Alpha Kill - 03

by Tim Stevens

  “Beth –”

  “You see the world like it’s a constant war between good and evil. People are either your friend, or they’re opponents to be defeated. There’s no middle ground. And I can’t live like that, Venn. Not day to day.”

  Beth felt a sob rising in her chest and she choked it back angrily.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll walk you –”

  “No.” It came out more vehemently than she’d intended. More quietly, she said, “I need to be alone.”

  She began walking away down the street.

  Please don’t follow me. Just... don’t.

  After twenty paces she glanced back. But Venn was still there, on the corner, standing quite still, staring after her.

  Chapter 8

  Two years ago or more, when Venn had first been living in New York and working as a private eye, he’d have hit a bar or two afterwards, gotten a load on. He wouldn’t have deliberately sought out fights, but he wouldn’t exactly have avoided them either.

  He thought it was a sign of maturity, or maybe just encroaching middle age, that this time he simply went home.

  He turned the heat in the shower up until it was almost more than he could bear, and stood under the scalding jets.

  Venn had always been mistrustful of emotion. He viewed it as an evolutionary quirk, and as something that was granted far more importance than it deserved. People made stupid decisions all the time because they allowed their feelings to guide them to action. Religious wars, racial conflict... all of it could be avoided if individuals, and societies, and governments, just stopped acting on the whim of whatever they were feeling and instead started relying on their brains instead.

  Which was why Venn had a hard time dealing with strong emotions when they seized hold of him.

  He became aware, as his skin reddened under the blasts of water, that his fists were clenched, his jaw muscles bunched. Consciously, he relaxed them.

  He couldn’t figure out why he was still so angry now. Normally, fury would drive him through a fight, but then dissipate rapidly afterward, once he’d gotten the job done. But now, nearly an hour after he’d roughed the drunks up, his heart was still pounding, his limbs prepared for more action.

  Then a realization struck him, and although he tried to force it away, it had gotten into his mind and wouldn’t be moved.

  He wasn’t angry. He was frightened.

  Beth was right, of course. He’d overreacted spectacularly. Ordinarily he would have uttered a few sharp words to the kids outside the bar, and it would have been enough. It would have more effective, in fact, than laying into them like he’d done. A quiet warning, with the full authority of his cop’s persona behind it, and they’d likely have slunk away, chastened and relieved that they hadn’t gotten into more trouble. They’d have sobered up somewhere, and maybe the next time they’d have thought twice before bringing their drunken fratboy bullshit out into the street.

  Two years ago, shortly after he’d first met Beth, Venn had beaten a man to death in front of her. The situation had been completely different than tonight. The man had been a professional assassin, hired to kill Beth, and he’d damn near succeeded and killed Venn too. But even then, Venn had gone way over the top, continuing to pound the guy long after it was all over. Beth had been distressed by Venn’s behavior, and had called him out on it.

  Tonight, he’d been ready to kill the six kids outside the bar. He’d been disappointed when they’d folded so easily, and a tiny voice in his head had been begging them to pull switchblades or, even better, handguns. He had his Beretta in its shoulder holster, and he’d felt its weight, familiar and comfortable, against his chest.

  “Crazy,” he muttered to himself. He was turning into one of those crazy cops. The ones who, if they were working narcotics, started dipping their noses into the product. Or who, after years of immersion in the world of money laundering and fraud and other financial skulduggery, began to help themselves here and there to little treats of cash. Venn dealt with violence on a regular basis. He’d taken down armed robbers and drug kingpins and Bosnian warlords. Men who communicated through force.

  And he was becoming one of them.

  He reached up and twisted the shower control as low as it would go. The sudden freezing torrent knocked the breath out of his chest.

  Except his theory wasn’t quite right. He’d always had a hairtrigger temper, even as a kid. In school, he’d been a brawler. At boot camp in the Marines, he’d reacted badly to the pranks his peers had played on him, even though it was nothing personal and everybody got the same treatment sooner or later.

  He’d learned to control that temper, to channel it. He wasn’t always successful, but he’d understood early on as a Marine, and later as a cop, that a real man, whatever that was, exercised self-control. And he was getting better at it. He’d been slung out of the Chicago PD because he’d crossed the line while bringing a drug dealer to justice. Since he’d become a cop once again, after the intervening years out in the wilderness, he’d found it far easier to display restraint.

  So what had happened tonight? Why had he lost it so completely?

  His frustration at being so near to Beth once again, yet still being so far away from her, was part of it, he suspected. But that wasn’t all.

  It was the phone call, said a mocking voice in his head.

  Those goddamn voices. Venn could easily understand how they drove people nuts.

  He towelled himself off fiercely, angry at his self-absorption. There was no use wallowing in regret. Even if there’d been a chance of Beth and him getting back together, of trying again, he’d screwed it up with his attack on the drunk guys. That would have been final proof to Beth that she’d made the right decision.

  Venn wondered suddenly if she still wanted his help with the other business, the abnormal statistics. She hadn’t said anything when she’d run off, and he didn’t dare to call her yet. Venn decided to proceed as planned, to start looking into Bruce Collins and his connection to the hospital. Everything else would have to wait until Beth emailed Venn the screenshots she’d taken of the patients Dr Collins had transferred out.

