by Mark Dawson
She heard a noise from the other side of the track. She looked across and saw movement: Dalisay was making his way slowly through the bushes toward the men.
Stop.
She wanted to call out to him, but she knew that she couldn't.
Stop!
They were to wait for Milton's signal. That was what they had agreed.
Dalisay was low down, trying to minimise the noise that he was making.
She could hear him, though. Surely that meant that they would be able to hear him, too.
She had to do something.
There was a narrow path through the bushes just inside the cover that shielded her from the road. She parted the overhanging fronds and branches and started along it, trying to stay level with Dalisay.
85
HICKS LACED his fingers together and put his hands against the back of his head. The man who had shot up the trailer was a step away from him. Hicks could have reached out and touched him. He ached with the urge to do something—anything—and fought to control his breath. He had to wait. There were three men just a handful of steps away from him who would turn him into Swiss cheese if he made a move. He had to trust Milton. He couldn’t be far away.
De Lacey walked over to him.
"What's your real name?" de Lacey said.
"Logan. You know what my name is."
"No," he said. "I don't know what your name is, but it certainly isn't that."
De Lacey knelt down and took his phone out of his pocket. He tapped on the screen and then turned it around so that Hicks could see it. There was a picture of a man there: late twenties, glasses, his hair already thinning a little.
"Who's that?" Hicks asked.
"That's William Logan. What happened to him?"
"What are you talking about—"
"Did he tell you that he never met his clients face to face? He told us that, too. It was one of the reasons I thought your offer was a little strange. Bit of a radical change of policy. It made me think, so I had a word with the lads I've been working with at MI6. Good lads, they are. Helpful. When I started working with them, one of the things they did for me was to vet Mr. Logan. It was hard to find anything much about him, but they went back into the archives and dug out what they could. They found this. It was taken when he joined the SBS. And you don’t look very much like him at all."
De Lacey's jacket fell open and Hicks saw the pistol in its holster. De Lacey noticed that he was looking at it, smiled, and took it out. He held it up so that Hicks could see it better.
"Nice, isn't it?"
It was a Browning Hi-Power, but, rather than the usual matte black, this one was finished in titanium gold.
"I love guns. They made me what I am. This one is special. It belonged to Gaddafi. They found it after he was captured. I expect you saw the pictures. They found it when they dragged his body out of that filthy sewer he was hiding in. It went underground, but I had a man find it for me. It cost a quarter of a million. I had Bertie buy it for me while I was locked up. This'll be the first time I get to use it."
"You're making a mistake."
"Am I? I don't think so."
He stood and pressed the muzzle of the gun against the top of Hicks’s head.
"Last chance. Where's Milton?"
"I don't know."
De Lacey pushed down; the muzzle of the gun pressed hard against Hicks’s scalp.
"Milton!" de Lacey called out. "You've got until I count to five to come out or I'm going to shoot whoever the fuck this is. And then, when I've done that, I'm going to find everyone who helped you escape and kill them, too. Starting with the policewoman. What was her name? Hernandez?"
"One."
Hicks closed his eyes.
"Two."
He started to doubt himself. Was this the right location?
"Three."
Had he made a mistake? Had he taken a wrong turn?
"Four."
Where was Milton?
Hicks heard someone crash through the undergrowth between the trees. Hicks didn't recognise him; he was a Filipino, and he was toting a shotgun.
The man yelled out. "Get your hands up!"
One of the men still near the Mercedes spun around and brought his weapon up in a smooth and practiced motion.
Hicks watched in dumb horror: the newcomer stumbled out from between the trees, his feet tangled in a stray vine. The shotgun suddenly jerked down to the ground as he fought to maintain his balance.
The MP5 chattered and jumped in the first man's hands as he pulled the trigger.
It was too close to miss. The spray caught the man in the stomach. He fell to his knees and then over onto his side, the shotgun tumbling out of his grasp.
"No!"
Josie burst out of the greenery from the other side of the track, the despairing cry still on her lips. Her Glock was raised and aimed.
She fired.
The shooter was facing to the side, away from Josie, and she shot him.
Hicks felt the muzzle of the pistol pull away from his head.
De Lacey had left his side. He had started to run.
The shaven-headed man who had shot up the trailer started to turn.
Now.
Hicks seized the moment. He surged to his feet and tackled the man, wrapping his arms around his body and forcing him down to the ground. The MP5 was caught between their bodies, and Hicks held it with his left hand and punched with his right, driving down with his fist and then striking even harder with his elbow.
* * *
MILTON POUNCED.
De Lacey was running at full speed in his direction. Milton came out of cover and clotheslined him. The older man's attention was distracted, and he saw Milton much too late. Milton's forearm landed across de Lacey's windpipe and turned him inside out. His legs flew out from beneath him; he corkscrewed in the air and slammed down on his stomach. Milton lunged onto him, grabbing his right wrist and forcing it behind his back and then sharply up, ensuring that the Hi-Power was pointed away from his body. He yanked up and twisted at the same time, forcing de Lacey's face down into the mulch on the ground.
