Blood Trails

by Diane Capri

  He found his chance. A wide pedestrian walkway, almost empty. Flint pointed the Suzuki and opened the throttle around Wellington Arch. A young woman pushing a baby stroller yelled and shook her fist.

  Flint saw the Ferrari ahead, speeding up Constitution Hill toward Buckingham Palace. Flint gained ground on the long, straight road. He glanced up to see deep red traffic lights at the top of the hill and a line of vehicles waiting for the green.

  Ashton moved into the empty oncoming travel lane and sped around the stopped vehicles and through the red light. Horns blasted in protest. Flint’s Suzuki followed right behind, almost on the Ferrari’s bumper.

  Ashton turned across the plaza toward the Victoria Memorial. Pedestrians, bicycles, and vehicles moved out of his way, horns blasting, fists shaking, voices raised to outrage levels. An old man hobbled into the car’s path. Maybe he was blind or deaf or even suffering from dementia, but unlike the others, he didn’t hustle out of the way.

  The Ferrari bore down on the man, almost right on top of him before Ashton jerked the wheel to the left to avoid running the old fellow down. The Ferrari spun dangerously and stalled. Angry onlookers surrounded the car, yelling.

  Flint stopped the Suzuki and dismounted. He pulled the Glock from his waist. People stepped aside when they saw the gun. Flint approached the Ferrari. He tapped the window with the Glock. Ashton looked up, wild-eyed and disheveled.

  “Get out,” Flint said.

  Ashton nodded. Flint backed up to allow him to open the door.

  Ashton started the Ferrari and floored the accelerator. The wheels were still cocked hard left. Flint jumped out of the way. The wheels spun, pushing the Ferrari sideways. Ashton couldn’t correct. He slammed into the steps of the memorial.

  Flint dashed toward the Ferrari but before he reached the car, Ashton leapt out, still barefoot and wearing only sweatpants. Flint chased him down and jumped onto his back, propelling them both into the kidney-shaped pool surrounding the memorial.

  Dazed, but not defeated, Ashton swung a looping right. Flint blocked with his left elbow, deflecting the weak arm, and countered with a hard right uppercut. Ashton’s jaw snapped shut. His head whipped back. His eyes closed, and he slumped forward.

  Flint’s blood boiled, but he had come too far to kill the bastard without getting what he needed first. He pushed Ashton up against the low wall and held him there with his forearm while he steadied his breathing. Then he reached down and scooped a handful of the icy water, and threw it in Ashton’s face. Again. And again. Until Ashton looked up and glared at him.

  “What the hell do you want, man?” Ashton whined, blinking and shaking the rivulets off his cheeks. “I don’t even know you.”

  “Drop the gun!”

  Flint looked behind him. Five men wearing bright red ceremonial uniforms were pointing very unceremonial assault rifles at him. The man in the middle motioned toward the ground with the barrel of his gun. “Queen’s Guard! Drop the weapon!”

  The crowd had grown larger. There was a sea of men, women, and children along with a few dogs standing well back from the memorial. Sirens approached from a distance. Flint saw blue flashing lights rounding the corner and heading his way.

  He raised his arm slowly and placed the Glock on the edge of the stone wall. He turned to face the guard, both hands in the air, palms out. He donned his best smile, the somewhat friendly one.

  “I’m an American citizen. I—”

  He felt Ashton thrashing around in the water. He turned back as Ashton reached the stone wall and grabbed the Glock. Flint lunged out of the way a split second before one of the guards fired three times in rapid succession.

  Each shot hit Ashton squarely in the torso and punched him back like a rag doll. He collapsed into the shallow pool as his blood pumped briefly and turned the water around his body sickly red.

  The guards trained their weapons on Flint. He didn’t move. With Ashton dead, Flint’s mission was stalled but not over. He’d find another Reginald Taylor heir and get the required signatures before the deadline. He always did, and this time would be no exception.

