Deep Blue Trouble

by Steph Broadribb

  I nodded. Played nice to broker a truce. ‘Then let’s get this done.’

  ‘Our target’s in Mexico, yes? So that’s our focus.’

  ‘As I said, I’ve talked to Mia Searle, and she’s—’

  McGregor cut me off. ‘She tell you exactly where he’s at?’

  I put my mug down, the coffee untouched. ‘No.’

  ‘Then that’s what you’re bringing to the party,’ McGregor said, his tone dismissive. He turned to Bobby Four-Fingers. ‘Call in Jorge. Tell him to get here by two.’

  McGregor looked back at me. ‘We’ll work this as a team – me, Four-Fingers, Jorge and you. We start prepping this afternoon.’

  I didn’t need to ask who the team leader was; McGregor’s authoritative tone made that real clear. But this was my job, and I’d do whatever it took to get it done, and the hell to whatever rules McGregor thought we should all play by.

  I wondered how long our truce could possibly last, because the bad feeling in my gut told me things sure weren’t going to be easy.

  20

  The beeping woke him. Incessant. Rhythmic. It took him a while to figure out what it meant.

  JT opened his eyes to confirm his suspicions. Saw the cannula first, taped to his hand, the line of the drip snaking over the side of the bed to an automatic pump. Sometimes he hated being right.

  He took a moment to get his bearings. The starched white sheet and beeping machine, the drip and all the other medical paraphernalia meant hospital, but the metal bars across the window and the uniformed guard a few feet away told him something quite different. He remembered then where he was. Jail. In the holding section of the detention facility, for prisoners not yet convicted. Grey jumpsuits. Slip-on shoes. Awaiting trial.

  Yup. He remembered it all now. He was in jail, and things hadn’t been going so well. The bastards had got to him in the shower. He wondered how much damage they’d caused. He took hold of the bed sheet with his free hand, and lifted it. Padded dressings were taped to his chest, across his abdomen and beyond – their whiteness bright against the tan of his skin.

  Damn. Not part of the plan. They’d gotten bolder much faster than he’d anticipated.

  He tried to sit up. Gritted his teeth as a sharp pain stabbed into his side, making him breathless. They’d caught him between the ribs. Bust a couple of them, damaged his lungs, too. Bastards. They’d learned from the first attempt. The second time they came for him they’d brought reinforcements.

  JT closed his eyes. Nausea was making the room spin. He tried to distract himself, thought back and remembered how it’d started. He’d been in the shower. It’d been a busy time. Other guys were waiting in line; the stalls were all occupied. Some theatrical-type along the line was singing in the shower about rainbows or some such nonsense. There’d been heckling from those waiting. JT tuned out their noise, ignoring them all. He’d been rinsing shampoo from his hair when he realised the singing had stopped real abrupt. It’d sounded odd, involuntary, like a hand had been slipped over the guy’s mouth to silence him.

  JT had shut off the faucet. Listened. Heard no other showers running, and knew something wasn’t right. Pulling the towel from the hook, he wrapped it around his waist and stepped out of the cubicle. Looked around. The line was gone; all the cubicles empty. In front of him, waiting, were two guys – lean, wiry types with bad facial hair. They were looking right at him. No question about why. Then six more stepped into the shower room.

  So, eight this time.

  One of him.

  Tougher, but possible.

  The first two went down easy; a couple of uppercuts, a hook and an elbow to the nose; job done. But this wasn’t a backroom bar fight, or random chancers that fancied their luck – these guys were coordinated, they knew their moves. He realised too late that they had themselves a game plan and were executing it in full.

  The first two guys had been cannon fodder, there for sparring, for sport, to bait and test him a little while the rest got their game faces on. Once those two guys went down, the shanks came out. Six guys, six shanks – not easy. Add water, tile and soap to the situation and the odds shifted even more dramatically.

  JT scanned the room, looking for an out, but all the exits had sentries; prisoners on lookout. No sign of the guards. Shaving foam had been sprayed over the CCTV cameras. Bad news. No record, no exit.

  He looked at the biggest guy – a man with a shaved head, crooked nose and full-sleeve tattoos; he was the one that the rest got their lead from.

