by David Graham
A hostile reply was enough to prompt her to move to the next door. A handful of rapid, similarly unsuccessful attempts confirmed her worst suspicions. There were few remaining options. Even if it was feasible to shoot her way into one of the apartments, all that would accomplish would be to endanger the occupants. In the course of trying the apartments she had moved down the corridor away from the stairwell, and while trying to decide on her next move, she spotted a door forty feet away at the end of the corridor. It could lead anywhere but she hoped there was a rear staircase behind it. Sprinting towards it, there was a moment of relief when she pushed the heavy door open to confirm her suspicions.
The door had not even swung shut behind her when her hopes plummeted. A barrage of fire strafed the wall to her left and bit into her arm. There was another one below her on this exit route. Not even bothering to attempt to return fire, she grabbed the door before it closed fully and retreated back into the corridor. She moved back along the passage until she was halfway between the two sets of stairs. A burst of sustained gunfire from the main stairwell froze her in her tracks. The entire stairwell was briefly lit up from the effects of their gunfire. She figured they were preparing themselves to rush her.
Diane pressed her back to the wall and slid down heavily, feeling herself starting to lose it. Her shoulders shook and, despite her best efforts, the tears began trickling down her face. Cornered by at least four of them, each more heavily armed than she. Her arm was beginning to hurt from where the bullet had grazed her, bringing back all the unpleasant memories from the last shooting and its aftermath. She tried her phone again but there was no change.
“Fuck!” she shouted in frustration, throwing it against the wall.
It was over, there was no way out of this. A wave of bitterness swept over her. After everything she had been through, this was not fair. How much was she expected to take?
Then, it passed.
Bitterness gave way to anger, anger that demanded action. It might be futile but she would not just curl up in a ball and make it easy for them. She resolved to take at least one of them with her. There was little chance of realising that goal on the main staircase – the odds were too stacked. But there was a chance that there was only the one pursuer on the rear staircase. With escape no longer the primary aim, she might last long enough to achieve her goal. Once more, she began edging toward the heavy door.
Before she had moved more than a few feet, a deafening crescendo of sound emanated from the main staircase. The sound pierced her ears to the point of causing physical pain. She clasped her hand to her head but it did little to soften the onslaught. It took a moment to realise it was emanating from some kind of weapon. Whatever it was, the source of the fire was as removed from the youths’ sub-machine guns as they were from her pistol. Mercifully, it only lasted seconds but her ears were left aching in the aftermath.
“Derrell! Derrell!”
Even with her impaired hearing, the shrill voice of the first youth was audible. He was shouting nervously at the top of his voice and was clearly in a state of panic. Whatever had happened had originated below him on the staircase and had not been expected. There was no guarantee that whatever was unfolding would benefit her. She had the choice of sitting there and hoping for the best or taking action. Staying tight along the wall nearest the door hinges, she resumed her movement towards the door. When she reached it, she weighed up the possibilities. If the youth on the rear staircase was merely covering the exit then he might not have moved from where he had been before. She estimated that to be one floor down. Alternatively he could be advancing, he could be only a matter of feet away, on the other side of the door. Whichever it was, she decided what would give her the best hope was the thing he least expected. She needed to attack. That meant completing the dangerous manoeuvre of opening the door and getting through it. She needed to start firing as soon as the door had moved enough to squeeze through. If she did not manage this, his superior fire would cut her down immediately. She visualised the procedure over and over again. Pushing the door, shooting, the lines of fire she would need for the different locations he might be in. With a heavy exhalation, she launched herself off the wall.
A number of things happened on top of one another. She was vaguely aware, as her right shoulder hit the door, of a second explosion of sound beginning behind her. She felt the door start to give, slowly first then a sudden release and she was through. Hitting something heavy, she stumbled and fell down the first flight of stairs. During the tumble, she realised, in an almost detached fashion, that the other component of the tangle of arms and legs was her intended target. The fall took for ever as they rolled over and over. Through the descent, flashes of his panicked face appeared. They hit the next level, separating and slamming into different corners of the landing. Her head hit the wall heavily and the stairwell shifted in and out of focus. She could just make out a blurred image of him scrambling for his weapon, which had fallen a few feet away. Raising her gun, which she had miraculously managed to hold onto, she squeezed the trigger. Her first couple of shots struck wide of the mark and his hand grasped the gun. Her third shot struck him in the chest but seemed to have no effect other than a small tremor, almost as if his food was repeating on him. His gun cleared the floor. The edge of darkness closed in around her vision, obliterating everything but the eighteen inches from the middle of his chest to the top of his head. With one final effort, she squeezed the trigger, again and again before her eyes closed.
A strong grip took her under both arms and pulled her to her feet. She opened her eyes blearily, making out the vague outline of a man’s face. She fell against him unsteadily, then her vision started to clear. Peering over his shoulder, she saw the bloody corpse of a child, no older than fifteen, lying on the landing.
