by G. K. Parks
“Could be, unless it was someone else entirely,” Bastian offered. “After all, you do have trouble making friends.” Even without turning, he could feel Mercer’s icy stare. They rode in silence until the oppressiveness became unbearable. “Since Ben sent the threatening photos and demand letter to Carlton, do you think Carlton suspected his future son-in-law of extortion?”
“If what Welks said is true, then Rhoade might be aware of precisely who Benjamin Styler is and what he’s done, or Carlton could still be in the dark.”
“Rhoade doesn’t strike me as clueless.” There was more to the story than what Bastian was saying, but they needed to regroup and strategize before acting brashly, especially now that there might be a bounty on their heads.
* * *
Inside the pre-furnished flat the former SAS were using as their new headquarters, Mercer stood alone, analyzing the maps and intel that covered the walls like mismatched wallpaper. Having spent so much time guarding Katia and getting jerked around by the powers that be, he somehow missed just how much time and effort his men had put into this assignment. It was easy to forget everyone else’s role, but he appreciated their dedication, even if he would never tell them that in so many words.
Donovan’s list of capable contract killers had dwindled to less than a handful, and Bastian was analyzing each potential hitman’s financial records and calling in favors from every government agency from both sides of the pond to figure this out. After the attempt on Mercer’s life and his arrest for assaulting Benjamin Styler, none of the former SAS were guarding the Rhoades’ apartment. Carlton’s personal security could do a fine job on their own.
“Knock, knock,” Bastian called, crunching on some potato chips. “Was there anything specific you wanted me to get out of Welks?”
“Answers.” Mercer didn’t bother to turn around. He was benched for the evening by Bastian’s request. Since someone wanted Julian dead, he couldn’t risk leading that party to Welks or one of the other intended targets. And after his violent outburst with Styler earlier in the afternoon, it was apparent that Julian wasn’t the calmest person when it came to asking questions.
“Bloody fantastic,” Bastian replied sarcastically. “I would have never been able to figure that out on my own.” Instead of waiting for Mercer’s cheeky response, Bastian left to conduct another interrogation with John Welks. Now that they knew the source of the blackmail photos, Welks’ position working for Carlton Rhoade contained a brand new dynamic and one the team could exploit.
The door slammed, and Mercer took a breath, dropping some of his stoicism and returning to the living room. Easing into the flat’s pre-furnished recliner, he unclipped the holster from his belt and put it on the coffee table. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of his own breathing and focused on his heartbeat. When the tension abated, he opened his eyes and went into the kitchen for sustenance.
It was obvious he’d been letting his rage dictate his actions. There had been no reason to resort to physical violence so quickly, and it was due to his actions with Welks and Styler that Bastian requested he take the night off. The team didn’t want Julian to become a liability, and with a killer on his heels, he’d be even more likely to lash out if he didn’t find a proper outlet to expel his inner turmoil.
As he removed the wrapper from a frozen dinner and popped it into the microwave, his brain felt clear. It had been a long time, probably since before London, when he managed to focus without the fog of grief and rage clouding his every thought and impulse. And in the quiet safety of the empty flat, he relaxed. His instincts and thoughts were sharper than they had been, and after removing the cardboard tray from the micro, he set to work, compiling a list of facts from the intelligence they had gathered.
This mission wasn’t that different from some of the jobs the military had sent him on, nor was it dissimilar from the kidnappings they worked for the last two years. It was rather simple once he got down to the bones of the matter. It was about locations, timing, concluding who had reason and opportunity, and foremost, determining what goal would be achieved by eliminating the mark. Once these questions were answered, the list of potentials would dwindle. Then the remaining names would be dealt with accordingly. He could handle this. His team could handle this. And when he finished analyzing the information, a single wayward thought crossed his mind. Why couldn’t they use the same tried and true method to identify and locate Michelle’s killer?
