by Mark Terry
“I hired you,” he said.
“And perhaps he hired the Ronin?”
“Perhaps.”
“Should I dig into Brewster?”
Her phone rang. She glanced at the number. “I’d better answer this.”
He nodded his permission.
“Yes?”
“It’s Derek Stillwater.”
“Miss me already?”
“Can you meet me somewhere in, say, half an hour?”
“About?”
“A plan,” Stillwater said.
“Sure,” she said. “Plymouth. On the roof. Need directions?”
“I can find it.”
She hung up. To Makatashi, she said, “Agent Stillwater wants to meet with me. He says he has a plan.”
“Keep me informed.”
40
Sandy
Detective Dan Gardner hunched on his elbows on the scarred interview table. “Glad you came in voluntarily.”
“I didn’t. Captain Bains threatened my job.”
“I figured something like that. Shall we get started? Do you want your lawyer?”
“Well, my rep says yes, but I’d rather get this thing moving, so we’ll see how it goes. I reserve the right to stop talking and get my attorney in here.”
“Sure. It’s being recorded.”
“Of course. Go ahead.”
#
DG: When was the last time you were in your apartment?
SB: Last night. You were there.
DG: Let me rephrase. Prior to last night, when was the last time you were in your apartment?
SB: Just to make everyone happy, including the DA, Captain Bains, and my attorney, should I need her, perhaps you should identify the apartment by address.
With a sigh, Gardner read off my address, repeating the question.
SB: I’m a little fuzzy on the specific date, but I think it was Thursday, around two weeks ago. It was in the middle of the Chemist case.
DG: Why were you there?
SB: Sleeping. I do that sometimes. A little bit.
DG: Alone?
SB: That night?
DG: Yes. Two weeks ago.
SB: Yes, alone.
DG: Where were you staying for the last two weeks, when you weren’t in your apartment?
SB: That would be a complicated answer, but the gist of it is, sometimes I was staying at my mother’s house in Schaumburg, sometimes, since I was leading a task for into a mass killer, I was working all night long, sometimes at my desk, sometimes in my car while Orville drove somewhere.
DG: Let’s discuss your mother’s house.
SB: Actually, I’m not finished. I know I spent several nights at my fiancé’s house. And then, he was poisoned by the Chemist and hospitalized, so I spent a night or two at the hospital with him. I’m sure some of the people there would remember.
Gardner checked his notes. Then he leaned back in his chair for a moment and sighed.
He scratched his jaw.
Finally: Where were you at the time the firebomb went off?
“I was at the hospital with Nathan. Then my partner, Orville Benedict, woke me up. Then together we went over to a victim’s apartment on Racine and did a search. That’s where we were when we got the call about the apartment.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place.”
“I was busy.”
“I’ve got five unsolved and then number six was this dead guy in your apartment. I’m chasing my tail and you’re wasting my fricking time.”
“Well, the guy who probably set the bombs in my apartment is a contract killer who goes by the name, at least in some circles, as Ronin.” She explained as much of it as she could without tripping over what she thought might be security issues.
Gardner stared at her. “So who hired this Ronin?”
“That we don’t know. We have a few suspicions, but really, we have no evidence. And besides, in terms of the kid in my apartment, the killer would be Ronin.”
He slapped his hands on the table. “I’m going to ask to have this case transferred to you.”
“Swell,” I said.
He laughed. “O’Keefe, he’ll probably want this same story from you. And he’ll probably be glad to turn it over to you, too.”
“What the hell,” I said. “Want me to take your other five cases?”
41
Derek
Derek sat at the Plymouth, another outdoor pub, and ordered a microbrew IPA called, of all things, Fluffer. He was halfway through it when Anne Sakura arrived and sat at an angle to him. It was slightly awkward, but he realized she, like him, was seating herself so her back was to the wall and she had a view of the other diners, the open space and the entrance.
“You have a plan?”
“Have Ichiro Makatashi give a well-publicized press conference, or, you know, investors conference call. Essentially give Ronin a shot at him that’s too good to resist.”
“And you and me and all the cops in Chicago will be there to prevent him from doing so.”
“Yeah.”
“And when do you want to do this?”
“As soon as possible.”
She sighed. “I don’t know if we could organize it fast enough. Usually they announce those kinds of things at least a couple days ahead of time, sometimes even longer. The analysts and business journalists can work on a short head’s-up, but they have a real sense of these things. Plus, just calling a conference that nobody’s expecting will freak out the investors. I don’t know if Ichiro will go for it.”
He cocked his head to study her. “Run it by Ichiro.”
“Okay. Is Beach in on this plan?”
“I haven’t told her about it yet.”
“So she’d need to get the CPD in on it too.”
“Otherwise we’re trying to get him to come after one of us, but that’s even harder to publicize.”
“On the other hand,” she said, “stockholders don’t give a shit if you or Beach end up dead.”
“I’m sure they … oh shit.”
