by G. K. Parks
The same homeless man was in his usual spot. And Mercer approached, pulling a twenty from his pocket. The man smiled a filthy grin, eyeing the money. He held out his coffee can for Mercer to drop the cash inside, but Mercer shook his head.
“I’m sorry your entertainment hasn’t been around lately,” Mercer said, nodding across the street.
“I can find something else to keep my interest,” the man replied, shaking the can. “How’s about you help a guy out?”
“I need some information first.” He studied the man, glad that the hobo’s pants were fastened and secured around his waist. “Does a delivery truck usually park across the street near the alley?” Mercer pointed, indicated the place where a truck was currently parked.
“Yeah, it’s there five nights a week. I’ve had to move before to get a better view of the show. It’s a real pain in my ass. It’s not like my house is on wheels, y’know.”
“Do you remember seeing anyone else regularly watching the show? Maybe you recall someone following the couple to the alley.”
The man thought about it, squinting through the darkness as he recollected. “I didn’t see nothing.” He shook the can vehemently, and Mercer grabbed it out of his hand. “Hey. That’s mine. You can’t just take my stuff.”
“I don’t believe you.” Mercer pulled the can away before the man could grab it.
The homeless man clawed ineffectually at the air, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the coffee can. “Fine. There might have been a guy lingering for the last couple of weeks. His eyes were ice cold, and he freaked me out. He would watch from over there,” he pointed to a nearby lamp post, “but didn’t seem that interested.” The hobo lunged for the can again, but Mercer stepped back. “Give me back my money.”
Looking inside to see how much change was causing that infernal rattling, Mercer spotted a bullet casing among the rusty coins and other trinkets. Removing it, despite the loud protests, he dropped the twenty inside and shoved the can back at the man. “Thanks for the help.”
“Fuck off, thief.”
Mercer snorted and returned to the hotel. The police already identified the caliber and weapon, but for some reason, this insignificant metal object seemed to hold importance. Something was odd about it, but Mercer couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Handing the parking slip to the valet, he waited for his car to be brought around and climbed into the driver’s seat. He pulled onto the main thoroughfare and immediately realized something was off.
“Do not turn around. Just drive,” a deep, raspy voice commanded from the backseat before reaching around and removing the Sig from Mercer’s hip. “This doesn’t have to be unpleasant like your earlier encounter this afternoon. I just wanted the chance to talk to you in private.”
“Did you bribe the valet?” Mercer asked, running through a risk assessment and his options.
“No. He didn’t notice me. It’s wonderful what can be accomplished using fold-down backseats.” Cold, blue eyes stared at Mercer through the rearview mirror. “It’s my turn to ask a question. Are you working for Carlton Rhoade?”
“Who?”
Traffic was light on account of the late hour, but Mercer drove at a snail’s pace, wanting to find the perfect spot to dislodge the man, preferably through the windshield. He tightened his seatbelt and continued driving aimlessly.
“I’m not playing with you. Rhoade is a powerful man. He hires only the best, and from the rumblings I’ve heard, that might be you. But I don’t want things to become more complicated than they already are. You’ve made a mess by allowing the police to become involved, and they’re getting antsy. They are looking to make arrests. They are investigating. Neither of those things is acceptable.”
“I concur,” Mercer retorted, but the gun pressed into the back of his seat.
“Don’t try anything. And don’t expect me to believe that you aren’t assisting the cops after you spent the day at the police station.” Whoever this man was, he had been tracking Mercer’s movements, monitoring the exchanges with Detective Rowlins, and might also be responsible for the attempted vehicular homicide earlier in the day.
“The bobbies arrested me. That’s not my doing.”
“Stop lying.” The metal clicked as the gun was cocked. “Collect your fee and leave town. Or just leave town. I don’t care. Your presence is no longer necessary. Do I make myself clear?”
“You seem to know precisely who I am, so why don’t you tell me who you are?” Mercer’s eyes barely shifted as he considered driving straight into one of the support pillars for the elevated railway tracks.
