Cut and run jh-4

by Matt Hilton

  Throwing our discarded clothing inside the trunk, we lifted out backpacks nowhere near as large as the bergens we once carried on military operations but roomy enough to carry field rations, water, a small medical kit and extra ammunition. Rink also brought extras in the way of a nylon DPM sheet and more netting. Then we slipped down an animal trail and under the trees.

  'You'd think we were a thousand miles from nowhere,' Rink drawled.

  He was right but that of course wasn't the case. Nearby were the hospital buildings and not too distantly the historical Anhinga Trail. There could be any number of civilians wandering around out there, so we'd have to be extra careful. The last thing either of us wanted was to come across a group of trigger-happy hunters who might mistake us for a couple of deer. It would be a grossly unjust way to end our days.

  For such a big man Rink moved with the casual grace normally associated with dancers. He had the build and size of his Scottish-Canadian father, but the fluidity of movement was reminiscent of his mother, Yukiko, as were his hooded eyes. He loped along the barely discernible trail without stirring any of the branches that tried their damndest to snag on his clothing. I followed three paces behind, conscious of my footfall and the thud of my heart.

  The stench of rotting vegetation clogged my senses. Nearby something large splashed though water. Alligator, I thought, or maybe just a bird diving for fish. Worst-case scenario was that it was Luke Rickard already on his way to assault the hospital. I came to a halt, listening intently, but the sound didn't repeat itself. Alligator, I thought a second time. Then I moved on, trying to cut down on the lead that Rink had set in those few seconds.

  Coming to a sluggish inlet of water, we paused.

  'We're gonna have to cross it,' Rink said. 'Else we'll be too close to Hubbard's crew.'

  The water looked murky and deep, almost black with silt and decomposing plant life. On the far side the bank was choked with mangrove roots. I studied the still water. Anything could lurk beneath the surface and the first we'd know about it was when jaws clamped on to our limbs. Maybe I studied it for just a little too long, because Rink turned to me with a smile. 'Don't worry about the 'gators; it's the turtles you have to watch out for.'

  He was making light of things, but I'd seen a TV programme where a snapping turtle bit through the boot of a naturalist. It had done so as easily as had the shrapnel that shredded mine back in Cesar Calle's house. 'More concerned about getting our weapons wet.'

  Rink chuckled at me and I nudged him in the gut with my elbow. To show him I wasn't afraid of critters I went down the slick bank and into the water. My boots sank deep in the muddy bottom and the water crept up towards my waist. I transferred my SIG to my left hand, the rifle to my right and waded out, holding the guns above my head. When I pushed among the mangroves at the far side Rink followed. If we'd just been on a hiking trip he'd most likely have pretended that some huge reptile had grabbed him, but he was totally serious this time, coming through the water with his face set and his weapons held high. The time for fooling was over: now it was all business. The calm came on us.

  The mangrove roots were like the gnarled bars of a huge cage, some poked from the surface like the teasing fingers of a water nymph inviting us down to her deathly realms. The going wasn't easy and judging by how far the tangled branches stretched out before us it wasn't going to get any better.

  We slogged through the swamp, using our uncanny knack for directions to steer us. The mangroves were tortuous to push through, but we made it, using some of the more exposed roots as stepping stones. Then we came out on to a wide sandbank where saw-tooth grass proliferated. The grass hid us well as we moved towards the hospital. The only problem was it concealed other things too. At one point a bird broke from cover, its wings clattering through the branches of an overhead tree as it sought to flee us. We halted, waited, but apparently no one was alerted by the bird's frantic escape, so we moved on again.

  There was another channel of water and a stand of trees to contend with before we reached the outer perimeter of the hospital grounds. A fence of interwoven branches made a windbreak to keep some of the smells of the swamp at bay, but as a security measure it was hopeless. The wood was so dry and brittle that anyone could push it over or dive directly through it. We weren't intending to go to such extremes; we just followed the fence to a point where a gate had been erected. Here a track led from the hospital grounds and into the woods. There was a small cluster of sheds, one of which was a parking garage for the sit-on lawn mowers that the groundskeepers used. A small compound formed from tin sheets held a variety of unused office furniture, and also the remains of a bonfire from where combustible waste was burned. It was mad to bypass the workspace without checking it out first. Could be a gardener lurking around who might spot us.