Tabling that last thought far away for later consideration before it could turn into an obvious distraction, Julian reviewed the names on the list. Someone with deep pockets paid for the hit. And there was only one name that came to mind. But was Carlton Rhoade so heartless and sinister that he would destroy his daughter’s happiness and risk her wrath by hiring professionals to murder her fiancé? Shouldn’t a father love his daughter and want nothing but her happiness? And why would Rhoade hire a team to investigate and provide protection if he was responsible for ordering the hit?
Mercer picked through the financials that Bastian obtained through every illegal method possible, and he noted quite a few cash transfers out of Carlton’s personal account. But once the money was liquid, it was difficult to trace. The phone records didn’t indicate contact with any of the wet work experts that Donovan had uncovered, but as soon as the shooter was identified, the contract killer would lead the team back to his client. Mercer wouldn’t give him any other choice. The only catch was they would have to capture him without killing him. That could be tricky, especially when dealing with a professional. Luckily, Mercer’s team was their own brand of quasi-mercenary. The skills they possessed should be enough. They had to be because from Mercer’s estimation there was no other way to positively identify the party responsible.
Speaking to Welks could only aid their investigation, as would whatever leads Detective Rowlins might discover when checking out building surveillance. But the incident on the street had left a bad taste in Mercer’s mouth. He was tracked from the precinct. Someone knew he was there, followed him when he left, waited, watched, and attempted to strike. Even though the attempt on his life failed, Julian wasn’t certain the pain in the arse detective wasn’t to blame. Cops were dirty, especially in this city, and Mercer didn’t want to trust him despite Bastian’s insistence.
Tapping his fingers on the table, he ran through his encounters with Rowlins. The detective said Rhoade had friends highly placed in the police department. The questionable police lieutenant could have been responsible for the botched attempt at vehicular homicide, or it may have been another officer of the law. Did Carlton hire a hit squad to take out Mercer before he could uncover the truth? That made no sense. Then again, Carlton’s behavior made little sense if John Welks was to be taken at his word. Trust no one. It was the safest course of action, and the only logical one when fact continued to meet fiction.
“Bollocks,” Mercer grunted, pushing away from the table.
He was certain he was missing something, and John Welks was the only person who could provide insight and answers. It was up to Bastian to convince their hostage to open up. It was the only way, and Mercer knew that if anyone on his team could appear nonthreatening and apologetic, it was Bas.
Eighteen
“How’d it go?” Julian asked, barely opening one eye. He had fallen asleep in the chair a few hours earlier, and his convoluted dreams had led to one theory that he just couldn’t shake – Carlton Rhoade must be involved.
“We’ve made progress. Welks said he was anonymously contacted via the newspaper’s internal e-mail system for information on Styler and Katia. This unknown contact wanted to know everything about Ben’s background and daily activities.”
“Which explains how the hit was so easily orchestrated,” Julian mused. “Does Welks have any idea who contacted him or who was privy to his investigation of Benjamin Styler?”
“The P.I. offered up a few possibilities, mostly former newspaper employees, but nothing conclusive has surfaced.
”
“Do you think he’s on to something?”
“No. The person responsible has access to the internal e-mail system at the paper, so it must be a current employee.” Bas scribbled a note and tacked it to the wall. “Welks seems like a decent fellow that just happened to make a mistake. So I’m easing him into trusting me. Once he does, I’m sure he’ll be more forthcoming and provide us with additional intel. In the meantime, I’ll see if our anonymous e-mailer has left a digital footprint that we can trace.”
“Haven’t you already poked around the newspaper’s server?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t look again.” Bas sighed and sat down on the couch. “I told Welks we’d cut him loose as soon as we can, and I brought him some ice and a wrap for his ankle and let him speak to his wife in a show of good faith.”
“You what?” Mercer sat up straight, fully awake.
“We were knocking on the twenty-four hour window. In another day, she would have reported him missing, and the coppers would have been breathing down our necks.”
