Rattlesnake

by Andy Maslen

  “Shit!” he shouted, twisting the key with shaking fingers to fire up the engine. Then again, “Shit!”

  Outside, the lion was prowling back and forth at the side of the truck, glaring in at him with baleful golden eyes, stopping now and then to paw at them distractedly.

  As the adrenaline seeped out of his system, his legs trembled and jerked, and his knees began to ache. Then the pain from his back made its presence felt. He unslung the Mossberg, which was jammed uncomfortably between him and the seat, and laid it in the footwell. Taking great care, he leaned forwards, releasing another burst of pain from his back, and unbuttoned his shirt. Delicately, as if easing an IED from its protective camouflage, he peeled cotton from skin. All went well until, with both arms straight behind him, he attempted to shuck the shirt from his shoulders.

  The tearing pain unleashed a stream of swearing that would have had a regimental sergeant major blushing, but he persevered, and soon the ragged, bloody garment was off. He knelt on the seat facing the back of the truck, noticing as he manoeuvred into this ungainly position that the lion had vanished. Angling the rearview mirror down, he caught his first glimpse of the damage the lion had inflicted.

  Four deep scratches marred his otherwise unscarred back, starting at a point roughly below the diagonal created by the Mossberg and ending at his belt, the upper edge of which displayed two fresh-cut, pale nicks in the tobacco-brown leather. The scratches on his back were bleeding freely, but not gushing or spurting. That’s good. Flesh wound; no arteries.

  Terri-Ann had insisted on including a sturdy-looking first aid kit along with the food. He was glad of it now. From the green-and-white pouch he extracted a tube of antiseptic cream, a handful of square dressings and a roll of Micropore tape. Ignoring the pain, he reached round, bending his arm as far as his elbow would allow, and slathered antiseptic over the scratches. On went the dressings, which held themselves in place on the sticky mixture of cream and blood. Finally, he picked free the end of the tape, stuck it to his side and then began winding it around his torso until the dressings were secure.

  With the aircon back on full, he put the transmission into Drive and drove away, back to San Antonio, looking forward to a shower and a very, very cold beer.

  The following day, Gabriel woke at dawn, despite the rigours of the previous twenty-four hours. Terri-Ann had re-dressed the scratches on his back before he sank, gratefully, into the peace of his air-conditioned bedroom. They still throbbed when he moved, but the pain had retreated to an easily manageable level. After completing his meditation and yoga routine, he dressed and went downstairs on silent feet, looking for toast and tea.

  Sitting with mug and plate in front of him at the table, he retrieved the bullet from the Tupperware box where they’d put it the previous night. Such a small thing, he mused, holding it between thumb and forefinger and turning it this way and that. A few grams of lead and copper. Nothing fancy. No explosives. No depleted uranium. No poison. Yet how many millions had fallen to its simple charms? He knew that even as he spent a few moments examining the bullet, others were leaving the comfort of their magazines to streak from fire-spitting muzzles, on their way to soft tissue and bone.

  As he stared at the deformed copper slug, the kitchen door opened. Terri-Ann stood there in pink-and-white candy-striped pyjamas, pushing tousled blonde hair out of her face.

  “Well, look who’s up bright and early,” she said on a voice still blurry with sleep. “Any coffee on?”

  “I made tea but I’ll get you some. Sit down.”

  “You British and your tea,” was her only answer.

  Coffee brewed and poured, and more bread in the toaster, Gabriel voiced the concern that had been nagging at him since he’d calmed down after the mountain lion’s attack and begun the long drive home.

  “The bullet’s a major piece of evidence, Terri-Ann. But where are we going to get it analysed? We can hardly turn it over to the SAPD.”

  She took a sip of the coffee before answering.

  “I was worried about that, too. There are private labs, I think. You know, who do stuff for the police. But I have no idea how much they charge or even whether private citizens can use them.”

  “Then how—”

  “No, I haven’t finished. Remember I told you about JJ?”

  “The not-football-playing Texas Ranger?”

