Fox S02 Across The Broken Line

by Zoe Sharp

  Across The Broken Line

  Fifteen minutes ago …

  Shoving a loaded gun in somebody’s face is never going to make you friends but it certainly works for influencing people. The uniformed guy on the business end of my SIG Sauer P229 looked both unfriendly and influenced, that was for sure.

  He froze halfway through bringing his own weapon clear of the holster on his hip. From what I could see of the hammer and the top of the slide it looked like a big Colt. A useful piece. I was glad he didn’t get chance to finish the draw.

  I couldn’t blame the guy for trying, though. I’d just crashed a reinforced Lincoln Navigator through the security barrier he was supposed to be manning. That kind of thing tends to have that kind of effect.

  Behind us was a huge warehouse, looming. Even by American standards it was enormous - practically big enough to have its own motto and design of flag. It stood in rather sterile landscaped grounds, made bleaker by the unmarked covering of snow. The place was apparently deserted apart from the security post - and the slightly dented Navigator I’d just skid-parked by the main entrance.

  “Where are they?” I demanded.

  The security guard didn’t answer, nor did he take his eyes off the gun in my hands, watching for his opportunity. Now I got a good look at him I saw he was at least six-four and probably two hundred and thirty pounds, most of it muscle. He also had the narrowed calm of previous armed contact - an ex-military man.

  Just my luck.

  “My name is Charlie Fox,” I said, speaking clear and loud. “I’m the bodyguard.”

  Something of that went in. I saw a flicker of understanding. I took a calculated risk, brought the SIG’s front sight up off target and uncurled my finger from the trigger. His shoulders dropped slightly in relief. Mine probably did the same.

  “Mrs Duvall left strict instructions,” he said then, brusque with residual tension. “No interruptions. Not for anything.”

  “Well, you might say Mrs Duvall was under duress.”

  He nodded, still wary. “Mr D - her husband - he went in ‘bout a quarter hour before she arrived,” he said, as if that confirmed it.

  Shit.

  So much for risking my neck on the snow-slicked roads trying to get here ahead of them. New York in the winter can be a bitch.

  “Call the cops,” I said, starting for the entrance to the building.

  The guy moved as if to block me. “Hey, you can’t go in there!”

  “If I don’t, one of them will be coming out in a body bag,” I said. “Your choice.”

  He hesitated as if I might be overstating it, saw from my face that I was not.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, waving an arm towards the warehouse. “This whole place is fully automated - state of the art. The motorised stock-retrieval system moves pretty damned fast. No way can you go in there unless they shut it down. You’ll get yourself killed.”

  “Well, that’s my choice.” I threw the security guard a last look over my shoulder. Tall and powerful, with a neck that cried out for a bolt through it, his hand resting on the butt of the Colt in reflex. “Be sure to tell them you tried to stop me.”

  ***

  A week ago …

  “Ah, Charlie, come on in. This is Olivia Duvall,” Parker said. “Ms Duvall has just engaged our services. You’ll be looking after her.”

  An elegant, dark-haired woman rose from one of the client chairs in Parker Armstrong’s office, turning as I shut the door and came forwards. She was wearing designer sunglasses, but I saw from the angle of her head that she gave me the usual once-over. There was a momentary hesitation while she compared her mental expectation of a female bodyguard with the reality. I’m not built like a member of the Bulgarian ladies’ Olympic weightlifting team, so I rarely match up. I was used to that.

  She probably wasn’t quite what I expected either.

  I held out my hand and we shook. Olivia Duvall came roughly up to my nose, which was saying something because I wasn’t exactly supermodel-tall myself. She was carefully put together and neat as a miniature doll. Classy suit over a high-neck blouse - style that had been hard won rather than inbred. She had a firm grip, seemed vaguely disappointed when I didn’t grind her bones into dust in return.

  “If I looked like a bodyguard,” I said mildly, reading her thoughts, “I wouldn’t be much use to you.” A standard reply. One I’d found myself compelled to use many times before.