Hicks had rolled atop the second man, pummelling him with rights and lefts until he stopped struggling.
Milton saw the garish pistol. He scooped it up and pressed it against the back of de Lacey's head.
"End of the road, Fitz.”
"Milton!" Josie called out.
"Don't," de Lacey said. "It's over. You got me."
Milton gritted his teeth. He pressed down, his finger sliding through the trigger guard. He could end it here. All of de Lacey's money and influence and power could cause trouble later, just like they had before, but they were impotent now.
It was just the two of them and the Browning.
Milton felt the familiar old feelings surging back again, the power he had once revelled in, the ability to snuff out life at a whim, all of it amplified this time by the unquestionable certainty that this was the right thing to do.
"Milton! I'll shoot!"
Milton’s moment of disinhibition would pass, and, if Milton let it, he knew that there was a chance that de Lacey would be able to rescue himself.
If he gave him the chance.
"John."
It was Hicks.
"She means it. You have to trust her now."
Milton looked up. Josie was edging around toward him. Her gun was on the third man, and Milton could see that he had noticed her distraction. The longer she had her attention split between the two of them, the more likely it would be that he would take his chances. They had the advantage now. It was theirs to lose. It was time to cash in his chips.
Milton reached to the side and handed the gun to Hicks.
He stood and turned to Josie. "He's all yours."
He thought that he heard the sound of laughter.
He turned back. De Lacey was on his elbows, looking up at him. His face was a mess from where Milton had struck him: he grimaced through a mask of blood
and mucus and spit. But there was the barest hint of a smirk on his face.
"What was that?" Milton said. “You think this is funny?”
" Do as you're told, John, like a good boy. You should've shot me. You won't get another chance."
De Lacey's head was at the same height as Milton's shin. That was convenient. Milton drew back his foot and booted him in the jaw.
"He's all yours," he said to Josie again as he crossed the clearing to secure the man she was covering.
86
JOSIE SAT across the table from de Lacey. The digital recorder was between them, and the camera in the corner of the room focused its little black eye down upon them. She had arranged for a trolley with a TV and PC to be wheeled into the interrogation room, too.
The interview had not gone very well. She had taken de Lacey back through the events of the previous day and then asked him a series of questions. He had refused to answer any of them, responding with a mixture of nonchalance and ease that she quickly found infuriating. She concentrated on maintaining her professionalism.
"Milton was sitting where you were last week," she said. "He was there and I was here. And now look."
"Lawyer," de Lacey said.
"You know you're going to be charged with attempted homicide, don't you?"
"Lawyer."
"Your friend shot my colleague. A police officer. He's in intensive care. They don't know whether he'll make it. Fifty-fifty, they said. If he doesn't, you're looking at murder."
"Lawyer."
"Are you sure, Mr. de Lacey?"
"I am."
"It won't matter," she said. "There are three witnesses to what you did. There's nothing a lawyer will be able to say that will make any difference."
"Milton's going to testify against me? Really? I doubt it."
"He doesn't have to. Let me show you something."
She went over to the PC and woke the screen. It was the native video player, and she set it to play.
The frame filled with the video that they had shot from inside the wrecked trailer. Dalisay had brought the old camcorder that Josie remembered him using at the tenth birthday party of his daughter a month or two ago. It was a small palm-held unit, and they had been able to install it in the back of the burned-out space so that it could record through the broken window without being too obvious from the outside. She scrubbed through the footage until she saw the Mercedes making its way down the slope to the clearing. She pressed the play button so that it ran at normal speed, presenting a nice clear shot of the men who got out of the car and the weapons that they were carrying. Hicks and de Lacey were clear, too, and, as she let the footage run, they watched as the other trailer was shot to pieces, as Hicks was ordered to the ground, and as de Lacey came forward to press the barrel of his pistol against Hicks’s head.
Josie saw de Lacey's reflection in the screen: he looked almost bored.
She stopped the playback before Dalisay was shot. She had watched it once to make sure that it had been recorded, and she had no interest in watching it again.
The picture froze with de Lacey snarling down at Hicks, the gun at his head.
"You see?" Josie said. "I don't need Milton. I don't need anyone. I've got all I need."
"Lawyer."
She clenched her fists and fought the urge to bang them against the table. "You're going back to Bilibid, Mr. de Lacey. And you won't be getting out this time."
He smiled at her. "Lawyer."
"Fine. You had your chance. We're done."
She reached over and switched off the recorder.
"It's going to give me a lot of pleasure to put you away," she said.
She stood and went to the door.
"Officer," he said.
Josie stopped and turned back.
De Lacey was staring at her. "Do you really think your government is going to want to put me on trial? Be honest—do you really think that's likely?"
"I think they'll relish it after what you’ve done."
