Kill Fee

by Owen Laukkanen

  Stevens glanced at Windermere. “Killswitch gave it to him.”

  “How’d Killswitch get it?”

  Stevens shrugged. “Maybe the Defense Department hooked him up.”

  Windermere looked at him. Laughed a little. Then turned back to the screen. O’Brien was climbing onto an elevator with a group of tourists. The doors slid closed.

  The screen changed to the thirty-fifth floor. O’Brien walked off the elevator and down a long hall. Paused in front of a door and took a pistol from his waistband. Knocked a couple times and used the key card to get in. The screen didn’t change. Windermere looked at Gates. “Anything from the room?”

  Gates shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  The elevator doors slid open again. Julio Ramirez stepped into the hall, trailed by his two girlfriends. They walked down the corridor to the room, jostling and laughing. Unlocked the door and walked in. “And then nothing,” said Windermere. “Who the hell knows what happened.”

  Gates leaned forward and pressed a button. The tape fast-forwarded a ways. Then O’Brien appeared again, down the hall. Gates slowed the tape.

  “This is where we got the call,” he said. “Guest on the thirty-sixth floor caught a bullet in her couch. We sent security to investigate.” He looked at Stevens and Windermere. “We take guest safety very seriously here.”

  Windermere looked at him. “I bet you do.”

  On the tape, O’Brien walked fast to the elevator and jammed the call button. Looked back. Pressed the button again. Stevens leaned forward, squinted at the screen. Then the screen changed.

  “That’s pretty much it,” said Gates. “He rode the elevator down, dodged our guys headed up. Sat at a slot machine for a minute and then walked out of the casino. Hijacked a taxi and rode off into the sunset.”

  Windermere’s phone was ringing. She picked up. “Mathers,” she said. “What, right now? We’ll head back.” She hung up the phone. “Ramirez is leaving for the airport.”

  Stevens nodded. Stood up from the monitors. Then he stopped and looked at Gates. “Can you scroll back some?” he said. “To the thirty-fifth floor again?”

  Gates pressed a button and the screen changed again. Now O’Brien was standing in front of the elevator. “Pause it,” said Stevens. “Right there.” He leaned forward. “Yeah,” he said. “There.”

  Windermere frowned at him. “What do you see?”

  Stevens pointed at O’Brien. “His eyes,” he said. The footage was grainy, but there was something there. A look on the kid’s face where there was nothing before.

  Windermere stared at the screen. “Holy shit, Stevens,” she said. “That kid’s terrified.”

  130

  Ramirez wasn’t slowing down. “Out of my way, man,” he told Windermere as he barreled through the lobby, his entourage hurrying to keep up. “Got a plane to catch.”

  Windermere stood her ground. “Your life’s in danger, Julio. You walk out of here, we can’t protect you.”

  “Got my boys with me. The fuck I need you for?”

  He pushed past Windermere and toward the front doors. Beside Windermere, Mathers shook his head. “Couldn’t stop him,” he said. “Told me I’d have to shoot him to keep him here.”

  “Should have,” said Windermere. “Could have interrogated him from the hospital.” She glared after Ramirez. “Guess we’ll see you in Los Angeles, Julio,” she called out. “If you make it that far.”

  The big man ignored her. Made the front doors with his entourage and kept going. Disappeared into the sunlight.

  IN THE CIVIC, Wendell Gray straightened. “Target in sight.”

  Parkerson sat up. Looked over the asset’s shoulder to the Rio below. Saw the target walking from the Rio’s front doors, headed for the valet line. He had an entourage in tow, a couple security guards and two pretty girls. Parkerson watched the man walk, confident, impatient. Totally unaware that his life was almost over.

  In the passenger seat, the asset chambered a round.

  STEVENS STARED at the FBI agents. “Well?” he said. “What happens now?”

  Windermere looked around the lobby. “Hell if I know, Stevens,” she said. “I feel like we just let our only lead walk.”

  “Could follow him to Los Angeles,” said Mathers.