  She paused, then gave me a somewhat tremulous smile. “Ah … no, of course not.” But she looked in my boss’s direction while she said it.

  “Charlie’s one of my best operatives,” Parker said. “She’ll take real good care of you.”

  Olivia did not necessarily look reassured but she sank back into her chair. I sat opposite, unbuttoning my jacket so the gun behind my right hip didn’t pull it out of line.

  Parker looked to the woman opposite as if for permission to expand. She lifted her shoulder a fraction.

  “Ms Duvall is having a little trouble with her husband - “

  “A little? Try a lot! The bastard tried to kill me.” Olivia stopped, took a shaky breath and let her gaze drop to the hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I still can’t believe Joe would do that to me - to us. Not after all these years.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ms Duvall is seeking to dissolve her marriage,” Parker said, his voice dry and cool, offering no judgements. “She believes her husband may have a more … permanent solution in mind.”

  Olivia’s head came up sharply, as if hoping to catch an expression of disbelief. Almost defiant, she reached up and removed the sunglasses. Worn indoors I’d thought them to be an affectation. They were not.

  Beneath the tinted lenses, the whites of her eyes were streaked with red.

  “He tried to smother me with a pillow two nights ago,” she said, her voice flat. “I woke up with it over my face. I couldn’t breathe, I just went crazy, managed to get my head turned so I could get some air.” She gave us both a defiant glare, as if we’d doubt she was capable.

  I looked at her hands. They were small and narrow, nails painted a delicate coral pink. Not the kind of hands you could imagine successfully fighting off a larger, stronger attacker.

  Parker glanced at me, still nothing in his voice. “Ms Duvall’s two children were asleep in the house at the time,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Has your husband ever behaved violently towards your children?”

  She hesitated. “No,” she said quietly. “At least … not yet.”

  And there it was - out, stark and edgy.

  Voiced.

  Every mother’s nightmare. The reason she had sought out the kind of protection offered by someone like Parker. By someone like me.

  “Did he offer any excuse - try to explain?” Parker asked.

  Olivia shot him an old-fashioned look, as if only a man could ask such a question, and directed her answer to me. “I - I must have passed out for a second. When I came to, got my breath and shoved the pillow off of me, the bastard was standing in the bathroom doorway, pretending like nothing had happened and asking what all the noise was about,” she said, her voice neutral almost to the point of detachment.

  I glanced at Parker. “I get the impression this wasn’t an isolated incident.”

  There was another fractional pause. “As I was leaving the office, about six weeks ago, someone tried to run me down,” she admitted. “I didn’t get a look at the driver - it was dark - but it was the same make and model as Joe’s truck. And when I got home he was in his workshop, said he hadn’t left the house all afternoon.”

  There was something in her face. “But?”

  “The hood
of his truck was still warm.”

  “Had he any previous history of violence?”

  She didn’t shake her head right away, as if loyalty were overcoming truth. “Joe was in the military for a while,” she admitted. “He was discharged. Doesn’t like to talk about it much, but - with the kind of training they get - well, I always wondered …”

  … if it turned him into a killer.

  “And what has he done since then?”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. At the question or the coming answer, I wasn’t sure.

  “For work, you mean? He doesn’t do anything. After he shipped home he worked the mill for a while, like his daddy before him - ‘til they laid him off. Could hardly seem to get a job after that and when he did he couldn’t seem to keep it.” She was trying not to condemn - just not too hard. “Eventually, it was just easier all round for me to go out and find work, and that’s what I did.”

  I checked out the designer suit, the matching accessories, the flash of jewellery at ears and wrists and fingers. The work Olivia Duvall had found clearly did not involve scrubbing floors. It seemed to surprise her that my face was blank.

  “Ms Duvall has enjoyed no small measure of success,” Parker said, and I heard the dry understatement.

