by G. K. Parks
“Believe what you want.” I edged around the barrier, wondering if he was armed. Well, there was one way to find out. “The truth of the matter is your friend, the Camel, is going to get sick and tired of your sniveling, pain in the ass, arrogant, self-aggrandizing ways. Hell, I barely know you, and I’m already sick of them.” I stood cautiously, still blocked mostly by a support pillar.
“You have a smart mouth, Riley. It’s a shame you never put it to good use.” A shot rang out in my direction, but because of the echo, it was hard to determine precisely where it came from. Ducking down, I heard the door to the stairwell swing open, and I ran after Chase. No wonder they called him Chase.
Two flights down, he teetered. The blood loss was finally getting to him, and I took the opportunity to close the gap between the two of us. He swung his gun toward me, and I grabbed his forearm and pointed it up. The bullet fired harmlessly into the ceiling above us. The wound he sustained was to the side of his upper torso, below the GSW I inflicted during our last meeting. I hit him hard in the bloodied spot, and he grunted, losing hold of the gun, which fell over the edge of the stairs and to the ground below. Unfortunately, he didn’t go down.
Instead, he kneed me in the stomach. I lost my grip and doubled over. He charged forward, knocking me back against the railing. It hurt, but not as much as it would have had I not been prepared. Using this to my advantage, I sunk to the ground, grabbed my gun, and shot him in the knee. Immediately, he went down, howling.
“Do you want any more holes in your body? Or are you ready to give up?” I asked, pulling myself to my feet. He didn’t respond, and I retrieved the cuffs from my belt and chained him to the railing. Radioing in his location, I wondered if he’d bleed out before anyone freed him. Frankly, I wasn’t too concerned. My only worry at the moment was Ryan.
Racing back up the stairs and to the roof, I didn’t see him pinned behind my car. Listening to the radio chatter, I knew the rapid response team was storming the adjacent roof, and with any luck, our shooter wouldn’t escape again. I edged toward my car, staying low.
By the time I made it to the only cover position on the open-air roof, it was obvious Ryan wasn’t there. Requesting information, I waited, but no response came. Shit. As I considered my options, surveying as much of the area as possible, the radio chirped to life. Ryan had gone down the ramps and came up the other side, encountering our shooter just as he was driving away from the adjacent building.
The chorus of clears rang through, and I heard verification that Heathcliff had taken Devereaux into custody. An ambulance was on the way, and I climbed into my car, noticing the new scratches and dents, and drove to the bottom. The dozens of vehicles, lights, and tactical team members made the garage look like a carnival. Turning off the engine, I stepped out of my car.
“You shot a suspect in the leg,” Mark berated, having heard Heathcliff’s call. “Are you out of your fucking mind? Either you shoot to kill or you don’t shoot at all.”
“Sorry, I missed,” I replied, brushing past him to Ryan. “Where the hell’d you go?”
“After the Camel.” He held my gun out, but before I could take it, Mark intervened, confiscating that one and the one tucked in my shoulder holster. “I think I clipped him, but I’m not sure.”
“We’ll check the roof and surrounding area for evidence,” one of the cops offered. He looked at the federal agents standing by. But no one said anything, so the officers disappeared to begin their work.
“Where’d he go?” Mark asked.
“Dark sedan, license plate number two, seven, five, r,” Ryan stopped, “I didn’t see the rest.”
“Better than nothing,” Mark replied. He spun in a circle, surveying the area. “We’ve got them all. The only one left is our contract killer.”
“Yep.” I rested my hips against the hood of my car. “Devereaux wanted to take over the hit brokering business. His words. I’m guessing that means Barlow was putting the Camel in contact with his clients. Hell, maybe it was his idea to add the car parts as part of the signature.”
“Are you good to drive back to the OIO?” Mark asked, and I nodded. “Okay, the two of you get cleaned up, answer whatever questions we might have, and we’ll end this.”
“It’s about bloody time.”
