by JP Ratto
Overwhelmed by Grayson’s anger and the gravity of the situation, Cain only nodded and turned to leave. Before he could escape the room, Grayson leveled the final blow to Cain’s tenuous position with his calm, measured command.
“Douglas, I want the issue dead.”
***
“Aren’t you coming to bed?” Roberta Cain asked her husband. “You’ve been in that chair for hours. Is there something you want to talk about?”
Douglas Cain smiled at his wife of twenty-five years. She leaned on the doorframe and folded her arms under her breasts to hold closed the thin, silky robe she wore. He knew underneath was one of the short lacy nightgowns he favored. His eyes traveled to the rise of soft flesh that peeked out when she shifted her weight off the jamb. They rested there a moment and then moved the length of her long neck to her face. Ignoring her questioning stare, he admired her hair. The beautiful auburn shade complemented her green eyes. He wanted to lose himself in them.
“Douglas?”
“No, Bobbie, it’s just the usual.”
“Seems more than the usual. What’s that, your third drink tonight?”
Cain raised the glass and drank the last of the scotch. He shook his head and placed the empty glass on the end table. “Go back to bed, Bobbie. I’ll be there soon.”
“Soon it will be time to get up. Well, I need to sleep even if you don’t. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
A workaholic like himself, his wife dedicated long hours to her job as a dean at Columbia University. She minored in psychology, which prompted her to question his moods. He’d been successful so far in keeping most of what was troubling about his job to himself. It was becoming harder and harder to do.
“Okay, I won’t be long.”
Roberta left the room, taking the sweet, musky scent of her favorite perfume with her. At first, the overpowering fragrance bothered him, but then he’d accepted it as part of her presence. Now, it was a reminder she was near. He found comfort in the strong jasmine smell. Cain listened to the fading pit-pat of his wife’s slippers on the bare wood floors, replaced by lonely silence. He wished he could sleep.
Cain had to do something. Glick didn’t have the capabilities to stop Holt from locating Maxwell’s daughter. He’d been naïve to think the small-town police officer could handle a case as sensitive as one involving a candidate for the presidency of the United States.
The five drinks he’d had since the late dinner he and Roberta shared should have rendered him comatose, but Todd Grayson’s words gripped his mind like a vise.
“…I want the issue dead.”
Chapter 15
John Crocker, AKA Paladin, lay hunched down deep in Mexican sand with his shoulders against a palm tree.
At six foot five inches tall, it was the only way to hide his large frame. A bush hat with mosquito netting hid long black hair pulled back with a rubber band. Crocker had the rough, craggy face that appeared as if pockmarked by shrapnel. A watertight case, buried in the sand, had protected his AK-47 and Heckler & Koch sniper rifle on the swim to the beach.
He glanced up at the waxing crescent moon and clear, dark sky. It’s not ideal, but it would still be dark enough to approach the villa unseen—if I’m careful.
Five more minutes passed, and he checked his watch for the third time. Fifteen minutes until the changing of the guard. The coral villa was enormous by most standards, but then the drug trade was lucrative, and Pappy could afford it.
With a little time to kill, Crocker’s mind wandered to events that brought him here. Long ago, he realized Delta Force operative skills—sniper, explosives, and communications—did not provide him job opportunities.
He had been honest with himself; Crocker admitted he missed “the life.” His heart wasn’t into being head of security, sitting behind a desk from nine to five.
A fellow ex-member of Delta Force had recruited him to become a mercenary. He didn’t need much convincing; the money was excellent, the assignments short, and he could reject any job that didn’t suit him. Perhaps best of all, someone he never met screened clients, and he would receive assignments via a drop. Plausible deniability up and down. Crocker thought of himself as a small business owner who didn’t pay taxes.
The drop he received a day ago provided details on Crocker’s current target: a photo of Pappy Maldonado, some data on his drug operation, his location, and a complete description of the villa and guards. No time for assignment completion specified. No expectations as to results meant to eliminate the threat.
