by Steve Richer
The laughter stopped. The Venezuelan’s voice had been calm and unflinching. The Frenchman felt goose bumps run down his back.
“I don’t understand.”
“I need one million dollars, American currency. I know you have access to such an amount.”
Morales lived the good life. He had a huge mansion, fancy cars, employees left and right, but nothing was really his. It was all part of his image of a powerful banker.
His financial institution owned the house and the cars and paid for his security staff. All he really got to keep was his salary of 365 million Bolivars per year – half a million dollars – and even that he didn’t own. Seventy-five percent of his revenue was funneled back to his terrorist organization where everything was spent on food, weapons, and medical supply. They didn’t have enough cash to bring to Aaron Chapman in Raleigh.
“We will all have our money at the end of the week, you will just have to wait.”
“I need an advance.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“Do you know what I need the money for, the big payoff I mean?”
Ledoux had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t for supplying the needy with new eyeglasses. He thought he had something to do with the South American drug cartels.
“Let me tell you,” Morales continued, “that I’m associated with people who sleep with weapons. I’m in league with men who can go seriously ballistic when being denied their wishes. I don’t want to sound threatening, my friend, but you have to understand that the people I work with need that advance to an unimaginable degree. Will you help me?”
The politician began shaking. His life had never been threatened before. If he had his share of the jackpot he could turn the man down and laugh it off, comforted by the knowledge that he could hire bodyguards or simply disappear, but he didn’t have that kind of money yet.
He could always hire security guards on the money he already had, but they wouldn’t be the best of the best. Worse still, he didn’t have the money to buy peace. He didn’t like being bullied, but he had no way of striking back.
“It’s a loan. Since I’m taking the risks, you will need to pay fifty percent interest.”
By laying down his conditions Ledoux was saving face. Morales understood this and smiled.
“I wouldn’t do it any other way. I need you to wire it first thing tomorrow morning.” This wasn’t negotiable.
Chapter 47
Farris had bought an extra order of chicken which he shared with Hingle. They were in the latter’s kitchen. The food was good in civilian life, he had to concede it. He still longed for a uniform though.
He had served with the Canadian Airborne Regiment until it been disbanded in the mid-1990s following the numerous incidents in Somalia and compromising boot camp videos. He had then been transferred to the Canadian Forces Supplementary Radio System – now Information Operations Group, which had introduced him to CSE work. He had chosen his life out of uniform for pecuniary considerations.
“I know where Bellamy stashed them,” he said.
“I knew you would. Only problem is we don’t really need to know anymore. Harker fucked up, now everybody’s gonna believe what that Riley kid says. I’m gonna call him to let him know the location, but frankly I don’t care if he kills him or not anymore.”
“Still, it’s an easy hit. They’re at the Aylmer safe house, it’s a pretty rural neighborhood. One MP across the street in his personal car, another drives by every two hours.”
Hingle wiped his hands of the grease and took his plate to the sink. The meeting was over and he hoped Farris would get the hint. He wanted to be alone for a while. He needed to think. He stared at his guest while he bit into the last piece of chicken. Farris caught the stare and dropped the leg back in the box.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” the younger man said. He wiped his hands, took a sip of his beer, and stood up.
“Sure.”
Farris nodded and found his way to the exit.
Hingle quickly cleared the table and put the plates in the dishwasher. He headed to the living room where he poured himself a stiff drink before taking a seat in his recliner. He reached toward the sideboard on his right and grabbed a small-framed photograph.
She was beautiful and happy. He was happy too. That picture had caught the moment where he had last been joyful. Two days later she had been hacked to death with a machete.
Bonga Kalisa had once been a waitress in a Kigali restaurant. After the civil war had broken out in Rwanda in 1990, Hingle had been sent on an intelligence-gathering mission. He had met her on his first trip and had been so smitten that every time he’d returned to Rwanda in the following months he’d stopped by to see her.
In 1992, his trips had been more frequent and it was then that they had fallen in love. He’d kept telling her he would bring her to Canada, but she had always said no. She had been attached to her country, to its ways, and leaving had been out of the question.
For decades, the Hutus had been in power. Since the sixties when they had overthrown the Tutsi king, Hutus had killed thousands of Tutsis and driven them into exile. The offspring of these expatriates had organized themselves into a rebel force called the Rwandan Patriotic Front.
It was this group who had initiated the civil war. The tribal tensions had culminated in the 1994 genocide that claimed eight hundred thousand Tutsi lives. The rebels finally won and took control of the country, stopping the massacres.
Hingle had been there during that bloody April. He had stayed in Rwanda most of that year. He had been there when the Canadian peacekeepers in charge of the UN mission had powerlessly cried for the permission to intervene.
He had seen the corpses, the blood drenched streets, the Hutu atrocities. He had gotten back to his hotel room only five minutes too late. Bonga had been a Hutu herself.
