The small muscles around her eyes constricted. Something I’d said had hit home. ‘OK. But where do we go from here?’
‘Stay close to the bank, and head upstream.’ I knew that Indian Creek widened and then split around a small island further to the north, giving us more options where we could climb out of the water than if we headed downstream. But my idea wasn’t to wade all the way to Biscayne Bay.
We’d made it about a hundred yards when the first emergency crews arrived at the construction site. Their flashing lights danced on the bellies of the low-lying clouds. A minute after that, someone began shining a spotlight over the surface of the creek, having found where we’d crashed through the temporary fence and plotted our impact point. The beam began making wider sweeps, searching for evidence of survivors, and I hoped they concentrated on the area downstream from where the van entered the water.
Dripping wet, I grasped Trey’s hand and led her towards the bank. We had come upon a jetty that extended out over the creek. A speedboat was moored on the far side, but I’d no intention of using the boat for a speedy – yet noisy – getaway. I had another idea. On the bank was an overturned rowing boat. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, and in the dark I wouldn’t be able to determine the hull’s integrity until we tried to float it.
I asked Trey to wait in the water, but she followed me out, stood dripping in her ruined dress and sopping over-sized sneakers. Her hair was a bedraggled mess hanging round her shoulders, and there was no trace of make-up on her face but for bumps, bruises and scratches. She caught my bemused glance, and took a brief look down at herself. I expected her to sob dismally, but she surprised me with a chuckle. ‘Gee,’ she said, her expression a little manic, ‘I think the shop’s going to go mental when I return this dress. It’s Versace.’
‘Versace, huh? Is that the local slang word for messed-up?’ I quipped. ‘Or am I being too polite?’
‘If that were true, then you look a little Versace’d-up too.’
I was a mess. My exposed skin was a patchwork of scratches and bruises, and my clothing was saturated and clinging to me in all the wrong places. That was only externally. Inside I felt like a tenderised beefsteak. ‘At least I don’t have to go back to the shop.’
She laughed again, genuinely pleased, as she plucked at her ruined dress. ‘What the hell? It’s Mikhail who will get the bill. Serves him right.’
It was good to hear her laughter; many other people would have collapsed under the strain of the events she’d endured, let alone retained any humour. She might have been a virtual prisoner for more than a decade, but Trey Shaw had stayed strong. After witnessing the aftermath of the violence where McTeer and his attackers died, I’d feared she was on the point of collapse, but that had proven a momentary wobble. Now that she’d made a positive break from Mikhail, I suspected she’d fight tooth and nail before she was ever dragged back to him.
‘Help me with this?’ I motioned at the upturned boat.
Trey complied, squatting alongside me as we heaved the boat over. There was no outboard motor or even oars, but it didn’t matter. We pushed it into the creek, and I waded in and held it steady while Trey boarded. I kind of fell over the gunwale and crawled upright, seating myself on a bench facing the prow as the boat settled in the water. Trey was up front, facing me. I paddled us out into the creek with my hands, taking care not to splash or make much noise.
All the while thinking that enough time had passed that I should contact Rink: I needed his help. When the van crashed I’d lost both guns I’d acquired, but the bigger problem was my cell phone was as soaked as my clothing, and the one in Trey’s clutch purse had been abandoned in the sunken van. I’d cash and credit cards in my wallet, and they could be dried quickly enough, but they were little good to me while we were literally up a creek without a paddle.
21
Harvey Lucas was en route to Miami, but before catching his flight out of Arkansas, he called Rink. He’d been up all through the early hours collating as much information on their enemies as he could find, and what he reported didn’t come as too surprising to either of them, but it did give some pause. Sean Cahill wasn’t your average criminal, and Mikhail Viskhan more than just a narcissistic playboy. They were both sons of freedom fighters – but that depended upon whom you spoke to. Seen from the opposite end of a rifle barrel or exploding bomb, they were terrorists. Both men had followed in the footsteps of their fathers, and if the rumours were true they had committed more atrocities than either of their forebears.