“I’m simply someone who has a job to do. A job not unlike yours, Julian Mercer.”
“You were hired to execute the hit on Benjamin Styler.” Mercer’s eyes darted to the mirror, hoping to discover some identifying feature that wasn’t obscured by the ski mask, but only the killer’s eyes were visible. “Are you sure the same man didn’t hire me to complete the job that you couldn’t?” It was a lie, but only Bastian could read Mercer well enough to determine things like that. The man in the backseat snorted but otherwise remained silent. He wasn’t gullible enough to believe that Julian had been contracted to complete the failed hit on Styler. “In that case, I assume you realize that puts us at odds with one another.” Mercer shifted, turning just enough so if the man fired, the bullet would be less likely to rip through any vital organs. “If you tell me who hired you, I’ll spare your life.”
The contract killer laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the one holding you at gunpoint, so I’ll take my chances.” The man’s eyes darted to Julian’s and then back to the road, scanning for signs of danger or a trap. It was clear he suspected Mercer would try something.
Mercer produced a mirthless smile. “Suit yourself, but be aware that since you tried to kill Styler, I’m supposed to kill you.” He chuckled. “And who’s to say that someone else wasn’t hired to eliminate me.”
“That might be.” The man shrugged, not taking the bait and confessing to being the van driver or knowing who was. “What exactly do you plan to do? I have no issue with you. As long as you stay out of my way and leave town, then there’s no reason for us to face off.”
“A friendly word of advice, don’t make another move against Styler, or I’ll be forced to act.”
The man blinked, a slight grin tugging at the corners of his eyes. “It’s a pity you refused to take my warning seriously. I hoped this would be a civil encounter.”
Before the man could fire, Mercer accelerated. The increased speed knocked the gunman backward into the seat cushions, buying Julian a few precious seconds. Julian forced his taut muscles to relax as he drove straight into the center column. The crash reverberated in the small space. The airbag deployed, slamming into Mercer and knocking the wind from his lungs. The plastic burned against his skin, and talc irritated his eyes. The windshield shattered into glass pebbles, and the dashboard practically dropped out, exposing wires and jagged pieces of metal and plastic. The rear tires left the ground momentarily before crashing back onto the pavement with a jarring thud.
Squeezing his eyes shut a few times to clear his vision, Mercer shook his head, released the seatbelt, and turned to see the man crumpled in a heap between the armrest and the passenger’s seat. Pain radiated up Mercer’s left side and across his collarbone as he struggled to get the door open. Once he was free, he opened the back door, searching for his Sig. He could end this now.
The unidentified man was semiconscious in the front seat. Unfortunately, the crash didn’t kill him, but a bullet in the back of the head surely would. The only hitch in that plan was Mercer still didn’t know who wanted Styler dead, and eliminating one contract killer would do nothing more than buy some time while a second hit was ordered. The ex-SAS needed answers and a name, not a dead man that could tell no tales.
Clawing through the fragments of the shattered windshield, Julian located his weapon underneath one of the seats and pull
ed it free. He aimed, but the man remained motionless, sprawled between the front and backseats of the car. And in his current state, he didn’t pose a danger, but he would in the future. As Mercer fought with his conscience, deciding what to do with the disabled vehicle and the semiconscious man, flashing lights approached from the distance.
Coming to a decision to avoid another run-in with the local police force, Mercer decided to let the cops handle the situation. “Good luck,” Mercer spat, slamming the door and disappearing into the night. If everything worked out like it should, the man would be arrested, and the police would convince him to give up his employer. This might all be over by the morning.
Mercer headed for the closest subway platform. While he waited for the next train, he stowed his gun and caught sight of his reflection in the window. His face was severely bruised, and a cut ran horizontally from his brow past his temple. There was also a good chance his arm was broken or dislocated based on the pain and the way it hung from his side.
