Alicia Myles 2 - Crusader's Gold (6 page)

Bridget McKenzie stalked back to the vehicle that would return her to her headquarters, beaten and abused but only by conflicting emotions. Her plan had been one of intimidation, in true stalker fashion. Start low-key, build up steadily to the real violence—it all preyed on the victim’s mind so much deeper that way, took them down quicker. And, of course, helped preserve her anonymity from the authorities.

What now?

Never, in her seven years as a dangerous rogue sinner had she had to confront a situation like the last one. This Riley had shaken her, surprised her with his intentions, the sheer animosity that radiated from him. Crouch appeared visibly shaken and though she knew him very little, Kenzie did know that the ex-leader of the Ninth Division was as battle-hardened and experienced as any soldier she had ever known.

Ex-Mossad, Kenzie had once been considered the best of the best. Israeli intelligence agents were highly trained, capable of feats even regiments like the SAS admired. The incident that turned her against them and against authority in general, and those that led up to it, changed her forever—giving her a belly full of anger, a burning mission, and a new desire to garner immoral power of her own.

The men who surrounded her now were mere guns for hire, or at least the majority of them were. One thing she knew about power—once you’d bought and fought for it you needed a few hand-picked individuals to help you keep it. Her inner circle was comprised of four strong men she trusted almost as much as she trusted herself. Beyond that she saw her men as an unruly tribe, a paid-for gang of thugs who might just as easily turn on her as follow her orders. With that thought in mind she carefully watched them, spied on them, bugged them, even paid outsiders to come in and pretend to be one of them, just so they could report all the heated conversations and secret intimations straight to her.

She trusted no one.

Not anymore.

With her plans for Crouch and Co. upset she settled back for a short drive and, upon arriving outside a dilapidated abandoned warehouse, slipped out of the car. With a look she summoned Ajax, a powerful, bearded American and part of her inner circle.

“What’s your move, Kenzie?” he asked immediately, thinking how she expected him to think.

“For now we take stock,” she replied as she walked, long legs eating up the ground. “This Riley’s appearance is unexpected to say the very least and, judging by his extremist views toward Crouch, I’d say we really should re-evaluate our coming moves.”

Ajax gave her a sidelong glance which she interpreted perfectly.

“No, I’m not afraid so don’t presume to wonder. There is a reason I am in charge. Just carry out your orders and you will be fine.”

“Sure. And they are?”

“First, a little diversion for me.” Kenzie strode through the door, knowing Ajax wouldn’t open it for her and not expecting him to. The warehouse’s interior was sparse and grimy, just a vast cavern full of beaten, rusted relics that almost everyone had forgotten. Kenzie dealt mostly in the Middle East: stealing and trading ancient artifacts for money; murdering, extorting and torturing to find and authenticate them; then passing them through a tight organization she had helped create. Ancient relics were easy money, a tranquil and stress-free business compared to passing stolen Da Vincis and blood diamonds along. That meant she travelled often and didn’t need an established HQ.

She cast an eye through the warehouse, saw her men gathered near an alcove to the side where an old refrigerator and kettle had been plugged in. A battered outdoor patio set lay to the side, the sturdier pieces now being utilized. The main warehouse area was an untidy clutter of ancient car parts, piles of worn-out tires, corroded wings and grilles and even a rusty old hoist. Pigeons nested in the spaces above, cooing softly. Motes of dust drifted lazily through the air. Her men were into the ale already, in particular those who had taken knocks from Alicia’s crew.

“Lesson time.” She spoke quietly, heading through the chaos toward them. “Make sure Gable, Hawke and Stefanov are with us.”

Ajax motioned immediately to the remainder of her inner circle, knowing they had already been watching. Kenzie strode without fear among the rest of her crew, eighteen strong.

“An interesting time, gentlemen. A new player and one even I wasn’t aware of. Still, it changes nothing. Just a single one of Crouch’s treasure troves would set us up for life. And with that said, I want more men.” Her affirmative gaze flicked briefly to Ajax. “A far stronger crew. See to it.”

Ajax nodded.

Kenzie made a face, now including all her men in her gaze, effecting a confused expression. “So. With all these riches at hand do you think I’m leading you all wrong? Astray? Think I’m a rabid dog in need of putting down? Do you?”

Some of the older members of her team sat more upright, knowing what was coming. The newer members mostly copied Kenzie’s own mien—looking confused. Some glanced between themselves.

“Ah, I can understand a little insubordination.” Kenzie took out a thin blade and drew a thumb down its length. “I encourage it actually. Gets rid of that ridiculous testosterone. But there’s a line.” She held the thumb in the air, blood dripping along a red stripe. “You cross it you get to see my bloody side . . .”

