The John Milton Series Box Set 4

by Mark Dawson

  “You did the right thing,” their father said. “What else does he know?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing.”

  “We still should’ve shot him,” Mason persisted. “They’re loose ends. Leaving them is a mistake.”

  She banged her palm against the back of his seat. “Shut up, Mason. You want to know what a stupid mistake looks like? It’s leaving Dad in the house on his own so he can get jumped by Delgado.”

  “I was gone for three hours. Three hours, Jessie. That’s it.”

  “Stop it,” their father said. “Enough—enough of the bickering. You’re behaving like kids.”

  Jessica looked out of the window, staring through her own pale reflection at the darkened dunes that were racing by.

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence that persisted until their father spoke again.

  “What happened with the case?” he said.

  “I was going to go up there myself,” she said. “But Smith saw me get the key, and I couldn’t think of how I could get away from him without giving it all away. I figured I’d be able to persuade him that I didn’t know what was in the case—make it look like I didn’t know what you’d been doing.”

  “And the Bitcoin?”

  Jessica reached into her pocket and took out the USB stick. “I got it.”

  “And Smith didn’t figure it out?”

  “Why would he? He saw the cash in the case—he thought that was what you’d taken. He couldn’t unlock the stick.”

  “Well done,” Russo said. “What about tonight?”

  “I came out here with the two of them this afternoon. I saw what they had in mind and told Mason.”

  Her twin took over. “I bought the rifle, drove out to Goodsprings and walked back. Dug a trench as soon as it was dark and stayed out of sight. Waited for five hours.”

  “Well done,” their father said again. “Both of you. It was well handled. I’m impressed.”

  Mason brightened at their father’s praise; it had always been like that, ever since they were children. It was as if he had a fundamental need for approval, and still did. Jessica knew that part of it was to do with their late mother, cold-hearted and caustic until the end. Praise from her had been as rare as hen’s teeth. Jessica had learned to live with that, but her brother had not. It had bred his insecurities, and age had not smoothed those rough edges.

  “We need to think about how we’re going to get out,” their father said.

  “I’ve got the tickets,” Jessica said.

  He shook his head. “Can’t use them. It would’ve been fine, but not now.”

  “Why not? Delgado’s dead. Smith doesn’t know anything.”

  “We can’t take the risk. We need to change it up.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll drive,” he said. “We’ll need to change this car. We’ll go up to Crystal Springs and rent one there.”

  “Drive to where?”

  “Vancouver,” he said.

  Jessica exhaled, long and hard.

  “Relax,” Richard said. “We’re clear. This time tomorrow, we’ll be out of the country and we won’t have to think about any of this ever again.”

  53

  Milton took off his shirt, leaving his T-shirt on, and held it against Beau’s stomach. He had seen plenty of gut shots in his time, and he knew that unless it was treated, Beau would bleed out. If there was any positive to the situation, it was that it could take an hour for that to happen provided that the wound was properly compressed.

  “Hold that down,” he said, indicating the bunched-up shirt.

  Beau grunted. “I got it.”

  “We need to get you to hospital.”

  “Shot me,” he said, shaking his head. “Right in the gut.”

  “I’m sorry, Beau. She tricked me.”

  “Fooled me too.” He grunted with pain. “I’ll say this about her—she’s mighty convincing.”

  Milton got up and looked around. He would have liked to investigate the hiding place from which Mason Russo had taken his shots, but he didn’t have time to go wandering into the desert. Instead, he hurried over to the Suburban, stepping over the bodies of the dead men on his way. Delgado was lying face down, his arms outflung as if he had been caught in flight. Milton took the AR-15 and a magazine that he found in the man’s pocket.

  The windshield of the Chevrolet had been perforated in two places when Beau had opened fire on it, but the safety glass had stayed in one piece. The doors were still open and, as Milton approached, he levelled the AR and aimed it into the cabin. He pulled the driver’s side door all the way open. The driver was still in his seat, slumped forward, his head resting on the wheel. He had been shot in the torso; blood was still running down the side of his body. Milton grabbed him, dragged him out of the car and dumped him on the sand.

  He climbed up into the seat, put the vehicle into drive and pulled it across the gravel until it was next to Beau. He got out and crouched down beside him. “I’m going to get you out of here. Where’s the nearest hospital?”

  There was sweat on Beau’s brow. “Vegas,” he hissed.

  Milton gritted his teeth.

  He didn’t know whether Beau had enough time left to get back to the city.

  “All right,” he said.

  Milton crouched down and snagged a bundle of banknotes, stuffing them into his pocket. He helped Beau to his feet, then draped the older man’s arm over his shoulders and helped him into the back of the car. He glanced down at Beau’s shirt; it had just looked dark in the blackness of the desert, but now that the cabin’s lights were shining down on it, Milton could see that it was a deep, dark red. It wasn’t bright enough to signal that the blood was arterial; Beau might have been fortunate. If the aorta had been hit, he would have been dead in two minutes. The vena cava might have allowed him four, the other large vessels leading to an organ perhaps ten. The intestines would be the best that he could hope for; Milton had seen a man take three hours to die that way. Sepsis would take him eventually, but, while that was painful, at least it was a slow way to go.

