by Matt Hilton
I took it that the chauffeur wasn’t welcome inside the facility, or that he simply preferred to stay outside and satisfy his nicotine habit, and therefore should have no idea what went on beyond the doors. But he would be able to tell me who his absent passenger was, and if their late arrival was down to Billie Womack’s capture. Even when the hired hands lacked interest in their bosses’ business they couldn’t help but overhear what they shouldn’t.
My mind made up, I walked out boldly from the corner. There’d be dozens of people on site and he’d have no clue who I was, or that I was a threat. I concealed my handgun behind my hip as I came forward, checking once that there was nobody watching from the doorway. The chauffeur glanced at me, even tipped his head in a nod of greeting, and I almost felt bad about what I was about to do. He turned aside to discreetly flick ash again, and by the time he turned back I was already alongside him.
‘Not one sound, buddy,’ I warned as I jammed my handgun under his ribs.
‘What?’ He was too stunned to react effectively, and all he did was look once at the gun, and then at his half-finished cigarette that he held instinctively to one side.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I whispered harshly, jabbing him again with the gun so my message was clear. I quickly leaned in and unsnapped his holster; it wasn’t a gun at all, but a walkie-talkie radio. I took it anyway and threw it away beneath the limo. ‘Over there. Now.’
With my gun pressed to his lower spine, I directed him towards the shadows of a nearby building. He went without fuss or complaint, as if I was the Smoking Police and he’d just been caught red-handed.
Happy that we’d gone unseen, I pressed him into the deep well of shadows caused by a recessed doorway. ‘Don’t try to be a hero,’ I advised, ‘and everything will end up fine.’
‘Wh-what’s this all about, mate?’ Surprisingly the chauffeur had an antipodean accent: Australian or New Zealander, I couldn’t tell.
‘First we get things straight, so there’s no confusion. I ask the questions, you answer. Understand?’
‘What am I supposed to have done wrong?’
‘Obviously you still don’t understand. Let me make this clearer. I ask, you answer. Got it?’ For emphasis I pushed the barrel of my gun under his sternum. ‘And ditch that cigarette before you burn your fingers.’
He glanced down at the smouldering stump, then flicked it away like a reviled thing. I was more concerned that he might try to jam the damn thing in my eyes, or something equally desperate, than that he singe his fingers.
‘Where’s Billie Womack?’
‘Who?’
I shook my head. I hadn’t expected him to know but it was worth a try. ‘Who did you bring here?’
‘You mean Amanda Sheehan?’
‘If that’s her name, then yes. Who is she? More specifically what’s her business here?’
‘Beats me, mate; I only drive the car.’
‘Loyalty to your employer’s an admirable trait, but not right now. Tell me who she is and what she’s doing here.’
The big guy glanced about, as if this was some kind of test. Perhaps he thought his future employment depended upon his next answer. ‘Look, mate, I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve driven for her. She’s a frosty cow, that one. Some snotty high-flier with a stick up her hole. I just got a call, picked her up at the airport and brought her here. She barely spoke to me except to order me around like a dog.’
‘You regularly do pick-ups for Procrylon, right?’
‘Procrylon? That’s the client, all right. But I don’t work for them.’
From what I’d already deduced he was a freelance contractor, and probably worked regular pick-ups for a number of companies besides Procrylon Inc. It felt wrong terrorising the guy, but it was a case of needs must.
‘On the way from the airport, did she make any phone calls or anything?’
He thought for a second. ‘Yeah. But she made me close the privacy window.’
‘So you didn’t hear a thing?’
He smiled secretively. ‘Those windows aren’t soundproof,’ he said, and almost looked ready to offer a conspiratorial wink. ‘It’s kind of entertaining listening when your passengers think they can’t be overheard. Sometimes you hear some pretty juicy pillow talk, mate. One time this guy said . . .’ His words trailed off at the look on my face. ‘She was speaking about somebody called Richard. I haven’t a clue what the conversation was about before you ask. Just heard her repeat that name a few times. Oh, yeah, and something about relying on her to get the job done.’
