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

by James, Harper

  ‘Shit. He caught me staring.’

  ‘Tell me what you think or I’m going to turn around and look for myself.’

  She still had Evan’s phone in her hand. She studied the photo again, shrugged and handed the phone back. Evan took a good long look in case he ever got the chance to see for himself.

  ‘The little guy’s in charge, the other two are muscle,’ she said more to herself than him. She picked up her spoon and tapped it against her lips. ‘So how does that fit in with Hendricks’ buddy? Was he in Eastern Europe? I can’t remember. Plenty of his sort of work over there.’

  There was a sudden, loud exclamation from the table. It sounded like a fight was about to break out. It also sounded a lot like you’ve got to be fucking joking.

  The voice took Evan full circle, back in time. Guillory was wrong about everything.

  She sucked air sharply through her teeth, tensed.

  ‘This looks like it’s about to get out of control. The little guy just picked up a knife. I can’t see properly because of the big guys—’

  ‘Shush.’

  She jerked backwards, gave him an irritated glare. The guy at the table who yelled was talking again, his voice fast and desperate, like it was a quiz show and he only had so long to get the answers out.

  ‘I know that voice,’ Evan said.

  The table behind him was suddenly very quiet, as if something very special had just been said, something that changed everything.

  ‘They’re all looking this way,’ Guillory said, her face a picture of confusion.

  ‘It’s not Floyd Gray. It’s Hugh McIntyre.’

  Guillory stopped tapping the spoon against her teeth.

  ‘The guy who ...’

  She nodded at Evan’s ear. He nodded back.

  ‘What the hell’s he doing here, staring at us? And who are they?’

  Evan knew damn well what he was doing—and who he was with.

  He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had stopped him from turning around and looking for himself. McIntyre knew it was him, he’d been following him for Christ’s sake. The other guys didn’t know what he looked like. Best it stayed that way for as long as possible. Certainly until he had a chance to track down Frank Hanna’s heir.

  ‘They’re still staring at us,’ Guillory hissed.

  The confusion had morphed into a mix of irritation and aggression, a cocktail he was well acquainted with. She broke eye contact with McIntyre and the others, speared Evan with her glare.

  ‘What’s going on, Evan?’

  He didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. The only reason they were in this very diner was because he’d withheld information from her. There’d been a catharsis, they’d patched things up again, everything was back on track.

  ‘Evan.’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Chapter 31

  GUILLORY’S EYES BULGED, THEN narrowed. Evan waited for her to say how’d you like a poke in the eye? or something along those lines. Then things fell into place.

  ‘This is to do with what you’re doing for Hanna?’

  He nodded. She leaned in and for a moment he thought she was going to grab the front of his jacket.

  ‘You need to have a word with him. Confidentiality doesn’t do either of you any favors if you end up dead. That is what’s going on here, isn’t it? The little guy and his big friends have a vested interest in seeing that something happens to you. Something permanent.’

  ‘Yup.’

  She couldn’t keep a small smile off her lips even though it was no laughing matter.

  ‘And the reason you look as if you’re about to hide under the table is because they don’t know what you look like.’

  ‘Unless McIntyre’s been taking covert photos as well as following me.’

  Her face compacted. He had a point.

  ‘Everybody’s got a camera on their phone.’

  ‘We need that phone.’

  She thought for a moment, came to a decision.

  ‘You are so lucky you said sorry earlier.’

  He nodded like he knew it.

  ‘What, even if I don’t know the meaning of the word?’

  ‘You know it. You just like to pretend you don’t.’

  He gave her his best boyish grin. She turned away from him before she felt the need to wipe it off and walked over to McIntyre’s table.

  They all looked up at her expectantly, supercilious grins just below the surface on all their faces. One of the big guys openly looked her up and down, slowly, his head cocked, hungry eyes lingering provocatively on her bust. An appreciative mmm hmm slipped between his lips. She flashed her gold shield at them, a pointless exercise. Apart from making the guy who’d run his eyes all over her stick his arms out, wrists held together. As is if to say, arrest me please.