The file detailed exact guard movements; two guards in the front and two in the back rotated position every two hours. One pair would not communicate with the other unless there was a problem. As agreed, he destroyed the file after memorizing it.
With three minutes remaining, Crocker opened the case and removed the H&K sniper rifle. He had pre-adjusted the stock length and the cheek piece vertically. He attached the Brugger and Thomet silencer and the lighter five-round magazine. Crocker only needed two shots. The H&K kicked the cartridge case ten meters. If you worried about giving away your position to return fire, you chose a different weapon.
He rolled over and focused through his scope at the two guards on the second floor. The one to Crocker’s right entered the house.
Fuck. Why didn’t the other one leave too? At that moment, the guard flicked away his cigarette and followed his compadre. In three minutes, the replacements would arrive.
Crocker set down the H&K and removed his AK-47 from its case. Operating in sandy, windy weather, he preferred his Kalash, for its ability to withstand large amounts of foreign matter and not failing to recycle. It was a reliable weapon and he accepted some loss of accuracy. He inserted a loaded magazine, pulled back, and released the charging handle. He carried several thirty-round magazines providing him more than enough ammunition for automatic fire. He set it down on the case and returned to the H&K.
Two new guards strolled out and lit cigarettes. They fell into a pattern of pacing back and forth on the terrace. Crocker waited until they met in the middle and turned. He made a minor adjustment to the Hensoldt scope, aimed and fired. Pfffft. The head of the guard to Crocker’s right exploded, spraying the walls with blood, bone, and brain matter. The cigarette fell from the mouth of the second guard as he spun around and lurched back. Crocker panned his movement and when the guard froze, he fired again. The headless body slammed against the wall and toppled forward.
After Crocker placed the sniper rifle back in the case and buried it in the sand, he grabbed the AK-47. He paused to be sure no one responded to the shooting. The only thing he heard were ocean waves lapping the shore.
The remote location ensured no one would see him scuttle toward the villa in the dark. He rose, brought the AK-47 to his chin, and crab-walked from one palm tree to the next, reaching a patio door.
Crocker opened a case attached to his khaki web belt and took out a roll of tape and a glasscutter attached to a string. Holding the string to the edge of the door, he scribed a semi-circle in the glass adjacent to the lock. Placing tape over the semi-circle, he gently tapped the glass until it came loose and removed it. He bent over at the hole and listened for a moment; it was as quiet as a tomb. Crocker wiped away beads of sweat from his forehead, reached in, and unlocked the door. He pulled a small can of WD-40 from his web belt and sprayed around the edges. It opened quietly.
A cool blast of air conditioning made Crocker grin. Taking out a flashlight, he entered a large dark room. Most of the space was set up as a den with a television, sectional sofa, and a pool table. A small area displayed framed news articles about Pappy Maldonado, describing him as “Mr. Untouchable,” “Mexico’s Cruelest Man,” and “The Power behind the Cartel.” Crocker advanced to an open door. He jutted his head out, looked both ways, and found the stairs up, to his right.
The intelligence he received indicated Pappy rarely traveled and ran his business through couriers from home. The villa had been watched from a fishing
boat for a week. There was only one roaming guard when Pappy wasn’t home.
Crocker crouched, testing each step as he climbed to the main part of the villa. He inched his head above the top step. He saw a luxurious living room straight ahead with fine artwork and a hallway to other rooms. Another step up, he turned his head to the left, spotting the leg of a dead guard through the patio door. Looking to the right, he saw the kitchen entrance.
Still dead quiet throughout.
Entering the living room, Crocker took two steps toward the hallway when a scream startled him. Shit.
A tall, shapely girl in a black teddy shot back to the kitchen, forcing Crocker to follow. He stuck his head in and pulled it out as a butcher’s knife swooped down. It didn’t take long for her to grow some balls. Crocker lunged past her into the kitchen, turned, and shot her, center mass. Her stunned expression relaxed in death as her body slid to the floor.
