Bad Turn

by Zoe Sharp

  “What? Dammit, Gilbert, when did you manage that?”

  The old man looked almost embarrassed. “The alarm on my storage facility here requires a very specific entry code,” he said. “Certain…variations on that code will still open the strong room but also send a silent alert to a monitoring service. Who, in turn, pass on a prearranged message.”

  “What kind of ‘prearranged message’? And who to?” Kincaid demanded. “Don’t tell me that bastard has you working for him as well?”

  “Not at all. But in this business one can’t help hearing things… So, for some years now I have had a certain arrangement with the DGSI—the French intelligence service.”

  “Well, fuck me,” said Orosco. I was suddenly aware of his footsteps through the floorboards under me as he stalked back into the room. He rounded the end of the sofa and came into view, glaring down at us. “Am I the only one in this entire fuckin’ outfit who isn’t a goddamn rat?”

  As soon as he stopped moving, I was aware of a second set of footsteps, softer and more careful than Orosco’s own. I turned my head just as Schade slipped around the other end of the sofa and took up a flanking position. Both men were armed.

  “This is not the time for accusations, Darius,” Kincaid said. “When we’ve gotten Helena to safety, then we can settle things—”

  “No way. Car’s outside. I’ll get her to safety. You, my friend, are done. Done with me and done with my daughter.” He lifted the pistol in his hand. “You got any last words for her, you say ’em now.”

  “Da–Daddy, no…please.” Helena could barely speak above a rasping whisper. “Please, don’t…hurt him… Don’t…”

  “Hush now, sweetheart. If he’s undercover then this—you—has all been a game to him. He was just acting a part. He never wanted you, just what you could get him—closer to me.”

  “That’s not true and you damned well know—”

  “Shut up, Eric! I mean, is that even your name?”

  Tears leaked silently from Helena’s eyes as she lay there, still clinging onto life with a vibrating tenacity I could only admire.

  “Don’t…kill him!” she managed, almost choking with the effort. “Promise me…”

  Orosco stilled for a moment, then sighed. “OK, sweetheart.” He glanced across. “Schade, do us all a favour and take out this piece of trash.”

  Schade stood for a moment with no expression on his face. Kincaid got slowly to his feet and faced him, saying nothing. With a grunt of effort, I rolled up onto one knee but Kincaid put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Stay down, Charlie,” he said. “I need you to be there for her later.”

  Helena cried, “Eric!”

  Schade looked down briefly at the Glock in his hand, then opened his fingers and let the gun drop onto one of the empty sofas.

  “Sorry, boss,” he said to Orosco. “This time you’re gonna have to do your own dirty work. I quit.”

  “You quit?” Orosco repeated, voice climbing. “You work for me, you don’t just quit. Nobody quits on me.”

  Schade shrugged. “Whatever, dude. I’m outta here.” He turned away.

  “Hey, Schade!” Orosco called, and when the other man paused, glanced back, he brought his own gun up to bear. “How ’bout this instead? You’re fired.”

  And he shot him.

  Schade spun and went down. Orosco swung his gun hand back towards Kincaid, who dropped into a crouch. He might have been about to take his chances hand-to-hand, but he never got the opportunity. Another shot cracked out, ferociously inside the room. Orosco froze.

  I flinched and at first saw nothing amiss. Then Orosco’s fingers lost their hold on the gun. It bounced on the carpet and came to rest near his foot. He looked down at the slice of shirtfront that was visible between the lapels of his jacket. Slowly, a bloom of dark red started to creep across the white fabric, moving left to right. It spread towards the line of buttons, swamped and overtook them.

  Orosco stared at the stain as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and couldn’t understand where it had come from. He made a sound that was almost a giggle.

  “What the fu—?”

  Then his knees gave out.

  He twisted and dropped like a rock. If I had to guess, I’d say he was dead before he finished falling.

