Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7)

by Andrew Peterson

  It defied understanding.

  More quick footsteps. More hands touching her body. And something else. Pressure on her stomach and chest.

  She heard hushed words about controlling bleeding and felt something press against her legs.

  Thankfully, Brian got away. She’d seen him running down the mall.

  “What’s your name?” the woman’s voice asked.

  “Charlene.”

  “I’m a retired corpsman, Charlene, and I’m putting pressure on your wounds to control the bleeding. I’m sorry this hurts.”

  “It’s okay.” She listened to the woman give instructions to someone helping Anthony. “My son . . .”

  “We’re helping him too. You nailed both of the gunmen. All I did was finish them off. You were incredibly brave. I saw you knock your boys down and fight back. Are you retired law enforcement?”

  “Marines.”

  “Well, Marine, you’re in good hands. I did three tours in OEF. Lie still, okay?”

  “Anthony . . .”

  “We’ve got him.”

  “Is he okay?”

  The woman lifted Charlene’s head just high enough to put something underneath it. Her purse? She smelled leather and a familiar cologne.

  The soft voice spoke again. “You need to hold still until the paramedics arrive. You might have a spinal injury.”

  “My son . . . please help him.”

  “We are, Charlene. We’re helping him right now.”

  Like a teakettle starting to whistle, she felt her consciousness begin to fade. Sound became tunnel-like and distant. She sensed only a few people were around. Where was everyone else? Why weren’t they helping the wounded?

  There was something she needed to do before she lost consciousness. What was it? Something about her phone.

  Pictures. She needed pictures of the dead gunmen’s faces.

  “My phone. I need my phone . . .”

  “We’ve already called 911.”

  “Pictures . . .”

  “Pictures?”

  “Of the gunmen . . . their faces.”

  The woman helping her didn’t respond.

  “Please, it’s important. Use my phone . . . in my purse. Please!”

  “We’ll take care of it. Don’t move, okay?”

  “Please don’t . . . bullshit me . . . My husband needs the pictures. Promise me!”

  “Okay, I promise. I’m going to lift your head a little. Let me do the work.”

  Charlene’s pain seemed to be fading, and her eyes wouldn’t focus.

  “I need your pass code.”

  “Nine-six-six . . . seven-six-six.”

  Her hands felt wet, and she brought them up. Oh, dear Lord, that’s my blood. “Please tell Vince I love him . . . will you do that?”

  “You’re going to tell him yourself.”

  Charlene heard the fake shutter sounds of her phone taking photos. Then the woman with the kind voice told someone to take pictures of the other gunman. Whoever she asked to do it started to argue, but the woman’s voice became stern, insisting on it.

  “Anthony . . . why aren’t you . . . helping him?”

  “He’s right here. I’m going to lift your head again. Let me do the work.”

  “Thank you. You got . . . the photos, right?”

  “We got the photos. Your phone’s back in your purse. I’ll make sure the paramedics take it with them. I’m going to stay with you until they arrive. Can you feel this?”

  “Yes.” She felt her left foot being wiggled.

  “How about this?”

  The other foot. She knew feeling her feet was good but wasn’t sure why. “My lungs . . .”

  “I think they’re okay.”

  She thought that was good news too.

  The inward spiral began. She’d only felt it once before in Iraq. Crazy thing was, it hadn’t been a combat wound. She’d cracked her head on a Hesco bastion when she’d stumbled in the gravel on the way to the head. Of all the things . . .

  “Thank you . . . for helping us.”

  A hand grasped hers. “Don’t talk, okay? An ambulance will be here any minute. Relax your breathing and concentrate on lowering your heart rate. Can you do that for me?”

  “I don’t feel too bad right now.”

  “That’s good. Don’t talk. Take deep breaths.”

  The sun formed a yellow-white halo around the blonde woman’s head. Charlene felt herself smile. “You’re an angel.”

