Back Track

by Jason Dean

  Bishop listened for any sounds above or below, but again heard nothing. He then lay on his stomach to the side of the door and slowly inserted the tube partway into the gap. He looked through the eyepiece and saw part of a door opposite. Manoeuvring the Teflon-coated tube to the left he saw a dimly lit hallway that ended in a right turn about two hundred feet away. Same tasteful, dark brown colour scheme as the ninth floor. Nobody in sight.

  He moved the tube to the right and saw the bottom half of a man in a dark suit. Panning upwards, Bishop saw he was leaning against the wall about ten feet away, close to the corner so he had a clear view of both corridors. He had close-cropped hair and was doing something on his cell phone that required both hands. Probably playing a game. He was also wearing lightly tinted aviator sunglasses, which made Bishop happy. There was no reason at all to wear sunglasses in here, so the guy clearly just wanted to look cool. Excellent. Still, Bishop wasn’t about to underestimate him. That’s how mistakes got made.

  Bishop got up, put the scope back in the case and took out a roll of duct tape and the cheap, disposable Samsung cell phone he’d picked up earlier. He placed the phone on the floor a few feet from the door, picked up the case and climbed the stairs to the next turn. He peered back and estimated the distance to the door was about twenty-five feet. Should be okay.

  He pulled his own cell from his jacket pocket and pressed a single key. Almost immediately the Pink Panther theme tune echoed through the stairwell from the Samsung down below. Bishop crouched down on a step out of sight and took the gun from his waistband. Checked it once more.

  And waited.

  SIXTEEN

  After one hundred and seventeen seconds, Bishop heard the sound of the door opening.

  Bishop just stayed where he was and kept counting as the ringtone started up again. He gave the guy two seconds to cover the immediate area as he looked for the phone’s owner. He gave him another to realize one of the tenants must have dropped it on their way up or down. Bishop waited a further two seconds, then emerged from his place on the next landing, gun pointed downwards.

  The guard was in the act of picking up the cell phone with his left hand. He had an automatic in his right. The moment he stood up, Bishop aimed the M26 and fired.

  The compressed nitrogen in the Taser cartridge immediately propelled two darts at a speed of one hundred and eighty feet per second dead centre into the man’s chest, along with thirty-five feet of insulated wire and fifty thousand volts of electricity.

  The guard’s hands snapped open into claws and both gun and phone fell to the floor. Bishop sprinted down the stairs as the man landed on his back like a sack of wet towels, convulsing violently as the voltage surged through his nervous system. Bishop quickly wrapped the roll of duct tape around the man’s wrists four times and tore it off. Then the same with the ankles. All the while, the man’s eyes remained locked on his every move.

  Bishop calculated five or six seconds had passed since he’d fired. That was the average time for a person to stay incapacitated after being hit with one of these things. Sure enough, the man’s convulsions suddenly stopped on the six second mark.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ he said, and kicked out at Bishop with his feet.

  Bishop sidestepped neatly and stamped his own heel into the man’s stomach. The guard let out a whoosh of air and curled up onto his side. Bishop knelt down, tore off another length of tape and pasted it over his mouth. He still needed to ask this guy some questions, but he’d have to make do with yes or no answers. He couldn’t risk him calling out for reinforcements.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Bishop said.

  The guy finally stopped struggling, but kept glaring at Bishop.

  Bishop pulled out his cell phone and ended the call. The stairwell went quiet again. He was already sick of that song. He pocketed the other cell and checked the guard’s gun. It looked like a Colt M1911 except the magazine extended out from the handle by about two inches. It was an OTs-33 Pernach, a lightweight Russian 9mm machine pistol he’d heard about back in his close protection days. Illegal as hell. He checked the 27-round magazine and saw it was full, with one in the chamber.

  In his wallet, he found a driver’s licence made out to an Anthony Holland. He also found a compact Motorola two-way radio clipped to his belt, which he attached to his own.

