by Matt Hilton
‘A mercenary?’ Amanda sneered. ‘I take it you mean a soldier for hire. No, Mrs Womack, I’m no soldier; I’m something far more dangerous. You should take note of that.’ She allowed her sneer to smooth out, again forming a congenial smile. ‘You do understand why you’re here?’
‘I’ve guessed. Something to do with my dead husband, right?’
Amanda laughed at Billie’s sarcasm, and it was a soft rasp. ‘Something to the tune of thirty million dollars.’
‘You probably know everything about me,’ Billie said. ‘If so, you know I’m an artist who barely scrapes a living from her work. If I knew anything about thirty million dollars, don’t you think I’d have made a better life for myself?’
Amanda shook her head so softly it barely disturbed her curls. ‘You’ve been our guest for . . .’ she checked a watch on her wrist, ‘the best part of twenty-two hours? In all that time you’ve barely said a word, or raised a complaint about your mistreatment. You strike me as being incredibly calm and patient. A self-controlled individual might have the presence of mind to inhibit her spending, in order not to raise suspicion about her actual wealth.’
Laughter crackled in Billie’s throat. ‘You think I’ve got your damn money?’
The woman leaned forward, placing her interlocked fingers on the table. ‘Have you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s a fair question, Mrs Womack. Like I said,’ Amanda flipped open one hand, palm up. ‘You know what we want from you, so make things easy on us all and tell us the truth.’
Gripping the arms of her chair, Billie also leaned forward. Behind her the bespectacled man moved slightly but Billie ignored his looming presence. ‘You want the truth? Well here it is. My husband was a thief, a liar, and an adulterer. He murdered my daughter. He died and it’s the only thing he ever did that made me happy. Do you think that’s the kind of man who would leave me a nest egg of thirty million dollars? If you do then you’re fucking nuts!’
Blinking slowly Amanda sat back in her chair. Billie still leaned forward, nodding in emphasis with jerky movements of her head, her eyeballs bulging. Amanda looked beyond Billie, offering a subtle nod. Billie felt the stirring of the air before the hand that clamped down on her right wrist. She tore her gaze from her inquisitor to look up and saw her angry face reflected in the lenses of the man’s glasses. ‘Get off me, you pig!’
The grip on her wrist was resolute. Billie attempted to twist away, but then the younger man – Danny – had hold of her opposite wrist.
‘Erick,’ Amanda said, ‘put her hand on the desk please.’
‘What are you doing?’ Billie’s cry was rhetorical, because it was apparent. The bespectacled man – Erick – forced her arm straight and held her hand on the desktop. Billie squirmed, but she was going nowhere, particularly now that Danny bunched his other hand in her collar and forced her down in the seat.
‘Open your hand,’ Amanda commanded.
‘Go to hell!’ Billie clenched her fist.
‘Erick?’
Erick forced the tip of his thumb into the soft flesh at the juncture of Billie’s thumb and index finger. A dull pain grew, then pulsed into white fire as Erick targeted the deep nerve. Billie croaked in agony, and her hand sprang open involuntarily. Erick mashed her hand to the desk, holding it in place while he looked at Amanda for further instruction.
‘You know what to do, Erick,’ the woman said.
‘Ma’am,’ he agreed, and wrapped his callused fingertips around Billie’s pinky finger.
‘Do you wish to try again?’ the woman asked Billie. ‘I did warn you that I was dangerous.’
‘Torturing me won’t make a difference. I don’t know where the money is!’
‘Erick.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Billie screamed as Erick yanked her pinky back against the knuckle. She felt the tendons ripping, the cartilage popping. For an artist her hands were her living, but right then and there her career wasn’t a consideration; all that mattered was the agony that washed over her like a wave of black ink. Erick released her finger, and Billie stared at it through watering eyes. She expected to see the digit malformed, at an unnatural angle, but her finger merely contracted on itself, hooking under her palm. It had been a shade from dislocation, but Erick was skilled at his job.
‘We can keep this up all day,’ Amanda said, ‘or you can do as I ask and answer my questions truthfully. There are three answers I’m looking for: where is Richard Womack; how are you in contact with him – email, telephone, blind letter drop? – and lastly: where is the money?’
