by Mark Dawson
Rain hammered down on the soft top and slicked across the windshield.
“This is it,” Mendoza said.
Milton checked the time. They had made good progress and were early. Logan was a professional. He would likely be early, too. Milton had to hope that they had beaten him.
He looked left and right, assessing the location, and then he called Hicks.
“What do you want me to do?” Hicks asked.
“Get out of sight and scout the area. See if you can get around onto the other side of the dock.”
“Copy that.”
The cabin of Mendoza’s car was lit up by the headlights of the rental as Hicks navigated around them and turned into a side street that led away from the water.
Mendoza left his hands on the wheel. “What do you want me to do?”
“What happened the last time you met him here? Where did you meet?”
“Here.”
“He came to the car?”
Mendoza nodded.
“And then?”
“He got in, we spoke, he gave me my money. Then he left.”
“He was alone?”
“I didn’t see anyone else.”
Milton gripped the pistol a little tighter. “This is what we’re going to do. You stay here. I’m going to wait where he won’t be able to see me. You’re going to act as if this is just like the last time. Understand?”
Mendoza nodded.
Milton pressed the muzzle against the side of the inspector’s head. “I would very happily shoot you and throw you in the harbour, but Officer Hernandez doesn’t want that to happen. She wants you to be charged and tried. I owe her, so I’ve agreed.” He pushed with the gun until he could see the cords stand out on Mendoza’s neck. “But if you run, or if anything happens to spook Logan, the deal is off. And I’ll come for you.”
Milton pulled the gun away. He opened the door and stepped out into the deluge. The smell was overpowering: the odour of rotting fish mixed with the stench from the nearby dump. Milton felt the urge to gag. He swallowed it down and hurried across the road to a line of ancient freight containers. They must have been on the dock for months; they were corroded, patches of rust spreading across the metal like lichen, the doors jimmied open and whatever they might have been holding long since looted and carried off. He walked to the nearest container. He looked inside and saw an inky blackness. Milton went in, his boots ringing off the metal floor. The storm hammered against the metal, a constant drumming that rang in Milton’s ears. He turned and looked back. The container offered an excellent vantage point and he knew that he would be invisible for as long as he stayed inside it.
He closed his fist around the butt of the pistol, lowering it so that it rested against his thigh.
He had no idea whether Logan would make the meet. He was obviously a careful man; he and Mendoza could have met anywhere, yet a place like this offered discretion and the multiple exit points that would make it very difficult to follow him should he decide he needed to leave.
Milton had to hope that the news of his escape from Bilibid would be sufficiently important to flush Logan out of the shadows.
He looked out through the curtain of rain that ran off the roof of the container. He looked onto the dock and at the car, the interior light casting a faint glow on Mendoza as he lit a cigarette and blew smoke out the window.
Milton had no choice but to wait.
72
JOSIE WAS soaked to the skin, her hair plastered against her face and her waterlogged uniform cold and heavy against her skin. She followed Hicks as they moved around the rear of the dockside area. There was a road that ran parallel to the dock, and it allowed them to change position without revealing themselves to Mendoza or anyone else who might be waiting near the water’s edge. The storm was unpleasant to be out in, but it would make it even more difficult for Logan to see them.
Hicks stopped suddenly and reached back with his right arm, then shepherded her roughly into the doorway of a warehouse building.
“What is it?” she hissed at him.
“Car,” he said, pointing ahead.
She followed his gesture and saw it. The car was running without lights, driving slowly on the other side of the junction with the road that led down to the dock. They both pressed themselves into the doorway as the car turned into the road and then disappeared from view.
“Milton,” Hicks said into the telephone, “car coming.”
Josie couldn’t hear Milton’s reply.
“The lights are off,” Hicks continued. “It looked like a rental. Could be him.”
Josie took the opportunity to glance around. She didn’t really know Tondo all that well. The slums seemed to grow larger every year, gradually spreading out to cover more and more of the capital, like fungus spreading across abandoned trash. This area was less populous than the districts around Smokey Mountain, but there were still people here. She saw a group of kids fifty feet away, sheltering beneath a tarpaulin tent and watching them.
“Come on,” Hicks said to her.
He stepped away from the building into the rain and set off, jogging in the direction of the junction.
Josie followed. She reached across her body and felt for the reassuring bulge of the pistol in her jacket pocket. She had conducted her own quick search of Mendoza’s property while Milton’s attention was on the inspector and had found the pistol in a drawer in the bedroom. It was a Springfield XD-S. She was fortunate; it was one of the best carry guns on the market. It had a single stack magazine that could hold five rounds of .45ACP ammunition and another in the chamber. The gun squirmed a little in the hand, but you could get around it with a firm grip. There was a spare magazine in the drawer, too, and she pocketed that, too.
