Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  A teeth-rattling crack of lightning, phosphorescent and blue, streaked across the night sky.

  In that fateful pause between the lightning flash and the inevitable roll of thunder, Nick heard the sound of heavy breathing, the resonance so quickly obliterated by a thunderous boom he could have imagined it. But somehow, he knew he hadn’t.

  Turning to his right, he surveyed the dark tangle of brush and shrub pine beyond the burning car.

  The sound had been close. That meant Harry wasn’t moving fast. It could mean he was hurt—maybe badly hurt. Possibly drawing his last breath.

  Wouldn’t that be convenient?

  Then to all appearances the newly nominated CIA chief simply would have died from an unfortunate accident. Other than the spooks, no one would be the wiser.

  The first round hit Nick square in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs even through the Kevlar and effectively destroying his rosy scenarios. As the second shot whined past him, he was already down and rolling, steadily pumping rounds in the direction of the muzzle flashes.

  A high-pitched scream echoed from the darkness.

  Bull’s-eye, he thought, scrambling for cover.

  Harry should have aimed for the face or neck—the only safe target in the era of Kevlar. Although maybe he had; his marksmanship was shit.

  “Whoever you are, you’re dead meat!” Harry shouted. “I’ve called in backup!”

  Bluster and threaten. Vintage Harry. “They won’t get here in time!”

  “Fucking Mirovic! You’re fucking hard to kill!”

  A couple tracers followed by a barrage of large-caliber rounds shredded the brush over Nick’s head.

  “You still shoot like a girl, Harry!” In the pause while Harry was obviously reloading, Nick glanced toward the road. Alan had taken cover, but he’d stay on guard. Neither of them wanted witnesses. Taking a deep breath, Nick came up off the ground, sprinted for the tree line in a low zigzag run, dove into the underbrush, and lay panting for a moment before he lifted his head and surveyed the distance to his target.

  “Maybe I won’t kill you. Maybe I’ll have you thrown in a black hole where no one will ever find you!” Harry yelled. “I’ll have you tortured till you beg to die!”

  “Shut the fuck up, Harry. You got nothin’.” Nick patted down his pockets, counting his clips.

  Mirovic’s voice was closer—Too close, Harry thought. Damned fucker has ice water in his veins, too. How many times had he seen him walk into what could have been a trap in Kosovo without so much as a backward glance? A change in strategy might be called for. “Let’s parlay, Mirovic! I’ll give you ten million to walk away! That’s a lotta money; you can live large anywhere in the world!”

  “As if I fucking trust you, Harry.” Nick wasn’t shouting; he didn’t have to. He was just waiting to go in for the kill.

  “Twenty-thirty million!” Harry called out, raising the ante, equally aware of the small distance between them, but shouting as if to better press his point home. Or perhaps out of fear. “I can get you more if you want! Untraceable money! To any account, anywhere! Name your price!”

  “Your head on a pike, Harry. How’s that sound?”

  In answer, Harry fired a full automatic burst—six hundred rounds per minute.

  All of which sailed over Nick’s head, although the bursts were a little too close for comfort. Concerned a rescue squad might be on the way, Nick swiftly pulled up stakes and moved to outflank Harry.

  He traveled noiselessly through the brush and timber and came up behind Harry and his makeshift barricade. He couldn’t shoot a man in the back though, so standing ten yards away, Nick quietly said, “It’s payback time, Harry.”

  Harry spun around and opened fire.

  A Heckler & Koch G 11, Nick weirdly reflected, admiring the state-of-the-art weapon Harry didn’t know how to handle when he should be keeping his mind on business. A baby like that needed a sure trigger finger, a strong grip, and someone who could qualify on the firing range. And that wasn’t Harry.

  Nick’s thoughts were going off on a tangent, but fortunately his brain was good at multitasking, because he had already dropped, rolled, and pumped two carefully placed rounds in the center of Harry’s forehead.

  Instinctive aim and shoot.

  Instinctive self-preservation.

  Or maybe at some level, he was tired of fucking around; he just wanted it over.

