The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets)

by James, Harper

  ‘You were right. As far as I can see, she’s never been issued with a driving license, never had a parking ticket or a speeding fine.’

  ‘Are the records accurate that far back?’

  ‘Pretty much. There might be the odd thing missing, but if she ever had a license, you’d get something come back. However ...’

  He looked at her expectantly, saw the grin on her face, the laughter lines around her eyes crinkling.

  ‘I forget, was that a ride home every day for one or two months?’

  ‘I thought I said three. What have you got?’

  She pushed the slip of paper across the counter.

  ‘Jesús Narvaez. Born August 12, 1948.’

  He thought about it. He didn’t know how unusual the name Narvaez was. If he was connected to Margarita, he must be her twin brother given the date of birth was in the exact same time frame.

  ‘Got a form?’

  She pulled one from under the counter, passed it across and waited while he filled it out. After he handed it back she took it to the same girl she gave his registration documents to, then got her coat from the back of her chair. She came around to his side of the counter, pulling it on.

  ‘Come on, I’m on my break. You can take me for a ride while we wait for Emma to process your registration and do the search.’

  Evan glanced across at Emma who looked up and smiled at him. It was a nice smile. He smiled back.

  ‘Do I give Emma a ride home too?’

  Rizzo slapped him on the arm and gave him a push towards the door.

  ‘It’ll be the last search you ever do in this office, if you do.’

  The minute they got outside, he saw something tucked under his windshield wiper blade.

  ‘I hate it when they do that,’ Rizzo said, as he pulled the folded piece of paper out.

  It wasn’t a flyer.

  You was so lucky. It wont last.

  He screwed it into a tight ball and went to lob it at the trash bin but stopped himself and stuffed it in his pocket instead. It would be worth asking Frank Hanna if he recognized the handwriting. He needed to speak to him about the possibility of a twin brother anyway. He scanned the parking lot. He couldn’t see anything unusual or suspicious, nobody sitting in their car trying to look inconspicuous.

  On the far side of the lot there was a car with the driver’s door wide open, nobody in sight, but that was it. On the other side of the street, a dog’s muzzle poked through the halfway-wound-down window of a car, its owner hidden in the shadows behind.

  ‘C’mon, we haven’t got all day,’ Rizzo said.

  He went to get in and she looked up at the clear blue sky.

  ‘Top down, Buckley, top down.’

  He did as she said, folding the top into the small trunk behind the seats, and climbed in, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling as he imagined a rifle scope’s cross hairs on the back of his head.

  Chapter 9

  FLOYD GRAY STROKED MARLENE’S sleek coat as she sat on the passenger seat, her muzzle poking out the window, and grinned to himself. He’d just witnessed the strangest thing. He followed Buckley to the DMV in his fancy car, pretty sure another car was tailing him as well—and badly, at that. If it wasn’t for the fact Buckley had his head stuck up his ass as he drove around in his new toy, he’d have seen the guy almost get creamed as he pulled into the traffic.

  Floyd followed the pair of them to the DMV and parked on the street while the other guy followed Buckley into the lot. Five minutes after Buckley went inside, the guy got out of his car, looked around him—doing a great job of making himself look suspicious, Floyd reckoned—then approached Buckley’s car. From across the street, it looked to Floyd like the guy had his car key gripped tightly in his hand, getting ready to run a score down the length of the Corvette’s immaculate paintwork.

  That’s when it all kicked off.

  A black Mercedes SUV with vanity plates screamed into the parking lot, blocking the entrance. Two big guys in cheap suits jumped out. Floyd recognized their type immediately. They were enforcers. They looked the same the world over, apart from something indefinable that identified these men as being of Eastern European origin.

  ‘McIntyre,’ one of them yelled in heavily-accented English.

  Good to know the opposition, Floyd thought to himself, making a mental note of the name.

  The guy who was about to vandalize Buckley’s car—McIntyre—looked around, did a double take as he recognized them, then turned and ran back towards his car, not realizing he couldn’t get out of the lot, even if he managed to get into his car.