‘So we have the bastard sons of the Real IRA and CRI working together?’ said Rink. The Real IRA were a paramilitary terrorist group, a more violent offshoot of the original Irish Republican Army, who kept the fight going after the IRA came to peace terms with the UK. On the other hand, the CRI or Chechen Republic of Ichkeria was the catch-all term for a self-proclaimed state at war with their Russian enemies, to which many of the diverse Chechen and Dagestan rebel groups paid allegiance. ‘It’s not exactly a marriage made in heaven, Harve.’
Rink was in a nondescript hotel room in downtown Miami, having made tracks to leave the resort island following his visit with Albert Greville-Jones hours earlier. His reason for leaving Miami Beach for the mainland wasn’t an attempt at running away; it gave him more breathing space to plan and organise his return.
‘They might be separated by religion and idealism, but the allure of money is a great motivator,’ Harvey said. ‘Besides, I’m not sure they give a damn for what their fathers stood for, I’m betting they have their own agenda… getting richer.’
‘Sounds right,’ Rink said.
‘They met as PMCs—’ Harvey was referring to private military contractors, also known as mercenaries ‘—supposedly fighting on opposite sides in Afghanistan. You ask me, though, they were united in the illegal drugs trade. From what I could dig up, Viskhan saved Cahill’s life during a US bombing raid on a Taliban stronghold, and Cahill returned the favour while helping his new pal escape the country. You have to ask yourself what they were doing cosying up to the Taliban, and I’d say it was about securing transportation routes of raw poppies to the narcotics trade. But who can say? I’m only working off unfounded rumours from other PMCs I spoke with.’
‘I’m surprised Homeland isn’t all over their asses,’ said Rink.
‘Perhaps they are. Guys with their backgrounds don’t get to enter the US without being added to terrorist watch lists. But if that’s true, why haven’t they already been rounded up and sent to Gitmo?’
‘CIA assets?’ Rink suggested.
‘You have to wonder.’ Harvey paused, deciding if he should broach the subject. ‘Do you think contacting Walter could be our right move?’
Rink gave a short, sharp grunt.
‘Just saying,’ Harvey said quickly.
‘I’d rather keep that weasely little frog-gigger out of this.’ Rink had no love for Walter Hayes Conrad. In the ‘official’ role of a CIA subdivision director, Walter was also an active member of the ultra-secret counterterrorism group codenamed Arrowsake, which both Rink and Joe Hunter once worked for. Hunter still held on to misguided affection for their old boss, whereas Rink had only contempt. His dislike hadn’t lessened after Walter actively used them both to thwart an attack by a white supremacist group in Manhattan – an attack sponsored by Arrowsake in an attempt at raising the domestic terrorism threat level and with it their funding and viability as an invaluable security resource. But Rink had to admit, as an ally Walter was a necessary evil to have in their corner. His highest-level interference had kept both Rink and Hunter out of prison before, and the way the night had shaped up, perhaps calling him wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever heard, at the least on Raul Velasquez’s behalf. ‘Just for the time being,’ he added.
‘If they are CIA assets, or the FBI are on to them and just waiting for their chance to pounce, we could be stepping into the middle of a shitstorm,’ Harvey said.
‘I could give a damn for
spoiling the CIA’s or the Feds’ plans for them. They killed Mack, and for all we know could have killed Hunter too…’ Rink paused on that thought, decided he didn’t like the sound of it. ‘They’ve tried to kill Hunter, until we know otherwise we assume they’ve been unsuccessful. But that’s beside the point. Mack’s dead, Velasquez’s locked up and they’re after Hunter and some innocent girl, and I swear those bastards ain’t getting away with it.’
‘Do the cops know who they’re up against yet?’
‘Beats me. I’m confident that Velasquez hasn’t told them about Viskhan yet, but it won’t take them long to piece things together. I’ve been watching the local news channels, but the reports are sketchy and the cops aren’t commenting. Some of Cahill’s guys were shot dead not far from where things started, and apparently a high-speed chase ended up with a van crashing into Indian Creek. It’d take an idiot not to connect the three incidents, but as yet, I’m confident the cops don’t realise that they’re looking for either Hunter and the woman, or Cahill and Viskhan.’
