The Miami Police Department had proved reluctant to meeting our demands at first. Discounting the terrorist attack on Ocean Drive, they still had a number of other unsolved murders on their books – the running fight with Cahill’s team had left a number of bodies in its wake at various locations, and then there was Albert Greville-Jones, and the men killed at our hotel alongside McTeer – and their only suspects were being taken away from them. But they bent to pressure from on high, and in the end the series of violent encounters and killings was put down to inter-gang rivalries within Mikhail Viskhan’s organisation. Sean Cahill and Daniel StJohn were painted as the true villains of the piece: the fact they’d been spotted fleeing the scene after torching the Chinese restaurant added to the suggestion they were behind the murders of Hussein and Monk, and probably of the others too. They became our fall guys and as far as I was concerned it was the only good either of them had ever done. Another thing that appeased the MPD was that most of those killed happened to be scumbag criminals, and was in some way restitution for the innocent lives taken on the 4th of July.
In all, Viskhan’s spectacular had burned brightly, but only briefly. It had become apparent that the attack in SoBe was a distraction tactic, and the quartet of radicalised punks who’d pulled out assault rifles smuggled to the site in the chiller compartments of food carts had never been expected to do more than cause minimal damage and fatalities. They had all been killed by the responding law enforcement agencies. But the strike at Mar-a-Lago was supposed to go better, if not for our intervention where we’d taken out the Nephilim’s heavy guns and mortar teams. Even ashore the attack had been repelled: lacking the expert supervision of Cahill’s team – who we’d thinned considerably – the landing party had proved an undisciplined rabble, and those among them who’d been forced to take up arms were the first to drop their guns and surrender the instant they met opposition from the Secret Service, while the more fervent jihadists were all shot with extreme prejudice. The Coast Guard had lost two good men. There was loss of innocent life, and other people seriously injured on the beach, but far fewer than if we hadn’t pursued him and then disrupted Viskhan’s attack.
Foiling the attack had become a massive propaganda coup snatched from Islamic State, too. They initially claimed responsibility, crowing about how they could strike at the very heart of the nation, but everyone soon realised it was an unmitigated failure. They soon retracted their statement and disassociated themselves from Viskhan. According to Trey, Viskhan had planned a triumphant return home to claim land, titles and glory: if he had escaped us it was probable that an IS hit squad would have been waiting for his flight at the other end. His spectacular had been a complete bust.
We drank to that.
But then I stood from the table and went to the edge of the deck. When drinking to the memory of a good friend, ours didn’t feel like a victory. Besides, our actions hadn’t initially been driven by the idea of diverting a terrorist attack; it was all about avenging McTeer, and when all came to all, he wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t punched out Viskhan in that washroom and attracted his twisted attention.
I thought about Trey when first I’d laid eyes on her at the gala evening, how she had looked in her designer dress and heels, her styled hair and make-up, how beautiful she was, but also so sad. When last I saw her after our release from custody she was wearing the off-the-rack goods chosen for her by Rink, hair pulled back and held in place with an elastic band, her only make-up the shadows of fatigue around her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. How happy and grateful she was by comparison.
She had held my hands while she thanked me, then when that wasn’t enough to express the depths of her gratitude she wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. I returned the hug, then gently eased out of her embrace. ‘You’ll be safe now, Trey,’ I promised her. ‘You’re no longer a prisoner. You can take back your life and do whatever you want, with whomever you want. But do me a favour, huh? If you ever remarry, do it on your terms, right, and don’t go picking a bad boy again.’
‘No more bad boys?’
She eyed me, and for effect I fiddled with my shirt collar. ‘Well, I suppose one more wouldn’t do any lasting harm.’
We both laughed.
‘Seriously though, I’ve no plans right now, certainly where marriage is concerned,’ she admitted. For years she had been controlled, her every move, every thought, the way she dressed and acted, all had been ordered by her domineering husband. Now she was free to make her own choices it had to be a frightening prospect. ‘Apart from one thing. I want my marriage to Mikhail annulled.’
‘Rink already took care of that when he blew the bastard to hell.’
She nodded at the finality of my statement, but I also watched a shadow pass behind her features before she lowered her gaze. Despite hating him with a passion, she didn’t need to hear the gory details of Viskhan’s death. Something I shouldn’t forget either; there were many people trapped in abusive relationships who still loved their partners, despite everything. It wasn’t the person but their behaviour they grew to despise.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’
‘He deserved what he got,’ Trey assured me. ‘No. Getting the annulment is about taking back the power he held over me. I don’t want to carry his name any longer, and I want it struck from all official records. Viskhan was never my name by choice.’
‘Understandable.’ What I didn’t understand was Viskhan’s deal with Sean Cahill. ‘Can I ask… was there, I dunno, something going on between Viskhan and his pal, Sean?’
‘You mean romantically?’ At first Trey scoffed at the idea. But I knew I’d hit on something she’d obviously wondered about too. ‘Mikhail was driven by sexual aggression, but as far as I can say, it was always aimed at me or at another girl. He abhorred gay people. But then, I can’t remember a time I ever saw Sean with a woman, not intimately. He did have an unhealthy fascination with my hus—’ she checked herself ‘—with Mikhail, and wasn’t averse to showing his envy of me. Maybe there was something in their relationship, that Sean loved him more than as a friend, but I’m positive it was unrequited. What I am certain of, Mikhail loved nobody but himself.’
