“So okay, Kirk,” said Windermere, “how do you propose we get ahead?”
Stevens looked at the stack of passenger manifests. Sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, trying to work out a shortcut. “What other flights left around the same time as the Philadelphia flight Sunday afternoon?” he said.
“Hundreds,” said Windermere. “You saw the airport.”
“I mean within an hour or two, tops. Killswitch likes to get his assets out immediately after the kill. Ramirez died around two in the afternoon. That means the killers probably flew out between three-thirty and five, right?”
Windermere glanced at Mathers. Mathers sighed. “If you say so.”
“So narrow it down,” said Stevens. “What are we working with?”
Windermere picked up a printout. “Dallas, Los Angeles, Houston, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Philadelphia, Charlotte—”
“Charlotte,” said Stevens. “Oneida Ware said Killswitch’s Cadillac had North Carolina plates. Wendell Gray disappeared from Atlanta shortly after Killswitch was in Miami. He could have swung through and picked up Gray on the way home.”
Mathers frowned. “Kind of tenuous, isn’t it?”
“Maybe,” said Stevens. “Let me see the Charlotte manifest.”
Windermere handed over the stack of paper. Stevens read through it. Windermere’s FAA buddy had included arrival information for every passenger on the list. Now Stevens scanned the page, looking for a pattern. Found what he was looking for near the bottom.
“Gardham,” he said. “There it is.”
Windermere looked at him. “You sure?”
“The OneShot guy mentioned somebody named Gardham had put in a major order for ammunition. Now here’s a Gardham, Thomas, in the manifest. Flew in from Charlotte Sunday morning, accompanied by one David Gilmour. Both flew out on the afternoon flight. That’s a hell of a quick turnaround.”
“Few hours,” said Windermere. “Just enough time to kill Julio Ramirez.”
“I’m guessing Gardham is probably Killswitch himself,” Stevens said. “He came to Vegas with Wendell Gray in person.”
“And then flew back to Charlotte once Ramirez was dead. Just like he bailed out O’Brien in Miami.”
Stevens grinned. “Exactly.”
159
The asset drove the little rental car across the state line into Delaware. He picked up the cell phone and steered the car with his free hand as he called the man. “Approaching Exit 6,” he said.
“Good,” the man said. “They’re in a black Ford Mustang parked outside a Jiffy Lube north of the highway. Don’t let them get away.”
The asset pulled onto the off-ramp. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll call back when the job is done.”
160
Caity Sherman stared across the car at the guy—Richard, Andrew, whoever—feeling a chill run through her body as she studied his anguished eyes. “Can’t do what anymore?” she said. “What do you do, Richard?”
This was stupid. She should get out of here while she still had the chance. He was clearly unsettled. He was probably insane. Whatever he was into—drugs, gambling, murder—it was obviously dangerous as hell.
Except she couldn’t just leave him. He looked so utterly miserable. Tortured. She wanted to comfort him. And a part of her, she admitted to herself, wanted to know just what the hell had screwed him up so good. “What is it?” she said. “What do you do?”
Richard/Andrew sat in the driver’s seat and stared out the windshield into the dimming light. He didn’t say anything—what else was new?
“Tell me,” she said.
He turned, slowly, and looked at her. There was pain in his eyes, and fear. Vulnerability. “I kill people,” he said. “For the man.”
Okay. That was it. Time to get the hell away from this guy. Caity wrenched her door open. Unbuckled her seat belt and dashed from the car. Heard Richard/Andrew calling after her and ignored him.
Run, she thought. Run for your life.
She hurried across the empty parking lot. There was a gas station in the distance. Lights on. Traffic on the road. She was going to flag someone down and make them call the cops. She was going to get far away from Richard/Andrew/whoever and she was never going to flirt with strangers again.
She glanced back at the Mustang. Richard/Andrew wasn’t chasing her. He was still behind the wheel, wasn’t even looking at her. She slowed for a moment.