  The woman smiled. “I don’t think I’ve been called an angel before. My husband might disagree with you. Charlene, listen to me, okay? It’s really important that you keep breathing and relax as much as possible. Breathe in. Exhale slowly. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She felt her hand being held and couldn’t think of anything else she should say except thank you.

  A calmness washed through her, and she sensed more voices. People were doing things. Saying things. She closed her eyes.

  Stay with me, Charlene. Stay with me. Charlene!

  That was her name. Charlene. Retired US Marine staff sergeant. She had two children and a loving husband . . .

  As her world compressed, she wondered if she’d ever see them again.

  CHAPTER 9

  Five Days Ago

  The seventy-meter luxury yacht Yoonsuh pitched and rolled with a gentle six-foot swell. Its state-of-the-art GPS navigation, sonar, radar, and forward-looking infrared made collision with another ship or reef next to impossible, especially in the middle of the Philippine Sea. Captain Santino’s presence on the bridge wasn’t really necessary because his third in command had the watch for another hour, but he liked being up here just the same.

  The last time he’d been in this region of the world, he’d rendezvoused with the massive container ship Namkung Khang for the transfer of several duffel bags. To this day, he still didn’t know what the bags had contained and didn’t care. Asking questions would lead to his employment termination, or worse. The man he worked for survived on stealth and secrecy. Creating news headlines meant losing business, simple as that.

  He was pretty sure the Yoonsuh’s South Korean registry didn’t reflect its true owner, a ridiculously wealthy Mexican crime lord with ties to cartels all over the world. Santino liked his new boss, as much as you can like a drug dealer, smuggler, racketeer, human trafficker, and cold-blooded killer.

  Santino had no illusions about his role. It hadn’t changed. When it came right down to it, he was little more than “staff,” along with the private jet and helicopter pilots, limo drivers, bodyguards, cooks, handmaidens, butlers, gardeners, and last but not least? Enforcers—killers who did the boss’s wet work. The few times he’d been in the presence of such men, it felt like standing on the precipice of a cliff.

  More times than Santino cared to admit, the cartel’s enforcers had used this ship to dispose of bodies, which made him complicit in covering up murders. There was no sense in worrying about it. Santino did what he was told, collected his twenty grand a month, and got to sail this elegant beauty across the open seas as much as he wanted. Not a bad life.

  Under the close supervision of his two new passengers, two items had been placed into a special smuggling compartment. Looking like hard-shell camera cases, they were made of black plastic, not aluminum, and there were no markings on them at all. Each case was secured with two combination locks. The cases weren’t heavy enough to contain bullion, but they could have held something priceless, an antiquity of some kind, like a sculpture or jewelry. Maybe even precious gems or prototype microchips. The possibilities were endless.

  In their mid-thirties or so, his two guests were of Asian descent. That much was clear. An experienced world traveler, Captain Santino guessed they were from one of the Koreas or maybe eastern China. No way to know.

  Late last night, without saying a word, they’d come aboard from a smaller yacht—plastic cases in hand—along with travel bags slung over their shoulders. Maritime courtesy wasn’t
lost on Captain Santino, so he’d exchanged a pleasantry with the captain of the other vessel. They knew each other from many previous rendezvouses.

  After the uneventful transfer, he’d set sail for the Kaunakakai Ferry Terminal on Molokai, where he planned to top off his fuel tanks before continuing on to Cabo San Lucas.

  His first officer entered the bridge fifteen minutes early with two cups of coffee. He thanked Javier for bringing the coffee, then told his third in command he could take the rest of his duty shift off.

  “All quiet out there, Captain?” Javier asked. “Any contacts?”

  “We passed a COSCO heavy about half an hour ago. Its captain said hello on the radio, but other than that, not a soul.”

  “Just the way we like it.”

  “Any sign of our passengers?”

  “None,” Javier said. “As far as I know, they haven’t even left their staterooms.”

  “To each his own. Makes our job easier. They’re placing mess orders for room service, then?”