  How many years had it been that he’d had to be on guard, wondering where Harry might be, waiting for the fucker to make a move.

  Too many fucking years.

  Over a worthless shit like Harry.

  Coming to his feet, he walked toward the man who had seriously impacted his life. “Judgment day, Harry,” Nick said under his breath, staring at the crumpled, lifeless form.

  Harry had tumbled back against the rough barricade of fallen trees and brush he’d thrown up. His head was listing downward, his lower body in a sprawl, a hole visible in the arm of his leather jacket—precipitating the scream Nick figured—and another hole from a round in his chest—the Kevlar beneath intact.

  The two forehead wounds were the fatal ones.

  He’s bleeding out.

  Like so many of his own victims, Nick dimly thought, nebulous images of violent death suddenly looming in his brain. He unconsciously shook himself, as though to ward off the repellent memories.

  But those nightmares had held him hostage too long.

  What if Harry wasn’t dead?

  What if he came back from the dead like some diabolical demon?>

  Nick needed certainty—a-stake-through-the-heart-for-vampires kind of certainty.

  Taking aim at Harry’s head, he shot twice.

  “That’s for the farmer in Pristina,” he muttered, unscrewing the silencer. And for all the others, he said to himself. Shoving the Beretta and silencer into his jacket pocket, he swung around and strode toward the road, thinking he should be feeling some elation. Or relief. But not feeling much of anything at all.

  Making the concept of closure wildly overrated.

  Like most of the psychobabble.

  He blew out a breath. One foot in front of the other, keep moving, and maybe someday he’d feel good about this.

  Walking away from the body, he reached Alan a few moments later. “We’re outta here.”

  “Harry’s smoked?”

  “Yup. On his way to hell.”

  “There was a lot of gunfire. I was hoping you didn’t need help.”

  “Nah.” Nick turned to his friend. “I was on a mission from God.”

  Alan laughed. “Nice backup.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “So the world’s a better place now?”

  “I’m guessing. Satan’s shaking Harry’s hand about now.”

  “That means everyone can get on with their lives.”

  Nick smiled faintly. “Here’s hoping.”

  The men took the long way around to their car, staying well clear of the highway, following the route they’d previously reconnoitered. They heard the explosion and saw the sky light up behind them three minutes later.

  “Good timing. There goes the evidence,” Alan said.

  “Not that it matters. Everything’s untraceable.”

  “But then, we’re not novices.”

  “No shit.” Although there were times Nick wished he was. He’d lost his innocence about the decency of man long ago.

  They soon reached the car that Alan had borrowed from a friend. Stripping off their Kevlar vests, they tossed them in the trunk and drove to a landfill two hours away.

  There, they disposed of their jackets, pants, vests, and boots, digging them separately, well distant and deep into the acres of waterlogged trash. After burying their gear, they dressed in clean clothes, drove to a small unmanned airport three hours away where they left the car as arranged, taxied their small cargo plane to the end of the lone runway, and took off into the rain.

  They were back in Minn
eapolis by morning, landing with their fictitious cargo at the cargo airfield and leaving the plane in its hangar.

  They had a drink to celebrate before Alan caught a flight west.

  Raising his glass, Alan murmured, “To good times and the wisdom to appreciate them.”

  “Amen. To freedom from the past.”

  “Except for the good stuff.”

  “Yeah, except for that.” At which point, thoughts of Zoe immediately came to mind.

  “You should go see her,” Alan suggested.

  Nick shot him a look.

  “I don’t have to be a mind reader, dude. It’s clear as day. Zoe rings all your bells.”

  “Maybe I will.” Nick didn’t want to argue.

  “Seriously, she’ll help you forget all your demons better than anyone else. If I didn’t have Ginny, I’d have gone over the edge more than once. Who wouldn’t, with all the shit we’ve been through? So consider it.”

  “Okay, I’ll consider it.”

  Alan smiled. “You’re wound tight as a drum. You know that don’t you?”

