by L. T. Ryan
With the air travel behind him, Brett turned his attention to the woman and child he came to find. He powered his cell phone on while the plane taxied to the gate. There was a message waiting in his inbox, sent from Joe Ballard. The man had made reservations for Brett at a small hotel. He wouldn't stay there. He preferred to remain off Ballard's grid. Everyone else's, too. The message also contained more information on Erin's travel arrangements. He knew the hotel, but the room assignment was missing. That could be found easily enough.
By the time he exited the aircraft, Brett had found a hotel with a vacancy and reserved a room using a false identity for which he carried an ID and credit card.
He exited the terminal and found the car rental counter. With no lead time, the only vehicle he managed to secure was a silver Fiat 500. Minutes later, he stood in front of the small vehicle, puzzled as to how he'd fit inside. Surprisingly, it fit his six-two frame well, and had legroom to spare.
A short drive put him on the TF-1, westbound. Small cars and scooters crowded the highway. Traffic flowed at a rate of about fifteen miles an hour. It took a total of seventy-five minutes from the airport to the exit for Playa del Duque, a short distance north of the overcrowded party city of Playa de las Americas. A place where the bars were more packed than the beaches.
Checking in to the hotel posed no problems. The woman behind the counter accepted his credit card, then handed it back along with a plastic key card. Brett found his room, showered, changed, then grabbed a bite to eat at the overpriced hotel restaurant.
The hotel was situated a block from Erin and Mia's. Not ideal, but he should have their room assignment soon enough. With that in hand, all he had to do was watch and wait for the right moment to act. For now, he decided to head out, scout the surrounding area and then camp out in the lobby of Erin's hotel.
Dressed in a pair of board shorts and t-shirt, he fit in with the surroundings. At the same time, he looked out of place. The attire didn't suit him physically or mentally. But no one paid attention. Not in their nature, he supposed. Not even the staff at Erin's hotel when Brett entered and took a seat in the lobby.
He spent the next half hour staring at his cell phone and mindlessly tapping his thumbs against the case. To anyone nearby, it looked like he engrossed himself into a virtual game world. Instead, he studied the photos he had of Erin and her daughter. When he closed his eyes, their faces were etched to the back of his eyelids. The move paid off when the two females entered, accompanied by a third woman who looked to be in her early twenties.
They passed Brett without tossing a glance in Brett's direction. He rose. Followed them to the elevator lobby. The mirrored doors were sliding closed. He lifted his hand and jogged forward. The younger woman stuck her arm through the narrowing opening. The doors parted. Brett smiled, thanked her, and boarded the elevator.
"Floor?" he asked.
"Five," the younger woman said.
He pressed the button and said, "Same as me."
During their ascent, he studied the face of the younger woman in the mirrored door, searching for a memory or some recollection of who she might be. She had not been present in any of the pictures he had on file. Who was she, and what was her purpose here? She was too small to be a bodyguard. Didn't have the appearance of a British Intelligence agent. Too innocent and naive looking. Perhaps an assistant to Erin. Maybe the nanny. That made sense.
The woman caught his gaze and smiled. He replied in kind, tersely, then glanced away.
The elevator slowed to a stop. The doors parted. He stepped to the side, arm in front of the door, and waited for the women to exit. Brett followed them down the hallway. The younger woman glanced back once, but Erin seemed to pay little attention to Brett. She and Mia stopped in front of room 511. The other woman in front of 513. She cracked her door, paused, and watched Brett as he passed. He nodded, and continued to the end of the corridor, turning left, taking the stairwell down to the lobby.
He had their room number. Now he needed a weapon.
And a way to get Erin and Mia off the island.