I nodded in contemplation. I’d learned all I could from him. Time to move on.
‘Give me your jacket.’
‘What?’
‘Come on, you heard me.’
‘You’re stealing my jacket?’
‘Borrowing it. Now do as I say and I promise you’ll get it back.’ I didn’t tell him what state it might be in when it was returned. He huffed and puffed as he stripped it off. ‘Good,’ I said, and indicated a stand of trees beyond the turning circle on which his limo stood. I trusted that Rink was in place by now. ‘There’s a friend of mine in those trees and he has a riflescope on you. Walk to him, don’t make a sound and we stay friends. Do you understand what you have to do?’
‘Why don’t you let me drive away, mate? I don’t want to get involved in whatever’s going on here. Jesus, I don’t get paid enough for this kind of shit.’
I didn’t trust him not to get in his car and start hitting the horn, but I didn’t tell him that. ‘Sorry, but I might need a loan of your car too.’
‘Can I just ask something? Are you some kind of cop?’
‘ATF,’ I said, the lie coming easily enough. ‘But before you start asking to see my ID, you don’t think undercover agents are stupid enough to carry any, do you?’
‘What if my car gets damaged?’
‘You’ll be fully compensated. That’s if you’re still around. Now do as I say, and no funny stuff. Raise any kind of alarm and we’ll assume you’re complicit with the criminals inside and you’ll be taken down.’
The chauffeur stood and eyed me for a few seconds; he wore a whimsical smile. Perhaps he still thought this was some kind of test, or that he was the subject of a grandiose prank. I expected him to begin looking for the hidden camera crew. But instead he looked down at the jacket I’d taken from him. ‘Is there any rule against me getting my cigarettes back, or do you want to borrow those as well?’
I genuinely hoped he didn’t do anything stupid, because in the few minutes I’d spent with him I’d grown to like him. I dipped into the jacket pocket and came out with a pack of Marlboro and petrol lighter, and handed them over.
‘Is it OK if I smoke while I walk? It’ll look more natural, mate, y’know, if somebody sees me and wonders what I’m up to.’
‘Go for it,’ I said.
He sparked up and took a satisfying drag on his cigarette. Then he winked and walked away, doing exactly as I’d asked. I watched him go, shaking my head in mild bemusement. My first instinct had been to knock the guy cold with a well-aimed smack of my gun to his head, but things had worked out better for the lack of violence. Brandon Cooper would be pleased with me, but I doubted that would last. I quickly pulled on the jacket, getting a waft of aftershave lotion and cigarette smoke as I buttoned it up. The chauffeur was bigger than me, and heavier built, but wearing the bulletproof vest helped fill out his jacket. On close inspection the rest of my clothing would be a giveaway, but I only required the disguise for a short time. I walked back towards the limo and lifted the discarded peaked cap off the hood and sat it on my head. It rested low on my forehead, but again it helped disguise my face, and the vivid bruise that extended out from my hairline.
Placing my handgun in the jacket pocket, I checked again that the chauffeur was still walking away, and beyond him I saw a shadow rise up from among the stand of trees and coax him forward at the point of a shotgun. I wondered if Rink would play things cool, but rea
lly it wasn’t a concern. I turned for the front door of the target building.
30
As I entered the domed building, a uniformed security guard sitting behind a podium glanced up at me once, took in my cap and jacket, then looked down again at what he was doing; he was messing about on an iPad, surfing the web or something, when he should have been on the alert. But his inattentiveness was to my advantage, so I wasn’t complaining. By the time his brain figured out that there was something distinctively wrong about my appearance, I’d already covered the distance and laid one hand on top of the podium. It was of course holding my gun, and the barrel was now less than a foot from the shiny badge on the guard’s shirt. Just below his badge was his heart.
‘Keep your hands on the pad,’ I warned, ‘and away from the alarm.’
