by Matt Hilton
Chapter 39
Walter met the news that Rickard had given us the slip with less hostility than I expected. He was sticking his neck over the headsman's block on our behalf and he'd have preferred it if we'd buried the son of a bitch in a nameless grave out in the Colombian jungle. His decades of experience in black ops had somewhat tempered his reaction to the possibility of failure, though, and he simply asked the question, what did I need?
First on the list was establishing a pick-up point and a rapid evacuation. Next I needed him to influence the turn out of events here in Colombia. I then told him what I wanted to do with Alisha. Everything else could wait for our return to Florida.
Nunez and Charles delivered us to a hilltop designated only by coordinates punched into a GPS system. Undulating foothills spread out beneath us. The sky was pale blue with a bank of grey thunderheads building on the Andes to the west. The sun was hidden by the clouds but made a last-gasp attempt at holding back the night, making a fiery display of gold and lapis lazuli over the tallest peaks. It was a pretty way to end this trip to Colombia.
From the north a black speck grew steadily larger and more defined. We'd come in at high altitude but we'd be leaving below radar. As we waited for the arrival of the helicopter, I shook the hands of the Jungla troopers.
'It was a pleasure working with you both.' My words sounded standard, but I meant every one of them.
As usual it was Nunez who did most of the talking. 'The pleasure was all ours. Thank you for what you did here, Hunter. You have been of great service to this country.'
I nodded at his words. Anything I'd done for his country was a mere consequence of my attempt at finding Rickard, but both Nunez and Charles seemed pleased by the result. We'd already discussed what had befallen Cesar Calle, and how Alvaro Silva had now doubled the size of his empire. But the Junglas seemed unconcerned by that. The way they saw it was that one enemy of the country would be easier to bring down than two, and they had enough evidence to destroy him through what they'd witnessed. We wouldn't enter the equation: Nunez and Charles were to receive backdated orders to conduct CTR – close target reconnaissance – of Calle's activities. The order was arranged between Walter and a local contact with DET, Colombia's own intelligence-gathering community, and the Junglas would report their findings. The fact that they witnessed the massacre of Cesar Calle and all his people was enough that a strike force was already being assembled to take down Organizacion Halcon de Roja.
Charles placed his fists on his hips as he turned to watch the approaching chopper. He had a distant look in his eye, as though perhaps he wanted to jump on board and leave the troubles of Colombia behind him to go back to the home of his father. Even with Calle and Silva out of the picture, there were still many problems plaguing this country, but there was nothing to say that anywhere else was any less troubled. The USA and Florida in particular, I thought, could be witnessing terrible happenings before long.
The speck had grown into a UH-72A Lakota helicopter. The chopper swept in, bending the tops of trees below us and sending up a vortex of dust and loose foliage. Shielding our eyes, we moved forwards, leaving the Junglas standing next to their jeep. I wondered if I'd see either of them again, but decided not in this lifetime. The helicopter was a light utility transporter with room for two crew and six passengers. It didn't feel very spacious when I followed Rink and Harvey inside, but that's what comes of travelling with two large friends.
The crewmen were locals with no capacity for the English language. They didn't try to communicate anyway, they had their instructions and that was all. They flew us almost due north to a strip of land in a valley of the Santa Marta Mountains, where we found a transport plane of the 920th Rescue Wing waiting for us. A few hours after that and we descended towards Patrick Air Force Base, Cocoa Beach a luminescent silver strip against the dark of the Atlantic Ocean on our right. A limousine – a government battlewagon – waited for us in the tepid evening warmth. Walter, Bryce Lang and SAC Ron Hubbard stood next to the limo, and I noted at least four armed guards covering their asses: Luke Rickard was the type for direct attack and not even an air force base overflowing with security and crawling with Homeland Security personnel would put him off.
On the flight there I'd cleaned myself up as best I could, but I still looked like a herd of wild bulls had stampeded over me. I felt a little like that too. As I walked across the tarmac it was with the robotic steps of an alien from a 1950s B-movie. Shaking loose the kinks in my muscles was on the agenda if I ever hoped to be ready for when I caught up with Rickard.