  He removed the guard’s sunglasses, put them on and went back for his attaché case. After reloading the M26 with another cartridge, he studied the bound man. Bishop was six-one and this guy looked about an inch shorter. But they were about the same weight. Bishop was one hundred and seventy-five pounds and this guy couldn’t be much over one-eighty. Hair was slightly shorter than Bishop’s buzz cut, but Bishop couldn’t do anything about that.

  He crouched down and pulled out the ninth floor plan. ‘Okay, Holland,’ he said. ‘Now pretend this is the seventh floor and point out Gaspard’s room for me.’

  The guard paused, then used both index fingers to stab at 905 in the south-east corner.

  Bishop sighed and stood up. Why do they always have to do it the hard way? He aimed the M26 at the man’s crotch area. The man’s eyes grew wide. Bishop shrugged and pulled the trigger.

  The darts entered Holland’s testicles and he doubled up like a bear trap as electricity coursed through them. He rolled onto his side, jerking uncontrollably, his face a picture of agony.

  This time it took about seven seconds for the spasms to stop. Bishop waited for the man’s breathing to return to normal and said, ‘Everyone’s allowed one mistake. That was yours.’

  He reloaded the Taser, stuck it back in his waistband and brought out the Pernach. He pressed the barrel of the machine pistol against the man’s left kneecap and said, ‘Don’t lie to me again, understand?’

  Holland stared wide-eyed at the gun, then at Bishop. He nodded twice. Bishop picked up the floor plan and showed it to him again. ‘Gaspard. Where?’

  The bodyguard pointed at the apartment on the north-west corner. 701.

  ‘Good,’ Bishop said. ‘How many other guards in the corridors?’

  Holland raised a single index finger.

  ‘Where?’

  The man pointed at the small hallway between 701 and 702. Which more or less confirmed Bishop’s guess about the elevator’s location.

  ‘How many people in the other rooms?’

  Holland frowned, then raised nine fingers.

  ‘How many of them women?’

  Holland thought again. Four fingers this time.

  ‘Is Gaspard alone?’

  A head shake.

  ‘He’s got some of the girls in there with him?’

  Holland nodded and showed two fingers.

  ‘Okay,’ Bishop said, ‘thanks.’ He slammed the side of the gun into the man’s temple and watched the eyes roll upwards. He figured he’d be out for half an hour, at least. He unfastened Holland’s shoulder holster, inserted the weapon and put it on under his own jacket. Then he picked up the attaché case, pulled open the door and entered the seventh floor corridor.

  He stood still for a moment, listening. He could hear the sound of muffled laughter from one of the apartments in the hallway to his right. It sounded feminine. Then a male voice said something. More laughter.

  Bishop turned left and stopped when he heard one of the doors ahead opening. He put down the case and took his cell phone from his pocket. Leaned against the wall and started pressing random buttons. In his peripheral vision, he saw a man step into the hallway carrying a sports bag. Bishop hoped the glasses and subdued lighting would work in his favour. The man glanced in Bishop’s direction as he closed the door.

  ‘That Tetris’ll make you go blind, Tony,’ he said in a rough voice.

  ‘Mm hmm,’ Bishop mumbled without looking up. Just kept pressing buttons. He saw the man shake his head and walk away from him. Then he turned at the junction and was gone.

  Bishop listened. After a few moments, he heard voices and then the faint sound of an electric motor in ope
ration. Had to be the private elevator. The guy was going out.

  He breathed out again, picked up the case and followed the same route, passing doors along the way. At the end, he stopped and peered right. The hallway was empty with a single door halfway down on the left. Gaspard’s apartment. Bishop could also make out soft slapping sounds coming from the elevator alcove at the end. He smiled to himself. It was the sound of cards on a table. The other guard was playing solitaire. Real pros, these guys.

  Bishop entered the hallway and kept walking. As he approached the door he unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and brought it to his right ear, partly obscuring his face if the guard decided to get nosy and check.

  He knocked on the door. After a few moments, a muffled voice said, ‘What?’