The only reason she had died was that Tutsis were fighting back. Tutsis made up only fifteen percent of the population and they were being exterminated. If they were to win the war, they had to level the playing field. Death squads were sent out to murder Hutus, their oppressors for so long. Bonga was one of their many victims.
Hingle was crying now. He had been young when it had all happened. He had been getting prepared to move in with her permanently. His entire life had been wasted when he was robbed of his true love. Ever since that day he had thought of nothing other than revenge.
Maybe if the Hutus were the only tribe in Rwanda, then such things wouldn’t happen again. It was a mad idea, he was aware of it, but these fucking Tutsis had gone too far by going after his Bonga. They didn’t deserve to be in power.
For years, he had thought it through. Now that his operation would provide him with the money he needed, he would be able to stage a coup. He would buy the weapons, the soldiers, and he would take that country back.
Who he would put in power was still a matter to settle, but it certainly wouldn’t be a Tutsi or a Hutu. Maybe it would be one of those pigmoid Twas that made up one percent of the Rwandan population.
One thing was definite though, he would rip that goddamned country apart.
Jeff and Chasey had hardly spoken to each other all evening. The extent of their conversations had concerned their television viewing arrangements. They didn’t hold grudges, but neither could think of anything worthwhile to say. He had poured his heart to her and she still hadn’t said anything about it.
It kept him from falling asleep. They both had gone to bed relatively early and had chosen rooms across the hall from each other. He wondered if she was as awake as he was. He was pacing, unable to take his mind off of her.
What were they now? How could their relationship be qualified? They had spent the night together, a night he knew they both had thoroughly enjoyed. Was that it? Had he only been a distraction to her? Maybe that was what she was thinking about at the moment.
It was a relationship that went against common sense. They lived in different countries. He was in the business
of concealment while hers was about unearthing secrets. He was on the ugly side of plain while she could make most supermodels jealous. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, he knew it all too well.
It was out of his hands now. He had given her the pitch and she would decide if she was going to make the purchase.
The house didn’t have air-conditioning and it was hot. The humidity he had felt in Toronto had made its way to the safe house. He was walking around in his boxer shorts and T-shirt. Removing the latter would make him sweat more, he figured.
The coolest place in the room was near the window. His mother had taught him not to leave prints on the glass, but it was the only way to cool his body at the moment. It offered a view of the street and Jeff gazed around. There was a house across the lane, but nothing to be voyeuristic about since the lights were off. He could see the soldier in the car on the other side of the road.
The man was still. He wasn’t even chewing his gum anymore.
That was odd, Jeff thought. The MP was due to be relieved at midnight and there was still half an hour to go. Maybe he was asleep. He could tell he was leaning against his window. But the man would suffocate with the windows rolled up on a night like this.
They were all up, Jeff could see. And the engine was off which meant there was no air-conditioning. He felt his pulse quicken as his mind raced. A hitman had tried to kill him that morning. What if he tried again?
What if he was here right now to finish the job?
Chapter 48
Jeff speedily went back to his bed and reached for the telephone on the nightstand. There was no dial tone, even after depressing the hang-up button several times. The line was dead.
He hadn’t had time to grab his cellphone when he had escaped from his apartment and that Farris guy hadn’t brought it to him along with his clothes. How long had the soldier been dead? Paranoia was whispering into his ear that their bodyguard was dead and that they were trapped in a house with a paid killer.
He cracked his door open and looked into the hallway. There was nothing out of the ordinary. He stepped out of his room and closed the door. He entered Chasey’s room, locking the door behind him. She sat up in her bed.
“What are you doin’ in here?”
Jeff brought a finger to his mouth to shush her. “I think the killer’s back,” he whispered.
She took the news surprisingly well, Jeff observed. It was as if she had been expected it. She didn’t move, but didn’t freeze either. She was awaiting instructions. Jeff tried her phone and got the same result.
“Do you have a cellphone?”
She shook her head. She had left it in North Carolina since all calls would be long distance from Canada.
Jeff went to the window and tried sliding it open. Even after taking the lock off it wouldn’t open. He opened the closet and looked inside. It was empty, but it gave him an idea.
He reached for the hanger pole and dislodged it from its socket. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do. He took her by the shoulders and brought her to the closet.
“Stay in here and stay low.”
“Break the window with this,” she suggested.
“No, if he hears us we’re dead.”
The rookie CSE agent tiptoed along the wall and stopped just behind the door. The element of surprise was the only advantage he had. He hoped his diagnostic was wrong and that the soldier was merely taking a nap and that the phone company offered truly bad service.
He would wait though, until daylight if he had to. Better safe than sorry.
The wait wasn’t particularly long. Harker had gotten in through the patio door which he had been able to derail. His employer had told him that the hit was unnecessary now, but he had still insisted on coming. The fewer the corpses, the fewer the chances of getting caught. It was the rule all assassins lived by.
But these two he had neglected to dispose of properly had seen him. He had been wearing prosthetic facial hair, but it was taking too great of a chance. Besides, that hundred grand would give him that round million he craved.