  Stevens shook his head. “What does he know, anyway? We keep chasing our tails. Nobody knows Killswitch.” He looked at Windermere. “Brought you all the way out here, partner, and for nothing.”

  Windermere opened her mouth. There was a bang from outside the front door. Then screams. Mathers frowned. “Was that—”

  Windermere drew her sidearm. “Sure was.”

  131

  They ran out the front doors, sidearms drawn. Met a wave of people running the other way. “Valet stand,” said Mathers. “To the right.”

  They ran right. Hugged the wall of the casino. Dodged terrified bystanders, a mob, all of them screaming. Rounded the corner to the valet stand and found Julio Ramirez facedown on the pavement, his security guards nowhere in sight.

  There were more gunshots. Like firecracker pops. Stevens ducked behind a Corvette and Windermere crawled behind him. “The parking garage,” she said. “Across the street. On the roof.”

  Another pop. Mathers cried out and dropped, clutching his face. Stevens felt his stomach lurch, but the kid sprung up again. Hugged the wall, his face bloody. Caught a stone chip or something. Ricochet.

  Stevens backed up tight against the Corvette. Peered across the hood and the casino lot. Across the roadway to the parking garage beyond. Scanned the roof, the parked cars. Then he saw the sniper.

  THE ASSET KEPT SHOOTING, Long after the target was down. He had a look on his face, a sick smile. Parkerson reached for the weapon. The asset shrugged him away. Kept shooting. Lit up the driveway. Parkerson grabbed the kid’s arm. “Time to go, soldier.”

  The kid kept shooting until he’d emptied the mag. Down below, there were bystanders injured. Dead, probably. A guy leaned against the casino wall, clutching his face. He was holding a pistol.

  Parkerson slapped the asset. “Wendell,” he said. “Time to go.”

  “Time to go,” the asset said. He grinned at Parkerson, breathing hard.

  Parkerson took the rifle from the asset’s hands. Wiped it down the best he could, then shifted into gear and drove across the garage. Halfway to the exit, someone stepped from between two cars. An older man, paunchy, a concerned look on his face.

  Parkerson leaned on the horn. The man stood there, jaw set. Crossed his arms and glared at Parkerson, shaking his head. Parkerson swore. “Jesus Christ.” He backed up the Civic. Shifted into drive and aimed straight at the man.

  The man’s eyes went wide as the Civic approached. He didn’t move, though, didn’t duck for cover. Went up and over the hood and bounced away to the pavement. Parkerson kept driving. Sped down through the garage and out onto the street. Sped away before the police appeared.

  132

  The airport,” said Windermere. “Shut it down now.”

  The cop nodded and hurried off, shouting into his radio. Stevens watched him go. Then walked to the edge of the garage and looked down at the Rio.

  They’d run for the Gold Coast as soon as they’d seen the sniper. Watched the little blue car peel off and disappear from sight. Heard it squeal down the ramps and out to Flamingo Road. But by the time they’d reached the garage it was gone.

  Stevens turned back to Windermere. “Rental cars,” he said. “We need men there, too. And O’Brien’s picture in every LVPD cop’s hands. How’s our witness?”

  Windermere glanced across the lot at the ambulance by the ramp. The shooter had run a man down on his way out of the lot. As far as anyone knew, he was the only person to get a good look at the car. And he was unconscious. She shook her head. “He’s alive, anyway,” she said. “Let’s hope he s
tays that way.”

  Stevens followed her gaze. Watched the paramedics hoist the man onto a stretcher. The shooter was gone. Julio Ramirez was dead, as were both of his security guards and his girlfriends. One bystander was seriously injured, and the only man who’d seen the shooter’s car was a coin flip for survival. Stevens looked around the grim scene. “God damn it,” he said, “so what now?”

  “If this is O’Brien, he’s flying home,” said Windermere. “Soon as we get that airport locked down we can start combing the place for him, hope he didn’t decide to go Greyhound.”

  “Or a train,” said Stevens.

  “No Amtrak in Vegas, Stevens.” Windermere started for the stairs. “I bet this sucker tries to fly.”