  The area was clear of people, so we moved to the gate and scanned the lawns and the huddle of buildings that formed the hospital. Clinic might have been a better description, or maybe holiday retreat. From the map Harvey supplied I'd been expecting a modern structure of preformed concrete and glass, but the hospital looked more like it had once been at the centre of a wealthy estate or plantation. It brought to my mind the glossy magazine adverts for Southern Comfort. It was obvious from the plushness of the building and its surroundings that the AKMC was a strictly fee-paying and very private facility. What surprised me most was that this beautiful old building had been selected: it made me wonder who the actual owners of the hospital were. CIA, I decided, seeing as Walter had given his blessing for us to stage our war with Luke Rickard here.

  Chapter 42

  A stack of twenty-dollar bills on the counter were all that stood between Rickard's anonymity and the doctor's hopes for a long life. It would be a shame if he had to kill the doc; he was one of the few people that Rickard actually liked.

  'Two thousand,' Rickard said. 'It's the fee you always asked for before.'

  Adam Rothman, the disgraced surgeon who had once numbered the social elite of Florida among his clients, picked up the thick wad of notes and riffled them between his long, almost feminine fingers. 'Times change, Luke, and so does my expense bill.'

  'It's more than you make performing illegal abortions and cutting gangrenous limbs from junkies poisoned by dirty needles.'

  Rothman was a big man, flabby and ungainly. He looked nothing like the man who'd served his internship at Johns Hopkins before moving into private practice in downtown Miami. But his looks suited him now that he'd relocated to this dingy apartment on the fringe of South Beach. His face was florid, with broken veins across his bulbous nose, testament to his secret drinking problem. With his grey watery eyes and thin lips; he did not look like someone you'd trust to guide a scalpel. He waved the notes towards Rickard, who was sitting on the gurney checking out the dressings on his wounded ribs. 'As ever, you are not buying my expertise, you are buying my silence.'

  Rickard looked up at Rothman, the contact lenses removed so he caught the man under a baleful, icy stare. 'Silence works both ways, Doctor.'

  Rothman smiled. 'That it does.'

  He stuffed the two grand in the pocket of his white overcoat. Then he reached into a cardboard box and pulled out a couple of packets. He tossed them on the gurney beside Rickard. 'Take those three times a day; they'll keep any infection at bay. Take the NAIDs as and when required.'

  Rickard studied the packets. The first contained brand-named antibiotics, but the second was an anonymous white box. 'NAIDs?'

  'Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. They'll keep the fever down without impairing consciousness. You want to remain alert, don't you?'

  'For two thousand dollars I get cheap drugs you've purchased off the internet?'

  Rothman flicked him a smile. 'If you're not up to paying my going rate I have to make a profit elsewhere. Any way, what are you complaining about? I've thrown the bandages in for free.'

  'You're all heart, Doc.'

  'Yeah, right.' Rothman bustled over to a trash can overflow
ing with blood-speckled tissue and used syringes. He peeled off his latex gloves and dropped them in the can. He pointed a skinny digit at Rickard. 'The bullet barely grazed your ribs, Luke. It's your shoulder wound you'll have to be most careful of. Luckily the wound was a through and through, superficial, but there is the threat of infection if you don't keep it clean.'

  Rickard touched the wad of dressing on his left trapezius muscle, just below his collar-line. 'Feels OK to me.'

  'It'll stay that way if you dress it regularly. Here.' He passed over a tube of antiseptic cream. 'No charge.'

  'Thanks,' Rickard said with no real enthusiasm.

  'The sutures will dissolve themselves, no need to come back to have them removed.'

  'You don't want to see me again?'

  Rothman pulled a hurt face that was as much a sham as Rickard's pout. 'Luke, I'm quite willing to take your money any time you please. Just more of it next time, eh?'

