Kill Fee (13 page)

W
indermere dropped her hands. “It’s over,” she said. “He made us somehow.”

Mathers listened into the phone. “They found O’Brien’s rental car abandoned a couple hundred yards from the Liberty kiosk. Left his tail stranded in a big snarl of traffic.”

Stevens swore. “We need Miami PD on every road out of the airport. Transit, too. Buses, taxis, trams, everything. Tell them to keep their goddamn eyes open.”

“Nobody in the state has a clue what he looks like,” said Windermere. “
We
saw him, Stevens. If we were there, we could have made him. Now he’s gone.”

Stevens looked around the bullpen, helpless, frustrated. The other agents who’d been watching now couldn’t meet his gaze. They ducked down, turned away. Even Harris had disappeared from his doorway.

This is like trying to change a tire on a Mars rover,
Stevens thought
,
from down here on earth. How the hell do we catch this guy now?

T
he asset sat in the diner and didn’t say anything. Didn’t make eye contact with Parkerson. Barely ate anything, just picked at his hamburger and drank a shitload of coffee. Frankly, it was a little unsettling.

Parkerson had driven them out of Miami and north along I-95 toward Daytona Beach. He’d driven because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Because the police were looking for the asset, and he figured it was safer to get the hell out of town. Nobody would look for them here. Not in this diner. Not yet. Parkerson stared across at the asset and tried to figure out what to do.

There was a TV in the diner, behind the long counter. It was playing the news on an endless cycle. Parkerson had watched coverage of the Miami Beach shooting four times since they’d walked through the door. He’d watched a breathless reporter at the Miami Beach Marina, standing alongside the
Kyla Dawn
. He’d watched the target’s body as it was wheeled from the yacht. Heard eyewitness accounts of the shooting, none of which mentioned the asset or his little red car. Just as Parkerson figured they were safe, though, decided he’d overreacted just a tad, he heard the pretty blond reporter tell the camera that police and the FBI were looking for someone named Richard O’Brien.

So that settled it, then. The asset was compromised. The O’Brien alias was blown. Parkerson cut into his pork chop. What to do?

The smartest move would be to drive the kid to some woebegone swamp and put him out of his misery. End the chapter. It was going to happen soon enough anyway. Maybe this whole thing was a sign.

Parkerson eyed the kid across the booth. The kid stared down at the
table. Clutched his cup of coffee. Drained it and asked for another. There wasn’t an ounce of feeling inside him, Parkerson realized. The kid was the ultimate drone.

Parkerson finished his dinner and called for the check. Waited for the asset to finish his cup of coffee. Then he led the kid back out to the Cadillac. Buckled him up and set out into the sunset, searching for a back road and a swamp.

M
athers put down the phone. “No sign of this guy anywhere,” he said. “Miami PD swept the whole airport. Canines, roadblocks, you name it. He straight-up disappeared.”

“Damn it.” Windermere sat heavy in her seat. “So where the hell did he go?”

“He abandoned the car at the entry to the rental car return building,” said Stevens. “Left a traffic jam behind him. Stranded the tail. So what did the other drivers see?”

“Didn’t see much,” said Mathers. “The guy right behind O’Brien’s Chevy is a Filipino national, doesn’t speak much English. We’re working on an interpreter, but it sounds like he’s scared pretty damn shitless of the cops.”

“Of course he is,” said Windermere. “What about the other drivers?”

Mathers shook his head. “I guess there was a curve in the ramp,” he said. “Bad visibility. Somebody said they saw another guy with O’Brien, but nobody’s been able to get a decent description. For all we know, it’s bogus.”

Windermere and Stevens swapped glances. “Another guy?” said Stevens. “What, in the Chevy?”

“Like I said, it’s chaos down there. Nobody’s entirely sure.” Mathers reached for the phone. “I’ll call Miami back,” he said. “Get some answers.”

“Bullshit.” Windermere stood. “I’m through with this armchair quarterbacking routine. O’Brien’s still in Miami. We’re going down there, and we’re going to find him.”

Mathers frowned. “I thought Harris said—”

“Things done changed, Mathers.” She fixed her eyes on him. “I’ll clear our travel with Harris. You go pack a bag.”

S
tevens watched from an empty cubicle as his FBI colleagues bustled around him, all excitement and nerves as they prepared for Miami.

