The John Milton Series Boxset 1

by Mark Dawson

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you cross?”

  Milton started to feel uncomfortable. “Juárez into El Paso.”

  “That’s weird,” Webster said. “You know, there are forty-six places where you can legally cross over from Mexico. We spoke with Immigration. We checked El Paso, Otay Mesa, Tecate, Nogales. Hell, we even tried Lukeville and Antelope Wells. We found a handful of John Smiths who came across the border around about then. That’s no surprise, really, a common name like that––but the thing is, the thing I just can’t get my head around, is that when we looked at their pictures none of them looked anything like you.”

  That, Milton thought, was hardly surprising. He had crossed the border illegally, trekking across country east of Juárez into the Chisos Mountains and then Big Bear National Park. The last thing he had wanted to do was leave a record that would show where he had entered the country. He had not been minded to give the agents pursuing him any clue at all as to his location.

  “Mr. Smith?” Webster and Cotton were eyeing him critically.

  Milton shrugged. “What do you want me to say to that?”

  “Can you explain it?”

  “I was working in Juárez. I crossed into El Paso. I can’t explain why there’s no record of it.”

  “Do you mind if we take your passport for a couple of days?”

  “Why?”

  “We’d just like to have a look at it.”

  Milton went over to the bedside table and took his passport from the drawer. He could see the dull glint of the brushed steel on the handgun, an inch from his toe. He handed the passport to Webster. “There you are,” he said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nah,” Cotton said. “We got nothing more for you now.”

  “But don’t leave town without telling us,” Webster advised. “I’m pretty sure we’ll want to talk to you again.”

  31

  MILTON HAD a lock-up at Extra Space Storage at 1400 Folsom Street. He had hired it within a couple of days of arriving in San Francisco and deciding that it was the kind of town he could stay in for a few months. The lock-up was an anonymous place, a collection of industrial cargo crates that had been arranged in several rows. Each crate had been divided into two or four separate compartments and each was secured with a thick metal door padlocked top and bottom. It cost Milton twenty bucks a week and it was easily worth that for the peace of mind that it bought. He knew, eventually, that Control would locate him again and send his agents to hunt him down. He didn’t know how he would react to that, when it happened––he had been ready to surrender in Mexico––but he wanted the ability to resist them if that was what he chose to do. More to the point, he knew that his assassination of El Patrón and the capture of his son would not be forgotten by La Frontera. There would be a successor to the old man’s crown, a brother or another son, and then there would be vengeance. They would have put an enormous price on his head. If they managed to find him, he certainly did not want to be unprepared.

  Milton took out his key and unfastened the locks. He checked again that he was alone in the facility and, satisfied that he was, opened the door. He had stocked the storage crate with everything he would need in an emergency. There was a change of clothes, a cap, a packet of hair dye and a pair of clear lensed spectacles. There was a go bag with three false passports and the money he had found at El Patrón’s superlab before he had torched it. Five thousand dollars, various denominations, all used notes. At the back of the crate, hidden beneath a blanket, was a Desert Eagle .50 Action Express with a picatinny rail. It had been El Patrón’s weapon and, like everything else in his comic-book life, it had been tricked out to clichéd excess: the gun was gold-plated with diamonds set into the butt. Milton had no idea how much it was worth––thousands, obviously––but he didn’t really care about that. The semi-automatic was one of Milton’s favourite weapons. It was gas-operated with a firing mechanism usually found in rifles as opposed to the more common short recoil or blowback designs. The mechanism allowed for far more powerful cartridges and he had purchased a box of Speer 325-grain .50 AE ammunition for it the day after he arrived in town. He tore back the cardboard and tipped the bullets onto the floor of the unit; they glittered in the light of the single naked bulb that had been fitted to the roof of the crate. Lethal little golden slugs.

  Milton detached the magazine and thumbed seven into the slot.

  He slid the Desert Eagle into his jeans, his belt pressing it against his skin. The golden barrel was icy cold, the frame flat against his coccyx. He filled his pockets with the rest of the bullets. He dropped the Smith & Wesson 9mm into the go bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  He shut and locked the crate.

  He wouldn’t be coming back again.

  Things were already too hot for him in San Francisco. He hadn’t been named in any of the newspaper reports that he had read about the missing girls but that was probably just a matter of time. It was a little irrelevant, too; his name would have been recorded by the police and Control would sniff that out soon enough. They could be here tomorrow or next week; there was no way of knowing when, except that they were coming. Under normal circumstances, he would have moved on already, but he didn’t feel able to leave until he had tried a little harder to find Madison. Trip would have no chance without him and, besides, he had a lead now. He would find out what he could and then disappear beneath the surface again.

  The Explorer was parked close to the entrance of the facility.

  He nodded to the attendant and made his way out to his car.

