Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  Odd sorta place for a safe house, but he didn’t let the thought hang around and have coffee. The feds had more money than Rockefeller, or that nerd who owns every computer in the world. Whatever.

  He listened at the door before opening it a crack, his compact machine gun tight against his side and ready to earn its keep. The hallway was bigger than his apartment and went all the way up to a balcony that ran around the top floor, like a hotel foyer or something. He closed the door again. The hallway was well lit and had a marble floor and stairs. Not great for stealth.

  Plan every move, measure every step, expect anything, but it always came down to this right at the end. Take the chance. Or walk away.

  He stepped out of the door.

  Somebody coming out of a room into a hallway will naturally head straight out into the space. He took a sharp step to his right and dropped to one knee, his MAC up and ready to respond if there was any excitement.

  He stood up slowly, his eyes searching the upper balcony for any movement. If it was a setup, that was where they’d be. The balcony was deserted. They were looking outwards at the perimeter they could see. So they weren’t much after all.

  No time for creeping about. He strode across the hall and up the stairs as if he had every right to be there. Somebody seeing him might think he was just out of position. It wasn’t much, but it might make the difference. Just a moment’s indecision was all he needed.

  At the top of the wide staircase, he stepped up against the wall and listened. Where would she be? It wasn’t really a question. She’d be in the bathroom. They always were. Thinking nobody would look in there.

  All the doors were the same. Six of them, oak with white dust stuff on them. This was taking too long. Hurry makes for mistakes and they make for loud disagreements.

  She’d have the light on. Sure she would. Safer that way.

  He crouched and looked along the bottoms of the doors, stood up and moved off to his right. Last door from the end. Made sense, who wants to hear flushing in the middle of the night?

  This goes the way it should, he’d open the door like he was just checking in, and then—

  He felt the air pressure change enough to move a hair on the side of his head. But that was all it took. He glanced left and fired the MAC with it still resting in the crook of his left arm.

  The white-haired guy was already moving, reaching for the gun on his belt and letting the mug of coffee drop. But it was too late, way too late. Detroit put two in his chest. No head-shot, that was for the flash dudes with no brains. Double-tap to center mass. If the guy was dead, he was out of it. If he was just down but out of it, that was okay too. Detroit didn’t waste time looking.

  He pointed the MAC forward, pushed open the bathroom door and stepped in. The girl was in the bath. Blonde. Under a blanket or something. He put three rounds into her.

  And his world exploded.

  Deborah Crichton-Cruz checked her cell for the hundredth time, but there was no three-digit confirmation that the Jackal had received her abort message. A fist thumped in her chest and she looked back through the rearview. There were cars, but this was DC and alive twenty-four seven. Perhaps she was just being silly. Overreacting. Leonard Hofmann was a gentleman, of sorts. Gentlemen do not kill women.

  No, they get others to do it for them.

  She told herself she really was just being silly. This was a legitimate business, well perhaps not entirely legitimate, but they didn’t kill people. Then what was the Jackal doing right then? That was different. How?

  She looked in the rearview again, but none of the half-dozen cars was acting suspiciously, or they all were.

  How was killing the girl different? She gritted her teeth. This wasn’t the time for a philosophical discussion on corporate culpability. Thinking like the lawyer she used to be. Back in the good days. No they weren’t, but better than this day. And that, she couldn’t deny.

  Orpheus had been good for her. When she’d lost Dom and the boys to a drunk driver, her life had been over, but Hofmann had given her another chance, a reason to live. She’d thrown herself into it. Eighteen-, twenty-hour days, every day, and double-quick she’d reached the top. Of what? Of the most powerful merchants in the world. Anything that was needed, anywhere, Orpheus would get it. Guaranteed. Without the inconvenience of laws or borders to impede trade. Trade that had made everyone rich beyond their dreams. Which hadn’t been hard for her because she had none. For two years she’d just wanted to die and be with her boys; then something had changed. She got to like what she was doing. More than that, she loved it. The power without oversight. Something that needed doing just got done.

