The John Milton Series Boxset 2

by Mark Dawson

  Milton knew, then, that they were in trouble.

  There was a tremendous crash from the top of the ridge. Milton turned. Alexander wasn’t there and, as he pressed up and set off after him, he heard the sound of something tumbling down the other side of the slope. He crested the rise and saw Alexander, on his back, at the foot of the slope. He must have tripped over an exposed root and then rolled all the way down. He was on his back now, jackknifed over the lip of the swamp, his legs submerged in the dirty water, slowly sliding farther and farther into it.

  Milton picked a cautious route to get to him, proceeding backwards for the last few steps, the rifle aimed up the slope.

  “You all right?”

  “Tripped.”

  “We need to get out of here.”

  Alexander stayed where he was, panting.

  “Get up!”

  He thought he heard something behind them, a twig, perhaps, something snapping.

  He pressed the rifle into his shoulder and held his breath, aiming left and right, swivelling smoothly from the waist. Alexander pulled himself out of the muck, wrapping his hands around a trunk and yanking himself clear.

  Milton thought he saw something. A brake of cane, moving against the wind?

  “Down!”

  He fired, spraying bullets into the vegetation.

  There was no return fire.

  “Move!”

  Alexander scrabbled away, heading west, and Milton came after him. The magazine was dry. He ejected it and pressed in the second spare. One left. He had the MP5, too, but the AK would outgun that if it came to a showdown.

  They were halfway back to the road. Alexander struggled through a curtain of Spanish moss and broke out onto the track that Bachman had used to drive into the compound. Milton followed him reluctantly, aware that they were ceding cover for speed. But, he concluded, Alexander did not know how to exfiltrate safely in cover. There might be more tripwires, he was clumsy and loud, and any small advantage that they might have wrested would have been lost. It might be better to just let him run.

  Milton would cover him as best he could.

  #

  MILTON’S TOYOTA was where he had left it, untouched.

  He tossed the keys to Alexander. “You drive.”

  “What?”

  “Get in the car, Alexander. Right now.”

  He did as he was told, fumbling the key into the lock, opening the door and getting inside. Milton backed around to the passenger side, feeling the chassis against him as he aimed the M16 back into the swamp. The engine turned over and started. Milton kept the gun up, reached down with his left hand and opened the door.

  “When I get in, drive,” he called. “Floor it. Understand?”

  Milton edged across, briefly rested the rifle on the roof and scanned the cypress and oak, the dark vegetation clustered between the trunks and beneath the canopy of their boughs, and then, not even close to being satisfied, he ducked down into the car. Alexander punched the gas before the door had closed. The Corolla’s engine whined impotently, but the car just juddered ahead.

  The brake was still on.

  “Shit!” Alexander said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Milton turned in the seat so that he could aim the M16 back through the car, out of the rear window and into the bayou again.

  “Just relax,” Milton said. “Release the brake.”

  He punched the gas again. The car jerked ahead, quickly getting up to thirty and then forty.

  Milton maintained his aim through the rear window, staring down the hard sight, but there was nothing.

  Bachman wasn’t giving pursuit.

  Chapter Fifty

  MILTON CALLED ZIGGY PENN on the way back into the city.

  “How did it go?”

  “I found him. He was where you said he would be.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “In the city.”

  “Where’s Izzy?”

  “I just saw her. She left ten minutes ago.”

  “Left?”

  “For court. The hearing.”

  “On her own?”

  “She’s got her mother and father with her, like you said.”

  “I meant, you’re not with her?”

  “You didn’t say…”

  Milton gritted his teeth. He hadn’t told Ziggy to stay with Izzy. He wasn’t a field agent, and the last time he had tried to take the initiative he had very nearly been killed. But, still, some common sense would have been nice.

  Izzy was out there, on her own.

  Bachman was out there, too.

  There was no guarantee that he had given up yet, and the memory of that rending scream was fresh. Who was the woman in the crate? Did Bachman know her? Milton didn’t like what that might mean.

  He was going to need Ziggy to get to her fast.

  “You need to go and find her. And you need to stay with her.”

  His tone changed. “Why?”

  “I don’t know if I got Bachman or not. I don’t think I did.”

  “So he could still be out there?”

  “Yes. And if he still is, he might not exfiltrate. He might come after me. And if he doesn’t think a direct run at me is a good idea, he knows there are other ways to get my attention.”

  “With her.”

  “Yes, or her parents. You need to get her right now. You’ve got a head start over him, but I don’t know if this is him on his own or if he has a team. If there are others…” He looked over at Alexander, a frown of concentration on his face, and decided not to spell it out. “You get the picture.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Have you given her the information she needs?”

  “To get an adjournment? Shit, Milton, yes. Very strong evidence that Dubois has been paying the mayor, the police, more than enough. Babineaux is implicated. She’s going to try to get it postponed for the rest of the week. That’ll give me the time I need to get a dossier in a presentable state. But you don’t need to worry. It’s all there. She’ll have everything she needs.”

