by Rachel Ford
“They’ll think of new plates. They’ll be looking for a guy who looks like you, driving an SUV like yours. They won’t care what the numbers are.”
“Then I’ll have Jake take the wheel, or Ryan.”
“No,” Roy said. “No, it’s too much risk. If they stop you –”
“Then we deal with it at that time.”
“Jesus,” Roy snapped. “What are you going to do, take on the state police now?”
The driver didn’t respond to that. He just glanced in his rearview mirror again, at Mikey.
“We found a place for you to hole up. Some kind of hunting cabin, it looks like. The team will be there in five hours. They’ll help you clean the vehicle, and then –”
“Boss,” he interrupted, “it’s not the vehicle I’m worried about. It’s Mikey. He doesn’t have five hours. He doesn’t have an hour. If we don’t get him to a hospital now, he’s a dead man.”
Roy was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure his widow is taken care of. But Mikey knew the stakes. He knew how this works.”
The driver started to protest. The past tense didn’t apply. Mikey was still alive.
But Roy cut him off. “Mikey gave his life for the mission. Listen to me, son: you need to focus. Don’t waste his sacrifice. Do you understand me? Do not make his death mean nothing.”
He mumbled out an affirmation. But he didn’t mean it. How did you talk about someone like they were dead when they were still drawing breath right behind you?
Roy moved on. He had an address of a cabin about five miles away. “Go there. A team will meet you. Walker will be leading it. He’s in charge of the mission now. You understand?”
The driver agreed a second time. He offered a “yes sir,” and an, “understood,” and a, “copy that,” at the appropriate junctures. Then he hung up.
“What was that?” Ryan, the guy in the passenger seat, asked.
“The boss,” he said.
“What did he say?”
The driver licked his lips. There was a turn coming up, maybe half a mile ahead of them. That’s where he was supposed to go. That was the road to the cabin.
“What did he say?” Ryan asked again.
The road was closer now, maybe a quarter of a mile ahead.
“He was asking about Mikey.”
“Really?”
The driver nodded. It was time to make a decision: start slowing down to turn off, or don’t. “Yeah. He changed his mind. He wants us to get him to the hospital.”
They passed the road.
Ryan didn’t say anything. A moment later, his phone screen lit up. A text bubble appeared on the screen, but he angled it away from the driver.
It was a subtle motion, but the driver noticed it anyway. He tried to sound casual as he asked, “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Ryan said. “But that’s good news about Mikey. What hospital are we going to?”
“There’s a turn up ahead, back toward the highway.”
“Right.”
Both men were quiet for a long moment. Ryan tapped out a reply to the text message and got one a second later.
“That’s really bright,” the driver said. “You should put it away. We don’t need to draw attention.”
“Right,” Ryan said again. Then, “I should probably take over, shouldn’t I?”
“I got it.”
“But that guy, he got a good look at you. If we show up at the hospital and they see you…”
“We can switch when we get closer.”
“Better to do it here. No one out here to see.”
It was a good point, and the driver didn’t have a counter to it. So he said, “Don’t worry about it.”
Ryan shrugged. “Your call. You’re the boss.”
“That’s right. I am.”
“But maybe we should run it past Roy. You know, just to be sure.”
“This comes from Roy, remember?”
“He said you had to be the one to drive up to the hospital?”
“He put me in charge of the mission.”
Ryan shrugged again. “Okay.”
“Okay,” the driver said.
For a long moment, both men stared at the road ahead of them. Then Ryan moved, fast as lightning; and by time the driver glanced over, he was staring down the barrel of a .45. “I didn’t want to have to do it this way, but it’s your call. You’re the boss.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Pull over. Now.”
“Like hell. We’ve got orders –”
“Bullshit. Roy knew you were going rogue. He texted me.”
The driver gritted his teeth. He figured the old bastard must be tracking their GPS. He must have seen them pass the road to the cabin. “Ryan, Mikey’s going to die.”
“So are you, if you don’t pull the damned car over.”
“You’re going to shoot me?”
“If I have to? Yeah?”
“Bullshit. You shoot me, you die too. I’m driving, remember?”
But it never got to that. An arm wrapped around the driver’s neck from behind the seat, and started pulling him backward, pressing him into the seatback.
It was Jake. The son of a bitch. He was in on it too: him and Ryan. The driver tried to fight, and he tried to maintain control at the same time. He failed to do either. The vehicle swerved this way and that, grazing snowbanks and kicking up ice and gravel.
And the longer he focused on the wheel, the tighter Jake’s arm pressed against his throat, and the worse his lungs burned for oxygen.
He held out for half a minute before giving up. He took his foot off the gas and threw his hands up. Ryan grabbed the wheel. Jake didn’t ease up the pressure.
It took another five seconds for the driver to realize Jake didn’t actually mean to ease up the pressure. By then, Ryan had unfastened his seat belt, and Jake had half hauled him out of the seat. His feet were far from any pedals.
He tried to kick Ryan instead. He clawed and tore at Jake’s arms.
But it didn’t matter. Jake went on choking him. And about ten seconds later, the driver lost consciousness.