  JT shrugged. ‘We could always talk about it.’

  The shaved headed guy raised an eyebrow. ‘Who killed Thomas Ford?’

  ‘You’re looking at him.’

  ‘Not according to the Old Man.’

  ‘Really? News to me. Last I knew he was baying for my blood over it.’

  ‘Word is, you took the fall for a woman.’

  ‘Not my usual style.’

  ‘Word is she’s got a kid.’

  JT didn’t speak. Didn’t like where the conversation was going. They had connected Lori and Dakota to him. They’d connected Lori to Thomas Ford’s murder. That put her in danger; Dakota, too. He couldn’t allow that, needed time to think on the best play to be had.

  The shaved head guy laughed. ‘Not so chatty now? What’s that about?’

  The guys stepped in closer, started circling. Time just ran out. JT knew what was coming. Knew nothing he said would change what they planned. The only way was to fight.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, boy? We heard you’re protecting a woman.’ The shaved-headed guy stepped closer, got up in JT’s face. Shouted louder. ‘The Old Man wants confirmation of her name.’

  JT stared into the man’s bloodshot eyes. Never going to happen. He’d always protect her. JT saw Lori’s face in his mind. He needed the Old Man’s anger – the kill contract – on him not her; only on him. He glared at the shaved-head guy and shook his head. Still he said nothing.

  They set on him as a pack. No order, no etiquette. Jabbing with their pig-sticks, punching with their fists. JT fought back. He took several down, two maybe three, but slipped after deflecting, and dropped to his knee. The bullet wound still healing in his thigh made him slower than usual. He wasn’t quick enough to get up.

  The pack engulfed him.

  He had still been thinking about Lori as the first blade went in.

  21

  By four, the cracks in my truce with McGregor were starting to show. He’d taken me, Bobby Four-Fingers and Jorge upstairs to what he called his ‘command centre’. We’d spent a couple of hours going through Gibson Fletcher’s history – rap sheet, family, associates, prison time and the way his escape went down. McGregor used the back wall to create a search board – he pinned Fletcher’s mugshot at the top then added photos of known associates, maps of locations he’d been spotted, pictures and media clippings about his crimes and convictions.

  ‘So, this is our guy.’ McGregor tapped the picture of Fletcher that was pinned to the wall. ‘That’s the background check done: ex-wife in Florida, mistress in San Diego, five dead at his hand in total. We’re looking forwards from now on in.’

  Jorge cleared his throat. He’d been the quietest of us so far. Athletic and toned, he wore cargo pants and a tee the same as McGregor, but his frameless oval glasses gave him a preppy look. ‘This is an FBI favour, am I right? Did they give a prediction about the target’s movements?’

  ‘So far as we know, our target hasn’t been to Mexico before. He’ll be a new guy in town, so he’ll stand out.’

  Jorge nodded. He started tapping on his smartphone. Getting his people into action, I guessed. It seemed he was a man of few words.

  ‘A fish out of water,’ Bobby Four-Fingers chuckled. He winked at me. ‘See what I did there?’

  I smiled. ‘Gibson “the Fish” Fletcher out of water – nice word play. Smart.’

  ‘Minds on the job, people,’ McGregor said. ‘Time is money.’

  I leaned closer to Bobby. �
�Is he always like this with the bullshit?’

  Bobby glanced at McGregor to see if he was watching – he wasn’t – then nodded. ‘Yup.’

  McGregor turned back to us. ‘As I was saying, the focus is finding the target in Mexico. Jorge, get your spotters in-country on the lookout. Four-Fingers, you’re tracking the tech – cell, cash withdrawals, card use, all the usual – and speak to your police department friends, see if they’ve got anything we can use.’

  I caught McGregor’s eye. ‘And me?’

  He frowned. ‘What would you usually do?’

  ‘Work the contacts I’ve made. I don’t think Mia’s told me all she knows, and I’m waiting on more from the eyewitness who placed Fletcher here in San Diego a few days back.’

  ‘Okay, you do that,’ McGregor said, his tone implying he didn’t give a damn what I did. ‘I prefer hard data rather than hearsay, but follow your process if you want. It can’t hurt.’