Walter gave me a fatherly clap on the shoulder. 'Things were pretty rough down there, huh?'
'It got a little out of hand, if that's what you mean.'
'Looks like it.' He wrinkled his nose. I probably smelled like a herd of bulls had run over me.
'I know. I need a shower.'
'And food, drink and rest,' Walter said. He scrutinised Rink and Harvey. 'All of you.'
'Jeez, we didn't get this type of treatment in the old days,' Rink said. He eyed the limousine with unabashed admiration. Rink likes expensive vehicles, but his are usually sportier. He was possibly wondering if his Porsche had been delivered back to his place yet.
Bryce exchanged greetings with us. Then, eyes downcast, he said, 'Jimena Grajales. I can't believe it.'
'Like you told me, Bryce, I should've taken the shot. None of this would've happened if I'd done Abadia when I had the chance.'
Now it was he who laid a hand on my shoulder. 'A man like Luke Rickard would commit murder whoever was behind him. It doesn't matter now.' When he stepped away from me to shake hands with Rink and then Harvey I could see tears in his eyes. I couldn't decide if it was with relief or with regret that he had led our old team-mates to a horrible ending.
SAC Hubbard was an unexpected guest at this reunion. When I looked at him he returned my gaze and it was as if he read my mind.
'I've done everything I could in Maine, so I pulled a few strings and have come here to help coordinate the capture of Luke Rickard.'
Recalling his sour, raisin eyes from the first time we met, I noticed that he was less pinched now. In fact he looked genuinely pleased to see me back safe and sound. But there was still something about him I didn't like. I shook his hand and kept hold.
'How's Imogen?'
'She's under guard at a safe house. You needn't worry about her.'
'That's not what I asked.'
'She's fine. A little shook up by her ordeal, but physically she's OK.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'For looking after her while I was gone.'
Finally I let his hand go and he put it in his trouser pocket like he didn't know what to do with it. Maybe I'd been squeezing a little too tightly and he was discreetly checking for broken fingers.
Walter waved us into the limousine. Creaking horribly in my knees, I climbed inside. The leather upholstery was plush. It was a shame that my clothing was going to make a mess of it. I had to bunch over to allow Rink and Harvey in alongside me, but the car was big enough to accommodate even them – it was roomier than the Lakota helicopter, or maybe it just felt more comfortable. Walter, Bryce and Hubbard all sat in the seats in front. Walter hung an arm over the back of his chair so that he could look at us.
Walter's famous for obfuscating – his word not mine – but this time everything was in his favour to come clean and say it as it was. For a certain pair of ears at any rate.
'I want to thank you all for what you did down there, but I'm going to have to ask you to stand down.' His eyes flicked once to Hubbard. 'The FBI is taking over the hunt for Rickard now.'
Hubbard must have felt our eyes boring into the back of his skull because he stirred, twisting round so he could stare back at us. 'People are still dying here, and that's my first concern.'
People? I didn't know who he was referring to.
'The man you captured during the gunfight at the diner was stabbed to death last night,' he explained. 'I've no do
ubt that his death was to cover the trail back to Jimena Grajales.
I sniffed. No great loss.
'Maybe you don't care about that,' Hubbard went on, 'but this thing is not finished yet. Not until Rickard is captured. A threat to any citizens of our country is too important for the Bureau to ignore. Primarily, we have to protect Alisha Rickard and the other patients and medical staff from any harm. I've activated HRT and they will be in place to take out Rickard when he shows up.'
It looked like Hubbard was ready for an argument because the raisin eyes had returned. Lying back in my seat, I closed my eyes. I let out a weary sigh and there was nothing faked about it. Then looking at him again I said calmly, 'The HRT are good. Just make sure that they're ready for anything. Rickard's good as well.'
His mouth dropped open, as though he'd prepared his next speech, but nothing came. Instead he licked his lips and tapped the window separating the driver from us. Walter shot me a wink, then shared a glance with Bryce over the back of Hubbard's head.
