by Rob Sinclair
‘I heard,’ Ashford said. ‘I’m still not sure who exactly is on the receiving end now, though?’
‘Vasquez was just a front, despite what his ego told him. The Axis have moved on already. They’re where the real money and power lie in Mexico.’
‘So taking out Vasquez did nothing to upset the balance.’
‘Don’t look like it,’ Mitchell said. ‘In fact, maybe he was a barrier. This next shipment’s gonna be a big one. The biggest yet.’
‘Lincoln’s getting greedy. Too greedy. He thinks he can just do whatever the hell he wants and no one will notice.’
‘Yeah. Which was the same attitude Vasquez had. And look where that got him.’
‘True. But if someone doesn’t reign Lincoln in he could blow the whole operation open on his own.’
‘No. We’ll get him removed before it comes to that.’
There was no doubt that matters had become personal now for Ashford. He wouldn’t sit by much longer while Lincoln lauded it becoming a richer and richer man. The Colonel needed to be brought down several rungs, and Ashford believed he was the man to do that before too much further damage was done.
‘What about those other two?’ Ashford asked. ‘The Brits.’
‘I did what you said. I had someone follow them. My man snuck into their hotel room. They’re staying at some dive in the French Quarter–’
‘Damn tourists.’
‘Yeah. Or maybe not.’
‘So who are they?’
‘I still don’t know, but I’d say they’re probably not Emily Clarke and Jack Turner, which is who you’re expecting at your home tomorrow.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a bit unusual for diplomats to be carrying several firearms with them. And whether or not they really are British, they both had US passports in different names too.’
‘What does your gut tell you then? How worried should we be?’
‘My gut tells me they’re intelligence of some sort. UK, US, I don’t know which. I can deal with them, if you want me to.’
‘No,’ Ashford said. ‘Not yet. I’m quite intrigued to see what they’re up to actually. Let’s just sit and watch how this one plays out.’
‘Might not have been my preferred approach, but you’re the boss.’
‘I know you’re itching to get your hands dirty, old friend. But you’ll get your chance soon enough. I have no doubt about that.’
44
Mandeville, Louisiana
‘I still don’t understand how they found us,’ Willoughby said.
She was sitting in the passenger seat of a newly rented Ford SUV. Ryker was driving them from New Orleans to the Ashfords’ house in Mandeville.
‘No. Me neither,’ Ryker said. ‘This wasn’t a simple tail. We would have spotted them.’
‘You think they put a tracker on us somehow?’
‘Maybe.’ But then all the clothes they’d arrived with in New Orleans were new. So too were their phones. The car they’d come across the border in had been pre-arranged by Willoughby in Mexico. That was about the only item that a tracker could have been put onto. Which was why they’d now dumped that too. The other explanation was that a network of watchers had kept Ryker’s and Willoughby’s movements on radar from a safe distance. A lot of effort compared to a single tail, but easily do-able. But in any case, how had someone found them in the first place?
That thought brought Ryker back to another very important point. ‘We don’t even know who they is.’
Ryker had actually been disappointed when he’d flung open the door of the hotel to find it empty. He’d gotten his hopes up that he was about to come face to face with Powell again – his immediate thought was that it was him who’d tracked Willoughby and Ryker down. But that would have been all too easy.
Not only was there no one in their room, but it also looked untouched. Everything that Ryker and Willoughby had left in there was still neatly in place. The only evidence of anyone having been in there were the missing door seals. Plus, of course, the video from the mini-cam that Ryker had set up behind the grille of the room’s air-con duct. The tiny camera, just a few millimetres in diameter, had recorded everything. The equipment on offer in a standard electronics store was amazing – equipment that just a decade or so before was reserved only for the most technologically advanced spy agencies.
Although small and innocuous, the camera would have been easily spotted by anyone who had the thought to look behind the grille. But the guy who’d come into their room wasn’t searching for spy equipment; he was looking for evidence of who Ryker and Willoughby really were – scouring through their meagre belongings, taking photos of the passports they’d left behind.
They’d watched the video from the safety of a new hotel. The man who’d broken into their room was casually dressed and unassuming, maybe in his forties, with a thick frame, a slightly protruding belly that showed he was starting to lose his once muscular shape, and a closely shaved head. Ryker didn’t recognise him but Willoughby had sent a grainy image of his face across to her contacts to see if they could identify him.
‘You don’t think he’s one of Powell’s crew?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Ryker said. ‘Powell already knows everything he needs to about us. He wouldn’t send someone snooping after us like that to check out our IDs.’
‘I’m not sure about that. Maybe he knows you, but he doesn’t know me.’
‘Yeah, that’s a fair point. But I still don’t think it was him.’
‘Then who?’
‘Right now, I really don’t know. One way or another I’m sure we’ll find out.’
Ryker saw Willoughby turn to face him. He caught her eye. She was looking at him questioningly.
‘So what you’re saying,’ she said, ‘is we’re potentially heading straight into a trap. I mean it could be Congressman Ashford or Colonel Lincoln who are already onto us.’
