Retribution (16 page)

‘Rodeo, right.' Ripper smiled and chewed on a fry. ‘So what's the name?'

Rik handed him a slip of paper. It carried Don Bikovsky's name and an address in Venice Beach. ‘He's not there now, though. It's where the trail ended.'

Ripper touched the paper but didn't pick it up, as if drawing on the details through his fingertips. ‘It's kinda sketchy, man, just a name. Not a lot to go on. Could be several Bikovskys in the system.'

‘Not unless they're a family of convicted criminals with the same first name. It's all I've got. More importantly,' he pointed out, ‘I was told it's all you need.'

‘Yeah, that's right.' Ripper sniffed importantly and pushed the plate away, drumming his fingers on the table. It was the first sign of excitement he'd shown. A challenge had been thrown down and he was sniffing at the hook. But there were certain conventions to go through.

‘If you can't do it,' Rik said, ‘I'll get on the first plane to New York.'

‘New York?' Ripper looked confused. ‘Is that where you live? You're like, British, though, right?'

‘So? We've been known to travel. But the Skeeter, he lives in New York. Manhattan, to be precise.'

Ripper sat up as if he'd been electrocuted. ‘You know the Skeeter? I've like, touched base with him, man. He's dynamic. Done some great stuff.' He scowled. ‘But he's not right for this job; he's a little—' Ripper flicked a pale hand, the fingers stubby with chewed nails.

‘He's what?'

‘He's fast, I grant you, and good . . . but heavy-handed. To open the DOJ box of afternoon delights you need the touch of a surgeon.' Ripper smiled arrogantly, a silver nose ring jiggling in the light.

‘I'll be sure to tell him you said that.'

Ripper ignored him. ‘But you promised me the Stick Man. That's what you said on the line: you could get me a link to the Stick. Him and me,' he rubbed the sides of his two forefingers together, ‘we've got similar aims, see – and I know we could make some solid connections. All I need is an in.'

‘Really?' Rik began to stand up. ‘Who said the Stick Man was a guy?'

‘Wait!' Ripper put a hand out. ‘I was kidding! Everyone knows Stick's a skirt.' He grinned as Rik sat down again. ‘Dude, I was playing with you.' A strange light glittered deep in the hacker's eyes and he threw Rik a sly look. ‘Stick's awesome.' He reached for his drink and sucked in a mouthful, his skinny throat working like a pump. ‘That's neat tactics, hiding behind a guy tag. Who'd think, huh?' He turned his head away but kept his eyes on Rik. ‘You can really give me an intro?' He was almost begging, but trying to hide it.

‘I said I would. But I need your expertise to do this for me. Are we on?' He almost gagged at having to lay on the flattery, but it was necessary. Money was one level of motivation with people like Ripper; an introduction to another hacker higher up the ladder was another. Praise by their peers, on the other hand, was what many craved most.

A long, almost painful pause, then a nod. ‘We're on. I get you the goods on this –' he glanced at the paper – ‘Bikovsky perp, and you drop me the Stick's link and a powerful recommend, right?'

‘Absolutely. You've got my contact details. As soon as you can.'

‘Ace, man. You're a prince.' Ripper sat back and grinned with a dreamy look in his eye.

‘How long?'

‘Give me two, maybe three hours. Nobody works nights in Justice except the janitors.'

Rik took a last sip of the beer and eyed the four men at the bar. They were taking more of an interest in him than he liked. The barman was at the other end of the room scooping up empties.

‘The guys at the bar, do you know them?'

Ripper shrugged, too sunk into his own private world to look. ‘Not really. They come and go, pretty much always together, though. Not real regulars.' He frowned suddenly, as if realizing that their agreement was likely to vanish in a puff of smoke if any trouble broke out. ‘You got a car outside? Only, I don't drive.'

‘I soon will have.' Rik took out his mobile and the card the cab driver had given him and dialled the number. Getting turned over by a bunch of chancers on their own turf would be no way to get this job done. A familiar voice answered and told him he'd be there in four minutes.

