by Matt Hilton
The second trooper had retreated to the far side of his cruiser and was leaning over the bonnet, his gun trained on them.
'Police,' he yelled. 'Put down the gun.'
Rickard ignored the challenge and pushed Imogen forwards, down the steps and across the yard. The cop could shoot, but he'd hit Imogen first.
'Drop your weapon!' The cop's words were a loud screech.
Crash through their defences, cut them down. Rickard came on, forcing the trooper to stand up and back away.
Staring into the man's eyes, Rickard saw that he was jammed firmly between running for his life and doing his duty. While he was stuck there, he wasn't doing either. Rickard shot him in his huge belly. Twice for good measure.
The cop went down, and his screams matched those of his fallen companion. Imogen joined in, and now it was the surf and the seagulls that had to take a back seat.
Dispassionately, Rickard pulled Imogen away from the sorely wounded man and marched her across to where he'd left the FedEx truck. It was good for carrying an unconscious woman, but too distinctive to avoid detection for long.
'Give me your keys.'
Imogen's Suburban was parked next to the house.
When she wasn't forthcoming, Rickard smacked the butt of his gun on the nape of her neck and she sprawled at his feet.
Leaving her where she lay, he went back inside the house, stepping over the trooper in the vestibule to get to a stand where Imogen had left her purse. A bunch of keys were disgorged from the bag and he swept them into his palm.
He was inside no more than ten seconds, but the scene in the yard had changed. Imogen had crawled a small distance away, and was now on her hands and knees, shaking her head like a dog with a flea in its ear. But more importantly, the overweight cop had managed to claw himself inside his cruiser. White-faced and oozing perspiration, he was shouting into the radio mike.
Rickard glanced between the two of them, then stalked towards the police car. He lifted his gun, aiming it through the window.
'You should have just kept screaming until I was gone,' Rickard said. 'Maybe you would have lived.'
He fired twice, shattering the window and the man. This time there was no screaming.
Rickard leaned in the car, groping for the dead cop's utility belt. He drew the man's handcuffs from their holder.
Imogen was now on her feet and was taking her first confused steps away from him. Rickard raced after her, caught hold of her neck again and hustled her towards the Suburban.
'We have unfinished business, bitch.'
Chapter 12
'Maybe that wasn't such a good idea,' Bryce Lang said to me from the other side of the sedan. He was driving now, while I scrunched down in my seat with a baseball cap on my head and dark sunglasses hiding my eyes. The weight of the law enforcement community was hunting me. The train stations, airports and harbours round Tampa were all closed down tight, and with roadblocks set up at all intersections in and out of the city they thought it was only a matter of time before they hauled me in. Little did they know we were already beyond the noose, but we weren't in the clear yet. Bryce followed a winding route via roads that took us through the swamps. 'They realise who phoned them, they'll try to trace your phone.'
'I can always replace it if needs be.'
Bryce's lips made a tight slash.
'By implicating me in a double murder, and then making it look like I'm a cop-killer, the people we're up against think they're shutting down the places I can go for help.'
'They're probably right,' Bryce said.
'They are, but there was nothing else I could do to help Imogen. I had to call the cops. I only hope they got there in time to save her.'
'You still want to go all the way to Maine?'
'Yes. That's where the killer is.'
'But if we're too late…'
'We are going to be too late. But we might be able to pick up his trail.'
'We should be concentrating on finding Abadia.'
'Abadia's dead, Bryce. He was cremated, remember?'
'Someone was cremated, that was for sure. But we weren't in a position to check inside the coffin.'
Glancing across at him, I wondered what he was getting at. An ex-CIA agent-cum-conspiracy theorist; that wasn't something you came across every day. 'Bryce, this is someone else.'
'You've seen the photographs, Hunter. Who else would target the team sent to kill him? He's also making sure that our families die because his girlfriend and child were killed during the hit. The murders were committed in Abadia's style.'
It was strong evidence, but I was there when Abadia was shot. I was certain that he was dead.