  But first he’d need to avoid the criminal consequences of their screaming car chase across London, a task that would undoubtedly involve a lot more than the embassy turning a blind eye. He’d be lucky if he spent only one night in the cells, but he’d spent plenty of time in worse places.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The trip to Paddington Green Police Station was routine. All presumed terrorists were processed in the typically 1960s blue-and-gray Harrow Road facility. Sixteen cells were located belowground for high-security prisoners held for questioning in a separate custody suite. Flint had been there before.

  He was no terrorist, but the Queen’s Guard would naturally have assumed otherwise. He didn’t fault them. He’d have made the same choice. The long list of crimes he had committed today alone justified the assumption. If they ran a routine background check, the situation would become infinitely more difficult.

  Simply possessing the Glock was enough to make them lock him away somewhere. Ashton would have to be explained, too. As Scarlett had told him when they were young miscreants long ago, cops judge you by the creeps you’re arrested with, whether or not the dudes are worse than you.

  Flint’s first hour in the interrogation room passed slowly. The chairs were uncomfortable, the room was too hot, and no one offered him coffee or anything else. He wasn’t charged immediately, which was a good sign. He had a better chance of quick release if no formal charges were made. Once paperwork entered the system, it took on a life of its own and would need to be dealt with.

  Shortly after his arrival, the Metropolitan Police began their tedious processes and one of the young officers read him his rights.

  After the formal reading, Flint remained silent. The officer said, “You want a lawyer or not?”

  Flint pretended to consider the question for a few seconds. A quick response would cause additional problems. “I think things will go faster if we skip lawyers, don’t you?”

  “Suit yourself.” The young officer turned and left the room.

  Flint had made the lawyer mistake before. Lawyers delayed and complicated these situations beyond all reason. He was better off on his own. Scarlett knew whom to call if he didn’t check in with her before close of business today. He could rely on her to follow through.

  After another hour, the investigating officer entered. This one was older and more experienced. He introduced himself as Deputy Inspector Gates.

  Flint didn’t alter his relaxed posture. Gates sat on the chair across the table, rested his forearms on the metal, and folded his hands.

  “We’re investigating your situation, Mr. Flint, and we have a few questions for you.” His Cockney accent was thick and his tone firm.

  Flint didn’t engage in role-play. “I have the right to make a phone call.”

  “You can do that after you answer my questions.” Gates was a heavy man and the room was uncomfortably warm. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face.

  “I’ll hear your questions after I make my phone call.”

  Gates frowned and wiped the sweat away. “You were offered a lawyer and you refused.”

  “I don’t want to call a lawyer, obviously.”

  “No one else can possibly help you right now, Mr. Flint.” Grant’s patience was already in short supply. Predictably.

  “That’s my decision to make, isn’t it?” Flint’s tone remained calm and steady.

  “We’ve run a background check. We found your passport, but no further information about you. Nothing but a brick wall. Why is that, Mr. Flint? What are you hiding?” Gates wiped his brow with his palm and rubbed sweat onto his pants.

  Flint said nothing.

  The back and forth continued like that for a while. Gates varied his techniques but Flint never varied his nonresponses. In the end, Flint stonewalled until Gates recognized the stalemate. He’d left Gates no choice but to lock him in the cell and leav
e him there.

  Flint lay on the cot and covered his eyes with his arm. A nap was a good idea. He wasn’t worried. He had plans for the weekend. Scarlett would make the phone call and he’d be back at the hotel before midnight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Bulgari Hotel

  London, England

  Saturday, 1:20 p.m.

  Flint emerged from the luxuriously hot shower, toweled off, and slid into the white terry-cloth robe hanging on the back of the door. At long last, he’d been extracted from custody and returned to the hotel paid for by the French woman who owned the expensive painting. His contact at the American embassy should have deployed after six hours of radio silence. The guy was as reliable as an old dog and he owed Flint big time. Flint’s release had never been in question, but the delay was longer than expected.

  His date was not pleased. Ginger had waited as long as she could, but the narrow window of time they’d planned to spend sightseeing in London had been consumed by his hours in custody. She’d left him a note by the hotel’s phone before she caught her flight to Barcelona. See you next time. xoxo G. He crumpled the paper and dropped it into the trash.

