The Fourth Option

by Matt Hilton

  Apparently Mercer had also decided to arrive early, probably for the same reason we had. I caught his reflection in the cookie shop window. He approached at a right angle from where we’d arrived. He was dressed in the same attire I’d spotted him in yesterday, now looking rumpled. He’d probably slept in his car, as we had in ours. His silvery hair stood up from being finger-combed by nervous fingers. His head darted about as he checked all places of concealment or possible ambush. He saw me, and paused in step, but only for a second. He held something tightly to his body, a folded magazine, and I guessed it was there to conceal a weapon. He could have shot me then, but didn’t, which was a promising start.

  His attention jumped from me to where Rink sat in the open central hub area. Rink was overlooked by a number of early shoppers, and those taking breakfast at the adjacent food court. Mercer’s right hand crept under the magazine, and I steeled for the worst, but then Rink faced him directly and gave him a nod and placed his open hands on his thighs. Mercer’s hand appeared, empty. Mercer stopped walking, a few feet from me. I turned from the window and appraised him. This close I could see he was shaking gently, vibrating like a plucked guitar string. He stared at me a moment, then gave a tiny jerk of his chin. ‘You’ve aged, Hunter.’

  ‘Haven’t we all?’

  ‘You want to keep on aging, let’s keep things civil, shall we?’ He tapped the glossy magazine, emphasizing what was concealed beneath.

  ‘Making threats isn’t the best way to begin a civil conversation,’ I said.

  ‘Just so you know, if this is some plot to trap me, I’ll take both of you down with me.’

  ‘Good job it isn’t then,’ I said, ‘otherwise Sue will have nobody left to recue her.’

  He tilted his head in response. For a moment his vision appeared unfocussed. He snapped to, and again checked on Rink. His tongue snaked over his bottom lip.

  I said, ‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Mercer? You look fit to drop.’

  ‘Yeah, you can blame Rink for that.’

  ‘We have to move on,’ I said, and without checking that he was following I walked towards my friend. I could tell by Rink’s gaze that he was observing Mercer’s progress. It was now or never. If Mercer had come with some preconceived notion of exacting revenge on Rink, he’d go for it now. It’d be a rash move to shoot in full view of all those witnesses, but rationality isn’t always the overriding mood of someone bent on killing.

  I halted ten feet out from the bench and faced Mercer. If he drew on Rink…

  Two little girls charged past, whooping with excitement. A parent called out to them, but they didn’t slow. They ran between Mercer and Rink. Mercer’s shoulders slumped and his features softened. He was a better man than we’d once been led to believe: he wouldn’t willingly shoot where there were innocent children at play. I nodded in understanding, then stood aside so he could approach. He sat alongside Rink on the bench. Neither looked at the other.

  Standing over them — while keeping a regular look out — I waited for them to break the ice.

  ‘Saying sorry would be a start,’ Mercer finally said.

  ‘Saying sorry would be accepting my culpability,’ Rink said. ‘I pulled the trigger, yeah, but I was a soldier obeying a command. Your beef isn’t with me, Mercer, it’s with the ones that gave the order.’

  Mercer’s right hand crept to the scarred flesh behind his disfigured ear. Again I noted the trembling of his fingers — Sue had told us how it’d taken him years to recover his health, but he was still a long way from being the warrior we once knew. He turned to appraise Rink’s profile. ‘For years,’ he began, ‘I’ve dreamed about getting my own back on you. You sent me to hell and it’s been a rocky road back. I wanted you to feel even the tiniest part of the agony I’ve endured. I’m sat here now, fighting the urge to shoot you like a dog, the way you did to me.’

  ‘If you were goin’ to shoot, you’d have done it by now. Let’s say the moment’s behind us and move on. We weren’t stringing you a line, Mercer: if Sue has any hope of survival, it’s on the three of us to make it happen.’

  Mercer gazed up at me.

  My lips formed a tight line as I nodded down at him. ‘What do you say, Mercer? In or out?’

  ‘I’m here…what do you think?’

  ‘I think you need to put away your weapon and listen to what we’ve planned.’

  Mercer allowed himself a tight smile as he rolled up the magazine and set it down beside him. There was no gun concealed in his belt.