  Kincaid straightened slowly. I checked his hands but they were empty. Same with de Bourdillon and even Helena. Gripping the back of the sofa, I managed to haul myself to my feet without groaning. Schade was slumped on the carpet, clasping bloodied fingers to his left shoulder. He caught my eye and jerked his head towards one of the other sofas.

  I followed his gaze. On the sofa lay Mrs Heedles. The coat we’d used to carry her was pushed open. Her forehead was a mass of bruising and one eye was swollen shut. But in her right hand she had a firm grip on a SIG semiautomatic that looked strangely familiar to me.

  Kincaid moved over to her quickly, peeled the gun from her nerveless fingers.

  “Mo…” His voice was full of wonder. “Thank you.”

  “Tell Helena I’m sorry—I’ve made her an orphan,” she murmured, letting her good eye blink closed again. “But I was damned if I was going to let that bastard make her a widow.”

  Epilogue

  The Stephensons’ farm in New Jersey looked much the same as the last time I was there. Hard to remember it was only a few weeks ago.

  I parked my rental Buick on the grass near the front porch, got out and took a moment to stare across the mirror-flat pond to the dense trees beyond. If there were watchers in those woods, I’d never spotted them before and didn’t expect to do so now.

  When I climbed the couple of steps up onto the porch there was only a slight hitch in my stride. The bullet track through my waistline had done remarkably little lasting damage, all things considered. It had hit no bones, passed through no vital organs, singed no nerves. It wasn’t surprising that I hadn’t done much to slow it down on its way into Helena Kincaid’s chest.

  The door was opened quickly to my knock. Lorna and Frank stepped out together, coats on. Lorna had her bag slung over her shoulder.

  “You’re not staying?” I asked, once the greetings were over.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to be said that we need to hear,” Frank said. “Coffee’s in the pot. Make yourself at home.”

  “And watch out for those kittens,” Lorna added, kissing my cheek. “They’re adorable, but they do like to climb and their little claws are sharp as needles.”

  “Don’t suppose we could talk you into taking one?” Frank asked. “Another week or so and we’ll be needing good homes for them.”

  I shook my head, half regretful. “For that I’d need somewhere to call a home—not to mention a means of putting kibble on the table. Neither are on the horizon at the moment.”

  “It’ll come right for you, Charlie,” Lorna said. “I have no doubts about that.”

  “Thank you. I wish I had your confidence.”

  She patted my arm and went down the steps. Frank nodded to the front door.

  “We’re over to the neighbours’ for supper, so we’ll be back late. Lock up when you’re done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He patted my shoulder as he passed. I was beginning to feel like one of Helena’s horses.

  I stayed on the porch until the old GMC truck had rumbled over the plank bridge and disappeared into the woods before I went inside and shut the door. The quiet calm of the house wrapped itself around me.

  I moved through to the kitchen. The box of the tabby cat with the white bib was still by the stove. The corners of the box looked a little more chewed. She was just the same but the kittens had doubled in size. If the way they leapt and rolled and tore about the place en masse was anything to go by, there were way too many artificial additives in their diet.

  I left the tsunami of fur and took coffee through to the sitting room. There, I stood looking out of the long windows and waited.

  I’d been back Sta
teside less than twenty-four hours. The French authorities, despite de Bourdillon’s intervention, held me under a kind of hospital house arrest while intercontinental, inter-agency bureaucracy slowly sorted out the mess. Eventually, after what amounted to a debrief by a chic woman from the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure, they told me I was free to go. And escorted me to the nearest airport, just to make sure.

  I flew to the UK, stayed with friends while I picked up strength and came to terms with the fact that, yet again, I had blood on my hands. Not only at a distance, either, like the sniper in the woods. Up close and personal. Blood I’d been able to feel the moment it stopped circulating.

  Maybe that was why I didn’t go home. My father’s previous warnings about the ease with which I seemed capable of taking a life still rang in my ears, even after all this time.