The limousine headed south for Miami, followed by a car containing Walter's bodyguards. It had been a long day, and the last sleep I'd had in the shack in Colombia hadn't been what you'd call quality. I wanted to nap, just as my friends did beside me, but I couldn't. Rink snored like an idling bulldozer but that wasn't what kept me awake. Thoughts of Jimena Grajales' hatred nipped at me, making me fidget. Funny, but the fact that I hadn't shot her lover dead had made me her worst enemy. That animosity had festered for seven years and had finally erupted a continent's length away. The number who'd died was lost to me now; I'd stopped counting after the photographs that Bryce showed me at the beach house a couple of days ago, but the dead now numbered dozens. Senseless dozens. I still couldn't blame the woman though. My ire was centred directly on Luke Rickard and my inability to kill him when I'd had the chance. The small matter of a fragmentation grenade coming between us didn't mean much. Not now.
We still had no idea who Rickard really was. I knew what he was: a monster. He was a cold-blooded murderer masquerading as a contract killer. If he wasn't being paid for his services he'd be tagged with a different title: serial killer. He shared traits with Tubal Cain – the Harvestman who'd almost succeeded in murdering my younger brother, and had come close to cutting a hole through my heart – and also the other contract killer I'd fought more recently who went by the name of Dantalion. I had the horrible feeling that Rickard was worse than either of those I'd stopped and that he was nowhere near finished with his murder spree yet.
Walter had organised us rooms at a hotel in downtown Miami, and the limousine dropped us on the third level of a parking garage. We entered the hotel via a connecting walkway and it was now late enough in the evening that we didn't attract too much attention. We were still in the clothing we'd worn during the battle in Colombia, and mine in particular was a mess. What glances we did get from the patrons and staff were of the raised-eyebrow variety, but there was no fear. Maybe they thought we were business executives returning from a team-building exercise and the dried blood on my clothing was paint-ball splatter. Walter and Bryce in their suits added to the look: the older chief execs pardoned the physical stuff and turning up later for brandy and cigars. All that was missing were the call girls.
Hubbard stayed with the limo, heading off to coordinate the effort between the Hostage Rescue Team and the corresponding Miami-Dade police commander. I was glad that he had gone. Now we could make our own plans without watching our words. We headed for the elevator and up to the uppermost level fifteen floors above. Two of Walter's bodyguards trailed behind, and judging by their cool glances they were a little miffed that their mark felt more comfortable when flanked by me or Rink. They were professional enough not to complain, even when Walter made them wait outside in the hall.
The CIA expenses bill would shoot up by thousands of dollars, judging by the opulence of the rooms. Walter had secured the entire floor and we had our pick of four different rich men's apartments. We went off to separate en-suite bathrooms to clean up while Walter and Bryce settled in the fourth room, organising to meet there when I'd scrubbed the blood and stink from my body. When I came out of the shower, I found new jeans, T-shirt and underwear, a pair of boots and a leather jacket lying on the bed. There was even a clinical waste sack to dump my old clothes in, the sack destined for an incinerator someplace. Putting on the fresh clothes made me feel ten times better.
My hair damp, I went back across the hall, shared a joke with the two bodyguards which helped relax them a little, then went inside Walt's room.
'You fall asleep in the bath, Hunter?'
The stench of death had taken some expunging and shampoo and soap had struggled to shift it, but maybe I had lingered under the shower longer than usual. I'd been trying to wash away the sight of Jimena Grajales screaming in sheer hatred as she'd tried to shoot me. I smiled at Rink's jibe, though.
Rink looked as fresh as the proverbial daisy, his hair almost blue under the overhead lighting. Harvey always looks snappy. They both had a new set of clothing like mine. In comparison it was Walter and Bryce who came across as a little rumpled.
'Food's coming,' Bryce announced. But none of us was interested yet.
I looked at Walter. 'Hubbard's running the show now? I didn't expect him to show up.'