Kenzie paused, gauging the reactions. Deep down, she was conscious that she was wasting time. She would be much better served by finding out what Crouch had been up to in that church and what the hell went down in the street afterwards. Her men had taken pictures of the window Crouch had seemed primarily interested in but they hadn’t had time to study it. What were they looking for? The Gold Team—as they called themselves—were clever. Surveillance had turned up nothing, and had been scratchy at best. Every moment she wasted with her motley crew further worsened her chances of catching up to them.

Still, it needed to be done.

“During the last job,” she said quietly. “Somebody gave away our position at the last minute.”

All the men sat upright.

“I know.” She acknowledged them. “Goes to what I always say. You just can’t trust a mercenary or a criminal. Or anyone, actually. And that,” she flicked her thumb rapidly, spraying blood across the floor, “is how I always know who done me fucking wrong.”

With a leap she was among the men, touching no one, but springing from chair to chair, lethal blade twirling around her open hand. Within eighteen seconds she was done, standing behind them now on the opposite side, breathing slowly and smiling slightly.

The men blinked and looked shocked, uncertain what had happened.

Then, one of them toppled from his seat; somehow dead, somehow unable to voice his agony or even move until that moment of expiration.

Kenzie wiped her blade off on a piece of rag she found on the warehouse floor. “The lesson ends,” she said. “Don’t ever try to cross me. Bitch about me all you want, I like that. But plot against me and I’ll stick a stiletto through your eyeball and into your brain. Or I may use the katana. My choice.”

The men were quiet, staring mostly at the facedown man and the thin trickle of blood that had begun to leak across the floor, doubtlessly from one of his eyes or maybe both. Kenzie knew from experience that what shocked and disturbed them most was not that she had killed one of them as they watched—it was that they had been watching and hadn’t seen her do it. The fact and the fear remained lodged inside their heads that it could have been any of them.

“Lesson learned?” Kenzie asked the rhetorical question. “I have eyes and ears among you. And I will weed out the traitors. And if it’s you, you will die badly. Ajax—”

She turned to her right-hand man.

“The pictures?” He was smiling.

“The pictures.”

Kenzie turned her back on her men, allowing them time to digest and re-evaluate. There was nothing like a show of deadly violence to rally a disparate team of mercs. Nothing she knew of anyway.

Ajax hooked up a laptop to his smart phone and brought up the pictures in question. The stained glass window with the silhouetted images of Crouch and others studying it filled the fifteen-inch screen. Kenzie flicked between them for a while, zeroing in on various parts, and then asked Stefanov to link his own smart phone to the same laptop. One of the only reasons she had so far kept in the background, limiting her actions mostly to surveillance and fisticuffs, was to allow Crouch and Co. to find the treasure first. It was all a part of her plan. You don’t take an art thief down before he steals the
Mona Lisa
. You take him out on the Champs Élysées, or even more preferably make sure you’re flying the plane on which he later makes his escape. It was the same with Crouch. Too much action and violence now would cause her problems she could ill afford. Problems that might stop her from later acquiring the treasure. By any means necessary.

Stefanov had been filming proceedings. Video replay would work better in this situation, she thought. It would give a better indication as to exactly where Crouch and his team were looking.

“Top row,” Ajax finally ventured. “I think.”

Kenzie kept her silence but tended to agree. The treasure seekers were definitely studying something in one of the top two rows. But that was eight different choices, and at least six of them were a mystery to her.

“Disappointing,” she murmured.

Stefanov nodded beside her. “You want me to—”

“I want you to start an investigation. Find out who this new player—Riley—is. Everything about his past and future. Go now.” She waited until Stefanov stalked away, not liking assumptions being put in her mouth. Then she turned to Hawke. “Go with him. And use every contact our submissive Ninth Division mercenary has.”

Hawke looked inquisitive and this time she could understand the hesitation. One of her men was an ex-British military man and an unknown survivor of the devastation wrought on the Ninth Division’s HQ. Demoralized, discontented and wanting more he had signed up recently to Kenzie’s crew, further cementing her decision to tail Crouch.

“Go.” Kenzie watched Hawke leave, knowing she could trust him to do her bidding but slightly saddened that even among her inner circle questions and mistrust remained. Blessed and cursed with a perfect memory she had once been the brightest up-and-comer the Mossad ever had. Quick to learn, even faster to correct mistakes, respectful to her superiors and loyal to her government, Kenzie was a rising star. One of her instructors had called her “the complete trainable animal, unsullied from head to toe”. At first pleased and later highly confused, it took her a long time to understand the depths to which he was referring. Competitors called her green, fresh, but it was more than that. The military structure was one she embraced and even loved. She loved authority, reveled in the order and directness of it. It gave her purpose, stability and true resolve.