  He punched the speaker on his ringing cell phone.

  “This is Michael Flint.” His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. Caused by the dampness in the cells overnight, probably. He cleared his throat and ran splayed fingers through his wet black hair.

  “Mr. Flint,” said a woman’s voice he didn’t recognize, “please hold for Mr. Sebastian Shaw.”

  Flint recognized the name. Shaw was a wealthy Texan, the kind who made his money the old-fashioned way—his daddy gave it to him. But he was clever enough. He’d built the original millions into an invitation to the billion-dollar club at least twenty years ago.

  The photos Flint had seen in the newspapers suggested that Shaw lived a pampered country-club life. Slim, well dressed, with expensively darkened hair that otherwise would have been white by now. Plastic surgeons were likely responsible for the youthful face. Shaw was probably about sixty, give or take a few years.

  “Fine,” Flint said. Nothing more.

  He skipped the usual questions, such as how Shaw had acquired his name and his private cell number. Shaw was the kind of man who had access to anything and anyone, anytime.

  He also skipped the useless questions, such as why Shaw was calling him. The call could only be about one thing—business. They didn’t travel in the same social circles. Not even close.

  Flint looked at the phone’s screen and identified the caller’s origin. Houston, Texas. It was early evening there, the middle of the business day for a man like Sebastian Shaw.

  Flint walked into the hotel suite’s sitting room and placed the phone on the table where room service had laid out his meal. A crystal balloon glass filled with deep red wine twinkling in the lamplight waited beside his steak. So tempting.

  After he’d been holding the open phone line for five minutes, his stomach growled again. He hadn’t eaten for the past thirty hours. He lifted the silver cover off the plate and smelled his expensive food, which was going cold.

  He didn’t care if Sebastian Shaw was one of the two richest men in Texas. Flint’s body was hungry and his bank account wasn’t. He’d give Shaw another thirty seconds. After that, the guy could call back tomorrow. Or never. Flint didn’t care.

  A man like Shaw was bound to be nothing but trouble anyway. Flint had a job to finish, and he’d had plenty of trouble already.

  Almost as if he’d sensed Flint’s limited patience, a brusque voice invaded the room through the phone’s speaker exactly two seconds before the expiration of his thirty-second deadline. “Flint, this is Baz Shaw. I need to meet with you tomorrow morning. My office.”

  A Sunday-morning meeting? Flint was scheduled to fly back to Houston today. He could meet late tomorrow morning. But his experience said giving in to any man right at the outset was always the wrong way to go. Clients called only when they seriously needed him. He was always the last resort. He held all the trump cards, which was exactly the way he liked it.

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Shaw, I’m not available tomorrow.” Which was technically true. He’d already promised the French woman an in-person report on the status of her painting. After that, he’d planned a working dinner spent searching for Reginald Taylor’s remaining heirs. The most likely heir to be in possession of the painting now lived in Scotland. He wanted the current case wrapped up before he moved on to the next, and his thirty-four-hour stint at Paddington Green had put him behind schedule.

  “The matter is urgent,” Shaw said, with no urgency in his tone at all.

  The hell with this. Flint picked up his wineglass and sipped. “I can recommend someone.”

  “You are the one I want.” Shaw’s deep voice remained steady, but Flint heard the force behind his words all the same. Shaw was used to getting what he wanted.

  The clash of wills was inevitable. Might as well have it right at the start. Assuming this was the start of something. Which he hadn’t agreed to yet. He accepted work on his own terms or not at all. “Mr. Shaw, my dinner is getting cold.”

  “I’m disappointed,” Shaw replied, as if he were a complete stranger to the condition, which he probably was. “I used my connections to get you released tonight because Katie Scarlett assured me you were the only man for the job. Was she wrong?”

