“Where to?”
Lincoln studied Chad for a few seconds, noticing a ragged scar that looked like it had been made by a barbed-wire necktie. “I’m not really sure. We know the target arrived via private jet a few hours ago. Unfortunately that’s where our intel bottoms out. We’ve got the name of the charter company and the plane’s serial number but haven’t established their destination in Florida.”
Chad grimaced, showing platinum caps on two of his front teeth. “I guess the first thing would be to trace the pilot and crew of the jet. Then we could arrange a little tête-à-tête with them. A flash of green usually loosens the lips of those guys.”
Bush brushed his fingers gingerly against the bruised skin around his swollen eye. “If money doesn’t work I’ll gladly beat it out of anyone we come across.”
Chad looked first at Bush then back at Lincoln. He had clearly heard nothing that upset his sensibilities. He pointed to the control office of the airport. “I’ll have a word with the operations team first. It’s Ps and Qs with these guys though. Let me go in alone and do the talking. I know a couple of the controllers in there, shouldn’t take too long.”
Lincoln nodded in thanks and agreement. “You’re welcome to join the posse if you’re free and don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”
“I’ve been with TSI for six years. I’m always ready to mix it up when the chance arises.” Chad’s voice was dry and carried a slight rasp. Lincoln again glanced at the collar of lacerations framing his throat. He wondered if Chad had served in Africa and picked up the grisly souvenir there.
“Welcome to the band, Chad. Once you get back I’ll bring you up to speed on the assignment so far.”
Chad Casey returned after ten minutes, during which time Bush again grumbled his displeasure at having to ride in “the school bus”. As he climbed into the driver’s seat, Chad handed Lincoln a slip of paper. After struggling to read the erratic script in the dim light of the car’s interior, Lincoln handed it back, defeated. “What does it say?”
Chad rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Writing was never my strong suit. It says the plane you asked about is registered to a private company here on the Keys. The guy that owns it is called Garnett Bell. Of course, it doesn’t mean he was the pilot of that particular flight but he’s a good place to start. If he didn’t fly it he’ll be able to tell us who did.”
“Then we can pick up the targets’ trail double time,” added Washington. He gave a reassuring nod to Bush, who was fidgeting in his seat, and Kennedy, who was twiddling a single sniper round through his fingers.
“You got an address for this Bell fella?” asked Lincoln.
“Yeah. It’s only ten minutes out,” Chad confirmed. He pointed two fingers in a vague northerly direction.
“Well let’s go and take a look-see.” Lincoln adjusted the Calico pistol again.
“We doing it tonight?” asked Washington, glancing at his watch. “We’ve been up and at it for nearly thirty-six hours now. I don’t want these assholes getting the drop on us because we’re off our game.”
Lincoln considered for a moment. “It’s two-thirty eastern time. I say we put our heads down until six then saddle back up. We should be able to catch the pilot in the morning.”
“You guys can bunk down at my place and I’ll keep an eye on the pilot’s house,” said Chad. “I’ll drop you first and come back out in my own car. I’ll leave the company van with you so you can high-tail it if needs be.”
“Okay then,” agreed Lincoln. “Let’s go with that. We’ll sleep light and be ready to rock and roll first thing. Here, what’s your cell number?” Chad recited his digits and Lincoln dialled. Chad’s cell phone rang. “Save my number. Speed dial me if anything occurs that I should know about.”
Chad’s house was by no means the largest on the street but was well kept. A turtle sat in a small wire enclosure in the front garden, its shell painted in dayglo colours. Chad noticed the curious looks that his pet was receiving. “Say hello to Rastaman. He was here when I moved in.”
Bush shook his head. “I’ve got to ask. Why is he called Rastaman?”
Chad smiled as if the answer was obvious. “His colours. Red, gold and green. Come on in guys, make yourself at home. There’s plenty of chow in the kitchen, nothing fancy though. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Lincoln felt a moment’s indecision. Should they keep chasing the trail despite their fatigue or take the respite offered? The grit that seemed to have taken up residence behind his eyelids decided it for him. He wanted to be one hundred per cent for the next and hopefully final stretch of the chase. He was determined to have the target neutralised by the end of play. He nodded at Chad. “Make sure and call if that pilot so much as farts too loud in the night.”
Chad grinned, his caps glinting in the glare from the porchlight. “Roger that.”