Walter had claimed a huge easy chair but it struggled to contain his bulky body. With his bald pate and fringe of grey hair round his ears, he looked a lot like my grandfather. All that was lacking from the picture was the smouldering pipe, but Walter helped by taking out his cigar that he wedged between his teeth. He didn't light it: he never did. He chewed it as he spoke. 'Nothing I could do about that. My power isn't infinite, you should know that.'
'You normally have more say than a feebie SAC does,' I said.
He sniffed as though my comment came with a nasty smell. 'Orders came direct from the J. Edgar Hoover building this time. All the way from the top, and even I don't tramp those corridors. It's enough that I'm still being given the courtesy of being kept in the loop.'
'How does this affect our arrangement?'
'Things stay the same as far as I'm concerned, son.' He indicated my friends. 'All of you. But I can't promise that anyone else will see things my way.'
I shrugged. 'Doesn't matter.'
Walter laughed, tugging out the cigar to emphasise his point. 'You'll probably do things your way as usual. It doesn't matter if I give you official sanction or not.'
'I've a man looking to kill me. The way I see it is I've a right to protect myself.'
'Self-defence won't be any defence if you go looking for trouble, Hunter,' Bryce chipped in.
'That's why I'm going to let Rickard come to me this time.'
The food arrived but the bodyguards took it from the hotel staff and wheeled it into the room on a trolley. They eyed the coffee pots wistfully, but Walter ushered them out the room again. At my frown, Walter told one of them to order themselves a pot brought up, which elicited me a grateful nod from one of the men. I'd just scored myself some points, which was good: I'd been at the other end of this scenario on so many occasions that sometimes I thought that the mark saw me as an invaluable piece of furniture to be ignored. The occasional small kindness reminded a BG that you were worth taking a bullet for.
The first coffee I gulped barely caressed the sides of my throat and I moved on to my second. I didn't have much of an appetite for the sandwiches Bryce had ordered, but the coffee was damn good, and well received. I felt a spark ignite inside me as the caffeine kicked in. I reached for a third mug. Then I got down to what was important. Luke Rickard would be coming soon – there was no doubt in my mind – and I wanted to be ready for him. My SIG Sauer demanded attention.
Chapter 40
Nineteen eighty-two.
That was the year the serpent first wormed its way up from his bowel and coiled a nest in his gut. He remembered it well.
He was hiding in the woodshed, safe among the cobwebs and spiders and the
smell of pine resin, listening to the shrieking of his mother and the man he'd been ordered to call Father as they fought drunkenly inside the cabin. The screaming was nothing new. It had gone on almost since the first day that Etienne Pagnon had moved in. Usually eight-year-old Luke would lie low until the arguing stopped and Mother and Etienne disappeared inside her room. Then the other noises would start. But this time it was different. This time the yelling had gone on for much longer.
He heard a crash as though furniture had been thrown over and splintered on the hardwood floor. Then there was no more screaming.
He waited.
At Etienne's drunken stumbling, Mother would usually rant at him for his clumsiness. But Mother was silent.
From his hiding place, Luke crept forwards and placed an eye to a knothole in the shed wall. He blinked slowly, peering through the evening gloom towards the only home he'd known in all of his life. Dull light from the overhead bulb in the living room was blocked by a ragged blanket nailed over the window, but the blanket was threadbare and he could see a swelling shadow moving slowly for the front door. Luke ducked back, fearful of being seen.
He held his breath, listening. He heard the latch lift and the door creak open on rusty hinges and heavy footfall down the steps. There was a thud. Then followed a sound the like of which he'd never heard before, like a wild beast howling at the sky in open-throated fury. Luke huddled back, as though the noise itself was alive and would find him in his hiding place. The howl petered out, became a bark that turned to a series of grunts; Luke realised he was listening to laughter.
As silently as he could, he crept back to the knothole and peered out.
Etienne was on his knees in the yard and he was hauling down on the front of his shirt as he laughed like a madman. There were streaks on his shirt and on his hands. In the evening shadow they looked like dirt, but even the boy's young mind understood what they were.
