Dead Aim

by Iris Johansen

  “You'll probably be asleep.”

  “Don't be absurd. I won't be asleep. How the hell could I be asleep when you're—” She steadied her voice. “You knock on my door and tell me what happened, or I'll get my gun and shoot you.”

  He smiled. “In that case, you can bet I'll knock the damn door down if you don't answer. I'm always out to protect my neck.”

  “See that you do.” She left the room and shut the door. Idiot. She'd known Morgan in only the most volatile circumstances and slept with him one night. He was possibly the most wary man she'd ever met and he had no desire for anything but a sexual encounter. It was the height of foolishness to let herself feel this way. For Christ's sake, get a grip.

  But foolish or not, she knew she wouldn't sleep until he got back. She'd make a list of developing chemicals for Morgan to pick up tomorrow. Then she figured she might as well get out the computer and surf the Net.

  It was after three A.M. when she heard Morgan's door close.

  Her fingers froze on the keyboard and she closed her eyes. Thank God.

  She was already opening the adjoining door when he knocked on it a moment later. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I scouted around and didn't see anything suspicious. A little brick house on a quiet street. Late-model car in the driveway. Not a rental car—Indiana license plates—and it doesn't look like it's been taken care of any too well. It could belong to Powers's ex-wife. That doesn't mean there isn't a very neat trap ready to be sprung.” He gazed beyond her to the laptop on the table. “I see you've been working. Stumble on anything?”

  “I'd have to stumble. I don't have any idea where I'm going. I started with explosives and now I'm doing a search on water pressure.” She rubbed her eyes. “I'm almost blind. Did you find a house where I can shoot my photos?”

  He nodded. “A house for sale on the next block. Two stories, unoccupied, with a clear view of Powers's house from the corner bedroom. There are shutters on the window, so the camera can't be seen from outside.”

  “How did you get in?” She gestured. “Never mind. What a stupid question. That's just another facet of your business, right?”

  “Absolutely. I'll slip you into the house tomorrow night. May I suggest you stop work and get some sleep?”

  She nodded. “I'll try again tomorrow.” She started to close the door and then stopped. “You didn't see anything?”

  He shook his head as he turned away. “I didn't see anything.”

  Morgan stripped off his clothes, lay down, and pulled the sheet over him.

  He had told the truth. He had seen nothing.

  But there had been someone there, waiting. His every instinct, every nerve had been vibrating with the knowledge. He had been in the game too long not to have developed antennae. It was the reason he had spent an hour and a half driving around before coming back to the motel.

  Government?

  Probably not. CIA agents on jobs like these usually traveled in twos or threes, and he'd only met a few he couldn't spot.

  Powers?

  More than likely.

  Runne?

  It was possible. Everything seemed to be overlapping, and Runne might be allowing himself to be used.

  It would be helpful to know who the antagonist was so that he could adjust his actions to each player. But he'd probably have to go in blind and trust to instinct until he saw the field.

  And hope he could get Alex in and out before all hell broke loose.

  “How long will it take you to get the photos?” Morgan asked as he led Alex up the stairs to the second floor.

  “It depends on angles and what there is to shoot,” Alex said, moving carefully in the darkness. “Can't we have the flashlight on?”

  “No, I'd be watching any vacant house in the area. Though this window isn't much of a threat. It's out of range. I'd probably concentrate on the house for sale across the street.”

  She felt a chill as she always did when she was reminded of Morgan's profession. “Let's hope it isn't out of range for me to shoot.” She knelt by the window and opened her camera bag. “Which house?”

  “The white brick, next to the house on the corner.”

  She started shooting. Every window. The porches. Upstairs. The garbage cans next to the backyard fence. Then she began to photograph every aspect of every house on each side of the street.

  “Get the tree in the backyard.”

  “The tree?”

  Morgan likes trees.

  She remembered Galen saying that about Morgan. Evidently he thought someone else might have the same fondness.