  Bishop lowered his voice a couple of octaves to match Holland’s and said, ‘Tony.’ He placed the case on the floor and gripped the Taser gun in his rear waistband. This was the worst part. He’d have a split second to decide whether to shoot Gaspard or not. And if he did and the guard heard it and poked his head round, Bishop would be momentarily defenceless. And a moment like that could last a lifetime.

  He waited.

  Bishop then saw a movement at his far right and knew it was the guard. He kept the walkie-talkie at his ear and willed the door to open. Come on, Gaspard. Open up. I don’t have all day. The guard was still there. Still looking at him. Pretty soon he’d wonder why Holland had a walkie-talkie stuck to his face and come see for himself.

  Then Bishop heard the sound of tumblers dropping and the door opened a few inches. Bishop looked in and saw a man with a greying ponytail walking away from the door dressed in a tan bathrobe. He was talking on a cell phone. Perfect timing. He’d caught the guy while he was in the middle of a call and distracted. Bishop picked up the case, calmly stepped inside and closed the door after him. He turned the key in the lock and pulled out the Taser.

  He was in a vast living room that offered a panoramic view of the city. Gaspard was walking over the thick white carpet towards the windows, still talking while gesticulating with his free hand. He didn’t sound happy. To Bishop’s left were two doors, one closed, one partly open. Through the open door, he could see part of a large bed and a woman’s foot. Further away to his right were two more doors. Both of these were closed.

  Bishop aimed the M26 at the middle of Gaspard’s back and just waited.

  When Gaspard finally flipped his phone closed and turned round, he opened his mouth to speak and that’s when Bishop fired.

  SEVENTEEN

  Bishop slapped the back of his hand hard against Gaspard’s face and he jolted awake immediately, his eyes darting in every direction as he tried to figure out why the world had gone topsy-turvy on him. The effects of the chloroform had undoubtedly slowed down his mental processes a little, so Bishop gave him a moment.

  Gaspard looked down, or ‘up’ in his case, and finally got it. His eyes bugged out and he let loose a long, satisfying scream, muffled only by the duct tape over his mouth.

  They were on the balcony of apartment 1507 on the south-west corner. Or rather, Bishop was. Gaspard was just outside it, hanging upside down with his hands secured behind his back. Bishop watched him through the glass panel of the railing. Right now the only thing preventing Gaspard from dropping one hundred and sixty feet to the side street below was the Sterling 8mm mountaineering rope he’d tied around the man’s ankles and waist. This rope was looped through the ribbed grille of a stainless steel, ceiling-mounted LED light before finishing up at the sliding balcony door, where it was tied to the handle.

  Bishop figured if you wanted to make somebody talk, a good start was to have them wake up to their worst nightmare. And it looked like Addison had been right about Gaspard’s acrophobia. Hauling him up five flights of stairs had been tiring, but the result was worth it.

  Bishop approached the railing, looked down and said, ‘Some drop, huh?’

  Gaspard had finally stopped screaming. But he still looked far from calm. The star tattoo on his throat seemed to be moving of its own accord and there was a damp patch at the front of his tracksuit pants that was steadily growing in size. Bishop looked across the way. Of the buildings opposite, the tallest was seven storeys high, so they were safe from any observers from that direction. And a protruding wall gave them privacy from their immediate neighbour to the right. He couldn’t have picked a better spot if he’d tried.

  Bishop looked down at his captive and said, ‘Now, in a few moments I’m going to take that tape off your mouth and we’re going to talk. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them.’ He reached down and picked up a kitchen knife he’d found in the apartment behind them. ‘And one thing I can absolutely guarantee is that if you scream, shout, or say anything above a whisper, I’ll cut this rope. Do you understand?’

  Gaspard nodded his head frantically, his forehead twice striking the glass panel in an effort to get his point across.

  ‘And since I’ve already been given answers to some of these questions, if I catch you lying at any point, same result. Are we clear?’

