Trade-Off

by Trade-Off (retail) (epub)

  Hunter glanced at his watch. ‘Isn’t it a bit late for that?’ he asked.

  Kaufmann shook her head. ‘No. Maria’s always been a bit of a night owl.’

  Two minutes later she put the phone down. ‘There’s no reply,’ she said. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday

  Beaver Creek, Western Montana

  Dick Reilly had lived alone since his wife had died eighteen months before. He had a small house, single-storey, standing by itself at the edge of a wood just outside the town limits. His nearest neighbours were the better part of a mile away, which was just the way Reilly liked it.

  The house had a good-sized yard and large garage. Reilly didn’t do much in the yard, just the occasional cop-type barbecue in the summer, but he liked the house and especially the garage, because he enjoyed working on cars. Most Sundays you’d find him under the hood of his old Dodge, tinkering.

  His wife, Alice, had died at home after a long illness, and in the last six months of her life Dick Reilly hadn’t got a lot of sleep because he had had to give her medication every couple of hours throughout the night. The legacy her illness had left him, apart from the aching void in his heart that he knew he would never fill, was an inability to sleep for more than about two or three hours at a time. Which was why, when Rogers and Wilson climbed in through his living room window at a little after two in the morning, Dick Reilly wasn’t lying asleep in the double bedroom at the back of the house.

  He was sitting in his pyjamas in his den – a tiny book-lined and windowless room next to the kitchen – drinking a cup of decaffeinated coffee and reading a book on hand-loading rifle ammunition. When he heard the glass break, Reilly reacted instantly. He switched off the desk lamp, got silently to his feet and carefully pushed the den door shut. For a big man, he moved like a cat.

  His official-issue revolver was where it always was when it wasn’t buckled around his waist; unloaded and in its holster in a drawer in the sideboard in the living room. But a revolver wasn’t what Reilly wanted.

  He walked over to the corner of the den, sure-footed in the dark, and eased open the door of a tall cupboard. He reached inside and his hand searched for and then found a smooth cold metal tube. Careful to make no noise, he pulled it out and cradled it in his arms, his right hand closing automatically around the pistol grip. His thumb reached for, and then released, the safety catch.

  Once he had done that, he smiled into the darkness. Whoever, or whatever, had come in through his living room window was in big trouble.

  Many people think that a pistol is the ideal weapon for close-quarter work, but it isn’t. Most pistols are too inaccurate, even in experienced hands, to be serious weapons at any range. Reilly carried a revolver because he was told to by the state, but what he preferred to use, and what he always carried in the front of his Cherokee Jeep, was a shotgun.

  In his home, he held the same view, but instead of an official-issue Remington pump-action 12-gauge, Reilly owned a SPAS-12 combat shotgun, probably the ultimate close-quarter weapon. He always kept it in the unlocked cupboard in his den, and he always kept the magazine fully loaded. Just in case.

  Manufactured by the Franchi company, the SPAS-12 – the initials stand for ‘Special Purpose Automatic Shotgun’ – is a devastating weapon. It can operate as a conventional pump-action shotgun, but also has semi- and full-automatic capability. On full-automatic it fires fours shots a second and could almost literally blow a house to pieces, especially if it was loaded with the three inch magnum buckshot shells that Reilly favoured. That wasn’t what Reilly wanted – it was his home, after all – so he selected semi-automatic.

  He held the shotgun in both hands, and walked softly to the door. He put his ear to it and listened. He heard the quiet footsteps of two people moving around, probably in the short corridor between the living room and the bedroom, and so he waited. He knew the house, and they didn’t, and they certainly didn’t know about the rusty hinge on the bedroom door, which Reilly still hadn’t got around to oiling.

  When he heard the squeak at the back of the house, Reilly knew exactly which door they’d opened. He slipped silently out of the den and walked quickly into the living room. In the moonlight he saw the broken pane, and the wide open window. He crossed to the far side of the room, crouched down behind his favourite armchair opposite the television set, and waited.

  He heard them muttering to each other as they came back up the corridor, the beams from their pencil flashlights dancing on the walls and floor.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’

  ‘His goddamn Cherokee’s outside. He must be in here somewhere.’