  Rickard stood up off the gurney and studied himself in a full-length mirror riveted to the wall of the consulting room. Apart from the criss-crossed bandages, he still struck quite an imposing figure. He'd changed his looks, but this time without the need of Rothman's expertise. His latest disguise was purely cosmetic. He thought that his newly shaved head gave him a tough look that the bruising on his face actually helped. Turning from his reflection, he pulled on a black T-shirt emblazoned with a Gothic image for a rock band he'd never heard of. He let the shirt hang outside his jeans to cover the blade clipped on his belt. Then he shrugged into a black leather motorcycle jacket that had a contrasting red collar and stripes down the sleeves. Lastly he thumbed a pair of wraparound shades on.

  'What do you think?'

  'If I was a woman I'd have you back on that gurney in a flash.'

  Rickard grinned. 'No wonder you got yourself struck off, Doc!'

  Rothman seemed pleased with that. He fed a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He held it out to Rickard. 'Here.'

  'You got it for me.' Rickard eyed the handwritten address, a smile playing over his lips. He folded it over and placed the note in his hip pocket.

  'Cost you.'

  Rickard dug another stack of bills from his jacket pocket and handed them over. 'I didn't think you'd be able to get this for me. Not now you're the pariah of the medical world.'

  Rothman nipped his bottom lip between his nicotine-stained teeth. Then he nodded at the out-of-date certificate displayed on his wall. 'I called The Cedars. Asked. Simple as that, when you have letters after your name. No one checks credentials these days, especially not a first-year intern who's already done a twenty-three-hour shift with God knows how many more before he gets to go home.'

  'Letters after your name.' Rickard read Rothman's glowing endorsements as he shoved his handgun into his waistband. 'Just make sure RIP doesn't join them, Doc. I might need you again before long.'

  'I'm pretty fond of the green stuff,' Rothman reassured him, 'and I don't intend dying any time soon.'

  'Both things we have in common,' Rickard said. He clapped a hand on the doctor's shoulder as he passed him by. 'Take it easy, Doc.'

  'You too, Luke. You know how badly the cops are searching for you, right?'

  'Keeps life interesting.'

  'Hey, when you find her give your wife a kiss for me, will ya?'

  Rickard lifted his sunglasses and peered back at the doctor from the doorway. 'That I will do, Doc.'

  He left Rothman chuckling to himself, letting himself out into a corridor in the apartment block where the quack had set up practice. The hallway stank of urine. A little way up the hall a kid no older than sixteen was huddled in a doorway. Rickard walked past him and the boy stuck out a grimy hand. 'Any change, sir?'

  'Yes,' Rickard said, 'the doctor's a miracle worker: I'm feeling quite good now.'

  The boy blinked at him in a confusion hindered by his latest fix. He slowly withdrew his hand as Rickard walked away, laughing at his own joke.

  He was three floors up but there was no way he would use the elevator. He suspected it was the source of the smell. Instead he went down the stairs, negotiating the trash and puddles while he made a call on his mobile phone. He'd finished the call by the time he pushed through an exit door on to the sidewalk. It was a fine morning in SoBe. The shadows of the buildings across the way blocked much of the sunlight, but it was already growing warm. By midday these streets would be bleached out, so the sunglasses were a good idea.

  He walked across the street, flagrantly ignoring the jaywalking laws, and approached his newly acquired Honda Fireblade. The bike was a beauty, voted top for its looks and performance by many aficionados, but it was just a tool to Rickard. And part of his new disguise. Two young gangbangers were leaning on the hood of a muscle car, the bumper of their Chevrolet Camaro almost nudging the Fireblade. They stirred as he approached.

  'Thanks for watching my ride, guys.' Rickard peeled a couple of twenty notes out, thinking that he might have to withdraw some more pocket money from his emergency stash. He'd already given the young toughs a hundred bucks each, but the extra cash would sweeten them even more. He wasn't afraid of them, but at least this way he wouldn't be troubled by having them follow him with the idea of taking everything from him. On any other occasion he'd lead them somewhere remote and then show them who the fuck they were trying to roll, but he had a more pressing date with Alisha.

  The gangbangers accepted the money with their chins lifted. They looked like they were sniffing the air, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

  'Call it a bonus,' Rickard said.

