by Tim Stevens
The woman had been ready for a fight, and she’d moved fast, loosing off a shot from her handgun through the windshield of the car behind. The two men had avoided getting hit, and had convinced her to drop her weapon, not through any particularly persuasive technique they possessed but rather by aiming rifles at her.
“You’re finished,” said Venn. His voice sounded ragged, and he cleared his throat. “Feds’ll be here any moment.”
Franciscus said, “I don’t think so.” He nodded at one of his men, never taking his eyes off Venn’s face. The man handed him something. Franciscus saw Venn’s gaze follow it.
A hunting knife.
Franciscus moved beside Clune, who like the woman had a gag tied across his mouth. The kid’s eyes were white pools of terror.
Without pausing, Franciscus grasped the boy’s left hand where it was tethered behind his back and sawed through the end joint of his little finger.
The gag was barely enough to muffle the scream, and the echo off the walls amplified it.
Franciscus raised the tip of the pinkie and held it out, showing it to Venn and Jones in turn as though displaying a diamond he’d just found on the sidewalk. He tossed it on the ground and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood off his hands, then off the blade of the knife.
“For God’s sake, Franciscus,” snarled Venn between clenched teeth.
“Just setting the scene,” said Franciscus conversationally. He didn’t look at the boy, who was alternately roaring and sobbing through the cloth of the gag.
Franciscus stood before Venn, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing the knife.
“How much do you know?”
Venn glared at him. “About what?”
Franciscus sighed. “Ten fingers, including the thumbs. Twenty-eight segments in total. I hope you don’t lie to me twenty-eight times, Lieutenant. Because I’ll probably get bored long before then, and start taking shortcuts. Like, moving to the wrists instead.”
This provoked a fresh bout of muffled howling from Clune. One of the men slapped him alongside his head and the boy rocked sideways, falling silent in shock.
Venn said: “I know you were stationed here in San Antonio ten years ago when you were with the Rangers. I know you’ve had dealings with Oscar Flowers, AKA Flores. I know you recognize the Salazar brand, the tattoo. Beyond that... I know nothing.”
Franciscus studied the cop. The words rang true. But there were lies of omission, as well as commission.
He moved swiftly behind Clune again and took off the second joint of his pinkie. It was harder this time, because his grip was made difficult by the slickness of the blood, and Franciscus had to twist the bone before it snapped free.
The boy’s scream would have sent a tiger fleeing from its forest domain.
“You know something else,” said Franciscus to Venn, quietly.
He watched the man’s face work, as he tried to recall something he’d missed. “I know there’s something politically sensitive about all of this, and your involvement in it,” Venn said. “That’s why I was warned off when I started researching the links between O’Dell, Kruger, Flowers and Salazar. But I don’t know what it is.”
“Better,” said Franciscus. He cleaned his hands and the blade with the handkerchief once more. “My next question is: who else knows what you know? Who have you told?”
“Nobody,” Venn answered immediately.
Franciscus raised his eyebrows. He hefted the knife, glanced at Clune.
“Nobody,” said Venn again, with more emphasis. “Not my boss. Or anyone else. I got a contact in the military to research your background, but I didn’t tell him why. The only other person who knew anything was my partner, Detective Sickert. And he’s dead.”
“So why did you say the Feds were on their way?”
“I was bluffing,” said Venn.
Franciscus nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s honest. We seem to understand each other, Lieutenant. You tell me the truth, and I won’t need to do any more cutting.”
He thought Venn was telling the truth. Back in New York, with no obvious leads, Franciscus had gotten an associate to hack him into the police radio channels, to see if he could pick up any signs of activity in the city that might lead him to Clune. He’d learned about an outdoor shooting involving piled-up cars in Harlem, and when he’d heard a report of a large, shaven-headed man fleeing the scene together with an African-American woman and a slightly-built younger man, he’d headed immediately for the scene. It was already cordoned off, but through the sea of police uniforms he’d spotted the Mustang half-crushed under the other car. He recognized the Mustang from the parking lot behind Venn’s office.
