by Matt Hilton
'Move.'
The way we scattered might seem an overreaction to a reporter finding us, but there was more to it than that. The man wasn't carrying a BlackBerry this time and he wasn't alone. He stepped into the diner lifting a compact Uzi sub-machine gun. His three friends following him in were as heavily armed.
I went one way while Rink and Harvey went the other. It suited me: these men were after me, not my friends, and I preferred that their attention focused only on me.
'Get down,' I yelled at the barista at the espresso machine. I went over the serving counter in a dive, knocking the young man to the floor just as the bogus reporter let loose a hail of bullets at us. The machine was cut to shreds and scalding hot coffee splashed all round our bodies. The young man tried to claw his way from under me, but I pressed him down, even as with my other hand I went for my SIG. More Uzi chatter filled the room, joined by the screams and shouts of the customers trying to flee the chaos. Glass shattered and tinkled. Someone yelped in pain. Then I heard the crack of a handgun; either Rink or Harvey firing back.
I scrambled away, using the serving counter as cover. I made it all the way to the cashier's till and found the young girl crouching under the counter. A minimum wage she would put up with, but not this. She looked at me, the gun in my hand, and screamed in terror.
I bobbed up. Got a snapshot image of the place and didn't like it one bit.
There were people clambering over tables in an attempt to escape, while three of the attackers laid down an indiscriminate barrage of bullets. One old man caught a cross-stitch pattern of bullets across his lower back and went down. A woman was huddled over, cradling her bleeding face in her hands. I could see neither of my friends. Then there was no more time for looking.
The fake reporter spun my way.
He pulled on the trigger of his sub-machine gun, letting out a wordless roar. The rounds blasted chunks from the counter and I rolled away. Suddenly the cashier went silent.
Bastard, I thought. That was all, but it was all the galvanising I needed. I bobbed up again and fired a single shot.
The round hit the 'reporter' in his open mouth. Must have severed his spine the way he dropped like a stone. It was too clean a death for the murderous son of a bitch.
Had there been time I would have checked on the girl, but there wasn't. I was pretty sure the Uzi had cut through the counter and also through her. Terrible, but there was nothing I could do about that now except avenge her. There were still three killers in the diner and they would murder other innocent people if I didn't do something about it.
I came over the counter supported on one hand, already shooting with the other. I hit one man in his shoulder and he dropped his machine gun. He turned towards me and I shot him again, this time in his chest. Two down, two to go.
The remaining killers were mid-way down the diner. Most of the uninjured customers had managed to get out the way, but there were those who'd already been shot who either lay crying or were very silent. I saw one of the killers shoot a young man who was trying to hide under a table. There was no reason for it. The other killer was blasting a circular table that had been tipped on its end. It looked like a waste of bullets, because, other than pocking the heavy Formica they weren't getting through. I caught a glimpse of movement behind the table, a dark hand holding a Glock. Then I saw Harvey lean all the way out and fire off a close-knit grouping of shots at the killer. Two of the bullets struck the man, once in the gut, once in his right thigh. It didn't kill him outright, but it was enough to stop him shooting for a moment. Rink jumped up from the other side of the table and he fired and this time the man did go down. Half his brain now decorated the ceiling.
While all this was happening I wasn't standing idle. I was already running at the final man – the one who'd killed the man under the table in cold blood. I should've just shot the bastard, but I preferred that he hurt before he died. Plus, I wanted answers.
Who were these bastards, and why had they come after me? What connection had they to Rickard and the person guiding him? Had they been sent by Wetherby?
Rink and Harvey held their fire. The man probably heard me coming, because he turned my way, bringing round the Uzi.
I kicked the gun away and smacked the butt of my SIG directly in the centre of his chest. The man was slightly shorter than me, lighter in build, and I was able to force him backwards with the pressure of my gun against his sternum. He checked against a partition that was smeared by someone else's blood and the first thing he did was drop the Uzi and swing his bunched fist at my head. He was a player, for certain.