But I should've followed protocol and made damn sure.
'Do you have a wife and family?' I asked.
He didn't reply but his silence said it all.
'Maybe you don't, Bryce, but I do. There's nothing more I want than to go to them now, but I've chosen to stay here. I've contacted a friend over in the UK who's going to look after them. For me, the best way I can protect them is to find whoever it is and stop him for good.'
'OK, OK, I get you,' Bryce said. 'But we've got a problem.'
We had a lot more than one in my estimation.
'What are you getting at?'
'If we drive it'll take days. We can't fly or jump on a train. There'll be people checking, and we won't avoid scrutiny. Not if you intend taking your weapons with you.'
'I'm going to need them. Don't worry, Bryce, I've already made our travel arrangements. All I need is for Rink to give the slip to the cops tailing him.'
'You think he's up to it?'
'There's no one better.'
'So where do we meet him.'
'Just keep heading south. I'll give you directions when we get close.'
Key Largo is at the southernmost point of Florida, the most northerly of the Florida Keys. It is an island but is connected to the mainland by US Highway I and is a Mecca for scuba divers visiting the nearby coral reefs. I'd been there before: not to dive but on a whim to see what it was like, having caught the old Bogart-Bacall movie on a cable channel. It would take us hours to get there, but it would be worth the effort.
On the drive down I tried to nap for a short time while Bryce continued south, taking roads that didn't show on many maps. My sleep was troubled: I kept replaying the death of Jimena and her child through my mind. It was vivid, their deaths Technicolor-gory and as pointless as ever they had been in real life. Instead, I spelled Bryce for a while as we went through the Everglades, then handed over the driving duties when we were back in the built-up areas of Miami Dade County. Finally, approaching Key Largo, I directed Bryce to take the Card Sound Bridge on to the island.
'There's a toll booth there. They might have been given your description,' Bryce said.
'Doubt it,' I said. But we had to be careful.
The toll road was barrier-controlled. A single booth gave access into Monroe County, but we'd arrived at a time of day when there was a queue of traffic edging forwards and they were being nudged through the barrier perfunctorily. We crept along, flanked by signs warning us to beware of crossing crocodiles. Bryce opened his window, handed over the correct change, and then we were through without even raising an eyebrow of the elderly man working the controls.
We crossed the bridge, the water scintillating below us, and on to the island. Mangroves clung to the shoreline and the heady aroma of rotting vegetation invaded the sedan. The island was a prehistoric coral reef, exposed millennia ago and eroded by subsequent ice ages. At its highest point it stood little more than fifteen feet above sea level, but you wouldn't know it because we were surrounded by trees all the way down to the town of North Key Largo.
'Don't stop until we find signs for Pelican Key,' I said. Without comment Bryce followed the lazy flow of traffic south. He found the spur of land jutting out into the sea, but I nodded him on. 'OK, there should be a place a little ahead of us. Rock Harbor.'
'Got it,
' he said, nodding at overhead signs.
I pointed out a road on our right and we pulled into it, approaching an exclusive resort. There was a hotel surrounded by palm trees, and a wharf that jutted out over the beach and into the sea. Boats were moored alongside the wharf, and vehicles were parked near to them on a concrete lot.
'You can pull in here, Bryce.'
Bryce parked adjacent to a Porsche Boxster that was so black it glistened in the sun and reflected the boats lined up across the way. I looked across at the driver of the Porsche and smiled in greeting at my best friend, Rink.
We got out of our cars, Bryce stretching after the long journey. I shook hands with Rink, appraising his appearance.
'Is this what you mean by discreet?'
He was wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt, bright blue with reds and yellows all over it, parrots and palm trees if you looked closely; but I tried not to. He had on wraparound shades that reflected my gaze and concealed his hooded eyes, and his normally straight black hair had been slicked back. His ensemble was completed by cargo pants with big pockets on the thighs, and walking boots. Not for the first time, Rink reminded me of a character out of Magnum PI. He was tall like Tom Selleck, but he was twice as solid with muscle.
