by Dawson, Mark
A second shot came; it crashed into the wall just behind her.
The pain rolled over her in waves.
The idea suddenly seemed preposterous. “I’ve been shot!”
“Hang on,” Hicks grunted. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
73
“POLICE! Get your hands up!”
Milton saw Josie step forward, falling into a shaft of brightness cast by one of the only working lamps on the dock.
She had a pistol in her hands. Milton had no idea that she was armed.
Logan turned and aimed his own weapon.
Josie fired.
Milton saw the flash from her pistol and heard the bright ching as her bullet ricocheted off one of the metallic containers farther along the dock.
A bad miss.
Logan fired back.
Milton saw Josie stagger and fall.
Logan fired again, then ducked behind the open car door, covering himself from the position that Josie and Hicks had taken up.
Milton stepped out of the container and aimed.
“Logan,” he called out.
The man spun around.
Milton fired. He aimed low, into Logan’s gut.
It was an easy shot. The shot found its mark. Logan fell back against the open door and, reaching down for his stomach, he dropped onto his backside.
Milton squinted his eyes against the rain and aimed down as he approached Logan. Logan had his left hand pressed over the wound in his belly, and he clutched his pistol in his right.
“Drop it.”
Logan did as he was told, extending his arm to the side and releasing the pistol. It splashed into a filthy puddle of water.
Milton moved quickly, closing the distance until he was alongside. He swept his foot and sent the pistol splashing away. He glanced into the car. Mendoza was leaning forward, his body held in the seat by the belt. The impact of the gunshots had turned his head to the side, enough so that Milton could see the exit wounds. His blood and brain matter had been sprayed haphazardly across the ceiling and smeared over the inside of the windshield and the door.
Milton covered Logan with the pistol in his right hand and held the phone in his left. He put it to his ear.
“Hicks?”
“She’s been shot.”
“How bad?”
“In the leg. Can’t say how bad, but she’s losing blood.”
“Get her to a doctor.”
“What about—”
“Now, Hicks. Take her. Mendoza is dead. I’ve got Logan.”
Milton put the phone away and crouched down. He grabbed Logan by the collar and hauled him away from the support of the car door. He dragged him forward until he toppled over, his face in the muck and the grime and the rivulets of water that hurried down the slope to the dock. Milton put his knee in the centre of Logan’s back and frisked him quickly and expertly. He found a wallet, a phone, a set of car keys, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, a magazine of ammunition, and a small butterfly knife.
He tossed Logan’s belongings onto the hood of the car, yanked him up and dumped him back against the door.
Milton looked at him: the man was handling the situation with about as much composure as could be expected. He stayed still, facing ahead, his fear betrayed only by a tic that jumped in his cheek. He had both hands pressed to his abdomen now. Blood pumped out regardless; his shirt was thick with it, and it seeped out beneath his palms and between his fingers.
Milton had been accurate. It was a gut shot. Logan would die without treatment, but it would take him thirty minutes to bleed out. Long enough for him to know that his cause wasn’t lost, but not so long that he might think he had any chance of surviving without help.
Logan spoke first. “I’m sorry.”
“Too late for that.”
“I know,” he said. His voice was weak, and Milton had to listen for it in the rain. “They gave me my orders. I carried them out. You would’ve done the same.”
“Yes, once. But not anymore.”
“I need a doctor.”
“You do,” Milton said. “You’re losing a lot of blood.”
“You going to help me?”
“Tell me what I need to know.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Got any other options?”
A trickle of blood ran down from the corner of Logan’s smile. “Don’t suppose I do.”
“No,” Milton said. “You don’t. But if you help me, I’ll help you. I’ll drop you outside a hospital.”
Logan nodded. “Go on, then. Ask.”
“Who are you working for?”
“You know,” he said. “De Lacey.”
“And before? SAS?”
He shook his head. “SBS. I was a marine; then I was selected to C Squadron. Did that for five years before I went freelance.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m a handyman. Like you were. Client gets a job that needs doing, they send for me.”
“And this job?”
“I was recommended.”
“By who?”
“MI6. They told me to come to Manila.” He coughed. “I corresponded with someone in de Lacey’s organisation. Told me what they wanted me to do. I don’t know any more than that. You know how it works.”
“Who are your contacts at MI6? Names, Logan. Give me their names.”
He coughed again, more blood bubbling over his lip. “I don’t know their names. Male or female—I don’t know. The operation was codenamed Corazon. That’s all I have.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They said de Lacey was going to be working for us. The FO was negotiating with the locals to get him out. Don’t ask me why—I couldn’t say. But they said he wouldn’t play ball unless we delivered you to Bilibid. He’s not your biggest fan, Milton. He’s been stewing on whatever you did to him for years, but he couldn’t find you.”
“But you could.”
“The spooks could. It took them ten minutes. You were hardly hiding.”
