The Black Hornet: James Ryker Book 2

by Rob Sinclair

  He let go of the door handle, turned off the hallway light, and quietly moved across to the master bedroom. He opened the door. It was dark inside. He made his way over to his side of the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. The bed was empty and still made up.

  Ashford frowned. His mind took him back to the attack in the basement earlier. The man had threatened not just him but Nicole and the kids too.

  No, they couldn’t...

  Then another thought struck him. Ashford moved back across the room and into the hall, walking with more purpose. He crossed the hall and turned at the end toward the two rooms in the side annex, his daughter’s room and the office. Sure enough, around the edges of the closed doorway of the office he could see light seeping through.

  Ashford felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He’d left his home laptop in a locked drawer in his desk. There was so much on that computer that was for his eyes only. Nicole had her own iPad for internet surfing or shopping or whatever else she needed to do. Yet she was in the office.

  Thoughts cascaded through his mind. Had he actually locked the drawer? Had he closed all of his files down properly? The video? That damn video from the Mexicans. If Nicole saw that...

  Ashford bound up to the doorway, turned the handle and flung open the door. He spotted Nicole immediately, crouching by the desk drawers. She jumped when she saw Ashford. She straightened and opened her mouth but no words came out.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked, trying to sound calm.

  ‘Douglas! I was just... I didn't know you were home.’

  ‘I just got back.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ Nicole asked, concern on her face.

  Ashford realised she was looking at his nose. Although it was no longer bleeding, it was still swollen and red.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I banged it earlier on a drawer. You know me, a real klutz.’

  Nicole didn’t look too convinced but she said nothing more. She was too distracted by whatever she’d just been doing. Ashford moved across the room and around the desk, hoping to get a glimpse of what she’d been looking at. The drawers were still closed.

  ‘I was just looking for a pad and a pen,’ she said.

  Ashford didn’t bother to ask what for. He’d rather pretend there wasn’t an issue and just get her out of there.

  He moved over to the dresser and opened a cupboard where he kept a supply of stationery. Nicole surely knew that. He grabbed an A4 pad, turned and handed it to Nicole, who was looking sheepish.

  ‘It’s late,’ Ashford said. ‘I thought you’d be in bed already.’

  ‘I was,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d do the shopping list while I waited for you.’ Nicole smiled but it wasn't her usual carefree smile.

  Ashford handed her a biro. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Why don't we just go to bed?’

  ‘Yeah. Good idea.’

  Ashford took Nicole’s hand and ushered her toward the door. Before they got there, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at Nicole who glared back.

  Ashford took out the burner phone and looked at the screen. His heart jumped when he saw who was calling. ‘Sorry, honey. I really gotta take this.’

  ‘Douglas, it’s past midnight. Come on, just leave it.’

  ‘I’ll only be two minutes, I promise.’

  Nicole tutted but let go of his hand and walked out of the office into the dark hallway.

  Ashford accepted the call. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘It’s me,’ Mitchell said.

  Ashford felt a wave of relief. He’d wondered whether it might be someone else using Mitchell’s phone, calling to say they’d just chopped off his head and were coming for Ashford next.

  Christ, he really was losing his mind.

  ‘You there?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’ Ashford thought about asking Mitchell where on earth he’d been but he wasn’t sure whether Nicole might still be in earshot. Best to keep this short and sweet. Mitchell seemed to get that vibe.

  ‘The woman,’ Mitchell said. Ashford’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I found her.’

  28

  Ashford barely slept during the night. When he’d reached the bedroom he’d washed and undressed for bed. Then, under the covers, Ashford was taken by surprise when Nicole had pounced on him. He was further surprised when he managed to have sex with his wife despite the aching in his groin from the knee he’d taken in the car park, and despite all the problems that were swimming in his head. It was good sex too, probably the most energetic and lust-filled sex they’d had in months.

  Where the hell had that come from?

  It made Ashford feel fleeting guilt over his relationship with Caroline, which was a rarity. But then, Caroline hadn’t contacted him for the last three days. Maybe he could break away from her, finally. Though he’d need to find another mistress. He knew he couldn’t expect Nicole to put out like that every night.

  Ashford had hoped the sex would help him to sleep. It certainly did the trick for Nicole who lay on Ashford’s chest afterwards and was asleep in seconds. Instead, Ashford’s brain was still buzzing with what Mitchell had said on the phone. He’d found the mystery woman, and Ashford was now desperate to find out more.

  Ashford was first up in the morning and out of the house before six thirty. He took his home laptop with him so there was no chance Nicole would accidentally stumble over something she shouldn’t.

  Carter was already at Ashford’s Mandeville office when he arrived, which was a good thing. Ashford needed Carter to work his magic and clear some of the morning’s schedule. As ever, the diary was clogged full with engagements and phone calls – double and treble booked in some cases. But Ashford had a more pressing matter to attend to that morning: he needed to meet with Mitchell. Carter – the ever-diligent and dutiful assistant – didn’t raise a single question as to why Ashford needed the time clearing, he just set about the task with his usual professionalism and youthful enthusiasm.