  “Yes. It seems they speak just enough Spanish to get by.”

  Santino had known from the start that this wasn’t their usual smuggling run. It had the feel of something much bigger, much more lucrative and dangerous. The guests confirmed his hunch. The captain was accustomed to quiet and subdued passengers, but these guys were downright morbid. Mysterious, like their valuable but small packages—which he really needed to stop thinking about.

  Time to change the subject.

  “We came through some pretty rough seas last night. Anything to report?”

  “There’s some minor damage in the Acacia Suite,” Javier said. “The TV partially dislodged and scarred the cabinet.”

  “Let’s make sure we get that repaired right away. We don’t want the boss to see it on his next walk-through.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Aside from their invisible passengers, there was something else odd about this voyage. The complete absence of women. The boss had made it abundantly clear there’d be no hookers on board for this particular mission. The most reasonable conclusion had to be that his boss didn’t want anyone but the Yoonsuh’s crew to see the two strangers.

  As far as the captain was concerned, this ship couldn’t reach Cabo soon enough, but then again, he didn’t look forward to his next assignment either.

  After another stop at Molokai on the way back from Cabo, he’d be sailing into Seoul, and his next guests definitely wanted ladies of the evening on board.

  He’d hosted them many times.

  South Korean mafia.

  Scary, scary men.

  CHAPTER 10

  When Charlene failed to answer her phone, Vincent had never felt so helpless and frustrated. Worse, he couldn’t reach his boys either.

  From Denise’s, he’d raced home, praying she’d mistakenly left her phone, but all he found was an empty house and two very nervous Irish wolfhounds, their unease fueled by his frantic state. What was Charlene’s schedule today? He wasn’t sure. They’d had a little squabble this morning and left things a little chilly. Since it was Saturday, he knew his boys had volleyball practice. Was she taking them shopping afterward? Shit, he couldn’t remember. In a near panic, he called Nathan and asked him to head over to the school gymnasium. Nathan said he’d do it right away.

  He’d been about to start contacting hospitals when he got a call from an SDPD detective telling him Charlene and one of his sons had been shot. Been shot? Which son? The news slapped him so hard, he couldn’t breathe.

  His worst nightmare had come true. Someone had tortured Denise to extract his personal information, then used it to attack his family.

  Now, racing toward the hospital, he called Nathan back, then contacted the emergency room’s receptionist and said he needed to speak to his wife before they took her into surgery. The receptionist tried to explain hospital procedure with a bunch of boilerplate crap about regulations and policy. Since arguing proved useless, he played the legal card, saying in no uncertain terms if they didn’t wait for him to arrive, they’d be facing a criminal lawsuit, or worse. Her indignant response was predictable and justified, but Vincent didn’t care. He’d apologize later.

  There was nothing more maddening than being in a hurry surrounded by clogged traffic. He’d avoided an accident so far but knew his luck wouldn’t last much longer. Speeding toward a busy intersection, he laid on the horn at a Smart car driven by a kid with an oversized pompadour. Adding to his annoyance, the punk had purposely moved over to block the right lane, preventing him from running the red light at Kearny Villa. Vincent hit the horn again and waved for the kid to get out of the way.

  When he got the middle-finger salute, that was it. He rammed the Smart car with enough force to give the punk’s head a whiplash. When that failed to work, Vincent eased forward until his bumper made contact again. He shifted into low gear, then bulldozed the rolling coffin into the center of the intersection. Even with its brakes locked, it was no match for the Navigator. The roadblock cleared, he backed up but had to wait for several speeding cars to clear the intersection.

  Cell phone in hand, the kid scrambled out and sprinted toward the sidewalk.

  Since his window was down, Vincent thought, Why not? “Hey, snowflake, you ever had an emergency? Next time get the hell out of the way!”

  What happened next was glorious. Trying to peck his phone while he ran, the millennial tripped over the curb and went sprawling onto the sidewalk. The guy protected his phone but sacrificed his elbows and chin in the process. That’s going to leave marks. Feeling a slight twinge of guilt, Vincent gunned it across the intersection.

