It mattered.
Your life’s in ruins. Maybe hers should be in ruins too.
“We want to help you,” Brady said, his voice as cold as a graveyard headstone.
Miller didn’t want to upset them, but this was acute intimidation. Pyke’s face was emotionless, but Miller knew he wouldn’t approve. Would it be better to let it all go? Face the music in whichever form it chose to come? Miller was certainly ready to give up.
I don’t want to give an order to facilitate a murder. Even hers.
“We’ll do this for you,” Brady said. “To thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Are you saying you don’t care about the death of your son?”
“No. It’s not that. I-”
“Good. Then we’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead. Miller stared at the phone and then buried his head in his hands. It felt like something raw and purely evil was tearing as his insides.
“You can leave me now, Pyke.” He said.
Could his life get any worse?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rogue heard the honking of a car horn and realised she’d been drifting across her lane. She sat up straighter in the seat. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror showed her that Juliani and Spencer were asleep. She checked the time. They had been driving for three hours.
Shit, she was getting complacent.
Their pursuers – MI6 operatives, cops, or whoever they were – wouldn’t let up. She had to remain several steps ahead. And that wouldn’t work driving a stolen car. Another fifteen minutes passed before she saw a blue and yellow Alamo sign. She woke her passengers, ditched the car and grabbed her go-bag. Before she entered the car rental agency, she matched up a fake passport with a fake driving licence and credit card. Twenty minutes later they were driving away in a white Mercedes GLA. She’d opted for the more powerful AMG version, which put almost four hundred horsepower under her right foot.
Rogue told the guys to get some sleep but warned them she wanted to be fresh before they reached their destination. One or both of them would have to drive. Spencer took the opportunity to mention that most of his driving hours had been logged on a PS4. Juliani volunteered to take the wheel. She stopped at a gas station, bought enough water and snacks to keep them going and then hit the road hard. It was a clear night with a three-quarter moon. The Interstate out of Miami was busy but quietened as they pulled onto the I10 before Jacksonville. She preferred keeping to the big roads. They might not be as direct, but they were easy to navigate, well-lit and were, at this time of night, wide, unhindered thoroughfares.
The hours counted down. Rogue was buoyed and spurred on by the knowledge that the Tijuana assassin was back in Miami. Even if he had jumped on a plane and gained a few hours over them he would still have to set up and prepare for the hit.
“We’ll make it,” she spoke out loud to herself, another quirk she couldn’t seem to let go.
She switched on the radio, keeping it low. She didn’t want to hear what they were saying, just have a little background noise through the long night. Offramps and interchanges came up fast and were left in her wake. The right lane was an almost constant procession of large trucks, hauling goods around the country.
Rogue thought about the Three Old Men, wondering if there was anything she’d forgotten through the years. Any clues from all the rumours. She knew they worked for MI6 and she knew they didn’t conduct HC business at the offices. They used an offsite facility, a special meeting place. She assumed there were other members of the Hellfire Club, and that fact alone made her wonder who she could trust.
Eyes and ears everywhere, she thought. It was MI6’s own custom.
I’ll burn down everyone involved in Tom’s death. The Hellfire Club, and the Three Old Men shouldn’t be allowed to continue with impunity. They’ve killed enough people, destroyed enough lives.
I’m coming for all of you.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There were many cities in the world where Rogue could have sought out a known contact, handed over a wedge of dollars and been given a time and place to wait for a criminal organisation’s accountant, but Tijuana wasn’t one of them. Her job was made harder due to local families and authorities being under constant threat from the cartel. It took several hours and enough money to relocate a man before she secured a schedule and photograph for the treasurer. To make matters worse she had to assume that the Hellfire Club’s assassin was already here. He would likely take up similar positions to herself. Which meant she had to be cleverer still.
Still, she needed to recce the area in the car. The treasurer’s habit was to grab a midday sandwich at the Gazzo Café, opposite the old grand Hotel. The single storey establishment looked like a house with its white walls and almost flat roof, a single sign to its right the only indication of its nature. It sat at the end of a row of similar low, white-walled establishments. Beyond it, were what appeared to be homes. Rogue noted the ten-storey beige apartment block opposite, accessed by a lockable gate, and a similar one further along the street.
But still within shooting distance.
Palm trees lined the centre of the road. Rogue had bought a cap and sunglasses and wrapped herself in a sky-blue coat. Spencer was similarly attired. Juliani had been told to lay down in the back seat as they cruised the street an hour before the treasurer was due to appear. In Rogue’s experience, most people would assume the best place for an assassination would be from the top of the tower block. It afforded clear line of sight; there was plenty of room. It would be relatively easy to escape from.
But it was also isolated. The assassin would want plenty of homes and streets, shops and alleys, in which to disappear. Which left the best vantage point being the house adjacent to the café itself.
Rogue studied the building as she drove by.
“What do you see?” she asked Spencer, knowing her own mind but wondering what the young man could bring to the table.
“Well, it’s at least three stories. Bounded by a high wall. Nobody could jump it, say, in pursuit. The house’s highest point probably overlooks the front of the café,” he hesitated. “Or the road outside. You can’t tell without being up there.”