  Which he didn’t.

  The two enforcers were big, but they were young and fit and they were already running by the time McIntyre saw them. Floyd wasn’t one to pick holes in other people’s technique, but if they hadn’t called out McIntyre’s name everything would have been a lot easier. Despite that, they caught him easily as he got to his car and pulled the door open but before he could get in.

  McIntyre was no pantywaist himself. He threw a wild punch at the nearest man, lots of power in it, not much else, and the guy moved his head to the side. The second punch he caught in his own massive fist—Floyd was sure he heard the bones in McIntyre’s hand crack—and held it there as the other one put him in a choke hold. They dragged him kicking and fighting across the lot. A third guy inside the SUV pushed the back door open and they bundled their captive into the back seat, the guy who had him in the choke hold going in after him.

  The sun was reflecting off the tinted window of the SUV’s open back door, making it hard to see. Floyd leaned forward in his seat to get a better view. Inside, McIntyre drove his elbow backwards. He caught the guy climbing in behind him on the cheek, knocking him backwards out of the car onto his butt. He pulled himself free of the third guy frantically trying to get a grip on him and slid out of the car. The one he’d elbowed in the face clamped his arms around his lower legs and twisted. McIntyre hovered in mid-air, his arms thrown wide, then went down like a sack of potatoes, his head smashing into the SUV’s rear fender as he went. By the time he hit the ground, the driver was on him as well. The two enforcers manhandled him into the back, the one he’d elbowed climbing in after him again, a lot more watchful this time.

  It was hard to see. Even so, Floyd saw the two of them pull a heavy sack down over McIntyre’s head and throw a rope around him, trapping his arms against his sides. Then the driver straightened his jacket, rolled his thick neck and jumped in the front. A minute later they were gone. Floyd was the only one who saw a thing. He had to admire McIntyre, whoever he was, he hadn’t gone quietly. Even if he’d achieved nothing more than getting himself a severe beating when they got to wherever they were taking him.

  Buckley didn’t know how lucky he was.

  As soon as the SUV was out of sight, Floyd got out of his car and jogged across the street. He pulled a notebook out of his pocket, tore off a page and scribbled a quick message. Then he folded it and tucked it under the wiper blade. He was sure Carl Hendricks would approve.

  Ten minutes later Buckley came out again with a woman who looked like she was stuck in the 1950s, her clothes, her hair, everything. Floyd grinned as Buckley pulled his note out from under the wiper and read it, then screwed it into a ball, staring all around him. He looked straight at him without knowing it.

  Floyd had no idea what was going on here and he’d watched it all happen. Buckley didn’t have a clue.

  ***

  HUGH MCINTYRE SAT BETWEEN the two guys in the back seat, the sack over his head rough and scratchy, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat. He tried to stay calm, to remind his stomach that it belonged inside his rib cage, not his mouth. The air in the car was thick with sweat and testosterone and the cloying smell of too much cheap aftershave, a suggestion of strong European cigarettes in the background.

  Everybody in the vehicle was breathing heavily after the energetic scuffle, all trying to look like it was no big deal, the guys in the sui
ts tugging at their collars. Next to him, the guy who had him in a choke hold, the one who wore the most cheap aftershave, talked on his cell phone, his voice low and guttural. Despite the hood, McIntyre was aware of the animated hand gestures, the guy’s elbow digging into his side. McIntyre knew exactly who was on the other end of the line, knew what he wanted as well, even if he couldn’t understand a word that was being said.

  Trouble was, he didn’t have it to give to them.

  He was sure they wouldn’t kill him, wouldn’t do anything to him that prevented him from getting it for them. That still left them with plenty of options. He tried not to think about it. His bowels had turned to ice water, his legs wouldn’t stop shaking. He blamed the adrenalin let-down. Then the one on the other side of him said something and they all laughed, the atmosphere of excited anticipation that filled the car reaching a new level. He would pay for putting them through their paces.