  The two figures walked back into the living room, past Reilly, and were almost at the other door when Reilly stood up and hit the switch for the overhead light.

  Highway US91/Interstate 15, Western Montana

  ‘We should be there in a couple of hours,’ Morgan said.

  The Buick was travelling fast on the almost deserted road, heading south towards Helena and what should be the final part of the clean-up operation.

  Harris had studied Hunter’s and Kaufmann’s notes, and was satisfied that nobody else needed to receive the attentions of the team. With all operations of this sort, it was always a difficult judgment call to decide who else had to be taken out. The principal witnesses obviously had to be eliminated, but when the numbers started multiplying it was sometimes safer to walk away than cause unnecessary speculation over a rash of ‘accidental’ deaths in the same area.

  Morgan drove while Harris sat in the front passenger seat studying a map of Helena by the light of a small flashlight. In one hand he held a piece of paper which listed the addresses of Hunter and Kaufmann.

  ‘OK,’ Harris said. ‘I’ve located them both. Kaufmann’s the nearest, so we’ll take her first.’

  ‘Fine,’ Morgan nodded. ‘If we don’t hit any problems, we could be back home this afternoon.’

  Harris put the map down and leaned back in his seat. A sudden thought struck him, and he reached into the door pocket and pulled out the profile of Christy-Lee Kaufmann. He studied her personal details and abstract of her FBI medical reports – supplied to them on Donahue’s orders – for a minute or two, then replaced the file.

  ‘It’s only just occurred to me,’ he said. ‘She’s the right age for the program, and her medical condition seems OK.’

  Morgan glanced over at him and grinned. ‘You mean we can earn ourselves a bounty?’

  ‘Why not?’ Harris replied. ‘It’ll take us a while longer, but we’ve got the time.’

  Beaver Creek, Western Montana

  Both men spun around, bringing their pistols to bear, but they were too slow – a lifetime too slow. Rogers was fastest, and he’d actually started to squeeze the trigger when the blast from the SPAS-12 took him full in the chest. His pistol dropped harmlessly to the floor, and he was catapulted back against the opposite wall, but he was dead long before he reached it. As he slid down to the floor, the massive exit wound in his back left a broad vertical red smear on the light-coloured wallpaper.

  Wilson looked straight down the smoking barrel of the shotgun and thought twice about doing anything in a hurry.

  ‘Drop it, now,’ Reilly snapped, ‘unless you want some of the same.’

  Wilson dropped his revolver and, obeying a gesture from Reilly, kicked it across the carpet into a corner of the room.

  ‘Now,’ Reilly said. ‘We’d better introduce ourselves, seeing as how you’re in my house. So take off the mask.’

  Both Wilson and Rogers had been wearing black balaclavas. Reluctantly, Wilson reached up and pulled it off his head.

  ‘Well, now, this is a surprise, Agent Wilson,’ Reilly said, the tone of his voice making it clear that the one thing that he wasn’t, was surprised. ‘Would that be Agent Harris over there makin’ a mess all over my carpet?’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘Another guy from this so-called h
ot-shot FBI investigation team?’

  Wilson nodded.

  ‘You can talk, can’t you?’ Reilly asked. ‘Cause I might wanna ask you a question or two that needs more than a “yes” or a “no”. OK?’

  ‘I can talk,’ Wilson said, snarling. ‘You’re in big trouble here, Reilly, bigger than you know. That’s a federal agent you’ve just killed.’

  Reilly laughed. ‘Really? You guys ever hear about search warrants, due process, that kinda thing? Or do you always come callin’ in the middle of the night, breakin’ into folks’ homes wavin’ pistols and wearin’ masks?’

  ‘There were reasons,’ Wilson said.

  ‘I’ll bet there were.’

  Reilly considered for a moment.

  ‘OK, Agent Wilson. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I can’t stand here all night holdin’ this here shotgun. I might wanna take a leak or grab a coffee or somethin’, so I guess I’m gonna have to restrain you.’ He pointed with the barrel of the shotgun towards the sideboard. ‘Just you walk across there,’ he said, ‘open the top drawer and take out my handcuffs.’