Blocking his fist with my gun hand, I used the angle to bounce my next blow to the side of his face. My SIG furrowed skin from his cheek, but he was already moving. He brought his knee up at my groin and I barely avoided it, but then he snapped a kick into my shin. Hurt like hell, but it would take more than that to stop me. His elbow sought my chin and I ducked. Then I kicked him in his shin. He rode the blow, looped his foot round the back of my knee even as he thrust at my chest with the palm of one hand. I should have been tripped, but he hadn't caught me off guard; I stamped down with my trapped leg, centring myself, marrying my balance to gravity. Palming his arm away, I slashed my right elbow into his ribs, swung up outside his arms and back-fisted him across the nape of his neck in a classic move from Kenpo karate.
The man staggered away from me and the added weight of the gun in my hand made my next blow telling. I cracked him in the centre of his forehead and he went to his knees.
Grabbing a fistful of his hair, I jerked his head back, bending it painfully on his neck while I jammed the SIG in his left eye socket. 'Who sent you?'
'Fuck you!'
'You want to die?'
'Fuck you, man…'
'Tell me who sent you, goddamnit! Was it Wetherby?'
'Who the fuck is Wetherby?'
'Who was it then?'
'I ain't saying nothing. Shoot me. It's better than what I'll get if I talk.'
I almost did pull the trigger. I thought of his cold-blooded murder of the man under the table and I would've been justified if I had shown him as little regard. But I didn't. I just whacked him across the temple with the barrel of my gun and left him unconscious on the floor.
'Maybe Walter's boys can make him talk,' I said as my friends came up.
The howl of approaching police sirens sounded like a pack of banshees was descending on us.
Chapter 23
'Alisha. Honey? Are you about done in there?'
Rickard used the tip of his knife to push open the door into the ladies' restroom. He recalled his admonishment of the man on his apartment roof doing something similar with his gun, but this time it was different. Alisha was no threat to him, not in a physical sense.
He was in a short passage that led from the dining area, three doors all on the right-hand side. The first was the men's room, the second the ladies'. The final door had proved to be a janitors' closet. No exit. The air smelled of bleach and there was a sickly underlying aroma of urine and perfumed tissue paper.
Peering into the alien territory of a ladies' room, he checked out the porcelain sinks, pot-pourri in little bowls on a shelf, two stalls with the doors closed tight. He walked further into the room, his shoes squeaking on terracotta tiles. 'Alisha?'
No answer came. But this wasn't uncommon. Often Alisha would play at being coy.
He crouched to scan the floor under each stall. One of them was definitely empty, and when he touched the knife to the door it swung inward silently. Next he tried the second door and it resisted him. He crouched again. 'Alisha, honey…'
He straightened up.
He considered kicking open the door, but realised there was no need for that. Instead he went into the vacant stall and stepped up on to the toilet bowl. He looked over the dividing wall into an equally vacant space. No, not true: Alisha's stiletto-heeled shoes were standing where she'd left them. Rickard grunted, looked at the narrow window where she mu
st have crawled out. It had a security feature, a bar that allowed the window to open only partially. The gap was little more than ten inches wide. No way that a fully grown man could have squeezed through, but a slip like Alisha wouldn't have had much difficulty.
He should have been enraged, but Rickard felt cool about it, mildly amused even. Alisha had actually pleased him by showing this resourceful side, although it meant she had escaped him. Her betrayal had already harmed him; running off didn't make that much difference. He thought maybe this was even better. He had planned on murdering her right there in that stall, but that could have proved an inconvenience. It would be difficult getting out of the diner unnoticed if he was covered in her blood. Better then that he caught up with and killed her somewhere less public.
He stood down from the bowl, exited the stall and headed for the door. When he pulled it open he came face to face with the old man who'd taken too much interest in him earlier. The old man squinted at him, then at the sign on the door.