  His connections? Scarlett? What the hell had she told him? Flint swiped an open palm across his face. Saying no to Shaw was easy. Refusing Scarlett had been impossible ever since she’d wrestled him to the ground when they were kids. She was the first human being who had ever cared about him. They’d been through a lot of tough times since then. He’d do anything for her, even when she didn’t make it easy. He’d owe her forever. She was the closest thing to family he’d ever had. Simple as that.

  He set the wineglass down, squared his shoulders, and bowed to the inevitable as graciously as possible. “How can I help you, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. My office.” Shaw’s voice and manner remained unchanged, as if he hadn’t just coerced Flint to cooperate. He disconnected.

  Flint shook his head. The man was a demanding, cold bastard, for sure. Flint worked with difficult wealthy clients all the time. They were the only ones who could afford his fees. But Flint could already tell this guy was going to be a special kind of trouble.

  He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. Running out of time. He uncovered the steak, cut off a healthy chunk, and popped it into his mouth before he pressed the “1” button on his speed dial. She’d occupied that position since his first cell phone, mainly because she was the only person in his life who’d been with him that long.

  “Scarlett Investigations. This is Kathryn Scarlett speaking.” She paused a moment, probably checking the caller ID. “Sorry, Flint. Give my apologies to Ginger for ruining your weekend. Shaw insisted that you were the only man for the job. And he’s one of my two best clients. Pays me more than half a million a year. What else could I do?”

  Flint chewed and swallowed the first bite of steak while she talked. Even cold, the steak was something special. He offered token resistance because she expected it. “So you don’t care if I turn him down then?”

  From long experience, he knew she’d start talking and keep at it until he capitulated. Which gave him time to wolf down the steak.

  “Turn him down? Why would you do that? Shaw’s a jerk, but his check always clears. I’m not running a charity here, Flint. It’s fine for you to work whenever you damn well please, but I’ve got bills to pay and a kid to support.” She barely paused for breath. Flint hadn’t seen Scarlett in a couple of months at least. He imagined her behind her desk, readers perched on her nose magnifying green eyes to the size of quarters, wild black hair, doing five other things simultaneously as she talked into the speaker. “Besides, he’s right. This isn’t a routine heir-hunting job. If it were, I’d have already done it myself. This woman
is more than simply hard to find. She’s a ghost. Hasn’t been seen or heard from in at least two decades. I’ve already exhausted all the usual resources. Who else am I gonna call, huh?”

  Flint had finished about half his steak and a few bites of everything else. Another couple of open-ended questions and he’d have filled his belly. “Who’s the woman and why is Shaw looking for her?”

  “So this one is right up your alley. Her name was Laura Oakwood, last records we found. Who knows what she’s calling herself these days. Shaw’s gotta find her so he can buy Juan Garcia Field. You know it’s the largest independently owned land grant field in rural Texas? Shaw won’t pay your usual fee. He knows you usually take half. But half is way too much money on this one. He’ll pay 10 percent.” She waited half a moment to allow objections and he grunted to get her moving again. “Anyway, Shaw says he’s had a first option on that field for years. And if he can get Laura Oakwood to sign over her mineral rights before the option expires, he can buy the field and, I don’t know, make even more billions, I guess. Who cares? We’ve been looking for Laura Oakwood for weeks. No luck. Anyway, we know she’s not dead, which would solve the problem. Or at least we can’t confirm her death, and believe me, we’ve tried. And Shaw’s option expires in less than, um, sixty-nine hours. We’ve got until eleven o’clock Tuesday morning, Houston time. You’re our last hope.”

  “Our last hope? Come on, Scarlett. Cut the drama.” Flint scowled, pushed the empty plate away, and picked up the wineglass. “What happens if Shaw misses his deadline?”

  “Don’t even think about it.” Her tone was stern. She never took crap from anyone, especially Flint. Hadn’t since they were kids standing back-to-back in the school yard and wasn’t likely to start now. No wonder she wasn’t married. Who in the world would put up with her every day? He was as close to her as anybody except her kid, and even he needed time away simply to keep the peace. Of course, she’d say the same about him. “Shaw can’t get an extension on the option, if that’s what you’re asking.”