Guy LeClare appeared, saw Derek, flinched, then strode over. He wore motorcycle boots, black leather pants, and a black T-shirt that in white letters that said: If you’re feeling down I can feel you up. He carried his .44 Mag in a leather shoulder holster.
“Hey, Derek. Is this the hot mathematician? Did you score? Hey, how are ya, I’m Guy.”
Anne, voice mild, said, “Nice shirt.”
“Y’like it?”
“I kind of do.”
Derek groaned.
“You going to introduce us?” she asked.
“Ann Sakura, meet Guy LeClare. Guy, Ann.”
They shook hands. She studied his prosthetic. “How do you two know each other?”
“Derek and I go way back,” Guy said.
“Yes, I threw him through a plate-glass window a few years ago.”
“Why would you do—”
Suddenly Anne Sakura exploded into action, kicking the little table over and tackling Derek to the ground.
A bullet ricocheted off the wall behind where he had been. Another. Pock!
Glass shattered. The other people in the restaurant realized what was happened and turned into a stampede of panicked cattle, running and screaming.
Guy hit the ground a second later, the Magnum in his hand. “What the fuck, Stillwater?”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Derek said, pointing to the inside of the restaurant.
“Now you’re talking,” Guy said, and to Derek’s surprise, said, “I’ll give you cover.”
“Are you nuts? What are you going to shoot at?” Derek hissed.
“One. Two. Three. Go!” Guy shouted, rising to a crouch and firing off the gun.
“Jesus, that thing’ll blow holes through walls
!”
“Get your ass inside,” Guy shouted.
Anne was already on her way. Derek grabbed Guy’s shirt in one fist and sprinted for the door, dragging the private eye with him.
Anne kept right on running, heading for the stairs, a pistol in her hand.
“My kind of woman,” Guy shouted. “I think I’m in love.”
Derek chased after her, Guy right behind them.
Out on the street, Anne Sakura was glancing around, studying the buildings.
“Where did the shot come from?” Derek asked.
She pointed. “Rooftop. I saw the barrel.”
Good thing, Derek thought.
“There!” she yelled, pointing to where a figure was racing toward a car.
Derek sprinted into traffic, his .44 in his fist. Cars honked. A BMW screeched. A Prius swerved around him.
He pirouetted away, lunging toward the sidewalk. Jesus, that was stupid.
The Ronin—and it was definitely him—jumped into a tan Malibu. The car fired up and roared into traffic, heading in Derek’s direction.
The windows rolled down.
Derek, Colt raised, took a shot, aiming at the engine block, firing three times.
The Ronin fired back.
Derek took cover behind a parked Honda as bullets whizzed over his head, slamming into the building behind him. Pedestrians screamed and hit the ground or scattered.
Black smoke was billowing from the hood of the Malibu, but the car was still running, screeching around the corner and out of sight.
A uniformed Chicago cop appeared, gun aimed at Derek. “Don’t move! Put your gun down! Drop it! Drop it! Right now!”
“Can I stand up?”
“Gun down! Now! Lie face down! Place your hands behind your head!”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Guy’s red Mustang roar by.
He pushed his Colt aside, sprawled on the pavement and laced his fingers behind his neck.
42
Ronin
He had managed to pick up Stillwater and Beach at the Makatashi Building and had considered taking them out right then. The problem at that point was he only had a handgun with him at the time.
In his hotel was a suitcase and a briefcase. In the briefcase he carried a dismantled Paratus-16 semi-automatic sniper rifle.
When they had gone their separate ways, Beach with the fat cop, Stillwater back to his hotel, he had taken the gamble to pick up the rifle and returned to the hotel, making a call in to the front desk to ask for Dr. Stillwater.
It was an inefficient way of doing things, but he had been waiting across the street when Stillwater left the hotel, jumping in a cab over to the pub, which wasn’t all that far from the hotel. In retrospect, he should have just shot him then.
Once he saw the pub, he quickly determined a possible sniper location and headed into the nearby office building. He took the stairs to the top floor, carrying the briefcase, found the service stairs to the roof, picked the lock and made his way to the roof overlooking the pub.
Scanning the outdoors patio, he was delighted to see Stillwater sitting outside. With an Asian woman that he had seen before, the one who had attempted to follow him after his unsuccessful attempt at Stillwater at the L station.
Mildly disappointed that Beach wasn’t there, he knelt and quickly assembled the Paratus-16.
Peering through the scope, he saw the two sitting there, both more or less with their backs to the wall, talking. Something about their body language suggested they didn’t know each other well, that they didn’t completely trust each other. Definitely not lovers. Not even partners or associates, which was what he had earlier wondered.
Attaching the scope to the rifle, he thought through his plan. Take out Stillwater. Two shots. From this distance and elevation, he could make the headshot, but heart would be safer.
If he had a chance, take out the woman, too.
Pack the gun away, less than a minute, walk out of the building, cool as can be.
Taking a deep breath, he saw they were still there, still talking.