So Venn and the Jones cop had escaped with Clune, and were presumably working off the grid, since Franciscus knew for a fact they’d been warned off the case. Which didn’t help him much, because they’d now be harder to find than ever.
Except he found himself thinking back to the moment he’d recognized Clune as Flowers’ driver. Clune had been out in the car, and Franciscus had noticed his face.
And Clune had been looking straight back at him.
Which meant, if Clune remembered Franciscus, he might identify him to Venn. And that, in turn, might send Venn to San Antonio to investigate further.
It was a long shot. Another possibility was that Venn might decide to go back on the grid, and persuade the FBI to investigate the San Antonio connection. Either way, though, Franciscus needed to secure the San Antonio office.
So he’d made some calls, pulled some strings, and arranged a flight to San Antonio. It took less than three-and-a-half hours, with a further twenty minutes to reach the office out of town. On the way, Franciscus made further calls to employees of the Delta project in Texas. They were to start removing hard drives and all paper documentation from the office, and to post a permanent guard there. If the local police or Federal agents arrived, they were to get out of there quickly. But if anybody matching the descriptions of Venn, Jones or Clune turned up, they had to be captured and held until Franciscus himself got there.
As it happened, nobody else showed. Franciscus assisted with the cleansing of the office, then debated what to do. The sensible thing would be to return to New York. But a part of him, the intuitive faculty that had served him well both as an Army Ranger and as a lawyer, told him to stay put. To wait for Venn, who was surely on his way.
And his patience had been rewarded.
He looked down at Venn. “You realize there’s nothing personal about this.”
Venn didn’t answer.
“I meant what I said at our first meeting. That I’m indebted to the Marines. That hasn’t changed. But I have to see you now as a cop first, and a Marine second.”
He jerked his head. One of the four men drew a gun from his waistband and aimed it at Venn. Another did the same for Jones.
Clune, who’d been whimpering behind the gag, began to yell once more.
Venn said, “Let the kid go, at least. He’s a coward. You threaten reprisals against him, he won’t tell anyone about this. Stick him on a flight straight back to England and he won’t be any more trouble to you.”
Franciscus sighed. “Lieutenant, you disappoint me. Really, really disappoint me.” He indicated Clune. “He’s the one I want answers from. You were just a loose end.”
His words were punctuated by the double click of two hammers being cocked.
Venn said: “Wait. You’re missing something.”
“More disappointment, Lieutenant.” Franciscus felt genuinely rueful. “Stalling isn’t your style.”
“No,” said Venn. “I’m serious. You’ve missed a trick.”
Franciscus studied him. This was interesting. He considered it.
After ten seconds, he said, “No. Can’t think of anything. You’re going to have to tell me.”
“Salazar.”
“What about him?”
“He’s tying up loose ends, too,” said Venn. “Tha
t’s why he’s going after Clune here. That’s why he killed Kruger. He’s erasing every trace of Flowers and his associates.”
Franciscus frowned. “I still don’t see why that –”
Venn glanced at Clune. “The kid told Salazar about every errand he ran for Flowers. Every meeting he drove him to. Including the meetings here, with you.”
Franciscus felt a stirring of unease.
“Which means,” Venn went on, “that Salazar will have this place staked out. And when he learns that a guy matching Clune’s description arrived here, he’ll –”
If Venn finished his sentence, Franciscus didn’t hear it, because at that moment the window of the storeroom blew inward in a hurricane of glass and the man covering Venn with his gun screamed as he was hurled forward, gunfire stitching a bloody ragged pattern across his back.
Chapter 40
Venn flung himself sideways, his reflexes kicking in before his forebrain had a chance to process what was happening.