  Like the girl.

  Yes, like the girl. She was… had been a liability. If what she knew got into the hands of the wrong people, hell would rain down upon them. She didn’t know what she had, not yet, but she would. She had to be silenced.

  And what about you? What do you know?

  Her knuckles turned ivory-white on the steering wheel. Everything. She knew everything. That made what the girl had on her computer almost trivial. And for that she’d sent the Jackal.

  She looked in the rearview and saw the SUV pull out into the oncoming lane to overtake and get closer.

  She touched the screen on the dash.

  A calm voice came from the speaker. “911. What’s your emergency?”

  The edge of the bathroom door hit Detroit in the temple and staggered him against the tiled wall. He shook his head once and recovered, but it was already too late.

  Moving very slowly, he took his right hand off the MAC and let the weapon swing in his left. The Sig pushed into his cheek pressed harder and he moved his eyes to look at the big guy at the other end of it. The other one from the convoy.

  He moved his eyes only and looked down into the bathtub. The blonde girl was a wig on a plastic bucket covered with a blanket. Not real enough to fool a kid. But in the instant he’d had… that wasn’t true. He should’ve seen it, but he’d let himself see what he’d expected. Careless. Overconfident. Sloppy. He deserved what was coming. He looked back at the big man, who close up looked like a tough SOB. Military for sure.

  “If you’ve dropped any of my men,” Ethan said, “I’m going to gut-shoot you and watch you die screaming.”

  Detroit moved his left hand around very slowly and handed the MAC to Ethan. “Guy with white hair. On the landing.”

  “Winter.” Ethan lowered his Sig to point at Detroit’s gut. “Where did you shoot him?”

  “Right here, for Christ’s sake,” Winter said from the doorway. He pointed at two holes in the front of his shirt. “And it hurts like fuck.”

  “A vest,” Detroit said and nodded once. He should’ve guessed. Sloppy again.

  “You should thank whatever it is you worship,” Ethan said, and moved back out of the room. “Slow now,” he said, twitching the Sig for emphasis.

  Detroit kept his hands out in front of him, fingers spread and palms down. “I’ve got a piece under my jacket.”

  Ethan glanced at Winter, who waited for Detroit to exit onto the broad landing before reaching over and flipping open his suit jacket, raising an eyebrow as his fingers touched the silk. “Killing pays well.”

  Detroit looked him over. Cheap Walmart-quality fatigues. “For some.”

  Winter took the HK45 from the shoulder holster. “People we kill need killing.”

  “Nobody needs killing,” Detroit said.

  “Strange thing for a man in your line of work to say,” Ethan said, stepping away a little to give himself room. If he needed it.

  “I don’t judge,” Detroit said, lowering his hands to his sides.

  “No, you’re just the executioner,” Winter said.

  Detroit shrugged. “Somebody says go kill him, I go kill him.” He met Winter’s gaze. “You see any difference with what you do?”

  He couldn’t. “Lots of difference,” Winter said.

  “Sure, the people who send you wear uniforms. People w
ho send me give me money. A lot of money.”

  “Well, your earning days are over,” Winter said, and looked down the stairs as Gunny strode across the hall.

  “All clear down here,” Gunny said.

  “I work alone,” Detroit said.

  “So you say,” Ethan said, and nodded. “But let me check anyway.”

  Detroit chuckled once. “So what now?” He watched Gunny put his finger into the holes in Winter’s shirt and Winter flinched. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  Winter glanced at him. “Couple bruises. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

  “Copy that,” Detroit said.

  They gave him a double take.

  “You ex-military?” Ethan said.

  “One time.” He wasn’t going to elaborate, but decided they wouldn’t shoot him while he was talking. Bad manners. “I was a Ranger.” He shrugged. “I left.”

  “You ring the bell?” Winter said.

