A tourist shop nearby sold binoculars. Parkerson bought a pair and checked his watch. Time to go. He felt like a child on a predawn Christmas morning, jumpy from caffeine or the anticipation or both. He walked back to the Cadillac, forcing himself to stay calm. Circled around to the southwest side of the island, where he pulled onto a side road and parked at the edge of Biscayne Bay, angling the Cadillac to afford a good view of the yachts moored at the marina on the water. Then he settled back with his binoculars and waited.
IT WAS A BIG BOAT, the Kyla Dawn. A hundred feet, maybe. It gleamed white in the sunlight as it rested on its moorings, the bay’s small chop barely disturbing its sleek, graceful lines.
Lind watched the yacht through the scope of his rifle. He sat low in the rear seat of the rental Chevy, surveying the marina from across the water. He was parked in a warehouse lot on Terminal Island, midway across the MacArthur Causeway between South Beach and Miami proper. The man had told him about the island when he’d phoned with the instructions. He’d told Lind to park here and wait for the target. Lind had followed his instructions. He’d been sitting in the car, not moving, since just after dawn.
It was almost time. So far, there had been very little movement aboard. A couple of stewards in white carried grocery bags from the dock. A man who must have been the captain surveyed the yacht’s hull. None of them interested Lind. None of them was the target.
As Lind watched, a black Rolls-Royce limousine pulled to a stop at the head of the dock. The driver got out and quickly circled to the passenger side. A man climbed out before he could reach the door. He was slim, dressed in a well-cut white suit. Lind frowned. He wasn’t the target, either.
The man left his driver at the car, walked down to the floats, and crossed quickly to the Kyla Dawn. Lind watched him talk to the captain. They glanced back at the Rolls-Royce. Then the man climbed aboard.
Lind checked his watch. It was five minutes past noon. The target should have been dead. He was five minutes late.
Lind felt the first stirrings of panic. He wondered what would happen if the target failed to show. If the assignment wasn’t completed. It had never happened before.
For five agonizing minutes, he contemplated the possibilities. Then another car pulled up, a tan Lexus. A man climbed out from behind the wheel. He was heavyset. He had a black beard. Lind relaxed. This man was the target.
PARKERSON GAZED approvingly across the water at the Kyla Dawn. She was a beautiful vessel. Clean. Sleek. Dwarfed every other yacht in the marina. He wondered how much she cost. How many more jobs he would have to arrange before he could afford something like her.
Parkerson tore his eyes from the yacht and surveyed the harbor. Pointed the binoculars across the bay, toward Terminal Island, where he’d determined Lind should set up. It was an ugly little island—parking lots, mostly. Try as he might, Parkerson couldn’t pick out Lind’s car from the rest.
He didn’t see any cops, either. No police cars anywhere, marked or unmarked. There were a couple security guards at the marina, but they looked bored, restless. They didn’t look like they were anticipating a murder.
Maybe we’re clean, Parkerson thought. Maybe nobody realizes we’re here.
A big black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the dock. A man in a white suit climbed out and walked down to the Kyla Dawn. Parkerson didn’t recognize him. Five minutes later, a tan Lexus arrived and another man appeared, a fat man with a beard. Parkerson felt his pulse start to quicken. The target. Parkerson watched him navigate the narrow ramp to the slips. He moved slowly, unsteadily. Parkerson waited, his whole body tense, straining to hear the shot.
45
Mathers stood up from his computer. “Whoa,” he said. “Holy shit.”
Stevens and Windermere hurried over. “What’s up?”
“Richard O’Brien just disappeared from the Liberty system.” Mathers pointed at his computer. “Like, literally just now.”
Windermere peered at the screen. “Peter Cook,” she read. “You’re sure you have the right file?”
“Damn sure,” said Mathers. “Same red Chevy Cruze. Same plates.”
“Same credit card,” said Stevens.
“Exactly. This is the same account. Just somebody switched out O’Brien’s name.”