  Because of all the storefronts, fast-food joints, and gas stations lining the street, Vincent thought there was a pretty good chance his little indiscretion had been captured on camera. Screw it. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, he needed to talk to his wife before they knocked her out for surgery.

  After the most agonizing drive he’d ever made, he pulled in behind several ambulances waiting under the porte cochere. Maybe one of them was Charlene’s. Inside the automatic doors of the ER, he rushed up to the counter. The waiting room held several other people, all with concerned and frightened looks.

  “My wife’s in here. Her name’s Charlene Beaumont. I need to talk to her right now.”

  “You’re the man who called.”

  He recognized the receptionist’s voice. “Yes, I’m the man who called.”

  “As I tried to explain, she can’t have any visitors right now. She’s being prepped for surgery and—”

  He pivoted away from the counter and ran toward the double doors.

  “Sir, you can’t go in there!”

  “Watch me.”

  “Sir!”

  It looked like controlled chaos in the ER, every stall occupied and buzzing with nurses and doctors. He knew these patients were also victims of the mass shooting at the UTC mall, a stark reminder that his wife and son weren’t the only casualties. He spotted Charlene right away but didn’t see either of his sons. Flanked by two nurses and a big orderly, his wife appeared to be covered in blood-soaked bandages.

  One of the nurses tending to Charlene turned toward him just as the receptionist burst into the room. “Sir, I’ve called security.”

  “Ya think?” Vincent said. “Security should already be here.”

  The orderly stepped forward.

  He pointed at the man’s chest and said, “Don’t even think about it, young man. I’ll put you down hard. I’m allowed to be in here.”

  The orderly backed up a step as Vincent approached his wife.

  A portable X-ray machine sat in the corner of the stall. Charlene looked deathly pale. He’d seen this before. Blood loss. Dripping at a fast pace, an IV delivered fluid into her forearm, and her head was wrapped with gauze. The worst looked to be her abdomen, where a large dressing soaked with blood wrapped her torso. Both her legs were also bandaged and bleeding. His wife looked like a war casualty. He glance
d at the display on the vitals monitor and cringed. Her blood pressure was critically low.

  Ignoring all the activity, he focused on his wife. “Charlene, can you hear me?”

  Her haunted expression made his stomach tighten. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Charlene, where are the boys?”

  “Don’t . . . know.”

  She already looked and sounded sedated.

  “Sir,” the nurse said, “it would be really helpful to know your wife’s blood type.”

  “A positive.” Vincent turned toward the nurse. “Where are my sons?”

  “I think it’s best if you speak to the doctor.”

  Across the room, a man in scrubs who looked younger than Doogie Howser talked on a phone. Could that be the doctor? Why wasn’t he tending to his wife? If one of his boys was also shot, where was he? Why wasn’t his other son in the waiting area? Shit! He needed answers.

  Charlene’s eyes opened. “Brian . . .”

  “What about him? Where’s Brian?”

  “Got away.”

  “Where’s Anthony?”

  Tears fell from her eyes. “I’m so sorry . . . I wasn’t . . . fast enough.”

  “Charlene, tell me what happened.”

  “Sir, it would be best if you waited—”

  He gave the nurse an expression that got through.

  “Please keep it brief. The anesthesiologist will be here any second.”

  He said thank you without taking his eyes from his wife.

  “Where’s Anthony?” he asked again.

  Her face contorted into the most hideous agony imaginable. “I don’t know.”

  How could she not know? “Tell me what happened.”

  “Two gunmen. I shot . . . them.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  She closed her eyes and pursed her lips.

  “Think, Charlene. It’s important. Did they say anything?”

  She nodded, eyes still closed, fading.

  “What? What did they say?”

  “They said . . . Mr. Hey-sendsis . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumont, but we need to get her into the OR.”