  The temperature in the room dropped two degrees from the look she gave him. The diner was empty now apart from the six of them, the last of the other customers leaving when things got heated at McIntyre’s table.

  ‘Is there a problem, officer?’

  It was the little guy, although he wasn’t so little close up, just smaller than his gorillas.

  ‘Detective.’

  ‘Sorry. Detective.’

  The accent was faint, definitely Eastern European. He was still holding the knife she’d seen him pick up, blade pointing at the table top. He put it down carefully when he saw her looking.

  Then she saw McIntyre’s bandaged hand.

  ‘What happened to your hand, Mr ...’

  McIntyre hesitated, four pairs of eyes on him, one pair you wouldn’t want to catch in a bar—and those were Guillory’s. He put a finger inside his collar and worked it loose. The two big men shifted in their too-tight suits on the too-small chairs.

  Guillory waited.

  ‘McIntyre.’

  ‘That’s the easy one out the way, eh? What about your hand?’

  One of the big men made a remark in his own language, made a rude gesture with his hand. The three of them laughed.

  Guillory turned on him.

  ‘You want to repeat that in English?’

  He held up his hands, the smirk still on his lips. She turned to the one in charge.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She made sure, even though English wasn’t his first language, he didn’t miss the rude, abrupt tone of voice. The last vestiges of the smile on his face from the rude joke slipped away.

  ‘Vasiliev.’

  On the other table, Evan still had his back to them. He could hear every word, knew what was coming, smiled to himself.

  ‘Really?’ Guillory said.

  Evan wanted to turn around, see her face. He heard the laughter in her voice, it was good enough.

  ‘In our country we use that to wipe on babies’ butts so they don’t get sore. What about in your country?’

  She patted her own butt. Nobody at the table dared to laugh. Or admire her butt.

  ‘So Mr Vaseline—’

  ‘Vasiliev.’

  ‘Sorry, Vaseline. Do you know anything about Mr McIntyre’s hand?’

  He gave a small shrug, some of his cockiness creeping back.

  ‘It’s just I saw you pick up a knife, that one there’—she pointed to the knife he’d put back on the table—‘and threaten Mr McIntyre with it. And now I see he’s got a bandaged hand.’

  Vasiliev stared at her, all the smugness knocked out of him again.

  ‘I think I heard you say do you want us to do the other one? That was it, wasn’t it, Mr McIntyre?’

  McIntyre stared at the table top, his face ashen. Next to him, Vasiliev’s was dangerously red.

  ‘Okay,’ Guillory said, ‘I think we’ll carry this on down at the station.’

  Three chairs scraped along the floor as Vasiliev and his men pushed them away and stood up.

  ‘You know what else we use Vaseline for in this country?’ Guillory said.

  They all knew but nobody was saying.
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  ‘You got it. Full body search.’ She turned to the two enforcers. ‘You two look like you’d enjoy that. How do you say faggot in your language?’

  She turned on Vasiliev, put her hand on the back of his chair and thrust it hard into the back of his legs.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Vaseline.’

  His legs buckled. He grabbed the edge of the table and held on as she increased the pressure on the chair back, forcing the front of his expensive suit against the greasy table. She gave a sudden, hard shove. A half-empty cup of coffee tipped over, its contents slopping across the table, soaking into the front of Vasiliev’s suit pants.

  ‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, maintaining the pressure as more cold coffee soaked into his crotch. ‘Lucky it was cold or you’d have needed some Vaseline yourself. I’m sure one of your boys would’ve enjoyed rubbing it into your little pecker for you.’

  With her other hand she pulled out her phone.

  ‘All of you, sit down again—’

  Vasiliev barked something to his men, his voice high and tight. One of them kicked the chair away as Guillory pretended to dial. The three of them headed for the door, Vasiliev trying to maintain some dignity—and failing badly—covering the wet stain with his jacket. Guillory strolled casually behind them, her phone at her ear. She leaned in the doorway and watched them climb into a black Mercedes SUV.