  “Well done. Now—go and get her to court.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  ZIGGY GOT into his car, took out his cellphone and activated the mapping application. He was on Salvation Row. He entered the address of the courthouse at 410 Royal Street and waited for the route to be plotted. The solid blue line that appeared revealed the only sensible way to get there: the bridge over the canal, then Elysian Fields Avenue, then the court. Ziggy knew that an operative, someone like Milton, would have advised her to get off the main road and make her way there through the quieter, less obvious streets, but Izzy wasn’t an operative. And he hadn’t warned her. She didn’t know that she was in danger.

  At least it would make it easier for him to find her.

  But, he reminded himself, if it was easier for him, it would be easier for Bachman, too.

  He set off to the west.

  #

  HE FOUND her at the junction of Elysian Fields Avenue and North Rampart Street. Her car was snagged in a long queue of slow-moving traffic, jockeying to get past the lights at the junction. The line of traffic that was filtering to the left was moving more quickly, and he swung into the lane and stopped when he was alongside.

  The driver of the car that was jammed in behind him leant on his horn as Ziggy got out, waving at Izzy to lower the window.

  She did. “Oh, shit,” she said, her eyes going wide. “Alexander?”

  “He’s safe. Milton has him.”

  “So what is it?”

  “We need to change cars.”

  “What are you talking about? I need to get—”

  “The man who took Alexander is dangerous, and Milton doesn’t know where he is. He thinks he might be coming after you. He probably knows what car you’re driving. He probably doesn’t know about me.”

  “I h
ave to get to court, Ziggy. If I don’t, the case will get thrown out. We’ll lose.”

  “I’ll get you there. Come on.”

  There was a cacophony of horns as Ziggy went back to his car. Izzy explained to her parents what they needed to do, and they complied with her instructions without complaint, crossing over to the Hyundai and getting into the back. Ziggy opened the trunk of Izzy’s car and transferred her two heavy legal cases. He couldn’t put them into the trunk of the Sonata because Babineaux was still inside, so he hauled them into the back next to Elsie. Izzy got into the car, dropping into the passenger side.

  His hands were shaking with adrenaline as he put the car into drive. This was what he had imagined things would be like when he had been seconded to the Group. Field operations, life and death, working with men and women like Milton rather than being stuck in a cubicle farm behind his computer, feeding them the information so that they could do their jobs, but never getting his hands dirty. He had tried to get involved the last time he had been in New Orleans, and that hadn’t turned out the way he had wanted. It had nearly gotten him killed. He knew that was why Control had busted him back to GCHQ, not even waiting for his wounds to heal until he was rid of him.

  His failure had always bothered him. Ziggy’s childhood had been full of people telling him he wasn’t good enough, and it was something he had never been able to entirely forget. His adult life had been spent by ensuring that no one ever had cause to say that to him again. And so the incident with the Irishmen rankled. It was a failure. He had failed. He couldn’t forget it and, as time had passed, he had allowed it to reinforce the old taunts from when he was younger.

  He had almost come to believe them again. He wasn’t good enough.

  Ziggy was about to hit the gas when he saw the flash of blue lights behind him.

  “Po-lice,” Solomon Bartholomew said, craning around to look out of the rear window.

  Ziggy glanced into the mirror and saw the cruiser turn out of St. Claude Avenue and start to bully its way through the traffic.

  Izzy laid her hand across his. “We can’t stop,” she said.

  He looked over at her, unable to ignore how beautiful she was, her fingers around his wrist, and nodded. “We’re not going to.”

  The cruiser was nearly on them. They were penned in at the front and rear by the queue. If the cruiser got alongside, it would be able to box them in and that would be that.

  “Hold tight.”

  Ziggy turned the wheel, punched the gas, and sped out of the queue and onto the sidewalk.

  The bleeps of the cruiser’s siren immediately modulated into an angrier, more urgent, up and down wail.

  Ziggy stomped on the gas.

  #

  THEY HAD to stop at a set of lights in Kenner, and Milton took the opportunity to change seats with Alexander. He floored the pedal, leaving rubber as they rushed back into the flow of traffic, cutting into the fast lane and accelerating.

  Milton took out his phone and dialled the number that the StingRay had extracted from Bachman’s phone.

  It rang five times.

  Six.

  Seven.

  And then Bachman picked up.

  “Who is this?”

  “Milton.”

  Bachman didn’t reply.

  “You there?”

  His voice, when it came, was flat and emotionless. “You’re a dead man.”

  “You didn’t give me—”

  “You know who you killed?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You killed my wife.”

  Milton gripped the wheel. He felt a shiver of dread ripple up and down his spine.

  “I didn’t. I put her down. She took a ricochet when you fired at us.”

  There was no reply again.

  “Bachman?”

  “You’re lying. You shot her.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  He didn’t hear him. “I can’t let that stand, Milton. You know that, right? There’s got to be payback.”

  “No, you listen to me. You’ve got one chance to exfil. Take it.”

  “I don’t think so. Not now. The job’s irrelevant. You just made it personal.”

  Milton punched the gas to overtake a slow-moving truck. “You fucked up. Don’t compound the error.”