Thunder boomed overhead. Milton gripped the pistol a little more tightly. “Go on.”
“They said you had a thing with a girl you met when you were working on de Lacey’s file when you were out here before. Someone who was working for him. De Lacey’s people had already come up with the story: she had your kid and she wanted you to know about it. I just had to get you to believe it.”
“How did they get to her?”
“They already had her on board.”
“In exchange for what?”
He coughed again. “What do you think? She had a son. That’s easy leverage. They threatened her. They said they’d take him away from her. Does it matter?”
Milton bit his lip and looked up. His anger was stirring. He needed to tamp it down for a few minutes more. He took a breath and looked back down at Logan. He coughed yet again, leaned to the side and spat out a mouthful of blood.
“I’m fucked,” Logan said, managing a humourless chuckle.
Milton grabbed him by the shirt front and shoved him back against the car door. “So you killed her?”
He nodded. “She was out of it, Milton. She wouldn’t have—”
Milton interrupted him. “You drugged us?”
Logan spat out another mouthful of blood.
Milton looked down at him; his eyes were swimming. He slapped him across the cheek. “Logan?”
“Sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”
“You drugged us?”
“Roofies. Something to knock you out.”
“The hotel manager and his wife?”
“Mendoza killed them.”
“The owner of the bar.”
Logan nodded. “Mendoza.”
He was losing too much blood to carry on for much longer.
“A couple more questions, then I’ll get you to a hospital. How do you make contact with de Lacey?”
His voice was weaker when he spoke again and Milton had to lean closer. “Gmail. A d
ead drop”
“Is he expecting anything else from you?”
Logan shook his head. “No. I told them the job was done. As far as they know, you’re still in Bilibid. I’m headed home.”
Milton had the beginnings of an idea. “Think carefully. De Lacey has no idea what you look like?”
“No. Never met him.”
“And you’ve never met anyone else who works for him?”
Logan shook his head.
Milton believed him. There was no reason for him to lie.
“Doctor,” Logan said faintly. “Please.”
Milton stood.
Fingers of lightning spread out across the darkness, heralding another detonation of thunder.
Logan looked up at him.
Milton aimed downward and fired.
Once.
Twice.
Logan jerked and then lay still.
Milton took no pleasure in what he had done. He just felt deadened. There was no elation, no satisfaction, not even any relief that he had expunged the need for revenge that would otherwise have eaten away at his insides. He felt hollowed out and blank, an absence of emotion that took him back to the first time he had killed a man and the discovery that his lack of empathy made him perfectly suited for the profession that would later come to define him.
He remembered the feeling, and it frightened him.
This was how he had come to feel during his career with the government. Guilt and remorse would flood the vacuum and he would drown those feelings out by drinking himself into a stupor.
The thought of a drink was attractive now.
Milton shoved the pistol into the waistband of his trousers so that he had both hands free and then grabbed Logan’s limp body beneath the shoulders. He dragged him backwards, opened the door of the Porsche, and dumped him in the passenger seat. He popped the trunk and took out the jerry can of gasoline that he had noticed when he had searched the car before they had left the compound. Mendoza was a conscientious driver, prepared for being caught out by a thirsty car; that was fortunate. Milton poured the gasoline over the bodies and then throughout the interior of the cabin, front and back. The car quickly stank of it.
He went back and found Logan’s pistol. He wiped the weapon clean of fingerprints, then grasped it firmly to ensure that only his would be found on the trigger and grip. He placed the gun on the ground a few feet away from the open passenger-side door; close enough that it might look as if it had been tossed out of the window at the order of someone else.
Milton collected the rest of the things that he had confiscated from Logan. He put the wallet, phone, butterfly knife and car keys into his pocket. He put his own fingerprints on the spare magazine and tossed it into the Porsche. He tapped a cigarette from the sodden pack, put it between his lips, and tried to fire it up with the lighter. The cigarette wasn’t quite as damp as the pack, and it caught. He took two long drags, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and then, holding the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, he flicked it through the open window.
A ripple of blue passed over the seats as the gasoline ignited, and then blooms of flame burst out in bright oranges and yellows and reds. The heat quickly climbed as the fire settled in, consuming the upholstery and the clothes of the two dead men. Milton heard the crack as the windshield fractured down the middle, a jagged line that ran from the top of the frame to the bottom, the glass swiftly blackening from the belching smoke. The windshield popped and then shattered. The smoke issued out, pouring up into the rain.
Milton took out Logan’s keys and went and sat in the car that he had arrived in.
He took another cigarette, lit it and, clamping it between his lips, he started the engine and slowly drove away.
74
MILTON DROVE.
He took out his phone and dialled.
"Ziggy?" he said.
"What's up?"
"Where are you?"
"Still at the airport."
"I need you to come back to the city."
"Where?"
