by G. K. Parks
“Bloody hell.” Mercer grunted, clipping a handgun to his belt at the small of his back. “How are we supposed to get answers with those wankers mucking about?”
“Easy,” Bastian smiled, “I already gleaned the necessary information. The paper trail was practically useless. That gibberish Armann uses is a pain in the arse, but I took digital copies. Thank god for handheld scanners. Cheer up, the coppers can work their angles alongside our investigation, but that doesn’t mean the streams will have to cross.”
“Have you spoken to Armann or followed up with Welks?” It had been a very long day and an even longer night, and the information, photos, and bank accounts they found at the P.I.’s office and home had yet to be fleshed out.
“Just briefly.” Bastian let out a sigh and slumped onto the bed, rubbing his face. He was exhausted too. “I don’t see why this can’t be simple with point A leading to point B which gives us point C.” He leaned back against the pillows but thought better of it. “Should I find somewhere else to bunk down for a few hours? I don’t want to deal with any residual bodily fluids.”
“Nothing happened, Bas. It was a miscommunication.”
“Sure, sure.” Bastian remained on top of the covers, shutting his eyes. “Whatever you say.”
Mercer let out a huff and left the room. The dining room was covered in file boxes, papers, and information tacked up with a web overlay plastering two of the walls. Plenty of progress had been made, but Bastian’s words only assured Mercer that they still didn’t know who orchestrated the hit. Remembering Rowlins’ insistence on discovering means, motive, and opportunity, Mercer made a cup of tea and sipped it while examining every bit of the information they possessed.
Starting at ground zero would be the best way of analyzing the intel. Benjamin Styler was shot by Isaac Armann who was accompanied by Dean Manning and Keith Westin. The two accomplices had no prior connection to Armann, Styler, or any of the other key players, and little involvement aside from tailing and pick-pocketing the couple. However, the simple fact that these were the same two men who were photographed at Styler’s apartment building during the time of the alleged flower delivery left a bad taste in Mercer’s mouth. How long had this attempted killing been in the works? And if it had been weeks, as the evidence insisted, then why was Armann so desperate to finish it in a single day after confronting Mercer inside the car?
Letting out an uneasy breath, Mercer let his thoughts about Armann and the two actors simmer on the backburner while he shifted his focus to whomever’s deep pockets were paying for the hit. First, whoever hired Armann must have provided him with intimate details about Styler. How else would the assassin have known to hire men that resembled Jack Pierce’s co-workers? Was the plan to pin the murder on Pierce since he had extensive resources and plenty of motive? Hell, given the facts and Jack’s visit to a bar near the scene of the shooting, he might even have opportunity. It made for one bloody wicked frame-up job.
Then of course, there was the Carlton Rhoade angle to consider. Rhoade had been extorted and implicitly threatened by Styler. Carlton even went so far as to hire John Welks to investigate the source of the extortion. The questionable funds that Piper Investigations and Welks had recently received in their accounts traced back to the newspaper and the media mogul himself. Furthermore, given Welks’ responses to the questions Mercer asked, an unknown third party was involved in the mix. Whoever this unsub was, he was paying Welks for tips and information on Carlton’s requests. The source of Styler’s threat must have a personal vendetta against Rhoade. Perhaps Styler was simply the weakest exploitable link to hurting Katia and thus Carlton, unless Carlton was being made to look like a patsy for the real killer. And there was also the distinct possibility that Carlton was to blame, and Welks was covering for him, knowingly or not.
Simply put, this unknown accomplice or puppet master worked at Rhoade’s paper, had access to Rhoade’s professional and private life, and some insight into Styler’s past from his days palling around with Jack Pierce. Flashes of the man Mercer encountered outside Rhoade’s office crept into his mind, and he reexamined the photographs they found inside Welks’ house. Was it the same man that Welks’ photographed making a deal with Armann? And since he worked for Rhoade, was he simply doing his boss’s bidding when he hired the contract killer to eradicate Styler?