  There was a cruel edge to Bachman’s voice when he spoke again. “Took your time getting out of the swamp, didn’t you? Didn’t know for sure whether I was coming after you? I heard you shooting up the trees. Do you know where your girlfriend is?”

  Milton took the phone, killed the speaker and put it to his ear instead. He didn’t want Alexander to hear this.

  “I’m warning you, Avi.”

  He laughed. “There’s another way out. Thought I’d get a start on you. Where are you now?”

  “Close.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ve got ten minutes on you. Minimum. I’m already in the city. How are you going to stop me if you’re ten minutes behind?”

  “I’m not alone on this. It’s not just me you have to worry about.”

  Bachman laughed again. “Yes, you are, Milton. You always worked alone. You can’t bluff me. And if you do have anyone else, then I’m going to murder them before I get to the girl. I’m going to murder her. Then her parents. Then I’m coming for you. I’m going to make you choke on your own blood.”

  “Bachman—”

  “Goodbye, Milton.”

  #

  ZIGGY TURNED right at Washington Square and onto Royal Street. The road was quieter, so he was able to pick up speed. The police cruiser was still after them, the siren presaging its approach until it raced around the corner and barrelled ahead, pressing hard.

  “What’s going on?” Elsie Bartholomew asked.

  Ziggy looked back at her in the mirror. Her face was eloquent with concern and fear.

  “It’s all right, Momma,” Izzy said. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

  “I do, baby. I’m just not used to running from the police is all.”

  Ziggy’s phone rang.

  He fumbled in the centre console for it, accepted the call, and put it to his ear.

  “Milton!”

  “I’m coming.”

  “The police are after us.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Royal Street. Just went by the Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro. I don’t know how long I can hold them off.”

  “Have you got Izzy?”

  “Yes. And her parents. I don’t know—”

  “Don’t stop for anyone.”

  “But what if I—”

  “Bachman’s coming after you.”

  “Fuck!” A jaywalker stepped off the sidewalk without looking and Ziggy spun the wheel, the tires screaming as the car slid to the right. Ziggy dropped the phone, the wheels clashing off the curb as he fought for control. The police car was slower to take evasive action, swinging out of the way just in time to miss the man. The driver couldn’t correct the sudden skid and the car climbed the curb, clipped a light post, and crunched into the wall of a building. Ziggy watched in the mirror. The pursuit was over, at least for the moment.

  Izzy had reached down for the phone. She held it to Ziggy’s ear.

  “Ziggy?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Hang in there.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Five minutes away. Just get to court.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  TRAFFIC WAS heavy in front of the courthouse. Milton parked a block away. He got out and sprinted the remaining distance, Alexander lagging behind him and quickly outdistanced. No time to worry about him.

  There was a scrum on the courthouse steps. Another case had drawn to a conclusion and, whatever it was, it had excited plenty of media attention. A lawyer was standing at the top, answering questions from a clutch of newspaper reporters. An outside broadcast truck had just pulled up and a cameraman and sound man were setting up their gear, a reporter primping himself in the window of the truck.
Other people had gathered to listen to the attorney’s words, contributing to the commotion.

  Isadora Bartholomew was pulling her two cases along the sidewalk to the start of the steps. Her mother and father followed a few steps behind her. Ziggy was behind them, scanning left and right. He looked frightened beyond belief, but he was still there, still doing what Milton had asked him to do.

  He shouldered through the scrum and reached him.

  “Milton. Jesus, am I glad to see you.”

  “The police?”

  “Lost them.”

  Milton looked around. There was no sign of Bachman, but the crowd was heavy and chaotic, and he couldn’t be sure.

  Alexander Bartholomew caught up with him.

  “Inside,” Milton said to both of them. “It’s not safe out here.”

  He climbed the steps. Izzy turned, saw him, saw her brother, and stopped.

  “What are you doing here?” Solomon said to his son. “You supposed to be in the rehab.”

  “Let’s get inside,” Milton said, placing his hand on the old man’s back and gently impelling him up the steps.

  “What’s all this fuss and nonsense about, John?”

  “I’ll explain when we’re inside. Please.”

  “Pops,” Izzy said. “Let’s go.”

  She had relinquished her grip on the two cases. Milton stooped, grabbed the handles, and, waiting as Ziggy ushered Elsie and Solomon up the steps, brought up the rear. They passed from the clamour to the relative peace and quiet of the lobby, the light glinting off the black-and-white tiled floor, and made their way to the courtroom.

  Milton didn’t relax—he couldn’t—but it felt as if the threat had passed, if only for the moment.

  They reached the entrance to the courtroom.

  Dubois was standing outside, his arms folded across his chest. He stepped out and blocked the way ahead.

  “Move,” Milton said to him.

  “Where’s Babineaux?”

  “You don’t need to worry. He’s safe.”

  “Where?”

  “In the trunk of my friend’s car. You can go and get him if you like.”

  “Are you mad?”

  Milton rested the cases on the floor. “We’re just getting started. I hope you’ve brought a toothbrush. You’re not going home tonight.”