“Come on,” he said, leading her out.
They stopped at a late-night diner two hours’ drive from Baltimore. Her companion had cleaned the superficial wound on her arm and the pain was bearable. Her mind was still in a haze; she kept replaying the shootout mentally, the images of the dead teenager impossible to banish.
He did not rush her, patiently waiting while he sipped his coffee. Slowly, she gathered herself together and took a good look at him. He had thick closely cut dark hair, a slightly cruel face and Hispanic features. His complexion failed to mask a sickly pallor and, even from across the table, an odour of stale sweat added to an impression of ill-health. Then it clicked and she knew who he was.
“Lorcy.”
Momentary surprise and then it was gone. “That’ll do for now,” he shrugged. “If you’re okay to talk, let’s start with what happened back there?”
“Okay.”
She waited, and after a confused silence, saw that he expected her to begin.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know and I’ll fill in the blanks?” she tried.
“Okay,” he shrugged. “I picked you up at Wallace’s place and followed you from there.”
He went back to sipping his coffee.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“What about the ... shooting?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re saying you just killed at least three children and you don’t have the vaguest clue why?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen you before tonight. I followed you from Wallace’s and saw you enter the building. Two of those ‘children’ followed you in, it looked like they were expecting you.”
“So you came in guns blazing?”
“I was barely inside the door when the first shots were fired. It was evident that someone had set up an ambush.”
“And why did you get involved?”
He sighed. “I need answers to important questions. I need them quickly and there was little prospect of me getting them the way things were looking. I took a gamble you might have them.”
“You killed three children,” she repeated.
“They were hardly children, besides their
age was irrelevant; their capability was as clear as their intent. Try watching experienced soldiers getting gunned down by AK-47-wielding twelve year olds and see what it does for your perspective.”
She searched his face for any trace of doubt or remorse but there was nothing. Something he had said earlier struck home.
“You know Wallace?” she asked.
He nodded.
“It’s true then.”
Her mind flooded with thoughts, like tumblers in a lock falling into place. Wallace’s confirmed involvement caused her to reframe all of the events around the conflict.
“Why should I talk to you?”
“Based on tonight, I’d say you’re in a pretty bad jam. Maybe we can help each other.”
He began shovelling food into his mouth, eyeing her dispassionately.
“I was there to meet someone.”
He stopped, fork halfway to his mouth. “No, you were there to die.”
“I was there to meet a contractor who can expose what Spartan were doing for Wallace. Obviously, he set me up. For all I know, you’re part of it.”
“Does that sound plausible? Set up an ambush, kill the ambushers and then bring you to a diner?”
“Okay, you weren’t involved in the ambush but you’re still mixed up with Wallace. You need to find out how much I know and who I’ve spoken to.”
“Considering what you’ve told me so far, it seems like I’m not the only one who needs answers. What is it you think is going on with Spartan?”
“You’ve as good as admitted to being Lorcy, or using the name at least; don’t pretend you don’t know about Spartan.”
“Know what?”
“Are you trying to deny what you were doing for Wallace?”
He shuddered and a trickle of sweat wound down his forehead. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small container and washed some pills back with a mouthful of coffee. After he swallowed, he rested his head against the back of the booth and closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Let’s just say I’m not as fortunate as you when it comes to shoot-outs. Look, let’s try again. Who are you?”
She considered simply getting up and walking out. He looked as if he was having trouble just staying conscious. What could he do to stop her? What he had said was true, though, she needed answers. She had thought tonight’s meeting would bring some but all it had done was leave her more frightened and confused. Someone wanted her dead and was likely to try again. But why trust the man sitting across the table?
In the end it came down to the simple fact that she would be dead if it had not been for his intervention and that had to count for something, regardless of his motives.
“I’m Diane Mesi and I’m with the DEA. My appointment was with an ex-Spartan employee who had information about Spartan’s illegal operations in Colombia. Operations I believe are linked to your attempts to drag the Alliance and Kosovars into a war.”
“What are you talking about? Spartan isn’t remotely connected with anything I might have done. Where did you get that idea?”
“You’re denying Andrew Brewer was part of your operation?”
He started to speak and stopped himself a couple of times before he seemed happy with what he wanted to say.
“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, I did know Brewer and have had dealings with him. We wouldn’t have been foolish enough to involve Spartan. Spartan is too many people; where could you possibly get the notion it was involved?”
“I was going to meet an ex-employee who –”
“Had information. You said! How did you come by this employee?”
“He was fired because he objected to what Spartan were asking him to do.”
“They were asking him to do something illegal?”
“Yes.”
The man laughed.
“What’s so funny? Are you saying Spartan couldn’t exceed the remit of Plan Coca?”
“No, not at all. For all I know, Spartan and all the other private contract firms in Colombia exceeded it on a daily basis but it doesn’t mean a thing. It’s nothing to do with the Kosovars.”
“Will Pickroom left Spartan last year; I checked.”