  He lurched sideways into the guy still talking on his phone as the driver threw the car into a hard left turn. The guy pushed him away. The gentle hiss of tires on the smooth pavement was replaced by the crunch of gravel, the car rocking and bucking as they headed God knows where. A couple hundred yards further on they came to a halt. Three doors opened as one as they all jumped out. A powerful hand grabbed him by the collar and heaved him out of the car. His feet hit wet, slippery ground and went out from under him. One of the men gave him a helping hand with his foot, pushing him into the dirt. With his arms strapped to his sides, he couldn’t protect his fall. He hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him.

  Outside the car, there was more light. Through the sack he was aware of a feeling of open space, trees and sunlight. The sack was suddenly ripped off his head, the sun dazzling him momentarily. They were parked on the edge of a picnic area, next to a decrepit old outbuilding, like something from a slasher movie where campers are slowly killed off. Fifty yards away a wooden picnic table sat on the shore of a lake. Despite the bright sun behind the man sitting and reading the paper at the table, making him nothing more than a dark silhouette, McIntyre knew who it was.

  Behind him the guy who’d been on the phone opened the SUV’s tailgate and pulled out a carpenter’s tool bag. The other two men hooked a hand under his armpits and dragged him towards the man at the table, his feet kicking uselessly as he tried to gain some purchase.

  The man he only knew as Vasiliev continued to read his paper—the Wall Street Journal—his glasses perched on the end of his nose while the two enforcers held him upright. The third man dropped the tool bag on the wooden picnic table with a heavy thump earning himself a disapproving look from Vasiliev.

  Vasiliev was immaculately turned out as usual, the difference in the quality of his and his men’s suits stark, his tie costing more than their three suits put together. He sat on a plaid rug protecting his pants from the rough wood of the picnic table seat. He looked every inch the successful businessman which was no doubt how he saw himself. McIntyre knew he was nowhere near the top of the tree in the organization for which he worked. Even so, he was high enough to hold McIntyre’s life in his well-manicured hands. Was that why they were here at the lakeside? Maybe they were planning on killing him after all. They had more money than they knew what to do with already. What he owed them was as insignificant as if he spat in the lake.

  Vasiliev threw the newspaper on the table and removed his reading glasses from the end of his nose. He folded them carefully and dropped them into his top pocket. His eyes were cold and blue. There was energy there, self-confidence. Nothing that might pass for compassion. He barked something to his men in a way that left you in no doubt he was the dog who ate first. The men hopped to, untied the rope binding McIntyre’s arms and pushed him down onto the bench seat opposite Vasiliev.

  ‘Anton tells me you gave them a spot of trouble,’ Vasiliev said with a faint smile, ‘Tried to run away.’

  His voice had only the slightest accent. If you didn’t know he was foreign, you wouldn’t pick it up.

  McIntyre shrugged, tried to ignore the oiled eels writhing in his stomach.

  ‘It’s good for them. They need a bit of exercise now and again so they don’t get lazy, keep them sharp. However,’—he held up a single finger—‘I don’t like what that implies.’

  McIntyre swallowed. He didn’t like it much either.

  ‘Because a man who has the money he owes isn’t a man who runs away. I assume you still don’t have my money.’

  McIntyre stared at him, unsure what to say, unsure whether he was supposed to say anything. He didn’t have anything to say anyway.

  ‘I’ll take your silence as confirmation, shall I?’

  McIntyre nodded, very aware of the two enforcers behind him shifting nervously, as if they knew what was coming next.

  ‘Have you done anything to try to get it? No, I didn’t think so.’

  McIntyre spread his hands wide, a what am I supposed to do gesture. The man on his left grabbed hold of his wrist, held it, like he thought McIntyre might try to hit the boss.

  Vasiliev cocked his head, his eyes diminishing to slits.

  ‘Did you think we’d just forget about it?’

  McIntyre shook his head, words failing him.

  Vasiliev leaned back and crossed his arms, thumbs in his armpits.

  ‘You’re a businessman, aren’t you?’

  McIntyre managed to find his voice at that.

  ‘I was. Until everything went tits up. That’s the problem.’

