Cut and Run (7 page)

The brake lights flared and the truck drew to a slow halt.

Imogen wasn’t concerned. FedEx trucks were a regular feature here. Maybe this was a driver unfamiliar with the area who’d decided to stop and ask for directions.

She continued to jog towards the back of the truck. She heard the clunk of the driver’s door being opened and saw a tall, muscular man in a FedEx uniform hop down from the cab. He was holding a clipboard in his hand. Yeah, she decided, he was lost.

‘Hi,’ the man said. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your run, ma’am.’

Imogen slowed down, and then jogged in place. Her trainers made squishing sounds on the asphalt.

‘I’m looking for . . .’ he inspected the clipboard as though for confirmation. ‘Yes, I’m looking for a Miss Imogen Ballard.’

Imogen made a living by designing websites, but she sidelined in wildlife photography for magazine publishers. It wasn’t unknown to receive packages of proofs from the publishers. Her eyebrows went up, even as a hand went to her chest.

‘You’ve found her.’

‘Wow,’ said the man. ‘That was very fortuitous.’

Too fortuitous to be real, Imogen was slow to realise. Who used words like
fortuitous
these days? She squinted at the man, and his lips pulled into a sneer. Something about the coldness of his eyes warned her that his accidental luck was her misfortune.

From under the clipboard he pulled out a gun. It had a long broad barrel that glistened under the same refracted light that made the road seem ethereal. There was nothing beautiful about it.

‘Oh!’ Imogen said. It was all her mind could come up with while it was feverishly computing the information her senses fed it. She was thinking: Joe Hunter had killed all of my enemies, so what’s this about? She should have been thinking how to get out of this alive. Then there was no more time for thinking, or for anything.

The man lifted the gun and shot her once in the chest.

Chapter 10

There is a belief among soldiers that a highly tuned warrior exists in a state of readiness that transcends the norm. On high alert, all the senses thrum and, combined, they supersede anything that any of the individual senses can assimilate. This super-sense is what warns the soldier of ambush, of a silent assassin’s approach, of impending death. Such is the belief that studies have been conducted and scientists have designated this state Rapid Intuitive Experience. Fancifully it has been deemed some kind of ESP. I’ve experienced RIE on too many occasions to dismiss it out of hand, but I don’t consider myself psychic or even any more intuitive than anyone else. Never had I given credibility to anything like premonitions or crisis apparitions.

Until now, that was.

Not only was I in danger, but so were members of my family. My brother John was hidden deep in a witness protection programme, out of harm’s way, but my parents and my ex-wife, Diane, were over in England, not necessarily out of reach of those trying to hurt me. Despite us divorcing, in my own way I still loved Diane, and to think of anything like that happening to her was enough to make me feel sick. I had to get a warning to her, set up some protection for her and my parents, but there was a more pressing matter.

Lately I’d shared a couple of telephone calls with Imogen Ballard, the sister of a woman I’d been intimate with. Kate Piers had died when I failed to keep her safe, but her sister didn’t blame me. We’d talked, sharing our grief, and I’d even been up to Maine on a weekend visit. I had the feeling that Imogen wanted more from me, but I still missed Kate too much for that. We were only friends, but that wouldn’t mean a thing. Whoever was setting me up could have gained the wrong impression and perhaps set out to hurt Imogen, the way they’d done to the families of the other members of our team.

I had a flash image of Imogen’s face. She was lying on her back in some desolate place, glassy-eyed, mouth open . . . dead.

The photographs that Bryce showed me had a lot to do with that picture, but I had to squeeze my eyes tight to clear it from my mind.

Pulling out my phone, I switched the power on and stabbed out Imogen’s number.

‘Who are you calling?’ Bryce sat up in the chair as if he was going to snatch the phone from my hand.

‘Shut up, will you?’ I snapped, and listened for the ringtone. Bryce watched me intently.

The phone rang and rang, and I expected it to go to a messaging service. But then there was a metallic ping as someone picked up the handset. I heard breathing.

My first thought was that the police had made the connection between us and that I was being listened to by a roomful of detectives or FBI agents. They’d try to trace my call, and in my hurry to warn Imogen I hadn’t taken any precautions. But, somehow I knew that wasn’t the case. If the police were there, they’d have given Imogen instructions to act natural and to engage me in conversation. Listening to each other breathe into the mouthpiece was not natural.

‘Imogen?’

There was a grunt: too masculine a sound to have come from Imogen. Fleetingly I wondered if she had found herself a new friend since last we’d spoken, but that thought was a non-starter.

‘Where’s Imogen?’

The man holding the phone wasn’t ready to answer me yet. The chance of me phoning like this might possibly have shaken him. Or maybe he’d been sitting by the telephone waiting exactly for that.

‘If you’ve harmed her—’

The man cut me off curtly, ‘It’s enough that you fear that I might.’

‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘No,
Joe Hunter
. I will kill you, but first I will kill all that you hold dear.’

‘Imogen means nothing to me.’

‘I’m expected to believe that? If that was true, why would she be the first person you thought to call?’

‘Don’t hurt her.’ I wasn’t begging. It was one thing that I was being targeted – in some respects I could expect some people to hate me enough to want to hurt me – but now that that had spilled over to include innocent people, it added new urgency to my need to stop this man.