  Back at his table Evan heard her read out the SUV’s license plate number. He had no idea if there was anybody on the other end of the line. The SUV leapt away from the curb and disappeared down the street in a squeal of burning rubber.

  ‘I don’t think they’re coming back,’ Guillory said as she came back into the room.

  She closed the door firmly behind her and leaned against it, gave McIntyre a smile, your turn next. Evan stood up and turned around to look at McIntyre. There was a quick flash as McIntyre took a photo of him then stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He looked around at Guillory leaning against the door with her arms folded and then back at Evan.

  ‘Give me the phone,’ Evan said.

  ‘You want to try and get it?’

  ‘You’re a lot braver now we chased Vasiliev off for you.’

  McIntyre scowled at him, held up his bandaged hand.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough what he’s capable of.’

  ‘That’s why I want the phone.’

  ‘He’ll find you anyway.’

  Evan took a step towards him. McIntyre looked past him at the kitchen door. Somewhere in there all the staff were cowering. And there was always a back door, so they didn’t have to carry the trash through the restaurant. Evan stepped to the side putting himself directly in line with the kitchen door. He held out his hand

  ‘Phone.’

  ‘Up yours, Buckley.’

  McIntyre feinted to the left. Evan pretended to go with him, let McIntyre pass him on the right. He whirled round, swung his leg in a scything backwards arc and caught McIntyre in the knees. McIntyre tipped forwards, hands outstretched and landed hard on the heels of his hands. He grunted in pain as his left hand smacked into the hard tile floor, blood blossoming through the dressing.

  Evan pushed him over with his foot.

  ‘Remember last time we did this? You blindsided me with a baseball bat. Not so tough without it, eh? Give me the phone.’

  McIntyre scooted backwards on his butt as Evan advanced towards him. He got his feet under him and scrambled upright, backing himself into the serving area behind the counter. Evan was blocking the only way out. McIntyre looked frantically around, saw the cooler cabinet with bottles and cans of soda just a couple of feet away.

  He made a dive for it and came up with a glass coke bottle. He gripped it by the neck and smashed it on the edge of the counter, the sticky, sugary liquid splashing everywhere. It wasn’t a big weapon but it looked lethal enough when it was being waved in your face, when the scarred face of Jesús Narvaez was fresh in your mind.

  ‘Come on, Evan, stop fooling around.’

  Guillory’s voice was bored, calling from the other end of the room. With McIntyre penned-in behind the counter she pushed off the door and walked over to stand behind Evan.

  ‘Give him the phone, McIntyre. Assault with a deadly weapon’s a felony. You want to spend the rest of your life in prison with guy’s like Vasiliev and his men using you as a human toilet?’

  McIntyre looked at the bottle in his hand, then threw it over his shoulder. He held up his hands, the blood seeping through his bandage, dripping to the floor.

  ‘Happy now?’

  He looked down at the little pool of blood on the floor and smeared it with the toe of his shoe. Then he charged. He dipped his shoulder and powered into Evan, catching him on the breastbone, driving him into Guillory. She stumbled backwards, caught her heel on a low step and went down on her ass. Evan stayed upright, off balance. McIntyre threw a haymaker at his head. Evan pulled it out of the way, but not fast enough to stop McIntyre catching him a glancing blow above the ear.

  Behind them Guillory scrambled onto her hands and knees then launched herself at McIntyre’s legs. The top of her head slammed into his groin, doubling him over. She clamped her arms around his thighs and the pair of them collapsed into the counter, McIntyre landing on his butt, Guillory stretched her whole length along the floor.

  ‘Any time you want to help, Evan,’ she called, her face buried in McIntyre’s lap as he sat upright looking down on the top of her head.

  Evan took a couple of fast strides, stepping over her. He cradled the back of McIntyre’s head in his left palm and did his best to punch his right fist all the way through his face. McIntyre’s whole body jerked and then he slumped forward, blood dripping onto Guillory’s back.