I’m not taking prisoners—not even pretty young girls.
Crocker heard yelling in Spanish between three people. Pappy and the other two guards were down the hallway. They called, “Pablo! Juan!”
Their shouts told Crocker they were approaching the living room. It would only take a moment for them to find him alone in the kitchen. Okay. Now, they know it’s just the three of them. One small advantage I have is they don’t know I’m the only hostile they face.
“Delta One, this is Delta Four!” Crocker yelled. “Now! Now! NOW!”
Alarmed, the guards swiveled their semi-automatic rifles left and right to see from which direction the attack was coming. Crocker set the fire selector switch on the AK-47 to automatic and stepped from the kitchen to confront the two guards. He fired two short bursts before they could get off a shot.
Once again, the house was silent.
Crocker loaded a fresh clip into his weapon. Pappy’s smart. He didn’t leave with the guards. He knew the hammer would fall on them, and he’d learn more about the threat. Crocker was losing time. A walker or drive-by may have heard the shots.
Hurrying to the edge of the hallway, he stepped over the dead guards. He took a moment to listen and ran to the first door to find an empty bathroom. He hurried to the second and third doors and found empty bedrooms. One room left—the master bedroom.
He kicked open the door and stepped out of the way, expecting gunfire, but was greeted with more silence. He entered, pointed his AK-47, and fired into the closed closet and the bathroom. No Pappy. Where is this fucker?
A deep rumbling sound drew his attention and the pieces fell into place.
The garage door is opening.
Pappy had slipped out the window, leaped to the patio, ran around front, and entered the garage. As Crocker ran downstairs and out the front door, he heard the roar of a large SUV. A black Escalade exploded from the garage. Crocker, facing the left side of the garage, knew Pappy would be unable to shoot at him from the driver’s side, while he could fire into the front windshield and side window.
Crocker aimed.
Pappy turned the heavy SUV toward Crocker and accelerated.
He could see the gray shadow of Pappy’s head. He stood his ground and emptied the clip.
The Cadillac missed Crocker by scant inches when he dove out of the way.
The out-of-control vehicle veered off the driveway and slammed into a stone retaining wall. Crocker jumped up, ignoring a bruised shoulder and a gash in his leg.
He threw the AK-47 over his good shoulder, drew his Glock, and hobbled to the driver’s side. Pappy’s face looked like hamburger. His V-neck T-shirt was bright red.
Congratulations, Pappy, you’re my thirtieth.
Crocker’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He stared at the number, a number he had not seen in years and answered. “What?”
“Paladin. It’s Cain.”
Chapter 16
“Cain, call this number again in forty-five.”
Talk about bad timing.
Crocker ran to the beach, retrieved his case containing the H&K sniper rifle, and returned to the villa. His original plan was to drive off in the beautiful Escalade but that idea was shot to hell with Pappy.
In the living room, he searched two of the guards and found car keys for a Chevrolet Impala. It took him less than five minutes to be on the road, passing la policia racing in the opposite direction with sirens blaring and red and blue roof lights piercing the night.
***
Back in his hotel room, Crocker toweled off, picked out a pair of tan slacks and a tropical silk shirt. He finished dressing when his phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“Paladin, thank God.”
“For what? You must be in some deep shit if you’re calling me after all these years. I thought the statute of limitations ran out on that little favor I owed you.”
“Little? You ungrateful bastard, I—”
Crocker heard the slur in Cain’s speech.
“Relax, counselor. You sound shit-faced. Maybe you should call me back once you’ve dried out. By the way, I don’t use that name anymore—too many bad memories. I’m Crocker now.”
“I’m f…fine, and I don’t give a fuck what you call yourself.” Cain’s harsh whisper came through the phone. “I have a job for you.”
“You mean you want me to return the favor.”
“Never mind the favor—I can pay.”
