by Linda Howard
She was dead before she hit the floor.
Al kicked Felice’s weapon away from her hand, even though it was obvious she was dead. One bullet to the chest, one in the head. She’d damn well better be dead. It would be humiliating to have so completely lost his touch that he’d missed such easy shots. He looked into the camera, then walked to the table to turn off the recorder.
He should be surprised that she’d arrived for their meeting with a weapon in her hand, but he wasn’t. The fact that he’d fired before she’d even had a chance to raise her gun would ensure that if this video were ever uncovered, he wouldn’t be able to claim self-defense. Not exactly the cold-blooded murder he’d planned, but the video would be more than incriminating enough. After all, he hadn’t drawn his weapon because she had one in her hand; he’d drawn on her and fired without provocation. The gloves indicated premeditation.
There was no way to know if Xavier had gotten his message or not, if he was headed toward Felice’s home and her specialist tonight, or tomorrow, or six months from now. Knowing Xavier, he’d bet on sooner rather than later, but there were too many variables to make a truly educated guess. No matter, really. Felice had to be out of the picture, and cleaning up the mess they’d made was his job.
Xavier should expect that Felice would have put someone on the house to wait for him, but when emotions were high, anything was possible. Giving him the warning was the least he could do.
Al patted down Felice’s pockets and found nothing but her car keys. He took the keys and dropped them into his own pocket. She’d probably left her purse in the car, though what he needed might be in the glove box or sitting on the console. In any case, it wasn’t here. He collected the camera and wiped down the room for any evidence that he and Felice had been here. The team coming in would do the same, and he trusted them to do the job well. But at the same time, he couldn’t always rely on others to do what he had to do himself.
Like Felice, he thought as he stepped over her body.
He’d taken no pleasure in killing her; it was just a chore, like filing taxes or taking out the trash. It simply had to be done. She’d gotten them into a huge mess with her impatience, her unwillingness to listen, so he’d done what he could to mitigate the damage.
In the vast, open parking lot—open and well lit so that there was no place for anyone to hide—he opened the trunk of his car and placed the camera to the right, next to the laptop that sat there, green light indicating that it was on, Wi-Fi keeping the connection with the camera active. Al opened the laptop, and leaning over and slightly into the trunk he transferred the video that clearly showed him shooting Felice to a thumb drive, dropped the thumb drive into his pocket, and then deleted everything from the computer.
The laptop would be in pieces before midnight. He couldn’t take the chance that the video might be retrieved somehow, someday. There could be only the one copy, if this was going to keep him alive.
That done, he slammed the trunk shut and walked to Felice’s car. She’d been cautious enough to lock it, even though judging by the gun she’d been carrying, in her hand and ready to fire, she hadn’t planned on being here for very long. Al unlocked the doors with her remote, opened the driver-side door, and leaned in. There was no phone on the console, but Felice’s purse was sitting on the passenger-side floorboard. With a gloved hand, he snagged it by the strap and pulled it out of the car.
A state-of-the-art cell phone fit snugly in an inside pocket made for the device. That was her personal phone, and it wasn’t what he was looking for. Carefully, he pushed aside a wallet and a small clear bag that contained lipstick and mascara, and near the bottom of the lined bag he saw the shape he was seeking.
Her burner cell was in a zippered inside pocket, buried deep. He removed the phone, then pressed the “contacts” button.
There was only one contact listed.
He thumbed the button to call the sole number programmed into the cell. When a man answered, Al said bluntly, “She’s dead. Whatever you’ve been paid is all you’re going to get, so call off your dogs.”
“Understood.” The man’s voice revealed no emotion. This was just business, after all. He might regret losing a good customer, but other than that there was no reason for him to care that Felice was dead. “How should I proceed with the daughter?”
That was an unexpected question. Was Ashley being held hostage? No, of course not. Felice would have pulled her daughter off the street the moment she realized Xavier was a threat. “She’s under your protection?”
“Against her wishes, yes.”
“Let her go,” Al instructed.
“What should I tell the girl about her mother?” Again the voice was cool, detached. Al suspected that voice would have remained the same if he’d instructed Felice’s contact to dispose of the girl.
“Nothing. Just release her.” Soon enough Ashley would learn—everyone would learn—that Felice had been the victim of a violent carjacking. It would be easier to make her disappear, maybe even more satisfying to just wipe her off the face of the earth, but if she just vanished, that would leave too many unanswered questions. Her death would be thoroughly investigated; the team who’d been tasked with disposing of her body would have to do a stellar job. He didn’t doubt that they would, and Ashley would have closure.
Al returned the purse, sans burner cell, to the floorboard and tossed the keys into the driver’s seat. The cleaners would be here within half an hour to finish the job he’d started.
He didn’t intend to be here when they arrived.
Felice’s contact immediately called “Evan Clark,” hoping the man would answer. Not being able to reach him would be one thing; if the man did the job and there was no one to pay him, that was something else entirely, and definitely not good.