'You know that's for the girls, don't you,' he said.
By way of answer, Rickard dropped his left hand and gripped his own genitals. 'Yeah, and so is this.'
The other wasn't impressed by his lewdness. 'I've been watching you, boy. I just knew you were a strange one.'
Rickard merely smiled.
The old man tried to peer past him inside the room. 'That lady of yours, where's she at?'
'What's it to you?'
'You upset her, you did. I want to check she's OK.'
Rickard moved aside, swung his left thumb over his shoulder. 'Go on then. Check all you want.'
The old man frowned at him, placed a hand on Rickard's chest to press him further out of the way. 'Your posturing don't frighten me none, boy. Now get outa my way.'
He rapped on the door as he peeked inside. From this angle the toes of Alisha's shoes could be seen under the gap in the door. 'Lady? You OK in there, lady?'
'You think I'm strange?'
The old man turned and found Rickard standing directly behind him. Rickard had invaded his personal space and he took a half-step back.
Rickard said, 'What I find strange is how the girls get sweet-smelling pot-pourri while us guys get nothing. Do they think they're better than us?'
The man shook his head at the absurdity of Rickard's comment. He glanced again at the closed door. 'Lady?'
'Something else that's strange,' Rickard said, 'is how some senile old fool thinks he has the right to stick his nose into other people's business.'
'It became my business when I saw you hurting that lady. You're a bully, but you don't frighten me.'
'Is that so?'
'No, boy, you don't. Not one bit.' The old guy shoved at him, moving nearer the closed door. 'Hey, lady? No need to be afraid of this one!'
'You don't happen to have a son by the name of Joe Hunter, do you?' Rickard asked. 'He's a self-righteous prick just like you.'
Rickard grabbed the old man, spun him round and ran him at the sinks. The man's hip jammed up against one of the porcelain bowls, but Rickard continued to force him backwards, his left hand clamped over his mouth, stifling his yell. Rickard's right hand pistoned in and out, jamming his blade repeatedly in the man's stomach and ribs. He hissed through his clamped teeth as he watched the light go out of the old man's eyes. It wasn't a quick death for him; more punishment.
The man slumped to the floor. Rickard reached into one of the bowls of pot-pourri and scattered some of the perfume-laden petals on the man's dead body. It didn't cover the rank smells of blood or the man's voided bowel.
That done with Rickard finally peered at his reflection in the mirror above the sinks. For the most minuscule of moments he thought he saw a nimbus of light round him, but then it was gone. He leaned over the dead man so he could get closer to the mirror. Briefly he stared into his reflection, one eye at a time. The mirror was smeared by a hand print, the greasy stain giving the illusion of colour that wasn't really there.
He looked down at his jacket. It was liberally splashed by the dead man's blood. So much for not getting messy. Rickard shrugged out of the jacket, took it over to a sanitary wear disposal bin and shoved it through the flip lid. He wiped his blade and his hands on a perfumed tissue which he flushed down a toilet. He walked out of the room nonchalantly, making his way towards the exit. Behind him a woman got up and headed for the restroom. In seconds the screaming would start.
He tossed dollars on the table as he passed, didn't want a cashier chasing him into the street. Then he was out the door and walking quickly away from the diner.
He heard a wail, not from someone discovering the dead guy, but the distant sound of emergency sirens. Across town something major was happening. Good, he thought, a diversion while he got away from here and took up the chase for Alisha.
He found his car and clambered inside, started the engine. About to pull into the street, he had to wait while a squad car rocketed by with its lights flashing, the cop lying heavily on the siren to clear a way through the traffic.
It looked like all available response vehicles were heading downtown.
On a whim, he followed.
His apartment was in the same vicinity that all the police cars were converging on. Alisha could wait for now; he wanted to know what was happening.
He wasn't fully sure how he felt when he arrived at the scene.
It was still a couple blocks short of where his apartment was, but if his instincts had been correct this latest emergency was tied to him, only in a way that he couldn't quite fathom at first.