  133

  Parkerson wrestled the Civic to the airport along a series of back roads. Parked in a far corner of the long-term lot and hustled the asset out of the car. Popped the trunk and left the rifle inside, with the pistol, the sunglasses, the cheap Las Vegas hats. Wiped down the car, quick as he could, and then grabbed the asset by the arm and hurried him into the terminal.

  The asset went willingly. He’d lost the rebellious streak he’d displayed at the scene. The bloodlust. He was docile again, compliant. He followed Parkerson across the lot and into the terminal.

  McCarran was chaos. There were police everywhere. Parkerson felt his heart skip like an old record. Forced himself to keep walking. Focused on blending in. Led the asset past a couple city cops, who scrutinized their faces. Smiled at them, polite, and kept walking. Made the US Airways desk and cocked his head at the agent. “What’s all the fuss?”

  The agent was a pretty, young woman. She grinned back at Parkerson. Leaned in, conspiratorial. “There was a shooting just now at one of the casinos,” she said. “Cops are trying to shut down the airport.”

  “Holy crap,” said Parkerson. “They get a look at the suspect?”

  The girl nodded. “This guy,” she said, holding up a photocopied police sketch. “Guess they’re thinking he’s on the Philadelphia flight.”

  Parkerson looked at the sketch. It was a drawing of Lind, no question. “Philadelphia,” he said.

  The girl grinned at him again. At the asset. “Just be thankful you’re not on that flight,” she said. “Those guys aren’t going anywhere today.”

  134

  Are you out of your mind?”

  McCarran Airport’s deputy director stood behind his desk, his face bright red, staring at Windermere like she’d asked if she could borrow a kidney.

  Windermere cleared her throat. “Mr. Rawson, we’re dealing with a serial killer here. This is a nationwide manhunt. If this guy’s in your airport, we need to find him.”

  Rawson exhaled slowly. Gripped the edge of his desk and released it. “I understand your concern, Agent Windermere,” he said. “Certainly, I respect your need to apprehend this fugitive. But you cannot—cannot—ask me to shut down my airport. The logistics involved. The lost revenue. For one man?” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

  Windermere stared at him. “If this guy gets away, my case evaporates, Rawson.”

  “I appreciate that, Agent Windermere.” Rawson held her gaze. “All the same, the only way you’re closing this airport is through the FAA.”

  WINDERMERE CALLED her guy at the FAA. Begged him not to hang up. “It’s time-sensitive,” she told him. “I lose this guy and I’m screwed.”

  “You have any evidence at all your guy’s in the building?”

  “Precedent. This matches his MO.”

  “What about the rental car situation? He drop off a car?”

  Windermere shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Nobody’s seen him at Liberty or anywhere else.”

  “So you don’t know he’s there.”

  She sighed. “No, I don’t.”

  “You have no evidence whatsoever that he came to McCarran. And you want to shut down one of the busiest airports in the country so you can play a hunch.”

  “It’s more than a hunch,” she said. “I know how this guy works. I can catch him. Just help me, damn it.”

  There was a long pause. Then a sigh. “Sorry, Carla,” the man said. “I don’t have that kind of power. And I don’t think I have the evidence to sway anybody who does.”

  Windermere ended the call. Glanced back at Stevens and Mathers, who lingered in the doorway, Mathers now wearing a fresh bandage on his cheek. “Well, that’s that,” Windermere said. “On our own, boys.”

  135

  Philadelphia,” said Stevens as they hurried through the terminal. “Gate A12. Boards in ten minutes.”

  Windermere and Mathers followed Stevens through the crowded airport. The place was chaos: displaced travelers, crying babies, angry businessmen swearing into their cell phones, and police of all stripes wading through the mix, staring at printouts of the composite sketch of Richard O’Brien and scrutinizing faces in the crowd.

  Stevens led them through the security checkpoint, flashing badges quickly at the harried TSA guards. Then they were through, and racing down the terminal concourse toward gate A12 and the Philadelphia flight.