Billie’s assaulted finger trembled and the shakes went right up her arm. The pain was replaced by numbness that also invaded her mind.
‘Again, Erick.’ The skin around Amanda’s eyes crinkled.
The soldier forced Billie’s pinky straight, wrapping it in his palm. Billie cried out in anticipation.
Amanda flashed a palm at him and Erick relaxed his grip. ‘Are you ready to speak, Mrs Womack?’
‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know,’ Billie gasped.
‘Then we’ll take a different tack.’ Amanda interlaced her hands once more and sat back, as if thinking, or more likely calculating. ‘You were expecting us.’
Billie didn’t understand the question, or indeed the statement. She looked up from her tormented hand and settled her gaze on the sharp planes of Amanda’s face. Billie’s mouth fell open, but no words followed.
‘You had arranged protection. The man you were with when we found you. Who was he?’
‘He was just a friend,’ Billie said, unsure why she would lie.
‘He was a skilled soldier,’ Erick offered from behind.
‘Not skilled enough,’ Danny added and chuckled to himself.
Amanda ignored her men’s input. ‘He was there to protect you. He was armed, and had equipped you with a bulletproof vest. I say again, you were expecting us. Why would you prepare yourself like that if you’d nothing to hide?’
There was no point in lying, and perhaps it would be to her advantage to admit part of the truth. If her tormentors knew that Agent Cooper had approached her then maybe they’d be reluctant to kill her. ‘I was warned that I might be in danger by an ATF agent.’
‘He warned you specifically about us?’
‘No.’ Time for lies again. ‘He said that I might be in danger from my husband. I told him it was ridiculous. My husband is dead, so what had I to fear. But the ATF was adamant, and sent the man you asked about to watch out for me.’
‘He was a federal agent?’
‘No. Freelance. Just like your men.’
‘Tell me his name,’ Amanda said.
‘Why? He’s dead.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He introduced himself as Joe Hunter. I’m not sure if it was his actual name. What does it matter if he’s dead?’
Billie knew exactly why it mattered. Amanda was concerned that the death of Hunter might be traced back to the organisation she represented. Billie recognised the woman’s concern as a possible advantage. Without any prompting she went on, ‘I suppose when he doesn’t contact the ATF, they’ll begin looking for him, and for me.’
‘They won’t find you. Or your friend, Hunter.’ Amanda smiled at her one-upmanship. ‘We’ve already dispatched a recovery team. Hunter’s body will disappear as completely as anything else we wish to disappear. The ATF are no concern of ours. They won’t be coming to your assistance, Mrs Womack. Your only way out of this is to continue to be forthcoming with your answers. The sooner we get to the bottom of this, the better.’
‘Am I the only one who believes Richard is dead?’
Amanda shrugged. ‘Unlike your daughter’s, his body was never found.’
‘The police hypothesised that his corpse was preyed upon by wildlife. We have black bears and grizzlies: Richard’s corpse was dragged from the river and eaten.’
Amanda’s tongue clucked at the inanity of the scenario
.
‘Just because his remains haven’t been found yet, it doesn’t mean a thing. Sooner or later a hunter or hiker will stumble upon them. A few crushed bones, or tattered clothing, will be found and the case will finally be closed.’ Billie went still. ‘I hope he was still alive when the bears got him.’
‘That’s just cold,’ Danny commented, and when Billie glanced at him she caught him grinning in admiration. She wondered if she could play that to her advantage; but no, the man was simply a sadist. He would probably prefer that he were the one allowed to twist her fingers to the point of dislocation instead of his brother.
‘We have reason to believe that Richard is alive and well. We believe that he has been in contact with you, or that such communication is imminent.’ Amanda pushed a curl over her ear, all the better to hear and judge the validity of Billie’s reply. ‘Where is he?’
‘Jesus Christ, haven’t you been listening to me?’
Ignoring the outburst, Amanda leaned closer. Her words came out calm and yet held more emphasis. ‘Where is he?’