  “Five years in, yeah.”

  “You were a Ranger for five fuckin’ years?” Gunny shook his head in a mix of surprise and disappointment. “And you come to this?”

  “What’s the difference?” Detroit said.

  There wasn’t any. Not in the act, only the origin. And the law. Killing somebody because it needed to be done is the same if that somebody is a police informer or a terrorist holding a plane full of people. End result is the same. Guy’s dead.

  “I see you again,” Ethan said, “even passing by. I’ll shoot you out of hand.”

  Detroit looked up sharply. As did Winter and Gunny.

  “You saying I can walk?” Detroit said slowly.

  “Top?” Gunny said. “He was going to smoke us.”

  “Just the girl,” Detroit said, then glanced at the holes in Winter’s shirt. “Unless it was necessary.”

  “Top?” Gunny said.

  “What do you want?” Ethan said. “Shoot him down?” Gunny was about to go with that. “We do that, what’s the difference between him and us?” He looked at Detroit. “Like the man said.”

  “He was a Ranger,” Winter said. “Counts for something.”

  “Professional courtesy?” Gunny said.

  “If you like,” Ethan said. “We could turn him over to the feds.” Again Gunny was going to go with that. “You want to spend three months sitting in a courtroom, listening to some shiny suit strutting his stuff?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Thought not.” Ethan stepped out of the way and let Detroit cross to the stairs.

  Detroit stopped and twitched a finger towards the pistol Winter was holding. “Any chance I can keep that?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Gunny said.

  “Lot of people want me gone,” Detroit said, and opened his jacket to show his empty holster.

  “That’s your worry,” Gunny said. “You think we’re stupid enough—”

  “Give him the HK,” Ethan said.

  Winter slipped the mag, emptied the chamber and handed it to Detroit without a word.

  “I see you again…” Ethan said.

  “Yeah,” Detroit started down the stairs. “You won’t.”

  For a moment Ethan wondered just exactly what that meant.

  They watched the hit man cross the hall, unlock the front door and step out as casually as he would leave a party. The man had tungsten balls.

  Ethan admired the man’s skill, even if he didn’t agree with their application. Everybody to his own.

  “You thought about why they sent him?” Gunny said.

  “Been kicking that around a bit,” Ethan said. “Let’s ask the girl.”

  “You mean the petty officer, Top?” Winter said.

  Ethan handed him the MAC-10. “Same thing.”

  “You might want to keep that thought to yourself,” Gunny said.

  “Where’d you stash the girl—the petty officer?” Ethan said, looking around.

  “She’s in the car. In the garage,” Winter said, and let them see what a smile would be like if he ever used one. “She hears shooting and I don’t come get her in three minutes, she floors it out of there straight to the other house.”

  Ethan looked pointedly at his watch and coughed.

  “Shit!” Winter took off at a dead run, three stairs at a stride.

  “Ten bucks he doesn’t make it,” Gunny said.

  “Winter told her to go in three. She’s a girl. She’ll go in two.”

  “Jesus, Top, you really need to catch up. You’re a throwback.”

  “Is that a fish too small for dinner?”

  “Something like that,” Gunny said, and started down the stairs. A lot slower and safer than Winter had taken them.

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong,” Ethan said, “I respect women. Met a few braver than most men I know. It’s just…”

  Gunny stopped on the stairs and looked up. “Just what?”

  “I’m in combat with a woman in the squad and half my mind is on keeping her safe.” He started down the stairs. “It’s nature, I guess.”

  “You know what a Neanderthal is, boss?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen One Million Years BC.”

  “You mean you’ve seen the women in the little tight skins,” Gunny said.

  “Educational. All about dinosaurs and stuff.” Ethan waved him on down the stairs.

  “Educational. Right.” Gunny stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “You should’ve taken the bet. You’d be ten bucks richer.”

