Cut and run jh-4

by Matt Hilton

  'We should widen the search,' Walter pointed out. 'Primarily it has been US and British specialists who have trained the Jungla. But other allies have been involved. I'll get our analysts on to it.'

  The Jungla are a crack team set up by the Colombian government whose express mission is to eradicate the problem of cocaine production in the country. They're highly trained specialists, on a par with many military special forces, but they're not military, they're police. Where DAS are akin to the secret police, the Jungla are the storm troopers.

  One of the bodyguards stood up and leaned over to whisper in Walter's ear. Walter nodded slowly.

  As the bodyguard sat down again, Walter said, 'They obviously have a network inside the country. The man who kidnapped Imogen couldn't have been working on his own. A boat, a delivery truck and a plane were all necessary to his plans and he needed others to set that up. We have been looking at this angle. We've found the plane.'

  'Great,' I said.

  Before I could ask, Walter went on, 'It's at a private airstrip outside of Miami. But the pilot isn't speaking.'

  'Give me a couple minutes with him,' Rink said.

  'Still won't speak,' Walter said. 'He's dead. A single round to the back of the head. His body was found jammed into a dumpster.'

  'So the killer's covering his tracks, eliminating anyone who can identify him?' It didn't bode well for Imogen.

  Walter read my meaning. 'I'll contact Hubbard and have her guard doubled. But I wouldn't worry.'

  Easier said than done, but I knew what he was getting at. The killer had moved on to the next part of his plan.

  'You have people on this already,' I said. 'Where has their investigation led?'

  'Initially they were looking at you.'

  'But you knew there was no truth in that.' I nodded at Bryce, who'd already confirmed that. 'They must have been looking at others.'

  'We have a team on it in Colombia, another at this end. Up until now they've come up empty-handed. We're working with the FBI on this, so they have people on it as well.'

  'I don't want any of them getting in our way.'

  'It's every man for himself, Hunter. The CIA is on board because of the international implications of this one, but it's the FBI who have jurisdiction because of the federal nature of the crimes.'

  'All these G-men running round but still you've come to us.' Rink's words more or less echoed my own thoughts.

  'It serves a purpose, Rink.'

  'As usual,' Rink said.

  'As usual. These people are threatening us all. I'm as valid a target as Hunter or Bryce. It's in all our interests if we put a stop to them. No trials, no chance of them getting away, no retribution.'

  'Sounds like we don't have official sanction after all,' I said.

  Walter jammed his cigar between his teeth, speaking round it like one of those gangsters in old black and white movies. 'You have my sanction. The paperwork can be sorted later.'

  Basically what he was saying was that we were going to be his personal assassins. Ordinarily I'd have told him to stick his sanction, except this time I was happy with the arrangement. While the killer was still out there, Imogen and others were still in great danger. It would remain that way until the killer, and whoever was guiding him, was stopped for good.

  Chapter 19

  Alisha screamed all the way down, hit the pavement and then was silent. Her corpse was sprawled like a stringless marionette, surrounded by a growing pool of blood.

  At least in Rickard's mind, that was the way things happened.

  In reality he eased up to her and wrapped his arms round her waist, pulled her tightly to him and nuzzled her neck. 'Hi, babe.'

  Alisha stiffened for the briefest of moments, but then, having realised who had caught her in a hug – or more likely because it was what was expected of her – she melted back against him, purring as he kissed her all the way down to her shoulder. Rickard released her, turned her round slowly and looked down at her upturned face. He kissed her gently on the tip of her nose.

  'I wasn't expecting you,' Alisha said.

  'Couldn't stay away any longer,' Rickard said. 'Did you miss me?'

  'Like crazy.' Alisha searched for his lips. Rickard held back, teasing her, making her go up on her toes before returning the kiss. She smelled of soap and shampoo. No trace of cologne.

  Got to get a hold of myself, he thought. The man in the lift had been nowhere near his apartment. Nowhere near his Alisha. She was too afraid of him to bring other men to their bed. She did not know what he did for a living, but she suspected what was in his mind and what he was capable of. He'd taught her well what would happen if ever she betrayed him.

