by Davis Bunn
The café occupied one small corner of a high-ceilinged room that also included a wine bar. The place had been almost empty when he arrived earlier but now was filling up with the lunch crowd. Cruz had changed into a pale blue long-sleeve dress shirt with button-down collar, black jeans, silk jacket with a tight blue-gray weave, and lizard-skin boots polished to a mirror shine. His shoulder-length hair was pomaded and held by a silver and turquoise clasp. Normally Cruz would have taken a lot of pleasure from the looks two local lovelies were casting his way. But not today.
When his contact finally called him back, Cruz shut his laptop and turned to face the window. The café had started life as a tobacco warehouse. The walls were made of brick and pine timbers, both stained nearly black by the building’s former contents. The noise level formed a perfect baffle for Cruz as he asked, “Can you check the local police log?”
“Of course. What’s all that noise?”
“My cover. Check and see if there was a gunshot victim last night.”
“What?”
“Out by Fairview. Sometime after eleven.”
“Wait . . . You’re telling me you don’t know?”
“I was in position. The other hunters showed up.”
“Why didn’t you take all of them out?”
Cruz nodded to the sunlight and the passing pedestrians. He had been asking himself the same thing ever since he had not found a homicide notice on the local newspapers’ websites. “They were split up. Their positions were screened by trees. I could take one clean shot. Not three.”
“Did you see one of them take the shot?”
“No. I was too exposed. I left.”
“You ran away.”
There was nothing Cruz could say that would reduce the burn. He remained silent.
The client’s contact said, “So you assumed they were gunners. You assumed the job was done.”
This was the problem with being second-guessed by people who had never done a hit. “These guys are pros. Accept it or not, that’s up to you. Now back to the central question. I think they were actually after a different target, and their objective was probably wounded. If there was a murder, it would have made the news by now. I need you to check the stats and tell me who was hit. And then I have to work back and determine what new safety measures—”
“I don’t need to check the police reports. I already did that. Twice.”
“So . . . nothing.”
“Look, I was told you were the best. The situation is now beyond critical. If you can’t finish this today, I’ve got to make other—”
Cruz hung up. Instantly the rage rose up and threatened to consume him, something he could not let happen. Rage and confusion were for guys who got themselves killed. Survivors stayed cool, calm. They went in, did the job, and walked away. They stayed safe.
Cruz sat there facing the street and the light and the people. When his fury was back inside its tight little box, when he felt steady again and totally aware, he pushed away from the table, stood and left the café.
Ready to finish the job.
thirty-three
Della spent the first part of that morning starting on a new structure for her writing project. The ideas that had come to her in the Post offices were now taking concrete form. She was no longer focused on just an article, or even a series of articles. This was too huge. She had to put aside her worries and doubts. She had to begin looking at the big picture. Which meant she needed to build a structure that would support a book. And for that she needed backstory. She needed to clearly understand who these people were, and how they came to be involved with the Bishop brothers. She also needed to see this as an evolution. It wasn’t just Kenneth Bishop who had undergone a major transition. His brother, Theo, was becoming someone else as well. It was only after she had been summarizing and outlining for a couple of hours that she could put a name as to who this new Theo Bishop might be.
A leader.
She worked while seated at the counter rimming the living room side of the kitchen. The entire downstairs was open plan and about a third the size of the Post’s newsroom. The counter was some pale wood topped by polished blocks of blue-veined soapstone. The color was astonishing, like a vast oyster shell. She had never been much interested in the things a lot of money might buy, mostly because she had never had any. Her parents had been contemptuous of the super rich and all the false moves their money represented. Yet despite that, Della found herself enjoying this first taste of luxury. Especially here, with Claudia feeding her two young girls, Avery working at the dining table’s other end, and Harper seated four seats removed from Della, working on her own list. Theo had left much earlier to meet with his brother.
After Claudia departed with the kids, Avery asked, “Would you mind driving to Winston-Salem? I need to get to the lab, but FedEx has alerted me that crucial samples will land at the regional airport in about three hours.”
It felt as though he was offering Della exactly what she needed at that point—a valid reason to step back and examine her project from a distance. “Not at all.”
“Want some company?” Harper asked.
Avery explained that it was standard protocol for scientists working on new immunizations to request urgent access to tissue and blood samples. This was especially true when the outbreak under study took place in regions where the quality of local labs was questionable.
Della turned to a new page in her notebook and asked, “How do you get samples when the authorities over there want to pretend the problem doesn’t exist?”
A growing number of multinational groups specializing in human trials had set up in Africa, Avery explained. Testing experimental drugs and procedures cost two-thirds less in Africa than anywhere in the West. The quality of these facilities was absolutely first rate. It had to be. Three times each year, these companies flew out FDA inspection teams at their own expense.
“I’ll bet you make a fantastic teacher,” Harper said.
The benefit to the host countries was substantial, Avery went on. Payment was made to every volunteer, equivalent to several years’ average salary, along with a level of health care for them and their families that far exceeded anything they might otherwise obtain. Sizable payments were also made to the nation’s ministry of health, and often yet another secret payment directly to the health minister.