* * *
After the debriefs, Ryan and I split up. The federal agencies didn’t need my assistance anymore. All our suspects were in custody, and it wasn’t like Alexandra Riley had any reason to make a reappearance. Ryan was working with Interpol and the OIO on the details, questioning Barlow and Mallick while waiting for Devereaux to come out of surgery, so I went back to the precinct. Since Moretti gave me permission to consult for them, it was time they got some bang for their buck.
Heathcliff was slipping on his jacket when I walked into the bullpen. He looked up and tried to hide the smirk. “We don’t shoot suspects for the hell of it.”
“I didn’t shoot him for the hell of it. I shot him because he threw me against the railing. Since he was determined to put me down, I thought I’d return the favor.”
He stepped closer so no one else would hear. “Next time, shoot him somewhere else.”
“I almost did,” I whispered. “Remember, he put me through hell, but we need him.”
“I’m not fooled. You’re one of the good ones, Parker.” He continued out of the precinct.
It was late, and graveyard was just beginning their shift. I sat at Heathcliff’s desk, hoping Thompson or O’Connell might be unlucky enough to be coming to work, but unfortunately, I didn’t spot any familiar faces. After skimming through the stack of files Heathcliff left for me, I was relieved to discover that the police department found our drug connection. It wasn’t glamorous, but a few dealers who moonlighted as CIs remembered a guy asking about the ingredients used in the Camel’s cocktail. It wasn’t much to go on, but there was a basic description of the man. Very basic. He was white, over six feet tall, might have been a bodybuilder, and had a scar across his neck. From the notes, it sounded like someone failed to cut his throat.
A few units and some of the narcotics guys were keeping their eyes peeled for anyone matching this description, but it still wasn’t much to go on. With any luck, Chase Devereaux would talk. Maybe Ryan’s license plate number and the description would lead to something, but I had my doubts. The car was probably stolen, or the plates were switched, like on the vehicle Devereaux drove. These guys were careful, meticulous, and a little scary.
When I ran out of reading material, I called it a night and went home. It was the first time I was back inside my apartment for any length of time, and I was glad to be home. The ice packs were in the freezer where I kept them. The extra plush blankets were in the linen closet, and my bed turned into a blissful safe haven. The only things missing were my handguns, so I left the taser on my nightstand, popped some ibuprofen, and slept soundly.
Thirty-two
Only when the knocking became unbearable did I clamber out of bed, limping to my front door. There was nothing wrong with my leg, but something in my back wasn’t lining up properly. I stretched and shifted, listening to things pop and creak that probably should never pop or creak. Barely over thirty and I was already falling apart. Damn, I really needed a better job with medical and dental.
“Entrez-vous,” I replied, stepping away from the door. Ryan squinted, confused by my sudden good mood, and Mark rolled his eyes and came in, dropping the heavy artillery on my counter.
“Did we wake you?” Mark asked, not at all surprised to find me in a t-shirt and pajama shorts.
“Maybe.” I checked the magazines and slid them back inside their respective guns. “I didn’t realize we had breakfast plans, and since you came empty-handed, someone should probably order out.”
“Get dressed, we have work to do,” he continued.
“I’m pretty sure I’m off the case,” I rebuked. “Plus, the PD’s expecting me. They think I’m useful and brilliant.”
“No, t
hey think you’re a pain in the ass,” he teased, “but they haven’t figured out how to ignore your insane demands yet.” Making himself useful, he began measuring out coffee and adding water to the pot. “C’mon, Parker, you know you want to,” he added.
I turned to Ryan who looked uneasy being in my place. It made sense, but feeling my eyes on him, he offered an encouraging nod. “Sorry to wake you. We have some solid leads on the financials, the current overseas account information, and Farrell’s working to convince Devereaux to explain how he got in contact with the Camel. It’s a lot to process. Our joint task force just joined with the local police department, so you’re back on board. Detective O’Connell requested your assistance.”
“Then why didn’t Nick make the trip himself? He would have brought breakfast in a brown paper bag.” Giving up and returning to my bedroom to find the ice packs that needed to be refrozen and searching through my closet for something professional to wear, I reemerged to find the two men sitting at my kitchen counter, exhausted. “Did either of you even go home last night?” I asked, stuffing the packs in the freezer.