  ‘You came here unarmed?’ Rink’s mouth was downturned, but not in a show of disappointment.

  ‘I’m armed,’ Mercer said, ‘just not as openly as I wanted you to believe. I’m pleased neither of you reached for your guns; if you had, well, I might’ve turned around and walked away.’

  ‘Or got a bullet in your back,’ said Rink.

  ‘If what you’ve said is true, you’re not the kind to shoot a man in the back of your own accord.’

  There was logic in Mercer’s statement. Rink grunted. ‘You’re either nuts, or you have balls of steel.’

  ‘Whichever it is,’ I added, ‘we are going to need a bit of both from you once I make the call.’

  Before, when we’d arranged our meeting, I’d again gone over the circumstances leading up to Sue’s abduction. I’d also told him what we knew about Stephen Vincent/Vince Everett, and how Walter Hayes Conrad had allegedly lost his power of influence over him. However, I’d also mentioned how I’d believed that Walter still had a direct line to the punk. Hiding out in the woods atop that chalky ridge, we’d thrown ourselves at Walter’s mercy, and called him for help. He’d agreed to be our conduit to Vince, if not to Vince’s superiors.

  ‘It’s asking a lot from me,’ Mercer said, ‘but for Sue’s sake I’m willing to go along with the plan. I just need some kind of assurance that you won’t abandon me as soon as you have Sue back. This head of mine might be a bit messed up, but it’s the only one I’ve got; I don’t want it cut off by any damn guitar string garrote.’

  ‘There’s not much more we can say to convince you, you’re going to have to judge us by our actions. You have my word, Mercer,’ I said, ‘join us and I’ll fight as hard to keep you safe as I will for Sue.’

  Mercer rocked his head, and then looked again at Rink. ‘What about you?’

  Rink eyed him, and with a curl of his lip said, ‘If I meant you harm, I wouldn’t need a skinny-assed punk like Vince to cut your ugly head off for me.’

  There was vinegar in Rink’s response, but it had the opposite effect. There was a few seconds of silence while his words were absorbed, and then Mercer surprised us by guffawing in laughter. A few seconds after, Rink and I were infected by his humour and we laughed too.

  ‘Isn’t that the damn truth?’ Mercer cackled, his face red. He stood, sat down again, clapping his hands on his thighs. He hooted again.

  We were attracting attention, but nothing to be concerned about. Diners in the food court were smiling, grinning inanely, or even chuckling at Mercer’s antics. He received several headshakes as he tried to control his laughter, but already people were returning to their breakfasts. Mercer got a grip — after a few phlegmy coughs and hiccups — and then sat staring at the floor, blinking as if his attack had left him confused. Maybe, I decided, his laughter was the release of years of pent up frustration and several hours of anxiety.

  ‘So?’ Mercer finally asked. ‘How are we going to do this?’

  Rink stood. ‘First we get outta here, reconvene somewhere more private and Hunter will call the old fart. From then on Vince holds the cards…’

  ‘But not all of the aces,’ I reassured Mercer.

  25

  Jason Mercer wasn’t the first loose end Vince had pursued on behalf of Arrowsake. Several years ago he had traced a knife wielding maniac from North Carolina’s Barrier Islands, into the Deep South, and then almost to the border with Canada where his quarry had holed up in a hunter’s cabin in Minnesota’s
Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. The madman, who’d gone by a number of pseudonyms, but most notably the Harvestman, had proven a dangerous enemy. Vince had come close to killing him, but the wily killer had had a contingency up his sleeve, and escaped. The three assassins that had accompanied Vince didn’t survive the brutal encounter, and Vince hadn’t come out of it unscathed either. He’d been stabbed through his right knee, and would have bled to death if not for the Harvestman’s whimsy: Vince had woken from combat with his serious leg wound tourniqueted by way of his own garrote, and with his skeleton mercifully whole. The Harvestman was named for his penchant for taking bone trophies from his victims. In a note left for Vince at the scene, the maniac had explained his reason for allowing him to live, but with the caveat that should they meet again, he would reap his due. Yeah, well if it ever happened and they faced off again, the loon wouldn’t find Vince lacking: he also wanted his due, and wouldn’t be satisfied until the Harvestman’s head was at his feet.