‘I don’t know,’ Billie replied, also enunciating each word slowly and clearly.
Her mouth formed a tight slash as Amanda stared at Billie across the desk. She exhaled noisily through her nostrils, the skin at their edges going white. She directed her next words at Erick. ‘You know what to do.’
‘Ma’am.’ Erick yanked Billie’s pinky finger, and this time he didn’t release it at the last second. Billie screamed. He held on to her arm with one hand while reaching to his belt where he’d hooked the small nylon pouch, and as painful as her hand was Billie attempted to wrest free. ‘Hold her,’ Erick told his brother.
Danny moved so that he was leaning over her shoulders, his chin nestled alongside her right ear, his arms extended to hold out both hers on the desk. Erick pulled a hypodermic syringe from the pouch, and Billie’s fears were realised.
‘No, no, no,’ she said, while struggling to free herself. Danny’s grip was remorseless.
Amanda smiled at the drama. ‘Settle down, Mrs Womack. We’re not about to kill you. It’s anaesthetic in the syringe. Erick is only going to give you a tiny shot to soothe your pain. Not because I wish to spare you the agony, but because my time is precious. I can’t have you passing out each time we must punish you for your lies.’
29
Taking advantage of the right angle formed by the perimeter fence, and the gap of a few yards in the security net, I climbed inside the compound without raising any alarms – at any rate none that I was aware of. Barbed wire at the top of the fence wasn’t enough to deter me, and I made it over with barely a scratch, though the pulling in my chest wound told me that I might have lost a stitch or two. Rink covered me until I was kneeling on the ground and could return the honours. He shoved his Mossberg under the fence and then swarmed over as lithe as an ape. Shotgun in hand, he moved aside so that we didn’t offer a single target.
‘There’s still time to turn back,’ he whispered.
‘Call yourself a ranger?’ I quipped.
I was referring back to the old adage that ‘Rangers lead the way’. Rink however had another motto in mind. Sua Sponte meant ‘Of their own accord’ and recognised that rangers volunteered three times when joining the elite regiment: once for the Army, once for Airborne School, and finally for the Ranger Regiment itself. He offered a lopsided smile and said, ‘I didn’t volunteer for this shit.’
‘Utrinque Paratus.’ I quoted the motto of 1 Para, to which I’d belonged before we were both inducted into Arrowsake. ‘Ready for anything, brother.’
‘Da mihi asimun,’ he growled, and it didn’t take a scholar of Latin to understand where he told me to kiss. We both showed our teeth in a grin of camaraderie.
Then we were moving again. Rink went off at an angle, across the wide lot, his footfalls silent on the concrete paving. Large sulphur lights bathed the distant buildings in their yellow glow, but out on the grounds they only lent solidity to the darkness. Within seconds I could no longer see Rink. I went directly ahead, moving for the building I’d earlier earmarked on the map. Billie’s vest was still there; she might not be, but it was a good starting point.
Even as I headed across the grounds I knew how reckless the mission was. Back in my Arrowsake days I had full logistical and technical support, and the manpower and equipment necessary to a successful mission. Now I had Rink, a couple of borrowed guns, and two untried allies in Noah and Adam. The odds were stacked against us. The sensible thing to do was allow Cooper his way and send in a full FBI tactical team, except this was a test of sorts. Things weren’t ringing right with me, and I hoped I was wrong about everything. Hell, I’d been wrong enough in my actions over the past few days, so in some way this was also about vindicating myself.
As I jogged forward, my antiballistic vest bounced up and down with each step. The movement was marginal, but was enough to rub at the dressing on my chest wound. I felt heat and moisture and knew I was bleeding again, but it was hardly a concern. I wasn’t bleeding out as before, and as long as the bullet hole didn’t open all the way I shouldn’t weaken from blood loss. My chest ached, but the pain only kept me focused on what I needed to do.