“I don’t believe your father is involved. But do you think it’s possible he knows who is?” Mercer asked, not bothering to turn around.
“How’d you know I was standing here?” Katia asked from the doorway.
“I smelled your perfume. Now answer the question.”
“I don’t know. Dad warned me to leave Ben long before we even got engaged. He said Ben was trouble, and he was just using me. But Ben cleaned himself up and got his act together.” She snorted and stepped into the room, pulling a chair out to sit. “Well, that was before I found out he took pictures of me and sent them to my father.” The anger and disdain were back in her voice. She felt betrayed. “Do you believe my dad knows something he hasn’t told us?”
“I’m not an investigator.”
“Now who’s avoiding the question?” she quipped.
“Whatever’s going on has been brewing for a while. I won’t discount the possibility Carlton has his own suspicions, but Jack Pierce is connected somehow, just like John Welks.” Mercer pulled a few photos off the wall and put them on the table in front of her. “No more lies, princess. Write down everything you know about each of these men and when you remember encountering them, even if it was only a fleeting glance.” She started to protest, so he shoved a pen into her hand and left the room.
This job was supposed to be protection and retribution, not some tedious investigation into such a baffling matter. After scouring through the meager foodstuffs that one of his team stocked, Mercer prepared breakfast and tried to clear his mind. The answers were somewhere on that wall. He just needed to figure out how to access them.
Thirty minutes later, Ben came into the kitchen. “Good morning,” he greeted, eyeing whatever concoction Mercer was wolfing down. “I heard you had a pretty rough night. When did they let you leave the police station?”
“Why?”
“Just curious. Y’know, trying to make conversation. By the way, I’m sure I’ve already said it like a hundred times, but thanks for pulling my bacon out of the fire. Two close calls in less than a week,” Styler shook his head, cringing, “you’d think I was evil incarnated or worth billions.” He shrugged. “I owe you, man. If there’s anything I can do, just say the word.”
“Good.” Mercer continued to eat, but a thought was gnawing its way through his brain. In the distance, he heard ringing and Katia answering her phone. Not allowing for any distractions to derail his train of thought, he swallowed and wiped his mouth. “What are you worth?”
“What?”
“You don’t have a significant amount of family money. Your business sense and trading skills leave a lot to be desired. So what would anyone gain by killing you?”
“I don’t know.” Styler turned, watching Katia enter the room with the cloned copy of her phone pressed to her ear. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“My dad wants to talk to you,” she said, holding the phone out to Julian.
“Mercer,” he answered.
“Return my daughter immediately,” Carlton bellowed. “I’m paying you to protect her. I am not paying you to protect her from me. You will bring her home immediately.”
“No.”
“Do you not understand English? Bring her home. Now.”
“No.”
“This is kidnapping. I will report you. I’ll find you. I’ll send someone to stop you from filling her head with seeds of mistrust. They will come to collect her with or without your permission.”
“One, this is not a kidnapping. She chooses to be here. If she decides to leave, so be it. Two, who will you send? Since you can’t afford to have your security team hospitalized.”
> Carlton cleared his throat. “Don’t try my patience, Mr. Mercer.”
“Then don’t fuck with me.” Disconnecting, he handed the phone back to Katia. “I’d suggest you don’t answer the next time he calls.”
“But…wh…what are you doing?” she asked, flummoxed.
Wordlessly, he left the kitchen, snatching the list she made off the table before heading to the bedroom to wake Bastian.
Thirty-two
“You do realize how insane that sounds, right?” Bastian asked. He was dressed in a minimal amount of tactical gear, making sure he had at least two handguns loaded just to be on the safe side. “Why would Carlton hire another team to protect Katia when that’s precisely what our role is?”
“I don’t know.” Mercer was replaying the conversation over in his head. “All I’m saying is he wants Katia to come home.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re in an undisclosed location, and her cell is still at the precinct. Whatever he tries won’t get him very far. If he sends a team of bodyguards to fetch her, they’ll come face-to-face with the coppers instead.” Bastian smirked. “At least those are slightly better odds than dealing with you.”