  A SHORT DETOUR FIRST. Manny Martinez ran his operation out of a grocery shop in the Mission District, not far from Milton’s place. Milton had called ahead to make an appointment and, when he arrived, he was ushered all the way to the back of the store. There was a small office with a desk and a computer. A clock on the wall. Ramirez was a big man, wearing an old pair of cargo pants and a muscle top that showed off impressively muscled biceps and sleeves of tattoos on both arms. His head was shaved to a furze of rough hair and he had a tattoo of a tear beneath his right eye. Prison ink. Milton checked the office: his eye fell on the cudgel with a leather strap that was hanging from a hook on the wall.

  “You Smith?”

  “That’s right. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “How much you want?”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  “You said––”

  “Yes, I know––and I’m sorry about that. It’s something else.”

  He sat up, flexing his big shoulders. “That right?”

  “One of your customers––Richie Grimes?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know Richie. Fucking reprobate. Drunk.”

  “How much does he owe you?”

  “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “I’d like to buy his debt.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “What if I don’t wanna sell?”

  “Let me make you an offer––if you don’t want to sell after that, that’s fair enough.”

  Ramirez swivelled the chair so that he was facing the computer and clicked through a series of files until he found the one he wanted. “He’s in the hole for fifty-eight hundred. He wanted four and the vig was ten per cent.”

  “How’d you get to fifty-eight from there?”

  “Compound interest, buddy. Interest on top of interest.”

  “Hardly ethical.”

  “Ethical? These are the streets, buddy. Ethics don’t get much play here.”

  “I’ll give you five.”

  Ramirez shook his head. “No.”

  “Debt’s only worth what someone’ll pay for it.”

  “What are you? An economist?”

  “Five. That’s a grand clear profit.”

  “I can get seven.”

  “Not from him.”

  “Don’t have to be
from him, does it?”

  The second hand on the clock swept around the dial. Milton opened his bag and reached into the stolen drug money inside. He would put it to good use. He took out the five bundles, each secured by an elastic band around twenty fifties, and put them on the desk.

  “Five thousand. Come on, Mr. Ramirez––it’s right there.”

  Ramirez looked up at him with an amused cast to his face. “I said no.”

  “What’s the point in dragging this out? He’s got nothing.”

  “He told you that? Guy’s an addict, like I said. You can’t believe a thing they say.”

  “I believe him,” Milton said. “He can’t pay.”

  “Then he’s got a problem.”

  “Is that your final word?”

  “That’s right.”

  Milton nodded. He picked up the money and put it back into his bag.

  “Come back with seven, maybe we can talk.”

  Milton looked at him, then the cudgel. He was a big man but he was lounging back in his chair. He was relaxed. He didn’t see Milton as a threat but Milton could have killed him, right there and then. He could have done it before the second hand on the clock had skirted another semi-circle between the nine and twelve. Fifteen seconds. He thought about it for a moment but that wouldn’t solve Richie’s problems. The debts would be taken over by someone else, and that person might be worse. There would have to be another way.

  “See you around,” Martinez said. A gold tooth in his mouth glittered as he grinned at him.

  “You will,” Milton said.

  MILTON CALLED Beau Baxter as he drove to the airport.

  “Morning, English. What can I do for you?”

  “Did you get a name for me?”

  “I did. You got a pen and paper?”

  “Go on.”

  “You want to speak to Jarad Efron. You know who that is?”

  “I’ve heard it before.”

  “Not surprising. He’s a big noise on the tech scene.”

  “Thanks. I’ll find him.”

  “Goes without saying that you need to leave the Italians out of this.”

  “Of course. Thanks, Beau. I appreciate it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There is, actually. One other thing.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do our friends have an interest in the lending business?”

  “They have interests in lots of things.”

  “So I’ll assume that they do. There’s a loan shark in the Mission District. A friend of mine owes him money. I just made him a very generous offer to buy the debt.”

  “And he turned you down?

  “Thinks he can get more.”

  “And how could our friends help?”

  “I get the impression that this guy’s out there all on his own. A lone operator. I wondered, if that’s something they’re involved in, whether the competition is something they’d be happy about. You think you could look into it for me?”

  “What’s this dude’s name?”

  “Manny Martinez.”

  “Never heard of him. I can ask around, see what gives. I’ll let you know.”

  Milton thanked him and said goodbye, ended the call and parked the Explorer. He took his go bag and went into the terminal building. He found the Hertz desk and hired a Dodge Charger, using one of the false passports and paying the three hundred bucks in cash. He drove it into the long-stay car park, put the go bag in the trunk, locked it, and then found his way back to the Explorer.

  He felt better for the preparation. If he needed to get out of town on short notice, he could.

  He put the car into gear and drove away.

  There was someone he wanted to see.

  32

  THE MAN WAS in his early forties, in decent shape, just a little under six foot tall and with the kind of naturally lean frame that has gone a little soft with the onset of middle age. He had dark hair with flecks of grey throughout it and the expensive glasses he wore were borne a little uncomfortably. His clothes were neat and tidy––a crisp polo shirt, chinos and deck shoes––the whole ensemble marking him out as a little vain. Milton had parked in the lot for thirty minutes, the angle good enough for him to see the place side on, and to see all the comings and goings. It was more like a campus than an office. It looked like a busy place. The lot was full and there had been a steady stream of people going in to start their working day. He had been waiting for one man in particular and, now, here he was. Milton eyed him as he opened the passenger door of his red Ferrari Enzo and took out a rucksack.