  Winter came in through the kitchen with Andie ahead of him. He raised the Sig P938. “Kid almost blew my head off. With my own gun.”

  “You said you’d shout oorah when you came in,” Andie said.

  Ethan and Gunny exchanged a long look.

  “He really said that?” Ethan said. “That he’d shout oorah?”

  “He did. But didn’t. I would’ve shot him if I could’ve opened the stupid car window.”

  “Pity,” Gunny said, and slid past them into the kitchen.

  Winter frowned after Ethan. “What do you think he’s sorry about? Me nearly getting shot by my own BUG, or not getting shot by it?”

  Gunny shrugged and headed for the kitchen. “That sounds like coffee in the making.”

  Winter looked over at Andie. “He didn’t answer. You notice that?”

  “Damn thing wouldn’t fire anyhow,” Andie said, and followed Ethan into the kitchen.

  “You know it’s got a safety, right? It’s not a Glock,” Winter said.

  “Now he tells me.”

  Hofmann smiled into his single malt and looked out over the city as he listened to the phone on the other end of the line ring. First thing the analyst would say is…

  “What the hell? It’s four thirty in the morning!”

  And there it was.

  “Good morning, Philip.”

  The man stalled and Hofmann imagined him mouthing shit and trying to catch up.

  “Err… right. Err… sorry about that, Mr. Hofmann. I was asleep.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Philip. We all have to sleep.”

  Apparently not all.

  “You have my undivided attention now, sir.”

  Hofmann could hear a hissed question and a muffled answer. So not undivided.

  “I have something pressing I’d like you to attend to.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll get on it first thing.”

  Hofmann remained silent.

  “And first thing is right now.”

  Correct answer.

  “That’s the spirit. Now…” He took a sip of his drink and glanced at the bottle on his desk. Very nice, he’d remember the brand. “SecNav has a team here in DC causing mischief.” He took another sip to give Philip time to wake up. “I would like you to have them moved elsewhere.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  Wait. And two, three…

  “Where?”

  Hofmann smiled. “Somewhere less, shall we say, hospitable.”

  “Of course, sir. South America is hot at this time
of year.”

  “Do we have assets available down there?”

  Philip was silent for a moment as he thought it over. The man had a mind like a database. And some very unsavory proclivities.

  “Not at the moment, sir.”

  The hissed question again. Male. Young. And another muffled exchange.

  “Then perhaps South America isn’t the place for this relocation.”

  “No, sir.” Silence for a moment. Searching again. “We have people… working around Uri. That’s north-east of Islamabad.”

  Hofmann didn’t care where it was.

  “That sounds Ideal. Arrange it, will you?”

  “You can mark that done, sir.”

  Hofmann sighed. People have tedious expressions and feel they must share them with everyone. He ended the call.

  Deborah Crichton-Cruz was trembling and her head spun with fear that strayed into terror every time a car passed. The call to 911 had crackled and the line had gone. She was in the middle of the city. It shouldn’t have happened. Unless it had happened on purpose. What could do that? One of those cell phone killers she’d seen advertised for use on public transport when people are being annoying. What were they? Cell blockers. Or something like that.

  The user would have to be close. There’d been no sign of the SUV since it cut in front of her and took off at speed.

  She looked around, but the user could be anywhere. The streetlights just weren’t that good. Sitting in her car at the side of the road was stupid. She had to get somewhere safe. The question was… of course, a police station. It made perfect sense. She had to get to the police. Tell them what she knew and get protection.

  The engine started on the first try, which for some strange reason surprised her. She supposed she’d seen too many cop shows where the escape is thwarted by a flat battery.

  A horn blared from a passing taxi as she drove out without looking. Getting killed in a car wreck wasn’t a smart move. She needed to concentrate. If there was a watcher with a jammer—jammer, that was what they were called. If the watcher was following, she would be okay as long as she kept moving. Maybe he’d ram her vehicle. If he did, she wouldn’t stop. Not for anything.