  Nick smiled back. “Hey, things are on the upturn now. No more Harry—maybe no more nightmares.”

  Alan drained his glass and came to his feet. “Remember to invite me to the wedding.”

  Nick flashed him a grin. “You’ll be the first to know, believe me.”

  After a quick hand shake, Alan left. Nick drove to the Airport Hilton and slept straight through until the following day.

  Then he bought a plane ticket for New York.

  He had one more mission to complete before returning home.

  Thirty-six

  Zoe had been working hard since she’d arrived in Chicago, her first draft in the final stages. Two days ago, Joe had stopped for a short visit en route to San Francisco. He’d brought all the pertinent manifests and invoices discovered in Trieste. He’d also threatened to put out a hit on Willerby.

  Joe was generally more bluster than action, but Zoe wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t serious this time, so she did her best to calm him down. She gave him a quick report on the chopper attack in Canada as preface to her suggesting they wait until they heard from Nick.

  “He said he might be able to resolve our problem with Willerby. I’m not certain what that means, but why not wait and see? If we don’t hear anything after another week or so, you can go to plan B.” Although the idea of a hit on Willerby was way the hell outside her comfort zone. “Law enforcement is an option as well,” she added. “We could always hire a lawyer to protect our rights.”

  “He threatened my daughter.”

  Joe had spoken quietly, through clenched teeth, which gave Zoe the impression a lawyer might not be on his agenda. “Give me another week, okay? Then if we don’t hear from Nick, do whatever you want.”

  “I don’t need your permission.”

  “I didn’t mean that. And I understand your anger. Mandy’s fine though. She’s been protected all along by some people Nick knows.”

  Joe slid down on his spine in one of Rosie’s Mies chairs and softly exhaled. “I shoulda come back sooner. I’m feeling guilty and taking it out on you. Sorry.”

  “You needn’t apologize. Willerby is way out of line. Neither you nor I should have to deal with his shit.”

  “Yeah, in a perfect world, maybe. Look, I need a drink.” He surveyed Rosie’s ultramodern living room, leather, stainless steel, and glass the basic decorating components. “Whadda you have here?”

  “Pretty much anything.” Zoe came to her feet and moved toward a small bar concealed behind frosted glass doors. “Name your poison.”

  Over two gin and tonics, Joe calmed down, Zoe heard more details about the excavation site, and further talk of hits evaporated. Zoe said she’d call Joe the minute her manuscript was completed and on its way to her publisher.

  Joe said, “Good. And make sure you call me when you hear from this Nick guy.”

  “You’ll be the first to know. I promise.”

  They were on their third drink when Rosie came home from work, and after introductions, Joe had a quick one for the road and took his leave.

  “He has a flight to catch,” Zoe said as the door closed on him.

  Rosie smiled. “I thought it might have been something I said.”

  Zoe laughed. “It could have been that, too. I’m not sure he’s often asked whether he misses being married. And whose fault the divorce was.”

  “You told me he was divorced and had a daughter. Those were natural questions. You don’t know how many people at work talk about their divorces. I swear it’s the number one topic of conversation: who was the bad ass, or the baddest ass, and then all the tedious whys and wherefores. Personally, I don’t understand it. If you like your spouse, stay and if you don’t, leave. What the hell is all this useless recapitulation?”

  “I guess everyone can’t be as decisive as you.”

  “Perhaps everyone didn’t walk in on their husband fucking one of their best friends.”

  “Ex-best friend.”

  “No shit. The bitch. Speaking of slutty women and faithless husbands, what say we go and check out the merchandise in our local bar scene?”

  “Nah. I told you I’m not in the mood.”

  “’Cuz you’re in luuuuvvv,” Rosie said with a grin.

  “Am not.”

  “Are, too.”

  “Since we’re not eight, I’m changing the subject. Do you like shrimp? I saw the most beautiful shrimp at Whole Foods when I got my morning latte. I bought a bunch.”

  “I didn’t know you cooked.” They’d been eating takeout.

  “Of course I cook.”

  “Since when?”

