Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

  “But, he wasn’t a money launderer.”

  “No, he wasn’t. He was a successful Peugeot dealer with multiple locations, a fat bank account, and a wife who didn’t love him. Our informant turned out to be her boyfriend. I didn’t learn any of this, of course, until about ten minutes after I’d killed him. I did it in the Metro, with a cute little device hidden in an umbrella. Just tap the target with the tip and compressed air blows nerve toxin through the pores of his skin. Kills thirty-seconds later without leaving a trace. Looks like a heart attack.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “His wife didn’t think so.”

  We were getting close. I could see the meadow below The Retreat dead ahead.

  “What happened to the informant?”

  “As far as I know, he and the missus lived happily ever after.”

  “You didn’t…?”

  “Kill him? I got out of the killing business the second I heard. Took the next plane home and went off the grid. Thirty-seven bodies later my wife was still dead, and I didn’t miss her any less. Only now I was a murderer.”

  “Wait, you said you thought she was killed in the attacks.”

  “Yeah, and I shit canned my career and killed thirty seven people because of it.” I laughed. “What a stupid asshole.”

  “I’m confused. She didn’t die in the towers?”

  “She died there, alright, but not in the attack.” I looked at her. “Imperatrice murdered her.”

  When we entered the meadow, I turned off Easy Street and angled across to the right.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Devil’s Run. There’s more cover there. They’ll see us coming a mile away on Easy Street.”

  We reached Corrida del Diablo and turned uphill. Three minutes later we rounded a bend.

  “Look,” said Catherine.

  The stone walls of The Retreat were in sight.

  56.

  Two of Kohl’s men were on the helipad, furiously clearing the platform with snow shovels.

  “They’re not taking a chance on the cable car,” I said. “The helicopter’s coming.”

  Kohl was at the bottom of the steps clutching a brief case. Near him was a small pile of luggage. Another figure appeared out the patio door of one of the suites. It was Canfield’s aide, Randolph, struggling with two suitcases.

  “If they get to the airfield, they can get out of the country,” said Catherine

  “I don’t see Imperatrice.”

  She grabbed my arm. “Nick, we need to deal with what we can. Imperatrice can wait.”

  “I know.”

  Kohl looked over as we approached. He raised something to his mouth. Then he began yelling and gesticulating at the men on the platform. They began shoveling faster. Kohl looked back at the residence wing and said something to Randolph.

  “What’s the plan?” said Cat.

  “I think he made us,” I said.

  Before she could reply, I heard the sound of rotors. Bullets thudded into the Sno-Cat, two of them starring the windshield. The cab darkened momentarily as the helicopter, a red and white Bell Huey, passed overhead and banked over the building to make another run at us. I turned the Cat towards the safety of the trees. We were twenty yards out when more bullets tore into the body. The engine stuttered and died. Smoke began seeping into the cabin.

  “Head for the trees,” I said.

  I grabbed the two submachine guns and jumped down to the snow. Catherine followed me out the same door, keeping the Sno-Cat between us and The Retreat. While the helicopter banked around again, we loped through the deep snow into the forest. I expected more bullets, but none came. From the cover of the trees I saw the Huey settling onto the helipad. Kohl and Randolph started up the stairs. The two men who had been shoveling were already climbing aboard. A man stood in the open cargo door, aiming a Squad Automatic Weapon that was secured to the fuselage with bungee cords. He fired a short burst of rounds our way, pausing to let Kohl and Randolph scramble aboard.

  “What do we do now?” said Catherine.

  “Try and take him down,” I said, hefting the MP5.

  “You should have brought an RPG.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Maybe I did. Take these and give me the pistol.” I handed her the submachine guns. “Put some fire on the helicopter.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get a missile launcher.”

  I broke cover and headed back to the Sno-Cat. The gunner on the Huey started firing, but Catherine opened up on him. He shifted his fire to her. She ducked behind a tree just as the spray of bullets thudded into it.