“Run through the information Katia gave us. Dissect every employee at Rhoade’s paper. Track the numbers. Follow the money. Do whatever it is you have to in order to get me the name of the man responsible. In the meantime, I’ve sent for Donovan. As soon as he arrives, I will speak to Armann and Welks.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s bloody brilliant,” Mercer snapped, leaving the room.
“I doubt that.” Bastian studied the sheet of paper. He already had some strong leads. It would just take a bit of patience and some luck. Julian had neither of those things, so Bastian returned to their makeshift op center, flipped open a laptop, and set to work, chewing on the end of a pen. “Hey, love, do you have a minute?” he called.
Mercer remained in the kitchen with Ben while Katia went to see what Bastian wanted. Once the two men were alone, Mercer narrowed his eyes at the kid. They had been in the middle of a conversation before the phone call, and Mercer still had questions that needed answering. His silent, unwavering gaze made Styler uneasy, causing the younger man to gulp a few times and rub absently at the bandage on his chest.
“What?” Styler asked when he couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“Why would someone want to kill you?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Think,” Mercer growled. He was in a horrid mood and likely to lash out.
“Um…I don’t have much. My parents don’t either. We’re comfortable but not millionaires. Everything I have would go to Katia, anyway. I told you that before. But really, you can’t think that she wants me dead. She wouldn’t be here if she did.”
“What about your mate, Jack?”
Ben stifled his chuckle. “I already told you he wouldn’t do this. Well, it would be understandable, but he’s not the physically violent type. He’s nothing like you,” Ben blurted, realizing his mistake immediately and slapping a palm over his mouth, reddening. “No offense,” he mumbled around his hand.
“That was far from offensive.” Mercer leaned back, picking up the cold tea and taking one final sip. “Armann and John Welks had Jack Pierce and his associates under surveillance. Do you and Jack have any common enemies?”
“Not that I can think of.”
Mercer squinted, considering the facts and information from Armann’s storage unit. “Does Carlton have any connection with Pierce’s company?”
“Um…I don’t think so, unless he published a story in the business section or included Pierce Industries as part of the exposé series he ran about harmful manufacturing and business practices. I can’t remember. There were quite a few scathing stories he published some time ago.”
“What was Rhoade exposing?”
“Companies paying off waste management to look the other way when they incorrectly disposed of harmful chemicals. Um…some tycoons making under the table deals with competitors to keep prices artificially inflated.” Ben paused, lost in thought. “Some local government guy, the mayor or city council, being paid under the table to vote a certain way or pass a certain law or restriction. I don’t really know. It sounded like the same kind of shit that happens every day, and none of that really interests me.”
“Shouldn’t business deals be your priority?”
“Yeah, I guess, but I don’t really worry much with local trends or companies. You remember how great that worked out when I invested Jack’s money.”
“If you survive this mess, I’d suggest you find a new line of work.” With that final comment, the conversation halted.
Mercer stood, stalking the confines of the apartment, impatient to take a crack at Isaac Armann. It was unlikely Armann would remain breathing for too much longer, and given his pallor and the condition they found him in, he might die from infection or blood loss without Mercer squeezing a name out of him. Although, there was still a part of Julian that wanted to draw out the pain and the torment. His mind focused on Katia crying hysterically into his shirt. He knew that type of pain, and since he had yet to find justice for himself, he wanted it for her, despite how childish and melodramatic she could be.
“Jules,” Donovan said, entering the safe house to find Mercer’s spare Sig shoved in his face, “I come in peace.” After Mercer lowered the gun, Donovan explained the lack of progress that had been made with the captives. Welks had slept through the night after answering as many questions as he could. But his answers were still painfully vague. Armann, on the other hand, remained sedated, occasionally slipping in and out of consciousness but never long enough to provide answers. “He won’t last long without medical intervention,” Donovan concluded.
“Fine.”
