by Matt Hilton
Lately I'd shared a couple of telephone calls with Imogen Ballard, the sister of a woman I'd been intimate with. Kate Piers had died when I failed to keep her safe, but her sister didn't blame me. We'd talked, sharing our grief, and I'd even been up to Maine on a weekend visit. I had the feeling that Imogen wanted more from me, but I still missed Kate too much for that. We were only friends, but that wouldn't mean a thing. Whoever was setting me up could have gained the wrong impression and perhaps set out to hurt Imogen, the way they'd done to the families of the other members of our team.
I had a flash image of Imogen's face. She was lying on her back in some desolate place, glassy-eyed, mouth open… dead.
The photographs that Bryce showed me had a lot to do with that picture, but I had to squeeze my eyes tight to clear it from my mind.
Pulling out my phone, I switched the power on and stabbed out Imogen's number.
'Who are you calling?' Bryce sat up in the chair as if he was going to snatch the phone from my hand.
'Shut up, will you?' I snapped, and listened for the ringtone. Bryce watched me intently.
The phone rang and rang, and I expected it to go to a messaging service. But then there was a metallic ping as someone picked up the handset. I heard breathing.
My first thought was that the police had made the connection between us and that I was being listened to by a roomful of detectives or FBI agents. They'd try to trace my call, and in my hurry to warn Imogen I hadn't taken any precautions. But, somehow I knew that wasn't the case. If the police were there, they'd have given Imogen instructions to act natural and to engage me in conversation. Listening to each other breathe into the mouthpiece was not natural.
'Imogen?'
There was a grunt: too masculine a sound to have come from Imogen. Fleetingly I wondered if she had found herself a new friend since last we'd spoken, but that thought was a non-starter.
'Where's Imogen?'
The man holding the phone wasn't ready to answer me yet. The chance of me phoning like this might possibly have shaken him. Or maybe he'd been sitting by the telephone waiting exactly for that.
'If you've harmed her-'
The man cut me off curtly, 'It's enough that you fear that I might.'
'I'm going to kill you.'
'No, Joe Hunter. I will kill you, but first I will kill all that you hold dear.'
'Imogen means nothing to me.'
'I'm expected to believe that? If that was true, why would she be the first person you thought to call?'
'Don't hurt her.' I wasn't begging. It was one thing that I was being targeted – in some respects I could expect some people to hate me enough to want to hurt me – but now that that had spilled over to include innocent people, it added new urgency to my need to stop this man.
'I don't fear you, Hunter. Your threats mean nothing to me.'
'So face me. Leave Imogen alone and meet me.'
'You would like that, wouldn't you?'
'Yes.'
'It wouldn't change a thing. I would kill you.'
'You're so sure, let's do it then.'
'I could have killed you yesterday. I could have killed you a dozen times while I've followed you unobserved. I could have killed you when I shot those two idiotic policemen.'
'But instead you ran away. Like a coward.'
'No. I allowed you to live so that I could make you suffer. We will meet, Hunter, but only when you're begging to be released from your torment.'
'Whoever is behind this, I will kill him too.'
The man didn't respond to that, which meant I'd hit a raw nerve.
'Tell him that this time I won't hesitate to put a bullet through his skull.'
'Hunter,' the man said, 'you think you know what this is all about? You know nothing.'
He hung up.
Bryce stirred from where he was sitting. He approached me slowly. He had grown pale. It probably had as much to do with the look on my face as what he already feared. 'Was it him?'
Him? He was talking about Jesus Henao Abadia. A dead man.
Yes, it was a dead man. If I had my way I'd make certain of that. But it wasn't Abadia. This man's voice was North American.
Bryce's face couldn't have grown any paler if I'd put a slug through his heart. His eyes watered and I could see him shuddering.
'Get a grip, Bryce,' I told him. 'You're no good to anyone in this state.'
Harsh words perhaps, but they were aimed as much at me as they were at him. I'd failed to keep Kate safe, and now it looked like I'd failed her sister as well.
