by Matt Hilton
'You should have looked at me, goddamn you,' he said, as though her death was her own doing.
He walked out of the office and approached the Focus. He glanced all round, then, pretty certain that no one was observing him, he unlocked it and climbed in, then drove out of the lot. The car stank of cigarette smoke and was flecked with ash. Even the windscreen was discoloured with nicotine. He opened the windows to let some fresh air inside, feeling the draught ruffle his hair. He drove off the industrial estate and back under the highway, noting distractedly that the Taurus remained undiscovered, before taking a ramp to join the northbound traffic.
He decided to keep the Focus for the time being. The woman looked like she'd spent most of her days alone, smoking herself into oblivion, so it wasn't likely that her murder would be discovered any time soon. If there were roadblocks ahead, he'd take the chance that the identification he carried would get him by without question, so it was more important to put distance behind him now than lay false trails. He only required a couple of hours and then he'd be out of the country and free of pursuit.
Since arriving home at his apartment yesterday, his mind had been working in a mode commandeered by a strange sense of disassociation. He was driven by a self-righteous wind that pushed at him insisting on immediate and positive action for all the betrayal he'd suffered. Alisha – and the man whose arms she'd run to – demanded punishment. So too did the one that had sent men to kill him at his apartment. This was what he must concentrate on.
Now that his pulse had calmed somewhat and the breeze was helping to clear the smell of smoke from the car and the cobwebs from his mind, he was beginning to think a little sharper. Draft plans were beginning to take shape.
After a couple of miles of following frustratingly slow traffic, he took the Focus off the highway on to surface streets of a housing scheme not dissimilar to Liberty City. He followed the streets until he found what he was looking for. A convenience store was like a candle to moths, drawing people to its doors with the promise of bargains. Rickard parked the Focus in a row of similarly non-intrusive vehicles, blending himself among the clientele going in and out of the store. Unlike the others who parked nose in to the kerb, he reversed into the parking space in order that he'd have a quick getaway if the cops turned up. He angled his mirrors so he could discreetly check anyone coming towards him from the direction of the store and then swept the roadway with his gaze. Happy that he wasn't attracting any untoward attention, he pulled out his mobile phone and tapped a hot key.
The phone rang a half dozen times.
The buzzing in his ear told him what he'd already taken for granted. Any other time his client had picked up almost immediately but this time there was reticence in answering. Probably wasn't expecting a call from a dead man, he thought. Except enough time had passed since the attempt on his life back at his apartment for the news to have filtered back that he'd escaped unscathed. However, the last thing expected of him would be for him to call in now.
'Rickard?'
At the sound of the voice he blinked slowly.
'You were perhaps expecting someone else?'
His retort was ignored. 'Why didn't you call in sooner?'
'I've been rather busy.'
'So I've seen. Things are getting out of hand up there. I lost some good people.'
'They weren't that good,' Rickard said.
'Obviously not. Joe Hunter took them out easily… he's more dangerous than I thought.'
Rickard felt a dull thud in his gut. Something squirmed there, reaching for his heart. The serpent stirring.
Hunter took them out.
Rickard had no sense of speaking the words aloud and was surprised to hear an answer. 'I sent a team to offer you assistance. They spotted Hunter and rashly believed that they were his equal. All but one of them was killed.'
Rickard struggled to comprehend what he was being told. Finally he understood. The diner. The shoot-out. Those were the people his client was talking about. Of course there was no way that he'd get a confession about the three who'd come to his apartment.
'You shouldn't have sent anyone.' His words were loaded.
'I thought it best.' No argument. 'Hunter has proven himself to be the most dangerous of your targets. The situation with Imogen Ballard told me that the job would require more than one man to complete.'
Rickard grunted. 'I told you, circumstances overtook me in Maine. It does not mean I'm incapable of finishing the job. Alone.'
There was a long pause. The ticking of the cooling engine, a distant bark of an excited dog, was all that filled the seconds.
'I have reconsidered our arrangement.'
'In what way?' Rickard asked.
'You were employed to set Hunter up. I wanted him to suffer greatly. I wanted him to lose people he cared for in the knowledge that he could do nothing to stop their deaths. He was to have no one to turn to, no place to hide. But it seems all of that was ridiculously grandiose of me. I should have simply had you take him out at the first opportunity, allowed you to kill him.' Rickard couldn't argue with that: it was what he'd thought all along. So he just listened. 'The plan has backfired. It has caused problems I could do without. I said I did not want a trail leading back to me.'
I am a trail to you, Rickard realised.
But that was not what was said. 'Hunter killed three of those I sent to help you. One of them is still alive and in the hands of law enforcement. I can't risk having him mention my name.'
'You want me to kill him?'
'No, I have other people who will do that for me.'
'I'll do it.'
'No, Rickard. I want you to disappear for a while. The police are looking for you now. So is Joe Hunter. I will pay you for your services to date and will also see that you receive a weighty bonus. However, that is it. You must have no more involvement in this case.'
'That's not the way I work.'