  I exhaled hard. The man sure knew how to get my hackles rising. ‘Don’t expect to get much from the tech. When Fletcher skipped bail before he left his cell behind and never touched his cards.’

  ‘Phishing,’ Bobby Four-Fingers said, chuckling again.

  McGregor and I both glared at him.

  Bobby shook his head. ‘Jeez, you two need to lighten up.’

  McGregor ignored him. ‘The difference is, the last time Fletcher had planned on running. This time it’s opportunistic. He’ll have been improvising from the start. We can use that to our advantage.’

  ‘What if it had been planned?’ I said.

  ‘You can’t fake a burst appendix,’ McGregor said, his tone dismissive. ‘The man had surgery.’

  I stood my ground. ‘Yeah, he did. But maybe it wasn’t a surprise. Maybe he did something to cause it.’

  Bobby Four-Fingers frowned. ‘Took a beating on purpose?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking.’

  McGregor rubbed his chin. ‘A couple of hard punches? I guess it’s possible. But they’d have had to be very precise to make his appendix rupture.’

  ‘Painful as hell, too,’ Bobby Four-Fingers said, holding his side as if he’d taken a beating himself. ‘And dangerous. If he’d not got medical help in time…’

  ‘For sure,’ I said, ‘but maybe he thought it was worth it to get clear of the prison compound. Freedom can be one hell of an incentive.’

  ‘Your point being?’ McGregor asked.

  ‘You said we’re only looking forwards from now on, but I’m thinking we can learn a lot that’ll help us predict his future movements if we dig deeper into how the escape went down.’

  ‘What do you propose then?’

  ‘Relationships are how these things get set up, and it’s not always the most obvious ones, either. The tech can’t tell you who Fletcher was working with.’

  McGregor held my gaze. ‘If they talked on their cells it can.’

  I clenched my fists. Tried to keep my tone even, non-emotional, as I said, ‘So you’re saying I should butt out and let you find Fletcher your way?’

  Bobby looked from me to McGregor. McGregor didn’t speak.

  I shook my head. ‘So that’s a yeah?’

  McGregor sighed. ‘Look, we’re not relying on the tech alone. Jorge is running his spotters. They’re the best in the business. If Fletcher’s run over the border they’ll find him. And when they do, we’ll go fetch him back. So trust me, the people stuff is covered.’

  I frowned. Felt real pissed at him talking to me like I was some hickville rookie on their first hunt. ‘Trust you?’ I shook my head. ‘Hell, I don’t even like you.’

  ‘Your choice,’ McGregor said. He turned away from me, back towards Jorge, who was still tapping on his iPad, and started giving him instructions in hushed tones I couldn’t hear.

  Bobby looked embarrassed. Getting up, he mumbled something about getting on with the job and went downstairs. McGregor continued to ignore me. Shaking my head I followed Bobby back to the main office.

  McGregor was wrong, I felt sure of it. The key to finding Fletcher was discovering who helped him get out of prison and across the country without being spotted. His escape had gone too smoothly to be improvised. My money was on him having help, and the more I thought on it, the more I felt convinced that every bit of the escape – from the timing of the burst appendix, to the shooting of the guards and running from hospital, to turning up in San Diego – was carefully planned. Two questions hung in my mind, though: who helped him, and why?

  If McGregor wasn’t interested in these then that was just dandy. But I sure as hell was going to find out.

  *

  I called Monroe early, didn’t wait till checkin. As soon as I’d got back to my hotel room I dialled him on the burner, my fist clenched tight around the handset, the frustration and anger at McGregor’s casual dismissal of my methods still stoking the fire in my belly.

  Monroe answered after five rings. ‘Lori, what’s up?’

  ‘Your man McGregor is an ass. He’s—’

  ‘The best at across-the-border extraction. We need him in our corner.’

  ‘You think you need him.’

  ‘Don’t be petulant. We both need Fletcher. So we both need McGregor’s expertise.’

  ‘Only if Fletcher is in Mexico.’

  Monroe sighed. ‘Let’s not do this again. It’s getting boring.’

