"Come on, why not just call the cops and get it over with?" Rob asked, all quiet reason. "He's on your land. We've got enough."
"No. The bastard's seen Ian. I'll deal with it. Stay on the radio and update me. No phones. Got it?"
Rob held his hands up. "Okay, mate. Keep your kecks on."
Mike adjusted his earpiece and slipped out through the side door before putting on his NV goggles. He'd deal with it, all right. This wasn't going to escalate. This wasn't going to continue one more goddamn day. It was going to end here and now.
He had to think what he'd do in this guy's situation. A pro might have the same equipment as him – night vision, thermal imaging, the works – and set up alarm trips to protect his back, even if it was just beer cans. He could have marked an escape path through the trees with IR light sticks. Mike would have to skirt all the way around and approach at an angle from the side to conceal his position, working from tree to tree.
"Got eyes on yet, Rob?"
"Yeah. I keep losing him in the trees, but he's getting bloody close to the power box."
The main power supply came in about a hundred yards from the house. Yes: that was Mike would have done – cut the power first. The emergency generator would eventually kick in, but the guy wouldn't know about that. Either way, Mike was pretty sure that this was no longer surveillance. The biker was getting ready to break into the house.
Mike paused by one of the security cams and swapped his NV goggles for his hand-held thermal optics to check again for the guy's backup, but there was nothing. He held his breath to listen for movement to make sure.
"I think he's going for the power box, for definite," Rob said. "I would."
Mike switched back to his goggles and kept moving towards the power box one tree at a time. "Stand by to distract him before he cuts the power. Garage doors open, lights on."
"I'll start the Jag on the remote. He'll think we're shifting Ian. I'm moving down now."
Mike still couldn't see the biker. He shifted position using the power box as a reference point and tried the thermal again.
Got him.
A patch was moving slowly between the trees. It was the partial outline of a face. The guy might have had a thermal lining to disguise his outline, but he hadn't used anti-thermal camo cream to obscure exposed skin. The small patch of heat was enough to give him away. Mike could see him in context now, ahead and to his right on a diagonal line from behind, and switched back to his NV goggles to leave his hands free.
He couldn't see a weapon. But he knew from the set of the guy's shoulders that he was holding a rifle.
But I want a reason. I need a reason.
The man headed for the power box, stopping intermittently to check out the house. He'd probably cut corners on the anti-thermal cream because he hadn't planned for anything like this. He might have been tasked to just observe for few days. Then he realised he hadn't been told the whole story. Mike moved forward until he was level with the guy and sighted up from about sixty yards.
The man was checking out the power box with a faint light. It would take him a few minutes to get it open and cut the power without zapping himself. Mike watched him crouch to slip off the cape or whatever he'd draped around his shoulders and ease a daypack off his back.
"Rob, I need a diversion. Whatever you've got, buddy. Now."
Mike aimed the AR-10 and found himself thinking dumb thoughts about the line between self-defence and assault. But he knew he'd pull the trigger the moment he saw a weapon, before his conscious mind even finished processing the image. He wanted this to be clean and unambiguous, his version of clean. This wasn't Iraq or Nazani or anywhere he could walk away from and forget. This was his home. It would be tainted forever anyway, but there were degrees of contamination.
He adjusted his aim. His earpiece popped. "In position," Rob said. "Five, four, three, two – go."
The lights flared and the garage doors made a faint whirring sound, then the Jag rumbled into life. The guy jerked his head around to look. Mike saw him stand from a squat and bring up a rifle to aim at the garage in one movement.
Endex, you bastard.
Mike fired, hitting him from the side. The guy spun but didn't fall. Adrenaline kept him going long enough to turn and aim at Mike before two more shots put him down. He dropped to one side and stopped moving. It was over that fast. It didn't take long to change the course of two lives.
Mike paused to check for movement before closing in with his AR-10 trained on the body, looking for the rifle or another weapon.
"Rob, I'm okay. Checking."
