Hector's face was clouded with concern as he strode toward Ricardo. He didn't ask how Ricardo was doing or what brought him to his gate. The failure to ask those questions told Ricardo a lot.
"Let's step away from the gate," Hector said. "Where we can talk in private."
Ricardo allowed himself to be ushered closer to the street. The guards didn't follow, apparently ordered to maintain their position, though they clearly didn't like their boss opening up this space between them. When Hector turned to face Ricardo, his face was a mixture of sympathy and nervousness.
"What the hell is going on here, Hector?" Ricardo demanded.
Hector sighed but said nothing.
Ricardo jabbed a finger at Hector, well aware that the guards might interpret this as a gesture of aggression, but also aware they wouldn't open fire on him with Hector so close. "You know something! I can see it on your face. Do you know what happened to me this morning?"
Hector shrugged. "I know they hit your office."
"They more than hit my office, Hector. They killed everyone. They killed all my staff and they tried to kill me. They shot my bloody chopper out of the air this morning. It's a miracle I survived."
"Don't be counting your luck yet, my friend. There's a contract out on you."
This wasn't the first time there'd been a contract out on Ricardo. He couldn’t assassinate folks for a living and not piss people off. It was a career that invited retaliation, but thus far no one had come this close to being successful. The big questions were who and why, so he asked Hector those very questions.
"All I know is the contract came from outside of the usual channels and went to everyone still taking jobs. And don't go thinking you're so special. Your name was only one on a long, long list."
Ricardo's eyes went wide. "Who else? Did you recognize any of the names?"
"I recognized most of them," Hector said with a nod. "There were some powerful people on there. Old-school power brokers. Heavy hitters. Some of those dusty old bastards that live in the shadows."
"Did the contract say anything about why we were being targeted?"
"There was some vague reference to a group of insurrectionists known as the Macallan Collective. It said they were attempting to overthrow the legitimate government of the United States and were to be considered enemy combatants."
Ricardo's mouth tightened and he shook his head bitterly. "People actually believe that? Surely you know better, Hector? Surely everyone knows what's being done here. This is an attempt by one faction of government to purge their enemies."
"All I see is a bunch of different people all trying to purge each other. The smart move is not to take sides. My allegiance is to the almighty dollar and I suspect that principle will keep me alive until the dust settles."
"Don't be so sure, my friend. If the Macallan Collective survives, you think they'll forget this? They'll strike back in the exact same way as was done to them. They'll put out contracts on everyone who worked against them, including the security contractors who tried to kill them. I'll make certain of it."
Hector shook his head. "Won't happen, Ricardo."
"How can you be so sure?"
"There won't be any of the Macallan Collective left alive to organize payback. They'll all be dead within one week. That's how long the contract is good for. It expires in one week."
Ricardo swore, his normal calm pushed to the side as anger rose within him. He'd heard all he needed to hear...almost. He had one question remaining for his old friend. "Was it you?"
"What?"
"Was it you who raided my compound and killed my people?" Ricardo demanded, his eyes locked onto Hector's.
Hector shook his head. "No, Ricardo. I knew where your people were and we could have gotten there first, but I wanted no part of that. The rest of that contract is just business, but hitting your people would have felt personal. I passed."
Ricardo could see that his old acquaintance was telling the truth. "I believe you, Hector, but you didn't warn them. You didn't even pick up the damn phone and call me."
"I considered it but I didn't know if they were monitoring your phones. What would have happened to me and my teams if they intercepted that call? I'd have been a dead man, just like you."
"You could have walked down the street and told them. Hell, you could have tied a note to a rock and thrown it over the damn fence. You could have done something. Anything!"
"No," Hector said. "I couldn't. And for that same reason, I need you to go and not come back. I don't know you and you were never here."
Ricardo nodded slowly. "Fair enough. Then understand that if you see me again, I'm here to kill you."
As those words settled in, Hector looked a little sad. "Understood. Please assume the same of me. When next the two of us meet, only one will walk away."
Ricardo broke his stare with Hector and stalked off toward his office. Now that he knew the scope of what was going on, he had very little time to come up with a plan. He didn't think Hector would tell anyone he was still alive. He hoped he wouldn't, anyway.
If that information remained secret it would give him an advantage. Ricardo understood that keeping that advantage meant getting out of his offices and going underground. Chantilly was way too public.
5
Chantilly, Virginia
After talking to Hector, Ricardo knew there was no way he could stay at his office. It was only a matter of time until word got out that his chopper had been shot down. Once that happened, scavengers would start showing up at his office to see what kind of goodies he had stored at the place. He needed to be gone before that happened if he wanted to keep his survival a secret.
He'd already emptied the safe in his office but he grabbed a high-volume backpack from the gear room and stocked up on a few things for the road. He picked up more P90 mags loaded with 5.7mm ammo, some bottled water, and some MREs. He grabbed the courier bag from the trunk of the Taurus and dumped the contents into his pack. He knew he was leaving a fortune in gear, weapons, and supplies behind at his office but there was nothing he could do about it. In the larger scheme of things, it didn't matter. None of it would do him any good if he got killed.