The man had expected me to call Imogen, and had waited for my call. His intention was to throw me off-kilter, make me fear what would happen next. Instead, he'd got me thinking.
Putting away my phone, I stared at Bryce. He hadn't stumbled on this case all by himself. He was retired from the Agency. Someone had fed him the details of the murders, someone had supplied him the photographs. Whoever had done so, they were not the same as the people threatening us. They wouldn't have given him fair warning, they would have simply taken him and he would have been strapped in a chair and tortured like all the rest.
'You know more than you're saying, Bryce. I want it all.'
'I was going to tell you everything, Hunter. I just wanted to be sure that we were on the same side first.'
'God damn you, Bryce. If you'd told me everything when you first contacted me, I could have stopped this from happening.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Yes, Bryce. So am I. But at least you know now whose fucking side I'm on.'
Stalking away from him, I went through into the kitchen to pull out a strongbox I'd concealed behind a panel in one of the kitchen cupboards. Inside I found spare magazines of nine mm ammunition, also a Ka-Bar knife. Out of necessity I didn't want to have to replace my weapons every time I jumped on an airplane, so I had fake documents that showed I was licensed to carry concealed weapons. My docs would pass the scrutiny of Homeland Security if it ever came to that. There was a wad of cash and a number of credit cards. Killing men is cheap, but never an inexpensive vocation.
Secreting my kit round my body I went back into the living room and found Bryce leaning against a wall cradling his head between his hands.
'I never believed you were responsible, Hunter. I was worried about contacting you for another reason: I was afraid that I'd lead the bastards to you, but it looks like you were already under surveillance.'
'Looks that way, doesn't it?' The man on the phone had already implied as much. He'd found Imogen so he could use her as leverage against me. But someone must have pointed him my way first.
Since leaving the Special Forces I've been working under the radar. Only select people – namely my close circle of friends – know where to find me: Rink, Harvey Lucas, Imogen Ballard and Walter Hayes Conrad.
That took me to only one person. Rink and Harvey would die before they gave me up; Imogen was out of the equation. So that left Walter.
Walter and Bryce had connections, too.
When I was with the unit, I worked under a team of commanders based at Arrowsake in the UK, but I had a specific handler in each respective country. My stateside handler was Walter Hayes Conrad IV. Walter was also Bryce Lang's CIA boss. Ultimately it was Walter who'd organised the hit on Abadia.
'Walter gave you the tip-off,' I said.
Bryce nodded.
Walter was first and foremost a CIA Sub-Division Controller, a director of black ops, but he was also my friend and mentor. Why the hell hadn't he warned me?
I took out my phone again.
'You're wasting your time,' Bryce said. 'I've been unable to contact him.'
And he was right. I couldn't raise Walter by any of the normal routes.
Whoever was behind this, they were tied to what had happened in Bogota and they'd gained information pertaining to the hit on Abadia. That would mean that they knew about everyone involved, all the way up to Walter Conrad. The fact that Walter was now incapable of answerin
g my call could mean that they'd got to him too. Or, following his tip-off, he'd gone deliberately incommunicado until the issue was resolved one way or another. Without Walter sanctioning my actions, it would mean I was once again acting outside the law, but I didn't care. These people had chosen to declare war on me: so be it.
I hung up and said to Bryce, 'We're out of here.'
'Where are we going?'
'Maine. Where else?'
'Jesus, Hunter. How did things come to this?'
I don't remember Bryce as being so indecisive. This time I noticed he was plucking at his clothing and shifting from one foot to the other.
'It's just the way it is. Now, if you want to live to see an end to this, we have to get moving.'
Bryce ran a hand over his face. Then he surreptitiously wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers, leaving a dark smear. He was frightened. So was I, to be honest, but I wasn't going to give in to the fear. I was going to use it, the way I always did.
Chapter 11
'See me.'
An opportunity to test his theory should never be wasted, Luke Rickard thought.
'See me,' he said again.