The buildings loomed overhead. Judging by the architecture and grounds the logistics hub had once been an airport, circa World War Two, but it had long been abandoned, then sold off to private enterprise a number of years later. Some of the red-brick buildings had been left to the elements, and were in ruins, while alongside them newer prefabricated buildings of steel and sheetrock had been erected. The latter were cavernous, with huge sliding doors large enough to allow access to freightliners, and even smaller aircraft. I was reminded of the business that Procrylon was in, and that they produced armament casings and carry boxes for the weapons and demolition industries. But it stood to reason that their fleet would require housing, and that a number of people on site would be innocent workers with no involvement in their nefarious activities. Collateral damage, a very real fear, was not something I could ignore.
The sulphurous lights gave the nearer structures a haunted-house feel, the blacked-out windows like the empty sockets in a row of yellowing skulls. Doors at ground level were open maws, ready to snap down on the unwary and carry you down to the gullet of hell. Jesus, my imagination was in overdrive. Shaking off the uncanny feelings, I avoided the nearest pools of light, sticking to the deep shadows, and headed for a service alley between two of the tall buildings. The structure with the domed roof was beyond them, and my true destination. I checked for CCTV cameras, but if there were any I couldn’t see them. No alarms rang, no klaxons blared, so I felt confident I hadn’t yet been spotted though that was certain to change.
If I had extended both arms I could have touched the walls of the buildings, they were so close together. I moved down the centre of the alley – less chance I’d bump up against something piled against a wall. I kept my handgun down by my side, finger off the trigger, but ready to snatch it up in an instant. In the alley I was almost invisible, but light at its far mouth would alert me to anyone entering the alley from that end. I occasionally glanced back to check nobody was sneaking up on me, but the darkness worked against me there. I moved on, confident that even if somebody was prowling up behind me they’d offer a warning before an attack: going up against pros meant that they sometimes fell foul of the ingrained rules and regulations whereas an out-and-out criminal wouldn’t. No one challenged me, and I reached the end of the alley. I checked the way was clear before proceeding. There was a paved road, and beyond it a two-storey building with a flat roof. Behind its windows the dull glow of night lights could be seen, but it didn’t appear anyone was at home. To my left the road was clear, while to my right a small fleet of vehicles was parked alongside the large building I crouched against. The vehicles were all bottle-green, some carrying company decals, others lacking identifiers, just like the van the Jaegers had arrived at Billie’s farm in. There were no guards watching over the fleet.
>
I went directly across the road and on to a raised pavement, which descended in wide concrete steps to a walkway adjacent to the two-storey structure. A porch on steel poles warded rain off the entrance doors. I paused there, taking a glance inside the foyer, and saw it deserted. For all I knew Billie was inside, but I doubted it. I headed along a path that skirted the building and led to a patio of wide concrete slabs. Beyond it reared the tall red-brick building with its domed roof. Lights were on inside, and I watched two figures pass by windows on the lowest floor. They walked together, in conversation, one of them gesticulating to make a point. I couldn’t tell if they were security or regular workers, but any of them had eyes to spot me. I crouched low, waited until they passed out of sight. Now that I was nearer my enemies, and stealth trumped accuracy, I took the opportunity to screw the suppressor on my gun. Then I went at a running crouch for the building, weighing up and discarding my next move until I settled on a bold idea. I moved along the side of the building, ducking beneath the level of each window until I reached the front. Pressing up close to the wall, I leaned out and checked Noah’s earlier information. On a turning circle outside the front door was a sleek black limousine. Kicking his heels while he waited for the return of his passenger was a uniformed chauffeur. He’d placed his peaked cap on the hood of the limo, taking things easy while he got the chance. He’d lit up, and was smoking a cigarette as he ambled back and forward. Other stubs on the floor showed he’d been waiting a while, and probably had more time to kill. I took his measure.
He was a big guy in his late thirties, four inches taller than me, and broader across the back with thick arms. His square head sported a military buzz cut, but he lacked a soldier’s bearing. He slouched, and there was a hitch in his walk that told of an old knee injury. Maybe he was an ex-footballer, or college wrestler now gone to seed, but still tough and imposing enough to work close protection for a company executive under minimum threat of attack. When he bent slightly to flick ash so it missed his polished shoes, his suit jacket swung open and I caught a glint of metal. It was possibly a pistol in a shoulder rig.