Beyond the clinical trials, these hospitals had two additional sources of income. They offered first-rate health care to local patients, at western prices. They also supplied labs in the US with tissue and blood samples.
Harper gathered up her keys and purse. “We’re leaving now.”
Avery asked them to drop him off at the university lab. He needed to check the technicians’ work and finish calibrating his equipment, so his team would be ready to start immediately on these samples. When they assured him it was fine, that they didn’t mind the trip, Avery resumed his classroom-style explanation. Della sat in the front passenger seat with her notepad in her lap while Harper drove. Della wrote furiously, making a list of points to cover later along the pad’s right margin.
Avery’s first action upon determining the message embedded in Lanica’s pages had been to order a variety of samples from a number of the affected regions. There was little chance of identifying the virus or bacteria causing the deaths. But this was not the first time Avery had worked in the scientific dark. Until blood and tissue could be drawn from a number of still-living infected patients, he had to search deeper. Hunting the hidden depths was where Avery excelled. Many of the tactics he used had been developed by coroners and forensic investigators working on homicide victims.
Criminal investigators were trained to look for the unseen. Murder victims rarely gave away their secrets easily. Avery had taken numerous classes with police CSI teams plus other courses developed for FBI agents. It was those specialty tactics he intended to apply here, looking beyond the illness to see if he could identify what he called the invasive component. There had to be
something that tied all these outbreaks together. The kill zones were spread out over nine different countries, almost two thousand miles of coastland. There had to be some shared element that shifted these regions into poisonous environments.
After leaving Avery at the university, Harper merged onto the interstate and headed east. The Carolina sun seemed brighter than what Della was used to, the surrounding hills much greener. Even the traffic showed a polite gentility. Della set her notepad on the dash and turned to Harper. The brilliant light brought out a honeyed texture to her skin. She was a strong and handsome woman, with determined features softened by full lips. Harper’s eyes held an ancient’s quality, as though nothing could shock her. Della had the impression she could tell this woman anything. Which was why she said, “I need to explain how I ended up being a part of all this.”
“That’s good,” Harper replied, “because I need to hear it.”
Della’s account of how she came to join Bishop Pharma took them all the way to the airport and through the process of signing for Avery’s packages. The samples were packed in four Styrofoam containers with yellow tape warning the dry ice would last only until the time and date written a dozen times with an indelible felt-tip marker. They carried the containers to her Jeep, loaded them in the back, and headed west. Once they rejoined the highway, Della asked, “How long have you known Theo?”
“Since forever. Which is kind of strange, seeing as how he only just told me about falling for his brother’s wife . . . what’s her name?”
“Amelia.”
“Yeah. It took a day in bankruptcy court for that little gem to come out.” Harper smiled at her. “Theo was engaged. Gloria. She ran some business down in Charlotte. I don’t remember what. The lady rubbed me the wrong way from day one. Very big-city, lots of bangles—she made music when she walked. But you get beyond that, and the lady struck me as being half shark. Grant opened a bottle of champagne the night Theo announced they had broken things off.”
Della forced herself to smirk back. “What about you?”
Harper’s smile melted away. “My man died four years ago. I’m still in recovery.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, hon. Nights aren’t the trial they once were. Gives me hope for the long run. Grant and Theo were close. They used to take these walks. I mean, if you were to work hard at defining how I’d least like to spend a day or a week, that was what got my boys going. Up and down the Grand Canyon in a day. Like that.”
“Wow.”
“But you take my man to the mall, he’d be moaning and limping before we made it across the parking lot. I’d give him the tiniest shopping bag to carry . . .” Harper clamped down hard. Breathed for a time. When she spoke again, her voice carried a rougher burr. “Whenever they took those longer trips, they’d invite me to come. Probably knowing I’d say, ‘Thank you very much, but no.’ Anyway, the last two they made were to hike the Rockies up around Jackson Hole. The other was nine days in the desert highlands of central Mexico. When they came back from that one, I told Grant to just drop his duffel bag in the wastebin. That or burn it in the backyard. Because there was no way I would be putting that nasty stuff in my expensive new washing machine.”
The landscape gradually underwent a shift. The flatlands transitioned into rolling hills. The forest became denser, the pines stabbing the sky like living spears. Della held to her silence, giving Harper time to recover. She actually needed the space herself. Being this close to the other end of a lifetime love impacted her deeply. Finally, Harper said, “When Grant had his heart attack, Theo basically saw me through.”
“He did the same for me, in a very small way,” Della confessed. “When we started off in the back of that huge plane, flying through the African night, I pretty much went to pieces. I was so freaked I didn’t even know what was happening. I kept pushing and shouting at the man in charge. His name was Bruno. Just your basic mercenary. Not that I’ve ever met one before. Big and strong and totally unshakable. I watched them assemble their weapons and went into a very noisy meltdown. Sort of. I mean, I didn’t scream or anything. At least not out loud.”
