by Matt Hilton
Rickard was a fucking abomination.
I had been hoping to recognise the man's face, but not in this way. Part of me had even wondered if Jesus Henao Abadia had risen from the grave and was tormenting me like a vengeful spectre from my past. I'd even wondered about Jack Schilling; I heard he'd killed himself, but I never saw the body. It sounds like a stretch, but Martin Maxwell had faked his own death before going on a rampage as the serial killer Tubal Cain, so I was ready to investigate any angle. But this man was neither Abadia nor Schilling. I'd never seen him before in my life – except for in a mirror.
Harvey pressed buttons on his laptop. He brought up more pictures and then tapped the screen. 'These two are Jean Shrier and Ben Le Duke. It looks like Wetherby was telling the truth about them. They're deployed to Hong Kong and Nigeria respectively.'
A simple glance at the men's mugshots told me that neither of them was the killer calling himself Luke Rickard. To all intents and purposes we were back to square one. Except for one thing.
'What about his wife?'
I'd no sooner asked the question than Walter and Bryce came in the room. Walter's bodyguards waited outside in the hall. Maybe they should have followed him in because Walter looked like he'd need their help to aid him in standing, he was so washed out.
He sat down on the edge of one of the twin beds and let out a ragged breath. He glanced over at Bryce, who didn't look that much better. 'You don't know how well off you are. I wish I could spend my days sitting beside a river watching the salmon avoiding my hook.'
'Retirement's not all it's cracked up to be,' Bryce grunted. He sat down on the other bed.
'I take it that things weren't easy with the cops this time?' I said.
Walter grunted. 'There are complaints running all up and down the spout. The chief's threatening to take this all the way to the governor, to Congress if needs be. Do you think there's a chance you can keep things a little lower key in future?' He looked at me, Rink and Harvey in turn.
I spoke for the three of us. 'Not a chance, Walt.'
He shook his head, laughing softly. It had been a pointless request anyway. I wasn't the only one who had the feeling that things could get much worse. 'I can't blame you guys, I suppose. It wasn't you who went in and shot up that place with machine pistols. It took a lot of convincing the chief, though. He said they wouldn't have shot the damn place to pieces if you guys hadn't been in there in the first place.'
'He has a point,' I said.
'You probably saved a lot of people in there.'
'Doesn't make me feel any better.' People had died: a terrified guy under a table; the young girl hiding behind the cashier's desk, among others. Their deaths weighed heavily on my soul, regardless of how many others I might have saved. Seemed my life was destined to be filled with collateral damage; something that would never sit well with me.
Walter waved me down, then searched his pockets for his cigar. He thumbed the cigar into his mouth and sat staring into space.
'Haven't you anything else for us?' I asked.
'Only something very strange.'
I shared a glance with Rink.
Walter shook himself. 'There was another murder across town from where your gunfight took place. Someone was butchered with a knife.'
We were in a huge city with its fair share of crime. Knife crime wasn't so unfamiliar in Miami – just like anywhere else – but Walter was right: it was too much of a coincidence to be unrelated. Once again I wondered about what had become of Alisha Rickard.
'Elderly male,' Walter began, allaying my first fears. But his next words put me right back in the same place again. 'Knifed to death in the ladies' restroom. Rickard's fingerprints were at the scene.'
'What about his wife?'
'No sign. Only her shoes were found. It looks like she might've crawled out of a window.'
'She's running from him?' So, it seemed that Chisholm and his team had been involved in an extraction when Rickard had killed them. They'd come for the woman and found something much worse than they – and maybe even his wife – had ever anticipated.
'Looks that way. I've got someone over at Chisholm's office going through his records to see what we can find out.'
'Who's looking for the woman?'
'The police are. But at the moment they've more on their plate to worry about.'
I took out my SIG and ejected the depleted magazine. Fed in a full one and racked the slide.
'I'm going out.'
Walter looked at me. 'We have work to do here, Hunter.'