Rink flashed a grin at me, his teeth very white against his tawny skin, a match for the pale scar on his jaw. His grin told me that he was nervous, something about the way it fixed as he looked over my shoulder at Bryce.
'That the spook?'
'Bryce Lang,' I said, 'meet Jared Rington.'
'Call me Rink.'
I was glad that Rink offered his nickname: it meant that we were all going to get along. The two shook hands, and Rink flipped his shades back on his head. His size and his Arkansas drawl often surprise people when they notice his eyes; he has the epicanthic fold common to eastern races that comes courtesy of his Japanese mother. Bryce didn't do a double start – partly because I'd told him that Rink was Asian-American, partly because he was already familiar with Rink's file – but I saw Rink reading the man's reaction and judging him by it. Rink seemed happy and his grin became less fixed.
'Great to meet you, Rink. We never had the opportunity to work together before, but I've heard good things about you.' Bryce gave me a quick glance, and I guessed that he was wishing Rink had been in Bogota that fateful day. Maybe he thought Rink would have pulled the trigger where I hadn't. He didn't know Rink the way I did.
Rink leaned back into his Porsche and pulled out a canvas bag. 'Supplies.'
Dropping my hands down my body, I indicated that I'd everything I needed right there. Rink shook his head, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. 'There's a guy I've paid to take my car outa here. No sense in leavin' it here an' giving the cops a heads up.'
Rink led us along the wharf to a cabin cruiser and stepped on to the boat. Bryce went next while I checked behind us. There was no sign of any surveillance, but that didn't mean they weren't there. I'd missed the shooter when he was tailing me in Tampa. That time I'd been distracted by Castle and Soames, and I wasn't about to make the same mistake again.
A young black guy in baggy shorts was at the controls. An older man unhitched the ropes from the wharf and used a kick of his foot to push us clear. He clambered past us towards the cabin, talking quickly to the young man. I didn't catch a word they said to each other.
Watching Bryce's expression, I said, 'No. We don't intend sailing all the way to Maine.'
The motor stuttered then roared and the cabin cruiser angled out into the gently undulating water. The older black guy was doing a lot of gesticulating while the younger one ignored him stoically. Father and son, I assumed.
'Used these guys before?' I asked Rink.
'No. But they're being paid to keep their lips zipped. You don't have to worry about them.'
'Where are we going?' Bryce had sat on a bench and was watching Rock Harbor recede away from us.
'Out in the Keys,' Rink said. But that was all.
Back during Fidel Castro's takeover of Cuba, many people fleeing oppression and poverty had sought a new life in the States. As it was less than one hundred miles between Cuba and Key West, 'boat people' often used the islands as stepping stones to the mainland. Now, all these years later, illegal immigrants still chose this route into the USA. People with the necessary cash could purchase entry via any number of men willing to smuggle them ashore. Ordinarily I'd balk at using men who profit from the suffering of others, but in the circumstances I just had to keep my opinion to myself. Desperate times, as they say.
'We're taking a chance out here,' Bryce said. 'There was no other way you could think of?'
Because of the problem of illegal immigrants, the US Border Patrol was very active in this area, watching for suspicious boats or sea planes. We were running the risk of being hailed by a patrol boat. But that wasn't what Bryce was getting at.
'There are many agents based here,' he offered in a whisper. The Keys were also a staging post for people entering Communist-controlled Cuba. 'People who might recognise me.'
'Just keep your head down, Bryce.'
'Want my shades?' Rink asked.
We were on the boat for over an hour, and during that time, I brought Rink up to speed with everything that had happened. He checked out the photographs that Bryce had brought along. Rink had worked with Schilling, Hillman and Muir on a few missions and I could see the sadness in his eyes as he studied the photos. The sadness was replaced by anger when looking at the innocent dead: the women and children. His shoulders tightened and I knew that my friend was thinking bad thoughts about the people responsible.
'And now they have Imogen.'
'I'm trying not to think about that,' I said.