  Assuming she did email them to him, of course.

  *

  Venn threw on a Tee-shirt and jeans and went into the apartment’s second bedroom, which he used as a makeshift study. While he waited for his computer to boot up, he remembered the news he’d heard earlier about Horn Creek in Illinois, and he turned on the small TV on the bookshelf.

  It was the second item on the bulletin. A power failure at Horn Creek had been followed by a full-scale riot. Local and Federal law enforcement had contained the situation promptly and power had been restored, but not before four guards had been killed, nine others injured, and seven inmates had escaped.

  The dead guards hadn’t been named yet, but the escapees sure had. Te public was advised to exercise extreme vigilance, and not to approach any of the men under any circumstances whatsoever.

  Seven photographs appeared on the screen in succession. Venn watched carefully, and with a sense of disorienting familiarity. It was a regular rogue’s gallery, a parade of some of Illinois’ and the Midwest’s most horrendous denizens. Armed robbers. Rapists. Murderers.

  Venn recognized four of the men. Three were guys he hadn’t had any direct involvement with, but whose arrests by his colleagues in the Chicago PD had been big events.

  The fourth was Eugene S. Drake.

  His picture remained on the screen as the news anchor recited a list of his crimes. Venn stared at the bland face with its cropped fair hair, its dark eyes that held a hint of mockery even though the rest of the expression was serious.

  The news broadcast moved on to something else. Venn snapped off the TV and leaned back in his chair.

  Gene Drake’s out.

  That was bad news for a whole lot of people.

  Chapter 9

  The most direct route to New York was by taking the I-80, but Drake and h
is people abandoned it early on.

  Rosenbloom had hacked a number of truckers’ VHF radio communications from his car, and he’d learned from the disgruntled drivers that the interstate was littered with roadblocks and state police cars. It wasn’t worth the risk. So Skeet and Walusz and Rosenbloom worked out an alternative route, one which took them on and off the main roads and at times deep into rural Illinois and then Indiana and Ohio.

  Drake didn’t interfere, relying on the others to plan the route for him. But he was irritated. He’d been hoping to reach New York in twelve hours, by lunchtime tomorrow. At this rate, they’d get there by late afternoon or early evening.

  It didn’t really matter, he guessed. The man he was going to kill would be there. And night time was the best time to hit him, anyhow. It was just that Drake liked to have a little time beforehand, to scout out the territory, identify the dangers and pitfalls, before moving in. He was cautious, and methodical, which explained why he’d stayed out of jail as long as he had.

  After they’d been driving several hours, he decided to take a nap. After Lester Fairbanks had gotten word to him about the date of the breakout, Drake had made sure he got as much sleep as possible beforehand. Again, it was his careful, planning nature at work. But even though he didn’t feel sleepy, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea to stay awake all night, not if he was going to do the hit later that day.

  He tilted back the passenger seat and closed his eyes.

  A minute later, his cell phone rang.

  Skeet had given him the phone earlier. It had in turn been supplied to Skeet by a man who, alone, knew its number.

  Drake answered. “Yeah.”

  A man’s voice said, without preamble: “Do you know who I am?”

  Like, duh, thought Drake. “I can guess.”

  “Any complications?” said the man.

  “With the breakout, you mean? No,” Drake replied. “And I got rid of Fairbanks.”

  He sensed the man wincing at the other end. “Please. No names. Where are you now?”

  Drake peered out the window. A sign was coming up alongside the road.

  “Near Lima, Ohio.”

  “When do you expect to reach New York?”

  Drake glanced at Walusz, but it was no use asking him. The guy couldn’t speak.

  “Maybe tomorrow afternoon. This afternoon, I guess it is now. Could be later. I don’t want to rush this trip. Every state between here and New York is crawling with cops. If I have to detour five hundred miles, I’ll do it.”

  The man at the other end of the phone said quickly, “Yes, of course. You mustn’t get stopped. Take as long as you need.”

  Drake sat up, interested. “Why does it matter? You sound like there’s some urgency about this. So what if I kill this guy tomorrow, or the next day, or in a week?”

  “That isn’t your concern,” the man said, a note of testiness creeping into his voice.

  “So why exactly are you calling me?” said Drake.

  “To provide you with my number, mainly,” said the man. “Which you now have. In case you need to contact me while you’re in New York.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” The guy’s prissy tone was starting to irritate Drake.

  “In case you need my help.”

  Drake laughed. “Hey, man. Trust me. Killing is kind of what I’m good at, remember? I’ve got all of the help I need, right here with me.”

  Down the line, the man gave a faint sigh. “All right. There’s another reason I called you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m hanging up now. In a few seconds you’ll get a text message.”

  Before Drake could reply, the call was cut off.

  Drake looked at the screen.

  Sure enough, ten seconds later a message arrived.

  It was blank, but there was an image attached.

  Drake stared at it.

  For the first time since his escape, for the first time since as far back as he could recall, he felt a sucker punch of fear in his gut.