  She focused and shot several photos of the tree in the back and then the smaller one on the front lawn. “Satisfied?”

  “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “Give me another hour. We have to get lucky, and you cut down your chances the less time you spend.”

  “I want you out of here.”

  “Another hour.” She changed the film in her camera.

  He muttered a curse and then moved closer to the window, his gaze raking the street and houses.

  “Now?” he asked exactly one hour later.

  She nodded as she put the camera in her bag. “I've covered the area thoroughly. I can only hope I caught something on film.”

  “Well, if you didn't, you're not coming back.” He picked up her camera and nudged her out of the bedroom and down the stairs. “This is it.”

  “Here they are.” Alex called Morgan into the bathroom, where she'd set up a makeshift developing room. “They're not dry yet, but I thought you'd want to take a look.”

  He moved to stand beside her and stared down at the pans. “My God, you took enough. It will take an hour to go through all these photos.”

  “I already scanned most of them as I did them.” She pointed to the photo of garbage cans by the tall fence in the backyard. “Something interesting here. They're not in the same position in the photo taken an hour later. I thought maybe a dog . . . but they're not turned over. It looks like they've been neatly moved.”

  He nodded absently, his gaze shifting quickly from photo to photo. “Anything else?”

  She pointed to a window on the first floor. “A man and woman. You can barely see them in the shadows to the left of the window.”

  “It doesn't look like much to me. You're sure?”

  “I'm used to looking at photographs. I'm sure.” She tapped a photo of a garage on the opposite side of the street from the brick house. “There's a shadow here that could be someone. . . .” She shrugged. “But I can't be certain. It could be a play of light.”

  “Show me the pictures of the oak tree. Never mind. I see them. Which one was taken first?”

  She pointed to a photo. “And this one was an hour later.” She pointed to the second photo.

  He studied them. “There's a shadow in the first one that's not there in the second one.”

  “It's very marginal.” She got her magnifying glass and examined the shadow. “It could be wind moving the branches. It changes the entire composition.”

  “Maybe.” He stood looking down at the photos. “Maybe not.” He turned on his heel. “I'm going back out there. Stay in the room and lock the door.”

  “What?”

  “Double cross.” He moved toward the door. “What do you do with a man who knows too much and has taken to making mistakes?” His voice sharpened with rage. “Dammit, I'm not going to let Powers be taken out. I need him.”

  She grabbed her camera bag and hurried out the door after him toward the car. “I'm going with you.”

  “The hell you—” He jerked open the driver's door. “I don't have time to argue with you. If you come, you do what I say. Got it?”

  “Got it.” She jumped into the passenger's seat.

  He peeled out of the parking spot. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I don't like this.” Mae Powers frowned. “I told you five years ago that I didn't want to have anything to do with you or your dirty business.”r />
  “But you haven't minded taking my money, have you?” Powers stood to the side of the window so he couldn't be seen from the street. “And there'll be a nice little bonus for you for going along this time. I'm even using a silencer so your neighbors won't know you're not as holier-than-thou as you pretend.” He didn't see anything on the street in front of the house. He'd stationed Decker in the alley across the street, but he couldn't see him at the moment. Well, he'd only have to phone him and he'd be here in a flash. There was no need to be this nervous. All the windows and doors were locked. He was still uneasy. He'd heard a lot about Morgan. He was one tough bastard, and used to getting past locks.

  Well, he was tougher than Morgan. He gazed down at his gun with the attached silencer. All he had to do was sit here and wait and blow the son of a bitch out of the water.

  “What's that?” Mae jerked upright in her chair, her gaze flying toward the kitchen. “It was one of the pots hanging over the bar. I thought you locked the kitchen door. I told you I didn't want to—”

  He was already on his feet, running down the hall, past the staircase, toward the kitchen, gun in hand.

  He heard a squeak on the stairs and whirled.

  He didn't hear Mae's scream as the hurled knife entered his chest.