  Maybe they had a chance.

  Maybe.

  Milton closed the doors, got back inside and turned the Suburban around.

  “The guy who shot me,” Beau said, his voice a rasp. “Who was he?”

  “The brother. Mason Russo.”

  “She say anything about him?”

  “That he was in the army.”

  “He knew what he was doing. He must’ve been laid up there in the dunes.”

  Milton tried to work out what might have happened. He thought back to the first time that he and Jessica had met. She had told him that her car had broken down; that must have been true. She had been upset and wary of him at first, understandably, but had become friendly and cheerful as they had completed the trip to Summerlin. Milton might not have counted empathy amongst his strengths, but he had always believed himself a good judge of character, and he had detected nothing that gave him any suggestion that she was aware of what she would discover when they had arrived. That impression continued as he remembered her reaction to finding the house empty, and then discovering the evidence that her father had been taken from the property by force. She had been frightened. Surprised. Neither response had been faked. She hadn’t known in advance what had happened to her father.

  From that point on, though… No, he decided. That had been different, and the ease with which she had tricked him caused him to doubt the conclusions that he had drawn about her earlier behaviour. She had taken the key for the storage unit from its hiding place in the bedroom and might not have mentioned it had Milton not noticed. She had told him that she didn’t know what would be found in the locker. Yet, when Milton collected the briefcase and delivered it to her, she had recognised whatever it was that Oscar Delgado was really looking for. It wasn’t the banknotes. He’d wanted the data sticks.

  Milton wondered now whether she had sent him to collect the briefcase because she knew that it wo
uld be dangerous for her to go, that he would be distracted by the cash that he would see when he opened the case, and that he wouldn’t recognise the significance of everything else that he would find.

  The Bitcoin.

  How much had Russo said they had taken?

  Five million dollars?

  “Her coming out with us this afternoon,” Beau said, the words tight and clipped and heavy with pain. “That was her doing a recon, wasn’t it?”

  “She needed to know where the meet was happening so she could tell her brother. She was scoping it out. She gets back; she tells him; he goes straight up there and waits.”

  Beau coughed.

  “I was focused on Delgado,” Milton said. “It didn’t even cross my mind that I should have been worrying about her.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. She tricked me, too.”

  Milton thought back to her attempt to seduce him. Was that her trying to guarantee his cooperation? She’d needed him to help with Delgado. She’d needed him to set up the meeting, to take her to the rendezvous, and to point a weapon in the Mexican’s face while her brother picked his moment. The twins wouldn’t have been able to get their father back on their own.

  Milton thought of what she had said in the hotel room, her hand on his cheek, the awkward kiss. He clenched his jaw and tried to keep the anger down. He wasn’t done with the Russos, but he was going to need a clear head.

  “Your contact in the police,” he said.

  “Salazar?”

  “Will he talk to me?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I want to find out what they have on that family.”

  “You proposing to go after them?”

  “He shot you,” he said. “I can’t let that stand.”

  Beau started to speak, but another grunt of pain forestalled it.

  “Hold on,” Milton said.

  “English—I ain’t proposing on going anywhere tonight, but, if it is my time, you got to do me a favour.”

  “Of course.”

  “My wife—I’d want you to go and tell her what happened. You remember the office?”

  “I do.”

  “You go on by there and you ask Chase to put you in touch with Debbie. His mother. And then you tell her how much I loved her, all right?”

  “You can tell her yourself,” Milton said. “You’re not going to die.”

  “Promise me,” Beau said, a little more strength in his words.

  “I promise,” Milton said, looking up in the mirror at him.

  “Thank you,” Beau said. “You’re a good man.”

  Milton bit down on his lip.

  He didn’t feel like that at all.

  54

  The sicario raised the blind and watched as American Airlines flight 1368 began its final approach to McCarran airport. It had been a long few days. He had been in Bogotá to take care of a problem with the supply chain that was responsible for the steady flow of product from Colombia to Mexico. A politician who had lubricated the process had demanded more money for his continued compliance, and had threatened to change his allegiance if his terms were not met. That was a questionable decision, and the sicario had been sent to put an end to the irritation.

  That done, he had been provided with a ticket on the American flight to Miami and had then transited onto the connecting flight to Vegas. He had flown business, using the ten-hour flight time to stock up on his sleep. He suspected that he would be busy once he reached Las Vegas, and he couldn’t be sure of when he would next be able to relax.

  He watched out of the window as the twinkling lights of the streets and avenues that comprised the city became clearer. He closed his eyes and waited for the plane to land.

  It was just after midnight when the sicario reached the terminal. Flying business had its benefits, and chief among them—at least as far as he was concerned—was being able to process through the airport formalities before everyone else on the flight. Discretion and efficiency were valuable assets in his line of work and well worth the surcharge.