Which was why it came as such a shock and affected her so deeply when they so utterly betrayed her.

Ajax tapped the laptop’s screen. “The team,” he said, indicating Crouch and Myles and the others she knew as Healey, Russo and Caitlyn. “They left a man behind.”

Kenzie nodded and sucked blood from her thumb. “I know. Go get me that fucking archaeologist.”

The Gold Team left Istanbul in a hurry, their haste fueled by Michael Crouch who walked and talked and helped make their travel plans like a deep sea diver who’s suddenly realized he’s being tracked back to the surface by a great white shark. Through the hustle and bustle of Istanbul’s streets and the whirlwind packing at their hotel room, the chaos that was Ataturk Airport and their ferrying out to a private jet, Alicia remained calm, almost silent, giving Crouch the time he needed to better apprise his team of the impending threat.

Riley.

She wondered if this meant the treasure hunt was off. More importantly—would Crouch disband the team? She knew how his mind worked. Experienced, military trained soldiers or not he would think first about keeping them safe when the slaughterer they faced sought only him. In addition, there was the potential civilian collateral to consider. If Riley was actually the madman he appeared to be then moms and dads and children would not be allowed to stand in his way. Crouch needed time to assimilate all the specifics.

Once aboard the private jet, seated and knowing its destination was Venice, she cracked open a small bottle of water.

“We have less than two hours before we land.” She faced Crouch. “Best start talking, boss.”

Crouch sighed loudly as he made a point of addressing them all. “First, there’s nothing underhand going on. Everything between Riley and I is a matter of record. The man’s a certifiable maniac, born without a glimmer of conscience and perfectly capable of destroying half the world to get what he wants.”

“Which is you,” Alicia put in helpfully.

“Ah, yes. So it seems. I had hoped the bastard was stone cold dead.”

Alicia didn’t have to look for any animosity in Crouch’s tone, it was there undisguised for all to hear. “I’m guessing he kept tabs on you from whatever cesspool he’s been hiding in.”

“Riley holds grudges like an elected official holds the purse strings. Very tightly and close to his heart. No doubt he has known my every movement for years.”

“Why hasn’t he tried to kill you before?” Russo wanted to know.

Alicia glared at the rough-edged soldier. “Steady on, Rambo.”

Crouch reached for a miniature whiskey, one of half-a-dozen he had carefully placed in a line before him. “Riley is hands-on. Yes, he needs men to make an opportunity but he’ll want to do this himself.”

“So the big question,” Caitlyn said. “Is why?”

“Riley was SAS.” Crouch launched into the explanation as if from an often-revisited memory. “We trained together. He was good. We were good.” Crouch shook his head. “I underestimated him badly. More than once. Riley excelled right up until the last week of training . . .” He knocked back a neat shot. “When he disappeared. Now that just doesn’t happen, not when a man’s training for the Regiment. I was twenty three at the time and my friend had just caused one of the great mysteries within the SAS. Riley simply vanished out of sight, the promising career gone, his entire life gone. Left behind.”

“So what happened?” Russo asked.

Crouch spread his hands. “It’s still unexplained.”

Alicia tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I still don’t get why he wants to kill you so . . . intensely.”

“Well, that’s because you don’t know the whole story yet. Riley was essentially dead to us for five years. You wonder about someone for that long, believe me, the reasons and scenarios you come up with would make for a fantasy novel. It became so bad I used to revisit the places I knew he’d frequented, make a nuisance of myself at his old haunts. No way could I believe a man like Riley could just disappear off the face of the fucking earth.” Crouch took a few moments and polished off a second miniature.

“Grief changes you,” Caitlyn said matter-of-factly. “Turns you into a different person. There’s no way you can be the person you were ever again.”

Alicia found her glance flicking momentarily toward the young girl. Caitlyn had experienced an immense upheaval recently in her life, something that had affected her entire way of existing. Alicia had been meaning to broach the subject but, as usual, incident and adventure had taken her away.

Crouch continued. “Indeed. As for Daniel Riley, my fears were not only unjustified but hugely wayward. Riley turned up five years later as a ruthless criminal, a tyrant with his filthy little fingers into just about everything. Some said he’d used the British Army to get his training, with a plan in mind all along. Others said he’d been recruited along the way and later killed his boss to take his place. The myths around Riley are numerous and relentless. I tend to think he was always bad, which is why I always believe that I intensely underestimated him.” Crouch shook his head, finishing the third whiskey. “It never happened again.”