I was never that great a detective. Every man in the room was a far better investigator than me. Let them find out who Rickard really was, then point me in the right direction. That's where my special skills lay. I was more concerned with finding Alisha before her husband did.
'I'm going out,' I repeated.
Chapter 25
This corner of Liberty City wasn't a safe place to hide for someone like Alisha Rickard. It was ironic that Rickard had originally found her in this neighbourhood, but since she'd been with him she'd undergone a major transformation. Now she simply did not fit. For one, her clothing and salon-perfect hairdo picked her out as someone no longer from these parts. Her designer purse, and the probable weight of cash or credit cards she carried within it, marked her as an easy target for any of a number of people willing to take it off her. Then there were the men who watched her with the eyes of pit bull terriers. They thought only two things about her: flesh for the taking or an obvious police set-up. Neither boded well for the young woman.
Except Rickard would not allow anyone to harm her.
She was his alone to hurt.
He'd ditched his car after retrieving his weapons, replaced it with an unremarkable Ford Taurus he'd hotwired, and taken up the hunt for his wayward wife. It was a decision that had come easy to his mind, even if it meant giving up his opportunity to finish Joe Hunter once and for all. When he'd seen Hunter at the diner he'd been momentarily confused: judging by the commotion, Hunter and his two friends had been involved in the gun battle that had torn the place apart. Yet – confused or not – he'd also seen his chance to blast Hunter to death. The only thing that had stopped him was his desire to finish things with Alisha first. The hit on Hunter was professional, about the money, but Alisha's betrayal had stung him where it really hurt: his ego. Hunter had been taken into custody by the cops arriving at the scene, but not in the manner befitting a suspected cop-killer. So had the big plan been a waste of time as he'd suspected? Rickard was optimistic enough to think that Hunter would be free within hours and another opening would present itself to take him out. So, straightening things with Alisha came first.
A quick check of the area behind the strip mall showed that Alisha had only one feasible escape route. He found the window where she'd crawled out of the restroom in a service alley that was blocked at one end by a large steel fence, beyond which construction of another building was taking place. The fence hadn't been breached. Even if there had been a way through, the land beyond was full of trenches and semi-erected foundations from which jutted steel wires: unwelcoming terrain for a barefoot young woman. She had to have left the alleyway the same way in which he'd entered. He backtracked, searched for dusty footprints on the pavement and saw a couple of fresh scuffs next to a public telephone kiosk. A quick glance inside the booth showed a prominently displayed notice advertising a local taxicab company. Rickard dropped quarters into the slot, hit the redial button and asked for a cab.
A few minutes later his driver arrived. Rickard made enquiries with the driver, money changed hands and Rickard knew where Alisha had headed to. He thanked the driver, then shot him in the nape of the neck. After taking back the cash he'd handed over, he quickly left the area, found the Taurus and took up the chase.
And now here he was in Liberty City, a suburb of Miami, watching from a distance as Alisha limped towards a house on a street where gangstas stood brazenly on a wooden porch watching for police spies.
Alisha passed them with her head down, ignoring the remarks made by the men who added colour to their comments by way of actions. She knocked on the front door.
From his hiding place Rickard watched two men in baggy jeans, training shoes and white vests push in either side of her. Both men were fit and lithe and their muscular arms were covered in gang tattoos. One of them had a handgun jammed down the front of his jeans. The other held a pistol in his hand and he pushed it into Alisha's stomach. Rickard wasn't worried that the man was going to shoot; it was all just part of the macho bullshit these idiots enjoyed. He saw Alisha's chin come up and she must have said something harsh, because the gunman stepped away, raising his arms. The second man stopped pawing her at much the same instant. Rickard nodded to himself.
Rickard knew now why she'd come here. The return of the prodigal girlfriend.