The bleary-eyed guard blinked at me and sat back, as if trying to decide if I was real or not. Judging by the dark blur of stubble on his chin he’d been on duty a number of hours already, but it would take only a second or two more before he realised I wasn’t a sleep-deprivation-induced hallucination. He opened his mouth, and being so close I smelled the sour tang of his breath.
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ I said, even as I checked the podium for a concealed alarm button. There was a red switch resembling a doorbell fixed below its lip. The screens of two small CCTV monitors on the podium were each divided into about a dozen smaller screens, and I couldn’t help feel that it’d take someone much sharper than this guy to spot anything untoward happening on any of them.
‘What’s going on?’ the guard asked, and I glared at him, even as I pressed the gun to his side.
‘Didn’t I tell you to shut your mouth?’
He nodded, now wide awake.
Checking nobody else was around, I scanned the foyer area. Double doors allowed entry to the building proper, but behind and to the left of the podium was another door. Grasping the guard by his shirt collar, I told him to put aside the iPad, then I manhandled him to the door and pushed through. We were in a small storage room. Old office desks were packed shoulder to shoulder along one wall, supporting cardboard folders and ring binders stuffed with yellowing paperwork. One of the desks had been partly cleared to make way for the guard’s supper: take-out cartons and greasy wrappers, a few disconsolate noodles sticking to the side of the desk, were all that remained of his meal. The room stank of shrimp.
‘Sit down.’ I pressed him into the chair where he’d recently sat to eat his food. He complied, too afraid to resist. ‘You received a visitor earlier, a woman. Amanda Sheehan. Where is she now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not.’ His eyes goggled at the gun hovering only inches from his face. ‘I didn’t speak with her. She was met by one of my superiors and led away.’
‘Inside this building or elsewhere?’ I demanded.
‘This one. Upstairs, I assume, that’s where the conference suites are.’
I doubted very much that Billie would be held in a conference room, but then it was all guesswork and assumption on both our parts. I checked out his uniform. I considered and discarded the idea of a second disguise, while also understanding something important about the guy’s clothing. He worked for a different security company than the one tasked with guarding Procrylon’s interests. His was the type of company that you’d see guarding a mall. He was scarcely more than a nightwatchman and would have little to do with what went on there. But I couldn’t send him out to Rink the way I had the chauffeur.
‘What do you know about another woman who was brought here?’ I asked.
He wasn’t a good enough actor to lie. His face told me he’d no idea what I was talking about. Billie had probably been delivered via a different entrance, particularly if the helicopter had transported her. The landing pad was on the far side of the building.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Here’s what’s going to happen. A woman has been kidnapped and is being held here against her will. I’m getting her out.’
The guy’s face was washed of all colours. ‘Hell, we should call the police.’
‘No. We shouldn’t. You’re going to do your part though. You’re going to sit here, stay quiet, and not try anything stupid.’ I looked around and saw some coils of electrical conduit stacked on a shelf at the end of the storage closet. The guard followed my gaze, and opened his mouth to object. ‘Sorry, pal, but I can’t trust you to do that,’ I said, and before he could argue against my plan, I slammed the butt of my gun against his head. He went out like the proverbial light, slumping from the chair and on to the floor.
I left him where he was, tying his wrists and ankles to the metal legs at opposite ends of the desk. Then I wadded some of the greasy papers, stuffed them into his mouth and tied them in place with his own belt as an impromptu gag. Nothing would hold him long, but I hoped that he’d have more sense than to get involved once the shooting started. With a single glance back at him, to check his breathing was slow and steady, I went out of the storage room to the podium. None of the screen views showed me where Billie was, but it showed plenty of activity throughout the building. I pulled the feeds on the cameras and was just coming out from behind the podium when a guard pushed through the double doors and squinted at me in confusion.
‘Who’re you?’ he demanded.
This man wore the green PMC uniform I associated with Billie’s abductors. He was tall, with thick hairy forearms, and an old scar on his left cheek that had also nicked a chunk of flesh off the end of his nose. His pale-blue eyes danced as he took in my appearance, and tried to decide what was wrong with it.