  Gaspard was nodding so much his body started to sway from side to side. Which made him start panicking again. Bishop sighed and came forward to stop the rope from swinging. He didn’t have time for this. It was already half an hour since he’d set off that ringtone in the stairwell. There was no telling when one of the other guards would notice Gaspard and Holland were missing and organize a floor-by-floor search. He needed to be gone from here.

  Once Gaspard was still, Bishop reached down and ripped the tape from his mouth. Gaspard let out a loud sigh and then clamped his mouth shut, breathing heavily through his nose. His body swayed a little from the breeze.

  Bishop crouched down so their eyes were level through the glass partition. As with Addison, he’d have to go the indirect route to get the information he wanted. He couldn’t very well accuse Gaspard of snatching Selina when she was supposed to be dead. But if Bishop continued to play the role of an aggrieved lover convinced she’d been killed by Gaspard, he’d be all too eager to prove that she was still breathing if he could.

  ‘Now listen up,’ Bishop said. ‘An easy one to start you off. Sonja Addison. You recognize the name, right? Think carefully and answer.’

  Gaspard swallowed and said, ‘Yeah, I know the name.’

  ‘That’s a good start. Next question: when did you first find out she was aware of the connection between you and her worthless husband?’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ Bishop began to rise and Gaspard said, ‘Wait. Wait. One of my men, Wynant. He told me.’

  ‘After Addison let it slip?’

  ‘Yeah. Who are you?’

  ‘Just somebody who cared for her a great deal, that’s all you need to know. Now the robber of that cheque-cashing store who took her hostage, how did you recruit him?’

  There was a long pause. Gaspard said, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, I can’t see you using one of your own men for the job, so he must have been an outsider. Where’d you find him?’

  ‘Wait a minute. You think I was behind that robbery a month back?’

  ‘Yeah. You ordered Addison to take care of his wife, but after a couple of weeks I think you got impatient and decided to take matters into your own hands. So you arranged a robbery where she got randomly picked as a hostage. Probably instructed your guy to kill her once he lost the cops on his tail. Tell me, when he swerved to avoid that truck and they both ended up in that ravine, did you feel like the luckiest man on earth, or what? A real, honest-to-God accident falling right in your lap like that.’

  Gaspard slowly shook his head. ‘Hey . . . Hey, now, you got it all wrong. If Addison told you this, he’s given you bad intel. You gotta believe me.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell Addison you wanted her dead? That what you’re telling me?’

  ‘I . . . Okay, I admit I lost my temper when I found out she was butting into my business. But I d
on’t go round wasting civilians if I can help it. That’s bad business. And I like a low profile. So I told him to deal with it himself if he wanted to stay on my good side.’

  Bishop just looked at him. Gaspard had to know he was balancing on a knife edge here, so he couldn’t afford to give a single wrong answer. No outright lies so far, but he still wasn’t as desperate as Bishop wanted him. That had to change.

  He got up, then reached down and placed the tape over Gaspard’s mouth again. ‘Sorry, Gaspard. And you were doing so well up to that point. I’m sure you had her killed, so you know what happens now.’

  Gaspard struggled frantically, causing his body to swing from side to side again. He made noises under the tape that made it clear he had things to say if only Bishop were to let him. Bishop just turned and picked up the knife, then stepped over to the section of rope that went from the ceiling to the door handle. He pressed a finger against the cable, testing the tautness. Let go and watched it vibrate.

  The drug boss was almost crazy with fear now, shouting under the tape, his head knocking against the glass so much Bishop thought it might crack. But Bishop just gripped the rope with one hand, and with the other started to make slow cutting motions with the knife. Then after a few moments he frowned and turned to Gaspard. As though he were deciding whether to give him another chance or not.

  He released the rope and walked over to the railing. ‘Scream and you drop,’ he said. Gaspard stopped struggling and nodded twice. ‘Last chance. If you got something to say, speak. And it better be good.’ Bishop reached down and ripped off the tape again.