She was determined that this was going to be done properly. She was going to arrest Mendoza and whoever it was he had come out here to meet. Milton could ask his questions, but the men would be arrested and given the benefit of due process.
There was enough death in Manila. The police indulged in it, encouraged by the government. She would not. Her parents had taught her to do things the right way. Her training at the academy had been the same. And, most important of all, she wanted to set Angelo the right example. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to look her son in the eye if she turned her back and allowed Milton to do whatever it was he was planning to do.
It needed to be done right.
She would make sure that it was.
“CAR COMING.”
Milton pressed the phone closer to his ear.
“What can you see?”
“The lights are off. It looked like a rental. Could be him.”
“Stand by.”
He saw the car. It turned out of the road that led to Smokey Mountain and crawled along the dock toward him. Its lights were still off. Milton could see the shape of the driver, but it was too far away and too dark for him to make out any detail.
The car stopped.
Mendoza’s Porsche was between Milton and the new arrival.
The second car lit its headlights, tunnels of brightness that burrowed through the slanting rain. Milton could see the vague outline of the driver, but nothing else. He looked away and blinked. The short wait had given his eyes the chance to adjust to the gloom, and if he looked into the lights, it would take time for them to correct themselves again.
The headlights flicked off.
Milton heard the click of the door and watched as it opened.
He looked to Mendoza. He was still in the Boxster.
“Where are you?” Milton whispered into the phone.
“Behind the new car.”
“Can you see anything?”
“Not much.”
“Is it him?”
“Can’t say.”
“Whoever it is, we’ve got him penned in.”
“Copy that.”
“Where’s Josie?”
“With me.”
Milton fought the urge to groan. �
�She wouldn’t stay in the car?”
“Afraid not.”
“Fine,” he said, exasperated. “Just try to keep her out of the way.”
“Copy that. Milton—”
The driver of the second car stepped out and raised an umbrella.
Milton crouched down as low as he could manage without compromising his vantage point.
The man set off. There was fifteen feet between the two vehicles. He moved calmly, confidently, sheltering beneath the umbrella. There was a crack of lightning and the dock was flooded with a snap of bright white light.
It was enough: Milton recognised Logan.
Logan reached the Porsche. He opened the passenger door, folded the umbrella, and got in.
Milton gripped the pistol.
JOSIE WATCHED the man get out of the car and walk over to Mendoza.
“What are they doing?” she hissed, more to herself than to Hicks.
“We need to wait,” he said, his pistol clasped in both hands.
“And then?”
“Leave it to Milton.”
“I want to take them in,” she said. “I—”
There were two flashes.
Josie thought it was more lightning, but then realised that it wasn’t.
The flashes had come from the interior of Mendoza’s car.
Josie gasped.
The noise of the gunshots was muffled by the rain, but still audible.
“Shit,” Hicks said.
Josie pulled the gun and stepped around Hicks.
“Josie,” he said, but she ignored him.
The Boxster’s door opened and the man stepped out.
Hicks reached for her arm, but she shook him off.
The shooter’s back was facing her. He hadn’t seen her yet.
“Police!” she called. “Get your hands up!”
The man turned.
He had a gun in his right hand.
He aimed.
Josie fired.
She knew she had missed as soon as she pulled the trigger. She was too far away for the little Springfield to be truly accurate, and the shot passed harmlessly over the head of her target.
He fired back.
Josie felt the sharp sting as the bullet struck her in the top of her right thigh. It was as if she had been punched on the muscle; there was no pain, though, just a feeling of numbness. She staggered back, the Springfield slipping from her fingers, and then, unbalanced, she keeled over. She felt strong hands reaching beneath her arms before she could fall and felt her heels scraping against the ground as she was hauled backwards. The numbness was curious, but it didn’t last for long. She looked down and saw the blood on her trousers as it seeped out of the hole that had appeared on the side of her leg.
A second shot came; it crashed into the wall just behind her.
The pain rolled over her in waves.
The idea suddenly seemed preposterous. “I’ve been shot!”
“Hang on,” Hicks grunted. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
73
“POLICE! Get your hands up!”
Milton saw Josie step forward, falling into a shaft of brightness cast by one of the only working lamps on the dock.
She had a pistol in her hands. Milton had no idea that she was armed.
Logan turned and aimed his own weapon.
Josie fired.
Milton saw the flash from her pistol and heard the bright ching as her bullet ricocheted off one of the metallic containers farther along the dock.
A bad miss.
Logan fired back.
Milton saw Josie stagger and fall.
Logan fired again, then ducked behind the open car door, covering himself from the position that Josie and Hicks had taken up.
Milton stepped out of the container and aimed.
“Logan,” he called out.
The man spun around.
Milton fired. He aimed low, into Logan’s gut.
It was an easy shot. The shot found its mark. Logan fell back against the open door and, reaching down for his stomach, he dropped onto his backside.