He had to sound as if he'd fired in a state of fear, just a homeowner afraid for his family and property. The radio's only security was its short range. His story still had to be watertight. One down or clear would have sounded a little too much like a planned execution if anyone else out there could hear him.
"Roger that," Rob said. "On my way."
"Do not move. Wait, out."
Mike flicked on his tactical light. The man's left arm was flung out to his side and his right was folded back towards his head. The rifle lay a yard away. Mike could see two dark patches of blood, one spreading just below the guy's collarbone and another at the side of his chest below his arm. There was a head wound as well, but it looked like a graze. He squatted to check for a pistol. There was bound to be another one somewhere.
Shit. The bastard was still breathing. His eyes opened.
Fine; Mike had an excuse now for touching the body, and the police wouldn't wonder why he pushed the rifle well out of reach, opened the man's jacket, or patted him down. They'd think he'd tried to give first aid.
Pistol? Check. Plates? Yes. But they don't quite cover every angle, do they, buddy? Phone? Nothing. Where's your damn phone?
Mike stood outside himself for a split second and hated the completely detached, rational, calculating Michael Brayne who crouched over a man who lay dying while he thought through every move and precaution. The guy was struggling for breath, still conscious.
"Who sent you?" Mike wanted to hear the name Weaver. He took out his burner and pressed the recording icon. He couldn't hand any admission to the police, but he had to hear it and know he hadn't imagined it. "Who's paying you?"
"Bastard," the guy choked. "Saw it."
"Who, me? Weaver?"
"You. Fucking Guard?"
It was an odd answer. The guy was going down fast. Mike had seen it once too often. "Just tell me who sent you."
"Weaver. Asshole. Liar."
"Thank you."
And here I am, thanking the guy. You're right, Rob. I'm weird. I should call the police now. I should be shaking. I shouldn't be focused on getting information I can't use.
But what now? He was bloodied, clutching a phone, and a man was dying in front of him. The guy had seen what Ian was. He'd talk, if not to Weaver then to someone else. Mike had passed the point of doing deals. He should have put a round through the guy's head to save him from gurgling out his last moments like this, but he couldn't pull the trigger. He hoped it was because he couldn't bring himself to do it. But the thought uppermost in his mind was that he had to call the police, and that meant he had to let the injuries take their course.
Look at me. Look at the cold, ruthless, has-to-be-done Mike I've got lurking inside. So much for doing good deeds.
Dying seemed to take forever. Mike stepped back a few paces to wait, appalled at himself but in no doubt what he had to do. Eventually the ragged breathing became a regular, rapid stoking noise, and then it stopped. Mike squatted again to check for a pulse.
It was over at last. "Rob? Rob, I've shot someone."
Mike waited and switched off the radio. Rob came crashing through the undergrowth, a flashlight beam stabbing ahead of him. He looked down at the body, then angled the light at Mike.
"Is he browners, then?"
"Yes. No pulse."
"Well, forget the shovel and the bag of lime. Before we call the rozzers, let's check. Br
uises? Ian punched the shit out of him, remember."
"They won't look fresh," Mike said. "Thirty-six hours. Besides, we don't have marks on our hands, do we?"
"Other suspicious shit?" Rob checked him over with the flashlight. "Okay, let's have your plates and vest and anything that looks more than a basic self-defence set-up. Goggles are normal for Yanks, yeah?"
"Yeah. Good call." Mike fumbled with his jacket. Would I have thought of all that? "Thanks."
"That's it. You can call nine-one-one now. Then call your dad. Carefully. Like it was public. And let him do the lawyering up."
Mike handed Rob his burner. "Put this in my safe." He took out his registered cell, the one that would now be linked to the 911 call forever. "I'm sorry, buddy."
"No problem, mate. Whatever you do, I've got your back. Just give me my script."
"Tell Livvie I'm okay, will you?"
"Will do."
Mike could now see himself as two personas on a parallel path, the everyday Mike who was disturbed by all this and the fact that Rob was so calm about it, and the necessary Mike who still had things to do to shut this down for good. He wanted Nice Mike to come back, but not just yet. Cold Mike still had work to do. Nice Mike could return when he told Rob the full details, because he was damned sure he'd need to when it all sank in.