  The airport was not busy at this late hour. The sicario collected his checked luggage as soon as it slid down onto the carousel, and made his way into the arrivals hall. He had been to Vegas on three separate occasions, all for work, and he recognised the interminable ringing and buzzing of the slot machines as the soundtrack of the place. He found the city to be in the worst possible taste. Only in America could you find a city like this: billion-dollar casinos thrown up in the middle of a desert, receptacles into which had been poured the worst impulses of a crass and tasteless people.

  Never mind. He would not be here for long.

  He made his way out of the terminal and followed the signs for the long-term car park.

  55

  Beau’s condition worsened as they raced north back to Las Vegas. He became quieter, and his breathing rattled a little, as if there was an obstruction in his lungs. He was pale and drawn, with a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow whenever they passed through the lights that marked the smaller towns and hamlets on the road.

  The nearest ER was at Green Valley Ranch, on the south-eastern fringe of the city. The satnav suggested that it would take twenty-three minutes, but Milton covered it in twenty. The ER looked as if it had been newly constructed, a plain white block of a building that had been dropped down in a wide space at the side of the road. Milton turned right, passing a digital sign that suggested that the ER waiting time was two minutes.

  “We’re here,” Milton said.

  There was no answer.

  “Beau,” he repeated, fearing the worst.

  The older man cleared his throat. “I’m still here,” he said, but his voice was weak.

  Milton spun the wheel to the right once again and accelerated across the empty parking lot to the entrance.

  “Hold on,” he said. “I’m going to get you inside.”

  He opened the door and leaned in to help Beau get out. The scene in the back was much worse than it had appeared from the front of the car. It was like an abattoir. Beau must have bled out several pints of blood. His lap was a sticky pool of it; it had soaked into the denim of his jeans, onto the leather seats, and his shirt—once white, now the deepest claret—was sopping with it.

  Milton slid his hands beneath Beau’s shoulders. He tried to be gentle, but there was no way of getting him out without manhandling him a little. Beau grimaced, then clenched his jaw, but was unable to prevent a cry of pain as Milton dragged him out of the car.

  “You got to get away,” Beau said. “They’re gonna want to know what happened, and you don’t want to have your name anywhere near this.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I’m serious,” he said between shallow breaths. “They’ll have CCTV. You don’t want that. Just get me to the door and sound the horn. I’ll take it from there.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “What we agreed.”

  “All right.”

  “And Salazar will be here soon. He’ll straighten it out.”

  Beau had given Milton the detective’s telephone number on the way, and Milton had called to tell him what had happened. He had already determined that he would call Salazar again as soon as Beau was safely inside the ER.

  Milton put Beau’s left arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up, helping him as they made their way from the car to a wheelchair that had been left outside the entrance.

  “I’m sorry,” Milton said.

  “Don’t talk crazy.”

  “This happened because I dropped the ball.”

  “Shut up, English.”

  Milton took Beau to the wheelchair and carefully settled him into it.

  “I’ll see you later,” Milton said.

  “You will.”

  Milton returned to the car and slipped back into the driver’s seat. He opened the window to try to get rid of the cloying stink of blood and then held his hand against the horn for five seconds. He saw activity inside, and, after waiting
for the automatic doors to slide open and a nurse to come outside to investigate, he put the car into drive and pulled away. He looked back in the rear-view mirror as the nurse knelt down next to Beau. The woman assessed him, went around so that she was behind the chair, and pushed him into the ER.

  He drove away.

  56

  The long-term garage was next to Terminal One. The sicario checked the message that had appeared on his phone when he turned it on in the terminal. There was a picture of a plain Chevrolet Malibu and an annotation that said that the car could be found on the first level. The sicario reached the garage and walked the aisles until he saw the jet-black vehicle. He checked to ensure that he was not being watched, and then took his case around to the trunk. He knelt down next to the rear right wheel and felt up into the wheel arch. The key had been attached to the chassis with a length of tape. He tore it free and pressed the button to pop the trunk.

  There was a grey rucksack inside the compartment. It was large, with shoulder straps and a number of pouches and pockets that opened with paracord ties. He would check it later. He deposited his luggage in the trunk, closed the lid and went around to the driver’s side door.

  He checked the details that del Pozo had sent him and tapped the destination into the GPS. The Highland Inn was at 8025 Dean Martin Drive.

  It took the sicario twelve minutes to drive there, enjoying roads that were much quieter now than they would be later in the day. He pulled into the generous parking lot that surrounded the building. The motel was three storeys tall, with bright white lights set along the ceilings of the outside passageways. The sicario had arranged for del Pozo to book a room for him here. It could not have been farther removed from the glamour of the casinos on the Strip, but the sicario did not care about that. This was off the beaten track and much more discreet, and the greater privacy would allow him to set about his task while minimising the possibility that he might be discovered.