So he didn’t see Ryan slip into his seat and pull the vehicle to a halt at the side of the road. He didn’t see Jake put a bullet through Mikey’s head, or his own.
* * *
The process of giving a statement proved straightforward enough, but it took time. The deputies wanted to check and recheck. They needed him to speak to a sketch artist. The night hours wiled away without results. The four guys, wherever they were, were getting further and further away. The deputies didn’t like that, for obvious reasons.
Those four guys had tried to kill their boss. Those four guys had put their boss in the hospital. And despite roping in departments all across the state, so far anyway, those four guys were still in the wind. Not good.
But eventually, they let Owen go. And eventually his own exhaustion overpowered his curiosity and confusion. He had no bright ideas while talking to the cops. He was just as surprised as they were. So he headed back to the hotel.
If Tanney had any thoughts, he didn’t share them. He sat in silence for the entire ride. Owen figured he must be half asleep by now. They said their goodbyes and went to their respective rooms. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Since Owen got to bed late, he woke up late Saturday morning. The sun had already come out, and it looked pale and watery. The day looked a little pale and a little watery too, like a sun-bleached print, or a washed out painting.
Owen hadn’t noticed the missing folder when he stumbled into his room, but he did notice it when he got out of bed. He’d left it in his room before driving to Abbot’s place the day before.
He was certain of that. But just as certainly, now it wasn’t there.
So his mind tried to make sense of the incongruity. He had no reason to assume anyone would have broken into his room in his absence. So his first thought was that
the housekeeper had simply misplaced it or moved it when cleaning.
He checked the desk drawer, and the nightstand drawer. He checked behind the dresser and under the bed. The folder wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere.
Which meant either someone had deliberately taken it, or Owen hadn’t actually left it in his room. Maybe he’d meant to and forgot, or maybe he’d gone back for it and forgot doing so.
The latter seemed unlikely – he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember anything of the kind. He’d put it in his room. He would have sworn it, hand on the Bible, no hesitation.
But the folder was gone, and the only other alternative – someone breaking in to steal it – seemed so absolutely ludicrous that Owen didn’t consider it for more than the split second it took to dismiss it.
Instead, he chocked it up to a mistake on his part – being too preoccupied by the case to pay attention to what he was doing.
And then he decided to go get breakfast.
Tanney was already up, and apparently waiting for him in the hotel’s lobby. He had been seated on one of the semi-comfortable armchairs, but now he got to his feet and shuffled over to Owen. “I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“Good to do, now and then,” Owen said.
Tanney didn’t laugh. “Something’s going on, Owen.”
Owen yawned. He hadn’t had coffee yet, and his brain wasn’t fully awake. His thoughts immediately went back to his missing file, but he figured Tanney had something else in mind. “About what?”
Tanney regarded him like he might a dunce. “About last night. You know, the armed guys trying to kill Halverson?”
“Oh.”
“What else?”
“Never mind.”
Tanney frowned at him. “You sure you didn’t hit your head last night?”
“I need coffee,” Owen said.
“Obviously.”
“And then you can tell me your theory. You know, the whole ‘something’s not right about armed gunmen trying to murder people’ theory.”
“Very funny, smartass. It’s not just that. It’s Abbot.”
That wiped the smirk off Owen’s face. “Abbot? What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Owen blinked, half convinced he’d misheard. “Sean Abbot?”
“The former AG,” Tanney nodded. “He’s dead, Owen. Murdered.”
“Wait, hold on. He can’t be dead. We just talked to him yesterday.”
“Yeah. Which means we’re probably some of the last people who saw him alive.”
“Shit,” Owen said.
“Yeah,” Tanney agreed. “Exactly.”
“How’d he die? Do they know who did it?”
“No idea. I just know what I saw on the TV. They were talking about the manhunt for Halverson’s attackers. And they were talking about a suspected home invasion at Sean Abbot’s house.”
“Shit,” Owen said again. “They got him at home?”
“Yup. Right where we were.”
“That is not good.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I guess we better go tell the cops.”
“And put ourselves at the head of their suspect list? No thanks.”
“Come on,” Owen said. “They’re going to find out sooner or later.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“And if they do, how’s that going to look?”
Tanney considered, and then conceded, “Not good.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ryan and Jake spent a sleepless night at the cabin, with three dead bodies outside in the Cadillac: their two colleagues, and the hunter whose place this was. He’d been home when they pulled in, and he’d been a problem from the start.
He came out with a shotgun and the smell of stale beer on his breath, demanding, “Who the hell are you boys? This is private property.”
He’d seemed to think they were some kind of cops or ATF agents, which oddly didn’t work to their favor. He’d gone on a rant about the second amendment and his constitutional rights and search warrants. Jake had shut him up pretty quickly with a .45 through the face.
Then they’d piled his body in with the other two, pulled the Cadillac around the back of the cabin, and waited. No one showed up for hours. Once, Ryan took it upon himself to check in with Roy.
The boss was impatient at first. Of course the other team was on their way. He’d given his word, hadn’t he? But then he seemed to reconsider their unique predicament and take a more sympathetic tone.