  “Yep. Him. I thought we could reach out to him. Maybe he has access to a ballistics lab.”

  Gabriel nodded. It was a good idea and their best hope for an ID on the weapon, and therefore the shooter.

  At nine, Terri-Ann was holding her phone to her ear, staring at Gabriel while she waited for JJ to pick up. She was extraordinarily attractive, he thought, despite the dark patches grief had daubed below those piercing blue eyes. Blue eyes that suddenly popped wide at the same time as her mouth curved into a smile.

  Gabriel watched as she talked to JJ, arranging for him to come over to the house. Her face grew animated as she seemed to learn he was free all day. She ended the call.

  “And?” Gabriel asked.

  “He has the day off. He’s coming right over. Should be here by one.”

  23

  Friends in Need

  JJ Highsmith didn’t so much enter a room as fill it. Even without the white Stetson and the Cuban-heeled cowboy boots, Gabriel estimated he’d be somewhere north of six-four. Kitted out in the traditional western garb of the Texas Rangers, he must have been nearing seven feet. He was broad through the shoulders and chest. God help the criminal who decided to tangle with this African-American law enforcement official. His grip, when he shook Gabriel’s hand, was firm and hard, like grasping a backhoe.

  Removing his hat to reveal a shining, shaved scalp, he smiled down at Gabriel.

  “Hey, Gabriel. Any friend of Terri-Ann’s.”

  Looking up, Gabriel returned the big man’s smile.

  “Likewise. Maybe we’d better sit down or I’m going to put a crick in my neck.”

  Terri-Ann laughed.

  “JJ gets that a lot.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, sipping peach iced tea in tall glasses clinking with ice. The widow, the Marine Corps buddy, and the friend. Remembering his brief tenure as an advertising account manager, Gabriel thought they looked for all the world like a carefully posed group in a library photo to illustrate an ad for banking, or adult education.

  “So, you and Vinnie served together, JJ, is that right?” he asked. He already knew the answer, but wanted to feel his way into a relationship that could be crucial in solving the mystery of Vinnie’s death. No, Wolfe. His murder.

  “Joined up together, September 2000. Went through basic training together. Shipped out to Iraq together. Watched each other’s six our whole time in the Corps. You serve?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Parachute Regiment, 2000 to 2005, then the SAS till 2012.”

  JJ nodded his appreciation.

  “OK, cool. Maybe we even saw some of the same action. You ever in Iraq?”

  “Couple of times. Plus Afghanistan, the Balkans, you know, the usual places.”

  “So how come you knew Vinnie?”

  “We met in one of the usual places.” He recounted the story of the hotel invaded by terrorists.

  Terri spoke.

  “They made a pact, JJ. Gabriel and Vinnie. A blood oath.”

  “Sounds like Vinnie.”

  She smiled a sad smile. A tear broke free of her left eye and tracked across her cheek.

  “God, I miss him.”

  “He was a good man. One of the best.”

  Gabriel watched JJ as he talked. The man seemed in no hurry to get down to business, but maybe that was the Texas way. He had a way of holding himself, erect but not stiff, that seemed to draw your attention. Partly it was the sheer mass of him, but also a gravity in the expression – facial muscles still, no twitching mouth lining up its owner’s next remark. A good listener.

  “I went out to the desert yesterda
y,” Gabriel said. “I found the place where Vinnie died.” No sense dressing it up. Passed was completely inappropriate for such a brutal death. “I found the bullet that killed him.”

  JJ turned to face Gabriel straight on, brown eyes boring into him.

  “You found a slug in a desert. What are you, some kind of human metal detector?”

  Gabriel shrugged.

  “Let’s just say this wasn’t my first time searching for human remains.”

  The two men locked eyes for a second, then JJ looked away, back at Terri-Ann, before returning that cool gaze to Gabriel.

  “Fair enough,” the deep voice said. “You want to show me the slug, then?”

  Gabriel pushed the small plastic box across the table towards JJ, who picked it up and gently popped off the lid.