‘I don’t fear you, Hunter. Your threats mean nothing to me.’

‘So face me. Leave Imogen alone and meet me.’

‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wouldn’t change a thing. I would kill you.’

‘You’re so sure, let’s do it then.’

‘I could have killed you yesterday. I could have killed you a dozen times while I’ve followed you unobserved. I could have killed you when I shot those two idiotic policemen.’

‘But instead you ran away. Like a coward.’

‘No. I allowed you to live so that I could make you
suffer
. We will meet, Hunter, but only when you’re begging to be released from your torment.’

‘Whoever is behind this, I will kill him too.’

The man didn’t respond to that, which meant I’d hit a raw nerve.

‘Tell him that
this time
I won’t hesitate to put a bullet through his skull.’

‘Hunter,’ the man said, ‘you think you know what this is all about? You know nothing.’

He hung up.

Bryce stirred from where he was sitting. He approached me slowly. He had grown pale. It probably had as much to do with the look on my face as what he already feared. ‘Was it him?’

Him? He was talking about Jesus Henao Abadia. A dead man.

Yes, it was a dead man. If I had my way I’d make certain of that. But it wasn’t Abadia. This man’s voice was North American.

Bryce’s face couldn’t have grown any paler if I’d put a slug through his heart. His eyes watered and I could see him shuddering.

‘Get a grip, Bryce,’ I told him. ‘You’re no good to anyone in this state.’

Harsh words perhaps, but they were aimed as much at me as they were at him. I’d failed to keep Kate safe, and now it looked like I’d failed her sister as well.

The man had expected me to call Imogen, and had waited for my call. His intention was to throw me off-kilter, make me fear what would happen next. Instead, he’d got me thinking.

Putting away my phone, I stared at Bryce. He hadn’t stumbled on this case all by himself. He was retired from the Agency. Someone had fed him the details of the murders, someone had supplied him the photographs. Whoever had done so, they were not the same as the people threatening us. They wouldn’t have given him fair warning, they would have simply taken him and he would have been strapped in a chair and tortured like all the rest.

‘You know more than you’re saying, Bryce. I want it all.’

‘I was going to tell you everything, Hunter. I just wanted to be sure that we were on the same side first.’

‘God damn you, Bryce. If you’d told me everything when you first contacted me, I could have stopped
this
from happening.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, Bryce. So am I. But at least you know now whose fucking side I’m on.’

Stalking away from him, I went through into the kitchen to pull out a strongbox I’d concealed behind a panel in one of the kitchen cupboards. Inside I found spare magazines of nine mm ammunition, also a Ka-Bar knife. Out of necessity I didn’t want to have to replace my weapons every time I jumped on an airplane, so I had fake documents that showed I was licensed to carry concealed weapons. My docs would pass the scrutiny of Homeland Security if it ever came to that. There was a wad of cash and a number of credit cards. Killing men is cheap, but never an inexpensive vocation.

Secreting my kit round my body I went back into the living room and found Bryce leaning against a wall cradling his head between his hands.

‘I never believed you were responsible, Hunter. I was worried about contacting you for another reason: I was afraid that I’d lead the bastards to you, but it looks like you were already under surveillance.’

‘Looks that way, doesn’t it?’ The man on the phone had already implied as much. He’d found Imogen so he could use her as leverage against me. But someone must have pointed him my way first.

Since leaving the Special Forces I’ve been working under the radar. Only select people – namely my close circle of friends – know where to find me: Rink, Harvey Lucas, Imogen Ballard and Walter Hayes Conrad.

That took me to only one person. Rink and Harvey would die before they gave me up; Imogen was out of the equation. So that left Walter.

Walter and Bryce had connections, too.

When I was with the unit, I worked under a team of commanders based at Arrowsake in the UK, but I had a specific handler in each respective country. My stateside handler was Walter Hayes Conrad IV. Walter was also Bryce Lang’s CIA boss. Ultimately it was Walter who’d organised the hit on Abadia.

‘Walter gave you the tip-off,’ I said.

Bryce nodded.

Walter was first and foremost a CIA Sub-Division Controller, a director of black ops, but he was also my friend and mentor. Why the hell hadn’t he warned me?

I took out my phone again.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Bryce said. ‘I’ve been unable to contact him.’

And he was right. I couldn’t raise Walter by any of the normal routes.

Whoever was behind this, they were tied to what had happened in Bogota and they’d gained information pertaining to the hit on Abadia. That would mean that they knew about everyone involved, all the way up to Walter Conrad. The fact that Walter was now incapable of answering my call could mean that they’d got to him too. Or, following his tip-off, he’d gone deliberately incommunicado until the issue was resolved one way or another. Without Walter sanctioning my actions, it would mean I was once again acting outside the law, but I didn’t care. These people had chosen to declare war on me: so be it.

I hung up and said to Bryce, ‘We’re out of here.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Maine. Where else?’

‘Jesus, Hunter. How did things come to this?’

I don’t remember Bryce as being so indecisive. This time I noticed he was plucking at his clothing and shifting from one foot to the other.