Hard to Kill - Debt Collector 4 (A Jack Winchester Thriller)

by Jon Mills

  I would have never guessed, Jack thought before glancing out the window as the buildings blurred in his peripheral vision.

  “I came up here for a better life. It’s a mess down in Jamaica. Not what my father said it used to be. Here I get to drive people around, I make great tips and well, it’s never a dull moment, right?”

  “Right,” Jack replied lost in thought. “You think you can go a little faster?”

  “Yah mon.”

  Chapter Seven

  Giovanni arrived at John F. Kennedy a little after ten in the morning. He felt refreshed after flying first class on a non-stop from Italy. He brought no weapons with him. Salvatore had already made the call to his associates to provide him with everything he would need.

  This would be the first time he had stepped on U.S. soil. Since receiving the details of who he was going to kill, he hadn’t given much thought to the job. He rarely gave much thought to contracts. Others in his profession would become obsessed with a job. He never saw the point. Until they were standing across from you, they were not a threat. And most often he didn’t wait until they could see him before he killed. Though this time it had to be different. It would have been a lie to say that he wasn’t concerned. Getting up close and personal was not his first choice. Killing from a distance was his preference. There was no room for ego. Ego was how so many in his line of work had been killed.

  He thought about a good friend of his who had racked up quite a body count. He’d been paid handsomely for his ability to extinguish lives. The trouble was he’d begun to grow tired of his own method of killing victims from a distance. He wanted to change things up. Get up close and see the look of horror in their eyes when they knew they were about to die.

  For a while it had worked. He left a trail of blood and fear behind him that was felt among many of the crime families, until he bit off more than he could chew.

  His final target before he died was to kill Giovanni.

  Giovanni had learned about the hit twenty-four hours before it was meant to go down. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that it was his friend. It was to be expected. Giovanni had stepped on one too many toes. He had become a threat to many.

  Had he taken the shot from a distance, perhaps his friend would have been the one arriving in the United States. Instead he was now buried in an unmarked grave in Palermo.

  Ego had killed more friends than he cared to mention.

  That’s what worried him about this job.

  Unless required, he remained hidden, a ghost, someone who killed from a distance.

  Regardless, in his mind this would be a simple in and out job. He’d listened to what Salvatore had said about this man, he’d read over the file. He figured he was no more dangerous than those he had gone up against before, and he had faced some of Italy’s most deadly hit men.

  As he came out of the airport doors with no more than a carry-on case, he was greeted by a short Italian man holding up a sign with his name on it. Before guiding him into the parking lot, the man asked if he wanted to get a drink. He declined. He wasn’t here for socializing. There was a lot to be done if he was to find Jack Winchester. Finding them was the hardest part, after that it was no different than removing the cork on a bottle of pinot red wine.

  “An associate of mine will visit you with the goods. Details of the last-known associate can be found in a folder on the passenger seat.”

  Giovanni held out his hand for the keys. The pudgy man hesitated before he gave them.

  “Don’t you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  With that he took the keys to a silver Aston Martin Vanquish. He eyed the man as he slipped behind the wheel. Inside it smelled of fresh, untouched leather. He briefly glanced at the folder before turning over the ignition. It roared to life. As the throaty, well-tuned engine idled, he flipped the folder open. At the top was a photo of Detective Banfield along with his home address. He adjusted the mirrors, backed out and gunned it.

  Jack hurried down the hospital corridor towards the main front desk. All manner of thoughts rushed through his mind. Had she been shot? Been in a car crash? Did the FBI get to her? It was hard not to think that he was somehow responsible. Everyone he had crossed paths with or cared for, in some way or form had ended up hurt.

  “She’s in room 521.”

  “Thank you.”

  Shuffling along he noticed a woman selling flowers from a small trolley. He came up alongside her and fished in his pocket for a twenty-dollar bill. She handed him a small, hand-tied bouquet of pastel shades of pink, white, lilac and cream. He caught an aroma of their fragrance. As he came up to the door he peered inside, took a deep breath and entered.

  Theresa didn’t move, she was hooked up to all manner of tubes and her face was a dark shade of purple. She looked like she’d been hit with a car. An EKG monitor off to the right-hand side beeped away. Jack placed the flowers in a small empty vase that was on a counter, then filled it with water from the bathroom. The fact that there were no other flowers was strange. When he returned, her eyelids were open.

  “Jack?”

  “Hey,” he said softly, standing there for a second before moving to her side and placing the flowers down on her bedside table.

  “Those for me?”

  He tilted his head to one side. Her lip curled at the corner ever so slightly until she winced.

  “How did this happen?” he asked as he pulled up a chair beside her bed and took a seat.