HANNAH WAITED TWO minutes before opening her door and poking her head into the hallway. Her hopes that the man had lingered were dashed. Perhaps he waited by his room or around the corner or somewhere central like the elevators. She felt for her room card in her pocket and stepped into the hall, allowing the door to fall shut with a heavy clunk. Like a child prowling after bedtime, she walked slowly and softly toward the middle of the floor. The whole time praying that Erin wouldn't come out. She walked the perimeter, but didn't see the man. As she approached the corner where the hall intersected, voices rose. English accents. The guy hadn't said much, but he'd had a neutral American accent. She considered turning back, but in the end, she figured what the hell. There were worse things she could do than meet a stranger on vacation.
Just wouldn't happen today.
The two older men smiled and offered to hold the elevator for her.
Hannah shook her head and turned toward her room.
BRETT SCANNED THE pacified faces spread throughout the hotel lobby. Bored employees. Sunburned tourists, worn out from a day at the beach, followed by shopping. Drunks stumbling from the bar to their rooms.
What one might expect at a resort.
All except for one man. He stood out among the others. Mid-thirties. Short hair. Narrowed eyes sunken into a slender face. Dressed like he tried too hard to fit in. Seated in the same chair Brett had occupied. The one that provided a complete view of the lobby and hallway.
Brett lowered his head and brought his phone to the side of his face as he slipped past the man. A safe distance from the hotel, he called Ballard.
"You find them yet?" Ballard asked.
"Never mind that," Brett said. He had no intentions of filling Ballard in on the status of his operations while they were in progress. Only a fool would. "Who the hell else is on this island?"
"What?"
"I just passed a very out-of-place spook in the lobby of a hotel. Tell me you didn't double book this job, Ballard."
The man stammered. "I didn't. I swear." He paused, then added, "I'll look into it."
"If you've screwed me…" Brett turned in a complete circle, his gaze lingering a little longer than usual on every face.
"I haven't. Look, I found a contact to supply you. I've also got a boat for you. It's docked there at the marina."
"It's suitable to cross to Africa?"
"More than suitable."
Ballard relayed the contact's name and number, as well as the reservation information for the boat. The contact was to provide identification that matched the name on the boat's reservation.
Brett called the guy after hanging up with Ballard. He was hesitant to allow the hotel to slip from view, but he had little choice. The other man wouldn't make a move in broad daylight. Bret met his contact twenty minutes later. Ten minutes after that, he left the man's house, armed with a Glock, carrying a duffel bag with two MP7s and the false papers he needed to complete his boat reservation. The contact had offered to drive him to the marina. The place was less than a half-mile away. No point in risking being seen with the man.
The only question the old man at the marina asked Brett was what he'd be doing with the vessel. A one-word answer sufficed. Fishing. Presumably, they heard it a lot.
He followed directions to the slip. The thirty-nine foot Carver waited at the end of the dock. Brett boarded and investigated below deck. Plenty of space to store a woman and a girl.
Now to get them there.
Chapter 24
Lisbon Portela Airport, Portugal.
"EXCUSE ME," SASHA said to the passing flight attendant. "How much longer will we be stranded?"
The woman stopped, blew a puff of air that lifted the right side of her bangs, and said, "I am sure we will be departing shortly."
"That's what you said an hour ago."
The flight attendant didn't hear her, though. She'd already turned toward the cabin.
<
br /> "Want me to make a call?" Mason said.
"For what?" Sasha said.
"We're not that far from Tenerife now. Maybe seven hundred miles or so away. Maybe we can arrange private transport."
She glanced out the window at the flurry of activity on the ground. "That could take a few hours. We might be up in the air in thirty minutes. Plus, what are the chances of getting a fast enough craft to get us there in ninety minutes?"
"Just a thought."
"Keep it in your back pocket for a bit. If we're still here in an hour, see what you can do."
Chapter 25
Ithaca, New York.
"THAT'S THE PLACE," Charles said, aiming a thick finger toward the small house. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl as they passed the residence. Drawn curtains and closed blinds blocked any view of the inside. "I'm gonna let you out on the side street. I trust you can figure it out from there?"