I didn’t push the subject. I’d nothing against his sexual preference, I was simply trying to figure out why Cahill had fought so savagely to defend Viskhan at the end when it was obvious he had intended bailing out on him. Rink had related his final encounter with Dan StJohn, and how that guy was driven only by the promise of reward, but Cahill had been different and had paid the ultimate price for his infatuation. There’s a recognised term for Cahill’s fixation on Viskhan, to whom Trey told me Cahill owed his life. It’s a form of hero worship, a White Knight Syndrome, where when a person’s life is saved they then go on to pledge it to their saviour. Similarly where someone is nursed or tended to following life-changing injury or illness they can form a relationship with their caregiver known as the Florence Nightingale Effect. While I couldn’t see Viskhan in either virtuous role, I suppose Cahill viewed him from a different perspective. Also, I understood the ties of brotherhood often formed between soldiers, and how I too would risk anything to defend my closest friends. Perhaps Cahill had a bond similar to the one I had with Rink, and had died for it.
Too many people had died because of my war with Viskhan and, to be fair, I had to share some of the blame.
We said our goodbyes, and Trey again held me, this time for longer. We parted with a kiss on our cheeks. She was still in protective custody while the last of Viskhan’s people were being mopped up, and afterwards would be relocated to a place of her choosing. The two wounded PMCs Harvey fought – Frost and Parkinson – had already been apprehended when they tried to skip out of Miami, but there were still some of Viskhan’s retinue of criminal associates at large. Some of them might try to hurt Trey in retaliation, though I thought it unlikely. For now the fighting was done, and it was time for us to return home… wherever that might
be. If I returned back to Mexico Beach, would I be greeted by pitchforks and flaming torches?
Rink joined me at the edge of his deck, resting his meaty forearms on the railing, gently sloshing bourbon in the glass he held. For a while we just stood there in silence.
‘Mack expressly asked me to keep my hands to myself,’ I finally said.
‘Brother, if that was me in that washroom I’d have kicked Viskhan’s ass too.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ I said. ‘But I can’t help feeling this is my fault. I attract trouble. I told you I feel as if I’m about to be run out of Mexico Beach, and I’m betting I’m not too welcome in Miami after this either. I’m beginning to wonder, Rink, if maybe it’s time for a fresh start.’
For a while I’d been feeling uneasy, restless, and it wasn’t until then that I realised it was homesickness. It had been years since I’d been back home to England. Placing an ocean between us might save my other friends from the next round of trouble I attracted.
‘The booze is making you maudlin, brother,’ Rink said. ‘And the best cure for that is to drink some more.’
I’d purposefully left my replenished glass sitting on the table. Rink offered me his. I declined. Rink rested his right hand on my left shoulder, gave it a squeeze. ‘It’s not that you attract trouble, Hunter,’ he said, ‘it’s just that you can’t walk away from it. That’s the definition of a good man in my book. Don’t dwell on the ones you hurt, or those you failed to protect, think about the lives you saved. Think about the difference you made to Trey.’ He glanced back to offer a nod of acknowledgement to Harvey. ‘Trey told Harve that she’d been praying for an opportunity to escape from Viskhan ever since he’d lost his hold over her after her parents died, and you were it. Viskhan was about to drag her to Chechnya to who knew what kind of hellish life. You came along at just the right time and place, like her guardian angel, and you gave her the strength and courage to get away. You don’t attract trouble, brother, you’re attracted to it, and who knows, maybe there’s some purpose behind it.’
I snorted at the suggestion. ‘The booze is having a weird effect on you too, Rink. The only higher power that ever guided me was Arrowsake, and I’m glad that’s behind us now.’
He grinned. But then grew sombre. ‘Walt ain’t finished with us, especially not after pulling the strings for us this time.’
‘It’s partly why I’m thinking of going away for a while. You know Walter; he’ll call in my debt before long. I’d prefer if you and the guys aren’t sucked into whatever shit he has in mind for me. I don’t want another of your deaths on my conscience.’
‘I appreciate your concern, but it’s like you told Walt: we’re big enough and ugly enough to take the knocks… all of us. It’s not on you when any of us gets hurt, brother. If Mack were here now he’d tell you the same damn thing. Besides, we’re all in his debt – when Walter calls it will be for all of us. Doesn’t matter where you are, brother, he’ll reel you back, and if not him, I will.’
‘And I’ll come.’ I faced him. ‘But right now I need to get away. There’s people I need to see, people I need to make my peace with.’ I was talking about my ex-wife, Diane, and my mother. McTeer’s death had reminded me how instantly we could blink out of existence, and though the possibility of being killed in action had been an aspect of my adult life, it had never struck me so hard before. ‘I’m thinking of going back to England,’ I announced.
He shrugged. ‘As long as you come back.’
I nodded.
‘And you don’t go before Mack’s funeral.’
‘I’ll be there, no question. But afterwards, I’m going to take a flight home out of Newark.’
‘If you gotta do it, brother, then you do it with my blessing. But you’d better hurry on back, y’hear?’
I squeezed his shoulder. He laughed, but it was forced. He was feeling the maudlin effects of the alcohol too. He gave himself a mental shake. ‘Now come on, Hunter. This is supposed to be a celebration of Mack’s life, goddamnit, and there’s still bourbon to be drunk.’
Harvey and Velasquez had both been aware that we had shared a moment, and had held a respectful silence. But as we returned to them at the table, they bucked the mood in the right direction, raising their glasses in salute of us this time. And it was then that another epiphany struck me. I wasn’t suffering from homesickness; how could I be when the people most important in my life were right there with me? I was with family. But was I home?
Thanks
My thanks go to the following people whose assistance was invaluable to me during the writing of this book: Denise Hilton, Luigi Bonomi, Jordan Arran Hilton, Michael Bhaskar, Becca Allen and Tracey Shaw (the latter of whom kindly allowed me to use her name as inspiration for a major character). My thanks are also extended to my friends and readers who urged me to get the latest Joe Hunter thriller written.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Canelo
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
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Copyright © Matt Hilton, 2017
The moral right of Matt Hilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911591498
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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