  Then, only yesterday, I received a cryptic summons from Epps. Not one I thought it wise to ignore. Not when it came with an e-ticket, a departure time, and a warning.

  So here I was, back in New Jersey, hot off a plane into Newark.

  I made only one detour on the way out to the farm—to the Kincaids’ place. I hadn’t been in contact and wasn’t sure of my welcome, or what I might find.

  Considering I arrived uninvited and unannounced, I was allowed through the main gate with the minimum of fuss. A stern-looking woman I hadn’t seen before patted me down in the grand hallway, then jerked her head towards the door to the drawing room.

  Not much had changed inside. More in hope than expectation, I glanced behind the door, to the place where Schade had been lounging against the wall, the first time I met him. He wasn’t there. On balance, I would have been more surprised if he was.

  Helena Kincaid was propped on the sofa in front of the fireplace, supported by cushions. Meds of various types and a water jug stood within reach on the low table nearby.

  “Charlie, how lovely,” she said, holding both hands out to me. I let her clasp mine and bent to kiss her cheek.

  “I’m glad to see you,” I said, and meant it. They hadn’t told me much more than she had survived her injuries. After the revelations of that last day, I feared her marriage might not have been so fortunate. “How are you doing?”

  “Good, I guess.” She eased herself a little more upright, half smiled. “I’m a very impatient patient, though.”

  “When did you get back from France?”

  “The doctors OK’d me to fly a couple of days ago. They did an amazing job, so I understand—even gave me a souvenir.”

  She picked up a clear pot that I’d mistaken for another pill bottle, handed it across. Inside was a slightly deformed copper projectile.

  “I’m sorry it got through to you.”

  “Don’t be. They told me if it had hit me at full velocity, well…” She shrugged. “Maybe you should be the one to have it.”

  They say you don’t see the bullet with your name on it. I kept the one that had—technically, briefly—killed me. Another time, another place. I’d contemplated getting it drilled for a necklace. I suppose if I accepted this one, I could turn them into earrings.

  I put the pot back on the table. “I have others.”

  Helena’s face twitched. “Ah, yes. In your line of work, I’m sure you do.”

  A door at the far side of the room opened and Kincaid himself stepped through. I’d been wondering how to bring up the subject of Helena’s husband and where his loyalties lay. It seemed as though he was going to do it for me.

  As he approached, the look that passed between them was intimate, but something more than that. The bond of soldiers who’ve been through combat together and emerged not quite unscathed. Something loosened between my shoulders.

  He shook my hand, looked me straight in the eye.

  “We are more grateful to you than we can ever say, Charlie.”

  “It was what you hired me for.”

  “We both know that looking after Helena was never your primary objective. When the bullets started flying, it would have been all too easy for you to step back.”

  “No, actually, it wouldn’t.”

  Kincaid nodded, like he got it. He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. She reached up to cover it with her own.

  I wanted to ask about Orosco’s death, about Kincaid’s double life, but didn’t know how to start.

  “How’s Mrs Heedles?”

  Kincaid smiled. “Still in France. She had a concussion that’s taking a little while to get over. Gilbert invited her to stay on at the chateau to recuperate.”

  “I think he’s sweet on her,” Helena said in a mock whisper.

  “That’s because as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always been a romantic at heart, darling.”

  “The gun she used,” I said, choosing my words with care. “You told me you left it behind in Italy, but it was mine, wasn’t it?”

  Helena nodded, almost shame-faced. “After what happened, I thought I might need it.”

  “When did you give it to Mrs Heedles?”

  “Just before we left the chateau—that last time. I realised that, if I had it, I might actually have to use it. I wasn’t sure I had the courage for that. And Mo is an excellent shot.”

  “So I saw.” I paused. “Speaking of which…”

  “My father?” Helena put in. “That’s OK. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t ask. Although, I have to admit there were times when I wondered if you weren’t entirely human.”

  “Thanks—I think.”