“No, but it’s fine. We stopped for some espresso,” Ryan remarked. It was obvious he just wanted to finish this, and then he’d worry about sleeping.
“I’m dropping him off at his hotel on the way back to the OIO,” Mark declared as I made my way to the bathroom to shower. There wasn’t time for long and leisurely. “I managed a few hours on the couch since they finally moved it back into my office.”
“Thank god,” I called, not sure if he heard me through the door and over the running water. “I wondered what happened to that couch. It was a great couch, and I’m calling dibs if today’s indentured servitude turns into more than an eight hour workday.”
* * *
“We’ve flagged all of Hu’s assets, so if there’s any account activity, our agents will be all over it,” Farrell assured. “Also, during our raid of the locker Barlow and his team were using, some additional overseas accounts were uncovered. Right now, our forensic accountants are monitoring that situation and checking to see what other accounts might have been opened around the same time. More than likely, at least one of them will trace back to our contract killer.” This was old news, but apparently, it seemed new to Interpol.
“As far as the drugs are concerned,” O’Connell spoke up, no longer blending into the background of cheap suits and sunglasses, “narcotics has eyes on all possible dealers and suppliers. We didn’t find any sales through official sources, so the Camel’s cocktail must have been purchased off the street. One of our CIs provided a description. Even though it leaves a lot to be desired, it still gives us a basis for identifying our guy if he shows up again.”
“Facial recognition hasn’t gotten a hit on the woman in the photos we uncovered from the house Parker raided,” Jablonsky added, “but based on the information we currently possess, we’re assuming she’s our hitman’s newest target.”
“We’re comparing her ID to the list of rare car owners that match the stolen vehicles, but it’s a long list,” Nick added.
“Did you ask Devereaux?” I chimed in. “Did we get anything out of Chase? Tuesday night, our killer shot at him, but last night, he believed the two were in cahoots, although the bullet in his body says differently.”
“He’s not talking. We’re working him night and day, but as of yet, he hasn’t cracked,” Mark added. “We’re alternating guys and tactics and hitting up all of our presently incarcerated, but no dice.”
“Funny, Barlow has a nice pair inked on his wrist,” I hissed.
“Any idea why our killer went from drug and drown to sniper rifle?” O’Connell asked. It was the question I’d been wondering since Tuesday, but no one had yet to divulge anything.
“We’re assuming Chase Devereaux isn’t a contracted hit. It’s probably personal. A business deal gone bad or cutting ties with anyone who can identify him, so sniper rifle will get the job done quickly and efficiently.”
“Except it hasn’t,” I retorted. There was something we were missing. I felt it.
“We’re running ballistics now,” Jablonsky replied. “We have the slug we pulled out of Devereaux and a few stray shots that were left in his hotel and on the garage roof. With any luck, we’ll track it to a specific gun.”
“All right,” Farrell stood up from the conference table, signifying our tete-a-tete was coming to an end, “Interpol’s working the money angle, the OIO’s tracking the latest target and analyzing the evidence, and the police department is working on the drug connection. All our bases are covered.” He left the room, phone already to his ear.
“Back to the grind,” Mark sighed, standing up. He gave me a furtive glance. “Are you sure you’re fine?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, and he nodded to Nick and left the room. “So, Detective, you requested my assistance?”
“Yeah,” he squinted, “remind me to schedule a head CT.”
“Ha, ha.” I sat sideways and rested my shoulder against the backrest of the chair. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That the shooter isn’t the Camel?” He knew it just as well as I did.
“Well, actually, I was thinking we should get the hell away from this building, stop for breakfast, and talk to some of those dealers you have eyes on, but yeah, I don’t think a killer would change his M.O. that drastically.”
“All right, looks like the investigation is once again in the hands of the lowly police department.” He snorted, demonstrating his disdain. “Not that we have any earthly idea what we’re doing or how to do it.”