Parking outside the cordon of police cars he watched in fascination as the officers jostled for covering positions behind their cars, circling the front of a diner similar to the one he'd just left. It was obvious that a gunfight had recently taken place, judging by the pockmarks in the front window of the diner, and the people scrambling outside and collapsing on the street in shock and dismay.
The glare of the morning sun made seeing through the diner's windows impossible. The sounds of the gun battle had stopped and now only the faint cries of the injured could be heard. Distantly he caught the strident calls of other responding police cruisers. Or maybe they were ambulances for the injured. Should get out of here, he thought. But curiosity held him in place.
His decision to wait and see what transpired rewarded him within seconds. Three men walked outside, showing empty hands. Between them they dragged a fourth man who was unconscious or dead, whom they threw down at the feet of the police.
They were an unusual-looking trio: a giant Asian-American, a tall African-American and – in Rickard's opinion – a walking dead man.
Chapter 24
There was no avoiding a trip to the local police precinct house this time. We'd been involved in a shoot-out where three hitmen and three members of the public had died. There were four others seriously wounded and a couple with minor injuries from flying glass. And there was one unconscious killer.
We chose to take our Fifth Amendment right until Walter arrived. The cops weren't happy, but Walter had us kicked loose under rules governing the arrest and incarceration of active CIA agents. We made nobody any the wiser. As soon as we were off the record, I told the homicide detectives what I knew about our attackers. It wasn't much. I didn't mention a possible connection to Wetherby because I wasn't sure that there was one. Then we went and collected our weapons from where they'd been stored after they were seized as evidence. That raised the anger level tenfold, but there was nothing the cops could say or do at the time.
I seriously pissed off the lead investigator, Lieutenant Jonah Hawke, a big, red-faced detective with twenty years under his belt, when I asked to look at the file concerning the murders at Luke Rickard's apartment. I actually thought that he was going to swing for me and we had an awkward moment before Walter stepped in and made the request official.
'I only want a look at the suspect's face,' I told the cop.
'Can't help you. He's not on record. He wasn't th
e type to keep snapshots either; there were no photographs of him lifted from his apartment.' Hawke was more than a little smug in the way he announced this. 'We've checked his prints. They've come up in connection with a few unsolved crimes, but that's it. The name Luke Rickard's bogus. As of now he's designated as an Unknown Subject. The guy's a goddamn ghost.'
He will be if I get my way, I thought.
'What about his physical description? You must have canvassed the other tenants in the building by now.'
Hawke held my gaze steadily. 'Physical description, huh? I'm looking at it.'
The cop's words struck me deeply. I was already aware that Rickard had disguised himself in order to set me up, but now I wondered just how far he'd gone in stealing my face. It wasn't a nice thought considering that there was someone out there who was the total antithesis of me, but who was my identical double. I walked away from Hawke before he noted the shaking of my hands.
Our Chrysler had been abandoned back at the diner when we'd been taken in. We had to grab a taxi to go and collect it, and none of us spoke about what happened on the journey over. Then we went to a hotel room to hook back up with Walter and Bryce. Neither of the CIA men – active or retired – was there yet so we made ourselves busy gathering our own information. Harvey was as good at digging up data as any other person involved.
Up in Maine, the police there were a little ahead of the game. Probably it was because SAC Hubbard was pushing them for answers. Harvey brought up a couple of digital photo-fits formed from descriptions given by Imogen and by the boathouse owner who'd disturbed Rickard. There were subtle differences between both images, but they were enough alike to be the same man. Lieutenant Jonah Hawke was right: Rickard did have a resemblance to me. Slightly darker in the hair and definitely darker in the eye, but there were more similarities than there were disparities. For the purpose of incriminating me, Rickard had gone to a lot of trouble, maybe as far as having cosmetic surgery. It was an uncanny feeling looking at my evil twin.