  Shit.

  Pain. Darkness.

  Someone coming down the stairs.

  Kill him. Kill him.

  He lifted his gun.

  “Stay here.” Morgan braked at the curb on the cross street from the brick house. “No arguments. I don't want you in my way.”

  “That's a sure way to get me to— I'll stay out of your way unless I see something I don't like.”

  He muttered a curse as he took off running toward the backyard of Powers's house. Too dangerous to go in through the front. Climb the oak tree and get in through the second floor.

  Like the shadowy figure Alex had not been able to confirm.

  He shinnied up the tree and went hand over hand up the branches until he reached the window.

  The glass had been cut neatly out of the pane.

  He swung silently from the branch to the windowsill and into the bedroom.

  The door was open. He drew his gun, moved to press against the wall beside the doorway, and waited.

  No sound.

  No, that wasn't true.

  A groan?

  He moved out into the hall.

  No, more like a whimper.

  He looked over the stair railing into the hall below.

  He could dimly see a man lying on his back at the bottom of the stairs. Powers? A woman in a red blouse was crumpled at the end of the hall.

  And maybe someone else waiting in the shadows for Morgan to come down and be slaughtered?

  He hesitated. Only one way to find out. Throw some light on the subject.

  He hit the light switch on the wall and at the same time dropped to the floor, his gun aimed at the hall below.

  Nothing. No movement. No sound.

  He cautiously rose to his knees, his gaze on the end of the hall. He was a target. Not a good one, but enough to draw fire.

  Nothing.

  Powers whimpered again.

  Take a chance. He had to get to Powers before the bastard died on him.

  He jumped over the rail into the hall below and hit the ground running.

  No one in the kitchen. He turned and ran past the woman, toward the living room.

  Empty.

  He checked the woman as he passed her on the way back to Powers. Dead. Her throat had been cut. Messy. It had been hacked as if in a blind frenzy.

  He knelt beside Powers. There was a deep knife wound in his chest.

  “Save . . . me.” Blood was bubbling out of his mouth. “Don't let me die.”

  “Why should I?” Morgan asked. “What good are you to me?”

  Powers looked up at him. “Morgan?”

  He nodded. “Who did this to you?”

  “Betworth . . . dirty fucking bastard. Sent Runne. Got him, though. Shot him in the head.”

  “If you got him, his body would be here.”

  “Shot him. I'm hurting. . . . Call a doctor.”

  “When you tell me what I need to know. Where's Z-2?”

  “You son of a bitch, I'm dying.”

  “Then you'd better talk fast so that I can call 911. Where's Z-2?”

  “Fuckin' bastard . . .”

  “Where is it?”

  “West . . . Virginia. Not important . . . Z-3. Z-3 . . .”

  “And Z-3 is important? Not Z-2?”

  “Z-2 . . . It's all bunk—” He arched upward as agony struck him. “Son of a bitch. Screw him.” Powers's eyes were glazing. “Screw Z-3.”

  Powers was rambling. Morgan went in another direction. “What was happening in Fairfax?”

  “Vents . . . Fucking waste of time. Couldn't get . . . it right after we lost Lontana. Get . . . me . . . an ambulance.”

  “Who's Lontana?”

  “Brazilian . . . Betworth gave all that money. Couldn't get it right.”

  “Who's—” Powers was drifting off again. “What happened at Arapahoe Junction?”

  “Wrong side. Couldn't get it right. Lost Lontana.” His hand was clenching. “Please . . . I don't want to die.”

  “None of us does. Z-3. Listen to me. Tell me about Z-3 and I'll call an ambulance.”

  “They'll get him there. No choice. Z-3 . . .”

  “What's happening?” Alex was standing at the front door, gun in hand. She moved into the room until she was beside Morgan.

  “Powers . . .” she whispered.

  Morgan ignored her, his gaze on Powers. “Where's Z-3?”

  He didn't answer. He was almost gone, dammit.