Besides, he'd prepared for this. He planned for a day when he might have to disappear and lay low. Such was a risk of the line of work he'd chosen. Still wearing his crisp European suit and body armor, he slid on a pair of sunglasses against the bright afternoon sun. He didn't have any dress gloves at the office so he made do with a pair of tactical gloves with Kevlar knuckle inserts. They were much more comfortable than the rubber fisherman's gloves he'd worn on his ride in.
With his pack on his back and the P90 hanging inside his long coat, Ricardo awkwardly mounted the bike and started it rolling. Once it was in motion he raised his feet to the pedals and worked his way through the gears. It was a little tricky at first, balancing such a heavy load on the agile road bike, but he soon found the rhythm of it and left his office behind. To the casual observer, he probably looked like a stockbroker who'd called it quits and decided to set out across the country on a bicycle, still wearing his suit.
Ricardo kept to the side streets as much as possible but was intent on covering ground as quickly as possible. Several times people tried to flag him down but he couldn't imagine any legitimate reason to stop. The only reason might be to take his bike and gear, and Ricardo had no intention of letting that happen. He'd lost too much already. As calm a man as he was, the events of the day had made him a bit miffed. He could feel his fuse getting shorter than normal. If people knew what was good for them, they'd mind their own business, ignore the well-dressed cyclist, and go on about their day.
While Ricardo had places around the world where he could disappear and hide out, he was headed for his emergency fallback position north of Manassas, Virginia. He made good time on the fast bike. He'd never owned a Cervelo before but he was becoming a fan. Estimating his speed, he figured he could reach his destination in thirty minutes to an hour as lon
g as he didn't run into trouble.
Avoiding trouble, however, was a little too much to ask from the universe on this especially cursed day. West of Centreville he ran into a roadblock in the London Towne suburb. It was probably a decent place to live at one time but Ricardo imagined they'd had a tough time since the collapse. From his experience, he'd seen that less-prepared people had been raiding the suburbs for food, weapons, and anything else they could find. The 'burbs became a grocery store and sporting goods store all rolled into one. Only the neighborhoods that worked together to formalize security arrangements had managed to slow the looting. Unfortunately, the blockade this neighborhood had chosen to erect lay directly in Ricardo's planned route.
As soon as he spotted the line of cars stretched across the road, he cursed and slowed. He dropped his feet to the ground and stood upright, impatiently waiting for the men behind the barricade to show themselves. He wasn't in a mood to wait around. These people needed to get on with whatever they were going to do so he could get where he was going. He had things to do.
"That's far enough!" someone said, standing up behind the cars, a rifle held across their chest with both hands, not yet pointed at Ricardo. The sentry wanted his unwelcome guest to know that he was armed but wasn't ready to threaten yet.
Ricardo crossed his arms over his chest. "Uh, I'm already stopped and I'm not coming any closer. Can we just get on with it?"
"Get on with what? What the hell do you want?" a second man asked, stepping around the end of the barricade. This one had a handgun held alongside his leg and directed toward the ground.
The two armed sentries might have been menacing to most folks, but Ricardo dealt with menacing people nearly every day in his line of work. He'd sat across the bargaining table from some of the toughest men on the planet and was not easily intimidated. The two men in front of him now were only a poor imitation of tough. He understood that if they were serious about fending off a threat, those guns should have been up and leveled on him.
"I need through. I'm headed toward Manassas and this is the shortest route."
The rifle bearer shook his head. "Buddy, this road is closed. No one is getting through for any reason. You should have taken the freeway."
"I'm trying to avoid the freeway for obvious reasons. It's too exposed and there are too many predators."
The man with the pistol gestured as if Ricardo had just proven their point. "Which is exactly why we closed the road through our neighborhood. We got tired of beggars, thieves, and lowlifes."
"I can assure you I'm neither," Ricardo said in his sophisticated European accent. "In fact. you're welcome to follow me through your community to make sure I behave myself. I won't make a single stop. Once we hit Route 29 I'll continue on my way. I'll be no trouble at all."
The rifleman shook his head. "No means no. You'll have to go back and go around, just like everyone else. We make one exception and a rule isn't a rule anymore, is it? Now get out of here before things get ugly."
Ricardo frowned. "That's totally unacceptable. I'm on a bike and that detour adds miles to my trip. It also exposes me to unnecessary risk."
The pistol carrier laughed and said to the rifleman, "You hear that? Our rules are unacceptable. This prissy little frog doesn't want to be inconvenienced."
Ricardo raised an eyebrow at the speaker. "I assure you I'm not French, my friend."
"And I assure you that you're not getting through," pistol-man snapped back.
Ricardo buried his face in his hands, then tugged them downward, rubbing his face in a way that elongated his features. He was tired and quickly losing his patience. "Please, gentlemen, let's be reasonable here. I've had the worst day you can imagine and I need to get to my destination. Let's avoid any unpleasantness, shall we?"
