Kill Fee (31 page)

P
arkerson was up and out of his seat as soon as the plane reached the gate. He hurried the asset through the terminal to the departures area and bought him a ticket on the last flight to Philadelphia. Then he walked the kid to the security line.

“It’s a solo mission this time,” he said. “I’ll have a rental car waiting for
you, and a hotel room downtown. Check into your hotel and await my instructions.”

The asset nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“This is an important job,” Parkerson told him. “For you and me both. Don’t screw it up.”

The asset looked energized by the prospect of more killing. He grinned at Parkerson. “I won’t screw it up.”

It was a risky assignment. Another potential mess. But Parkerson knew he wouldn’t sleep until there was absolutely no chance Lind could jeopardize the program. The Philadelphia asset needed to die, and fast.

“I believe in you,” Parkerson told the asset. “Get this job done and I’ll make the visions go away. I’ll fix you, understand?”

The asset suddenly looked hopeful. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

Parkerson nodded. Dug in his wallet and took out a handful of cash. “For food,” he said. “And incidentals. Get going.”

The asset pocketed the cash. Looked at Parkerson again, hesitated.
“Go,”
Parkerson told him. Slapped him on the back as he turned away. “Make me proud.”

W
endy,” said Windermere as they walked out into the hospital parking lot and climbed into her rented Buick. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Klein said his memory was hazy,” Stevens said. “Who knows what he heard?”

“Wendy.” Windermere started the engine and backed out of the lot. “Windy? Window? And ‘soldier.’ Like a goddamn fill-in-the-blanks.”

“Julio Ramirez had girlfriends,” said Stevens. “We know their names?”

“Not Wendy.” Mathers, from the backseat. “One was Kristen Owens and the other was Alexa Polowski. Both died on scene.”

Windermere shook her head. “Christ. What a bloodbath.” She glanced at Stevens. “It’s getting worse, partner. We have to get ahead of this guy.”

Stevens stared out at the Las Vegas night. “Any word on the FAA stuff?”

“At the FBI office,” said Mathers. “Came through while we were talking to Klein. Tied up the fax machines for a half hour, they said.”

Windermere rolled her eyes. “Goody,” she said. “More paperwork.”

“We’ll find something,” said Stevens. “Maybe there’s a Wendy aboard.”

Windermere snorted. Drove a couple miles as the car fell silent. Then she shook her head. “Wendy,” she said again. “Winslow? Wendig?”

T
he asset rode the plane north to Philadelphia, just as the man had instructed. He spent the flight staring out the window, fighting the fatigue that threatened to drag him into sleep. He drank coffee and waited for the plane to land.

Get this job done and I’ll make the visions go away.

The asset replayed the man’s words in his head like a mantra. He needed the words. He felt like he hadn’t slept in months. Years, maybe. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping. Couldn’t remember much, anymore, but the man and his visions. He needed the man to make the visions disappear.

The plane landed in Philadelphia. The asset walked into the terminal
and dialed the man’s number on the cell phone he’d been given. “I’m here,” he said.

“There’s a rental car waiting for you at the Alamo desk,” the man told him. “Use the credit card and ID I gave you. Drive to the Club Quarters hotel downtown and wait for further instructions. Understand?”

The asset nodded. “I understand.”

He rented a car using the name the man had given him. The name was David Gilmour. The asset knew this wasn’t his real name. He couldn’t remember being called anything else, though. Anytime he tried to remember, his head hurt and his vision swam, and he felt the nightmares returning again.

The asset named David Gilmour drove into the city, as instructed. He checked into the hotel and watched television in his room until his phone rang. Then he answered. “Hello.”

“There’s an apartment complex on Arch Street,” the man told him. “At North 19th Street. In unit 1604 there’s a man waiting. Tomorrow you’ll go to his apartment. You’ll gain entry however you’re able. Eliminate the target and extricate yourself without being detected. Do you understand?”

The asset nodded. Imagined a life without the visions. “Yes, sir,” he said. “How will I eliminate this target?”