  Morgan's hand closed on his shirt. “Answer me. Where's Z-3?”

  “Kettle . . .” Powers's body stiffened and then convulsed. His mouth opened wide in a silent scream. It stayed open as life fled.

  “He's dead. . . .” Alex murmured. “Who—”

  “Not me. Believe me, I'd have found out what I needed before I stuck a knife in him.” He was going through Powers's pockets. “He was almost useless to me.”

  “I heard you tell him you'd call an ambulance if he told you about Z-3.”

  “I lied. He was a dead man the minute that knife entered his chest. But it gave me a hold to squeeze information out of him.” He saw her expression and his lips twisted. “What else would you expect from me?”

  “I don't know. He was . . . dying.”

  “Does that make him holy? He was bad news, and if he'd recovered he'd still be bad news. He deserved what Runne did to him. I was lucky Runne didn't do his usual excellent job and left me a little to work with.”

  “Runne. Is that who he said did this?”

  He nodded as he jammed Powers's wallet in his jacket pocket and rose to his feet. “Let's get out of here. I don't think we have much time.” He grabbed her arm and ran toward the kitchen door. “And why the hell are you here?”

  “I told you I'd stay unless I saw something I didn't like. I saw someone run out the front door, blood all over his face. I didn't like that at all.”

  “I can see why you'd be disturbed. Where did he go?”

  “He ran down the street and around the corner. Runne?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Well, you'll be able to be very certain after I get my film developed.”

  “You took his photo?”

  “Hell, yes. I've regretted every minute that I didn't take Powers's picture at the dam instead of screaming like an idiot. I guarantee I didn't scream this time.” She raced beside him across the yard and out into the alley. “Why don't we have much time?”

  “Because the setup is too neat not to have a backup.” He jerked open the car door. “We'll go back to the motel and grab our stuff. I'll call Galen and tell him to get us out of here. I don't believe the highways are going to be safe for us anywhere near this town.”

  “And where do we g
o?”

  He thought about it, quickly going over the few coherent bits Powers had given him. “West Virginia.”

  Christ.

  Runne patted his bloody cheek with the T-shirt he'd taken off when he reached the car. He couldn't stop the blood. He could feel the hole. . . . He'd ducked back and turned his head, or Powers's bullet would have blown his head off. Instead, the bullet had gone through his cheek and taken out part of his lip.

  Damn squeaky stair. He'd tossed a slipper he'd found in the upstairs bedroom into the kitchen to draw Powers. Everything would have been fine if that stair had been—

  Excuses. He'd learned in training as a boy to never make excuses. The unexpected happened, and one had to make adjustments.

  He'd made adjustments. He'd kept his deal with Betworth. Powers couldn't have lived for more than a few minutes.

  Morgan.

  Anguish tore through him. He'd meant to remove Powers and his wife and be there in the house when Morgan found a way to get to Powers.

  It might not be too late.

  Find a doctor. Get the bleeding stopped. Then go back and wait until Morgan walked into the house.

  Find a doctor. . . .

  “Powers and his wife are dead. We found Decker's body in the alley across the street,” Jurgens said when Betworth picked up the phone. “No Morgan. No Graham. Runne must have screwed up.”

  “Runne did it?”

  “Probably. You said he liked to work with a knife at close quarters. Decker's throat was slit, Powers had a knife wound in his chest, and his wife was pretty much butchered.”

  “Then there must have been a good reason why Runne didn't stick around to get Morgan. Maybe he's gone after him. How long has Powers been dead?”

  “Not long. We sent a car by when he didn't call for his two-hour check-in. What do you want us to do?”

  “Clean up the crime scene and get rid of Decker, Powers, and his wife. Then have a team stake out the house in case Morgan shows up.”

  “And?”

  “Do I have to tell you everything? Make sure every car that leaves Terre Haute is stopped by the police.”

  “What do I tell them?”

  “Anything. Just make sure they're stopped.”