Although he did not like to think that other men had been with her before him, he'd once made her tell him about her past boyfriends. She had resisted, but only until he'd twisted her hair and demanded to know the truth. She'd listed a couple of high-school boys who he had no interest in, then a guy who'd been more into computer games than he was into her. She'd mentioned in passing a man who'd picked her up in a bar who she dumped very quickly when it turned out he was a local cocaine supplier. Rickard had watched her as she'd talked about the young thug and she couldn't disguise the lie. Then she'd moved on to more recent men, one night stands who were up for having a hot girl on their arm but not for a meaningful relationship. The one that had stuck in his head was the only other person who could be described in the same bad-boy mould as he: the cocaine dealer from Liberty City. Rickard had considered paying this man a visit – putting him out of Alisha's thoughts for good – but hadn't got round to it yet.
Now it looked like he was going to get his chance.
The front door of the house opened and a tall, slim man appraised Alisha with a nonplussed expression. He studied her clothing, the body beneath it, and then an eyebrow lifted as he saw her bare and dusty feet. He nodded, then jerked his head, directing her inside. As Alisha moved past him, the man stepped forwards on to the porch and said something to the two guards. All three of them took a long look round. Rickard hunkered down in the seat of his car. The tall man then went inside.
Rickard started the car and drove away.
He took a couple of left turns, and drove down the next parallel street. The houses here were similar to the one where Alisha had sought sanctuary: single-level homes made from wooden beams and planks, peaked roofs, kids' toys or abandoned vehicles left to rot in the front yards. Occasionally the houses looked like their occupants were attempting to stave off the destitution of the neighbourhood by planting shrubs and flowers to brighten their gardens. But these were the exception to the norm.
Rickard drove by the house back-to-back with the drug dealer's place. Guards were placed there as well. He suspected that other spotters further afield would be watching for unmarked police cars. He continued on to the end of the street and this time took a right. Up along on the left he noticed the burnt-out shell of a house. He turned the Taurus into the garden, manoeuvred round a pile of shattered and scorched furniture piled on the sun-bleached lawn, and parked under a tree. A rope hung from one of the branches, frayed at the end. In some neighbourhoods this would have been a child's swing, but here he guessed that a large dog would once have been tethered. He checked his weapons, gun and knife, then climbed out of the car.
As soon as he walked out from under the tree he saw trouble. A teenage black kid on a cycle was wheeling circles in the road. The boy watched him with baleful animosity. The kid had made him: not necessarily as a cop, but as someone who had no business being here. Rickard walked towards him, feet crunching through brittle grass. The boy immediately rode away, watching Rickard over his shoulder. He stopped fifty yards away. Standing with his legs splayed either side of the cycle he watched Rickard turn and head off away from him. When Rickard next checked, the kid was gone. Rickard picked up his pace. There were no guarantees but the kid could simply be a local child with the inherited distrust of strangers. Or maybe he was a spotter for another dealer. Place like this there would be more than one outfit peddling narcotics, he thought. It was still a good idea to get to the target house before the alarm was sounded.
When he rounded the bend on to the street running parallel to the one he wanted, two men were waiting for him. They were the guards stationed in the garden of the house behind the one Alisha hid in. Rickard saw that one of them was holding a mobile phone to his ear – probably getting an update from the kid on the bike. They were scrawny men, like rejects from the Jerry Springer Show, but they were packing guns so they were still dangerous. Going for Rickard was the fact that they thought he was a cop. They could intimidate and run him off without fear of immediate retribution.
Rickard would have smiled, but that would maybe warn them that he wasn't what he seemed. He walked directly towards them, pulled out his handgun and shot them once each in the chest. Both men fell in the street and he barely gave them any further notice. As he approached them he snatched up the mobile phone from where it had fallen in the gutter.
'You should've kept your mouth shut, boy! If I see you again, you're dead.'
Rickard dropped the phone and stamped it to ruin. Then he scooped up the men's handguns and slipped them into his belt. He had a feeling he was going to need the firepower. From a distance he heard shouting. Likely it was the kid on the bike hollering the alarm to all who would listen.