'I understand your disappointment, Rickard. But that's the way it must be.'
'You don't understand what I'm saying…'
'I do. You took the job on the understanding that you would ultimately kill Hunter. Professionally you want to see that task through. I know that you wish to finish things but it's better this way.'
'Better?'
'You delivered exactly what was asked of you, it just did not have the result I was hoping for. From here on in I wish to play things differently.'
'You're saying that you're severing our contract?'
'For the time being. However I may use you again in the future.'
'Use me?'
'You're disappointed. I understand. I will compensate you well: believe me, you will be happy with the bonus I mentioned.'
'I am more than disappointed,' Rickard said, his voice low. He had begun to shake, vibrating like a tuning fork.
'Rickard, you are going to drop out of sight for a while. My own people will deal with this from now on. Should I need your services again, I will contact you.'
The line went dead.
As though his strength of will could summon the voice again, he pressed the phone to his ear, listening to the soft whoosh of blood through his skull. He sat like that for some time, vision glazed over as he stared into middle space. But the voice didn't come back. All that happened was that the trembling inside him intensified. He was like a pot coming to the boil, about to spurt scalding liquid everywhere. And now his effort of will was aimed at bringing that under control.
First he closed his phone and slipped it into his pocket. No way would he hit that hot key again. The phone would go unanswered, adding further insult to what he'd already suffered.
He started the car and nosed out into the roadway, blinking his blurred vision away as he swung north. He drove a shade below the speed limit. Careful and considerate: it was a struggle because his rage demanded speed and reckless manoeuvres and perhaps a little mayhem and destruction along the way.
I may use you again.
It was those words that a
ngered him most.
He inhaled deeply and then shuddered out a long breath.
No one uses me, he thought. He laughed at the absurdity of it. But the laughter would fool no one, let alone him. So he stopped laughing and chewed at his bottom lip.
He was a professional killer of men, a craftsman, and a master of his art. No one used him. His services came with an unconditional guarantee of excellence. It was a contractual partnership, one that he would never shirk once the deal was made, and a binding promise that his client could not step away from either. Once you were in you were in for the journey. Of course, the manner of his trade meant that a broken contract could not be pursued in the same way as other businesses. The client's offer of a 'weighty bonus' just did not cut it. Compensation wasn't the issue. His standing as one at the top of his tree was. No one used Luke Rickard then threw him away like he was a senseless thug scrabbling in the dirt for a handful of scattered coins.
His plan to get out of the country now took on a far more pointed purpose than avoiding a manhunt.
Chapter 30
'Man, this takes me back, guys.' Rink was nipping the tip of his tongue between his teeth, enjoying every minute of the experience.
'I'd forgotten how uncomfortable it was,' I grumbled over the high-pitched rush of air snapping at my jumpsuit and trappings.
'Can't wait,' Rink went on. 'The rush, man, haven't you missed it?'
I just grunted, said, 'Just make sure you don't land on your head.'
Rink laughed at me. Harvey leaned forward, looking past Rink, and shot me a grin of his own. 'Worse will be if he lands on our heads.'
We were in a MC-130H Combat Talon II, the Lockheed variant of the Hercules transport airplanes used during military operations. The last time I'd been in one was on a drop behind enemy lines during Operation Desert Storm. On that occasion I'd been one of fifty-two paratroopers stacked side by side in the troop carrier, but this time there was only me and my friends preparing to jump.
We were only minutes away from our designated drop and I felt the familiar trickle of adrenalin I got when preparing for contact. Rink always became excitable, a nervous energy making him grin like a crazy man. On the other hand the surge of chemicals through my system had the adverse effect of sending me into a state that some – even my best friend – took as a resolute calmness. Rink would comment on my ability to stay calm like it was something admirable, but really there was nothing admirable about it. I was as nervous as everyone else: I just didn't let it show.
Embrace fear and make it your friend. That had been the philosophy of my instructors at Arrowsake, the secret base where I'd undergone intense military training. It was an ethos I've carried with me ever since. Fear keeps you wary and in a high state of alert. It can keep you alive.
I wished that I feared Luke Rickard, but I didn't. I just loathed everything about him.
Even if he wasn't a stone-cold killer who had earned himself a substantial amount of wealth from murder, I'd still want to put the bastard down. From Imogen Ballard I'd learned that he was a sick-minded beast who had used the threat of rape to torture her, but from Alisha – his wife – I found that he'd gone way beyond threats. At first he'd been the archetypal gentleman, a loving and caring man who'd saved her from a life on the streets. He'd whisked her away, married her on a beach in the Bahamas, set her up in a penthouse suite in Miami, given her everything. But then things changed. The mask had slipped and for two years he'd subjected her to vicious and agonising sexual abuse in an attempt at dominating her every thought. I was surprised that she'd waited as long as that before asking Del Chisholm to get her away from the monster. I only wished that she'd come to us instead.