The movement toppled the entire chair to the left and his shoulder slammed painfully against the hard stone floor. As the rest of the windows shattered in a crescendo of jagged fragments and the chatter of semiautomatic fire continued outside, two more of Franciscus’ men fell twisted and shrieking.
Across from Venn, Harmony heaved herself so that her tipping chair collided with Clune’s. The impact knocked his chair over but hers remained propped up at an angle.
Franciscus’ instincts, honed like Venn’s in the military, had caused him to drop prone and flatten himself against the floor. His remaining man crouched, yelling incoherently, but he didn’t seem to Venn to have been hit.
“Franciscus,” Venn bellowed over the torrent of noise. “Cut us loose.”
Franciscus didn’t answer, but shuffled himself round, still prone, so that his head was nearer the front, from where the shooting was coming.
“God damn it, man,” Venn shouted. “We don’t know how many of them there are out there. There’s just the two of you. Cut us loose, and our chances of surviving this are better.”
Instead of arguing, Franciscus slid across to Venn and raised himself just enough that he could cut through the plastic ties with the hunting knife.
Venn wrenched himself free from the chair, grabbed the knife from Franciscus and scooted over to Harmony and Clune. He cut them free, and they ripped the gags from their mouths.
Clune rose to his knees, brandishing the stump of his finger. “He cut my finger off! I’ll never be able to –”
Venn lashed out with his foot and kicked the kid’s knees out from under him. “Stay down, you idiot.” He rolled to face Franciscus. “Where’d you put our guns?”
“On the shelf over there.” Franciscus indicated with a nod. He’d drawn a handgun of his own.
The shooting had stopped, but Venn wasn’t taking any chances. Staying down, he scrambled over and reached up blindly and groped until he found both guns. He tossed Harmony’s to her, then checked the Beretta was still loaded.
Franciscus’ man had taken a quick peek over the window sill. He said: “Jesus. Ten of them, maybe a dozen. They’re creeping closer.”
“How far away?” said Venn.
“Twenty yards.”
To Franciscus, Venn said, “Is there a rear entrance?”
“There’s a fire door. But they may have that covered.”
“We’ll have to take that chance.” Venn pointed at Franciscus’ man. “What’s your name?”
“Munez.”
“All right. You and Harmony stay here. Franciscus, you and I are going out the back.”
Clune said, gibbering, “What about me?”
“You’re going out the front door.”
“What?”
Venn explained quickly.
*
Clune began to snivel. “I can’t –”
“Kid. Listen to me.” Venn spoke low, urgently. “There’s no time to debate this. You’re the safest of all of us. Salazar wants you alive, otherwise he’d have killed you long ago in New York, when he had the chance. They won’t shoot you. But you gotta be bold, if this is going to work.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes,” said Harmony, her eyes spewing poison. “You god damn can. What’s more, you will.”
“Okay,” said Venn. He glanced at the others in turn. “Go.”
He and Franciscus scuttled for the door, Franciscus leading the way. Beyond was a passage running left to right. Franciscus took them right, then sharply left, down a shorter corridor which led to the fire door.
Both men paused in front of it. Then Franciscus pushed down the bar and shoved it open, Venn aiming past him across his shoulder.
There was nobody outside. Just an overgrown, untended yard segueing into dusty tarmac.
Hugging the wall, they moved round the back and side of the building. The timing of all of this was crucial, and there was no way they could co-ordinate their moves precisely.
Franciscus reached the corner at the front and stopped, his gun raised. Venn pressed in close beside him.
They waited. Two seconds. Three.
Then Clune’s voice came, high and uncertain, from round the front, and Venn knew he was at the front door. “Hey. I s-surrender.”
The men in front began to shout.
“Now,” hissed Venn, and he and Franciscus leaped round the corner.
As he fired, Venn saw what he’d been hoping for. Salazar’s men – who were frighteningly close to the front of the building – had been distracted by the sight of Clune appearing in the doorway. They reacted quickly, but not quickly enough.