“Now I know you’re drunk.”
“Pal—Crocker, you’re pissing me off.”
“Whoa, don’t want to do that,” Crocker quipped. “This must be big. Anything to do with Mr. High and Mighty?”
“This is no joke…no fucking joke. Do you…understand?”
“Yeah, okay, tell me what you need.”
“I have two problems that require your special attention,” Cain said. “I want you in Broome, Pennsylvania ASAP.”
“How much attention? I don’t usually ask for too many details, but since you have friends in high places, I have to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“I’ll leave the details to your discretion. The first problem is a young woman. Her name is Karen Martin.” Cain paused and Crocker could hear what sounded like the lawyer swallowing a drink. “She lives in Broome with her adoptive parents. Someone is looking for her, and I don’t want her found.”
“Are you asking me to do what I think you are?”
“No. I need you to isolate her until my second problem is resolved.”
“Which is?”
“The person hired to search for the girl is a New York City PI.”
Crocker planned to check out the hotel bar for some companionship. He moved to a mirrored chest and grabbed a comb, sliding it through his damp hair. “C’mon, I haven’t got all night. Who’s the PI?”
“Lucas Holt.”
Crocker raised his head to the mirror and stared at his reflection. His jaw clenched at the memory associated with that name. His disfigured face flushed with anger. Lost in the past, he flinched when Cain shouted into the phone.
“Are you there, Crocker?”
“Yeah.”
“Is this a problem for you?”
“Of course not.”
***
After a bout of rough and satisfying sex with the first hooker he could engage, Crocker packed up and drove his rented car to Cancun International Airport. He boarded the private jet Cain had arranged for him and within seven hours, using GPS, Crocker drove into Broome, Pennsylvania.
Chapter 17
Crocker moved through the pines and ash, stopping at the edge of the woods. He stared at the decaying red barn topped by a Witch’s Hat cupola. The roof remained intact, except for patches of worn shingles, exposing the cedar underneath. Much of the paint had weathered and chipped away.
At one time, someone cared enough to put a copper rooster weather vane on the gambrel roof, the detail of its form obscured by a bright green patina. Dutch doors hung with loosened hinges on both sides of the barn. Huge sliding panels dominated the front. The doors in the haylof
t, like all the others, were nailed shut.
Using a wonder bar he had in his truck, he pried loose the nails on one of the Dutch doors and entered. Crocker scanned the spacious interior. Protected from the elements, the inside had survived years of neglect. Five horse stalls and a tack room lined a long wall. Crocker ascended the ship’s ladder at the center of the barn to the loft. The rusted pulleys used to lift bales of hay were still at the loft door, but broken. Five trap doors in the floor allowed hay to drop to each stall below.
What was important to Crocker was the beam. He walked a few feet along the solid piece of timber and determined it would hold the weight he had in mind. He climbed down and exited the barn.
Hidden by the heavy thicket of trees that edged Farm Road sat a ranch house. Crocker guessed it had been built in the 1940s, and by the amount of damage and neglect, was unoccupied for at least twenty years. Although among the first places searched when looking for a missing person, he liked abandoned properties. There, he could move about freely preparing for his mission. He especially liked old abandoned properties. They almost always yielded surprises. Crocker soon discovered this one was no exception.
The inside of the house was much the same as the outside, crumbling, and a haven for feral animals when winter came. He exited through the kitchen door, which hung by one hinge, and scanned the backyard beyond a clump of oaks. An overgrowth of tall grasses and weeds hid any evidence of a garden or lawn.
Someone had called this place home. A fleeting memory of his youth and an unfamiliar stab of pain surged through the professional killer. His body tensed, and he pushed the thought aside. Anger and coldness had long ago replaced pain.
Crocker didn’t have a real home—he didn’t need or want one. He was a loner and an assassin whose work kept him on the move. If he had a prolonged period of down time or needed to flee, he had a place in Morocco where he could go.