Rik stood up and offered his hand. ‘It's done. I'm gone.'

Ripper's grip was flaccid and slightly clammy. ‘Be in touch, man.'

Rik walked out of the door and breathed deep, grateful for the cool night air. He'd picked up just a little too much of the smell of French fries and Ripper's body odour. Out here it was cool, with the smell of stale water coming off the river a couple of hundred yards away and a tang of burnt metal on the breeze being carried from a factory venting smoke in the distance.

He stepped down on to the car park tarmac to meet the cab and stretch his legs. The door behind him opened with a squeak of hinges. He turned as the four men from the bar filed out and stood looking down at him. They didn't say a word, just stood looking.

Rik nodded and turned away, his chest pounding.

The cab was taking its time.

‘Got a light, pal?' It was one of the men, stepping down on to the tarmac and holding up a cigarette. He was tall, with a receding hairline and the sloping shoulders of a weights man. Two of his friends, Rik noted, were smoking, cigarettes curled into their palms. They were all big-boned with manual workers' hands and heavy boots.

‘I don't,' he said. ‘Sorry.'

‘Pity.' A long pause, then a snigger from one of the smokers at the door, who stepped down and moved away to one side.

Rik was certain four minutes had come and gone. This was in danger of getting serious.

‘You talking to the geek for?' the first man asked, lighting his cigarette. ‘He's some kinda weird, you know? You a weirdo, too? His boyfriend, maybe?'

His friend was shuffling closer. They were bracketing Rik against the vehicles in the parking bays, and he knew they must have done this before. The other two were watching, unmoving, but ready to step down and join in.

Car headlights came off 13th Street and swept across the industrial units, then turned down a gap between the buildings and disappeared. Rik decided these boys weren't going to give him time to wait for his ride. He knew the procedure: he'd see a close-up of one of the cigarettes being flicked in his face, then they'd be all over him and gone. He checked to make sure there were no onlookers in the cars, then reached under his jacket.

As the first man stepped closer, Rik pulled out the Ruger. The metal glittered with the reflection from the neon.

‘Whoa,
shit
. . .!' the man muttered, and dropped his cigarette in surprise. His companion swung round and walked away fast, losing himself down the side of the building, and the two men on the step lifted their hands to show they weren't involved.

Then another set of lights appeared and the cab came down the street.

Rik put the Ruger away and walked away across the car park.

A
t the Holiday Inn, Harry was trying Rik's extension. No answer. He must have gone out to meet his contact. He dialled the number Pendry had given him, then switched off the light and stood in the dark. He was wondering how close the killer was right now.

He had absolutely no doubts that it had been the same person calling the hotel earlier. Only Deane, Pendry and Rik knew where he was, and there was no way anyone would have got details from the military base. That meant he'd been tracked from New York to Columbus and pinpointed to this hotel.

But how?

The long, hard way was one explanation: the killer had the same list of names and locations as Harry. If he had the patience to ring round all the likely hotels in the area, it would be just a matter of asking for Harry Tate by name. Eventually someone would have given it up.

‘Yeah?' The Ranger's voice was heavy with sleep.

‘Our man's here in the hotel.' Harry kept his voice low, one ear cocked towards the door. He explained briefly about the phone call to reception. ‘Can you get away?'

‘I'm on it,' Pendry replied, instantly alert. The sound of bed springs creaked in the background. ‘How do you want to play this?'

‘As quiet as possible. If we call the locals, they'll come in with a full SWAT team. There's a convention going on here, so the place is full. I'm going to try to draw him out. I'll wait an hour, to give you time to get here and settle in, then I'll move.'

‘Uh-huh. What if he tries before that?'

‘I don't think he will. I'm counting on him waiting for the place to go quiet.'

‘You want me to stay on the outside?'

‘Yes. But watch your back.'

He replaced the phone, then reached across and cut the air conditioning. With the fan going it was almost impossible to hear anything outside the room. He wedged a chair under the door handle and sat for an hour, listening as the hotel noises gradually died down. An occasional voice echoed along the corridor as guests returned to their rooms, and the ice machine clunked noisily every few minutes. Out in the car park vehicles came and went, but at last even that activity ceased, save for an occasional movement.