  “Better hope he’s on this flight,” Windermere muttered as she dodged tourists and slot machines on her way after Stevens. “There’s about a hundred other flights leaving at the same time.”

  It was true. Rawson had categorically refused to shut down his airport, even for an hour, and Sunday afternoons were gong shows at McCarran. If Richard O’Brien hadn’t chosen a direct flight, he was going to get away clean.

  There were two airport cops waiting at the gate. They’d commandeered the microphone and stood at the head of a long line of confused passengers. Stevens and Windermere showed them their badges. “Any luck?”

  The cops shook their heads. “No O’Brien on the manifest,” they said. “Nobody who looks like him at the gate yet, either.”

  Windermere surveyed the line of travelers. Young people, old people, fat and skinny, couples and families and groups. Confused people, angry people, tired and impatient people. No zombies. Nobody like O’Brien.

  Behind them, the US Airways gate attendant cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said. “We really need to start boarding if we’re going to have an on-time departure.”

  Windermere looked at her. Then she looked back at the line. “Grab the manifest, Stevens,” she said. “Work with me. Mathers, you guard the line.”

  Mathers nodded and wandered out into the crowd. Stevens took a copy of the manifest from the gate agent and stood beside Windermere. “We’ll board,” Windermere told the agent. “But we’re doing it my way. One by one.”

  136

  Across the concourse at gate A13, Parkerson sat with the asset and watched the cops search the Philadelphia crowd.

  There were three of them, a black woman and two men, one older and one young. The young guy had a bandage on his cheek, and they all wore the same look of grim determination. FBI, Parkerson figured. Maybe they were the same agents who’d tracked Comm. Maybe they’d even broken into Killswitch.

  Parkerson shivered a little, watching them. They’d gone straight to the Philadelphia gate. That meant they knew where Lind was based. He was compromised. Parkerson cursed himself again for not killing the kid in Florida when he’d had the chance. One moment of weakness, he thought, and this whole program’s in jeopardy.

  Across the aisle, the FBI agents were boarding the Philadelphia flight. They stood at the front of the line and checked faces and ID cards against the passenger manifest. It was a slow process.

  Parkerson checked his watch. Then he looked at the asset. The asset stared at the carpet. Looked like he was sleeping. “Don’t move,” Parkerson told him. “Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even make eye contact, understand? I’ll be back.”

  The asset didn’t look up. “Okay,” he said.

  Parkerson stood and walk
ed to the check-in desk. “Howdy,” he told the gate agent. “What do you think? Are we leaving on time?”

  The agent smiled back at him. “Pretty close,” she said. “Sounds like they wanted to shut down the airport, but I don’t think that’s happening. Maybe they caught the guy. I don’t know.”

  “Good stuff.” Parkerson winked at her. “Wife’ll kill me if I get home too late.” He grinned at the gate agent again, and then hurried back to rejoin the asset. Sat beside him and stared across the aisle, watching the FBI agents and praying they didn’t look in his direction.

  137

  God damn it,” said Windermere. “He’s not here.”

  They’d worked through the entire manifest. Boarded the whole flight. The gate agent stood at the top of the Jetway, eyebrow raised. “Everyone checked in,” she said. “Can I go ahead and close the aircraft doors?”

  Stevens and Windermere swapped glances. “Guess we have to,” said Stevens. “If he’s not here, he’s not here.”

  “So where is he?” said Mathers.

  “Maybe he took a connecting flight,” said Windermere. “Or maybe he caught the bus.”

  “Or maybe he’s hiding out in Las Vegas somewhere,” said Stevens. “He had a later flight. Or he’s afraid to come to the airport.”

  “In which case, what?” Windermere frowned. “We sit back and wait for him to turn up?” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it. Answered. “Windermere.” She listened. Frowned. Stevens watched her, hoping for good news but not seeing it on her face. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Appreciate it. Thanks for looking.”

  She ended the call and looked across the concourse. “That was my FAA pal,” she said. “Figured since he couldn’t shut down the airport, he’d do me a favor and check for O’Brien’s name on any passenger manifests out of Philadelphia or Las Vegas this weekend.”