Compartmentalizing his injuries, he boarded the train, avoiding the looks from the few people who were on their way home from working a late shift or leaving the bars and clubs. Thankfully, no one approached. Finally, he had some peace and quiet.
When he returned to the flat, he let himself in. Donovan was back from his outing, spreading a stack of glossies across the kitchen table. He was scribbling each contract killer’s information on sticky notes and attaching them to the photos. At the sound of Mercer’s footsteps, he looked up.
“Should I ask?”
“No,” Mercer winced and slumped into the chair, “but I wouldn’t object to a first aid kit.”
While Donovan retrieved the supplies, Mercer skimmed through the photos, narrowing down the list based on the few features his unwelcome passenger exhibited. Three possibilities remained on the table. After Donovan returned, Mercer slipped out of his shirt and assessed his arm.
“It looks to be dislocated,” Donovan said. “Shall I?” Mercer nodded and bit back his scream when Donovan pulled and twisted, popping the shoulder joint back into place. At least it was better than a break. “How’d it happen?”
“I thought you weren’t asking.” Mercer tapped the photo nearest to him. “Tell me about this one,” he commanded, getting up to wash his face and hands in the sink before applying the antiseptic and bandages.
“What happened to the rest of them?”
“I’ve encountered our competition. Based on build and eye color, it’s one of these three bastards.” He grabbed the whiskey, downing a few mouthfuls to dull the throbbing in his head and arm. “Now tell me about him.”
“Edward Duchamp, discharged U.S. Marine Corps sniper, worked for a few private military black ops groups, suspected of arms dealing and drug smuggling. When he became too questionable for even the paramilitary chaps to deal with, he became a gun for hire. His weapon of choice is still a long-range sniper rifle, but he’s tested proficient on handguns and assault rifles.”
“Is he connected to Rhoade’s newspaper? How does he collect payment and find his clients?” Mercer used the stainless steel toaster as a mirror, plucking the glass fragments from his brow and temple with a pair of sterilized tweezers.
“I haven’t found anything to link him to Rhoade. Duchamp’s known for doing some contract work for the mafia. He finds his clients through referrals and meets with them at a small downtown bar. Payment is in cash and deals are brokered face-to-face.”
“Next,” Mercer said, pointing to the second man in the group.
“Jesus Reyes, Spanish bloke, relocated to the States within the past five years.”
Mercer held up his hand. “Does he have an accent?”
“Of course, he has an accent, Tex,” Donovan replied, attempting a pathetic American accent of his own. “All those Europeans do.”
“It’s not him. I would have remembered a Spaniard with ice blue eyes. The shooter has a general American accent.” He dropped a few glass shards on top of the discarded candidate’s photo. “Who’s left?”
“Isaac Armann. Classified background. Bastian’s still digging up some clues to piece together his past.”
“And how does he get hired?”
“Asking around in the right neighborhood results in a phone number. Place a call, arrange a wire transfer, no questions asked.” Donovan studied Julian. “From what I can tell, he has an office in the back room of some dive. He’s also the only man that refused to take a meeting with me. Shall I inquire further?”
“No.” Mercer removed the final piece of glass from his cheek and put the bloodied tweezers down. “It’s him.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Call it a hunch, but the man in the back of my car wasn’t regular military. He was a spook. And that eliminates Duchamp.” Mercer flicked the edge of Armann’s photo. “And he has a classified background.” He met Donovan’s gaze. “Phone the precinct and find out what you can about the accident involving our sedan that took place about an hour ago. Find out if anyone was arrested or brought to the hospital.” Rummaging through his pocket, he removed the bullet casing and put it on the table. “I’m guessing that belongs to Armann. He might have taken a few practice shots before he fired on Styler.”
“Silver, dented,” Donovan lifted it, twirling it in his fingers and studying the etchings and marks, “looks like he made it himself, based on the impression from a vise grip. He probably manufactures his own ammunition to keep off the radar.” At Donovan’s words, Mercer smiled, realizing that was the oddity he couldn’t place, and continued toward the door, grabbing a set of keys for one of the other vehicles. “Where are you going?” Donovan asked.