41
Clay, Andrea, Garnett and Edith were eating a breakfast of fruit and cereal when a very hot and sweat-soaked Danny entered the kitchen.
Garnett looked up from his Cheerios. “You’re keen, I’ll give you that.”
“I just needed to shake off the cobwebs. I haven’t done much working out of late. My doctor recommended a month of rest and relaxation.” Danny pulled at the sweat-stained shirt and shorts Garnett had given him.
“And how’s that been workin’ out for ya?” Clay guffawed.
“Go have a shower, then I’ll fix you some breakfast.” Edith pointed towards one of the two bathrooms.
“How far did you run?” asked Garnett.
“About five miles. It’s hard work in this heat, even this early in the day.” Danny’s reason for the morning run was twofold. Firstly to get his fitness back to an acceptable level, and secondly to get a feel for the layout and streets on the island. It was one of the things he did whenever he found himself in a new location. You never knew when you would need to navigate in a hurry. A little prior knowledge could be the difference between survival and running into a literal dead end when under fire. He hoped that would not be an issue here in the Keys. But he followed the old maxim: hope for the best, plan for the worst.
“I noticed you’ve got a heavy punchbag out on the patio. Do you mind if I use it for five minutes?” He received the thumbs-up from Garnett and nodded his thanks.
Danny stared at the bag with practised intensity. His workout started long before he threw his first punch. He felt his aggression levels build rapidly inside. In his mind, an attacker surged towards him, intent on doing him serious harm. When he felt the moment was right he exploded into the bag. He worked a series of punches first, his arms pumping like pistons, fists driving deep. His body snapped from side to side as he sent punch after punch into the leather. His feet moved in short crab-like steps, circling the bag. He then began to incorporate knees and elbows into his combinations, opening up with punches then crowding close to slam home short-range blows. He stepped out smartly and bent the bag in half with a side stamp kick.
* * *
“Shit! And I thought he punched hard.” Garnett, who had been watching Danny from the kitchen window, turned to Clay. “Did you see that?”
Clay smiled. “I once seen Danny knock a guy clean out with that kick.”
“I could believe that no problem,” said Garnett shaking his head in admiration. “I took a few kick-boxing classes in my teens but he’s on a whole different level.”
Clay nodded. “His moves aren’t pretty—he wouldn’t win any prizes for form—but he’s like a pit bull.”
“Reminds me of Dempsey or Marciano. Shit, a rodeo bull would be jealous.”
“I remember when this guy sucker-punched a friend of Danny’s in a bar, knocked him down just for looking at him the wrong way. So Dan
ny went at him and the guy ran out of the bar and locked himself in his car. If he’d just left it at that it might have been okay, but he started giving Danny the finger. Danny backed up a couple of steps then launched that sidekick of his. He smashed through the side window and knocked the asshole clean out. It was one of those real comedy moments.”
Edith raised her eyebrows, a spoonful of chopped fruit halfway to her mouth. “Not for the asshole in the car.”
Clay gave her a wink. “But the asshole had it coming.”
“Danny doesn’t suffer fools gladly,” Andrea contributed.
Clay smiled again. He could tell these women tales about his brother that would scare the living daylights out of them. Maybe another day.
Danny returned to the kitchen. He pulled at the sweat-stained T-shirt. “I think I’d better have that shower now.”
“Before you do, Rocky Balboa wants his sound effects back. Damn it, Danny, you could have made some real money as a boxer.”
Danny humbly accepted the compliment from Garnett. “Maybe in my next life.”
Clay snorted. “So, what’s next? Much as we like playing house with you, Garnett, we can’t impose on your hospitality any longer.” He rubbed his chin. They needed a vehicle and he had plenty of money, but what kind of second-hand lot would accept cash only? “Do you know anywhere we can buy a car without leaving a paper trail?”
I can do better than that.” Garnett leaned back in his chair. “I have a lock-up garage across town. Paid for off the books, you understand. It’s where I keep… sensitive items.”
Clay laughed. “I can imagine. Stolen Rembrandts, your bondage gear, that kind of thing, right?”
“Try Cuban cigars for my favourite customers, a couple of illegal fully automatic assault rifles and two vehicles registered to a former—and now dead—friend. One’s a Cadillac Escalade, a few years old so it won’t draw any attention. You can have it.”
Clay rose and put a hand on Garnett’s shoulder. He felt rather moved at his old friend’s generosity. “I bet you look real pretty in leather.”