The rifleman shook his head. "Sorry, bud, not our rules. The Homeowners' Association set the rules and we don't have the authority to change them just because you ask nicely. And don't bother asking me to contact the HOA and see if they'll let you pass. I wouldn't do that even if I liked you, and I can assure you I don't." He gave Ricardo a smug look, inferring that he'd said his last on the topic.
"Very well then." Ricardo got off the bike, making as if he was going to turn it. As he moved, he whipped open his jacket and swung the P90 to bear. He sent two bursts of suppressed fire, dropping both gunmen before they could even wipe the looks of surprise off their faces.
At this time of year, with doors and windows closed, Ricardo doubted anyone heard the suppressed gunfire but he wondered for a moment if he should abandon the bike and proceed on foot. He tossed that idea, not ready to return to the slower pace of foot travel. He hopped back on his bike, swung around the roadblock, and charged through the neighborhood in the fastest gear he could utilize. He kept his head lowered, shoving hard on the pedals as he charged through the debris-filled streets.
It was a long neighborhood with hundreds of homes lining the main street. Winding side streets led to cul-de-sacs with even more homes. As he crunched the pedals, Ricardo noticed that many of the old decorative oaks and maples that lined the street had been butchered for firewood. Gazebos, playhouses, and backyard decks had received the same treatment, ripped apart to be burned in the homes with working fireplaces. He spotted a few people out moving around but they largely ignored Ricardo, assuming he was a neighbor. There was no way people in this crowded neighborhood could know every face.
In a matter of minutes, he came upon a second roadblock shutting off the south end of the neighborhood. There were more men here at this one but Ricardo couldn't tell if it was because this particular entrance required more guards or he'd caught them socializing. Either way, the sound of his tires hissing through dry leaves caught their attention and heads swiveled in his direction.
Perhaps the men expected a neighborhood kid riding his or her bike around the block. What they most certainly did not expect was a well-dressed cyclist on a road bike, wielding a bullpup P90 in one hand as he steered with the other. They were too stunned to react.
Ricardo took advantage of their moment of panic. "Drop your weapons!" he barked, firing a short burst into one of the parked cars to emphasize his point.
The explosion of glass from the 5.7mm rounds broke the men from their stupor. They flinched and dropped their weapons exactly as he asked. Ricardo couldn't help but grin. It was the first thing on that infernal day that had gone his way.
Banking on the fact the men were too confused to grab their weapons and fire on him, Ricardo released his rifle and let the P90 hang from the sling. He jammed on the pedals and shot around the parked vehicles at nearly twenty miles per hour, cruising through the narrow gap between a streetlamp and a Jeep Grand Cherokee. He didn't even look back. Seconds later, he swung to his right and the roadblock was lost behind him. He imagined those sentries were still crouched down, trying to figure out what they'd just seen.
Charging west on US 29, Ricardo felt very exposed on the multi-lane highway but he didn't see a soul. Most of the houses, apartment complexes, and residential developments he passed had solid fencing between them and the road to cut down on traffic noise. He passed through two more intersections, the stop lights hanging dead and dark over the vacant streets.
Ricardo dropped his head and pedaled hard, pushing the bike through the gears. He soon reached the optimal balance of effort, the point where he was getting the highest speed from the bike that his muscles could maintain for an extended period of time. His heart pounded and his lungs pumped with machine-like efficiency. It was this sensation that made Ricardo love bikes.
The thin tires chewed up miles. Ricardo swung around the occasional stalled car and the odd bits of wind-strewn trash. Some stretches of road allowed him to forget the state of the world, while others made it glaringly apparent that nothing was the same as it had once been. Even without the stark reminders from scenery, the fact that he was pedaling down the center of a Northern Virginia highway with a submachine gun around his neck kept him in the m
oment. The plain nylon strap rubbed at his flesh, a sensation like a rope burn.
Ten more minutes of strong pedaling brought him to a familiar sign. On both sides of the road were vast water-filled pits created as stone was quarried from the ground. Several years ago Ricardo had been driving around the area looking for a place such as this. When he'd spotted the quarry, he'd reviewed satellite footage of the property and was pleased to find a boneyard on a distant interior boundary of the property. It was where the owners took old broken equipment, some of it to be used as a source for parts, others left to slowly rust into the ground.
After determining that the quarry would be perfect for his needs, Ricardo arranged a meeting with the owner of the property. The man was the third generation in his family to run the business. When Ricardo met with him in his office, the history of the place was apparent everywhere he looked. The office had been built in the 1950s with cheap woodgrain paneling. All of the desks were old steel beasts in battleship gray. Hand-drawn maps of the excavation were tacked to the wall and covered with faded notations. The place smelled of old cigars, body odor, and mildew.
"I'll give you one thousand dollars a month in cash if you'll allow me to store two shipping containers in your boneyard. All I ask is that they not be disturbed. Occasionally I'll have to access them, but I'll certainly speak to you before coming onto the property."
The owner regarded Ricardo skeptically. "This some kind of illegal something or other? You in the drug business?"
Ricardo shook his head. He'd determined that a certain degree of honesty would be the best approach with a sharp old businessman such as the quarry owner. "Absolutely not, sir. I work in government and I need a place to store some items in a secure manner without creating a paper trail."
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 5