Jack scanned the unkempt yard. Grass sprouted between cracks in the sidewalk and driveway. Weeds littered the barren flowerbed. The hedges hadn't been trimmed since last summer, at least. He didn't know much, only his target's name, and that the target's sister resided at the house. Charles hadn't even spotted Jack a photo.
Sport assassination, Jack thought. Nation's next past time.
If people only knew.
"Place looks deserted," Jack said.
Charles shrugged as he tapped the gas pedal, sending the vehicle lurching forward. "Sister's young. Works a lot, I guess. Don't have time or the know-how to keep the place up."
"So, you're saying you don't pay your guys enough that they can hire a lawn service? And you wonder why you've got a mini-revolt going on at the Queens compound?"
Charles sucked in air then expelled it along with a fake laugh. "Same smartass Jack. Ain't the last two years taught you nothing?"
Jack had a reply, but it'd only prove Charles right. So he said nothing. Rolled down his window as they took the next right. Warm air rushed in. It smelled of fresh-cut grass. An old push mower sat by the curb of the second house they passed.
Charles continued past two more houses, then slowed to a stop. The engine idled low. The luxury vehicle looked out of place in the blue-collar neighborhood. The two guys in it, too. Anyone that passed would probably remember the BMW when the police came around to question residents after discovering the crime scene. They would surely recall Jack getting out and breaking into a house in broad daylight. Perhaps that's what Charles wanted. For years, he'd had a hard-on to take Jack down. He'd even come close to making it happen a time or two.
Would Charles risk being implicated though? What if his reach didn't extend this far into New York? He had a lot to lose. A charge against Jack carried the possibility of resulting in the conviction of Charles. The Old Man had maintained contacts everywhere. Built up over years. How many of them had remained loyal to the organization now that Charles ran it?
Charles opened his mouth to speak. He slammed his eyes shut. His nose and cheeks scrunched upward, while his lips snarled back. He sneezed four times, like a roaring lion, into his open hand.
"Allergic to the damn cut grass," he said. "Part of the reason I always hated being out in Queens. Anyway, you should get a move on."
Jack remained seated.
Charles reached for the console. Grabbed his phone and placed a call. As the phone connected through the vehicle's Bluetooth system, the radio cut off. Ringing blared through the BMW's speakers.
"Yeah?" the man on the other end answered.
"You seen them yet?" Charles asked.
"In their hotel lobby now. They went up a little while ago."
"And you've got their room assignments?"
"Ten-four."
"OK." Charles lifted his gaze from the phone's screen. With his head tilted forward, eyes peering over the top of his gold-rimmed sunglasses, he looked like a deranged bull about to charge. "If they leave, you tail them. Otherwise, stay put and wait for my next call for the go or no-go. Got it?"
Jack's chest, abdomen, upper arms all locked as the muscles tightened. The edges of his vision darkened as dizziness took hold. He forced air in, held it, forced it back out.
Charles ended the call, looked at Jack. Shrugged. "What?"
"I already said I'd do this," Jack said, teeth and jaw clenched. "If anything happens to them, you're the first one I'll go after, Chuck."
Using his extended middle finger, Charles slid his glasses up and over the bridge of his nose. "It's time for you to go."
Jack opened his door, placed a foot on the ground.
"Wait."
"What?"
"Take this." Charles handed Jack a cell phone. "I'll be checking in with you in an hour. Should give you plenty of time to do the job and clean up. In the trunk is a case. In the case is a Glock 17 and a Trident suppressor. You got three shots in the magazine. Make 'em count."
Jack stepped out to the sound of the trunk lock disengaging and the lid popping open. He stepped behind the car, hoisted the trunk lid, and grabbed the case. The weight felt right. He unsnapped the locks and opened it an inch. A bar of sunlight passed over the pistol, suppressor and magazine. After having been forced to leave his Beretta behind at his apartment, this was the first time in five hours he felt safe. He slammed the trunk shut. The BMW pulled away from the curb, then turned right at the next street, and disappeared from sight.