  “You want to know how I can love someone who only came into my life to bring down my father?”

  I blinked. “Basically…yeah, that about covers it.”

  “Because I knew—almost from the start.” She smiled up at Kincaid, then met my gaze while something hardened in her voice. “It meant Eric was the one man that bastard could never own.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that. I didn’t try. We said our goodbyes and Kincaid saw me out to my rental car at the front of the house.

  “What happened to Schade, by the way?”

  “Nobody knows. By the time the French authorities arrived, he was in the wind.”

  “And you’ve heard nothing since? He was wounded, after all.”

  “Gilbert told us his local veterinarian reported a break-in the same day, so I’d guess he fixed himself up.” He paused, as if about to say more. I raised my eyebrows and he sighed. “And I had a call, saying we had nothing to fear from him.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I offered him his old job back—with a hell of a raise. He said maybe one day and that was it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and eyed me. “I don’t suppose there’s any use me making you the same kinda offer?”

  I shook my head. “I am tempted, but I don’t know what my plans are yet. Until I’ve met with Epps, I don’t even know if I’m allowed to stay over here.”

  “The offer’s on the table.” Kincaid smiled. “As for Conrad, he may just surprise you. He did me…”

  I’d finished my coffee and helped myself to a refill before I heard the distinctive sound of a vehicle coming over the plank bridge, like someone running a finger along the keys of a dead piano. A glance out of the window showed a dark SUV with heavily tinted glass approaching the house. It was so nondescript it could only be government-issue.

  I stood back, concealed in the shadows, and listened to the engine note die away. Doors opened and closed, hard-soled shoes sounded on the wooden steps to the front door. If I’d expected them to knock, I would have been disappointed. I did not expect it.

  The front door opened and closed, then came the murmur of voices. No doubt Epps telling his security detail to wait in the kitchen. I gave brief thought as to how they’d cope with the feline circus going on in there, then turned towards the door and squared my shoulders.

  Conrad Epps paused for a moment, owning the doorway. He greeted me with a nod towards my stomach as he unbuttoned his overcoat. “How is it?”

 
“Healing cleanly, thanks.”

  “You took a chance.”

  “I took lots of them. I hope, from your point of view, it was all worth it.”

  “Khalid Hamzeh is no loss to anyone, if that’s been on your mind?”

  I shrugged. “Why would it? I didn’t kill him.”

  He ignored that. “And neither is Darius Orosco.”

  “Hm, I didn’t kill him, either, I’m afraid.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yes, there seems to be some confusion about who did.”

  “Well, it was a confused situation.”

  He waited for me to expand further. I had no intention of doing so. When that became apparent, he sighed, folded the overcoat onto a chair back and took a seat. Away from the windows and with direct eye line to the doors. Old habits…

  “We spent countless man-hours and countless thousands of tax dollars gathering enough evidence for a racketeering charge against Orosco,” he said without expression. “All of which died a death the moment he did.”

  My heart rate started to pick up pace, my skin flushing as my body primed itself to flee. An instinctive response to danger. I locked my knees to stop them trembling.

  “Look on the bright side,” I tried. “At least Eric Kincaid survived.”

  “Yes, he did,” Epps said heavily, not looking particularly happy with that result. “He not only survived, but he is now the undisputed head of one of the largest arms dealing operations on the East Coast, with reputation and influence all over the world.”

  It took me a second to match the upbeat words to the downbeat tone. I frowned. “You mean—?”

  “I mean that I could not have planned for a better outcome. Had we succeeded in bringing down Orosco, Kincaid’s usefulness as an undercover operative would have been finished. He would have had to hide out with twenty-four/seven security until the trial, then spent the rest of his life in Witness Protection. Maybe even undergone surgery to alter his appearance.”

  “And now?”

  “Now he gets to carry on hiding in plain sight with his remarkable wife.”

  “And maybe you get to have a little influence over who he does business with,” I said slowly. “The Kurds, for instance?”