“To protect Styler. If Armann’s out of the picture, someone else will eventually try to make a move, especially since three men were following the couple the night of the shooting.” Mercer chuckled. “The game is afoot.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Bastian growled, emerging from the hallway, “as if James Bond wasn’t bad enough, now you think you’re Sherlock Holmes.”
Twenty
Mercer was sitting in the chair next to Benjamin Styler’s bed when morning came. Styler opened his eyes, squinting against the bright glare from the sunlight, and let out a surprised gasp. Mercer nodded but remained silent; he had been dozing for the last few hours, not quite asleep but not fully awake either.
“What happened to you?” Styler asked, still wary of Mercer. “Did the police do that? I’ve read tons of stories on brutality, but I’ve never witnessed it firsthand until yesterday.”
“The man who plans to kill you did this.” There was no reason to sugarcoat.
“What happened to him? Do you know who he is? Where he went? What he wants? Have you notified the authorities? Is that why you’re here? Why did they let you in my room? You attacked me.”
“Silence.” Mercer’s arm was throbbing, and the last thing he wanted was to deal with some panicked rich kid. Or faux rich kid. Whatever Styler was. “It is being resolved, and I will make sure that a second attempt also fails.”
“Second attempt?” Styler paled. “Why can’t you stop this before there is a second attempt?” He launched into more rapid-fire questioning, and Mercer clapped a hand over Styler’s mouth.
“Silence.” He searched Styler’s eyes for acquiescence and saw fear. The kid was scared. Too bad he wasn’t more afraid of the man trying to kill him and less afraid of Mercer. “Remain quiet and only speak when I ask a question. Do you understand?” Styler nodded, and Mercer removed his hand. “Did you send the photos of Katia to her father?”
“Yes.” Styler looked ready to launch into some excuse but clamped his mouth shut.
“Carlton knows. He does not enjoy being threatened. It appears he hired a private investigator to get to the bottom of it, and someone is using the information gained by said investigator to tail your movements and eliminate you. Do you think that Carlton Rhoade is capable of such action?” Mercer still didn’t know who hired Armann, and despite
the unlikelihood, it never hurt to ask.
“No. Mr. Rhoade wouldn’t do something like that. Yes, I sent the photos, but I needed the cash to pay off my investors. Kat wanted to give it to me, but I didn’t want her to think I was just some mooch.”
“So you stole from her father instead?”
“No. I…” He looked away. “It’s not that simple.”
“Does Katia know?”
“No.”
“You should tell her,” Mercer said resolutely, easing back into the chair. “You should also ring for the nurse and ask for something to relieve your headache.”
“But I don’t have a headache.”
Mercer rolled his eyes. “You’re giving me one.”
Talking to Styler proved to be too much effort and far too frustrating for Mercer to handle at the present, so instead, he remained in the chair, letting the acetaminophen he confiscated dull some of the achiness. He would have preferred a fifth of scotch, but he was working and needed to be alert.
Donovan had yet to phone with the information on the accident, and Mercer contemplated calling Rowlins directly. However, if whoever hired Armann had clout with the local bobbies, then Mercer didn’t want to tip them off on his progress. Frankly, after the attempt on his life yesterday afternoon, he suspected members of the police department might be working with Armann and his crew. And he didn’t want to take any additional risks with Ben’s safety or his own.
“What a fucking mess,” Mercer mumbled to himself, cautioning a glance at Styler who was playing some game on a tablet that Katia brought him. Luckily, the other man was too preoccupied smashing candy or launching birds at things to notice anything was wrong. Mercer shut his eyes, hoping to sneak in a few moments of sleep.
“How dare you?” Katia’s voice rang out as she threw open the hospital door.
“Babe,” Styler began, but her anger was focused on Julian.
“You could have done some serious damage yesterday, and then you have the nerve to show up here today and sit in that chair like nothing happened. What the hell is the matter with you?”