  She sighed, shifted in her seat. “I started up an online home-electronics company right out of my kitchen,” she said with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who’s recited this story many times. “I studied the market and simply … supplied that demand - straight from the manufacturer. No stock, no overheads.”

  “Ms Duvall is being modest,” Parker said blandly. “She now controls one of the largest warehouse and distribution networks in the United States. I believe her turnover last year was well into eight figures.”

  “So, I assume - should you divorce - that Mr Duvall’s current lifestyle would be somewhat adversely affected?” I said, matching my tone to Parker’s.

  Her mouth twitched again. “End of the line for the gravy train, you mean? Oh yeah.” She paused again, uncomfortable. “His name isn’t Duvall, by the way, it’s Dabrowski - Josef Dabrowski.”

  I nodded without asking awkward questions, watched her face relax a little in response.

  “You could go to the cops - get a restraining order.”

  She shook her head. “I have a high profile,” she said, like that fact embarrassed her rather than being the peak for which she’d strived. “It would be all over the tabloids before the ink was dry on the paperwork.”

  Parker cleared his throat, “There are other steps - “

  “Getting a gun, you mean?” Olivia interrupted. “I already did that. But the boys are at an age where they’re fascinated by anything that goes bang. I have to keep the damn thing locked up so tight I’d never get to it before Joe - “

  She broke off, drew in a long shaky breath. “I’m scared,” she said, something in her voice that might have been reluctance to admit such a personal failing. “For me and for my kids. It’s not just the money thing with Joe. He’s always been so jealous … possessive. Even if he gives me a divorce, I know I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. Unless …”

  Her voice drifted away into a heavy silence, eyes still on her own whitened knuckles, and Parker’s eyes flicked to mine. I caught acquiescence in their cool grey depths.

  “We may be able to help you with that,” I said, and watched her head come up as if jerked on a wire. I rose, made sure she got a glimpse of the SIG on my hip. Not locked away tight to keep it out of the hands of children, but ready, instant. “We may be able to find a more … permanent solution of our own.”

  She allowed the hope to creep into her face, her cheeks flushing with a kind of guilty relief. “I just want to feel safe,” she said at last. Evasive, but as close to tacit approval as we were likely to get.

  I looked her straight in the eye, unblinking. “Don’t worry,” I said. “When I sign on to protect a principal, I’ll die before I let any harm come to them.”

  ***

  Ten minutes ago …

  “Olivia!”

  My voice bounced off the stacks of electronics stretching up to the vast roof above like skyscrapers in an enclosed city.

  I jogged along one of the main north-south aisles, past what appeared to be crated-up washing machines and refrigerators. Everything was swathed in enough plastic and polystyrene packaging to pollute a small ocean. Or a large one come to that.

  No doubt in an effort to save on running costs the lighting inside the warehouse was dim, but there were no staff to complain. The whole place was empty like an abandoned ship. I expected the floor to start listing at any moment as the vessel began her final dive for the seabed.

  A faint squeaking noise behind me had me turning fast, the SIG in my hands, only to find a mechanical monster bearing down on me, two giant blades aiming for my stomach.

  I leapt clear, flattening against the nearest racking. The unmanned electric forklift glided past oblivious, its electric motor almost silent. Only the sound of the rubber tyres on the painted concrete floor had warned me of its approach. As I watched, heart bumping against my ribs, the forklift stopped precisely level with a stack of steam ovens and began to telescope upwards to fulfil its pre-programmed instructions. I eyed the twin blades as they rose.

  “Christ,” I muttered under my breath. “Who designed this place - Freddy Krueger?”

  The security guard’s warning came back to me in a rush. Clearly he had not been exaggerating the dangers.

  The buzz of my cellphone in my inside jacket pocket nearly had me jumping out of my skin. I fumbled for it, left-handed, saw Parker’s name on the display and almost dismissed the call. Almost.

  Instead, I flipped the phone open, said tightly, “Not a good time.”

  “I realise that,” my boss said dryly. “But this changes everything …”

  ***

  Three weeks ago …

  “I think my wife is maybe trying to get rid of me.”