Clark didn’t answer. Depending on the situation he might have his phone silenced, or hell, he might be out taking a piss. A message would have to suffice, and it wasn’t one he wanted to leave in a voice mail. He sent a text message from a phone that would be in someone else’s Dumpster within the hour.
Abort, Felice’s contact typed. The client is dead.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Knowing someone was watching, and spotting that someone, were two different things. Crawling into position took over an hour, so slow and precise were his movements. Xavier knew where he would set up, if he were the one watching the house for someone like him to arrive, but there were several good options.
Felice commanded a very good salary. Like most people with money, she wanted space around her, which meant she lived in a neighborhood where the lots were measured in acres and the houses weren’t all that close together. It wasn’t the ritziest part of town, otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to afford the acreage, but it was nice. Unfortunately, the big yard meant a lot of trees, a lot of landscaping, and a lot of places for concealment.
Any idiot would figure Xavier wasn’t going to walk up to the front door and knock. Therefore, surveillance should be looking for a clandestine entrance.
Even knowing that, he couldn’t spot the guy. The fucker was good. He’d chosen his spot well, and he wasn’t moving. Either that, or he’d fallen asleep.
Xavier had taken up position well back from the house, far enough back that the hired gun was almost definitely between him and the house. There was a light on in one downstairs room. Was she watching TV? Catching up on paperwork? He wondered if she had enough confidence in her hired gun that she could sleep.
The answer to that was, Felice had enough confidence in her own decisions that she would sleep, secure in the knowledge that she’d handled things.
The one light in the house, though, was a big, blinding glare in his night-vision goggles. He turned his head incrementally, taking five minutes to move an inch, because sure as hell the specialist would have night vision too, and movement could get him spotted as easily as it could the guy he was looking for.
Patience was the key. The shooter had been in
place longer than he had, which meant he would get thirsty sooner, have to piss sooner. That was assuming anyone was here at all, that Al wasn’t playing mind games with him and had lured him here to set up a trap of his own. Xavier had always gone into any situation knowing it could be his last. Being aware had kept him alive so far—
There.
The man was practically dead ahead, not ten yards in front of Xavier. The only thing that had given him away was a not-quite-slow-enough movement of his head as he surveyed the property. He’d set up at least a third farther back from the property than Xavier had expected. Shit, at least he had to admire the man’s tactics. This wasn’t an amateur.
No, this was a dead professional. He just hadn’t stopped breathing yet.
Xavier painted the back of the man’s head with a pinpoint laser, aimed his silenced weapon, and fired.
Now he’d stopped breathing.
Swiftly, Xavier covered the ten yards, kicked the man’s weapon away, then knelt and checked. Definitely dead. Medium size, medium build, medium … just medium, the kind of guy who could go anywhere without being noticed.
He patted down the shooter’s pockets, looking for identification. Nothing, not that he’d really expected any; still, it was always best to look and make certain. He did find a cell phone, turned off. He didn’t turn it on. Some cell phones made a hell of a racket when they were activated, playing tunes and beeping and chiming. He wiped it down and slipped it back into the man’s pocket.
Even then, he didn’t immediately go toward the house. A silenced shot was a long way from silent. While it wouldn’t have been heard inside Felice’s house, or in any of her neighbors’ houses, Xavier had no guarantee that the specialist was alone. He waited another hour, watching, before he slipped down to the house.
Her security system was fairly standard. He bypassed it without a problem. The deadbolts on the doors were a bigger problem, but like most people, she had a back door with a window. He thought it was one of the stupidest things people could do. Why not just invite a burglar in? Using a diamond cutter, he sliced a round hole in the glass big enough for him to get his hand through, then opened the deadbolt as well as the simple lock on the doorknob.
He noiselessly entered.
He was out in less than ten minutes. The house was empty. Felice wasn’t here.
She’d set her guard dog to watch an empty house, knowing Xavier would eventually come here looking for her.
Damn it, where the fuck was she?
Something was going on. Xavier didn’t need his spidey sense to tell him that. Al had warned him about the shooter, and hadn’t set up an ambush of his own even though he had to have known Xavier would be there sooner rather than later.
If Felice had gone to ground somewhere, would Al know? Had they had a falling out, a parting of the ways? If they had, Al had better be watching his own back—but then, so should Felice.
He was well away from the neighborhood when he made a decision. He wasn’t on the Harley—it was too loud—so he wasn’t worried about being heard inside the car he’d taken from the garage where he’d left Lizzy. Taking out his phone, he dialed a familiar number.
“Our friend definitely had company,” he said when Al answered. “But she wasn’t at home.”
“And her company?”
“He’s asleep behind the house.”
“I’ll have him taken care of.”
“Do you have any information on our friend’s whereabouts?”
“We need to meet.”
Xavier had expected that. “Where?” He might be making a damn big mistake, but something was definitely going on, and he needed to know what it was. Al was his best bet for that.
It was the next day. Xavier and Lizzy had both arrived at the designated meeting place two hours early, and circled it several times in opposite directions. She hadn’t actively recovered any more memories, but she was moving the way she had before, balanced and alert, instead of with the flat, unaware gait she’d used for the past three years.