  Milton looked at the scrap of paper that he had stuck to the windshield of the Explorer.

  It was a picture.

  The man in the Ferrari and the man in the picture were the same.

  Jarad Efron.

  Milton got out of his car, locked the door and followed the man as he exited the parking lot and started towards the office. The campus was out in the hills outside Palo Alto, surrounded by a lush forest bisected by streams, hiking paths and mountain bike trails. The wildness of the landscape had been transplanted here, too, with grasses and wildflowers allowed to grow naturally; purple heather clustered around the paths and coneflowers, evening primroses and asters sprouted from natural rock gardens. Milton quickened his pace so that he caught up with Efron and then overtook him. He gave him a quick sidelong glance: he had white iPhone earbuds pressed into his ears, something upbeat playing; his skin was tanned; his forehead was suspiciously plump and firm; there was good muscle tone on his arms. He was gym fit.

  Milton slowed a little and followed into the lobby just behind him.

  After he had spoken with Beau yesterday morning he had spent the afternoon doing research. Three hours at the local library. They had free internet and cheap coffee there and he had had plenty of things that he wanted to check.

  Jarad Efron was familiar to him from the news and a quick Google search filled in the details: the man was CEO of StrongBox, one of the survivors of the first dotcom bubble that had since staked a claim in the cloud storage market. He was a pioneer. The company owned a couple of massive data farms in South Carolina, acres of deserted farmland rammed full of servers that they rented out to consumers, and, increasingly, to big tech companies who didn’t want to build facilities of their own. They offered space to Netflix and Amazon, among others. The company was listed on the NASDAQ with a price of $54 per share. Another search revealed that Efron had recently divested himself of five per cent of the company, pocketing thirty million bucks. He still owned another 2,000,000 shares.

  A paper fortune of $108,000,000.

  Efron was born and raised in Serbia, buying his first computer at the age of ten. He taught himself how to program, and, when he was twelve, he sold his first piece of software: a game he created called Battlestation Alpha. At the age of seventeen, he moved to Canada to attend Queen’s College, but he left to study business and physics at the University of Pennsylvania. He graduated with an undergraduate degree in economics and stayed for a second bachelor’s degree in physics. After leaving Penn, he moved to Stanford to pursue a PhD in energy physics. The move was perfectly timed with the first Internet boom, and he dropped out after just two days to become a part of it, launching his first company. He sold that for $100 million and set up StrongBox with the proceeds.

  Milton looked around quickly, taking everything in. The lobby was furnished sparsely, minimally, but every piece of furniture––the leather sofas, the coffee table––looked exceedingly expensive. Two security guards in light blue uniforms and well shined shoes, big boys with a stiff posture. They both had holstered .45s hanging from their belts. The staff behind the reception desk looked like models from a high-end catalogue, with glossy, air-brushed skin and preternaturally bright eyes. Milton knew he only had one opportunity at this and, straightening his back and squaring off his shoulders, he followed right alongside Efron as the man beamed a bright smile of greeting to the girls and headed for the elevators.
One of the girls looked past him at Milton, a moment of confusion breaking across her immaculate face, but Milton anticipated it and shone out a smile that matched Efron’s for brightness and confidence. Her concern faded and, even if it was with a little uncertainty, she smiled right back at him.

  Milton dropped back again and let Efron summon an elevator. There were six doors: one of the middle ones opened with a pleasant chime and he went inside.

  Milton stepped forwards sharply and entered the car as the doors were starting to close.

  “Which floor?” Efron asked him absently.

  Milton looked: ten floors, and Efron had hit the button for the tenth.

  “Five, please.”

  Efron pressed the button and stood back against the wall, leaving plenty of space between them.

  The doors closed quietly and the elevator began to ascend.

  Milton waited until they were between the second and third floors and hit the emergency stop.

  The elevator shuddered and came to a halt.

  “What are you doing?” Efron protested.

  “I’ve got a few questions. Answer them honestly.”

  “Who are you?”

  Efron’s arm came up and made a sudden stab towards the button for the intercom. Milton anticipated it, blocked his hand away with his right and then, in the same circular motion, jackhammered his elbow backwards into Efron’s gut. It was a direct hit, just at the right spot to punch out all the air in his lungs, and he staggered back against the wall of the car with his hands clasped impotently to his sternum, gasping for breath. Milton grabbed the lapels of his jacket, knotted his fists into the fabric and heaved him backwards and up, slamming him into the wall so that his feet were momentarily off the ground. Then he dropped him.

  “Hello?” said a voice through the intercom speakers.

  Efron landed on his behind, gasping. Milton lowered himself to the same height, barred his forearm across the man’s throat and pressed, gently.

  “It’s in your best interests to talk to me.”

  “They’ll call … the police.”