Venn’s first shot caught one of the men in the chest. The second did the same with another man. Almost simultaneously, Franciscus dropped two more of them.
And through the open window space along the front, Harmony’s and Munez’ guns joined in, the assorted firearms setting up a terrible counterpoint to each other. Venn saw three more of the men jerk and sprawl in the dirt.
The remaining three were fast, diving behind the two four-by-fours parked in front. Franciscus fired, but his shots smashed into the side panels of the cars. One of the tires sagged with an audible hiss.
“Get back inside, idiot,” Venn yelled at Clune, who was standing in the doorway, paralyzed. The kid disappeared from sight, slamming the door.
From behind the cars the three remaining men began to return fire, and Venn and Franciscus had to duck back round the corner as the high-velocity bullets shrieked past them.
Venn dropped to the ground and crawled so that he could peer round the corner. He sighted along his arm, saw part of one crouching man’s knee under the chassis of the car.
Taking careful aim, Venn fired. He saw the knee jerk, heard a scream, and the man emerged partially in front of the car.
Franciscus shot him in the head.
Two left.
A new fusillade of shots came from the window, but succeeded only in riddling the cars. One of the remaining men fired back, ducking away as Venn and Franciscus took a bead on him.
Venn heard a man’s scream from inside the window. Munez.
The shooting stopped. Venn stared at the cars, looking for an exposed part, a hand or a shoe.
The standoff dragged out across six seconds. Ten.
Then one of the men broke out, running sideways away from the car, a berserker’s roar erupting from his lungs as he fired blindly, raking the window space and the corner where Venn and Franciscus were huddled with semiautomatic fire.
Venn rolled, staying low because the man was controlling the weapon poorly, which meant the recoil was jerking the shots too high. In Venn’s field of vision the running man turned over and over, and Venn knew he’d have just one shot before the guy swung the rifle to bear on him.
He fired in mid-roll, kept on rolling, saw the guy lifted off his feet and flung on his back, his dead finger still pulling the trigger back for a second until the gun fell from his grasp.
The echo of the gunfire rang
in Venn’s ears. He knew it would last a long time.
He called out to the single remaining guy: “Listen up. You’re on your own. You don’t stand a chance. Throw your gun clear and come on out with your hands behind your head, fingers interlocked.”
There was no response.
Venn called, “Three seconds. Two.”
The rifle came heaving out from behind the car to land on the forecourt. A moment later the man emerged.
Venn had been prepared for the next move.
Franciscus brought his gun up to point at Venn and Venn slammed the butt of the Beretta down on Franciscus’ forearm, hard enough that he heard bone crack. Franciscus gasped, his hand opening reflexively, releasing the gun.
Venn punched him in the face, but Franciscus was fast and averted his head so that Venn’s fist caught the cheekbone rather than the nose and mouth. Franciscus brought a knee up toward Venn’s groin and caught his thigh a glancing blow that hurt like hell.
With his good hand, Franciscus grasped Venn’s gun arm and twisted the Beretta up and away from him. Franciscus lunged in with his head, his forehead striking Venn’s chin and causing stars to explode behind Venn’s eyes.
An animal rage catching fire inside him, Venn yanked his arm free from Franciscus’ grip and brought the Beretta down on the crown of his head, once, twice, beating him down as though hammering a tent-peg into the ground. Franciscus groaned, and sagged, and dropped to his knees.
Venn kicked him in the face, then kicked his gun into the distance.
He turned to see the remaining Salazar man kneeling on the forecourt, Harmony standing over him with her gun leveled.
“You okay?” Venn said.
“Yeah. You?”
“I’ll live.”
He reached down and dragged Franciscus by the feet so that he was laid out on the forecourt. Through the shattered window he called, “Come on out, kid. It’s over.”
Clune emerged gradually through the front door, like a snail peeking out of its shell.
“What now?” said Harmony.
Venn nudged Franciscus with his boot. “We take him inside,” he said. “This other guy too.”