Windermere looked at Stevens. Stevens shrugged. “Any word from Miami PD?” he said. “Or your guys on the ground? Anybody see anything?”
Windermere shook her head. “It’s noon there,” she said. “O’Brien’s flight home leaves in just over two hours. If he’s going to kill someone, it’s now.”
“Maybe he’s not there to kill anyone,” said Mathers. Then he shook his head. “Nah, that’s bullshit. Maybe he’s done it and nobody’s found the body.”
Stevens nodded. “He’s down there to kill,” he said, feeling frustration rise like a flood tide. “He’s down there to kill, and we’re too late to stop him.”
46
Parkerson barely heard the shot. Didn’t see the muzzle flare. Saw the target go down and still couldn’t find Lind.
He was watching the target cross the slip to the Kyla Dawn. The big man paused at the gangway, said something to the captain, and glanced back at the Lexus. Then his gaze swept the pier. He looked straight at Parkerson in the big Cadillac and Parkerson ducked back, feeling his heart syncopate.
When Parkerson looked up again, the target was at the top of the gangway, stepping aboard the yacht. He stood on the deck a moment, catching his breath. Then he started across to where the man in the white suit stood, waiting.
There was a pop like a firecracker in the distance. The bearded man staggered backward, his shirt blossoming crimson. The captain stared. A steward hurried out to the deck. Someone screamed. Then the target’s head exploded. Parkerson gasped. “Holy shit.”
The target dropped to the deck. The steward rushed to his side, crouched low, head up, searching for the shooter. The captain drew a pistol. He, too, searched the dock. His eyes fell on Parkerson in the Cadillac. Then kept moving.
Parkerson stayed low. Watched the chaos grow on the Kyla Dawn. More people approaching from aboard other boats. The steward now, shouting something. Gesturing with his hands.
In the distance, on Terminal Island, a little red Chevy backed away from the shore.
LIND MISSED LOW with the first shot. Caught the target in the chest. His second shot put him to bed.
Lind watched the man fall. Kept the scope on him to make sure he stayed down. Then, satisfied, he lowered the rifle and clambered over to the front seat of the car.
He backed away from the shore. Drove out of the parking lot and up the island to the ramp where the road joined the MacArthur Causeway. He drove halfway up the ramp and then slowed and rolled down the driver’s-side window. Glanced in the rearview mirror; the ramp was deserted. Lind took the rifle from the backseat and hurled it over the bridge. It arced far out, over the guardrails, and fell out of sight, just as a green sedan pulled onto the ramp behind him.
Lind rolled up the window and stepped on the gas. Drove up the ramp and onto the causeway and merged with the traffic speeding toward Miami.
47
Reports of a shooting.” Mathers’s voice was tight. “Miami Beach Marina. Some guy on a yacht just got capped.”
Stevens felt his stomach drop. “Tell me someone made the shooter.”
Mathers held the phone tight to his ear. “Long-range,” he said, shaking his head. “Came from across the water. Nobody saw anything.”
“Jesus Christ. Who’s the victim?”
“Nobody knows. Boat’s called the Kyla Dawn. Owned by some rich guy, an importer or something.”
Stevens looked at Windermere. Windermere’s mouth was tight, her eyes hard. “Well, it happened,” she said. “Now for the big test.”
“We have guys in position?”
She nodded. “Miami PD and FBI
. Airport security. They’re all inside the terminal, waiting on O’Brien.”
“Christ.” Stevens paced the floor. “Christ, I wish we were there.”
Windermere nodded. “Me, too.”
48
Something was definitely wrong.
Parkerson didn’t see it at first. He’d tailed Lind back to the airport, admiring the asset’s apparent calm behind the wheel of the Chevy. He blended in with the rest of the traffic, didn’t attract attention. Drove past a couple of police cruisers and showed no signs of panic.
Parkerson felt his own nervousness dissipate as he drove. The asset was damn good. The job was done. Another hour, tops, and the show would be over.
As they approached the airport, however, Parkerson felt his internal alarm trigger. Everything was not normal. He could feel it.