“He could have tipped her off. They could trace the call. They–”
“You are paranoid.” Bastian’s gaze turned hard and impenetrable. “There was no need for further violence. He’s cooperating. He probably would have cooperated without being abducted and threatened. But I understand why you acted the way you did since he was outside the apartment with a camera. And just so you know, he said he was there to ensure Katia and Carlton were safe.”
Mercer scoffed and rolled his shoulders to work the tension out of them. “He was far from cooperative when I asked him questions. Perhaps you should take over all the interrogations since you’re so bloody friendly.” The words were acidic, but Bastian ignored them. “Let me guess, you believe whoever planned to kill me this afternoon was seeking revenge due to my less than personable attitude.”
“No,” Bastian drummed his fingers subconsciously, “but in the last twelve hours, a lot has changed. We need to review the updated intel and devise a new plan of action. Donovan and Hans will be here shortly.” He found the anger in Mercer’s eyes inappropriately placed. “Would you rather turn tail and run?”
“I don’t run. I am not a coward.”
“So what then?”
“They have made us fools. We are nothing more than pawns in some sick, rich bastard’s game. Benjamin Styler extorted Carlton Rhoade by threatening Katia. Rhoade paid the demands to his future son-in-law but probably hired a hitman to kill the kid. Katia is,” Mercer’s face contorted into a sea of disdain and confusion, “misinformed, dishonest, and quite a handful.”
“Face it, you like that in a woman.” Bastian’s comment was met with hatred. “And your assumptions on the way things are seem sorely misplaced. Rhoade wouldn’t risk any harm ever befalling his own flesh and blood.”
“C’mon, Bas, you were there when Carlton hired us to identify the party responsible for the attack on Styler. He wanted us to extinguish the threat without asking any other questions. That sounds like someone who fears the truth might come out, and what we’ve uncovered indicates that Carlton has the means and motive for contracting the hit.” He slammed his palm against the wall. “And now I’d wager Mr. Rhoade has hired someone else to remove us from the equation as well. Maybe he realized Welks has been abducted and thinks we’re getting too close to discovering his involvement.”
“You do realize none of what you just said makes bloody sense.”
“Welks and Styler practically admitted as much. Shall we go knock on Carlton’s door and have a friendly chat?” Mercer asked, disgusted. “Rhoade wanted wet work. You sat in his living room and listened to him ask if we were mercenaries.”
“Let’s say your cockamamie theory is true. Would you have said yes?” Bastian raised a challenging brow, cocking his head to the side. “Regardless of how unemotional and heartless you want to play, I know you, Commander. And you would have refused his request. The last thing you’d ever do is kill an innocent.”
“Styler’s not innocent. He’s a blackmailer.”
“Bullshit. The kid basically borrowed some family money to get back in the black. He never directly threatened Katia. And from what I’ve heard and seen, he wouldn’t. He’s crazy about her and also a bit crazy, but he isn’t a bad guy. Definitely stupid but not evil. You wouldn’t have hurt him.”
Mercer glanced around the room. “You’re a fool for holding my morality in such high regard.” He scoffed at the insanity that was quickly overtaking the flat. “You’re forced to act like my goddamn conscience ninety-nine percent of the time. What the hell would make you think that I would deem Benjamin Styler innocent and beyond the vengeance I could exact?”
“It’s rather simple. If you wanted to kill Styler, you would have done it earlier today in his hospital room.” Bastian returned the glare. “You pretend to live on the edge, but you don’t. There are a hundred more painful and effective things you could have done to gain Styler’s compliance, but you didn’t. Instead you gave him a little jab in the bandage and maybe tore a stitch or two. Big fucking deal.” He returned Mercer’s stare. “You didn’t do any permanent damage to Welks either. And even after reaching some pretty insane conclusions concerning Carlton Rhoade’s role in all of this, you have yet to bang down his door, shove your Sig in his face, and pull the bloody trigger. So don’t play this game with me, Jules. Because I know you.” Bastian let out a resounding, exasperated breath, and stormed into the kitchen, searching for something. “I need a bloody cigarette.” Instead, he found a bag of pretzel sticks and a bottle of Irish whiskey.