"Then you're even more naïve and out of your depth than I thought."
"Am I?"
"You know how long I've been in business? Years. Even when I was locked up, I still had people working for me. Nothing stops. The wheels keep turning. There are always deals to be done. People always want the goods I can find for them."
"Do you want me to remind you? You shot a police officer."
De Lacey ignored her. "I've worked for all kinds of people. I've worked for individuals. I've worked for companies and organisations. And I've worked for governments. Another question?"
"Shoot."
"How do you think I got out of Bilibid?"
"I don't care."
"You should. There is a deal to be done between two governments. It needs me before it can be completed. Pressure was exerted. A phone call was made and favours were offered. The deal still needs to be completed and I’m still needed. All you’ve done is slowed things down by a day or two. How long do you think you'll be able to keep me here before you're told to let me go?"
"That's not going to happen."
"We'll have to agree to disagree, then, won't we?"
"I suppose we will."
He looked up at the clock on the wall. "I'll give you my prediction. I'll be out of here by the end of the day."
"Good luck with that."
"I mean it. I'll be out of here before you finish your shift and go back to your mother and your child. How are they? It's Angelo, isn't it? Your boy?"
Josie fought against the sudden pulse of rage. She had to bite down on her lip so hard that her tooth sliced into the flesh and she tasted blood. He was threatening her. He was threatening her son. She felt almost light-headed: a mixture of fury, fear and outrage that he had so little regard for her that he was prepared to make threats despite the certain knowledge that the camera overhead was recording everything that he said and did. He thought his money could buy him impunity.
She was afraid because she knew, deep down, that it was true. He was confident for good reason.
He smiled at her and leaned back in his chair. "Now," he said. "I'd like to speak to my lawyer, please."
* * *
JOSIE ARRANGED for de Lacey to make a phone call and, before the hour was out, she heard the clamour as two men and a woman were shown through the station and down into the basement where the holding cells were found.
Josie went to the door to the stairs. Gloria joined her from the lobby.
"Lawyers?" Josie asked.
"Wearing suits that cost more than I make in a month."
* * *
"OFFICER HERNANDEZ?"
It was Station Commander Ocampo. He was responsible for the Sampaloc district and was an ornery, irascible veteran of thirty years. Josie had never spoken to him before, and he had only ever made fleeting visits to the station.
She had been writing up the events of that afternoon. She stood, grimacing at the throb of pain from her leg. "Yes, sir?"
"Were you responsible for arresting the man in the basement? Mr. de Lacey?"
"Yes, sir. I was."
"You've got to let him go."
"What?"
"You heard me. Let him out."
"One of his men shot Manuel Dalisay. I've got it all on tape."
"Let him out, officer. That's an order. And, if I were you, I'd lose the tape."
"No," she said. "I won't."
The commander took her by the elbow and led her into the corridor where they were less likely to be overhead. "I'm serious, officer," he said sternly. "You think I want to do this? I know what he did. But this comes from the top."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the District Director called me twenty minutes ago and told me that he's been leaned on by someone senior in the Justice Department. Very senior. Do you want me to spell it out for you?"
He paused.
"It’s Josie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think, Josie. This is being disc
ussed way above us. Someone very important wants de Lacey to be out. We can’t just put him back inside again, despite what he’s done. If even half the things that I’ve heard about de Lacey are true, if he’s connected to even a fraction of the people he claims, can you imagine for one second what would happen next? That the president won’t get a phone call from Langley telling him that he has to make the problem go away? Or Beijing? Or Moscow?" He shrugged. "I’m not blaming you. You didn't know where the case was going to go. You did a good job. But when it turns out this way, sometimes you just need to be pragmatic. This is one of those times."
"No," she said. "That's bullshit. He shot Manuel. He might die. And we know he's already directly responsible for at least four deaths."
"What? The girl?"
"The owners of the bar and the hotel, too. At least. He threatened me and my son."
"How is any of that going to count when you set it against the trouble that this could unleash?"
"He killed someone. That counts. He can’t be above the law. I'm sorry, sir, I can't close my eyes."
"It doesn't matter what you can or can't do," he said. "You will process him and then let him out. That is a direct order."
"If I let that go, I—"
"This is the big leagues, Josie. You don't count for shit. I’ve been here for thirty years. I don't count for shit. Decisions get made at pay grades way above us and, if we want to stay employed, we do exactly what we're told to do. That's the way this works. If you can't deal with that, you might as well just hand in your badge and go back to whatever it was you were doing before."
Josie took a breath. There was no point in arguing. "Fine," she said. "I understand, sir."
"There's one other thing. I need you to take him to the marina. You are to see that he gets onto his yacht tonight. That's from me. He's not welcome in the Philippines any longer. You are to stay there and watch until he sets sail."
"Yes, sir."
"You've done good work. It'll stand in your favour when the time comes."
"Thank you, sir," she said.