“You did good work tonight, both of you. I know it wasn’t easy. This kind of thing never is. But you didn’t lose your cool. You stuck to the mission. That wasn’t missed. I want you to know that.”
So Ryan let himself relax, a little. He searched the dead guy’s belongings. He found a wallet with a little cash, which he pocketed, and ID’s. The guy’s name had been Jacob Walsh. He laughed at that and tossed the cards to his colleague.
“Hey Jake: this guy’s got your name.”
Jake didn’t find it funny. He put everything back in place, just like it had been before they touched it. Everything but the money, anyway, since that was in Ryan’s pocket.
Then Ryan raided Walsh’s fridge. He found more beer than food by a factor of ten, and most of it looked like it might have been sitting there since last year’s hunting season. But he found a bag of cheese curds that looked fresh-ish.
He picked at them. Jake didn’t eat. He prowled the little cabin, pacing back and forth. A vein on the side of his face pulsed with movement. He looked like he was a loud noise away from a stroke.
Ryan had a better handle on the situation. He’d been in combat. This was nothing compared to combat.
Still, every pair of headlights that passed put them both on edge, because it could mean anything.
Maybe it was Walker and his team, come to get them the hell out of here. Maybe it was a neighbor or another hunter, looking for the dead guy. Maybe it was a cop, looking for the black Cadillac.
Finally, around four in the morning, a set of headlights turned and bounced up the drive. Jake’s knuckles were white around the grip of his pistol. He stayed by a window, ready if he should be needed.
Ryan went out to meet whoever it was. If it was a cop, he’d pretend the place was his. If it was a neighbor, he’d say he was visiting. If it was Walker – well, they’d get to go home. He put a quizzical smile on his face and tried to look like he had a little bit of a buzz going on.
Just a regular Joe, greeting unexpected guests. Whatever it was, he was ready.
He could channel a local yokel, helping out. I help you, officer? A Cadillac, you say? Hell no. I haven’t seen any Cadillacs. Not in these parts.
He could channel a distant yokel, up for a visit. Yeah, Jake and I go way back. Curt Wilson, from down in Kennington. Pleased to meet you. Jake? Oh, he was done for hours ago. One too many shots.
Hopefully it would be enough to send whoever it was on their way. And if not?
Well, there was still plenty of room in the SUV.
But none of that proved necessary. The headlights belonged to a late model Range Rover, dark blue with silver accents. The driver killed the motor, and opened the door, and the lights went out.
David Walker stepped out, lit up by the lights of the cabin. He was 5’10” or 5’11” and weighed probably 180 pounds; and not an ounce of it was fat. The guy was nothing but bone, muscle and tattoo ink; not even hair, because he kept that trimmed close to the scalp.
Still, despite the ink and the hair, or lack thereof, he looked like a professional. It was the way he held himself, maybe, or the way he walked and talked. The clothes certainly didn’t hurt: suits that had not come from a catalog, with shirts and ties that could close around his tree trunk of a neck.
Aside from first impressions, though, Ryan didn’t know Walker particularly well. Ryan’s outfit was based at Reed Hill. Walker had crossed paths with him there. As far as Ryan knew, Walker’s outfit traveled frequently, assessi
ng security at the company’s many correctional facilities around the nation, building security teams, and so on.
But mostly, Walker’s team did what his did: took care of problems. Only Ryan’s team was local, taking care of the regional issues; Walker’s was the elite version, handling the big stuff, or the high priority stuff.
Word was, Walker and his boys had taken care of the Covington problem. They’d waited until the time was right, and then lured the journalist to a remote location and dealt with him.
They’d been the ones to dig up the pictures on Sean Abbot when the investigation into Judge Wynder started. They’d been instrumental in helping judges and AG’s, representatives and governors, city planners and county board members see things in a new light. Contracts had been signed, votes cast, discrepancies overlooked, and objections wisely withheld all over the nation due to the handiwork of David Walker and his team.
So Ryan didn’t know him personally. But he was an ambitious man. He figured if he played his cards right and stuck to the program, maybe he’d wind up on the other man’s team sooner or later.
Hell, Walker was probably two decades his senior. He’d have to retire one of these days. Maybe Ryan would wind up being Walker eventually: leading his own team, being Roy’s go-to guy for situations like these.
But right now, he was a guy with a problem. And David Walker was here to solve it. So he welcomed the other man with a hearty handshake. “It is good to see you, man.”
Walker shook his hand but seemed to be more focused on the plot than him. “The scene is secure?”
“Affirmative.”
“No civilians on the premise?”
“Not anymore.”
The door opened, and Jake stepped out. He’d put his gun away now. He was all relief. “We were getting worried,” he said. “Roy said you’d be here hours ago.”
“They’ve got roadblocks up. They’re looking for more than just the Cadillac now. They’re taking a look at any vehicle carrying more than one guy who looks like us.”
“Like us?”
“White, late twenties to mid-fifties, fit or looking like they ‘might have been military or private security.’ That’s what Roy’s contact said.”