He was glad of the Ranger's instinctive response. He knew how good the man was and preferred to have him around rather than half a dozen local cops bristling with weaponry and in a mood to shoot anyone who didn't look right.

There was the click of a door. Somebody entered the room next door. Harry tensed, straining to track the other person's movements. A cupboard door banged, two thumps as shoes hit the floor and a grunt as someone lay down on the bed. Then silence.

Out on the expressway the hum of traffic continued into the night.

Harry sighed and tried to relax. Breathed easily and slowly, listening and analysing every sound.

Kassim sat in the dark, immobile. He had learned a long time ago that the hunter who could not remain still rarely caught his prey. He was also listening to the murmur of voices, the ice machine and the traffic on the expressway. For him it was a distraction from the task in hand, to be blanked out and ignored.

The green digital readout of the television clock glowed brightly across the darkened room. It was past midnight. Another new day.

So be it.

He got to his feet, careful to avoid brushing against the furniture. The knife felt good in his hand, balanced and ready. In his other hand was the piece of blue fabric. He was filled with a feeling of quiet fatalism. What would be would be.

One silent step across the carpet took him close to the connecting door. He cocked his head, projecting his senses through the crack around the frame into the next room. He thought he detected someone breathing.

He reached out to touch the door. This had to be hard and fast. There was no time for hesitation. In, do it and out again.

Harry needed a cold drink. Or movement. Either would do. He was tired of waiting in this dark, airless cell, wondering what was going on outside. Waiting had always been a problem for him, but he wasn't usually the target. Far better to be up and moving.

He picked up the Ruger and went to the door. The peephole revealed an empty corridor. Other than the person next door, and some distant voices that could have been a television, there had been few signs of movement for over thirty minutes.

With the lightest of touches he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. The carpet was springy, silent. The overhead lights were dimmed, and at the far end, a green fire escape sign glowed in the dark. He waited for the ice machine to begin its throaty rattle, then pulled the door closed behind him with a soft click.

First he checked the fire door leading to the car park. It was closed and could only be opened from the inside by depressing the bar. Satisfied his back wasn't exposed, he turned towards reception.

He had barely taken two steps when there was movement at the end of the corridor leading from reception. A tall figure was moving towards him. Harry waited, trying to get a sense of what the man was like. A suit . . . he was wearing a suit. A flash of white at the chest showed a shirt but no tie. But there was a silvery glimmer of reflected light down by his side.

Harry's throat went dry. He forced himself to continue walking. It might not be the killer. It could be anyone . . . a late-night reveller, perhaps. Harry held the Ruger down behind his leg, ready to bring it up, and wondered if the man had seen it. He'd soon find out; any innocent person would scream the place down.

Harry was halfway along the corridor when the man veered abruptly to one side, and for a second he thought it was to let him pass. Then he moved back, this time with a small shake of his head like a dog emerging from water. His arm moved, again showing a glimmer of light in his hand.

Harry dropped into a crouch, bringing up the gun and focussing on the man's mid-section. His training switched in and coordinated his movements. His finger began to take up the slack on the trigger as he watched the man's hand, waiting for the last possible moment before opening fire. In this narrow corridor, the sound of the shot would be like a field-gun.

He stopped, requiring a Herculean effort not to squeeze the trigger, and stood up. Moved to one side as the man lurched by, his room passkey in one hand and a shiny aluminium ice bucket in the other. A wave of alcohol followed him like a flag. He was in his fifties, his skin mottled and flushed, a businessman fixing himself a nightcap.

Harry breathed out, his head pounding with tension. He continued along the corridor to the ice machine, turning once to glance behind him. The drunk had stopped by a door and was attempting to slide his passkey into the lock.

Harry plunged his hand into the chute and wiped two or three ice blocks across his face, grateful for the icy coldness on his skin. From back up the corridor he heard a thump, then silence. The drunk had only just made it home in time.