  She disentangled herself from his legs and the pair of them flipped him over. She slipped some plastic riot cuffs on his wrists, pulled them good and tight. Evan dug McIntyre’s phone out of his pocket, dropped it into his own.

  He offered Guillory his hand and hauled her up. They stood looking at each other, their breath coming fast and heavy. It was a competition. Who would grin stupidly at the other one first.

  ‘Who knows,’ she said, pushing McIntyre absently with her toe, ‘what’ll happen next time you take me out for something to eat. I can hardly wait.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘TELL ME ABOUT FRANCISCO Javier Grajales.’

  If Narvaez was shocked to hear the name coming out of Evan’s mouth, he certainly didn’t show it. He gave a slow dip of his head, an acknowledgement.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Elwood Crow.’

  ‘At least he’ll talk to me.’

  ‘You don’t give up do you?’

  Narvaez stared at him, his dark glasses already removed as soon as he saw it was Evan at the door. It made Evan feel as if he was family. Narvaez stepped aside and invited him in.

  ‘What do you think of Crow?’

  Evan shrugged.

  ‘He’s an interesting character.’

  ‘He’s evil, that’s what he is,’ Narvaez said, crossing himself as he said it.

  ‘You don’t strike me as a superstitious man, Jesús. It’s not just that bird he keeps is it?’

  ‘You know what they say? That bird was his wife.’

  Evan did a good job of not bursting out laughing. He sniffed the air surreptitiously to see if he could detect any alcohol on Narvaez’ breath. There was nothing, apart from a hint of mouthwash. The guy was nuts. It was a wasted journey.

  Narvaez smiled.

  ‘I didn’t say I think that. It’s what all the old women say. One day his wife was gone and the bird was there instead.’

  ‘Well, QED. I suppose he did it because she nagged him so much. It’d be a useful skill to acquire.’

  Narvaez’ smile widened.

  ‘I can see you’ve been married. You know, I could get to like you if—’

  ‘If I wasn’t asking all the difficult questions.’

  Narvaez shook his head.

  �
��No, I was going to say if you weren’t working for Frank Hanna.’

  ‘Is he evil too?’

  ‘You can mock all you like. Working for that man will leave a stain on your soul.’

  Evan was tempted to say it was already getting a bit cramped on there. He thought better of it.

  ‘Since you know your latin,’ Narvaez went on, ‘I have a suggestion for you—a quid pro quo.’

  ‘Whatever you like. I can’t think I’ve got anything you’d be interested in.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  The question took Evan by surprise.

  ‘Crow,’ Narvaez said, a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘What did he tell you happened in Mexico?’

  Evan shook his head, me first.

  ‘Did you take the baby?’

  Narvaez hesitated.

  ‘I’m not going to report you to the police.’

  ‘Yes, I took him.’

  There was a great sadness in his voice. It wasn’t sadness or regret for the crime he committed. It was more like sadness because all the good things he hoped his actions would give birth to had not come to pass.

  ‘Why?’

  Narvaez looked at him like he was a retard.

  ‘Didn’t you want him to have a better life?’

  Narvaez laughed, a hollow sound, not a trace of humor in it.

  ‘Depends on what you mean by better. Depends if better means a bigger car on your eighteenth birthday. Or guaranteed membership at daddy’s country club. Not everyone measures better like that. I don’t.’

  ‘Good for you. What about Francisco? What does he think?’

  Narvaez gave a small twitch of the head, a rueful smile on his lips.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until you hear my story. You might be able to answer that for yourself.’

  Evan didn’t try to second guess what he meant. All the old men he was meeting liked cryptic remarks and shared an aversion to straight answers.

  ‘Now tell me what Crow said.’

  Evan recounted the story Crow told him. Narvaez listened in silence, a small smile curling his lips when Evan got to the part about cutting Crow with the knife.

  ‘You’re a believer in Old Testament style justice,’ Evan said as he finished.

  ‘What other sort is there? Anything less is no kind of justice at all.’