  Paranoia is an ugly, debilitating thing. It was that damned phone call he'd made that had planted the seed of doubt in his mind. Where are you, Rickard? His failure to see through his plan to rape and then dismember Imogen Ballard had been unforeseen by both his employer and him. I expect more from people working for me. Yes, he thought, and so do I. I also expect more from the people round me.

  'What are you doing out here, babe?' Rickard peered over Alisha's shoulder at the Miami nightscape. It was still warm, and he could smell exhaust fumes and garbage on the trembling breeze.

  'Oh, nothing. Just thinking.'

  'About me?'

  Alisha stirred and looked up at him with her big blue eyes. 'Who else?'

  He didn't reply, but strong cologne was in his olfactory memory. He wound his fingers in her hair. 'I've been thinking about you as well.'

  Without releasing his grip, he led her back inside and down the short flight of stairs. Amy Winehouse had moved on to croon over someone called Mr Jones. Rickard pictured the guy as a man in a suit, with short greying hair and a mobile phone in his hand. He turned off the CD as he passed then steered Alisha towards the bedroom.

  When he came back out of the bedroom he was on his own. Alisha was taking her second shower of the evening and tending to the welts on her arms. When he'd entered her he'd been thinking of Imogen Ballard and he wasn't gentle then, either. Behind the bathroom door she was sobbing and that pleased him.

  Naked, he stood in the centre of his apartment, surveying it with a perfectionist's eye for detail. Alisha had kept the room almost as spick and span as he demanded. The pile on the carpet was crushed down in places and there was a copy of a Stieg Larsson novel open on the table next to the settee. He'd make sure that she tidied up once she was done making herself pretty again.

  He was very hungry. He went to the refrigerator and scanned the contents. Settled on drinking milk direct from the carton, then grabbed a handful of roast chicken from scraps on a plate. He wolfed the food down. Voracious. But, then, he thought whimsically, he was eating for two. He cleaned the grease from his fingers on a kitchen towel, then shoved it into the wash basket.

  He was padding back across to check on Alisha's progress when he heard something out of place on this private floor of the building. It was the faint crunch of a heel on grit. Most people would have gone to the front door to peer out through the peephole, but Rickard didn't act the way others did. He knew without checking that someone with no right to be there was in his hall. He ducked into the bedroom, pulled on his trousers and unsnapped the ceramic knife from its holder. No time for shoes or shirt. He moved to the en-suite bath. Alisha had her back to him and the scratches on her back were livid. He unsnagged her gown from where she'd hung it and threw it to her. 'Put that on. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you. Whatever you hear.'

  Alisha's face elongated, but before she could say anything, he pulled the door closed. He heard her throwing the bolt: another alien sound to this apartment.

  Then he moved back across the room. He cursed the fact that his gun was locked inside his car, but shoved the thought aside. His knife would be enough until he could arm himself otherwise.

  On his way into the apartment he'd been distracted. He had not armed the intruder alarms. He hadn't thrown the locks on the doors.
OK, so there'd be less damage when they came in; maybe that wasn't so bad after all.

  They.

  He was sure that there'd be more than one.

  Only a series of unforeseen events had caused the mess-up in Maine, but his employer knew how good he was. More than one man would have been sent to dispatch him; to close down the trail that might lead back to its source.

  He avoided the urge to peer out the peephole. He'd heard of assassins waiting until the peephole became shadowed, when they would press a gun to the lens and fire a round through the orbital socket and into the brain. Maybe that was just in the movies, but Rickard wouldn't fall for it. He moved instead for the door leading to the flight of stairs to the roof. He'd been remiss in locking that door too, and the one on to the roof.

  Although he owned the uppermost floor, building regulations meant that there had to be ample escape routes in the event of an emergency. He could lock the elevator by way of his key, but access could be gained via two fire escapes: one was inside the building and one outside. The internal one had already been breached and so too, he guessed, had the metal stairwell on the side of the building. Against fire regulations he'd installed a gate that he kept padlocked, but anyone with a pair of bolt croppers could be through that in seconds.