“Maybe he did. So what?”
“I checked.” She stopped, no longer certain.
“Do you really think there’d be some ex-contractor from Spartan walking around blabbing to people like you?”
Everything he said made sense. She had wanted there to be a connection between Spartan and the feud so badly, something concrete after months of chasing shadows. She had not even stopped to question the logic. Why would a group of people go to the lengths they had on the Mexican operation and then do something as sloppy as involve such a high-profile company? That was what happened when you became that desperate, you didn’t think things through. Still, there was some consolation in not being the only one to have grasped at straws. Tom had thought that there was a link as well.
Then it struck home and her whole world disintegrated.
“Oh my God!” she sobbed, a physical pain gripping her chest.
A couple of customers seated at the bar looked over at the commotion and her companion had to reach across and grab her arm tightly.
“Keep your voice down. What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I was set up,” she cried, her face in her hands.
“You knew that!”
She shook her head slowly, tears starting to appear.
“You don’t understand, I was set up by someone I know, someone I trust, someone I ... ”
He waited for her to compose herself but she only got worse, seeming to turn more and more in on herself. This was no good. He had seen people fall apart before; if he did not get her talking soon she would be useless.
He squeezed her arm hard, increasing the pressure until the pain was enough to get a reaction. “Who? Who set you up?”
“Tom.”
“Who’s Tom?”
“My friend.” She broke down again. The people at the counter looked around again. This time it required a vicious glare from the man to convince them to mind their own business. They could not stay here much longer but he needed to know who she was talking about.
“Besides supposedly being your friend, who is he? What does this Tom do?”
“He works for the CIA.”
Hughes tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting for the call to be picked up.
“Hello?” the sleepy voice drawled.
“You were meant to call with a status.”
“No, I said I’d call when I heard something. I haven’t heard.”
“Are you mocking me, Clarke?”
“No, no.” All trace of sleep disappeared. “All I’m trying to say is that when we chose to go this route it wasn’t with standard expectations of professionalism. The only thing these little bastards are good for is pulling a trigger.”
“So what are they doing? Why haven’t they called in?”
“Honestly? They’re probably somewhere, sucking on a crack pipe. They’re fifteen-, sixteen-year-old gang-bangers.”
“They were your responsibility.”
“I told them to call me after,” he protested. “I warned you there were drawbacks in using them.”
“Why are you assuming it went without a hitch?”
“I should have said, they did call to say she had shown up and that they were going in. She was on her own; they confirmed that much. There were four of them, with enough firepower to take out a small village.”
He considered what Clarke was saying. “She was definitely alone?”
“One hundred per cent. Look you said you needed distance, that it needed to look random. This was the best way.”
There was no point in pursuing this. “Okay, call me the minute you hear.”
“Yeah, alright, but I gotta warn you, if they’ve gone off on one of their binges, it could be a while.”
“I said call!” He hung up before he had to lis
ten to any more.
It was irritating having to put up with this kind of nonsense. The matter should have been closed tonight. He pictured Diane the last time he had seen her. She had been excited. Partly with his discovery about Pickroom but mostly at what they had discussed for their future. Again, he questioned his conclusion that she had to die.
If there could have been another way, he would have accepted it eagerly. If only she had not come to suspect Wallace. At the start, he had only wanted to get close to her to keep watch on how she was doing with her investigation. He could feed her a little misinformation, ensure she was steered away from anything too dangerous. Then that fool Brewer had fucked up by using Kates, and the shootout with Abeylan resulted. After that, he had to do something more to gain her confidence. Showing her some support when everyone else failed her seemed to be the obvious way.
But it had changed at some point. She had started to mean something to him. Or that’s what he thought had happened. He had been leading this life for so long that sometimes even he wasn’t sure where the charade ended and reality begun. He remonstrated with himself to be truthful. It had been clear that it might come to this. He had used all her vulnerabilities to ensure he was optimally positioned. He had tailored himself to fill all the gaps, every emotional weakness in her life. Part of him protested at the thought and the self-loathing that came with it. The same part that had vaguely imagined some future with her after the mission had come to a successful conclusion.
He snapped himself out of it, remembering there was still work to do. Difficult work, necessary work which he had to see to. Later there would be time enough for this self-indulgence.
He closed his mind to all thoughts of her and turned his attention to the matter of Madrigal’s displacement.
twelve
They drove over 300 miles to make it by morning.
Between the long trek and the ordeal of the previous night, she should have been exhausted, but the reverberations of what had occurred had left her in a trance-like state. She had tried to pick holes in her conclusion that Tom had been the one who had intended her to be killed. She desperately wanted to believe she was wrong and that what they had shared had been real. In the end, though, she had accepted the truth. Each time she began the process of trying to construct a plausible alternative, she had revisited the intimacy they had shared and the pain grew. A small part of her, the rational part to which she was just barely holding on, appreciated how he had played on her weaknesses, how her desperate need for an ally had made it so easy for him.