This was FBI stuff. This was real hotshot policing. Stevens had tasted it once, when he’d chased down Arthur Pender, and it had been the most fun he’d ever had as a cop. Now Windermere was off to do it again, except this time she was bringing Mathers instead. Stevens watched them get ready, feeling extraneous and, if he were honest with himself, more than a little jealous.

You’re a BCA agent,
he thought.
This is how you wanted it. No cowboy stuff. No heroics. This is how you wanted your life, for you and Nancy both.

Windermere came hustling past. Grinned at Stevens. Slapped him on the shoulder. “We’re going to nail this bastard, Stevens,” she said. “I can feel it.”

“Damn right.” Stevens cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll step back and let you guys earn your paychecks,” he said. “Not much use for me around here anymore.”

Windermere stopped. “Bullshit. You’re coming to Miami.”

“This is FBI territory,” he said. “What do you need with an old BCA agent?”

“Can’t be the Lone Ranger without Tonto. Batman without Robin.”

“Han Solo without Chewbacca,” said Mathers.

Stevens laughed. “Anyone’s the sidekick around here, it’s you.”

“Uh-huh.” Windermere grinned at him. “We’ll discuss it on the flight, Stevens. Unless you’re too busy puking your guts out.”

“Very funny. My boss would eat me for lunch.”

“You’re working the Pyatt angle, right? How do we know today’s victim isn’t Spenser Pyatt’s long-lost cousin or something?”

“We don’t,” Stevens said, “but I can’t just go bombing down to South Beach on a hunch, Carla.”

“I’ll clear it with Lesley.” This wasn’t Windermere. Stevens turned to find Drew Harris standing at Windermere’s cubicle.

“Thank you, sir,” Stevens said, “but I don’t think you guys need me. Windermere and Agent Mathers are both more than capable.”

“No doubt about that,” Harris said, “but I need Mathers here.”

Mathers blinked. “What?”

“I can’t afford to send two of my agents on this manhunt, not the way this office is staffed. We’re short manpower in CID as is, thanks to Homeland Security.”

“So you’re going to send the state cop to Miami,” Mathers said slowly. “And keep me behind a desk in Minnesota?”

“I know you don’t like it, son, but I’m short good agents. I can’t afford to lose you and Windermere both.” Harris turned to Stevens. “You’re a part of this case, Agent Stevens,” he said. “I know you work well with Agent Windermere. Don’t you want to see this thing through?”

Stevens glanced at Mathers, who stared back, goggle-eyed. “I do,” he said.

“Then pack a bag. I’ll clear it with Tim Lesley.”

Stevens nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.
But who’s going to clear it with my wife
?

I
f the asset knew he was going to die, he didn’t show it.

Parkerson drove blindly until the road beneath the Cadillac turned to dirt. The sun had set; it was dark beyond his headlights. Fog swirled up and across the road. The Cadillac was suddenly stifling hot.

Parkerson flipped on the AC and drove in silence, trying to keep his breathing steady. He was afraid, he realized. And sickened, nauseated by the messiness that was sure to come.

The asset sat beside him and didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stared out the window and waited.

The road petered out ahead. So did the trees. Parkerson killed the engine and cut off the headlights. Climbed out of the Cadillac and stood in the gloom. There was water ahead; Parkerson could hear it. Hell, he was practically swimming already, the air was so humid. The night seemed to close in around him.

Parkerson walked ahead of the Cadillac to the edge of the road. Looked down and saw water, brackish and swampy. The fog swirled around him. There was no one around. This was as good a spot as any.

He walked back to the Cadillac, every nerve in his body tingling. He’d left his door slightly open, and the dome light burned through the gloom, the only light for miles. The night around the car was dead dark.

Parkerson studied the asset through the windshield of the Cadillac. He’d trained assets for nearly five years now. The assets had killed nearly forty people. Parkerson figured the twenty years he’d put in at his straight job had resulted, indirectly, in the deaths of thousands more. But he still hadn’t grown comfortable taking lives himself. Not yet. Death was easy in the abstract. When it was numbers and figures, clean and absolute. Killing itself, though, was always messy. Parkerson looked at the kid and wished he had a gun. Something quick and efficient, at least.

There was rope in the trunk of the car. A tire iron. Parkerson popped the trunk and picked up the tire iron. Tested its weight. His stomach churned. His pulse roared in his ears. Was he doing this?