  Unlike his simmering hatred for the Harvestman, there was nothing personal involved in the task of finding and killing Jason Mercer; it was just a contract to him. Not unless he counted the inclusion of Joe Hunter in the search. If he’d to put a finger on why he disliked Hunter, he’d struggle to admit it without sounding envious. Theirs had been a complicated relationship, one born of conflict but ending in an uneasy alliance. He knew Hunter still held a boner for him over the fact he’d throttled him unconscious with his garrote but that was due to a misunderstanding. He’d known that sooner or later — unlike he expected with the Harvestman — there’d be some kind of showdown with Hunter, one that’d draw blood but not necessarily in the taking of lives, but that was before this shit show threw them back into conflict. To Vince this was just another job, but Hunter had a different opinion, the noble fool being misguided by some kind of loyalty to Sue Bouchard. He couldn’t understand why Hunter would stick up for a woman he owed nothing to, and who had for years assisted an enemy of Rink.

  Actually, he could.

  Hunter was a throw back to earlier centuries. He conducted himself like a night errant out of time and place: the first hint of a damsel in distress or a dragon to slay and he was on the job like stink on shit. He was surprised that Hunter’s archaic behaviour didn’t find him coming unstuck more often in this modern politically correct world. It was partly why he disliked the Englishman: Hunter could be a sanctimonious prick at times. But his disliking didn’t end there. There was the need for Vince to prove his worth…no, strike that. There was a need to prove his superiority over Hunter. Hunter was old school, as archaic as his questionable moral code, and had rightly been put out to pasture. And yet, Vince always felt his efficacy was compared to Hunter’s and found wanting. They had both shared a handler in the form of Walter Conrad, and Vince had gone out of his way to impress the CIA director, although he got the sense that his best was never good enough. Walter, a man who should be above emotional ties, loved Hunter like a son, whereas Vince felt akin to an unwanted bastard foisted onto him: Walter tolerated him when he was around, used him when it was convenient, then ignored him like a shameful family secret at earliest opportunity.

  Vince owed Walter nothing.

  When the old man contacted him last night, pleading leniency on behalf of Hunter and Rink, Vince promised he’d do what he could do. His words held double meaning, because if killing them both was achievable, that was exactly what he would do. Their discussion had been brief: Vince had already missed his chance at wiping out his rival, but he knew how dogged Hunter was and that the opportunity would arise again. He didn’t update Walter that he’d already captured Sue as the old dodder was out of the loop on this mission. He wanted to gloat: but he took secret pleasure in the fact he’d one-upped Walter’s Golden Boy, and taken the woman from him. When he found out, Walter would be disappointed, but he’d have to eat humble pie too, when he realised he’d put all his faith and energy into supporting the wrong son all those years.

  Vince grimaced at his thoughts.

  They sounded like those of a spiteful child, green-eyed with sibling envy. Walter was a surrogate father figure to Joe Hunter, to Vince he was…well he was nothing really. He was unsure why he sought Walter’s validation, his approval, especially now that the old bastard had lost his toehold in Arrowsake’s upper echelons, and was fast tumbling into the void of obscurity. Walter had used him in the past, and Vince had reciprocated, taking from the old man too while he ascended Arrowsake’s ranks, but now that Walter no longer had anything to give…

  He turned his attention to the others in the room.

  He had lost three of his team in the fight to win the prize, two men at the hotel and latterly Brian Cayton, sacrificed in order for Vince to escape with Sue. He had three remaining male helpers, Gary McMahon, Johnny Scott and Wayne Davis, and one female, although Pam Patrick was currently sleeping on a couch in a room next door, her bandaged leg propped up. She’d taken a bullet to the thigh, and a couple of nasty cracks to the skull when ambushed by Hunter in the parking garage: adrenalin had carried her through the ensuing chase and abduction of Sue, but once they’d arrived at their safe house she’d gassed out. Vince knew how debilitating a leg wound could be; it’d taken surgery and months of rehabilitation before he’d gotten back to health, so he gave her a break, as much to get over the concussion as anything. McMahon was napping too. Between them Scott and Davis could be trusted to watch the captive until their colleagues spelled them on guard duty.