He just told you he kills people. You’re not going back there.
She turned back toward the gas station lights just as a silver Nissan pulled in from the street, headlights bright in the twilight. Caity waved and ran to it as it slowed. “Oh, my God,” she called to the driver. “Please help. There’s a guy in that Mustang, and I think he’s lost his mind.”
The driver climbed slowly out of the car. He looked at Caity. Caity met his eyes and stopped. Stopped babbling at him. Stopped hurrying toward him. Stopped everything and just stood there.
It was the man from the apartment. He’d found them.
Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run. She couldn’t. She stood, frozen, and looked at the man, those empty eyes and the bloody wound in his shoulder. The man studied her from across the car. Then he came around for her, slowly.
Caity screamed.
161
Lind watched Caity Sherman run from the Mustang. He heard her screaming outside. Heard a car door slam shut. It all came to him muffled, like he was underwater.
I need help.
His head hurt like never before. His vision was nearly black, and his ears buzzed like a million angry hornets. He wanted to puke out every organ, every ounce of life from his body.
He saw the targets again. Miami. Duluth. New York. Los Angeles. He heard the screams and the gunfire. Couldn’t escape the blood. The last electric twitches before the targets expired.
You’re a killer. You killed for the man. You killed so many people.
Lind screamed himself ragged. Shook the car on its tires. Nothing changed.
There was something going on across the parking lot. Lind could hear it. He’d heard Caity Sherman screaming, and he’d heard a car door slam. Caity screamed once more, desperate, then silence. Now there was only the muffled sound of the highway through the trees. Lind thought about the man and felt a chill like icicles on the back of his neck.
He knows, he thought. He knows where we are.
There was a silver Nissan sedan parked across the lot. In the dim light, Lind could just make out the driver on the pavement beside it. He was a tall man with shaggy hair. Lanky. He was the attacker from the apartment in Philadelphia. Lind recognized him. He’d followed them here, into Delaware.
And now he was outside, strangling Caity Sherman to death.
162
The asset called David Gilmour had the woman by the throat when he heard the big Mustang’s engine rumble to life. She was sinking to her knees in front of him, clawing at his hands, gasping for breath. She was dying in front of him. In a minute or two, she’d be dead.
But the Mustang was coming. The asset gripped the girl tight and ignored her flailing hands. Looked up and heard the big engine roar.
The second target was coming.
The asset kept his left hand tight on the girl’s throat. Fumbled with his right for the pistol. The girl redoubled her fight. Wrenched at his hand. Sent a bolt of burning pain through the wound in his shoulder. The asset screamed and dropped the girl. She scrambled away.
The Mustang was still coming. The asset pulled out the gun. Squeezed three shots that missed high. The Mustang kept coming.
The asset dove out of the way. The Mustang crumpled the little Nissan’s front fender. Glass shattered. Steel screamed in protest. The asset rolled away from the car. Heard the Mustang’s door open. Saw the target climb out.
The ta
rget came for him. No hesitation. Dodged the asset’s kicks and fell on him, raining punches. The asset swung back with the pistol. Caught the target, hard, across the face. The target reeled back, fell away. The asset came up firing. Shattered the driver’s-side window on the target’s car.
The target ran. Ducked behind the Mustang and scrabbled away on the gravel. The asset gave chase. Circled the Mustang. Heard the passenger door open and saw the dome light flick on.
Then the target appeared again. Stood up from the passenger door, slow and steady. He was holding his own pistol now. Had it aimed square at the asset’s chest.
163
Lind held the pistol on the attacker. Watched the triumph slowly fade from his face. The man held his own pistol at waist level, pointed down. Lind aimed the gun at the man’s head.
There were sirens in the distance. For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Lind spoke. “Stop,” he said. “This isn’t what you want.”
The attacker didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Lind looked him up and down. Looked into his eyes and flinched and stepped back.
There was no life in the attacker’s eyes. Just like mine, Lind realized. This guy’s another one like me.