“I promised Katia I would kill the person responsible for hurting Ben,” Mercer admitted once Bastian downed the drink. “At the time, I didn’t realize that person may be her father.”
“You thought you needed this as much as she did. Maybe you both do, but we don’t know for certain it’s her father,” Bastian replied, slightly calmer now. “From the information I’ve convinced the private eye to share, I believe that he is still holding back some vital information that will lead us to the actual guilty party. Yes, Carlton hired him to determine who was responsible for the extortion and to keep tabs on Katia and Benjamin, but something else is missing. Based on the facts, the most likely assumption is that the shooter is also receiving information from Welks, and that is the man that has threatened Welks’ life and made an attempt on yours.”
“How certain are you that a third party is involved?” Mercer asked, wondering if his tirade was completely pointless.
“I’d say it’s a strong possibility. The only thing we know for certain is that the party responsible has access to the internal e-mail system at Rhoade’s newspaper. It’s how he contacted Welks for additional information on Styler. Until we know for certain who that person is, don’t jump to any more conclusions. It makes you sound insane.” He winked. “More so than usual, mate.”
“My theory was based on your notes and intel.”
“Which are still incomplete.” Bastian rolled his eyes, seeing no point in continuing this argument. He knew Mercer was impatient and had a tendency to run into situations half-cocked when he thought time was of the essence. “Donovan is setting up a few meetings with our possible hitmen. Once we determine who took the shot, we’ll find out who wanted the trigger pulled. It should clear this up efficiently and with minimal fallout.” He assessed Mercer. “Are you able to hold it together if we have to talk to these contractors in a public setting? Or will that be a problem?”
“I can handle it.”
“Even if one of them turns out to be the shooter or the kamikaze van driver?”
“Our mission is intelligence gathering.” Mercer met his eyes, agreeing with Bastian’s suggestion to wait for further information before acting. “I might not like it, but the contract killer has to lead us to the puppet master. But once we know for certain…” His voice trailed off.
“I know. With any luck, that detective friend of yours will provide a clean-up crew.”
Bastian headed toward the bedroom. “Like I said, stop pretending to toe the line because it’s clear you aren’t.” And he shut the door.
Nineteen
It was late, but the pounding in Mercer’s skull wouldn’t let him sleep. Tension headaches were never fun. And he had numerous reasons to be tense. As soon as Donovan returned with the list of potential shooters, additional meetings could be arranged with the most likely candidates, and if the shooter wasn’t willing to divulge his client list, Mercer would force the point. He snorted. Maybe Bas was right, and he didn’t have to resort to violence so swiftly. But they were running out of time. Someone tried to murder Mercer in the middle of one of the busiest streets in Chicago. That meant they were getting close, and someone was growing tired of the game.
Without making a conscious effort, Mercer left the flat and found himself outside Rhoade’s apartment. He studied the building’s security. Several surveillance cameras were posted on the building and in surrounding areas. The doorman was a basic deterrent, as were the armed rent-a-cops that were behind a desk in the lobby. That didn’t include the man inside the elevator or the personal bodyguards that were probably permanent fixtures inside the penthouse apartment. That was a whole hell of a lot of security for a single threatening letter that was sent by someone with no intention of doing actual harm.
Perhaps Rhoade had other enemies. Surely, someone must have posed a danger at some point for this level of protection. Pulling away from the curb, Mercer drove back to the hotel they checked out of earlier in the day. Despite some reticence, he left the car with the valet and strolled down the street. There was nothing else to gain from the crime scene. He knew where the shooter had been and how he knew to wait for Katia and Ben. Too bad the man didn’t leave his name and number at the mouth of the alley.