‘I’m Miss Sheehan’s driver,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if she was ready to leave yet.’
The man came forward, sure of himself.
‘What the hell were you doing back there?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was wondering where the desk guy was. I was going to ask him about Miss Sheehan, and just took a look at the cameras to see if I could spot him.’
‘You’ve no right to do that.’ He was now only yards from me, and his perusal was growing sharper. He checked out the cap, the ill-fitting jacket, and then down at my jeans and boots, and reflexively his hand went for a sidearm holstered on his belt. The time for deception was over. I snatched the cap off my head and threw it at his face.
I followed the cap, flying at the guard while he was distracted, and rearing back from the impromptu missile. The cap pinwheeled off the side of his head. I grasped his gun hand, keeping it wedged on top of the butt of his pistol, keeping that packed in the holster even as I rammed a knee into his groin. He emitted a woof of air and began to buckle forward at the waist. My forehead met the bridge of his nose and made it look even uglier, now flattened as well as scarred. The guard verged on unconsciousness, but wasn’t totally out of the fight. He swung in reaction and his left fist clumped off the side of my injured head, so that I wobbled a little. But then I got a leg behind his and forced my shoulder into his chest and he sprawled backwards. Immediately I followed, losing my grip on his hand but stamping down on his chest. Both his arms came up in reaction – without a hold on his gun – and I skipped to one side then volleyed his head as if it was a soccer ball. He lay still.
Ducking down by his side, I tugged his gun out of its holster and pushed it under the tail of my jacket and down my belt. Our violent interaction lasted seconds at most, but apparently it was time well spent, and good for my soul. For the first time in ages I felt my old self. Fuck the softly-softly approach, I decided, and pulled off the jacket and slung it aside. It was time to get on with what I was supposed to be good at.
31
‘Should I have Erick break another of your fingers?’ Amanda’s question was delivered amiably, as if she promised a treat rather than further torment. She’d grown weary with Billie’s continued denials, and had finally left her seat to prowl back and forth, her hands clasped behind her backside, while observing the work of her two male colleagues. Bill
ie couldn’t see her, because she was folded over the desk with Daniel still controlling her while his older brother twisted and manipulated her fingers in unnatural directions. Three times now the bespectacled man had broken digits, and three times he’d administered anaesthetic to dull the pain, if not the shock.
Billie had tried partial truths, veiled lies, denial, and outright fabrications, all to no avail. Amanda wanted to hear a different story from any she could or was prepared to tell. Billie wept with a mix of soul-sapping torment and rage verging on eruption, both intense emotions coming in alternating, and sometimes overlapping, waves. She was confused and belittled, and those states of mind were unwelcome, bitter reminders of her marriage to Richard. She hated that she’d been brought to tears, because she’d always believed she was a tougher individual than that, and her only consolation was that she cried out of frustration, of anger, more than she did weakness. Her captors knew that by damaging her hands they were attacking her future as an artist, and fear of what was to come was always worse than what had gone before. Through mangling her fingers, and destroying her ability to wield a paintbrush with the same dexterity and skill, they could force her into submission, where she would give up her deepest held secrets. They were wasting their fucking time! They could chop off both her hands, blind her, and what could she say that she hadn’t already repeated a dozen times?
‘Richard’s dead and I know nothing about your damn money!’ she howled yet again.
Apparently Amanda still didn’t believe, because after Erick glanced in the woman’s direction he bent to Billie’s hands again, this time selecting the index finger of her right hand. Billie attempted to form a fist, but it was already too late and Erick forced her fingertip sideways against the knuckle. Billie experienced a liquid pop in the joint and the end of her finger stood out sideways. Perhaps she was beyond pain, or some of the localised painkiller had leached into her index finger by now. Erick wasn’t finished. He snapped the fingertip back to its original position, and now a flash of red went across Billie’s vision. She hissed an unladylike curse.