The house seemed empty but the soldier keeping the place under surveillance had proven that it wasn’t. He had searched the kitchen and living room and he was now down to the bedrooms.
Jeff heard the doorknob rattle. It was coming down to this. This confrontation would leave somebody dead.
It was one thing to smash a terrorist in the head with a pop can, but quite another to attack a hired gun. He thought about Chasey and his hands weren’t shaking anymore.
He had all the reasons in the world to want to stay alive. This wasn’t defending a little English girl he didn’t even know, it was protecting the love of his life. The lock was holding.
He was about to sigh in relief when the door came crashing open. The stranger smashed the door in with his whole body and it rammed into Jeff who stood behind it.
He had been expecting the blow and held the pole firmly so he wouldn’t drop it. The hitman walked into the room aiming his gun at the bed. As he rotated toward the closet, Jeff charged forward.
He brought the pipe down on the hand with which the assassin held the gun. The weapon came flying out of his hand and rolled underneath the bed. He pulled the pole back to deliver another hit.
But at that instant, the mercenary used his other hand to push the metal bar out of the way. Jeff lost his grip and the pole was propelled away from him, landing in the corner of the room.
“Ah!”
The guy punched Jeff in the jaw. His glasses fell off as he was thrown back. His myopia was rather severe, but he still could make out the man reaching under the bed for his gun. He leapt ahead and pulled him back. The hardwood floor was helpful.
The intruder turned over and kicked Jeff in the stomach. But Jeff was expecting some kind of retaliation and held on to the leg. He took the opportunity to kick the attacker in the groin. The man turned into a fetal position from the pain, but in doing so he succeeded in knocking Jeff of his feet.
“Shit!”
While Jeff was still on the floor, the killer turned around and brought his hands to his neck. He was on top of the young Canadian and he was choking him. Jeff was using all the strength he could muster to lift his aggressor’s hands off of him, but he was no match for his vigor.
Out of the corner of his eye he could glimpse the gun under the bed.
He tried to reach for it, but it was still three feet too far. The hanger pole was even farther. Suffocation was not the way he wanted to die. He had to get his mind off the fact that air was not entering his lungs anymore.
With one swift move, he kneed him in the testicles again. The man didn’t go into shock, but it gave Jeff enough leeway to change positions.
Jeff tried to crawl away toward the gun, but this time it was him who was pulled back. His body was slammed against the wall. He raised his elbow and struck the invader in the face.
“Ugh…”
He followed it up with two jabs and an uppercut. They were now rolling on themselves and bumping each other on the walls in the corner of the room near the window.
Chasey could see the brawl from the closet. It hadn’t lasted long so far, but she wondered how long Jeff would be able to resist.
She left the confines of the closet and bent down to retrieve the gun. She had fired them before, as a kid under her father’s supervision, and saw that the safety was off.
She aimed at the two fighting men, but there was way too much movement for her to get a clear shot. They never stood still and when they did it was Jeff who was in her crosshairs.
She thought about yelling for them to hold still, but figured it might be giving the assassin an opportunity to get the upper hand. Instead, she aimed at the window. She fired three shots hoping the noise would alert the neighbors.
To be sure, she took a step forward and aimed through the window again at a car in the driveway across the street. She shot three bullets at it and was relieved when the car alarm went off.
Jeff was on the bottom now. The killer pinned his shoulders down and hit him in the nuts with his knee, glad he could give back what the young CSE agent had so generously bestowed on him.
Since he was no longer an immediate threat, he rose to his feet, catching his breath. He came face-to-face with Chasey. He thought he had heard a window breaking during the ordeal but now it was confirmed. The gun was trained on him.
“Give me the gun,” he ordered curtly.
His English was rather neutral. If one of them lived and he had to escape, he didn’t want them to be able to identify him through his accent. He took a small step forward.
Shooting him would put an end to this nightmare. She would be able to go back home and there would be no one to attempt on her life anymore. But killing an unarmed person wasn’t something she could do. It seemed an easy concept and yet putting it into practice was altogether different.
“Don’t make a move.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. Him, yes. Not you. Give me the gun and you can walk away.”
He took another step forward.
Jeff was on his knees now. He was tired and sweaty and short of breath. He saw that the assassin was close to Chasey. If he moved another six inches forward he would be able to disarm Chasey.
And that would mean both their deaths.
Just as Jeff squatted to stand up, the stranger did just that, swiftly wrenching the weapon away from her.
“No!”
Now that he was holding the gun, his first priority was to kill Jeff. He spun around to fire at him, but hadn’t noticed that his mark was back to his senses.
Jeff grabbed a handful of his shirt at the sternum level and pulled him down toward him. The Englishman lost his balance from the tug.
He twisted around as he fell and a shot went off. The wayward bullet crashed into the ceiling just as the mercenary landed.
His head went through the broken window and his spinal cord was severed by the sharp edges as his body came slamming down. The gun fell out of his hand.