Rickard knew that to be successful he had to move quickly and decisively. Crash through their defences, cut them down. His greatest weapon was that punks like these prepared to defend themselves against a dawn raid by the cops, or drive-by shootings by rival gangs. They would never have seen anything like him before.
He ran into the garden where these men had been standing moments before, and round the side of the house. The shooting must have alerted those inside the house with Alisha, but he had a feeling that their reaction wouldn't be to mount a defence against someone coming to kill them; they'd be too busy flushing the evidence of their illegal pursuits for that.
Whenever the Miami Dade Special Response Team conducted a raid on one of these crack houses, they came in force. An armoured truck nicknamed a Bear Cat would spearhead the raid, men in flak jackets clinging to the sides, before rushing forwards behind a shield wall to smash down the doors. Non-lethal flash-bang grenades or tear gas would be launched inside the building, and then the armoured officers would go in sweeping and clearing each room in turn. The occupants would be arrested while evidence was secured. It was conducted with military precision. In situations like that, the dealers had their own routines. Usually they laid down their weapons, got down on their bellies with their hands on their heads and waited for the inevitable. Rickard was hoping that their ingrained reaction would play out this time. But – if it didn't – well, so be it. He'd plenty of guns.
Gun in hand, he swept the rear garden for any other guards, but there were none. A high wire fence separated this property from the dealer's house, but there was a gate in one corner where the guards could come and go. The gate was locked, but it was no taller than Rickard. He sprang up, caught the top with his left hand then swung over it. He landed on both feet facing the back wall of Alisha's hiding place. Junk lay all over the yard, some of it so old it was partially embedded in the earth. There was an engine block from some ancient vehicle, an oil drum on its side, a stack of building blocks from an abandoned project. There was also a dog. It was a Rottweiler-mix, a huge, bulky monstrosity that launched itself at him with slavering ferocity. Before it reached him the dog came to a sudden halt, checked by the heavy chain round its neck. It strained at the length of its tether, jaws snapping as it barked with a madness close to insanity. Rickard shot the dog in the head.
Then he was moving again.
One of the tattooed thugs who had first met Alisha came round the side of the hou
se. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, undecided whether to run or to fight. He was expecting a cop, and Rickard's appearance threw him long enough for Rickard to snap his gun up and shoot at the man. His round struck high in the man's right shoulder and knocked him down. The man screamed curses: he knew now that Rickard was no cop. Rickard leaned over him, and with his ceramic knife slit his throat, shutting him up.
The most obvious play would be to take out the remaining guard, but Rickard could not see him. Maybe he'd fled inside at the first sound of gunfire. Maybe he'd high-tailed it to avoid arrest. Whatever, he wasn't apparent. Rickard turned his attention to getting inside the house. This, without doubt, would be the most difficult and dangerous part of his attack plan. He could hear alarmed voices sounding from within the house, three distinct ones.
He spied at the door on this side of the house. It was a heavy timber door with the original glass boarded over, surrounded by a porch with a flat roof. Knowing how these places were protected, there could possibly be an inner door of steel or wire mesh to thwart easy access by the police. Next he checked the windows. They were boarded over as well. He'd need a crowbar to pry his way inside. So he didn't bother with either. He stuffed his weapons in his belt, then jumped and grabbed at the roofline, swinging up and on to the porch. From there it was an easy jump up to the actual roof of the house, and he clambered up the eave so that he was on the roof's apex. From there he had a panoramic view of the surrounding streets. They were as deserted as a ghost town as people with better sense hid themselves from harm.
Ordinarily, houses that proved impregnable at the ground level were never as heavily fortified against an attack from above and Rickard was counting on this being true here. He readied himself, gripping tightly as he prepared to swing down and kick his way through the small attic window he'd noticed earlier.
He took a deep breath, as though about to dive into deep water. Then, in the next instant, he let it out again. He straightened up, staring in disbelief at the car roaring along the street towards him.