“This is a rush job,” said the man. “I didn’t have time to arrange any tools. Inside the apartment, you’ll find a pistol in a cupboard under the sink. Should you have time to retrieve it, you may use it. Otherwise, I trust you can figure out some other option.”

“Yes, sir,” said the asset.

“The man is quite small. You should have no problem eliminating him.”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

“Visit him in the morning. I’ll have a flight home booked for early afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” the asset said. “Understood.”

“Good.” The man paused. “Call me when you’ve completed the assignment.”

“I will.”

The man ended the call. The asset put down his phone. Walked back to the bed and sat and turned up the TV. Watched infomercials and waited for dawn.

O
neShot Custom Ammunition.” Stevens read the cover sheet off the fax and then looked at Windermere. “What’s this all about?”

It was Monday morning. They’d been working all night, save a brief couple of hours when they’d crawled into various corners of the FBI’s Las Vegas office to sleep. There hadn’t been time to book hotel rooms, and as far as Stevens was concerned, none of them could afford that kind of time off, anyway. Killswitch had come and gone. It was time to work, work, work until somebody caught a break.

Windermere swapped glances with Mathers. Mathers cleared his throat. “Carla had a brain wave in Philly,” he said. “Figured we’d check the ballistics on Johnny Thorsson’s murder weapon.”

“FBI database didn’t have the gun,” said Windermere, “but apparently the ammunition used to kill Thorsson and Maria Nadeau was some kind of custom job.”

“OneShot Ammunition,” said Mathers. “Available only by special order through the manufacturer.”

“We figured we’d try and get ahold of their sales records, see if any
names jumped out at us. And maybe put together a list of other unsolved shootings featuring OneShot Ammunition.” Windermere shrugged. “We thought at the very least it’d give us a few more threads to pull.”

Stevens looked from Windermere to Mathers, and then down at the fax. “Well, all right,” he said. “Let’s check it out.”

THE PEOPLE AT ONESHOT
weren’t exactly receptive to Stevens’s inquiries.

“Gonna have to ask you to call back with a warrant,” the guy on the phone told him, between bites of what sounded like a very large sandwich. “Can’t just go giving out information on our customers willy-nilly.”

“Willy-nilly,” Stevens said. “I guess not.”

“Wouldn’t be much help to you anyway,” the guy said, still chewing. “We sell thousands of custom rounds a month here. We’re a major outfit.”

“I can tell,” Stevens told him.

“We’re going to be one of the big boys pretty quick, you hear? Remington, Winchester; we’ll be up there right quick, you wait.”

“I get you,” Stevens said. “So if a guy called up and wanted to order, say, a thousand rounds at a pop, you guys could pull it off, no sweat.”

There was a pause. Stevens listened to the man chew. “Depends on the time frame,” the guy said at last. “How soon would you need it?”

“You tell me. How long would it take?”

“Month, maybe longer.” The guy swallowed. “Only a couple guys ever call in with orders that big, anyway. We don’t normally deal with the volume buyers.”

“Couple guys, you said?”

“Yeah, two or three. There’s this guy Rollins in Wyoming, he likes to shoot. Another guy, Draper, in Colorado. And there was Gardham, too. He ordered a shit ton, once, but we never heard from him again.”

“Gardham, huh?”

“Something like that.” The man stifled a belch. “Anyway, you want any more information outta me, you’re gonna have to call back with a warrant, understand?”

“I understand,” Stevens told him, and hung up the phone.

L
ind sat up in his bed, breathing hard. He looked around the bedroom. It was morning, he saw, or daytime, at least. He’d been sleeping.

He’d dreamed. He remembered dreaming. He hadn’t slept well. His bed was damp with sweat and his heart was pounding, but he’d slept, regardless. The visions hadn’t kept him awake.

Lind pulled himself out of bed. He was wearing yesterday’s clothes; they were wrinkled and tangled and sweaty. He changed out of them, pulled on fresh jeans and a T-shirt, trying to ignore the buzzing in his head, the dim panic behind his eyes. He didn’t know what it meant. There was no reason for it. He changed and walked out to the living room.

