Ultimate Kill (Book 1 Ultimate CORE Trilogy) (CORE Series)

by Kristine Mason

  Martin sent him a tired smile, while his eyes held hints of conflict and apology. “They’re good agents. Hicks has been one of the leads during this investigation. Trust me, they have plenty of experience.” He reached for the door handle. “I’ll speak with you soon,” he said, and left the room.

  Maybe this was Martin’s way of helping him out of the current situation—not that he needed any help. Still, considering his importance and, as Martin had put it, the gravity of the investigation, he would have liked one of the agents to have had Special added to their title.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Hunnicutt,” Agent Suts said.

  He sat across from the two men, a metal table, made to look as if it were wood, separating them. “Can you tell me about Rose? Is she okay?”

  “Have you ever met her?” Suts asked instead.

  “One night, years ago, Ric Mancini and I had been out with business associates and he picked her up at a club. Honestly, I’d forgotten all about Rose. When I saw the woman in my warehouse, I didn’t recognize her until Ric reintroduced us.”

  “She claims otherwise.” Suts looked down at the opened file in front of him. “She says she had a relationship with you.”

  “What? That’s preposterous. When Ric was with her, I had just started dating my wife, Liliana, and was busy trying to convince her father that I was good enough for his daughter.” It hadn’t taken much to convince the old fool of anything. Money was an excellent motivator. “Speaking of which, I really wish you’d let me call my wife. I’m sure she’s worried sick.”

  “Your wife is fine. As you know, our agents met with her in New York.”

  “But the press. I’m concerned for my wife and kids and how all of this is affecting them.” “Your name hasn’t been mentioned to the media,” Hicks said, then added, “Not yet.”

  Even though he wanted to wipe the smug look off of Hicks’s face with the bottom of the shitty slipper-like shoe they’d forced him to wear, he feigned relief. “Thank God. If my children thought…” He wiped a hand down his face, then pressed his index finger and thumb against his closed eyes. “I don’t want them questioning, or thinking I’m capable of being involved with what Ric has done to all of those people.”

  “Let’s go back to that,” Suts said. “Starting with why you think Ric had anything to do with the bombings.”

  Christian dropped his hand in his lap. “He’d been acting…off the past week. If I caught him on the phone, he’d quickly end the call.”

  “What’s suspicious about that?” Hicks asked.

  “I didn’t think it was suspicious—at first. Then my bodyguard, Santiago Ramirez, disappeared for the entire week. He claimed he had the flu, but then one day I happened to hear Ric on the phone, and after listening to his half of the conversation, I realized he was talking to Santiago.”

  “It’s our understanding that Ric was in charge of your employees,” Suts said.

  Christian nodded. “True. Only I heard Ric tell Santiago something like, once he leaves Leavenworth, there’d be a plane waiting for him in St. Louis.”

  The two agents glanced at each other, then Hicks pulled out a large photo from his file and slid it across the table. “Do you know a man named Michael Fairclough? Goes by Mickey?”

  When he glanced down at Mickey’s prison photo, he furrowed his brows and pretended to think. “No. I have thousands of employees. Does he work for my company?”

  “We’ve checked your employee records and found that he applied. One of our agents interviewed some of your employees who remembered Fairclough. They said he was in a local bar near one of your docks getting drunk and talking about his time in prison. They also said he’d spoken with Ric that night.”

  “That was ten days ago,” Suts added.

  “What does this Michael Fairclough have to do with anything?” he asked. “Was he working for Ric?”

  “We believe so. Unfortunately, he’s dead.” Hicks slid another photo across the table. “Is this jogging your memory?”

  He looked to the picture, then quickly turned away and covered his mouth.

  “Michael Fairclough had been shot in the leg, stabbed in the eye and had the name Rose Wood carved into his stomach,” Suts said.

  “He’d been tortured, Mr. Hunnicutt.” Hicks took the photo back. “We found him in the back end of the Yukon registered to Santiago Ramirez.”