Milton squinted his eyes against the rain and aimed down as he approached Logan. Logan had his left hand pressed over the wound in his belly, and he clutched his pistol in his right.
“Drop it.”
Logan did as he was told, extending his arm to the side and releasing the pistol. It splashed into a filthy puddle of water.
Milton moved quickly, closing the distance until he was alongside. He swept his foot and sent the pistol splashing away. He glanced into the car. Mendoza was leaning forward, his body held in the seat by the belt. The impact of the gunshots had turned his head to the side, enough so that Milton could see the exit wounds. His blood and brain matter had been sprayed haphazardly across the ceiling and smeared over the inside of the windshield and the door.
Milton covered Logan with the pistol in his right hand and held the phone in his left. He put it to his ear.
“Hicks?”
“She’s been shot.”
“How bad?”
“In the leg. Can’t say how bad, but she’s losing blood.”
“Get her to a doctor.”
“What about—”
“Now, Hicks. Take her. Mendoza is dead. I’ve got Logan.”
Milton put the phone away and crouched down. He grabbed Logan by the collar and hauled him away from the support of the car door. He dragged him forward until he toppled over, his face in the muck and the grime and the rivulets of water that hurried down the slope to the dock. Milton put his knee in the centre of Logan’s back and frisked him quickly and expertly. He found a wallet, a phone, a set of car keys, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, a magazine of ammunition, and a small butterfly knife.
He tossed Logan’s belongings onto the hood of the car, yanked him up and dumped him back against the door.
Milton looked at him: the man was handling the situation with about as much composure as could be expected. He stayed still, facing ahead, his fear betrayed only by a tic that jumped in his cheek. He had both hands pressed to his abdomen now. Blood pumped out regardless; his shirt was thick with it, and it seeped out beneath his palms and between his fingers.
Milton had been accurate. It was a gut shot. Logan would die without treatment, but it would take him thirty minutes to bleed out. Long enough for him to know that his cause wasn’t lost, but not so long that he might think he had any chance of surviving without help.
Logan spoke first. “I’m sorry.”
“Too late for that.”
“I know,” he said. His voice was weak, and Milton had to listen for it in the rain. “They gave me my orders. I carried them out. You would’ve done the same.”
“Yes, once. But not anymore.”
“I need a doctor.”
“You do,” Milton said. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”
“You going to help me?”
“Tell me what I need to know.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Got any other options?”
A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of Logan’s smile. “Don’t suppose I do.”
“No,” Milton said. “You don’t. But if you help me, I’ll help you. I’ll drop you outside a hospital.”
Logan nodded. “Go on, then. Ask.”
“Who are you working for?”
“You know,” he said. “De Lacey.”
“And before? SAS?”
He shook his head. “SBS. I was a marine; then I was selected to C Squadron. Did that for five years before I went freelance.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m a handyman. Like you were. Client gets a job that needs doing, they send for me.”
“And this job?”
“I was recommended.”
“By who?”
“MI6. They told me to come to Manila.” He coughed. “I corresponded with someone in de Lacey’s organisation. Told me what they wanted me to do. I don’t know any more than
that. You know how it works.”
“Who are your contacts at MI6? Names, Logan. Give me their names.”
He coughed again, more blood bubbling over his lip. “I don’t know their names. Male or female—I don’t know. The operation was codenamed Corazon. That’s all I have.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They said de Lacey was going to be working for us. The FO was negotiating with the locals to get him out. Don’t ask me why—I couldn’t say. But they said he wouldn’t play ball unless we delivered you to Bilibid. He’s not your biggest fan, Milton. He’s been stewing on whatever you did to him for years, but he couldn’t find you.”
“But you could.”
“The spooks could. It took them ten minutes. You were hardly hiding.”
Thunder boomed overhead. Milton gripped the pistol a little more tightly. “Go on.”
“They said you had a thing with a girl you met when you were working on de Lacey’s file when you were out here before. Someone who was working for him. De Lacey’s people had already come up with the story: she had your kid and she wanted you to know about it. I just had to get you to believe it.”
“How did they get to her?”
“They already had her on board.”
“In exchange for what?”
He coughed again. “What do you think? She had a son. That’s easy leverage. They threatened her. They said they’d take him away from her. Does it matter?”
Milton bit his lip and looked up. His anger was stirring. He needed to tamp it down for a few minutes more. He took a breath and looked back down at Logan. He coughed yet again, leaned to the side and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“I’m fucked,” Logan said, managing a humourless chuckle.
Milton grabbed him by the shirt front and shoved him back against the car door. “So you killed her?”
He nodded. “She was out of it, Milton. She wouldn’t have—”
Milton interrupted him. “You drugged us?”
Logan spat out another mouthful of blood.
Milton looked down at him; his eyes were swimming. He slapped him across the cheek. “Logan?”