She was there.

The girl. Caity Sherman. She lay curled up on the couch, sleeping. Lind remembered he’d called her. She’d come over. He’d talked to her, and she’d put him to bed. Then she’d fallen asleep on his couch.

The panic intensified. What had he told her?

Caity shifted a little. Rolled over and blinked open her eyes. She rubbed her face and sat up. “Oh my God.”

“You’re still here,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” She stood, fixing her clothing. “I must have just— I was waiting for you to fall asleep. I didn’t mean to—”

Lind shook his head. “I don’t sleep much,” he said.

Caity stopped and looked at him. “I heard you,” she said. “You were having nightmares, it sounded like.”

“They’re not nightmares. They’re visions.”

“Visions?” Caity frowned. “Visions of what?”

Lind walked to the couch and sat down. Rubbed his eyes, trying to chase off the panic. The man wouldn’t like this. The man had told him to stay in the apartment and wait for instructions. He wouldn’t be happy that Caity Sherman had come over. He would be angry that she’d stayed the night.

Caity sat down beside him. “Richard,” she said. “Visions of what?”

“My name isn’t Richard,” he said.

“Sure it is,” she said, frowning. “I’ve seen your ID. I checked you in at the airport, remember?”

The panic was growing. A blackness behind his eyes. A buzzing in his ears. Lind shook his head, tried to chase it. “My name isn’t Richard.”

She sighed. “So what is it, then? Rick?”

“Andrew.” He took his ID card from his wallet. “My name is Andrew Kessler.”

Caity took the ID from him. She studied it. Looked at his face and then back to the picture. “Your name’s Richard,” she said, shaking her head. “I remember.”

“No,” he said. His vision tunneled. “My name is Andrew Kessler
.
”

“That’s a fake ID. It doesn’t even have the right address.” She stared at him. “You’re creeping me out, man.”

Lind rubbed his face again. Held his hands over his ears. The buzzing wouldn’t disappear. The black panic. She couldn’t be here. She shouldn’t. “My name is Andrew Kessler,” he said again.

The girl grabbed his face. Turned him to look at her. “Your name’s Richard,” she said, peering into his eyes. “What the heck is
wrong
with you, man?”

W
endell.” Mathers looked up from his computer. “Wendell Gray, former U.S. Marine. He went missing from his home in Atlanta sometime last week.”

Stevens circled around to the junior agent’s computer. Looked over his shoulder at a picture of Wendell Gray, a good-looking twenty-something with an easy smile and a buzz cut. “Our guy has long hair,” he said.

Mathers nodded. “This is before the war,” he said. “They don’t have a recent picture of him, but according to the missing person’s report, he’s since grown his hair out.”

“Wendell Gray.” Windermere frowned. “Where is this coming from, Derek?”

Mathers sighed. Rubbed his bandaged cheek absently. “Plugged ‘Wendy’ and ‘soldier’ into the computer,
Carla
,” he said. “Started playing around with various other names. Didn’t take long.”

Stevens looked at Mathers. Then at Windermere. There was something happening between them, meaningful looks. Stevens cleared his throat. “He went missing sometime last week, you said?”

“Guy was kind of a loner, apparently,” Mathers said. “Screwed up in the head from the war. Didn’t show up for a psych evaluation on Wednesday, and the Vet Center asked Atlanta PD to have a look at his apartment. Found the place deserted.”

“When’s the last confirmed sighting?” said Windermere.

“Sunday. Gray had group counseling sessions at the Vet Center, bunch of soldiers with shell shock, PTSD, psych issues, whatever. He walked out of there, and that’s the last anyone’s seen of him.”

“Family?”

“Broke contact. They haven’t talked to him since he came back from Iraq. No work connections, either. He was living off disability checks.”

Stevens studied the picture of Wendell Gray on Mathers’s computer screen. “Well, okay,” he said. “Let’s see what Larry Klein thinks.”