  “You mean…the same SUV that Santiago drove into my warehouse garage?” Christian asked, widening his eyes to make sure his shock was apparent. “Oh, my God. Do you think Ric or Santiago killed this man?”

  The bald agent nodded. “The bullets we found lodged in Fairclough’s leg and head, along with the one removed from Santiago, are an exact ballistic fingerprint to the bullets fired from Ric’s gun.”

  “Oh, my God,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I…I just can’t believe it.”

  “Mr. Hunnicutt,” Suts said, folding his hands together and resting them on the table. “When agents found you, they said you were on your cell phone and running through the room. They said it appeared as if you were searching for something.”

  “Your men took my phone. I’m sure they’ve found that the call I was making was to Martin Fitzgerald.” Thanks to Liliana, he’d suspected the FBI might knock on the door of his warehouse apartment, which was why he’d disposed of Ric and Santiago when he had. As for calling Martin, he’d wanted to make sure there’d been a record of his reporting the double murders. After all, he was the victim.

  “Yes, we know.”

  “And I was searching for Rose. Ric had her tied to the chair and I—”

  “Ms. McCall said you tied her to the chair,” Hicks said, his tone laced with allegation.

  Christian glanced between both men. “McCall?”

  “Naomi McCall is Rose Wood,” Suts clarified.

  “What are you talking about? Are you telling me this woman has two identities?”

  Suts nodded. “She claims she changed her name to stop you from being able to find her.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Anyone can change their name, but they can’t change their social security number without leaving a paper trail. And before you ask me how I know this, I had a paranoid schizophrenic second cousin who tried. My great-uncle was able to find him like that,” he said and snapped his fingers. “If her accusations are true, I could have hired someone to track her down. But I didn’t because I haven’t seen or thought about the woman in nearly a decade. And why would I? She was Ric’s girlfriend or one-night stand, or whatever she’d meant to him.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s not here to verify that,” Hicks said.

  “Unfortunately, he’s not.” Christian honed in on his acting skills and played the part of a grieving friend. “Neither is Santiago. Both men had been with me for fifteen years. They weren’t just employees to me.” He met Hicks gaze and laid it on thick. “I have very few people that I can trust. Those men were my friends. I trusted Ric with my business and Santiago with my life.”

  “Mr. Hunnicutt,” Suts interjected, “start at the beginning. What happened at the warehouse? How is it that we found blood spattered on your clothes and gunpowder residue on your hand?”

  He ignored the accusation in the agent’s eyes and thought back to the day he’d discovered there was no treasure in the center of the labyrinth he’d worked so hard to find. He hadn’t been lying to Rose when he’d told her he had wanted to possess the unabashed innocence that had first drawn him to her. Eight years ago, cynicism had been weighing him down. He’d just killed his father and had a business to run. The daily pressure had begun to take its toll on his nerves. Meanwhile, he’d been courting Liliana. That, in and of itself, had been hell. With her need to be pampered and doted upon, he’d hated the woman on sight. Couple that with having to deal with her pain-in-the-ass father, he’d been at his wit’s end. With the agent staring at him, waiting for him to slip, he went back to the nine-year-old child he’d once been and tapped into those long forgotten emo
tions, and, voilà, his eyes misted with unshed tears.

  Damn, he should have been an actor.

  He cleared his throat and acted as if he was trying to pull himself together. “I’m sure you know, after the explosion in Denver, I gave a press conference. Ric set it up and was with me.”

  “We’re fully aware,” Suts said, looking down at the file on the desk.

  “When we finished there and I learned of yet another bombing, I told Ric I didn’t want to go back to the corporate offices. Losing those two pilots…did you know that the one pilot, Jerry Rose, not only left behind two young children, but a wife battling breast cancer?” He stared off to the wall behind Hicks. “It’s only a matter of time before those kids are orphans.”