The Florida Keys are an archipelago of more than seventeen hundred islands, many of them inhabited, but others merely nameless limestone mounds on the surface of the sea. Depending on the hurricanes that roar through the area, some of these islets disappear and reappear like Brigadoon of the fables. A large number of islands have been colonised by plant life but have no natural fresh water and in general people avoid these as dwelling places. We were headed for one such island now.
The old guy set up a new fluster of gesticulations that his son accepted without argument. The cabin cruiser swung in and approached an island that rose from the surface of the sea with dramatic limestone cliffs crowned by bushes and the occasional palm tree. On closer inspection the cliffs weren't as tall as they first looked, little higher than twenty feet, but they still appeared to be a natural bulwark against the sea. We followed a spur of the cliff and turned into a natural cove, where men with automatic rifles waited for us.
Bryce inhaled sharply, but a quick glance at Rink's nonchalance made him relax. Rink raised a hand in greeting and the men lowered their guns and waved back.
Rink bunged the old guy a roll of dollars as we disembarked on to a short jetty made from weathered wood. Then the cabin cruiser backed out and took off for Rock Harbor.
Twenty minutes later, the three of us were on a plane headed north on the first of three hops to Maine. In a few short hours we'd go from tropical sunshine to icy rain and just the thought made me shudder. But it wasn't the prospect of the impending cold that made me shake: it was what I might find when we arrived there.
Chapter 13
In a woodland glade near to the Narraquaquas River in Washington County, Rickard shot Imogen Ballard.
It was easier transporting her if she couldn't put up a fight.
Depending on her outlook when she finally woke up, she'd probably prefer it that he'd used the gun with which he'd shot the state troopers instead of the same tranquilliser gun he'd used on her the first time.
He propped her in the passenger seat of his newly appropriated vehicle, a blanket tucked round her and a pillow behind her head as though she was taking a well-earned nap. He slipped a hand under the blanket, caressing her thigh while he made an overdue telephone call to his wife.
'Hi, honey, it's me
.'
In their loft apartment in Miami, Alisha held her breath for a second too long.
'Aren't you happy to hear from me?' Rickard asked.
'Of course I am, Luke.'
'Me too, babe. I'm missing you. Are you missing me?'
'Yes.'
'Doesn't sound like it.'
'I am, Luke, I'm missing you like crazy. I wish you were home…'
Rickard smiled to himself, and allowed his hand to slip between Imogen's legs.
'There's nothing more that I want, but you know how things are: if you want all these fine things, I have to work all the hours I can. You're not growing ungrateful, I hope…'
'I don't care about anything else, Luke. I'd be as happy with nothing.'
'As long as you're with me, right?'
'That's what I meant, Luke. I only want you.'
'I want you, too.' Rickard closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, shuddered it out again. His fingers were working with more urgency. As deep as she was in slumber, Imogen squirmed in an effort to get away from him.
'When will you be home?' Alisha's voice came out barely above a whisper. Rickard withdrew his hand and made a fist on the steering wheel.
'I don't know for sure. A day, maybe two. Why do you ask?'
'Because I… uh… I miss you.'
'If it was possible I'd be there now,' he said. 'But it isn't. But just think how great things will be when I get back.'
'That's what keeps me going, babe.'
'Tell me, honey. Tell me what you're going to do to me when I get home.'
Alisha told him, and his fist unfurled. After a few seconds it crept back under the blanket. But all he did this time was straighten Imogen's clothing.
Rickard hung up.
He could feel the serpent coiling inside him and he glanced at the rear-view mirror in hope of catching it out. All that looked back at him were his own deep-set eyes. They were creased with anger and it was an effort to make them smooth out.
Alisha, the little whore, was in need of reminding about the correct etiquette for answering his calls. She'd said the right words, but her tone had done nothing to reassure him. The fear was there, and that was good. But the desultory, almost robotic pitch of her voice was as faked as those phone-sex hookers he occasionally called. He was beginning to think that the ungrateful bitch didn't fear him enough.