"Hello?" Mike took a breath when the dispatcher answered and recited the litany he'd learned as a child, filling in the gaps that had once been about traffic accidents and medical emergencies. "I need police and EMS. I've shot an armed man on my property. My name's Michael Brayne and the location is twenty-seven-sixty-three Forest Road, Westerham Falls. I think the man's dead."
Minutes into the aftermath, Mike was already calculating the lies and omissions he'd need to build and maintain to keep Ian out of this. And he still didn't know who else was out there, waiting.
Ian was right. One way or another, it would never be completely over.
EIGHTEEN
I need to see you, Shaun. I plan to be at your offices in Lansing on Tuesday afternoon. Make yourself available. It won't be a long meeting, but I insist we have it.
Leo Brayne, in a message to Shaun Weaver, KW-Halbauer.
MAINE STATE POLICE BARRACKS, PORTON
SUNDAY, 1430 HOURS.
TV shows always made it look like armed misunderstandings were bagged, tagged, and filed away in an hour, but like everything else on screen, it was a bloody lie.
Rob was still in a quiet office at the cop shop, explaining what he'd seen. Mike was somewhere else with the lawyer summoned by Leo. The Braynes could conjure up a high-powered brief on a Sunday morning, possibly their most impressive superpower.
It was almost like old times, though. Rob was practiced in answering questions in the right way and giving a dispassionate account of a hard contact, service style; some iffy-looking vehicles in the days leading up to the incident, alarms tripped, attempts to investigate, firearms brandished, shots fired, and that was how it went down, honest, officer.
Actually, it was. It was all a matter of where you put the emphasis.
"You sure you don't want your lawyer, sir?" the trooper asked. "You don't even have to be here, but if he's around, he's welcome to sit in."
"No need," Rob said. "We just want to get this sorted. It's pretty traumatic for our families. Anyway, Mike's dad called him."
"And you're certain you don't know the man?"
Rob was never sure how good he was at lying these days. There were lies people knew you were telling and that you were expected to tell, like saying you hadn't been deployed somewhere when everyone had seen it on the news. Then the spectrum passed through the borderline lies to full-on grade-A porkies. Cops, like sergeants, always thought they could spot a liar, but tests proved they were no better at it than anyone else. It was just thinking that they might be that made guilty bastards confess.
"Never saw him before today," Rob said.
The trooper kept looking at Rob's hands. "No altercations with anyone in the days before, sir?"
"None." It had to be about the bruises on Biker Boy. Rob's hands were unmarked . "Not even cutting someone up in traffic."
"Just covering all the angles. The deceased was carrying tools that support your fear that he was going to cut the power, so with all the firearms and plastic cuffs it probably was an attempted home invasion. But it's worth ruling out people with grudges. Including business grudges, in your line of work."
"Look, the man's bound to have a phone," Rob said, doing a little fishing. "Can't you check that?"
"We're checking everything, including firearms licenses and fingerprints."
Rob couldn't tell if that was an answer or not. "The only blokes we've offended enough to pay us a personal visit have names like Hussein."
"Well, in the meantime, it's probably wise to maintain your security. If he had accomplices, they might be dumb enough to come back another time." The trooper was a nice enough bloke. If he was baffled by Mike's lifestyle, then he wasn't showing it. "So if you get more problems, call us, please. I understand that highly trained guys like yourselves deal with situations automatically, but that's what we're here for."
"Thanks, officer," Rob said. Should I call him trooper? "Honestly, Mike's not a Masshole or whatever you Mainers call rich buggers. He just stays off everyone's radar and tries to be ordinary."
Rob could have sworn the trooper was trying not to smile. "I never use the term myself, Mr Rennie," he said. "But I understand your point."