  I bit my lip. Seemed everyone was hell-bent on not listening to me. Good sense told me I was beat. There was no point banging on to Monroe when it was clear he wasn’t interested. I’d check into things myself. I worked better alone anyways.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Tell me, did you get the private plane information I asked for?’

  ‘I’m working on it.’

  ‘I need it soon as.’ I walked across the room to the coffee-maker. Added a coffee pod and switched it on. ‘Also, I need you to get me copies of the prison visitor logs for Fletcher.’

  ‘For what time period?’

  ‘All the way back to the start of his sentence preferably, but at least the last six months.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  The coffee-maker grumbled into action, the coffee filtering through into the cup below. I watched it impatiently. Needed a caffeine hit. ‘Thanks, I appreciate it.’

  ‘Noted.’ There was a hint of a smile in Monroe’s tone. ‘You not focusing everything on Mexico, then?’

  ‘McGregor is. I’ve got some other ideas I’m following up.’

  ‘You’re playing nice though?’

  I took the coffee from the machine. Had a sip. Strong – just as I liked my coffee and my men. ‘I’m trying.’

  Monroe laughed. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Kind of.’ And then thought, as much as I was willing to try and work with him.

  Monroe’s tone became serious again. ‘We need him Lori. Getting people back from over the border is dangerous.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Not to mention illegal.

  ‘He’s the best.’

  ‘So you said already.’ I took another sip of coffee. ‘Look, I’m not getting in his way. We just do things differently. It won’t affect the job.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m following up a few things here, and I’ve got Red looking into Fletcher’s arrest record and his family life back in Florida.’

  Monroe took a sharp intake of breath. ‘What has his arrest got to do with anything?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but there’s something not right about all this. I need to know what.’

  ‘The deal is with you, Lori, not some retired PI. You’ve got Dez and his team now. Cut Red loose.’

  I shook my head. Knew for damn sure that wasn’t going to happen. ‘I need a hand from someone I trust. He’s my guy.’

  Monroe cussed under his breath.

  I ignored his swearing. ‘So are we done?’

  Monroe didn’t reply, but it felt like he had something else to say.

  ‘What?’ I prompted.

  He cleared
his throat. ‘I didn’t know whether to tell you. Don’t want to raise your hopes. But JT gained consciousness earlier today.’

  I felt a jumble of emotions surge through me, all jostling for top spot: anger at Monroe for not calling me immediately; hope that JT was getting better; fear that he hadn’t been in touch with me himself. Relief won.

  ‘Can he speak?’ I asked. ‘Did he say who attacked him?’

  ‘He’s weak, but the doc says he should be able to talk.’

  I frowned. Didn’t like the sound of that. ‘“Able to”?’

  ‘He’s not said anything about anything yet.’

  ‘Not even about who attacked him?’

  ‘No, not that I know of.’

  ‘Did they ask?’

  ‘Lori, I don’t know. I—’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s—’

  Monroe was still speaking as I ended the call. JT was awake. I needed him to tell me who attacked him. But, more than that, I just needed to hear his voice.

  22

  JT wouldn’t speak to me. Wouldn’t take my call.

  The guard, or nurse, or whatever the man in the infirmary who answered the phone was, put me on hold. The carefree melody of a Taylor Swift song beat out of time with the way my heart was pounding crazy fast inside my chest as I waited. When the music stopped and the man came back on the line he told me in plain words that Tate wasn’t up to talking. JT was too weak, he said. But I didn’t believe it. If JT had talked to the guy on the end of the line, then he could have talked to me. If he’d wanted to speak with me he would have done, no matter how weakened he was.

  That he hadn’t hurt real bad.

  Still, I didn’t dwell on it. Knew nothing good could come from trying to analyse the whats and wherefores. I knew him as well as anyone, but in many ways JT was still an enigma. Maybe that was what made him both so intriguing and so frustrating.

  Be tough, I told myself. You’ve got this. You don’t need him.

  The only person you can ever truly rely upon is yourself.

  *

  I’d not expected to hear from Clint Norsen anytime soon, figured I’d most likely be having to chase him on the task I’d asked him to do, so his message surprised me. He wanted to talk. Had more intel. In truth it was a welcome distraction.