  Suts looked to Hicks. “We didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t either until he was killed. The news hit me hard and I wanted to go to the warehouse and take time to draft the plans I’d spoken about during my press conference. I made it public that I intend to aid those who had been effected by today’s bombings.” He manufactured one of the looks of grief and sadness he’d practiced in front of the mirror before giving the press conference. “I still intend to do just that.” He wiped at his eyes. “When Ric and I arrived at my warehouse apartment, I closeted myself in my office.”

  “What time was that?” Hicks asked, his pen poised over a notepad.

  “About one-thirty, I think.” He looked between the men. “Why?”

  “We’ll get to that.” Hicks jotted something down. “What happened next?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t recall the exact times, but I spoke with my wife, my secretary and my minister.” Too bad he’d had to kill Ric. The man had been great at his job and had brilliantly suggested he make those calls, should there ever be a need for an alibi. “I had a headache and tried to sleep it off in my room, but I found myself glued to the TV, anxious to learn about what was happening.”

  “We found blood evidence in the guest room next to your office.” Hicks tapped his pen against the table. “You said you’ve never heard of or met Michael Fairclough and yet his DNA is all over that room. How is it that you didn’t know he was there?”

  “Was he there when I was in residence?” he asked with exasperation. “Agent Hicks, when I had the third floor of the warehouse converted into a private apartment, I also had the walls soundproofed. I’m not suggesting that I wouldn’t hear a man scream— Look, I don’t go into that room. It’s for guests. Is it possible Ric had him in that room while I was there? Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know?” He slammed his palm against the metal table. “I. Didn’t. See. Him. Here’s another thing you should know. I told you Santiago claimed to have the flu. The first time I saw him in over a week was at my warehouse apartment. After I arrived from the press conference.”

  Suts looked to his fellow agent, but Hicks kept his focus on him. “Were you surprised to see Santiago? How was he acting?”

  “Of course I was surprised. I thought the man was sick. But he told me he was better and wanted to be by my side because of what happened to the company plane. As for how he was acting.” He lifted a shoulder. “I didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “Ms. McCall said Santiago picked her up from the Carlyle airstrip just shortly after three and brought her back to the warehouse.” Agent Hicks glanced down at the open file in front of him. “She claims you forced her to decide between detonating another bomb or killing the man you were also forcing to activate the explosions.”

  Christian rubbed his forehead. Fuck. His Rose was a definite thorn in his side. “I have no idea what she’s talking about. I have nothing to do with these bombings. As for the man she’s referring to…are you talking about this Michael Fairclough?”

  “No.” Suts shook his head. “His brother, Harrison.”

  The smart brother. The shithead who took the laptop and ran off with Vlad. God, he couldn’t wait to watch them both bleed. “I don’t know who Michael is, and I certainly don’t know anything about his brother.” He slammed his palm against the table again. “Why? Because I had nothing to do with those bombings.” He glared at both men, then blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re taking the word of a woman who supposedly changed her name to hide from me, a women who I had zero interactions with, other than exchanging a few words before she walked off with Ric—eight years ago. Now you’re accusing me of threatening a man who I’ve never seen or met. What else did this brother tell you?”

  Hicks leaned back in his chair. “He confirmed Ms. McCall’s story.”

  Liar. Harrison wasn’t in custody. If he was, they’d likely have the laptop and he would have already been charged with domestic terrorism. During the years he’d been friends with Martin, he’d learned a thing or two about FBI and police interrogation tactics. Martin had, after relaying a closed case that had been made public, explained that his agents had lied about information to lure their informant into cracking.

  He wasn’t about to crack. Harrison, Vlad…Rose, he had unfinished business to attend to and he couldn’t do it behind bars.

  “I don’t know how that’s possible.” He tugged at the V-neck of the hideous jumpsuit. “I’ve never met him and he was never at my apartment.”

  “Fingerprint analysis says otherwise.” Suts pulled out a sheet of paper from his file and examined it. “You can’t deny the evidence.”