‘They haven’t connected the attack on Greville-Jones to everything else that’s happening?’
‘They must have by now. Albert didn’t survive, but I made sure his attackers did, but not in a fit state to speak. The punks won’t admit to being sent by Viskhan, or Cahill for that matter, but the cops will have figured it out. They’ll know there’s a bigger picture, and when they connect the hit on Mack to that on Greville-Jones, they’ll soon figure out it all goes back to the work we did for him at last night’s fundraiser. Once Viskhan’s name jumps off the guest list at them they’ll be on to us all.’
‘So time’s short before they start pulling you and all the others in for questioning?’
‘Yup. Which makes it difficult for me do something about those bastards. But I won’t let that stop me.’
‘Y’know, I have to be the voice of reason here, Rink…’ Harvey laughed cynically – usually it was Rink cautioning Hunter against rash decisions ‘…but why not just go to the cops and tell them the truth? Those guys that were killed in Mack’s room, that was self-defence. Reading between the lines, the ones you mentioned getting shot nearby, and that chase that ended up with the van crashing, they have to involve Hunter trying to save that woman’s life. None of you are the bad guys in this.’
‘Some cops won’t necessarily see things our way. If Viskhan has the manpower and influence to order a manhunt like this, then you can bet your ass he has a few cops in his pocket. I don’t want a corrupt officer with an itchy trigger finger anywhere near any of us.’
Harvey didn’t reply. He hadn’t the same experience of working in the shadows as Rink and Hunter, and still held to the belief that most cops were honest and honourable. Largely they were, but you only needed one bad cop to pull a trigger, and Rink bet that Viskhan knew the bad ones. He was openly running business ventures that required that certain officials turned a blind eye to them.
‘This got personal when those bastards murdered Mack,’ Rink added.
‘Then I pity them,’ Harvey said. ‘Look, I’ll be with you before the afternoon’s out. They’re starting to board my flight so I’d best get moving. I’ll email everything I have on Viskhan and Cahill to you; it might give you an idea where to start looking for them. Just let me know where and when you need me, Rink.’
‘Thanks, brother,’ said Rink, and he gave the address and room number of his hotel that he’d booked under a bogus name. ‘Don’t send anything over just yet; I’m going to switch to a burner phone soon. If the cops have tied me to all the trouble they might try to trace me via this one. I’ve kept it on for now hoping Hunter might call me, but he hasn’t. Once I’ve a burner up and running, I’ll leave an anonymous voicemail message on your office phone with the number. Check in with it, grab yourself a burner and answer me on it.’
‘Sure thing,’ said Harvey. ‘I’ll do it soon as I’m in Miami. But it means you’ll have to wait for the info.’
‘Just gimme Viskhan’s home address,’ said Rink. ‘I’ll go from there.’
Harvey read out the address as he headed towards the flight attendant checking boarding passes at the gate. Rink thanked him. Harvey said, ‘Good hunting, brother.’
22
Dressed down, Trey Shaw was a different woman, although no less beautiful than when I first saw her. Her designer dress had been replaced with jeans and a plain grey long-sleeved shirt that concealed the scrapes and bruises on her arms, and her stilettoes – and more recently cumbersome boys’ sneakers – with a pair of slip-on deck shoes. She’d styled her hair into a loose ponytail, and pulled on a ball cap and shades. Very tomboyish. But there was no disguising that she was a gorgeous young woman. She’d the kind of figure that looked good in any clothing. In fact, I had to admit that I preferred her casual look to the stunning-but-faux ideal forced on her by her husband. At heart I believed this was the real Trey Shaw, and I’m sure she felt the same. Her smile was one that flickered with embarrassment when first she’d emerged from the public restroom, but had slid into place when she noted my approving perusal. She’d barely stopped smiling since, even though we’d little to be happy about yet. Perhaps that was untrue: she’d escaped her husband and had regained a portion of control over her original self, and she was grateful for that. The smiles she offered me were maybe because I’d helped her reach this turning point in her life. I hoped I could keep her alive to enjoy it a while longer.