Following his telephone conversation with Joe Hunter, he'd sat on the foot of the bed staring into the vanity mirror. Phasing his vision in and out proved ineffective as he peered into the reflective surface, trying to delve beyond his blurred image to what lay beneath. He could feel the serpent coiling in his innards, but he caught no sign of the slithering thing. Only women had the ability to look upon his true essence.
He finally stood up and looked down on the woman lying on the bed. The drug he'd shot into her had ensured that she remained unconscious while he'd bundled her into the FedEx truck and brought her back to her house. Slumped in his arms, he'd carried her here to her bedroom and laid her out on top of the comforter. That was more than two hours ago; by now the drug should have worn off.
'See me, Imogen,' he said.
The day was overcast, precipitation threatening again, so the room was in shadow. Imogen's face was a pale oval beneath her cap of dark hair, her chin tilted on her left shoulder. He could hear her breathing, slow and long exhalations. To all intents and purposes she looked like she was sleeping, but he knew otherwise. Her eyelids were too taut, as though she was holding them closed, and there was no movement beneath them as there would be if she was lost in dreamland.
He leaned in close to her, blowing on her ear. Imogen didn't stir as a sleeping person would have.
'I know you are awake. Open your eyes and look at me.'
Imogen didn't respond, except for the faintest flutter of her lashes.
'I said open your eyes.'
Rickard grasped Imogen's chin in one hand, pinching hard. White blotches surrounded his fingertips but still Imogen didn't respond. Rickard grunted out a laugh.
Releasing her jaw, he trailed his hand down her chest and stomach. She was still in the sweats that she'd worn for her run; damp from the rain. He dipped his hand under the hem of her top and ran his fingers over the warmth of her abdomen. He felt her shudder involuntarily, but to her credit she still feigned unconsciousness. He finger-crawled higher, touching the swell of one breast. She was wearing a plain sports bra, unlike the lace and ribbons and bows that he preferred, but her breasts felt full and firm the way he liked them. Not as full and firm as Alisha's, but in her defence this woman was fifteen years older and silicone-free. He pawed her, then took a breast in his hand and squeezed. He'd have liked to have felt her respond but there was no hardening of the nub beneath his palm.
Maybe the bitch was still under the influence of the tranquilliser.
He slipped his hand from beneath her top, worming his fingers into the waistband of her trousers.
Fucking cotton panties.
He cupped the mound of her pubis. Pushed with his fingers, trying to insert a finger under the elastic.
Imogen came awake like an alley cat.
Shrieking and clawing, she tore at his hand, tore at his face.
Rickard reared away from her, his laughter ringing loud.
'I knew you were awake,' he said.
Imogen tried to bolt from the bed. Rickard grabbed her by an ankle, and she went down chest first on the floor. She kicked and squirmed, and he dragged her back on to the bed, threw her down, her face pushing into the pillows to smother her screams.
Rickard rolled her over, avoiding her nails as they raked at his eyes. He slapped her arms away, then lashed her across the face with his palm. Then he climbed on top of her, bracing his knees either side of her ribs, holding a wrist in each of his hands and forcing them above her head.
'Are you like this when you're with Hunter?'
'Get off me. Get off! Get off!'
'I can see why he likes you, Imogen. Quite the spirited little thing, aren't you?'
Imogen screamed again, words lost in her terror.
Rickard smiled, liking her response. 'I even made myself look like him for you. Though, I must say, I'm more handsome. Don't you agree?'
She screamed again.
Rickard leaned in very close. Imogen thrashed and their foreheads bumped. He forced his head against hers so that she was pressed down against the mattress. They were eye to eye.
'Do you look into his eyes when you're together?' Rickard asked. 'Do you search his soul?'
Imogen screwed her eyes tight.
'Open your eyes, Imogen. Open them, or I'll cut off your eyelids so you have no option but look at me.'
Imogen cried.
'Now!'
Her lids flickered open. He was so close he could see her pupils dilate.
'Do you see it?'
She mewled like a cat.