  Rickard moved quickly up the stairs.

  He paused at the door to the roof, listening. He couldn't hear anything but that didn't mean they weren't there. He placed the knife between his teeth, and dropping low so he was supported on his fingers and toes, he crawled out. Alisha's imported plants were both a blessing and a curse. They gave him cover as he made his way over to a service conduit, but they also blocked his view of anyone coming on to the roof via the fire escape.

  In the shadows of the conduit, he crouched, feeding the knife from lips to hand. He didn't have to wait long. Beyond Alisha's palms he caught movement. Big man in dark clothing, beanie hat pulled low. The man was holding a handgun. Judging by the length of the barrel it wasn't silenced, which Rickard found odd. Impulse was to attack the man immediately, stick him in the throat and open his carotid artery, but Rickard waited.

  A second figure came over the balustrade and on to the roof. He too was dressed in dark clothing and packing a gun.

  So, at least three of them. Rickard weighed the equation in his mind. Three men, possibly more, with guns. Him with a knife. No problem.

  The men made their way across the roof warily, eyes scanning. They paused to whisper to each other, then one of them lifted something and pressed a button. To his credit he didn't talk into the radio, just depressed the button in a prearranged sequence. Giving the all clear to the others downstairs.

  The men paused at the open door, but then one of them shrugged and used the barrel of his gun to tease it wider. Bad form, Rickard noted: you never compromise your weapon like that. Then one of them went down the stairs. A few seconds later – a final check over his shoulder – and the second man followed into the stairwell.

  Rickard moved after them.

  Dressed only in trousers, chest bared, he felt primal, like an unstoppable force of nature.

  At the entrance to his apartment both men had halted. One of them nudged open the door and took a quick look into the room. The one with the radio quickly keyed the send button. Almost immediately, there was the sound of the front door crashing back on the jamb as someone powered their way inside. From the bathroom, Alisha shrieked loudly.

  Good girl, Rickard thought. Her screech attracted the attention of both men in the stairwell. One of them moved forwards, his friend's hand on his shoulder.

  Rickard came down the stairs silently.

  His knife whispered across the throat of the man at the back. The ceramic blade was sharper than any made of steel and opened him up from ear to ear. The man dropped as though pole-axed. Rickard stood on him as he fell, used him as a springboard and went after the leading man. At the same time, he was looking for and assessing the others in the room. There was only one more.

  Goddamnit! I knew it!

  Coming in through the front door was the man from the elevator. He'd changed his suit for a windcheater and jeans, and the mobile for a radio and a handgun.

  So he wasn't Alisha's secret fling, but an assassin scoping the terrain before making his assault. His reaction when surprised by Rickard's appearance as the elevator doors opened now held more sense.

  It took Rickard all of a split second to analyse the facts and to act on them. The elevator man was surprised by his sudden unexpected arrival and he was a second too slow in lifting his gun. His shot missed and put a hole in the wall a foot behind Rickard's moving form. Rickard caught up with the big guy in the beanie hat just as the man was turning round. He jabbed his knife under the man's jaw, the blade cutting through the tissue and piercing his tongue. Not an immediately fatal stab but one designed to cause debilitation of the senses and a lot of blood. Without stopping, Rickard ducked under the man's arms and came up behind him. Elevator Man had no clear shot. Rickard jammed his blade into his human shield just below his floating rib, not deep enough to reach the liver, but enough to induce shocking pain. He released the handle and grabbed the gun out of the man's lifeless grip. Considerately the big man had already racked the slide, putting a bullet in the firing chamber.

  Realising the inevitability of the next few seconds, Elevator Man was already turning, hoping to make it back out the door where he could at least use the cover of the door jamb to return fire.

  Should have just gone for it, Rickard thought. Then he shot the man between his shoulder blades as Alisha screamed a second time. The dead man made it to the doorway, but he was face down, his arms outstretched.