Rickard's bullets had shattered the femur in her left leg and had nicked an artery. Immediate fears that she would lose the leg were negated by the superb team of surgeons who worked on her through the evening and into the small hours. They saved the limb, but she'd never walk again without a limp. She also had to forgo her spleen and a portion of her liver to save her life. She spent the remainder of the night deeply anaesthetised and it wasn't until the next day that she had related her story in a whisper that told more of continued terror than it did of the pain she was suffering.
If Rickard was allowed to live, Alisha would never shed that terror. Imogen too would live in fear of his promised return. For both their sakes I was determined to put the son of a bitch in a deep dark hole. But my reason for hunting down the killer went way beyond that. He'd murdered people I'd once called friends, viciously torturing them and their loved ones in an insane attempt at punishing me. He'd murdered other innocent people too, and the list was long. I was his intended victim; he should have just come for me and had done. He'd fouled up and I hoped I was now going to get the opportunity to redress that.
It was the reason I'd accepted Walter's 'official sanction' and promise of amnesty from prosecution – not the incentive of a hefty pay cheque for getting the job done. Good friends that they were, Rink and Harvey had snapped his hand off too.
One of the aircraft's seven-man crew signalled that we were approaching our drop point. We'd been very specific about checking our gear but it didn't hurt to check again. We went through the routine, then helped to check each other. We'd joked about landing on heads, but it was the last thing we wanted.
A light in the bulkhead went to red and we moved towards the open hatch at the rear of the plane. The crew man counted down and the light turned green. Harvey jumped out and it was like a giant hand had snatched him away. Rink followed and he too was gone in a blink. Then it was my turn. One step. No turning back now.
It was like the airplane shot up and away from me at the same instant and I was falling towards blackness devoid of all light. There was no real sense of falling, but I plummeted like a stone, head down and my arms by my sides to streamline my body and cut down on wind resistance. From this altitude the surface could have been the fathomless depths of an ocean, but I was streaking towards a different kind of sea. The undulating blackness was the uppermost canopy of trees clinging to the slopes of the Cordillera mountain range, a spur of the Andes.
I'd made many HALO jumps in the past but all of them at least five years ago. The high-altitude, low-opening technique was second nature, though. Rink was right: it was a rush.
I bowed out, spreading my arms and legs, taking up the classic freefall position, checking instinctively the altimeter on my wrist. We'd jumped from just below ten thousand feet, without oxygen, but with obligatory helmet and goggles. Condensation spread across the lenses and I wiped at them with a sleeve. When next I looked at my altimeter it told me that the jungle was rushing up to meet me like an old friend. Off on my left, as if in a synchronised dance, I saw the opening of both my friends' canopies. I made the double salute position with my arms, signalling deployment, then pulled at my ripcord. The chute unfurled and I felt the tugging of my harness as I caught air under the canopy. I checked everything was in order with my rig, double-checked, then searched for the landing point.
A flare suddenly burned bright, casting dancing shadows on the trees surrounding a clearing cut out of the forest. I manipulated the guide lines, angling towards the clearing, noting Rink and Harvey already swooping that way. We went into land in an oblique stack, Harvey alighting first with an ease as though he'd simply stepped off a box. Rink needed a couple of running steps before he had full control of his landing, but it was still good for someone who hadn't jumped in all those years. I also showed my experience, coming down surefooted as I used the resistance and angle of my chute to bring me to a feather-soft contact with the ground.
Walter had been busy in the day or so since Luke Rickard escaped us. The telephone number supplied to me by Ken Wetherby had turned up trumps, leading back to a similar broker of mercenaries in Bogota. Men sent by Walter had eased the name of the broker's client out of him. When I say eased, that's as much of a euphemism as Walter would hint at: I was guessing that the broker had done a sudden
and inexplicable disappearing act after their visit. Then it was a matter for my CIA friend to set us up with contacts here in Colombia and arrange our secret arrival in the country.
Across our chests we had Heckler and Koch MP5A5 sub-machine guns and before we saw to our canopies we saw to our weapons. The flare had been lit to guide us in, but it didn't mean that it had been set by the people we expected. We took up a defensive position while two Jungla troopers came and identified themselves.
The two men were young and fit, typically military in their bearing. One of them was much darker of skin than the other, and I wondered if the paler of the two was actually Colombian. They'd forgone the black jumpsuit and helmet they'd wear while on active duty, dressing in civilian clothes instead. I noted the bulges under their jackets where they concealed firearms. We shook hands, both sides showing a wary respect. Both men spoke with American accents, which didn't surprise me. The Jungla are an elite police force whose task it is to curtail the production and supply of cocaine. Ninety-nine per cent of those involved are good, righteous men, but where there are drugs and huge amounts of money at stake you can never guarantee the complete eradication of corruption. The two men who met us were CIA plants, there to ensure that the inevitable one per cent did not flourish. So Walter said.
Once our parachutes and jumpsuits were stowed, we clambered into a Grand Cherokee jeep that was sufficiently scuffed on the outside that it didn't look like a government vehicle. Under the hood, it was a different story. The tinted windows were also bulletproof. We were, I understood, in the heart of bandit territory. We kept our machine guns ready, and I had my SIG to hand.