  Josef Dabrowski had once been a handsome man, but time had not been kind to him. He was well over six feet, broad shouldered and narrow hipped but with a belly just starting to overhang his belt. His fair hair was thinning backwards and his blue eyes were bagged beneath and crowded with laughter lines at the sides. He wore an old T-shirt and denims faded from too many rounds with the washing machine rather than designer stressing.

  At a casual glance I would have taken him for an out-of-work actor who’d just been to a casting call for construction workers. The too-clean hands gave him away.

  Dabrowski certainly did not look at home in the living room of this mock Tudor mansion in a leafy suburb of New York unless he was there to quote for renovations.

  He perched on the edge of a buttoned leather sofa, one of a matching pair that framed the ornate fireplace. There was a thick earthenware mug of coffee on the delicate table in front of his clasped hands. It seemed as out of place as he did in the elegant surroundings.

  Opposite sat Parker Armstrong, slender by comparison and younger looking despite the prematurely grey hair. He was apparently relaxed, one arm draped along the low back of the sofa. A convincing illusion.

  I stood to one side where I could see out of the front window along the driveway, just in case of visitors. Dabrowski had said he wasn’t expecting anyone. We didn’t like to take that for granted.

  “Why not go to the cops?” It was Parker’s standard opening question, and how people answered - or evaded - usually told him plenty.

  “Go to the cops with what?” Dabrowski asked now, his voice bitter. “‘Sides, my Olive is already prepping me as the bad guy.”

  “How?”

  Alongside him, vibrating with a kind of righteous anger, was Bill Rendelson. I would have described him as Parker’s right-hand man, except I knew Rendelson would take great offence at the remark. He’d lost his right arm to the shoulder in a parcel-bomb attack on the principal he’d been protecting some years previously. He mad
e up for the loss by ruling the office with an iron fist, and seemed to nurture a deep resentment for those of us still active in the field.

  Dabrowski shifted restlessly, making the leather squeak beneath him. It was left to Rendelson to jump in, which he did with barely concealed impatience even towards his boss.

  “Acting in public like she’s real nervous of Joe, when he’s never laid a hand on her,” he growled. His eyes drifted over me. “However much she had it coming.”

  Dabrowski murmured a protest, automatic rather than heartfelt. “Hey, come on, Bill. Someone tried to run her down in my truck - it just wasn’t me behind the wheel.”

  “You only got her word for that, Joe.” Rendelson’s tone was quiet but final. “No witnesses and it all happened where there just so happened to be no security cameras. Convenient, huh?”

  Dabrowski opened his mouth then shut it again, whatever he was about to say interrupted by a fair-haired boy, possibly just into his teens, who catapulted into the living room doorway.

  “Hey, Dad, tell Adam it’s my turn! He won’t - “

  “Not now, Tanner,” Dabrowski said, more heavy than sharp. “I got people here. Later, OK?”

  Tanner looked downcast. “Adam always gets what he wants,” he complained. “It’s so not fair.”

  As if in victory, a burst of loud distorted music thundered down the stairs from the upper floor.

  “Excuse me,” Dabrowski muttered, rising. He stepped around Tanner, stood in the open doorway and yelled upwards, “Adam, turn that noise down! And play nice with your brother.”

  There was brief silence before the music returned, this time with a booming rap overlay:

  “Ad-Ad-Adam. T-t-t-urn that noise d-d-down. Noise down. And play nice. Playnice, playniceplaynice - “

  “ADAM!” Dabrowski roared, army in his voice now. “Turn it down right now or every last scrap of that gear goes on eBay in the morning. You hear me?”

  The music cut off in mid note. Dabrowski waited a moment longer, then nodded and headed back for his seat.

  “Wouldn’t happen if’n I had my own stuff,” Tanner muttered as his father passed.

  “Wait see what Santa Claus brings you,” Dabrowski replied. It sounded like an automatic response to an oft-made request.