Harper’s smile returned, which was really why Della had spoken at all. “Theo talked you down off the ledge.”
“He made me eat something. He talked about how I probably didn’t want to know what they weren’t telling me. He spoke about some local who had taught him to hunt.” Della pressed a fist to her gut, easing the tension that had risen with the memory. “Then we landed.”
“And you had made yourself a new friend.”
“Somebody I knew I could trust,” Della agreed. “Whatever came my way.”
“Do me a favor, would you?”
Della looked over. “Of course.”
“Just don’t break Theo’s heart. He deserves better than that.”
“But . . . we’re not involved.”
She huffed her disbelief. “Girl, if you can’t lie better than that, I don’t see how you ever got yourself hired by Bishop.”
“So . . . it shows.”
“Oh yeah. It does.”
“Theo . . . he’s amazing.” Della turned back toward the highway. “My track record with men is pretty awful.”
“I believe I’ve heard myself sing that tune once or twice. Before Grant. You open to some advice?”
“Sure.”
“You got to clean off your spectacles before you can see proper.”
“Excuse me?”
“What my grandmama told me after I brought Grant home the first time. I can’t look at a future with my new man through eyes clouded by old mistakes. Not and give our love half a chance.”
Della nodded slowly. Like she was taking it in deep. But what she felt humming down at the level of her bones and sinews were those singular words.
Her love. Her new love.
thirty-four
Cruz drove from the café straight to Fairview. He knew he could not see the house from the road, so he did not bother to slow down as he passed the estate. A quarter mile farther on, the road curved around a leveled lot with a For Sale sign planted by the road. He pulled in and parked next to a mound of glistening red earth, then got out and opened the trunk. He stripped off his city gear and dressed in a khaki T-shirt, cotton drawstring trousers, and lightweight running shoes. Because he was going to be climbing another tree and needed to protect his hands, he added a pair of fingerless gloves. Then he geared up—rifle with scope, serrated carbon-steel knife, and a sweet little Glock 19 with a polymer frame that reduced the loaded weight to just thirty ounces. Next he selected clips for both weapons that held expansion bullets, often referred to as explosive ammo or dumdums. But this was incorrect. A true explosive bullet had a metal casing that contained an explosive charge. They had been outlawed decades ago, were difficult to find and even harder to make.
An expansion bullet was specialized ammo designed to deform upon impact. It had a collapsible space carved into the projectile tip. Thus the projectile broadened on impact, causing soft-tissue damage and exposing the wound to extremely hot gasses. The downside was range. The hollow cavity in the bullet could skew aim. But Cruz had to assume the other hunters were still out there. Which meant he needed to be certain his first shot was enough to put his target down permanently.
Cruz figured his earlier hide was known to the others. So this time he left the car and hiked uphill through the forest until he was looking down on the roof of the main house. He picked his way through old-growth woodland until he spotted a new hide. A giant hickory rose up to where a natural platform was formed by three interwoven branches, each one as thick as his waist. The hide was shielded from view on two sides by a massive blooming magnolia tree. The dinner-plate-sized blossoms filled the air with an overpowering fragrance.
Cruz scaled the tree and scanned the estate. His view was almost perfect. On the opposite side of the house stretched a wide graveled forecourt. Two cars were parked there. The sliding doors leading to the veranda we
re open, and Cruz could hear the shouts of children. He settled into position and went entirely still.
Those times Cruz reflected on past hits, he always flashed upon a single image. With this one he was fairly certain it would be the oversize blossoms and their perfume. From this day forward, he would associate the magnolia’s scent with death.
Twice in the first hour, Cruz left his hide. Both times he scouted the surrounding terrain, moving with a predator’s silent ease. Early after his escape from the gang’s idea of loyalty and safety, Cruz had signed up for a course in stealth tactics. The course was offered by three retired Special Forces noncom officers. They intended the course for SWAT police and private security. Cruz used a fake ID and claimed to be aiming for the Chicago PD. There was a unique joy in working alongside these highly trained, highly skilled men and women. He had been tempted to sign on for a tour with the Marines. But in the end he had walked away. There was too much risk of trading one cage for another. He would stay a loner to the end.
Tracking over the same territory was one of the tactics his trainers had stressed. Shadows shifted, wind altered, light filtering through trees revealed different tells. He saw nothing the first time, but the second revealed footprints. Two different trackers, one massive male and that same small man or woman. They had drifted through the clearing behind his hide, then split up and entered the forest. Cruz lost both on a carpet of pine needles. He scaled a second tree just to be certain they were not lurking up above eye level. But the day was empty. He returned to his hide both unsettled and angry. These people were good. But he was better. And he was going to take them out.
Cruz had decided on the drive over that the second team were definitely after a different target. The footprints confirmed as much. They were not out for some midnight stroll. They were also not sloppy. To move through forested terrain and mask their trail by holding to springy pine needles suggested a high level of training. These were specialists.