Alicia noted that an hour had passed since they departed Istanbul. Soon, they would be descending toward Venice’s Marco Polo airport. “I’m guessing you two locked horns later?”

“The SAS were informed of Riley’s re-emergence days after it happened, but didn’t actually encounter him until 1997, some twelve years later. I was thirty five then and no longer a new recruit. I was a captain. Riley popped back up our radar simply because he’d gotten himself into a fix by meeting a client in a hotel lobby in India. This client was a notorious bomb maker, a known killer, and we were already on the scene, having no knowledge that Riley would be there. Seeing an opportunity I walked into the lobby, alone, to reason with them . . .”

Crouch felt himself growing distant, remembering the events of that day with a memory too clear, a conscience too bruised. It had been more than an awakening; beyond even a grueling rite of passage. As he entered a lobby packed with unwitting bystanders he thought about all that the reports said Riley had done. The murders. The tortures. The kidnappings. Deals with the Devil. It couldn’t be true, not totally. Riley had to have some ulterior motive. Perhaps he was working for one of the more covert government agencies. Undercover. Perhaps Crouch could now find out the truth.

The first person he saw was the bomb maker—tall, wrapped in silk, and sporting a thick beard. Beady little flashing eyes that could have belonged to either a rodent or one of Dante’s demons. Crouch knew instantly that this man’s slaying days would end today. Then, almost against their will his eyes found Riley. Was it really him? Would he be recognizable? What if—

But Riley had already seen him. It was as if an arrow shot between them—its trail a burning streak lined with old memories, old promises and a thousand unanswered questions. The intensity was so strong it stopped Crouch in his tracks and made Riley lose concentration, suddenly ignoring his client. The bomb maker caught on and turned, more prone to jumpiness than a kangaroo in mating season.

Riley rose quickly, surveying the entire scene as Crouch watched. In the next second he reacted in contradiction of Crouch’s expectations and smiled widely, waving the Captain over.

“Michael! Michael! So good to see you. How long’s it been? Ten years?”

“More.” Crouch, caught in the spotlight, walked over, now even more conscious of the many people milling all about. The bomb maker in particular would have a contingency plan and might even now have a finger close to the proverbial trigger.

“I wondered when we would meet again,” Riley said, in a tone implying absolute truth.

“I thought you might be dead. Buried in a ditch. Abducted and never found. I searched for you for many years.”

Riley clearly read and understood the pain and outrage in Crouch’s voice. “I never asked anyone to mourn me.”

“And what? You’re a terrorist now?”

Riley laughed, turning toward the bomb maker. “You’ll have to forgive my friend here. He’s a member of the SAS and not quite the stylish diplomat.”

The bomb maker took that as a sign to flee, hopping over the back of the chair and showing Crouch, for the first time, that he held a number of small tubes in his right hand. Crouch stared first at them and then back at Riley.

“What have you done? Can you not see all these people?”

“You just cost me fifteen mill, asswipe. Now you’ll be shoveling the remains of tourists up whilst I escape in my plane.”

Crouch lunged, shocked but unable to let it pass. “Did you sell him those bombs?”

“The mixing ingredients, yes.” Riley laughed, not an ounce of morality evident. “Now get the fuck outta—”

Crouch smashed him on the bridge of the nose, breaking it, then caught him under the chin. Riley flinched and grunted, shocked and reeling aside. Seeing that Riley left a small disc-like object on the low table, Crouch swept it out of reach. Riley stared at it.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Michael.”

“I know you let the Regiment down. Let the Army down. I trusted you. Believed in you. And this . . . this!” Crouch attacked again, unable to help himself, dealing a blow that audibly snapped Riley’s jawbone. The ex-soldier buckled.

“Let . . . let them down?” he babbled, wincing from the new pain. “Get down on the floor, man, because I really want you to live through this. Live and prosper. Because one day . . . one day I’m going to make you pay.”

Crouch took Riley’s advice immediately, surprised as he reacted without thought. The explosion shook the lobby, sending chunks of debris through the air. The first noise Crouch heard an instant after the explosion was the bump next to him and then he set eyes on the first casualty.

A flight attendant, stopping in the city for the night, living and breathing and feeling but a moment ago, rendered a lifeless carcass through Riley’s actions.

Crouch turned away from the blank stare and the blood flow, saw Riley standing at the far end of the devastated room.

“One day,” Riley mouthed, making a gun of his hand and pulling the trigger. “One . . . fucking . . . day.”