  He straddled the Fireblade, flicked them a quick salute then started the bike. He shot off along the road and took the next corner almost leaning into the asphalt. Let them try to follow me now, he thought.

  He took the McArthur Causeway across Biscayne Bay and on to the I-95 south, breezing by traffic at seventy miles an hour all the way down through the city to where the interstate merged with Route 1 and became the South Dixie Highway. There he opened up the bike, shooting along past Pine Crest and Perrine and heading for Florida City at the southernmost tip of the sprawling city. At a strip mall complete with a Denny's, a Comfort Inn and a Texaco petrol station, he pulled the Fireblade to a halt under a stand of palm. Searching for the golden arches, he pulled out into the highway and drove into the fast food take-out lot a little further on.

  There he waited, resting with his butt on the bike seat, arms crossed over his chest. He could feel the heat on his forehead as he stared back at the road, searching for the arrival of the man he'd called on his phone. Quite a large number of vehicles passed through the drive-thru before he saw the silver Land Rover he was expecting.

  He stood still, waiting for the large vehicle to come to him. He could see three men inside, indistinct shadows, two in the front and one in the back. The Land Rover drew alongside the bike and he exchanged a nod with the passenger. Guy had a nasty bruise under his eyes. Like Rickard's, the swelling on this man's face was courtesy of Joe Hunter. Rickard hopped back on the Fireblade and peeled out of the lot, the Land Rover following to somewhere less public.

  Next stop the Florida Keys. Rickard read signs on the road, but he'd no intention of travelling so far. He found an agricultural trail just outside of town and pulled on to the track. His wheels kicked up dust as he sped down it with the Land Rover following close behind.

  He found a place where the track widened out, a grass verge on one side next to an irrigation channel. A wide field of tall grass spread away to the distant horizon on his right, but the other side of the trail was bordered by spindly trees choked with Spanish moss. There were also gumbo limbo trees, with weird twisted trunks and bark like leather.

  Putting the bike on its stand, he walked out as the Land Rover passed by. He watched the driver throw the big vehicle into reverse and then pull in near to the bike. Rickard stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching closely as all three men got out, dust settling round them.


  The driver leaned against the tailgate of the Land Rover, folding his arms on his chest in a copy of Rickard's stance. The man from the back stood with a thumb tucked into his belt. Rickard saw a cast on the man's forearm, poking out from under the cuff of his sleeve. The third man walked towards him, extending a hand in greeting. Rickard didn't take it, just observed the man from behind his sunglasses. Finally he unfolded his arms, but only to reach up and push the shades back on his head.

  Kenneth Wetherby didn't know what to do with his hand and it took him a second or two to withdraw it. He rubbed his palm down the thigh of his trousers, leaving a damp smear on the material.

  'You brought what I wanted?' Rickard stared at the livid bruise on the man's face.

  Wetherby nodded at the man standing by the Land Rover and he unlocked and dropped the tailgate. He leaned inside and pulled a large plastic trunk towards him, flipped open the lid. He stepped away as Rickard approached, crossing his arms again. Rickard knew the man's pose wasn't as nonchalant as it looked: there was a gun in a shoulder rig inside his jacket.

  Rickard took a quick glance in the box. 'How current is this?'

  Behind him, Wetherby said, 'Brand new issue. Have a contact at SWAT who moonlights for me off and on.'

  Rickard nodded, satisfied. When he turned round, Wetherby took a step backwards, he'd been so close. 'Quite a mess Hunter made of your face, Ken.'

  Wetherby touched the swelling under his eye. 'Asshole sucker-punched me.'

  Rickard grunted, taking in the scrapes on the face of the man with his arms folded, the broken arm of the other. 'He sucker-punched the three of you?'

  'He had help.' Wetherby scowled, touched the swelling again. 'I took this for you, Rickard. He wanted me to tell him who you were.'

  'So you told him?'

  All three men stirred uncomfortably, a sign of the lies to follow.

  'No way,' Wetherby said. 'Why'd you think he hit me?'

  'Just wondering how he happened to turn up in Colombia. Bit of a coincidence, huh?'