Milton held up the key card that he had taken from Logan's pocket. The plastic oblong was stamped on the reverse with the logo of a hotel chain. "Logan had a room at the Conrad Manila. We need to take a look."
"Where's Logan?"
"Out of the picture."
"And Mendoza?"
"The same. Get in a cab, Ziggy. I'll tell you when you get here."
Milton heard the sound of Ziggy's footsteps. "I'm on my way."
"I need you to do something on the way. I don't have Logan's room number."
"That'll be easy," Ziggy said, before Milton heard him call out to hail a taxi.
"I'll meet you outside."
Milton put the phone away and drove. The hotel was on the waterfront, five miles to the south of the Fort. The city grew more prosperous the farther he travelled. The slums of Tondo became set in stark relief against the well-kept lawns of Rizal Park, the Embassy of the United States and the Zoological and Botanical Gardens. The road curved around the Manila Yacht Club, with million dollar vessels rising on gentle swells illuminated by overhead lights, then passed Star City and the Philippine International Convention Center before he finally arrived at the Conrad. The hotel was fabulous. It resembled the prow of a vast ship, each ascending floor jutting out a little beyond the floors beneath it so the building appeared to lean out toward the beach. There was a large Ferris wheel on the promenade and the sea beyond was rough and angry.
Milton pulled up just as Ziggy was stepping out of a cab.
"Did you get it?"
He smirked. "I hacked housekeeping. Took five minutes."
"Just tell me where it is," Milton said; he had no patience right now for Ziggy's showboating.
"Room 432."
"Thank you."
"Are we going in?"
"Yes," Milton said. "Just follow behind me. No talking. Don't even look at anyone. Nice and casual."
It was just after one in the morning when they approached the large glass doors to the hotel. Milton ignored the staff behind the reception desk and crossed the lobby to the elevators. Ziggy was alongside him; Milton knew that he was the vulnerability, and feared that he would say or do something that would give them away, but he did not.
"Easy," Ziggy said as they were out of sight of the staff.
"We're not there yet," Milton said.
Each elevator car was activated by a room key; Milton pushed Logan's into the slot, waited for the door to slide shut, and then pressed the button for the fourth floor.
"Where's de Lacey?" Ziggy said as the lift started its ascent.
"I don't know."
"But you spoke to Logan?"
"He was a mercenary. The government recommended him to de Lacey. He was working for him to get back at me."
"The British government?"
"Yes."
"Why would the government help de Lacey?"
"I don't know, Ziggy."
The lift slowed.
"You think Logan might be able to lead us to him?"
"That's what you're here for."
The lift opened. Milton followed the quiet corridor to the correct door and slid the key into the reader. The red light turned green, the lock disengaged and the door fell open.
Milton pushed it ajar and went inside.
The room was tidy. There was a closed laptop on the bureau, a suitcase on the bed, a pair of running shoes pressed together next to the wardrobe and a suit hanging inside it. Milton opened the case: a suit, spare underwear, shorts and a T-shirt, a bag of toiletries, everything neatly folded. Logan's time in the military was obvious; Milton shared the same fastidiousness and preference for neatness and order.
"Looks like he was ready to leave," Ziggy said.
"He was. As far as he was concerned, his work was done."
Ziggy went over to the laptop and opened it.
Milton took out the items from the suitcase and started to search through them. He went to the wardrobe and look
ed inside: there was a holstered Sig Sauer hanging from the clothes rail. He took it out and placed it on the bed next to the rest of the things.
"What do you want me to do?" Ziggy said.
"Get everything you can about Logan. Email, phone calls. Anything you can find that might tell us where de Lacey is."
Ziggy powered up the laptop. "Shouldn't be a problem."
Milton noticed the lock screen. "You need a password?"
Ziggy shook his head and rapped his knuckles against the top of the screen. "I have physical access," he said. "That means game over. It'll take me ten minutes."
75
MILTON PACED the room. Ziggy was busy. He was sitting cross-legged on the king-size bed with two laptops open in front of him: his machine, the lid decorated with stickers and decals, and the one that had belonged to Logan. The cellphone that Milton had taken from Logan was next to the laptops, connected to Ziggy's machine by a USB cable.
"Come on," Milton said impatiently.
"I'm going as fast as I can."
"You said it would take ten minutes."
"It's a little more complicated than I thought it would be."
"You've had an hour."
"And I'm going to need more than that." He waved his hand to forestall any more complaints. "Can't you go for a walk or something? I'll be quicker without you looking over my shoulder."
Milton was about to retort, but he bit his tongue. Finding de Lacey was dependent on Ziggy being able to work his magic, and upsetting his prickly disposition would just lead to an argument and a longer delay.
"Fine," Milton said. "I'll go and find supplies. What do you want"
"Strong coffee."
* * *
THERE WAS a twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven on Harbor Drive, a ten-minute walk from the hotel. Milton set off, taking out his phone and calling Hicks as he walked.