  In the smoky cabin of the Sno-Cat I plucked the avalanche gun from its mount and used the pistol to blow the padlock off the metal ammo box. The rounds were colored red and orange. I figured red was the more powerful and grabbed two of them and two fin assemblies. I stuck the rounds into the fins, ending up with something the size and shape of a Nerf football.

  Catherine was still firing bursts at the helicopter, but the pitch of the rotors had changed. The Huey lifted off the pad and drifted towards her. The door gunner began firing a steady stream of bullets. Through the window of the Sno-Cat I saw Imperatrice, Canfield, and Cory come out of the same patio door Randolph had. Canfield had Cory by the upper arm. The three of them stopped, surprised to see the chopper airborne. Imperatrice spoke briefly to Canfield, and ran back into the building.

  The Huey was doing a slow dance, the pilot making adjustments to keep Catherine in the machine gunner’s sights as she moved from tree to tree. She wouldn’t stay lucky much longer.

  I opened the breech plug of the avalanche gun, inserted a round, and turned the valve on the CO2 tank. Gas hissed into the firing chamber. I jumped out of the Cat and struggled towards the helicopter, some thirty yards away, but I was looking at the tail, a profile too narrow for a clean shot. I held the avalanche gun behind me with my left hand and emptied the pistol at the helicopter. One or two rounds must have caught their attention, because the Huey pivoted and I was facing the open cargo door. The gunner bought the SAW to bear on me, Kohl beside him, pointing.

  I stuck the empty pistol in my belt and brought the avalanche gun up. Aiming at the center of the open cargo door, I pulled the trigger. The gun shuddered, a white burst of CO2 momentarily blocking my vision. The red missile arced lazily towards the helicopter, but the chopper drifted sideways and the little warhead missed, striking the ground near the helipad. The harmless explosion of snow was quickly dispersed by the downdraft from the rotors.

  I opened the breech and inserted the second charge. The Huey swung broadside again and the gunner opened up. I threw myself to the side, the line of bullets just missing me. I rolled in the snow, back towards the burning Sno-Cat, but the helicopter was side slipping towards me, keeping up a steady fire.

  Then the Huey suddenly gained altitude and spun towards the building. I popped my head up and saw Tim standing on the restaurant patio, firing a handgun at the chopper. Canfield produced a pistol from beneath his coat and took careful aim. I saw the gun buck twice. Tim spun around and fell.

  Canfield turned towards me, and began firing, but I ignored him. The Huey was settling back down, broadside again. I snapped the gun to my shoulder and fired. The charge flew through the cargo bay and exploded in the cockpit. The helicopter lurched sideways, throwing the door gunner out. Then it spun madly for several revolutions, finally smashing into the roof of The Retreat, just thirty feet from where Canfield and Cory stood transfixed. A large piece of rotor blade came directly at me. I fell into the snow and it scythed over my head, slicing the Sno-Cat’s cabin in half.

  I looked up to see Canfield dragging Cory back into the building. The roof beneath the Huey gave way. It slid off and fell nose first. When it struck the ground it sat in absolute silence for a moment, tail pointed at the sky. Then it fell sideways and exploded. A flaming figure staggered from the wreckage, arms waving feebly, only to collapse after two steps.

  I lo
oked around for Catherine. She came out of the woods, one of the submachine guns still clutched in her hands. She ran over to me.

  “I ran out of ammunition. Who was that shooting up there?”

  “Tim.”

  “The bartender?”

  “Yeah. He moonlights as a fed. Come on, I think Canfield got him.”

  We skirted the burning helicopter and ran to the patio. Tim sat on the flagstones, his back against an empty planter. His face was ashen.

  “How bad?” I said.

  “I don’t know. Shoulder.”

  “Let me see.” There was hole in the left front of his jacket and a corresponding one in the back. I peeled back the jacket to examine the wound. “All things considered you should have stayed in Jamaica.”

  “That’s funny,” he said, wearily.