  Oh God...

  He enlarged the image with a swipe of his finger and thumb.

  Yes, there was no doubt.

  Drake gripped the phone in his hand so hard it creaked. He darted a sidelong look at Walusz, but the mute Pole was staring straight ahead at the road.

  With a thumb that trembled, Drake punched the keys to return the call. It was answered halfway through the first ring.

  Drake waited. At the other end, the man said, “You got it?”

  “You son of a bitch,” said Drake, very quietly, enunciating each word precisely.

  “Insurance,” the man said matter-of-factly. “That’s all it is. You’re a pragmatist. You must understand where I’m coming from.”

  “So help me, if you –”

  The guy cut in: “If you fail to carry out the hit, you know what’s going to happen. If you succeed, but get caught afterward, and decide to try and plea-bargain your way out of it by mentioning my name... you know what’s going to happen. Do we understand one another?”

  Drake said nothing. Choking waves of fury seized his throat, caused his vision to swim.

  The man went on, “In return, I promise you this. If you succeed in your job, and either get away, or else get yourself arrested but keep your mouth shut - forever - then no further action will be taken. And before you ask me what guarantees I can give you... well, all you have is my word. Which you’ll have to trust.”

  Drake found his voice. He said, “After this is over -”

  “You’re going to find me and kill me. Yes, I know. Yada yada yada.” Again, there was a small sigh. “Look. I realize I’ve complicated matters, because now you loathe me more than anybody else in the world. I’m at risk of supplanting him in your hate list. But think about it this way. If he hadn’t put you away, you wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. He’s still to blame. He’s the one you need to destroy, above all else. Focus on that. Compartmentalize.”

  Funny, Drake thought distantly. Compartmentalization was the only concept he’d ever found useful in any of the bullshit the shrinks had shoveled at him through the years. You could survive anything, deal with anything life threw your way, if you learned to box up experiences and ideas and feelings and set them to one side, out of the way, while you got on with the business at hand. You could always open those boxes later, at your leisure, and take a look inside, if you wanted. Or you could just ignore them, piling them up in the vast warehouse of your psyche, never to be considered again.

  But this - this, the bombshell that had just been detonated in Drake’s face - couldn’t be tidied away so easily. It was going to squat on the periphery of Drake’s vision, until he dealt with it.

  Which he would do. Sooner or later.

  On the phone, the man said: “Remember. If you need anything, call me.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 10

  When the door buzzer sounded, Beth jumped so hard the water in the glass she was holding spilled on the kitchen counter.

  She leaned against the counter for a few seconds, her heart hammering. She realized, when her vision began to swim, that she’d forgotten to breath, and sucked great lungfuls of air in.

  Beth squeezed her eyes shut.

  You’ve got to get a grip.

  She mopped up the spilled water quickly with a dishcloth and, before the buzzer could sound again, hurried over to the intercom beside the door.

  “Hello? Who is it?”

  The voice sounded amused and concerned at the same time. “It’s me. Who were you expecting?”

  Again Beth closed her eyes.

  Paul.

  “Come on up.” She pressed the entry button.

  In the thirty seconds or so before the knock came on the door, Beth checked herself in the hallways mirror. She looked frazzled. Exhausted, even. It was too late to do anything about her hair.

  She’d known Paul was coming, but she’d completely forgotten about him.

&n
bsp; And then he was there, in the crack of the door, his wry grin in place, his mild brown eyes friendly but puzzled.

  “Hey.”

  Beth stepped aside to let him in, allowing a smile to force itself across her face. She closed the door behind him and his arms came around her. Their mouths met, briefly.

  He stepped back to hold her at arm’s length, gazing at her. “Tough day?”

  “You wouldn’t believe.” Beth ran a hand through her hair, thankful that she could be honest.

  Paul held up a paper sack in one hand, from which a bottle neck protruded. “Pinot Noir help?”

  “Yes.” Beth sagged against him gratefully. “That would be great.”

  They stood like that for a few moments, Beth with her face pressed against his neck, breathing in his clean, warm smell, Paul with his free arms clasped round her waist. For a brief time, she was able to empty her thoughts, just bask in the simple intimacy of physical closeness with another human being.

  She disengaged, took him by the hand, and drew him into the living room. “Sorry. How was your flight? I’m a million miles away.”

  Paul stood the sack with the wine on top of a sideboard and slipped out of his jacket. “Pretty good, as a matter of fact. Apart from the usual holdups at security.” He kicked off his loafers. “Do these really look to you like they might contain explosive material?”

  Beth smiled. “No. But you tick all of the demographic boxes. You’re a suspicious-looking character.”

  Paul was forty years old, white, and five feet ten. He dressed in tweed jackets and linen shirts and plain Brooks Brothers trousers. In the dictionary next to WASP, you’d see a picture of him.

  While he busied himself with a corkscrew, Beth selected a Pink Martini CD for the stereo. She was determined to make this a normal evening. Which was going to be difficult, considering the highly abnormal day she’d had.

  He handed her a glass, sat down beside her on the sofa. They clinked. “Cheers,” he said.