That thought had crossed Ryker’s mind. The previous evening they’d been quick to gather their belongings and make a permanent exit from the hotel. They split up and took a painstaking journey through the city to a pre-planned different location. The aim had been to make it as difficult as they could for anyone who was tailing them. But last night was just a precaution to give them some breathing space. Ryker and Willoughby’s job wasn’t escape and evasion.
‘Maybe we are heading into a trap,’ Ryker said. ‘But at least we’re already thinking about that risk; we can be prepared for it. If you want answers, I see no point in turning back and running now.’
‘Yeah,’ Willoughby said, though she didn’t sound particularly convinced.
They’d discussed in length that morning what each of them knew about Ashford and Lincoln. For the first time, Ryker had played close to his full hand, revealing the information Powell had shown him back in Mexico City. He’d kept that information to himself until that point, not quite sure he could fully trust Willoughby. In truth, he still didn’t, but if they were to work together effectively – if their mission was to be a success – it was better for them both to be operating with more intel rather than less.
‘Do you have any more on the American?’ Ryker had asked her.
‘No. We’re aware of him, but his identity has been hidden with a lot of purpose and expertise. Ashford is one of the potential candidates, but not the only one.’
It was an answer that had surprised Ryker, and it still played on his mind as they drove toward the Ashfords’ home.
Powell had been clear that he believed Ashford to be the American. Willoughby didn’t seem as convinced, though she didn’t exactly debunk the theory either, or offer up any idea of who else the American could be.
Not long after, they arrived at the large gates at the entrance of the Grasslands estate. Ryker wound the window down as a uniformed security guard, gun on his hip, came over to their car. Ryker stated who they were there to see and showed the guard his and Willoughby’s British passports in the names of Clarke and Tur
ner. The guard compared the names to the list he held on a clipboard before giving Ryker directions to the Ashfords’ home.
‘No firearms on the property,’ the guard said. ‘Security will run you through a scanner when you arrive at the house.’
‘Not a problem,’ Ryker said.
‘You folks have a good evening,’ the guard said before returning to his post where he pressed a button to open the gates.
Ryker drove through and followed the memorised instructions. The extravagant community felt more like a giant and exclusive country club than a housing estate, with winding roads topped with unblemished tarmac, carefully cropped trees and hedgerows, pristine lawns – and that was just the communal areas, never mind the lavish mansions and their extensive manicured gardens.
‘Are you nervous?’ Willoughby asked.
‘No. You?’
‘A little. Nothing wrong with being nervous though. Higher heart rate gets more oxygen to the brain. To the muscles too.’
‘Yeah. I’ll buy that. You ever been to a garden party before where there’re metal detectors just to get inside?’
Willoughby laughed. ‘No. I’m not the garden party type. But it’s no big surprise. Louisiana has some of the most lax gun laws in the US. A lot of people regularly carry arms here without a second thought. Ashford’s got a pretty top dollar guest list today, so it’s nothing more than an everyday precaution for a Congressman, I’d expect.’
‘I’m guessing this is the place,’ Ryker said as they rounded a corner to find a sea of cars parked up on the road and the communal grass verges. The gardener certainly wouldn’t be too happy with all the tire tracks he’d find the next day.
Ryker found a spot as close to the house as he could and shut down the Ford’s engine. Just as he did so Willoughby received a call on her phone – a new burner that they’d purchased just hours earlier, wary that the ones they’d not long bought had been compromised already.
Willoughby took the bleeping phone from her sequinned clutch-purse and said only a few words as she listened intently to whoever was on the other end. When she’d finished, she put the phone back in the purse and turned to Ryker.
‘We found him.’
Ryker assumed she meant the guy from the hotel.
‘And?’
‘Greg Nylander. US citizen. Former corporal in the US army.’
She paused and Ryker waited for her to carry on. She didn’t.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘No associations found with Ashford, other than they’re both ex-army. Nothing to link him to Camp Joseph either, or to indicate he’s working with the cartels or any agency that Powell might be with.’
‘So not much help then.’
‘Not much, no. But something is better than nothing. We have a name for the face at least.’
‘You ready?’
‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’
They got out of the car and walked toward the entrance to the Ashford residence. Much as Ryker wanted to dislike the corrupt Congressman, there was no escaping the fact he lived in a beautiful home that was immaculately maintained. Ryker and Willoughby passed through the metal detector gate that had been erected by the curb-side without issue, each having left a fully loaded gun behind in the car.
They walked together up the long pathway that led to the wide frontage of the grand mansion. There a waiter in a white suit with white bow tow greeted them with a tray of glass flutes – some filled with sparkling wine, others with orange juice. Both Ryker and Willoughby opted for the juice.
The waiter ushered them around the side of the house where the garden opened out into a sweeping lawn that was probably an acre or two of land, broken up with fountains, flowerbeds and tightly pruned trees. Two marquees sat at opposite sides of the lawn. Ryker assumed they were in case the weather turned, though as he looked up the sun was still blazing and there wasn’t even a wisp of white in the deep blue sky.
Ryker scanned the area as he and Willoughby strolled, drinks in hand. He estimated there was somewhere close to a hundred guests already milling about, with plenty of room for more.
‘Have you spotted our illustrious host yet?’ Willoughby asked.