'You do? You see it? Tell me what you see.'
'You're a monster!' Imogen howled.
'Yes…' Finally, Rickard thought, proof that he was right all along. 'Tell me more, Imogen. Describe it to me.'
'Get away from me, you bastard.'
'Tell me what you see.'
Moaning loudly Imogen tried to fight free. Rickard forced himself against her, bearing down with all his weight. It was no contest. He forced her wrists together, grasping both in one of his hands. His other fingers he twined in her hair, twisting it tight.
'Tell me, you goddamn bitch.'
'Touch me and you will die!'
'No one can help you,' Rickard said. 'I can do to you anything I wish.'
'Joe Hunter will kill you. He'll come for you and you'll die.'
'I didn't go to all this trouble for nothing. I want him to come. But he'll be too late to help you.' Imogen struggled again, Rickard laughing at her ineffectiveness. 'I'll kill him as easily as I'll kill you.'
Imogen screamed.
Surf crashed below the house on its clifftop promontory and gulls wheeled in the iron-grey sky. Her scream was lost amid the tumult of nature beyond the walls.
He let go of her hair, sliding his knees out behind him and forcing a leg between hers. 'Joe Hunter will suffer before he dies, Imogen. He will know that I've had his woman, and the shame will make him burn.'
He ripped her trousers from her, tore at her panties while she fought hard against him. She yanked loose her wrists and pulled at his hair, but he was beyond caring. He pulled down his trousers and he was harder than any time he could ever remember with Alisha.
But his ardour only lasted as long as it took to realise that the pounding on the door meant big trouble.
'God damn it.'
Pulling away from Imogen, he held out a hand, halting her from following. He pulled up his trousers, quickly reached to a dresser where he'd placed his gun.
'Say a word and I'll shoot you in the face.'
He moved across the bedroom to the window, standing alongside the drapes to peer outside. His angle meant he couldn't see who was at the front door, but he could see the two police cruisers parked on the hard stand next to the house. An overweight cop was standing at the open door of his vehicle, one hand on his radio and
one on the butt of his holstered gun. The cop glanced his way, but Rickard pulled back.
Joe Hunter, you sneaky son of a…
A fist banged firmly on the front door.
'Mrs Ballard. State police. Open up, please.'
Imogen struggled into her clothes, throwing her feet over the edge of the bed. Rickard raced across to her, catching her elbow and jamming his gun under her chin. 'Do not make a sound.'
But Imogen was defiant. She struggled away from the gun, yelling at the top of her voice.
Rickard backhanded her across the jaw, knocking her against a wall so that a photograph of a surly-looking man in Desert Storm fatigues was twisted askew. Rickard glanced at the face and thought that the man was scowling at him.
'Fuck you, too,' he snapped.
He grabbed Imogen by the nape of her neck, pushing her towards the door and out on to a landing that overlooked the entrance hall. A shadow moved beyond the glass pane in the front door.
The state trooper shouted an announcement again, trying the door handle. The door swung open and the uniformed man followed inside. His service revolver was out, but it was aimed along the vestibule.
'Look out,' Imogen yelled.
The trooper's eyes went wide, his head coming up, but the gun was a fraction slower.
Rickard fired and blood blossomed on the trooper's shirt.
The trooper went down on his backside, then spun on the floor, gripping at his gut. Screaming in agony.
Instantly, Rickard forced Imogen down the stairs. There was another cop outside, the fat one. Have to get by him, Rickard knew, before reinforcements can arrive. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck inside the house with a cordon of armed cops all round. He'd been in worse predicaments, but he could do without the inconvenience.
The gut-shot cop wasn't a concern. He wasn't going to die immediately, but that was a good thing. His screams of agony would help confuse and dismay his buddy outside and would ultimately slow down any pursuit as any further troopers responding to the scene would see their fallen comrade as their first priority.
Rickard snatched the cop's revolver off the floor and jammed it into his belt. Then, looping an arm round Imogen's throat, he moved into the doorway.