  “Looks like a through and through from the hole.” I looked at Catherine. “Let’s get him down to the ski shop, away from the fire.”

  Tim grabbed my arm.

  “Get those bastards,” he said.

  “I’m not going to-”

  “We’ll manage,” said Catherine. “Get them.”

  I looked at Tim. “Give me your pistol.”

  “Only three rounds left.” He said, wincing with pain.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  57.

  I approached the suite where I’d seen Canfield and Cory return to the building. The sliding glass door was still open about an inch. I stood to the side and pushed slowly until it was open wide enough for me to slip inside. I leaned over to see what I could see.

  The floor plan was identical to the one I’d stayed in a lifetime ago, just slightly different furnishings. Cory was sitting on a white sofa next to the circular fireplace, pressing a bloody towel to her forehead. There was no sign of Canfield. Then I heard his voice. It sounded as if he was by the bar. I slipped in the door and started walking in that direction.

  “We were outside when the helicopter went down,” I heard him say. “She was injured. Something hit her head.” There was silence for several seconds, and I realized he was on the house phone. “Not serious.” Again, the pause. “I can manage her by myself.”

  Canfield walked into the living room and went to Cory. He had a small blue and white first aid kit.

  “It’s at the bottom,” he said, kneeling before her. “He’s bringing it back up.”

  Cory started to speak, but then saw me standing there. Canfield must have noticed. He dropped the first aid kit and whirled to face me, simultaneously pulling his gun.

  “Don’t, Senator,” I said, but he kept going. I put a bullet into his chest, but he continued to raise his pistol. I shot him again, but he was a big man and in good shape. I had only one bullet left, so I aimed carefully at his head and shot him between the eyes. He spun and fell face first onto the edge of the fireplace. The pistol fell from his hand and slid down against the artificial logs. He rolled off the fireplace onto his back.

  Cory looked from me to him and back again before bursting into tears. She ran to me, throwing her arms around my neck. “Oh, Nick, thank God!”

  “It’s okay,” I said, laying the empty pistol on the bar. I hugged her and patted her on the back. “Everything is okay now.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, sobbing into my chest, “it’s all been so horrible. They were so mean to me. And then the helicopter!”

  “Try not to think about it now,” I said. “We’re still in danger. Where is Imperatrice?”

  “What? Why?” She seemed to focus. “The cable car, he’s getting the cable car.”

  “How many others are left?”

  “Others?”

  “Bad guys.”

  “I don’t know.” She hugged me tighter. “Nick, I’m so scared.”

  “Try not to be. Everything will be alright.”

  “I know.” She stepped back quickly snatching the other pistol from my belt and pointing it at me in a two handed grip that looked very professional.

  “Cory, what are you doing?”

  “Shut up. Don’t move a muscle or I’ll put a bullet right in your stomach.” The pistol was rock steady in her hands.

  She reached behind with her left hand, searching for something on the bar, but never taking her eyes off me. Her hand found the remote control and picked it up. When she saw what it was, she gave it a disgusted look and put it back. After a moment her hand touched the cordless phone. She thumbed the pad and placed it against her ear.

  “It’s me,” she said. “Jack’s dead… How do you think?...Uh-huh… Very much so. Standing in front of me right now. I figured you might want the pleasure. Complete the set, so to speak… Okay, but be quick.” She put the phone down and resumed a two handed grip.

  “So the ditzy senator’s wife is actually an aspiring drug lord.”

  “Senator’s widow, thanks to you. And after poor Jack over there kills you, I will be an object of great sympathy; bewildered, betrayed, my saintly husband assassinated by an ex-federal agent with a very murky past.”

  “Poor Jack is right. He must have thought he hit the jackpot when he met you. A wife with unlimited funds, access to an important demographic, and too stupid, he figured, to realize she was only a beard for him and Randolph.”

  “I thought you noticed something in the bar that night. Jack and Bryce were usually very discreet, but they felt safer up here.”