There were more police cars on the road than there should be, unmarked sedans and patrol cars alike. They sat waiting on the sides of the highway, both directions, their drivers staring out into traffic, watching. Parkerson watched the asset cruise past a navy blue Crown Victoria on the side of the road. The cop inside spoke into his radio, his eyes following the little Chevy as it passed him. He pulled out, slow, and merged into traffic. Fell in just behind. Shit.
Parkerson stood on the gas pedal. Pulled out to pass the cop and the asset just beyond, sped past them both toward the terminal in the distance. The asset was compromised, after all, and Parkerson was damned if he was going to sit around and watch.
LIND STARED after the gray sedan that had passed him, his foot wavering on the accelerator. The car looked familiar. It looked like the man’s car. It looked like the car that had taken him away.
Lind watched the car speed toward the airport. The car had out-of-state plates. They didn’t mean anything to Lind. He hadn’t caught sight of the driver.
The car weaved in and out of traffic ahead. The driver didn’t bother to signal. Lind watched until the car had disappeared into the mix. Then he stepped on the gas pedal again.
IN MINNEAPOLIS, Mathers dropped the phone from his ear.
“He’s on his way to the airport,” he told Stevens and Windermere. “Miami PD’s got him tailed. We’ll move on him as soon as he pulls into the rental car lot.”
Stevens nodded, pacing, the adrenaline pumping. The bullpen around him was silent. Everyone in the office seemed to be watching. Even Harris, Windermere’s boss, had come to the doorway. He caught Stevens’s eye, his expression inscrutable.
Windermere paced a parallel track to Stevens. “Come on,” she muttered. “Don’t fuck this up.”
49
There were police everywhere. Plainclothes and uniform, in cruisers and on foot. Parkerson drove into the airport complex, followed the signs toward the rental car return lots. Slowed the Caddy and waited on the shoulder for the asset to appear in the little red Chevy.
The asset drove slow, drove the speed limit, like he didn’t see the tail behind him. Like he didn’t realize the whole Miami police force was waiting to pounce. Parkerson waited until the Chevy was a few car lengths back. Then he pulled out into traffic ahead of it. Paced the asset into the vast rental car return structure. The cop in the Crown Vic followed, a few cars behind.
Wish I had a gun, Parkerson thought. The kid’s going to need help.
Ahead of the Cadillac, the roadway curved and narrowed into a single lane. Concrete barriers on both sides. Parkerson stopped the Cadillac and climbed out, the engine still running. Behind him, the asset stopped the Chevy. The driver behind him leaned on his horn. So did the next driver. Soon the whole structure was filled with an angry chorus of horns and impatient shouting. Parkerson ignored the cacophony and hurried back to the Chevy. Stared past at the angry drivers beyond. The road curved out and away from the parking structure. The cop was stuck somewhere in the lineup, out of sight. He’d figure something was up soon enough. Time to hurry.
Parkerson opened the Chevy’s door and peered in at the asset. The kid’s eyes were devoid of emotion, his face slack. He stared up at Parkerson like he was sleepwalking. Parkerson shivered. “Killswitch,” he said.
The asset blinked. “Change of plans,” Parkerson told him. “Come on.”
The asset let Parkerson unbuckle his seat belt and pull him out of the Chevy. Followed him back to the Cadillac and into the passenger seat. Parkerson buckled the kid in and circled around to the driver’s side. Slid behind the wheel of the big sedan, his heart pounding sixteenth notes. Shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas. The Caddy squealed away through the garage, leaving the little red Chevy marooned, the cop somewhere behind.
MATHERS FROWNED. “Still waiting,” he said. “No sign of O’Brien.”
Windermere checked her watch. “Should have happened by now,” she said. “You’re sure they didn’t miss him?”
“They didn’t miss him. O’Brien hasn’t shown up at the Liberty desk.”
“What about his tail?” said Stevens.
“The tail followed him into the rental car return center,” said Mathers. “So we know he’s in there, somewhere. Radio reception isn’t great—all that concrete—so nobody’s really sure what the holdup is.”