  Wilson said nothing, and didn’t move.

  ‘Now, Agent Wilson,’ Reilly said. ‘I hope you ain’t gonna be difficult about this, ’cause I really ain’t got a lot of patience. The way I see it, you and the dead guy are masked intruders who broke into my house wavin’ pistols, and I’m pretty much within my rights if I shoot you as well as him. ’Course, I might have to go to court over it. Might even lose my job or my pension, but I’d still be alive, and you’d still be dead.

  ‘So what I’m sayin’ is, you wanna live a little longer, or you wanna take it right now in the chest like your boyfriend over there?’

  Wilson was thinking furiously, weighing up the angles and his choices. The shotgun never wavered, and he had no doubt Reilly would use it again if he had to. Rogers’s pistol had fallen half under the front of the couch, well out of his reach, and his own pistol was about twelve feet away in the corner.

  But Wilson had an ace in the hole – his ankle holster and the five-shot Smith & Wesson .32 strapped into it. Even with his wrists cuffed together, he could still reach his ankle, and once he was cuffed, Reilly would be much less alert.

  ‘OK,’ Wilson said. ‘I’m moving.’

  He walked slowly across to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer. The first thing he saw was the butt of Reilly’s .38 Special, but even as he looked, he heard the sheriff’s chuckle behind him.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Agent Wilson. It ain’t loaded. Just get the cuffs out and close the drawer.’

  Wilson snapped open the belt pouch and pulled out the handcuffs, then closed the drawer and walked back to the centre of the room.

  ‘OK,’ Reilly said, ‘just put them on. Right wrist first, nice and easy. Then wait.’

  Wilson stood, right wrist locked in the handcuff, wondering what Reilly wanted. The sheriff backed away towards the other corner of the room, still pointing the shotgun directly at Wilson, and picked up a dining chair with his left hand. He carried it back towards the centre of the room, and put it down about four feet from where Wilson was standing.

  ‘Now,’ Reilly said, ‘sit on the chair, facing the back, and put your left arm through the openin’ in the back of the chair. Then put the other cuff on.’

  Clever, Wilson thought, but not clever enough. Even with his wrists locked through the chair back, he was sure he could still reach his ankle.

  Once the cuff clicked closed, Reilly walked over to his captive and carefully checked that both handcuffs were properly locked. Satisfied, he walked backwards across the room to Rogers, the muzzle of the SPAS-12 still pointed straight at Wilson, then reached down and pulled the balaclava off. He looked down briefly, and without recognition, at the face of the dead man.

  ‘Nope, don’t know him at all,’ Reilly said. ‘So, Agent Wilson, you wanna tell me who the hell you really are?’

  ‘We’re federal agents,’ Wilson insisted. ‘And like I said, you’re in real trouble.’

  Reilly didn’t reply, just walked across to him, rested the muzzle of the SPAS-12 on his chest, and reached into Wilson’s inside jacket pocket. He pulled out a bulky wallet and two leather card folders, and carried them back to his chair.

  Holding the shotgun in his right hand, Reilly used his left hand to open each card folder in turn, then the wallet. His eyes left Wilson for under a second each time he looked down. Then he sat back in the chair and whistled softly.

  ‘Well, Agent Wilson, I sure wish I had your pension rights. Accordin’ to these, you do work for the FBI. You also work for the CIA, the DEA, the DIA, the NSA and even the goddamn IRS. There’s even a coupla sets of names and initials I’ve never heard of. What the hell is this, a do-it-yourself bureaucracy kit?’

  ‘We’re federal agents,’ Wilson repeated. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘Read my lips, Agent Wilson,’ Reilly hissed. ‘Who are you, and why did the two of you bust into my house carryin’ pistols?’

  Wilson shook his head.

  ‘You’re gonna answer me,’ Reilly said. ‘Your choice. Hard or easy?’

  Wilson said nothing.

  ‘OK.’