‘No.’ Ryker was too busy looking over the guests, the many white-suited workers, and the patrol of security guards.
‘He’s right over there.’ Willoughby pointed off to her left.
It didn’t take long for Ryker to clock the man. The arrogance that seeped from him was enough to give him away – his clothes, his stance, the look on his face and in his eyes. The woman standing by his side wore a glamorous white dress, with gold jewellery dripping all over her. Her make-up and blonde hair were finished so carefully she looked like a waxwork. Mrs Ashford, Ryker assumed.
The Ashfords were talking and laughing with a gaggle of other smartly dressed men, mostly middle-aged, mostly with female appendages on their arms. All were well tanned and groomed and... rich-looking.
‘Let’s play it cool,’ Willoughby said. ‘I’ll work on an opportunity to speak to him. But you need to work on getting inside.’
Ryker heard her words, he knew the plan, but his mind was too busy for him to respond. He scanned the crowd again.
‘Take a look around,’ Ryker said. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘What?’
‘Just do it.’
‘I see a load of rich Americans eating canapés and quaffing wine, and probably laughing and joking about how much money they have, and how little tax they have to pay.’
Ryker raised an eyebrow and held back his smile.
‘You don’t agree?’ she asked.
‘You’re probably not far off. But tell me what else.’
‘Okay. I see half a dozen, maybe as many as ten waiters and waitresses, most of them Hispanic, who’re probably earning less than minimum wage for today’s efforts. But they may get a few tips to make up for that, particularly if they don’t mind their arses being squeezed here and there.’
Ryker shook his head and smiled. It looked like he wasn’t the only one who was holding the host and his guests in contempt. ‘I dunno about that. These seem like high-end staff to me. But what else?’
Willoughby kept scanning. ‘Heavy security. At least ten men. I spotted two women as well. Armed. Organised. Most of them are big guys who work out too much. I’m sure I could make a getaway from them in a sprint, and that’s saying something – I’m like Bambi when I run.’
‘I’d like to see that.’ Ryker looked at Willoughby and she smiled but averted her gaze.
‘They’re probably regular everyday security guards,’ she continued, ‘rather than trained secret service agents. Having said that, their uniforms and their belts and their ear pieces suggest they’re an expensive crew and maybe well-drilled. They certainly look the part. It’s a lot of manpower, a big visual deterrent, but coming back to my earlier point, there’re a lot of rich and powerful people here today so it’s hardly a surprise they’ve got a big and organised security detail.’
‘No, not a surprise. Picking up on what you said though, those security guards are basically just muscle. Not discreet, and probably not that skilled if something big really did go down here.’
‘So what am I missing?’
‘Take another look at the guests.’ Ryker nodded over to a small group standing at the entrance to one of the marquees, then to another group in the heart of the garden.
Willoughby took a few seconds. ‘Undercover security?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘They don’t look like politicians or businessmen, do they?’
‘No they don’t. But I don’t think they’re undercover security either.’
Ryker looked over at the two groups again. They’d tried their hardest to fit into their surroundings with their smart dress, but the way they were standing, mingling, the looks on their faces... to Ryker they simply didn’t belong.
‘They’re army,’ Willoughby said.
&n
bsp; ‘That’s my thought.’
‘No big deal though. Ashford was in the army. Maybe these are his old chums.’
‘They probably are. Or maybe they’re Colonel Lincoln’s. But their presence does at least answer one question.’
‘Which is what?’
Ryker turned his head ninety degrees. ‘Over my shoulder.’
It only took Willoughby a second.
‘Shit. The guy from the hotel. Nylander.’
‘Yep. So he was Ashford’s guy after all, we can assume. Which makes this party a whole lot more interesting.’
‘Our cover’s already blown,’ Willoughby said. ‘And we’re on the inside with a whole squad of gun-toting security guards, not to mention Ashford’s nearest and dearest from the army.’
She sounded a little daunted at the prospect. Ryker wasn’t.
‘Welcome to the lion’s den,’ he said.
45
Ashford’s cheeks were hurting from the length of time he’d had to keep the wide smile on his face, like a manic clown. For the past twenty minutes he’d been standing listening to Raymond Franklin – a senior aide for Senator Boyle – laugh and quip and rabbit on about immigration and how Hispanics were taking over his once great country.
Not that Ashford didn’t disagree that immigration, particularly in the Southern states, was out of control, but today was hardly the day for Franklin to be spouting his xenophobic claptrap. The garden party was being hosted partly as a fundraiser for the charities that Nicole was a patron of. The largest of those charities focused on the welfare of the people Franklin was deriding, helping to provide job opportunities and social benefits to the many Mexican and other immigrants in Louisiana who were living far below the bread line.
Nicole had already quite tactfully peeled away from the discussion, though Ashford knew she would be fuming about Franklin’s ill-thought-out comments. Actually, they weren’t ill thought out; Ashford was sure Franklin spent many an hour polishing his hateful diatribe. But Ashford was trying his hardest not to rock the boat. As much as he detested Boyle, and his almost carbon copy aides, he did want the Senator on his side. So for now Ashford would just stand there and grin like an idiot and bear it.