The attacker started to inch toward Lind. Lind leveled the gun, his finger tight on the trigger. “This isn’t you doing this,” he told the attacker. “This is the man’s fault. He brainwashed you, too. You see the same visions, don’t you?”
The attacker blinked. Paused. Lind relaxed the gun. “He told you he’d make the visions go away,” Lind said. “He’s a liar. He’s using us both.”
The attacker studied Lind, frowning. Then his lips curled up in a cold sneer. “Maybe,” he said. “But I kind of like it.”
He started toward Lind again, evil in his eyes. Lind straightened the gun. Aimed it at the man’s head. “Stay back,” he warned him. “Stay back or I’ll shoot.”
The man didn’t listen. He kept grinning. He kept coming for Lind.
164
Caity watched the man walk toward Richard/Andrew. She heard the sirens, knew the police wouldn’t come soon enough. Richard/Andrew held the gun high. Leveled it at the man’s face. Shoot, she thought. Kill him. Then we all go home.
But Richard wasn’t shooting. The man was getting closer, and she could tell by the look on Richard’s face that he wasn’t going to do it. Was he a killer or wasn’t he? Was it all talk? The man was almost on him now. He was laughing at Richard.
She stood. “Shoot him, you moron.”
The attacker spun at her and fired. Caity ducked. Heard something hit the ground hard, an expulsion of breath. When she stood again, Richard was standing, his gun trained at the attacker. He’d knocked the man over, sent his pistol skittering off into the shadows. “Shoot him,” she said. “For Christ’s sake, just kill him.”
Richard looked across at her. “I can’t,” he said.
What the hell.
The attacker took off across the lot on his hands and knees, crawling for his weapon. In a couple seconds he’d be shooting again.
Caity slid behind the wheel of the Mustang. Shifted the big engine into reverse. Then she paused. She looked out at Richard. He was watching the man. He wasn’t doing anything. He was going to get himself killed.
God damn it.
Caity shoved the passenger door open. “Get your ass in the car.”
Richard looked at her. Blinked. Then, mercifully, he obeyed. She waited until he was halfway in his seat before she gunned it in reverse. Pulled clear of the Nissan and squealed across the lot. Dodged an oncoming police cruiser, slid across the intersection, and aimed the Mustang at the highway.
165
The asset watched the Mustang squeal out of the lot. Watched the police cruiser squeal in. He fumbled in the dark for the pistol, came up with it. Stayed hidden in the shadows as the cruiser pulled to a stop alongside the Nissan.
The cop sat in his cruiser a moment. The asset watched him. Gripped the pistol in his hands and tried to figure his options.
His adrenaline was running. He wanted to kill the cop. He wanted to walk out, gun blazing, and put five or six holes in the man’s body. He wanted to kill, the target’s words be damned. Maybe the man had done this to him, maybe not. He liked it. He wanted to kill again.
The cop was shining a spotlight on the Nissan. Easy prey. The asset massaged the trigger. Pictured the blood. Somewhere inside him, though, he heard the man’s voice. He remembered his training.
Extricate yourself without being detected.
That cop was talking on the radio. He was telling his dispatcher he’d responded to a report of shots fired. Happened upon this Nissan. He was phoning in the plates. Every outfit in the country would look for the asset if he murdered a cop.
Too much attention.
The asset slunk into the shadows. Circled around the dark Jiffy Lube building and into the trees behind. Made his way through the forest until he came to another road. It was a quiet road, not as busy. The asset waited in the shadows until he saw headlights approach. Then he stepped onto the pavement and waved the car down.
It was a truck, an old Chevy, two men inside. The asset kept the pistol hidden until he was right close. The driver rolled down his window. “What’s the problem?”
The asset stuck the gun in the man’s face. “Out,” he said. “Both of you.”
The men complied, their eyes wide. “No trouble, man,” the passenger said. “Take the truck if you need it. Not worth spit anyway.”