  JJ tipped the slug into his palm. Bringing it close to his eyes he inspected the little chunk of metal.

  “Striations. That’s good.”

  “We thought maybe you could get it to a ballistics lab,” Terri-Ann said.

  “Didn’t you say SAPD was handling the case?”

  “They’ve dropped it. The detective more or less told me she’d been ordered to drop the case. They’re calling it suicide, JJ. But it’s not. It can’t be. Vinnie would never do that. He loved life. He loved me!”

  Abruptly, Terri-Ann stood, pushing back against her chair so suddenly it toppled over backwards with a loud smack as it hit the floor. She ran from the room, loud sobs trailing in her wake.

  JJ moved to stand, but Gabriel laid a hand on his forearm.

  “Let her go,” was all he said.

  JJ looked at Gabriel for a couple of seconds, then sat, removing his arm from Gabriel’s grip.

  “What’s your take on what Terri-Ann just said?”

  “About the SAPD, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Something’s off. One minute they were all over the case, coming out to talk to Terri-Ann, that’s what she told me. Then the next it’s, ‘Case closed, ma’am. It was suicide, and we’re sorry for your loss.’ I saw the detective when she came round the other day. She looked nervous. What do you guys say? Squirrelly?”

  “You think they’re hiding something?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I mean, cover-up is a big word. But there’s no way Vinnie killed himself. A gunshot wound but no gun? A location in the middle of nowhere but no vehicle? So someone, somewhere is putting pressure on them.” Stone-faced men in black Tahoes. VIP. Don’t go there, Wolfe. Don’t.

  JJ seemed to come to a decision. He placed the deformed bullet back in its plastic home and pressed the lid on tight so the box emitted a tiny whisper of expelled air.

  Platelike hands flat on the table each side of the box, he said, “I’ll take this to a lab we use. Private sector. The guy who runs it owes me a favour. Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll have a report for you.”

  Captain John Frankland reached the parking garage at the end of another trying day of meetings, eager to get home, open a beer and watch the Houston Astros. Since his most recent divorce, he had rediscovered the pleasures of a bachelor existence. The fact that he had formed an attachment to a nurse working at the San Antonio Military Medical Center had put a gloss on things and helped him ignore his feelings of grievance towards his latest ex-wife.

  One of the privileges of rank came in the form of a rectangle of real estate with his name stencilled in bold white capitals across the centre. While other officers had to arrive early or else park in the distant recesses of the garage, Frankland could swing into his space like a CEO every morning. He pointed the fob at his car – a gleaming black Mustang, not brand new but in mint condition – and heard the muffled clunk as the doors unlocked.

  He closed the door behind him, laid his briefcase on the seat beside him and thumbed the starter button. He sat in the cool, plasticky-smelling air and leaned back against the headrest, letting some of the tension ease out of his shoulders.

  Then the passenger door opened, startling him. He jerked round in time to see an arm reach in for his briefcase. As he fumbled for his gun, the arm’s owner joined him in the cabin, placing the briefcase on the ground outside before closing the door with a purposeful motion that said, ‘I’m not leaving anytime soon.’

  Baines Christie spoke. No comedy this time. No impressions.

  “We have a problem, Captain,” he said in a low growl.

  Recovering, and removing his hand from the grip of his revolver, Frankland poked the big CIA agent in the chest.

  “Do that again and you’ll have the mother of all problems, Christie. In .357 Magnum.”

  “Whatever. I thought I told you to close the case. Tell the widow it was suicide.”

  “Yeah, you did. And I went along with it. Much against my professional judgement, sir, but I went along with it for the greater good.”

  “Then how come there’s some English guy sniffing around, asking questions, poking his hoity-toity nose into business that doesn’t concern him?”

  Frankland was genuinely puzzled.

  “What English guy? Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I took the investigating detective off the case, reassigned her.”

  “I’m looking into him now, but he appeared a week or so ago, and he’s staying with the widow. He went out to the desert. Where it happened.”

  “The suicide, you mean?”