  Reilly got up and backed across the room again, this time to the sideboard. Without taking his eyes off Wilson, and without allowing the muzzle of the SPAS-12 to drift more than an inch or two off target, Reilly reached into the top drawer and pulled out a telescopic steel baton.

  ‘I always liked this,’ he said conversationally, snapping it open and walking back towards Wilson. ‘Light, easy to conceal, and stings like a rattler.’

  In a single fluid motion he transferred the shotgun to his left hand and swung the baton in a sharp, vicious arc. It connected with Wilson’s left arm just above the elbow, and Wilson knew immediately from the crack and agonizing stab of pain that his arm was broken. Despite himself, he howled in anguish.

  ‘Talk to me, Agent Wilson,’ Reilly said sharply. ‘Next time it’s your right arm.’

  Wilson doubled over, trying to support his broken arm with his left thigh. He ignored Reilly until the sheriff walked in front of him and lifted the truncheon again.

  ‘OK, OK, you bastard,’ Wilson said, through clenched teeth and sobs of pain. At all costs he had to keep his right arm intact, otherwise he’d never get to use the .32.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he began. ‘We’re a clean-up team.’

  Helena, Western Montana

  ‘You’re over-reacting, Christy.’

  Kaufmann shook her head. ‘I don’t think I am,’ she said. ‘Look, you don’t know what Maria’s like. Ever since Roger died she’s been shy and nervous. She rings me two or three times a week, and she’s got all my numbers. If she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d have rung to tell me. She isn’t at the hospital, and she isn’t at home, so where the hell is she? Something’s wrong, and I’m going to find out what.’

  Hunter shook his head. ‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation,’ he said. ‘It’s probably some kind of administrative screw-up.’

  Kaufmann was throwing clothes and other stuff into a leather carry-on bag.

  ‘OK, I’ll go with you,’ Hunter said.

  Christy-Lee stopped and looked up at him. ‘If you want to, of course, but there’s really no need. I’m just going to hop a flight down to Cedar City, find out what the hell’s happened, and then fly home. I should be back Friday evening latest.’

  ‘It’s no problem, Christy,’ Hunter said. ‘Two heads are better than one. Look, I’ll just drive over to my place and pick up a change of clothes. I’ll see you back here in an hour or so.’

  Christy-Lee smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Steve. I really do appreciate it,’ she said.

  Beaver Creek, Western Montana

  Over the throbbing agony of his broken arm, Wilson had reached a decision. It didn’t matter, he reasoned, what he told Reilly, because sooner or later the sheriff’s concentration would slip, and then he’d get the chance to
go for his ankle holster. And then Reilly would be dead, and it wouldn’t matter what he had known or what he’d been told.

  The Buick was parked a quarter of a mile up the road, and Wilson could drive it one-handed, no problem. As soon as Reilly relaxed and gave him the opportunity, he could finish it. The problem was, Reilly showed no signs of relaxing.

  ‘So what exactly was you and your buddies cleanin’ up, Agent Wilson?’ Reilly asked.

  ‘We were just following orders,’ Wilson said. ‘The killing of that guy Billy Dole had connections to a classified government project.’

  ‘What project?’ Reilly asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Wilson said, ‘because I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Only the name,’ Wilson replied. ‘It’s called Roland Oliver.’

  In fact, Wilson knew far more than just the name. Everybody on the clean-up team knew at least some of the details about how Roland Oliver worked, but that was one thing he certainly wasn’t going to admit to Reilly.

  ‘OK,’ Reilly said. ‘I’ll buy that – for now, anyway. What was your orders?’

  ‘We were instructed to remove or destroy the evidence and eliminate all those people who had been closely involved with the case.’

  Reilly’s voice betrayed the surprise he felt. ‘You was just gonna go out and kill a half a dozen folks?’ he said. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Greatest good of the greatest number, sheriff,’ Wilson said. ‘You have to put it into perspective. More people than that die in car wrecks in this state every day. We were acting on behalf of the government, and it had decided that the risk of you people talking to somebody you shouldn’t about the Billy Dole killing was unacceptable.’

  ‘Who shouldn’t we have talked to?’

  Wilson shrugged, then stiffened as the pain from his broken arm lanced through his body.