  He wanted to tell them to take their bullshit evidence and shove it up their asses. He’d planned for this moment just as methodically as he had planned the bombings. “You’re right.” He nodded instead. “I can’t. But I’m telling you I never saw or met the man. Is it possible he was at my apartment before I arrived?” He shook his head. “Agent Suts, you’ve been to my warehouse. There are plenty of places a man can hide. Or maybe the man left when I came there. I don’t know. What I do know is, again, I never saw him.”

  “Ms. McCall watched Harrison Fairclough detonate the bomb from a laptop,” Suts continued. “She said he did it because you had a gun pointed to his head. After the signal had been sent, she also said you pulled the trigger, but there had been no bullets.”

  “Interesting. You also have the gun I carry—which I have a permit for. I’m sure you’ve noticed that it’s most certainly loaded. But I haven’t used the weapon in months. And the last time I did was at a firing range.”

  “The gunpowder residue on your hand says otherwise.”

  Christian threw his hands in the air. “It wasn’t from my gun.”

  “Right.” Agent Hicks continued to tap his damned pen against the table. “It was from Ric’s. Why don’t you explain how your fingerprints ended up on his gun?”

  “Gladly.” Oh, how he’d love to shove that pen up the agent’s nose and straight to his brain. “About three-thirty—I’m not sure the exact time—I came out of my bedroom. Rose…Naomi, she was there. After Ric reintroduced us, I pulled him aside and asked him what the hell she was doing here. He said she was in town on business and that they’d made plans to get together. I told him to get her the hell out of my warehouse.” He tapped his thumb against his chest. “I wanted my privacy. I also told him the apartment was my place, not his. That he was not to bring his women back here. So, Ric said he’d get rid of her and put her in a hotel, once he had a room.” He shook his head. “I was furious and went back into my bedroom to watch the news. When I saw one of my delivery trucks had been targeted, I rushed out of the bedroom. Rose was tied to the chair and Ric and Santiago were standing by her arguing.”

  He drew in a deep breath. Now was his time to shine. He stared Hicks directly in the eyes. “I’ve never been so sickened and scared in my life. I pulled Ric into the office and demanded he tell me what the hell was going on, but before he could explain, Santiago burst through the door.”

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he relived the scene. Only he added the embellishments, along with the fabricated fear and desperation the moment should have called for—if it had been true. “Santiago went af
ter Ric. Ric drew the gun he carried from the clip attached to his back. I tried to restrain Ric and stop him from shooting Santiago. Before I could…” He drew in another deep breath. “It happened so fast. Santiago slit Ric’s throat and, at the same time, the gun went off. That’s how I had the blood on my shirt. And that’s how I had the gunpowder residue on my hands.”

  He made his chin tremble and swallowed hard. At the same time, he looked to the desk. “There was so much blood. I…can’t believe they’re both gone. I can’t believe that they were behind these bombings. It makes no sense.”

  Christian kept his eyes cast down, when he really wanted to glare at the agents and tell them to go fuck themselves. Idiots. They had no idea who they were dealing with—at all.

  “So,” Suts began, “the gun goes off and kills Santiago and…”

  “While I called Martin, I ran out of the office to check on Rose.” He looked at them and frowned. “When I didn’t find her tied to the chair, I started looking for her. I wanted to make sure she was okay and to let her know she was safe. Honestly, I was hoping she could give me answers.”

  “What kind of answers?” Suts asked.

  “Why was she really here? What were Ric and Santiago up to?”

  “You didn’t suspect they were involved in the bombings?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  Hicks held up the photo of Mickey and stabbed his index finger at the carvings on the dumb brother’s stomach. “Rose Wood.”

  Christian rubbed his temple and looked away from the picture. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  Suts glanced to his notes. “Do you recall where the first bombing took place?”

  “Yes, San Francisco.”

  “What about the name of the establishment?”

  He looked to the ceiling as if thinking. “Redwood Tavern?”

  “No. It was Rosewood Bar & Grill. I know you remember the name of the pilots who lost their lives in Denver and—”

  “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “Jerry Rose and Woody Gilmore. Rose…Wood.”