  Vasiliev smiled, a hard edge to it now. McIntyre saw the news of his death in the bright, mean eyes, heard the sound of shovels in the dirt.

  ‘Yes, I remember. You were fucking your partner’s wife. So he killed himself and the business went down the toilet. Then the good times bankers took your house as well so you can’t even sell that to pay me.’

  One of the guys behind said something and they all laughed, like you might at a dirty joke, Vasiliev included.

  ‘Exactly. Mikhail says you should have kept it in your pants. But I digress. We’re both businessmen here, we understand the need to give people an incentive to do what we want them to. And the problem we have here is that you’—he jabbed his finger into McIntyre’s chest—‘are not sufficiently incentivized to pay me my money.’

  Anton, the one gripping McIntyre’s wrist said something under his breath, the threat clear in his tone even if the words meant nothing. Vasiliev nodded.

  ‘Anton says that’s what we’re here to address today. Anton is extremely well incentivized to do his job, Mikhail too, all the men who work for me. As you are about to find out. It helps, of course, if they enjoy what they do.’

  Without waiting for a sign from Vasiliev, Mikhail stepped in, grabbed McIntyre’s right wrist and twisted his arm hard up behind his back. He leaned into him, forcing his chest onto the table. Anton slammed McIntyre’s left hand onto the table, clamped it there, as if it were nailed down ...

  The third man came to the table and opened the tool bag, pulled out a heavy claw hammer and a box of six-inch nails. McIntyre stared in horror, his lips moving, no sound coming out, as his heart tried to compress itself into something the size of a marble. He tried to move, tried to shake off the men holding his arms. It was useless. Mikhail jerked his arm higher between his shoulder blades until McIntyre stopped thrashing, his cheek resting against the scarred wood of the table top.

  McIntyre didn’t think things could get any worse, until they did.

  Vasiliev put a hand inside his jacket as if he was going for his wallet or his cigarettes. He pulled out a straight razor and set it on the table. Almost absently, he unfolded the polished blade from its well-worn black leather sheath.

  ‘It’s your choice, Mr McIntyre,’ Vasiliev said and picked up the hammer, feeling the weight. ‘We either nail your hand to the table top, or we cut off your finger. What do you people call it here? Your pinkie. Such a cute word, don’t you think?’

  McIntyre’s mind was a blank. He couldn’t thin
k, couldn’t speak.

  ‘Or if you can’t make up your mind, we’ll do both.’

  Vasiliev said something to the man with the tool bag. He dug around in it some more, found a dirty cotton cleaning rag.

  ‘Any second now Maxim is going to stuff that rag in your mouth. Then we won’t be able to hear what you say, what you decide, and we’ll have to do both. I’d make your mind up soon, if I were you.’

  McIntyre lifted his head, stared in horror at the hammer, the nails, the straight razor, his mind a complete and utter blank.

  ‘We’ll let you keep the finger, if that helps you decide.’

  Vasiliev nodded and Maxim grabbed hold of McIntyre’s hair, pulled his head back as Mikhail leaned harder on his back. McIntyre clamped his jaw shut but the pressure on his neck pulled his lips apart. Maxim forced the rag between his teeth.

  ‘Looks like it’s both.’

  Vasiliev spread his hands in a that’s the way it goes gesture. He looked up into the expectant faces of his men.

  ‘Anton, it’s your turn to decide. Finger first or hammer?’

  McIntyre shook his head and screamed with everything he had from behind the rag.

  Hammer.

  ***

  MCINTYRE LIFTED HIS HEAD off the table, moving slowly and carefully, hardly daring to breathe. He watched the pool of blood slowly soak into the table top, his mind numb, his hand not so numb. Two inches of nail protruded from the back of it, two inches went through the middle and the last two inches were buried firmly in the wood.

  Before Vasiliev and his men got back in their expensive cars and drove off, one of them had fished McIntyre’s phone out of his pocket and thrown it ten feet away, where it now lay in the wet grass. Then they found a pair of pliers in the tool bag and left them two inches beyond his comfortable reach, beyond the point where he pulled his flesh and bone against the bloody nail.