“Fuck you,” said the driver. “That’s my truck.”
“It’s my life.”
The asset brought the men around to the shoulder. Stood them in a ditch and watched them go pale. They wore checkered shirts and blue jeans. Looked something like farmers. The passenger wore a knife on his belt. “Hey, listen, man,” the driver said. “Don’t shoot us, okay?”
The asset leveled the gun at him. “Deal,” he said. “Let me see that knife.”
166
Mathers’s phone beeped. He caught Windermere’s eye across the lounge. “County police in northeast Delaware got a call about shots fired just south of the state line,” he read. “Couple cars in a Jiffy Lube parking lot, screaming and the like. Cruiser checked it out, found an abandoned Nissan, some spent shell casings, nobody around.”
Windermere and Stevens looked at each other. They were sitting in an empty corner of McCarran Airport, waiting to board a late flight to Charlotte. Outside the windows, the sun was just disappearing behind the Spring Mountains, rendering the casinos on the Strip a dramatic silhouette. Windermere frowned. “Okay,” she said. “So what does this have to do with us, Derek?”
Mathers scrolled down on his BlackBerry. “The Nissan was a rental,” he said. “Checked out from the Alamo desk at Philadelphia International this morning. Registered to one David Gilmour.”
Stevens felt his stomach flip. “Shit.”
“Guy called it in from an Exxon across the street. Said he heard a woman screaming, sounded like she was dying. Saw another car peel out, a muscle car, black.” Mathers looked at Windermere. “Word from Philadelphia is O’Brien kept a late-model Ford Mustang parked at his apartment, a—”
“Black Mustang.” Windermere swore. “I get it, Derek. Gilmour broke into O’Brien’s pad. O’Brien escaped, and Gilmour chased him down. Caught up off the interstate just across the state line to much shooting and gnashing of teeth.”
“The woman,” said Stevens. “Who is she?”
Mathers shrugged. “Could be an innocent bystander. Maybe another Killswitch killer. Or maybe one of the boys just got lonely.”
Windermere stood. Walked to the window and stared out at the planes on the tarmac. “Christ,” she said.
“You still thinking we should be headed for Charlotte?”
Windermere turned back from the window. Didn’t answer. She looked at Stevens
for a long time. Then she looked at Mathers and sighed. “Switch your ticket,” she said. “Head to Philly. I’ll take Stevens to North Carolina.”
Mathers stood. “Damn right.”
Windermere watched him hurry away. Then she turned to Stevens. “I really hope you’re right, partner.”
167
The Mustang was fast. Caity drove it as hard as she dared, the big engine roaring and the wind howling through the ruined driver’s-side window as the car ate up miles on the interstate. Her head pounded and her throat was raw. Probably bruised to hell, too, from the attacker’s big hands. And meanwhile, Richard/Andrew seemed dead fucking calm in the passenger seat. Was sitting there staring out the window like they both hadn’t just cheated death—again.
“Why didn’t you shoot him?” she said finally. “You had your gun right in his face. Could have killed him and saved us a shitload of trouble. Why’d you cop out?”
Richard said nothing. The wind buffeted the car, and Caity shivered and turned up the heater. Wondered where she was supposed to be going. She looked at Richard. “Come on, talk to me. Why’d you flake?”
Richard pursed his lips. He shifted in his seat. “That guy back there,” he said finally, “the attacker. He works for the same man that I worked for. The man sent him to kill me, because I failed the assignment.”
“I figured as much,” Caity said. “So?”
“The man, he brainwashes people. With these nightmares.” He looked at her. Caught her expression. “It sounds crazy, I know. I don’t know how it works. But it does. He brainwashed that guy like he brainwashed me.”
Caity stared out at the marks on the highway. Watched them disappear like Morse code beneath the car, every dash like a snare drum beating behind her eyes. She rubbed her face and looked away. “You realize you sound completely insane.”
Kill Fee Page 28