Whether or not she ever fully regained her memory, she was herself again, full of piss and vinegar, and he loved her. No matter what, he wouldn’t let them be separated again.
As proof of his love, he was even letting her ride the Harley without him. She knew how, and as soon as she’d thrown a leg over the Hog the muscle memory had taken over. Watching her, her movements at first tentative and then rapidly gaining in confidence, had been a real kick.
She’d looked at him, her smile as bright as summer. “Hey! I can do this!”
“I know. Just be careful and don’t let the weight get away from you.”
“I know.”
He kissed her, and she pulled the helmet on. She was his backup. Something hinky was going on, and they hadn’t been able to find out what. Felice’s house was empty, her car gone, and she wasn’t at work. Al had gone to ground, too. Wherever he was, he wasn’t showing his face. But there didn’t seem to be any kill teams looking for him and Lizzy; if there were, they were invisible, because his people hadn’t spotted a thing, and they’d been looking hard.
Now he had this meeting with Al.
Together he and Lizzy had surveilled the meeting place, checked the adjacent businesses, and now he was ready to take his place inside. Lizzy had his back.
He settled in, facing the door, thirty minutes before the agreed-upon time.
Al’s first choice for this meeting had been an off-the-map, rarely used park; Xavier preferred their meeting place to be a bit more public, and Al had agreed. He respected Al Forge, and he trusted Al as much as he trusted anyone else in the business—but at this point in the game that wasn’t saying much.
While he was on guard where Al was concerned, and would continue to be, he was much more worried about Felice. Where the fuck was she? None of his people had been able to get a fix on her, which couldn’t be good. She was fully capable of turning on everyone, Al included. Maybe that was what this meeting was all about.
With a laptop in front of him, as well as two huge cups of coffee—one for him, one for the man he was waiting for—no one thought twice about him taking up the booth for so long. He was obviously waiting for someone, and he wasn’t the only person in the coffee shop who took his time, sipping on overpriced—and bitter—coffee and taking advantage of the free Internet.
Al arrived right on time, not a minute early, not a minute late. He looked calm but sober, and he’d taken care to dress casually. Xavier couldn’t say with any certainty that Al wasn’t armed, but there was no shoulder holster, no loose jacket to disguise a gun at his spine. And in a crowded place like this one, surely someone was observant enough to spot a weapon, though likely the person would just think Al was a cop.
Ankle holster, maybe—no, almost certainly, because Al was as likely to leave the house unarmed as Xavier was. But he couldn’t get to that ankle holster quickly—not quickly enough, in any case.
It was an indicator of the seriousness of the situation that Xavier even had these thoughts where Al was concerned.
Al slid into the bench seat on the other side of the table. “Is she here?”
“Close,” Xavier said, and sipped his coffee.
“Should I be worried?”
Xavier’s expression didn’t change as he said, “Yes, you should.”
Without responding, Al removed a thumb drive from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Do me a favor and turn the laptop so no one else can see the screen,” he said in a quiet tone. He looked tired, older, and more than a little pissed about the way things had gone down.
Weren’t they all.
Xavier popped the thumb drive into the slot on the side of the laptop and clicked on the icon that immediately popped up. The silent video began to play. The focus was brutally close, and the players were recorded clearly and cleanly. He could see the surprise in Felice’s eyes when Al swiftly lifted his arm and aimed his weapon at her; then, moments later, he saw the determination that had been on Al’s fac
e as he reached toward the camera and turned it off.
“Jesus, Al.” Xavier ejected the thumb drive—after swiftly saving the file—and shut down his laptop. He slid the damning device back across the table, but Al shook his head. He didn’t take it, just pushed it back toward Xavier.
“It’s yours. That’s the only copy, so for fuck’s sake keep it someplace secure.”
“Someone like Felice can hardly disappear without questions being raised.”
“This afternoon her body will be discovered in a remote area of Virginia, the apparent victim of a violent carjacking.”
Talk about surprises. He narrowly studied the man who’d trained him. “Why?” But he knew, as he asked the question, what the answer would be.
“I’ve got you two by the short hairs, and now you’ve got me in the same position.”
Xavier leaned back. “Mutual assured destruction.”
“Yeah.” Al gestured to the coffee cup in front of him. “Is this safe?”
“I suppose.”
Al wrapped his fingers around the cup. “You suppose?”
“It’s gotta be cold by now and it tastes like shit, but I didn’t put anything in it, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Al lifted the cup and took a long swallow, then returned the cup to the table. “You’re right. It is cold and it does taste like shit.” He took another long drink. “But I need the caffeine, and frankly, I’ve had worse.”
They didn’t talk for a moment, as a young employee walked by—too close—and cleaned the booth directly behind Al. When the kid returned to the counter Al asked, his voice low,
“Is she listening?”
“Yes.”
“Am I going to make it to my car alive?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know. If I was in her shoes, I’m not sure I’d be able to say the same. We did what had to be done, all of us …” Al shook his head and took another long drink of the cold, crappy coffee. “But that’s not why I’m here. The information I’ve shared with you puts us on even terms, as I see it. I hope you see things the same way.”