“Any sign of Cook?”
“Cook’s about fifty years old and he’s got a family with him,” said Mathers. “He cleared security, and he’s waiting at his gate. Should I tell our guys to take him?”
Stevens glanced at Windermere. Windermere shook her head. “Wait on O’Brien,” she said. “Damn it, make sure they’re combing that Liberty lot. We can’t lose this guy, Mathers. Make sure they know it.”
“Roger.”
“Jesus Christ.” Windermere looked at Stevens. “What the hell’s taking so long?”
50
The asset sat in silence as Parkerson drove away from the airport. Barely moved. Just stared out the window and watched the city fly by.
Parkerson glanced at him. “You know what happened?” The asset looked at him, blank-faced. “They were waiting for you,” Parkerson said. “You know why?”
The asset shifted. “I don’t know.”
“You were careless in Minneapolis. They picked you up.”
The asset said nothing.
“Duluth, too. Someone saw you, maybe. Called in your description, your car. You were careless and they followed you down here. Now you’re fucked.”
The asset stared out the window and didn’t say anything. Parkerson searched the rearview mirror, his hands beating a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel. Saw no police cars behind him. The cops hadn’t followed. The asset was safe. Killswitch was safe—for the moment.
Parkerson kept driving. No destination in mind. Just away.
51
Windermere dropped her hands. “It’s over,” she said. “He made us somehow.”
Mathers listened into the phone. “They found O’Brien’s rental car abandoned a couple hundred yards from the Liberty kiosk. Left his tail stranded in a big snarl of traffic.”
Stevens swore. “We need Miami PD on every road out of the airport. Transit, too. Buses, taxis, trams, everything. Tell them to keep their goddamn eyes open.”
“Nobody in the state has a clue what he looks like,” said Windermere. “We saw him, Stevens. If we were there, we could have made him. Now he’s gone.”
Stevens looked around the bullpen, helpless, frustrated. The other agents who’d been watching now couldn’t meet his gaze. They ducked down, turned away. Even Harris had disappeared from his doorway.
This is like trying to change a tire on a Mars rover, Stevens thought, from down here on earth. How the hell do we catch this guy now?
52
The asset sat in the diner and didn’t say anything. Didn’t make eye contact with Parkerson. Barely ate anything, just picked at his hamburger and drank a shitload of coffee. Frankly, it was a little unsettling.
&n
bsp; Parkerson had driven them out of Miami and north along I-95 toward Daytona Beach. He’d driven because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Because the police were looking for the asset, and he figured it was safer to get the hell out of town. Nobody would look for them here. Not in this diner. Not yet. Parkerson stared across at the asset and tried to figure out what to do.
There was a TV in the diner, behind the long counter. It was playing the news on an endless cycle. Parkerson had watched coverage of the Miami Beach shooting four times since they’d walked through the door. He’d watched a breathless reporter at the Miami Beach Marina, standing alongside the Kyla Dawn. He’d watched the target’s body as it was wheeled from the yacht. Heard eyewitness accounts of the shooting, none of which mentioned the asset or his little red car. Just as Parkerson figured they were safe, though, decided he’d overreacted just a tad, he heard the pretty blond reporter tell the camera that police and the FBI were looking for someone named Richard O’Brien.
So that settled it, then. The asset was compromised. The O’Brien alias was blown. Parkerson cut into his pork chop. What to do?
The smartest move would be to drive the kid to some woebegone swamp and put him out of his misery. End the chapter. It was going to happen soon enough anyway. Maybe this whole thing was a sign.
Parkerson eyed the kid across the booth. The kid stared down at the table. Clutched his cup of coffee. Drained it and asked for another. There wasn’t an ounce of feeling inside him, Parkerson realized. The kid was the ultimate drone.
Parkerson finished his dinner and called for the check. Waited for the asset to finish his cup of coffee. Then he led the kid back out to the Cadillac. Buckled him up and set out into the sunset, searching for a back road and a swamp.
Kill Fee Page 10