  “Can I get some water?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” He got up and returned with a glass half filled. He held it up to her cracked lips and she sipped at it. He couldn’t believe the state she was in. Only a day earlier he’d seen her and her skin was perfect. Completely blemish-free and without flaw. Now it was discolored and patched up. Her lower lip was split, and both eyes looked as if she had been pummeled repeatedly. He could still see deep red finger marks on her throat.

  “Who did this?”

  She tried to sit up but groaned in agony. Jack looked at the bed and pressed one of the buttons to elevate the back. As she came up slowly he studied her.

  “I uh, was on my way back to my car last night when a vehicle pulled up beside me. Two guys jumped out and threw me in the back. They put a bag over my head and we drove around for what seemed like maybe thirty minutes. I don’t think they were going anywhere, I think they were trying to disorient me.” She breathed in slowly. “Anyway, when the car stopped I was dragged into some building. I don’t even know where it was. All I remember is it didn’t smell good. Like it was full of chemicals or something like that. They removed the bag from my head and there were five people in the room. The four large guys I’m guessing were the muscle for the guy who spoke.” She closed her eyes as if trying to recall. “He said it was my lucky night. That was it. It was my lucky night.” She paused. “They raped me, then…” She barely managed to get the words out but Jack had a feeling he knew what she was going to say. “After which they just kept beating me, cutting me. They said if I told the police, they would do the same to my daughter.”

  “Daughter?”

  Her eyes shifted over to Jack and she nodded.

  “You never mentioned you had a child.”

  She never replied.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “I didn’t phone him.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want him to know about this.”

  Jack got up from his seat and paced back and forth.

  “Theresa, you need to let him know.”

  “I can’t tell him.”

  There was silence for a moment. “Where’s your daughter?”

  “She’s with Billy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked a friend to check in.”

  “Don’t you think he’s going to get a little suspicious when you return with bruises all over you?”

  She reached for the glass. Jack brought it over to her.

  “What about the
police? Have you contacted them?”

  “They came by but I told them I couldn’t remember. They won’t do anything about it anyway. In fact, by the questions they asked, I got a sense they thought I had brought it on myself.”

  “But you hold down a respectable job.”

  “I don’t have a respectable past, now do I, Jack? Both you and I know it wouldn’t take them long to bring that up and well…” Her eyes dropped before meeting his gaze. “I was wondering…”

  Jack lifted a hand. “No. I can’t get involved.”

  “Why? This is what you do. It’s who you are.”

  “Not anymore. You need to go to the police on this. And anyway, you said yourself, you don’t know where they took you or who they were.”

  “If I tell the police they will hurt her.”

  “How can you be sure this wasn’t just a random incident? For all we know they do this all the time. Maybe they mistook you for a lost tourist?”

  She stared at him.

  “They knew my daughter’s name. They knew her name was Ruby.”

  Jack breathed out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair.

  “Did you have anything in your purse with her name?”

  “No. Just a photo.”

  He stared blankly back at her. “Look, I’d like to help but—”

  “She’s your daughter, Jack,” she cut him off. His eyes widened as he allowed the words to sink in. At first he didn’t know what to say. She continued, “I should have phoned. But I…”

  “If you are trying to get my help by lying…”

  “I’m not lying. Look at the photo. It’s in my bag.”

  Jack went over to a black leather bag that had a bloodstain on the side. He brought it over to her and she ferreted inside until she retrieved the photo. He looked at the girl who was the spitting image of her mother. She had dark hair and dark eyes. He tried to see the resemblance to himself but he couldn’t see it. She was a good-looking kid.

  “When did you have her?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  “Four years before I went inside?”

  She nodded. “I wanted us to get away from the life we were living.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me you were pregnant?”

  “Would you have let me go if I had?”

  He shook his head.

  “I left for Ruby’s sake, and mine. That wasn’t a life to let her grow up in.”

  “And this is?”

  Jack breathed in deeply as the weight of her confession bore down on him. He got up and walked to the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to get some air.”

  Chapter Eight

  The crime in New York never let up. Frank stood at a murder scene in an apartment. He gazed around at the mess. Even pigs lived better than this, he thought. It was like no one cared about hygiene anymore. He smeared Vicks VapoRub underneath his nostrils to prevent him tossing up his breakfast. It was late morning when the call came in. A typical domestic dispute had spiraled out of control between two neighbors over the noise of music. One of the neighbors had retrieved his Glock and unloaded four rounds into the couple living across from him, then turned the gun on himself and blew his brains out.

  No one could get used to the sight of brain matter spread across the wall or the stench of bodies festering in the heat of day. As the crime team made their way around recording, photographing and dusting for prints, Frank found himself thinking about the conversation he’d had with Agent Baker. The woman didn’t let up. But there was something different about her tone this time around. Something had changed. He could only hope that she came to her senses before it was too late. He wasn’t worried that Jack would kill her. He didn’t hurt women, at least that was the rumor.

  “Have you interviewed the witnesses?” Frank asked a fellow officer.