“Don’t you find it the least bit ironic that we’re kidnapping resolution specialists, but we’ve committed two kidnappings in the past week?”
“I don’t think of them as kidnappings. We aren’t looking for ransom or airing a list of demands,” Mercer replied, collecting a set of keys and slipping into a jacket.
“So what are we doing?” Donovan would follow orders, but he was having trouble stomaching the torture they were inflicting. Kill a man and be done with it. That was his philosophy, which explained his preference for long-range military tactics.
“This is a rendition.”
“We’re not dealing with terrorist cells. This isn’t Chechnya or the Middle East.”
Mercer snorted, clearly failing to agree, and continued on his way. When he arrived at their makeshift prison, he parked the car, remaining inside and studying the surrounding area. He had learned quite a bit over the last thirty-six hours, and he was determined to put an end to this today. Checking the magazine inside his gun, he chambered a round and emptied the rest of the clip. It would be one bullet or none at all.
Despite the tactical stupidity of such a move, he didn’t believe Isaac Armann was in any condition to screw around. One bullet, that was it. It was all he needed and the only thing separating what was left of his fractured soul from the demons he barely kept at bay.
Entering the office space that housed their first captive, Mercer grabbed the back of Welks’ chair and dragged him out of the office and into the main room of the warehouse. From this vantage point, Welks could see Armann, but unless either man spoke loudly, the words would not be overheard. Mercer came to stand directly in front of Welks, looking down at him.
“Speak,” Mercer commanded.
“What more can you possibly want from me? I’ve answered your questions. Let’s just be done with this,” Welks said. He had soiled himself over the last few days on account of his incarceration. He was dirty, exhausted, and probably starving. He had been minimally cared for to ensure his general well-being, but he was a broken man.
“Do you recognize him?” Mercer asked, jerking his chin across the room, and Welks nodded. “Is he the rea
son you’ve been too scared to answer my questions?” Welks remained silent, looking away. “Do you want that to happen to you?”
“You’re going to do it anyway.” Welks was resigned to his fate. He had given up. Perhaps the ex-SAS had broken him beyond where they intended.
“I give you my word, if you answer my questions, I’ll let you go. Or I’ll arrange for you and your family to be protected. Just tell me what I want to know.” Mercer sighed. “That piece of filth is a killer, but so is whoever hired him. It’s the same person that hired you.”
“I don’t know who it is,” Welks declared on the brink of tears. He sniffed and shook his head, forcing neutrality to return. He might be broken, but he was fighting to hold on to as much of his dignity as he could. “I’ve said it before, but I’ll tell you again. I received an anonymous e-mail. Payments were transferred into my account. I moved them into Piper Investigations. I don’t know who wanted the information on Rhoade and his family.”
“How did you report back to this unknown source?” Mercer asked. He believed Welks, finally, but Bastian found no electronic trail for Welks’ follow-up communiqués to this mysterious benefactor.
“A dead drop. It was near a coffee cart on the east end.” Rambling an address, Welks looked up. “My digging led to discovering Isaac Armann had been hired. His reputation is well-known in the circles I travel. Hazard of being a P.I., I suppose. After that, I tried to walk away, to stop delivering additional intel, but I couldn’t. I was afraid. My e-mail contact asked for photographs and documentation of Styler and his contacts, and in my travels I photographed a meet between him,” Welks jerked his head toward Armann, “and someone else. I hoped it could be an insurance policy that would keep my wife and I safe in case someone tried to eliminate me too.”
“Did you tell Carlton Rhoade what you had done?” Mercer asked.
“Not in so many words. I began keeping tabs on him and Katia, figuring I could intervene and correct my mistake, but Carlton grew suspicious. He called me into his office at the newspaper to ask what was going on. I said I believed he and Katia might be in danger.” Welks swallowed. “He thanked me and said it would be taken care of, but I still kept watch, keeping my ear to the ground for rumblings of an impending hit. That’s why Carlton hired his own team to deal with the danger.” Welks met Mercer’s eyes. “You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?”