  Zoe smiled. “Okay, since I saw those lovely shrimp this morning.”

  “And now you’re gonna experiment on me.”

  “How hard can it be? The fish guy at Whole Foods said you boil them for four minutes in beer and spices if you want. And for your information, if I have a cookbook I can cook anything. It’s just a matter of following directions.”

  “Okay,” Rosie said with a small sigh. “But let me have a couple of martinis first. We can always call for a pizza if the shrimp doesn’t work out.”

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d go out with me, if not tonight, tomorrow.” She lifted her brows. “I’m promising to eat your shrimp . . .”

  “Okay, okay . . . tomorrow.”

  Thirty-seven

  The next day, Nick landed at Kennedy, rented a car, and drove out to the Hamptons.

  According to his car radio, a new director for the CIA had been announced, subject to congressional confirmation, of course. Harry’s death had dominated the news cycle yesterday, but apparently, the CIA was quickly moving on.

  News reports had Harry driving off the road in a rainstorm and dying in a crash. The CIA was quoted as saying Harry’s death was an unfortunate accident.

  As if they hadn’t seen the bullet holes in Harry or found the C-4 residue. But what the hell, if they told the truth, they wouldn’t be the CIA.

  By ten, Nick had rented a motel room in East Hampton, paying cash. After carrying in his overnight bag, he walked downtown, bought a local map, found an Internet coffee shop, and Googled Bill Willerby.

  He needed Willerby’s address.

  There’s no privacy left in the world. Nick pulled up an aerial view of the property, Willerby’s phone numbers, his addresses in Manhattan, both home and office, and even the names of his doctors, accountants, and lawyers. Quickly perusing the roster of the law firm, he found photos of Zoe’s two visitors. Which then required further Googling of those two. Two hours and three espressos later, he drove back into Manhattan to pick up some weapons at a pawnshop known to him through Alan.

  Alan’s contacts were all ex-military, as were his customers. Many former special ops were fighting other peoples’ war around the world and if they needed the best in personal protection, they could count on Alan get
ting it to them quickly.

  The owner remembered Nick, offered his warm regards to Alan, and sold him what he needed. From there, Nick made additional purchases at a hardware store, and one of those spy shops where people bought hidden cameras to watch their nannies or servants or spouses.

  By the time Nick had made all his buys and returned to East Hampton it was nearing eight. Perfect timing. A quick drive by Willerby’s property while it was still light and then he’d spend tomorrow reconnoitering the terrain.

  It was a small town, and people liked to gossip. Or maybe they liked to chat up a good-looking guy with a winning smile. By the end of the day, he pretty much knew the down and dirty on the Willerbys, along with their favorite wines—Italian reds—most frequented winter homes—St.Barts and Antibes— and nail polish color—peony pink for her, clear for him.

  It was midnight when he dropped over the eight-foot-high brick wall and surveyed the back of a turn-of-the-century thirty-five-thousand-square-foot colonial.

  He entered the house through the garage, using a universal Genie garage door opener he’d purchased in the city. Raising the door barely a foot to minimize noise, he slid under it and found his way down to the basement. Security system control panels were invariably there. He quickly bypassed the power to the alarm with some number eighteen wire and alligator clamps, disengaged the telephone lines, then double-checked all the circuitry in case he’d missed something.

  Nope.

  Either Willerby had pissed off the installer or he’d paid for the discount package, because there were enough holes in his security to drive a semi through, including the gaps in the outside cameras that missed a couple straight shots to the house.

  In less than twenty minutes, he was climbing the stairs to the second floor, following the sound of snoring to his target audience.

  Or audiences, as it turned out.

  Mr. and Mrs. Willerby slept in separate bedrooms. Like nobility, royalty, and apparently very rich people.

  In a way, it made his pitch easier. The young Mrs. Willerby would likely freak out. He doubted a cutthroat like Willerby would. Anyone who could take over a record number of firms, gut them of their assets, and leave debt and massive job cuts behind wasn’t by definition an oversensitive, impressionable human being.