  It was nine a.m. when Ashford finally drew himself away from firefighting his email inbox and headed out to meet with his wingman. This meeting was not one for public consumption and it had been carefully arranged and timed. Ashford walked the short distance from his office toward a local diner that at that time in the morning was closed – he knew it only opened for lunch and dinner. Along the way several pedestrians greeted him, but as he neared the diner the street became quieter and Ashford saw – as expected – that the car park was empty.

  Ashford kept his head down but his eyes alert as he walked onto the premises and scuttled around the back of the building. He heard a car engine grumble to life, and a second later, Mitchell’s white Audi pulled up alongside him. Ashford gave another quick glance around and, satisfied no one was watching – he opened the rear passenger door and climbed in behind the tinted glass.

  Without saying a word, Mitchell wound the car back onto the road and put his foot down.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ Ashford said.

  ‘No need to worry.’

  ‘Yeah, well, when you don’t answer your phone for two days, it kind of gets me wondering.’

  ‘No news is good news.’

  ‘No. Good news is good news. No news means the cartels might have doused you in petrol and filmed you being burned alive.’

  ‘You’ve been watching too many movies.’

  Ashford’s mind immediately took him to the video of the three Americans. The images of the severed heads rolling. The grisly and gristly neck stumps pumping blood.

  Damn right, he thought.

  ‘So what did you find?’

  ‘Take a look,’ Mitchell said.

  Across on the other side of the rear seats was a brown envelope. Ashford grabbed it and took out the papers. Inside were photos and various personal records. Just one glance at the candid pictures of the woman told him one thing; Mitchell had definitely found the right person.r />
  Mitchell stopped the car at a busy junction and Ashford looked out of his window at the stationary cars next to them. The driver of one of the cars glanced over, at Ashford’s window, and Ashford stared back. He didn’t look away until the driver returned his focus to the road. The guy couldn’t have spotted him, surely? The windows were too heavily tinted.

  The lights ahead turned green and Mitchell pulled away, leaving the other car behind. Ashford pushed the creeping doubts away and took his attention back to the papers.

  ‘So who is she?’ Ashford asked, hoping that Mitchell would give him the short version.

  ‘Her name’s Anisa Murillo.’

  The name meant nothing to Ashford.

  ‘She’s Mexican. A legal immigrant. All papers in place. She’s a housemaid for the Beauchamps.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘The Beauchamps. You don’t know them?’

  ‘Should I?’

  Mitchell shrugged. ‘They’re rich folk. They live on Grasslands. I thought maybe you’d know them. The husband is some property developer. Owns land too.’

  ‘A housemaid, huh?’ Ashford asked. ‘That’s not really what I was expecting.’

  Though it did at least explain how she’d come to be on the estate that night. She worked there. But just why the hell had she been sent to deliver the message to Ashford? Ashford had been endlessly playing in his mind who the message had come from – the list of candidates was certainly a long one. In the murky world Ashford had become embroiled in, there was no clean side, no black and white, no good and bad. Everything and everyone was a dark shade of grey. One of the cartels themselves was a likely candidate – they were forever at war not just with the authorities but with each other. Or the message could equally have come from the FBI, the CIA, special forces, any one of a whole host of lawful agencies – either US or Mexican – who were involved with the Mexican cartels, legitimately or illegitimately.

  A thought flashed in Ashford’s mind. ‘You’re certain she’s just a civilian? A housemaid?’

  ‘Yeah. I checked as thoroughly as I could. All records you’d expect are there. No holes. Nothing remarkable about her at all. She’s not a sleeper, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  It was exactly what Ashford was thinking: that perhaps Anisa Murillo was an undercover operative of some sort, and her identity was bogus, nothing more than a front to get her close to Ashford. That would be a hell of a lot of work to go to though.

  They had reached the edge of town. Mitchell pulled the car over to the side of the road, then, when all was clear he swung around to head back in the direction they’d just come from. If they’d been planning a longer meeting, they’d have carried on out of town and found a secluded spot to stop, but this meeting was a simple update, and Ashford had too much on to be heading out on a long drive.

  ‘Normally in these situations,’ Mitchell said, ‘I’d ask you what you want me to do next.’

  By which he meant did Ashford want him to go and confront this woman, one way or another, to find out what she knew and what her game was. Ashford knew Mitchell was very good at getting answers out of people. ‘Normally?’

  ‘Thing is,’ Mitchell said, ‘I’ve been all over this woman for nearly three days. I tailed her around everywhere for the best part of twenty-four hours the day before yesterday. Everything I’ve seen and everything I’ve found suggests she’s legit.’

  ‘And? What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘That was the day before yesterday. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of her since. I don’t know what’s happened, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I don’t know where the hell she is anymore. Anisa Murillo is missing.’

  29

  Mexico City, Mexico

  What Ryker hoped would happen next was that Powell would escort him straight out of Santa Martha prison for good. Everyone can dream.

  What Ryker expected to happen was for the guards to take him to the interview room where Powell would once again lay out his quid quo pro offer – an offer that in many ways was becoming more and more palatable to Ryker.