While Rob waited for Mike, he occupied himself working through the timetable. The crime scene people would be off-site by the evening, and the post mortem would be done tomorrow, but the follow-up would probably drag on for a bloody long time. That was going to take its toll on everyone
It didn't alter the result, though. Some bastard took his chances against Mike and lost.
Rob looked up as Scott, Mike, and another trooper came down the passage, talking quietly. Mike could usually slap on a collar and tie and look stylish even with two days' stubble and a hangover, but today he just seemed crushed, as if his supply of idealistic Boy Scout optimism had finally run out. Scott the legal polecat fussed around him. He didn't look happy either. Rob's spine stiffened.
"Anytime, officer," Mike was saying. "Just let me know if there's anything else you need."
Scott whisked them out to his car and Mike settled down in the back as if he was planning to doze off. Rob kept an eye on him in the rear-view mirror.
"Any further questions go through me, Mike," Scott said, following the signs to Westerham. "Don't agree to an interview without me. Not even a phone call."
"Okay, Scott. I get it."
"You didn't need to volunteer to come down here. And you didn't have to offer them your clothing for forensics."
"They're welcome to look at whatever they want. I just want to get this over with." Mike closed his eyes. "They're not even planning to charge me. Deadly force in self defence. You were there. You heard it all."
"Fine, but when they ID the body, there might be more questions."
"Then I'll answer them."
"Have they found the vehicles?" Rob intervened to draw fire. He couldn't tell if Mike didn't like Scott, his advice, or lawyers generally. Perhaps it felt too much like being told off by his lawyer sister. "He must have driven or ridden something."
"Still looking," Scott said.
The conversation died. Mike was silent all the way home, either staring out the window or eyes shut as if he was asleep. The biker bloke was dead and Dru was stitched up tighter than a kipper's arse, but this definitely didn't feel over. Maybe it never would. Mike should have made Ian change his surname on his official documents right from the start. Clinging to your identity was all very well until it hung you.
When Scott dropped them off at the house, the crime scene people were working in the grounds and a police car was still parked at the end of the drive. Livvie loomed on the doorstep and beckoned Mike with her forefinger.
"You," she said, ushering him upstairs like an angry warrant officer. "Hot bath, Scotch, and then get some sleep."
"And ring your dad," Rob called after them. "No rush."
Now he had the chance to get away for a few hours without feeling he'd abandoned Mike. He'd drop in to talk to Mr Andrews later. The poor old sod must have thought the Martians had landed. Tom was out on the lawn, throwing sticks for Oatie, who really didn't seem to be into retrieving.
"Where's Ian?" Rob asked.
"With Dru. In the conservatory. Is he safe with her?"
"Yeah. She's okay. Livvie's ready to gut her if she steps out of line. Come on, kiddo, let's take the Jag out."
"You sure that's appropriate right now?"
"What, lack of respect for the dead?" Maybe Tom was a bit more shaken than Rob had thought. "I need a change of scenery for a few hours. So do you. Let's go to Westerham. You can drive back."
Rob parked in the square and showed Tom the posh supermarket and bookshop. They ended up having cakes in the French patisserie that Ian was partial to. Rob pointed out the girl behind the counter as Ian's unrequited passion.
"She looks friendly," Tom said.
"Is that a polite word for old slapper?"
"No, she just looks approachable. Is Ian too shy to pounce?"
"Something like that." It seemed like a natural time to be nosey. "You never told me if you had a girlfriend. I keep hinting."
"You never told me if you did, either."
"Plums, kiddo. Zero. I couldn't get a woman now if I dipped myself in chocolate. It must be the smell of desperation about me."
"Okay. I'm test-driving a few candidates."
Rob was relieved. All was well in the world. "That's more like it."
"But there's one I really like, and I can't tell her where I was this summer. And there's one I met at you-know-where, and I sort of like her too, but not as much. On the other hand, I don't have to lie to her. And that's suddenly become a big deal."
Tell me about it. Rob tried to remember a time when everyone he knew could tell each other anything and not worry. He wanted to tell Tom that he knew better than he could possibly imagine how that felt.
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