Rogue nodded. “Not bad. You’ve done this before?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he looked wary.
She pretended to fiddle with a controller, using her left hand. “You have to be a video game assassin.”
“Yeah, I got good at it two years ago. It takes patience.”
“That it does,” she nodded. “That it does.”
“How do you do it?” he asked.
“Do what?” she was distracted, trying to see more of the house through the mirrors as they left it behind.
“Fight. Kill. Watch your friends get murdered in cold blood.”
“It used to be because I wanted to serve,” she said. “Serve my country. I couldn’t wait to leave my foster home, despite having loving parents. I never dealt with the death of my birth parents. Serving was good. When that went tits up everything changed. I do it now to save myself and to hurt them. Hurt them badly.”
“Hurt who? The assassins?”
She realised she’d never fully explained the mission. “To hurt the people who profit from and send the assassins, but I’ll clarify later. You deserve to know.”
“Why didn’t you love your foster parents?”
She blinked, not ready for the question. “Because they weren’t my real mum and dad, I guess. I feel bad now.”
“Have you contacted them?”
“No. Never.”
“Maybe you should.”
She nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”
He accepted that with a nod. “I’m not just a geek, you know. I have skills. I can help you.”
“I’m pretty sure your sills aren’t the skills I’m looking for, nerd.”
“When I’m not being shot at, I’m a clever nerd.”
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“Funny,” she said, finally unable to glean anything more from the rear view. Ideally, she’d like another cruise by but that would be too dangerous.
“I’m being serious.”
“So, what happened to you?” she asked. “I know you’re not being all you can be.”
“That’s complicated.”
“It always is. But, if you want me to give you a chance, I’ll need at least the short version.”
She listened as Spencer briefly explained the event that had sent him into a self-depreciating spiral. How Wildey had pretty much forced him to leave Anonymous.
“You didn’t fight her over it?” her own instinct would have been to force a confrontation.
“I folded. Sorry.” To his credit, Spencer sounded angry at himself.
“If you don’t talk it out and get over it, it’ll just fester. It’ll break you apart. Believe me, I know. It’s what forced Tom and I apart in the end. He wouldn’t talk about the Hellfire Club, and the rumours I knew to be true. In the end, I left on my own.”
“Thanks,” Spencer said. “I’ll talk to her.”
“All right,” she said after a minute. “The treasurer’s due in forty-five minutes, boys. Chances are, our assassin, the man who killed Tom, is already on that rooftop. He’s prepping. And he has a spotter alongside him. In addition, there could be four to six more operatives in the area, ready to employ misdirection tactics after the shooting. So, tell me, nerd, what’s your move?”
Spencer bit his lip as she pulled over to the kerb. Along the back seat, Juliani asked if he could sit up. “Not yet,” Rogue said. “You’d just look suspicious.”
“Well, if anyone looks through the window I’m hardly gonna inspire trust.”
“That’s normal for you, Juli. Now, Spencer. You got anything, or do you need access to a computer?”
The young man stared fixedly out the front window, straining his eyes to see the people passing by. “You think some of these people might be killers?” he asked warily.
“Focus,” Rogue told him. “Put yourself in my shoes. Working alone. Against a deadline. Against the odds. What do you do?”
“The garden’s too obvious. The nearby houses are overlooked. The wall’s unscalable. The shooter’s got a wide view of the street. How about using that rooftop opposite,” he pointed to the block of flats. “To shoot the shooter.”
Rogue nodded slowly. “Not bad. Outside the box. The only flaw is that we need to talk to the shooter. We need him alive. He’s gonna lead us to the Hellfire Club.”
“Then it’s the wall.”
“You said it’s unscalable.”
“Yeah, and that’s the key isn’t it?”
Rogue started the car. “You earned your next meal. I’ll be asking more questions later.”
“I want to be useful.”
“Keep your eyes peeled. Your wits about you. Anything that looks suspicious probably is. It’ll make more sense later when I fill you in. Challenge me sensibly. Know when to shut the hell up. And most of all – come up with lots of ideas.”
She parked in a busy lot about ten minutes up the road, grabbed her go-bag and told the men to stay put.
“If this goes as planned,” she said. “I’ll be back before midday.”
“And if you’re not?” Juliani huffed.
“We do an Iron Maiden,” Spencer said. “And run to the hills.”
Rogue rolled her eyes at him. “Just as I think we’re making progress . . .”
She slammed the door and walked back toward the house. She found herself liking Spencer’s fresh outlook, his triumphant geekiness and internal confidence. In truth, his idea of shooting the shooter from the opposite apartment block wasn’t half bad. Of course, it would be a mistake and dangerous, but still the kid showed promise.
She neared the house, still walking casually along the sidewalk. She’d spied a gate that led to an adjoining house. She could enter through the gate, get lost in the shrubbery and find a way to scale the wall. But she’d have to move slowly. It was broad daylight. It would take every ounce of her training to reach the assassin before midday.