“At least you’re not at the bottom of the totem pole. That spot is reserved especially for incompetent consultants.” Wordlessly, we left the OIO, got into O’Connell’s car, and ended up in one of the shadier neighborhoods in the city. It was within the ten block radius of Tommy Claxton’s place, and suddenly, I was ready to believe we were actually on to something.
“How are you holding up?” Nick asked as we sat in the cruiser, watching a dealer in the midst of a handoff. I raised an eyebrow. “Jablonsky asked how you were, and Martin’s called a couple of times to see if you were at work.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal, but something’s going on with you. So what is it?”
“A few cracked ribs and a bruised back. Y’know, the norm.” He glanced at me before returning his gaze to the pusher. “Next time he calls, feel free to remind him you aren’t an answering service.”
“Give the man a break. If I found Jen the way he found you, I’d have assigned a couple of unis to follow her everywhere. It’s a guy thing. We like to protect our womenfolk.”
“Egotistical maniacs are what you are.” Unfortunately, he had a point. And as if being drugged wasn’t bad enough, the next time he saw me, I wasn’t exactly in one piece. Overprotective was one of the weapons I wielded very well, sometimes too well, so I couldn’t completely fault Martin for having the same quality. “Do you have a composite on the buyer?”
“Yeah, hang on.” He shuffled through a couple of the files that were lying in the floor. “Here.” Before he even held up the picture, I knew who it was going to resemble. “Anyone you know?”
“The same guy I said you ought to shoot if he moved.”
O’Connell nodded. “I thought it looked like Mallick, but when I passed it along to the guys in the suits and sunglasses, they thought I was raving mad.” He found another file which contained a photograph of Virgil Mallick. “Shall we see who the lunatic is?”
“Absolutely.”
Getting out of the car, we approached the dealer. He grunted and glowered, not bothering to mask the obvious disdain he had for the two of us. Nick asked the questions and paid for the information while I scoped out the area. This was a tight-knit community. The crews that ran this area knew one another and avoided rivals and other gangs, but it was still a small space.
“Well, obviously, I’m not the insane one,�
� O’Connell muttered as we went back to the car. “The only problem is Mallick probably bought the drugs to use on Ryan which doesn’t bring us any closer to identifying the Camel.”
“Allegedly, when did the deal go down?”
“Two, maybe three weeks. Apparently, these upstanding citizens don’t concern themselves with dates and times since it’s not like they are reporting their revenue to the IRS.” He put the car in gear and drove a block away before parking. We wanted to stay in the vicinity since this was still our best lead. “You have a theory, don’t you?”
“The cars started going missing around the same time, but it doesn’t make any sense why Virgil would have bought the drugs to dose Ryan at that point. His cover was supposed to still be intact,” I met his eyes, “unless they made him. Shit,” I shook the cobwebs free, “Devereaux said he told Barlow to end Hoyt when they took care of Agent Grenauldo.”
“But by now, that’s ancient history. Hell, every bit of intel that Donough’s gathered and Interpol has collected from the surveillance feeds since then is probably bogus.”
“They’ve been leading Interpol in circles intentionally. That’s why they let Ryan live. It’s probably also why they were so skeptical of me when I entered into the picture and Ryan made the introductions. They knew he’d bring in back-up support. It’s why Chase was so emphatic about oral sex and why Virgil pushed the envelope to get a reaction.”
Thinking about my encounters with Devereaux, it seemed obvious the entire situation in his hotel room before and after the shots were fired was designed to force me to show my hand. Even when he brought me to my knees in the elevator, he must have assumed back-up would appear, but they didn’t. Unless he made Mark, and that didn’t seem likely. Although, when I failed to produce a vehicle, he had his proof that I wasn’t a car thief. I doubted there was ever a buyer. It was all a ploy to figure out who I was and how much information Interpol already had on him and the Camel. Clearly, it wasn’t enough, and the sudden appearance of the sniper worked perfectly to divert our efforts. After all, the Camel was a much more valuable target than Chase Devereaux.