  “Yes. The suicide. So I have to deal with him before he pulls on a loose end and unravels the whole fucking ball of string.”

  “Deal with him?”

  “Don’t worry. No more deaths for you to investigate. Or not from me, anyway. But here’s a tip. Monitor the hospital admissions. When one of them admits a Brit with non-lethal injuries, go and see him. Suggest he leave law enforcement to the cops and skedaddle back to England.”

  Without waiting for a response – maybe because none was possible, Frankland reflected – Christie levered his frame out of the seat and replaced the briefcase before slamming the door and banging twice on the roof.

  24

  Fifty Should Do It

  ORTON’S thin lips almost brushed the intercom as he spoke.

  “Send Mrs Cruikshank in, please, Tanya. And perhaps you’d be so kind as to bring us some coffee in five minutes?”

  “Of course, Clark,” his secretary’s tinny voice replied from inside the silky aluminium casing of the squawk box.

  He let go of the transmit button and leaned back in his chair. Waiting for his client. The office was well appointed. But not showy. Clark kept his status symbols at home or his holiday place, far away from the prying eyes of employees, clients or the occasional regulator with their buttoned-down shirts and their buttoned-up attitudes. The Ferrari in the garage. The boat down in Galveston on the Gulf Coast. On the walls of his lounge, the modern masterpieces by European painters the peasants who worked for him would never understand let alone own. And, his pride and joy, hangared at a small and very discreet airfield patronised by others like him. Where they favoured Lears and Cessnas, or tinkered around with World War II P-51 Mustangs and P-40 Warhawks, Orton’s tastes ran to more modern machinery. An F-15 Strike Eagle, bought at a cost of seventy-five million dollars. Its offensive capability had been, sadly, reduced to zero as a condition of sale, though the empty starboard weapons bay had recently proved useful.

  So, no bling here. An abstract print from a downtown gallery on the wall behind his desk. A couple of pot plants. A whiteboard, clean, no greasy, sludge-grey swirls marring its surface. The seats, desk and coffee table with its two armchairs were expensive, but not obviously so. They said “tech company CEO” not “Russian oligarch.” Or he hoped they did, anyway. The Russians always went for overkill in his experience, in office furnishings as much as in the systems they ordered from his weapons division.

  Two sharp knocks on the other side of the cherrywood door and it swung inwards, to reveal two women, smiling across the twenty feet of air-conditioned executive space that separate
d the door from the desk.

  The younger, red glasses perched on an upturned nose, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, spoke just two words.

  “Martha Cruikshank.”

  She withdrew, closing the door softly behind her, though not before Clark had permitted himself to catch a glimpse of her rear end.

  Martha Cruikshank approached the desk with a confident stride, high heels digging into the soft pile of the carpet and leaving black dents like bullet holes. She held her hand out, and for a moment, Clark was seized with an urge to take it in his own and bring it to his lips. He smiled at this bizarre image of chivalry and contented himself with a brief handshake – all business.

  “Let’s sit over there, Martha,” he said, gesturing towards the coffee table. “Much more comfortable.”

  Facing each other across the low, glass-topped table, the two could have been simply client and contractor. There to discuss an IT project, or perhaps a new advertising campaign. They dressed like businesspeople. They used the language of businesspeople. And inasmuch as money lay at the root of their transactions, they were behaving like businesspeople. But what drove these two was a deep-seated patriotism that touched places beyond the reach of money. Where what mattered was love of one’s country, and a willingness to do whatever was necessary to protect it. From enemies domestic. From enemies foreign. From enemies current. And from enemies future.

  Project ROSS was all about enemies future.

  Its genesis lay in a memo that had been written by a gifted but mentally unstable biologist whom Clark had first met as a research student when she was studying at Harvard. He’d hired her after hearing her speak at a research conference. Then he systematically corrupted her. Money first, then drugs. Shortly after she wrote the memo, she took her own life, choosing to swallow a lethal cocktail of synthetic pathogens she’d cooked up in one of the company’s state-of-the-art labs. The document made for interesting reading.