I too had changed clothing, but apart from now being dry I didn’t look much different. But then I wasn’t the type to stand out in a crowd to begin with, and would continue blending in. I’d dumped my soaked clothing in a trashcan in a men’s bathroom, and had advised Trey to discard hers too. I’d been taking a chance when I shopped for the clothes we needed, but maybe the sales assistant was used to seeing dishevelled guys replenishing their wardrobe after a heavy drinking session in this neighbourhood, or she simply didn’t care. I’d worried that reports of the van crashing into Indian Creek might have made the news channels already and people were on the alert for dripping survivors, but the young girl who took my damp cash was more interested in encouraging me to take out a store credit card – which would give me a twenty per cent saving on my initial purchases – than wondering why I was also buying a set of girls’ clothes. I had a cover story ready should she ask, about being caught out in the storm, but it wasn’t needed. She smiled and nodded and thanked me for my custom, all the while blank-eyed and robotic. I was confident that she’d already forgotten me as she pushed the store’s credit card deal onto her next customers.
I’d changed before handing over Trey’s outfit to her, then sat in an open seating area opposite Normandy Isle monument, nursing a coffee while I waited. There were CCTV cameras throughout the commercial area, and no way of avoiding them without skulking in dark corners, but I was unconcerned. In retrospect the cameras might be checked later, but only if there was a reason for the cops to go to the trouble. There was also mobile security, but the one uniformed guard I’d noted looked as bored and disinterested as the sales assistant had been in the shop. Fugitives were not expected to enjoy coffee in a busy public place.
Trey sat opposite me at a table, positioned so she could watch the thoroughfare behind me for any familiar faces. I could see past her down two converging roads. I’d bought take-out coffee for her, plus a muffin and a pre-packed taco wrap for each of us. At first she’d skirted around the food, but I’d advised her to eat. She needed the energy. Once she set about it she wolfed down the food, and looked for more. I passed her my muffin.
‘Well, Joe,’ she said around a mouthful of moist cake, ‘you certainly know how to show a girl a good time. The fun doesn’t stop with you, does it?’
It was good to hear her joking. I knew she was still balancing a fine line between euphoria at our escape and despondency that we weren’t still in the clear. It was best that I kept her upbeat. ‘Don’t let it be said I’m ever a boring date,’ I quipped.
‘You won’t get any argument from me.’ She smiled again, then tore off another chunk of cake. Before popping it into her mouth, her expression grew more thoughtful. ‘Actually, I’ve one slight misgiving. I’ve spent a wild night with you and I barely know a thing about you beyond your name. Huh, I’m not even sure Joe Hunter’s your real name.’
‘It’s my real name.’
She shrugged marginally.
‘Seriously,’ I said. ‘I’m called Joe Hunter.’
‘That’s exactly what you’d say if you were a spy using a pseudonym.’
‘A spy?’
‘The skills you’ve displayed throughout the night, you’re more than just an average private investigator.’
I laughed. ‘I can’t even claim to be an average private eye; I’m pretty useless when it comes to investigations. That’s the remit of the other guys in our team.’
‘Well…’ She paused to find the correct words. ‘You’ve impressed me. There were times I thought I was along for the ride with Jason Bourne.’
I snorted in good humour. ‘Don’t be too impressed. I was winging it most of the time.’
‘You did all right by me.’ Through her sunglasses I couldn’t see her eyes, but from the tilt of her head she was studying me keenly. ‘But what happens now, Joe? Where do we go from here?’
We’d paddled north in the boat, and took the right-hand spur of the creek around Allison Island, under the West 63rd Street bridge, looking for somewhere to make landfall. I was tempted to put ashore at Brittany Bay Park, but flashing emergency lights on the adjacent Indian Creek Drive put me off. Avoiding the police cordon, we slipped by on the creek and put ashore instead on another of the barrier islands that collectively formed Miami Beach called Normandy Isle. Being on the island limited our escape routes – we could go west on 79th Street to the mainland, or east to North Beach and that was it, unless we took back to the water.
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