The asset still hadn’t moved. Didn’t he know what was coming, somewhere in that fucked-up brain of his? Did he care?

Parkerson swung the tire iron experimentally. Wondered how it would feel when it struck flesh and bone. How much blood it would draw. How long the kid would take to die. He felt suddenly nauseous. Tried to spit, found his mouth dry. He swore. Shook out his arms. The asset watched him.

Something in the car was chiming, electronic. Parkerson realized he’d left the keys in the ignition. The car had been chiming the whole time. Parkerson hadn’t noticed. Either the asset hadn’t, either, or he just didn’t care.

It just seemed like such a waste. The other assets had earned their deaths. They had failed, each of them, had grown soft, developed defects. This asset here was still perfectly good. He could still follow orders. He could still kill at will.

Parkerson tapped the tire iron against his palm. So the Richard O’Brien alias was shot. So what? The apartment in Philadelphia was registered corporate. Another shell company, untraceable. Even if the police knew the asset came from Philly, they didn’t have an address. The kid could grow a beard if he needed to. Wear a disguise.

A new alias. That’s all the asset needed. The rental car scam was shot,
too, but Parkerson could work around that. The asset was still valid. He was still fundamentally intact. He still had at least a couple kills left.

Parkerson looked back at the car. The asset hadn’t moved. Parkerson swore and threw the tire iron in the backseat. Slid behind the wheel and sat there a moment, feeling the sweat drip down the back of his shirt, feeling his heart slow to normal pace. He took a long breath and turned the key in the ignition. “Fuck it,” he said, shifting into reverse. “Let’s get out of here.”

T
im Lesley didn’t need much convincing. “You want to do this?” he asked Stevens. “You think you can contribute?”

Stevens looked around the FBI bullpen, the phone to his ear. Windermere watched him. Met his eyes and smiled, encouraging. “I do,” Stevens told his boss. “I want this.”

“You’re my best man,” said Lesley. “I don’t blame Harris for poaching you, especially not with that firecracker Windermere involved.”

“Yes, sir,” said Stevens. “Thank you.”

“Catch the bastard, Stevens. And when you do, tell him the BCA sent you.”

“Yes, sir, will do. Thank you, sir.” Stevens hung up the phone. Threw a thumbs-up at Windermere.
Okay,
he thought, exhaling.
So the easy part’s done.

“MIAMI.”
Nancy Stevens stared across the kitchen at him. “Windermere.”

Stevens nodded. He’d driven home from Brooklyn Center. Needed to
pack a bag. Anyway, he figured Nancy deserved to hear it in person. “I know this is sudden,” he said, “but it sounds like the FBI could really use me.”

His wife sucked her teeth. Looked around the room. She’d been swamped with paperwork when he’d come through the door, barricaded behind piles of briefs and motions. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I don’t know why they can’t solve their own cases,” she said.

Stevens sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Nancy looked at him. “You didn’t see this coming, Kirk? You didn’t think you’d get mixed up in this one like you did with the kidnappers and Carter Tomlin?”

“Nancy—”

“This
isn’t
sudden, Kirk. I saw this coming the moment you told me Windermere had a case. I knew you’d walk in here one night with that goofy look on your face and tell me you were going off to be a hero again.”

“I won’t risk my life,” he said. “I’ll let the FBI guys be the cowboys.”

“Look,” Nancy said, “I don’t want to be the bad guy here. I don’t want to be the naggy wife who keeps you from doing what you want.”

“You’re not the bad guy, Nancy. That’s not it at all.”

“It is, though. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be right out the door.”

“That’s not true.”

She looked at him. “Isn’t it?”

Stevens didn’t say anything. After a moment, Nancy shook her head. “I guess you have to get going.”

Stevens nodded. “Pretty quick.”

“You packed?”

“Not yet.”

“You should pack.” She looked at him. “I guess we’ll talk this thing out when you get back. Assuming you do get back, Agent Stevens, and some psycho killer doesn’t put you in a box first.”

Stevens wanted to laugh. His wife looked so small at the kitchen table,
though, tired and sad and alone. His heart ached for her. “I’ll come back, Nancy,” he said. “Soon. I promise.”

She didn’t look at him. “You’d better,” she said. “Now get out of here.”