He wondered how he looked to anyone staring out their windows at that moment. This man who moments ago had exited a hundred thousand dollar BMW now stood in the middle of the road with a black case dangling from his hand.
The heat rising off the blacktop felt like it might melt the soles of his boots, trapping him in place. It served as a strong reminder to get out of view. He cast a quick glance around. Spotted no one outside. Odd for a Saturday afternoon.
Heat wave or not.
Jack stepped over the curb, onto the sidewalk and walked back the way they had come. He wanted to find a route that would lead him to the target's backyard. A couple houses later, he sidestepped the ticking push mower parked on the curb and spotted a strip of grass between two six-foot privacy fences. The green path led to a brown pond. A shift of his eyes was all it took to survey his surroundings. Certain that no one was watching, Jack turned left, cut across the lawn, squeezed between the wooden fences, and made his way to the water's edge.
Fenced yards provided cover from houses behind him. But not from those across the water. Using thick bushes for cover, he once again surveyed his surroundings. And as it was on the street, no one was outside. He turned his attention to the houses. Sunlight reflected off the windows in bright bursts, making it impossible to tell if anyone stood behind the panes of glass staring back at him. Even so, perhaps it was normal for the residents to spot a guy in tan carpenter's pants, a faded t-shirt, worn hiking boots, carrying a black case. Electrician, maybe. Possibly an environmental geek out to test the pond, making sure the water was fine for the ducks who were wading past.
Not a bad idea.
He stopped, turned, knelt down, placed the case in front of him. A good opportunity to prep the weapon and build a bit of cover from prying eyes. Assuming there were any. He assembled the weapon and threaded the suppressor onto the barrel. After tucking the pistol behind his back, he grabbed an empty magazine out of the case and stuck it in the water. Held it there for a few moments, then placed it back in the case.
A hot breeze blew past, rustling leaves on trees and sending a torrent of tiny waves across the top of the pond in Jack's direction. The accompanying smell reeked of death. A fish, perhaps, on the opposite bank.
Jack continued along the edge - one foot on grass, the other packed dirt - gaze focusing on the back of the target's house in search of signs of life from within. A hundred feet to go. A wide open expanse of overgrown green lawn and brown dead spots. Waiting at the end, a deck with rotted supports and rusted brackets. Jack trudged up the lawn, careful of anything hidden in the high grass that could trip him. He cast a
glance back. Momma duck and her ducklings rounded the top of the pond. Leaves and branches swayed and dipped and bounced in the continuous breeze. He no longer smelled the dead fish. And still no one was outside.
The deck sagged then rebounded with every step he took. Old wood. Weathered. Splintered. Maybe stained when constructed, but never again. Years of expanding and contracting and hot and cold and snow and rain. The back door didn't look any better. Long cracks ran up the surface. A small, two-paned window sat in the middle, about six feet off the ground. Jack leaned close, peered through the split in the sheer curtains. A still room was laid out in front of him.
He reached for the knob.
A door opened from somewhere behind.
He glanced over his shoulder. An older woman stepped out of her house. She took a few steps. Something dangled from her hands. A bag. She peeled it open and reached inside. Her hand emerged, wrapped around bread or scraps of some sort. She looked and walked toward the lake, her face scrunched up. The fish, he figured. She'd caught a whiff of the decomposing body. As she started her trek toward the water's edge, her free hand waved away the smell like it was a cloud of vapor.
Then she stopped, turned, looked at Jack. The old woman froze for a moment, head cocked to the left, eyes narrowed to slits. He waved at her, then smiled. Her posture relaxed. She smiled, waved back.
Jack took a deep breath as he turned the knob and leaned into the door with his shoulder. The door gave about a foot. It stopped when it hit something solid. Jack glanced down at the floor. Sunlight flooded through the opening, stretching out in a long, narrowing bar. Near the threshold, it reflected off a coagulated crimson pool.