He raised the rifle, bringing Stillwater into focus.
Someone walked into his field of view. Big shambling guy, black biker leathers.
He was blocking Stillwater, then he moved around. Stillwater looked annoyed.
But distracted.
Perfect.
Focusing, he brought the sites around directly on Stillwater’s chest…
Then everything went to hell.
The woman kicked the table over and tackled Stillwater to the ground. The guy in the leathers spun once, then hit the ground.
The Ronin fired. Fired again. Maybe…
It was chaos. People were jumping up and screaming. He couldn’t get a clear shot at Stillwater, even if he’d wanted to shoot up the bystanders.
Then the guy in leather jumped up and started firing in his direction.
And hell! A bullet took a chunk out of the building right below where he was crouched.
Time to go.
Ducking down, he had the rifle back in the case in 20 or 30 seconds and was headed for the stairs.
Out on the street, he heard sirens and decided it was prudent to move. He hurried to his car.
Jumping into the rental car, he saw Stillwater running into the street, looking at him.
Firing up the car, he rolled the window down and streaked into the road, pulling his Beretta from his belt clip.
As he passed Stillwater, he raised his gun.
Stillwater, on the move, pumped shots at the Malibu.
The Ronin fired back.
And the Malibu was past Stillwater. He didn’t think he’d hit him. But Stillwater’s rounds had hit the car. Smoke was coming out from under the hood, the engine making a grinding, whining sound.
Skidding around the first corner, now just wanting to gain some distance between himself and Stillwater.
In the rearview he saw a red Mustang convertible shriek around behind him. The woman and the guy in the leathers.
Smoke billowed out of the hood. The car sputtered and died.
He jammed on the brakes, grabbed the briefcase and jumped out of the car, headed for the nearest alley.
The Mustang screeched to a halt. The man shouted, “Freeze, motherfucker!”
Spinning, the Ronin unloaded his gun at the scarlet convertible. The woman leapt behind the car. The crazy bastard in the leathers just raised his .44 Mag and started firing.
Screw this shit.
He sprinted into the alley, around the corner, taking turn after turn until he was gone.
43
Derek
The Chicago cops were not impressed with his Homeland Security credentials. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his Colt confiscated, his ID taken while one of the cops called it in. Nobody asked him what the hell he was doing shooting up the city.
After a few minutes the cop came back and marched him over to the patrol car and roughly shoved him into the back, slamming the door on him.
Great. Nice summer day and the cop car was shut off, windows rolled up. The air must have been on before, because the interior was cool, but if this went on a while he didn’t expect it to stay that way.
While he sat, his wrists uncomfortably locked behind his back, more and more cop cars appeared with dozens converging on the pub and the street. And the press wasn’t far behind. Channel 7, then channel 32, and as he watched, WGN. He expected more soon.
After another fifteen minutes, give or take, the car was no longer cool, it was hot and he was considering the inherent value of kicking out the window.
That was when a black cop, a slender, elegant man in a summer-weight suit, opened the door. He looked like he was in his fifties, his skin the color of caramel, his black hair gelled back and worn short.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “Hot enough?”
<
br /> “I was starting to feel like an abandoned dog.”
“Turn around.”
He squirmed in the backseat and the cop unlocked the cuffs.
“Step on out, let’s find some shade. I’m Lieutenant Steve Wilson. You in charge of this clusterfuck?”
“I’m not sure I’d put it that way. But somebody was probably shooting at me.”
“Yeah, and you fired back. And that dickwad, Guy LeClare, firing a .44 Mag all over the place.”
“He okay?”
“His ‘stang’s shot to pieces. And we’ve got the perp’s rental car, so that’s something.”
They found a bench in the shade of a sycamore tree sprouting up out of the sidewalk. Wilson sat down and said, “I called in about you. And I talked to Captain Bains, who apparently isn’t a fan, but he says you’re here officially, so why don’t you tell me what the hell’s going on.”
A female reporter with WGN was headed their way, her producer and cameraman stalking toward them. Wilson held up his hand. “I’ll talk to you later. Give me five. And this man will give you a statement, too.”
“Who is he?” the woman asked. “Is he the perp?”
“The perp?” Derek asked.
“Tell her,” Wilson said.
“Dr. Derek Stillwater, an agent with Homeland Security,” Derek called, loud enough to be heard. “Give us a few minutes.”
She wandered off, although the cameraman was rolling and Derek didn’t doubt that if he blew up, it would end up on the news.
Turning to Wilson, he said, “It’s a long story.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“It goes back to the Chemist.”
“Well shit. You working with Beach?”
“Yes.”
Wilson closed his eyes briefly. “Okay, spill it.”
After a pause to think what he could and could not say, he shared most of what was actually going on. Wilson listened closely, took the occasional note, and said, “This Asian woman you were talking to? What’s her name?”
“Anne Sakura.”
“She’s working for who?”
“Makatashi.”
“In what capacity?”
“Security. Why are you asking me about her?”