  In the same moment Rickard disengaged from the big guy, plucked free his knife then shot the man in the side of the head. The guy went over sideways and landed on the carpet, his blood fanning out on the usually pristine flooring. Rickard grimaced at the mess because he was fastidious about those kinds of things. But not now. The apartment was no longer his; he was moving out immediately.

  Chapter 20

  'Tell me what I want to know or I'm going to put you out of business. Permanently.'

  'You're gonna shoot me, Hunter? Do it. See how much information that gets you.'

  'I'm not going to shoot you. Not yet.' With my left hand I grabbed Kenneth Wetherby by his throat, sinking my fingers tightly each side of his oesophagus, and hauled him backwards over his own desk. A laser printer and a stack of papers were knocked flying and scattered over the floor. Then I dumped Wetherby on his back on the threadbare carpet. I slipped my SIG back into my waistband and bunched my right fist. 'First I'm going to beat the living shit out of you.'

  I'd only been in Miami a little over twelve hours and already I'd made a few new enemies and reacquainted myself with another. Rink had also earned himself some anger, but the man he'd knocked cold wasn't voicing an opinion just yet. Rink stood threatening another two men with his fists while I roughed up their boss.

  I loosened my grip on Wetherby's throat enough that he could answer my questions. 'Tell me who it is.'

  'Are you fucking insane? Coming here like this, you've just earned yourself a bullet with your name on it.'

  'I've already got someone trying to kill me,' I snarled. 'And you know who it is. Tell me, you fuckin' arsehole.'

  'I don't know, goddamnit! Whoever it is, he's not on my books.'

  I grabbed him off the floor. But only for as long as it took to slam him against his office wall. Wetherby slid back down to the ground, his arms covering his head. I kicked him in the pit of his stomach: should have gone for his balls, but I was more interested in intimidating him than putting him fully out of commission.

  Wetherby's pinched gaze went to his two friends. 'You gonna help me here? What the fuck am I payin' you idiots for?'

  The two men glanced at their fallen companion. They'd just witnessed Rink putting the biggest of them out with a single back fist strike to his jaw. Maybe they thought it was a
lucky punch – maybe they had a little sense of duty – because they launched themselves at Rink. Bad mistake.

  Rink ducked the first man's cumbersome overhand punch, came up and blasted the point of his elbow into the man's face. I heard his nose break all the way from the other side of the room. Even as he was falling, Rink caught the second man's right arm, pivoted so that the elbow was hyper-extended and pulled the man forwards and off balance. In the next instant Rink reversed direction, folding the man's wrist back on itself. In an aikido dojo, the recipient of such a move would flip out of the joint lock and avoid injury – but this thug was no aikido specialist. He went the wrong way and his wrist and elbow snapped as loudly as had his friend's nose. Rink released the man's arm. It was useless now as a point of control. The man went to his knees cradling his busted arm. He was screaming. Rink whipped a shin kick into the man's head to put him out of his misery.

  Rink turned and fed his thumbs into his belt. He grinned at Wetherby. 'What are you payin' those idiots for?'

  I caught Wetherby by his collar and pulled him up. He was out of wind from the kick to his guts and I wasn't going to give him an opportunity to catch his breath. I spun him round and threw him backwards so that he landed in his office chair. The chair skidded a couple of feet before he banged against the office window overlooking MacArthur Causeway. We were only nine floors up the fifty-storey building but the road still looked a long way down from here. I followed him and caught him by the chin, twisting his head so he got a skewed look out over Biscayne Bay. 'Unless you want a one-way trip down there, you'd better start talking, Wetherby.'

  'This has got nothing to do with me. I don't even know why you'd think that.'

  There were reasons. Harvey Lucas had come up with a couple of names from his search of ex-military with sniper training. They were on Wetherby's books. Then there was the fact that Wetherby had once tried to recruit me, except the kind of people he supplied muscle to were the type I usually banged heads with. I'd told Wetherby to stick his job where the sun didn't shine and as a parting shot Wetherby had told me I'd made a big mistake crossing him and his outfit. There had to be a reckoning. Sooner or later I'd have been calling on Wetherby again, so this visit had turned out to be quite fortunate, just a little sooner than anticipated.