  “Turns out Jack was the beard, for your plans anyway. You strung him along, nursed his dreams of being President, but you never intended it to go that far. You got him where it suited you and then let the word leak to the right people about who he really was.”

  “I’d have made sure he never entered the primaries, but as long as people thought he might run for President, his secret was safe and he could stay a Senator.” She looked at the gun, as if something had suddenly occurred to her. “When did you figure it out?”

  “At the cocktail party you told your husband I’d worked for Imperatrice. It occurred to me this afternoon, when Imperatrice was wandering down memory lane, that there was no way you could know that unless he told you. That meant you were involved somehow. I take it you and Rich are lovers.”

  “I don’t limit myself to one man.”

  “So I’ve seen. And if one can judge by the offspring, it wasn’t Daddy who ran the family business, was it? He was just a front. It was your mother, Rojas’ daughter. Rojas knew no one would take orders from a woman, so he made Manuel her mouthpiece. And I’ll bet she filled you with stories about grandpa.”

  “My grandfather was a great man, and my mother was a great woman. She wanted to avenge him, but the cancer took her strength. Once she died, it was up to me.”

  Something in her eyes was frightening, and I suddenly knew who had sabotaged her father’s airplane.

  “My God,” I said, “you killed your own father.”

  “He was weak. He refused to help me. He’d grown fat and lazy living the American dream.” She looked at the gun again. “Too bad you figured it out too late.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Sweetheart. Both Imperatrice and Kohl said someone else was in charge. Boyd said he heard a man’s voice, but your mother trained you well, so I’m guessing all communications with everyone but Rich were by phone, so you could disguise your voice with software. Then there’s the Warrington School of Business. That’s part of the University of Florida; the same place Fisher was doing his research. Research funded by one of the late Mr. Boyd’s charities, which means you. But the capper was learning Ms. Ricasso was your button man. That’s something only a woman would do, and it occurred to me that what everyone thinks is the childish enthusiasm of an arrested adolescent is really the barely controlled hysteria of a complete lunatic.”

  Her eyes blazed and her finger tightened on the trigger. “Who have you told?”

  “Does that matter? I’ve shut you down. Party’s over.”

  “Not my party. Once you’re dead, I’m just a grieving widow. Richard and I will have t
ime to go anywhere in the world before they figure it out, if they ever do.”

  “You really think you’ll get away with this?”

  Tears suddenly flowed. “When they see this face and hear my terrifying tale of a hair’s breadth escape from a group of sinister criminals?” The smile snapped back. “You have no idea how good I am at that.” She gestured slightly with the gun. “I don’t think I’ll wait for Richard. I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Considering what I just said, do you really think I’d let you have a loaded gun?”

  “What?”

  “The – gun – is –empty,” I said, enunciating each word carefully.

  I walked quickly towards her. She pulled the trigger several times, the gun clicking uselessly. As I reached for it, she swung it at my face. When I turned away she leaped onto my back with a savage shriek that did not seem to come from a human being. One arm was around my throat while she beat the pistol against my head with the other. I slammed back against the bar. The air whooshed from her body, and the arm around my neck loosened. I got one hand on that arm and the other beneath her breasts. I lifted her off and hurled her over the bar. She smashed lengthwise into the racks, shattering some of the bottles and collapsing the shelves. She bounced once on the counter before falling to the floor, taking liquor and pieces of shelving with her.

  I had barely begun to move when she was over the bar, the jagged remains of a bottle clutched in her fist. I managed to parry her thrust, but she crashed into me and I stumbled over the bar stools, falling backwards to the floor. Cory was on top of me, her face a bloody snarl, liquor dripping from her hair, the jagged glass aimed at my face. I grabbed her wrist and twisted it violently. She howled in pain and dropped the bottle. I punched her, but without much force from my awkward position. She sank her nails into the hand I had on her wrist and I released her. She sprang to her feet and dove head first into the fireplace, reaching for Canfield’s pistol.