Rogue unlatched the gate next door, and went through, ready with excuses in case someone was home. A small single-storey dwelling with dirty windows sat in front of her. The front door was closed and shabby. Weeds dominated the garden. Without stopping she melted into the overgrown shrubbery close to the high wall and shrugged her go-bag to the ground. She extracted the knife, the SIG machine pistol, the Glock and a spare magazine, thrusting the knife and the Glock into her waistband. She pushed the medical kit into a pocket and then secured the backpack over her shoulders. Five yards to her left a tree without boughs stood, rising above the height of the wall. She couldn’t climb it, but that was fine. She ran at it, jumped, allowed her knees to bend against its trunk and then sprang upward, reaching a height where she could grab the top of the wall. She hung for a moment, then pulled herself up inch by inch until she could see over.
She wasn’t high enough to see anything on top of the roof. Ahead, a landscaped garden stretched on an incline to the first level of the house. As she’d already ascertained it was a cluttered building due to the slope it was built on. The garage attached half way up the first floor and a small extension connected to the second. Rooves upon rooves. She waited for an entire minute, hanging motionless, but still nothing moved. To Rogue, it wasn’t surprising. The fourth assassin should be steeled right now, awaiting his shot.
Of course, he might not be there at all. Maybe he’d chosen a different location, a different time. She doubted it though. The assassin was already late, under intense pressure. The Hellfire Club would be pushing for action. They wouldn’t want their global plan knocked off kilter even by a few hours because the chaos caused by the deaths of the treasurers inside the criminal organisations would start to subside. HC wanted their own treasurers in place before that happened.
Rogue pulled herself up and over the wall, landing lightly on the other side. She proceeded to the nearest growth of shrubbery and then to the next. Her guns were either holstered or strapped over her shoulder, the knife in its sheaf. But she was ready; every sense attuned and scanning the area. This was about as beautiful as her job got – the solace and quiet, the dangerous cocoon of the hunt. She reached the side of the house, gained the garage roof and then waited. So far, she’d made no noise and heard no noise. Across the way hundreds of windows looked over her. She couldn’t be sure if anybody had seen her with her weapon drawn and called the cops. It was risky, but there was no choice.
At the far side of the garage roof was a short green slope that led up to the next roof. Rogue took a few seconds to gain that and then paused, faced with eight feet of tiled ridge that led to a four-foot high wall. She had to stay low, not wanting to pop her head up at this time. The element of surprise was everything.
The assassin should be in position and wouldn’t see her. But his spotter could be anywhere. She took out the Glock. It had the advantage at this range and was much quieter than the SIG. Her knife would be better, but there were two enemies with guns.
She paced carefully along the ridge. Luckily, none of the tiles were loose. She paused a final time, her back to the wall.
If he was up there, this was the man who killed Tom.
Slowly, she straightened. Her eyes saw the wall, then the gutter, and then the roof beyond. Her heart beat steadily. A gust straight from the Pacific ruffled her auburn hair. Ahead, the assassin lay prone, propped up on his elbows. His rifle, a reliable M-24 was resting in the crook of his elbow. His ankles faced her, the entire length of his body motionless.
Closer, kneeling and hunched over, was the spotter. He was checking his watch. Rogue knew it was ten minutes to twelve. The spotter carried no weapon, but then he wasn’t expecting a superior predator to creep up on him.
Rogue steadied herself, then sprang into action. She jumped onto the roof and shot the spotter in the back of the head. At the same time, she t
hrew the knife. It struck the assassin high in the shoulder of his shooting arm, burying to the hilt. Already turning at the sound of the gunshot, he bellowed in agony and dropped the rifle. It hit the floor with a clatter. Rogue was half way across the roof. He clutched his arm and then reached for a handgun. Rogue leapt feet first, kicking him in the face with the soles of her boots. Her spine hit the floor. Pain slammed through her body. Blood flew from his mouth. He sprawled backwards, and she was across his chest in a second, straddling him.
She aimed the gun at his right temple, let him feel it.
“You murdered Tom Freeman.”
She felt the acid building in her stomach. It was normal for this type of situation She needed a tablet to neutralise it but now wasn’t exactly the best time.
“I was doing my job. Nothing personal.”
She glared at his dead eyes, his bristly jaw and scarred face. He’d been around a bit. Probably worked for the Hellfire Club for years. How many innocents had he killed?
“I’ll give you a chance,” she said against her best wishes. “Tell me who the Hellfire Club are. Where they meet. What they’re up to. Is it new, or part of the old establishment?”
“You’re going after them?” despite his predicament the assassin laughed. “You’re dead already, then.”
Rogue reached over and wrenched the knife free. “Does that feel like I’m dead?”
A scream started to rise in his throat. Rogue covered his mouth with her knife hand until it subsided, glaring coldly into his bulging eyes. She rolled the knife deftly around her hand. “Answer the question.”
“I don’t know. The orders come through middlemen, down to the team leaders. The Old Men are at least four times removed from any actions. It’s always been the same.”
She knew he was right and wondered why she’d never come across him before. Of course, the old men probably had plenty of killers for hire and very few in their inner circle. But at least he was telling the truth.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Simple. To the point.
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