  Scott was a big, rangy guy, square of shoulder and chin, his dark hair worn in a high and tight military buzz. He put Vince in mind of a young Stallone, circa the first Rocky movie, but he lacked Balboa’s wise guy charm. Davis was squat and burly by comparison, fair haired and freckled with an almost boyish face. They didn’t comport themselves like soldiers, because they weren’t. Once upon a time, Arrowsake gleaned its intakes from the cream of Special Forces. In essence it was still a counter intelligence service, funded by the blackest of black budget money, but for the sake of complete deniability, it now chose its recruits differently. Some of its assets were ex military, others private security contractors, and some of them were hired guns, recruited locally where some crap had to be swiftly dealt with and cleaned up. Take for instance the asshole they’d sent to Sue’s house in Panama City: he was a street punk offered a cash payday to go and keep tabs on Sue until Vince’s team could be mobilised and get their boots on the ground. Whether he was trying to impress his paymasters, he’d ignored instruction and gone in with all guns blazing — or at least that was his intention — and had royally fucked things up. He’d gotten himself killed, no loss there, but he’d also spooked Sue and her noble rescuers into running. The only saving grace was that there were no comebacks concerning the dead man, who it’d be impossible to trace back to Arrowsake.

  The assault on the hotel in Mexico Beach hadn’t gone the way Vince had hoped. It had been his intention to storm Hunter’s room, overwhelm their adversaries with numbers and firepower, and take Sue without having to fight a running battle. There’s an old adage in the military that if anything can go wrong, it will: how could he have predicted that Hunter would’ve left the hotel, and spot the team as they arrived, and warn Rink and Sue to run? Had things gone to plan, the execution of Sue’s rendition would have taken minutes, and there wouldn’t be the complication of corpses and wrecked vehicles to cover up afterwards — Arrowsake was on the case right then, using its influence to encourage a different narrative with the local PD, and wider law enforcement agencies: all anyone needed to know was that the shootings involved rival criminals engaged in a turf war, the gunmen choosing their moment to attack while the city, and the PD, was in disarray following the hurricane. The story wouldn’t pass deep scrutiny, but Arrowsake would ensure the investigation was superficial at most. As the city began to rebuild, the deaths of three criminals would be buried alongside all the other trash being carted away to landfills.

  Thankfully, despite the initial assault
going wrong, an exfiltration route had been made in anticipation, and after capturing Sue, the surviving team members had made it to the rendezvous site at Cape San Blas and boarded the boat waiting there. The SUV they’d abandoned at the dock was currently en route to a crusher — it could’ve been forensically cleaned, but there was nothing that could’ve been done to conceal the bullet holes Hunter and Rink put in it during their final skirmish. Replacement vehicles had been sourced for his team on arrival here, so they could still go mobile if necessary. For now Vince’s orders were to stay put, extract any helpful information from Sue, and await further orders.

  Having sped north, the boat had docked at a private country estate on the western shore of Fanning Bayou. They stood within striking distance of Panama City where, according to intelligence passed via Walter Conrad, Jason Mercer had originally resurfaced. It was possible that the fugitive had bucked town, but also that he was lying low in an area he knew well. Apparently Sue Bouchard had also lived in Panama City for several years, and would know all of his hiding places. Similarly as with Mercer, Vince had no personal beef with Sue Bouchard, all she meant to him was an asset to be wrung until her usefulness dried up. He wished her no personal ill, but then again, neither did he have any qualms about hurting her.

  He flicked his fingers at Scott. ‘Do your stuff, Rocky.’

  The big guy had been waiting. He picked up a semi-opaque roll of thick polythene and opened it, like an ancient mariner unfurling a scroll map. Its dimensions were approximately two by three feet. He walked across the room, as if studying what was written on it, though there was nothing: he was checking there were no perforations.

  From where she sat, secured to a ladder-backed chair by zip-ties, Sue watched Scott. From the nervous tic tugging at the side of her mouth, she fully anticipated what was coming next.