  “There was only one other person who was brave enough to stick their head outside the door. Even then, she said that he fired at her when she did. Thankfully she slammed the door in time otherwise we might have had a fourth victim.”

  “Any motive established?”

  “According to the landlord, our guy was fired from his job yesterday.”

  Frank shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him even after all the years on the force, the lengths that people would go to when stressed. City life had a way of bringing out the worst in people. You could almost feel the stress and tension in the air as you journeyed through the mass of New Yorkers. It didn’t take much for people to break down in the Big Apple. A sudden loss of work, someone cutting them off or even a look could be taken the wrong way. He knew it all too well. He was already taking meds for a lack of sleep. However, despite the stress he’d been under of late, he was just glad to have work. It kept his mind occupied.

  “Listen, you think you can wrap this up? I have one more call to attend to and then I’m knocking off for the day.”

  “Lucky,” Dave said. “It never ends for us.”

  “Yeah, you might want to rethink being a detective, it doesn’t get much better.”

  He turned away and exited the building that smelled of urine, blood and death. Outside in the street he made his way over to his car and slid in. For a few seconds he didn’t turn over the ignition, he just sat there and allowed his mind to find peace.

  Though his peace was short-lived when he felt the cold metal pressed against his temple. His eyes flitted up to the rearview mirror to see a stranger in the back of his car. For someone who was holding up a detective outside the scene of a crime with cops walking around, he was very calm and collected.

  “Drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Just start the car and go.”

  Frank moved ever so slowly while the man pulled out Frank’s piece from inside his jacket. The car chugged to life and he guided it out as the man ducked down to avoid detection. When they had got a few blocks from the apartment the man gave him instructions to return to his home. Frank fell back on his negotiation techniques that he’d learned over the years in the hope that he could deter the man from pulling the trigger. He could tell the guy wasn’t a junkie. He’d seen enough of them in his time. They had this wild look in their eyes, dark circles and usually were shaking because they needed money to get high. This guy was nothing like that. He acted as though this was just a walk in the park. That’s what concerned Frank. He hadn’t seen him around the city, and his face had never appeared in any photos that he could recall. Was he Mafia?

  When they arrived outside his home, the man took the keys to the car and got out, then instructed him to step out. He kept the gun firmly fixed against the low part of his back. One shot and his spine would be ripped in two. If he was lucky he’d be sucking food through a straw and forever remain crippled. The alternative was death, neither of them were appealing.

  “If you want money, I can give you that.”

  “Just get inside.”

  Frank’s heart was racing as he tried to make sense of what was going on. He fumbled with the keys and dropped them.

  “Pick ’em up.”

  Frank swallowed hard and reached down to grab them. For a brief second he considered slamming his fist into the guy’s family jewels but with the gun aimed right at him, it would have been a risky move. He inserted the key and turned over the lock. When the door opened, the man shoved him forward into the living room.

  “Take a seat.”

  Frank slumped down in an armchair and the man sat across from him. He didn’t say anything for at least two minutes. He just sat observing Frank as if weighing up the risk. Laying the gun on the arm of the chair, but with his finger still against the trigger, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Cigarette?”

  Was this guy mental? Clearly. “No.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  A kidnapper with manners?

  “Go ahead.”

  He placed the cigarette between his lips an
d lit the end. It glowed a deep orange and then he blew out a puff of grey smoke and studied him.

  “Jack Winchester. Where is he?”

  Frank chuckled a little.

  “Something amusing?”

  “You’re the second person today who has asked about him.”

  “Who else was asking?”

  “FBI.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  Frank stared at him. The hesitation was a mistake.

  The crack of the gun going off jolted him. It was followed by excruciating pain in his right foot. Either he thought Frank wasn’t going to tell him or he wanted to prove a point that he wasn’t messing around.

  “What the hell?”

  “What did you tell them?”

  Through gritted teeth he replied, “I told her that he used to date a woman here in the city, by the name of Theresa Rizzo. She moved to Louisiana eight years ago.”

  Frank yanked off his shoe and wrapped his hands around his bloodied foot. He was groaning in agony as he looked for something to wrap around it.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the stranger said as Frank tried to get up. He motioned for him to take his seat again. In excruciating pain but not wanting to die, he did as he was told.

  The man continued smoking his cigarette.

  “No family?”

  Frank shook his head.

  “Do you know where Jack is?”

  “I swear I don’t. He was here about seven months ago, he went to L.A. and then well, who knows where he has gone.”

  “But you think he might have gone to Louisiana?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he bellowed.

  That was the wrong thing to say. He fired another shot into his left foot. The pain intensified and he knew this wouldn’t end well.

  “I’ve told you everything you want to know.”

  “How do you know what I want to know?”

  “Well, you asked me about Jack.”

  “How do you know what I want to know?”

  What kind of mind game was he playing with him?