  What actually happened was that Ryker was dragged naked and dripping blood through the corridors until someone out of sight jabbed a syringe into his backside. Then that person pushed the syringe’s plunger, which sent a cold liquid into Ryker’s bloodstream. He felt it spread out from his rear and down his legs and along his spine and into his head. Within seconds, he was unconscious.

  What came after that, Ryker wasn’t quite sure how to describe. He did know where they took him: back to a solitary confinement cell. The exact same one or a different one, Ryker didn’t know, but the darkness and the smell above anything else told him where he was. His big problem, once again, were the drugs coursing through his bloodstream. Even when he first regained consciousness he was distant and woozy and barely lucid. He drifted in and out of reality and some other place that at times was comforting and at other times hell.

  Every so often the door to the cell would open and a familiar face – the doctor? – would appear and a needle would be shoved into Ryker’s arm. Cold liquid would surge through his body and the whole process would start again.

  Then, other times, the door would open and it wouldn’t be the doctor who entered but Powell. And Willoughby. Benito. Lisa too. Which of those people had really come into the cell, which were hallucinations, and which were unconscious dreams, Ryker had no idea.

  Nor did he have a firm grasp of how long they kept him like that. Was it hours, days, weeks? When the drugs started to wear off and no doctor came back to top up the sedation, Ryker’s battered mind was finally able to try to take stock of what was happening to him.

  The knife wounds he’d taken some days earlier were healing well, but the pain in his rectum was still raw and sharp. His best guess was that another two or three days had passed since the shower incident.

  More than anything, as reality properly took hold, Ryker was left feeling vulnerable and violated. He was nothing to these people. They could do whatever they wanted to him. He was little more than a laboratory rat.

  Which was likely Powell’s exact intention with Ryker’s treatment.

  So it was no surprise when the cell door opened and guards took Ryker, still naked, to the interview room where Powell was sitting in wait.

  The door was closed and locked, and Ryker and Powell were left alone. The camera in the corner of the room remained off. The sunlight streaming in through the barred windows – the first natural light he’d seen in days – made Ryker’s head pound.

  On the table next to Powell was a neatly folded pile of clothes. Not the crappy prison issue garments, but regular clothes: linen trousers, a short-sleeved shirt, socks, boxer shorts, and trainers.

  Ryker looked from the clothes to Powell.

  ‘You want them?’ Powell asked.

  Of course Ryker did. Not that he was particularly embarrassed to be standing stark bollock naked in front of Powell, but those everyday, clean clothes looked so damn inviting.

  Ryker moved over to the pile and reached out for the boxers. Powell put his hand out on top to stop him and glared at Ryker.

  Ryker stared back at Powell. ‘Look, Powell . If you want to keep gawking at my penis then just say. I’ll stand here like this all day if it makes you happy.’

  Powell held Ryker’s stare.

  ‘I know what you’re doing,’ Ryker said. ‘And yes, it’s working. But me putting on those clothes doesn’t mean I’ve suddenly fallen in line with you, like those pieces of cotton represent a binding blood contract between us. I just want to stick on a pair of boxers, some trousers and the shirt, so I’m not the naked twerp in the room. And because I think it’ll aid your concentration to not have to admire my privates while we talk.’

  Powell removed his hand and Ryker took the underwear and slipped it on, followed by the trousers and the shirt, and finally the socks and shoes.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ryker said. ‘So now we can talk.’

 
Powell opened his mouth to speak. Ryker held up his hand.

  ‘Me first,’ Ryker said, and he thought he saw Powell grind his teeth. ‘How long was I in there?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Long enough for what?’

  ‘That’s not for you to be concerned about.’

  ‘It kind of is. Just tell me how long.’

  ‘Three days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you caused one hell of a mess for me to sort out.’

  ‘The Santos cartel?’

  ‘Benito Flores is actually a pretty reasonable guy,’ Powell said. ‘I mean, most people in his position would have had you hacked into little pieces already. He certainly wanted to.’

  ‘And I’ve got you to thank for that not happening then, have I?’

  ‘Who else.’

  Ryker thought of asking about the visits he’d had during his time in solitary. At least the visits he’d believed he’d had. Powell, Willoughby, Benito, Lisa. Each of those could have been real, though Ryker couldn’t fathom which were or why. In the end he decided against it. He didn’t want to give Powell the satisfaction of knowing how messed up Ryker’s memory was. Plus, if Powell thought it important, he may well give the answers without even being asked.

  ‘Do you have a death wish?’ Powell asked. ‘Or are you just not all there?’ He tapped his head.

  Death wish? No, of course Ryker didn’t want to die, though he also wasn’t particularly afraid of dying. There were far more horrible things that could happen than death.

  But what was Ryker’s life now, anyway? He and Lisa had done everything they could to forge a life together, away from the chaos of their pasts. Their reprieve hadn’t lasted long. Now she was gone and Ryker had vowed to himself he would do everything he could to get to the bottom of what had happened to her. Until he found the answers he needed, until he found Lisa, that was his life’s focus, and he’d do whatever was necessary.

  ‘So what now?’ Ryker asked.

  ‘Now we get back on point. My offer.’