Wild Justice (17 page)

Evelyn didn’t go with us. She’s past the age where she cares to take any kind of unnecessary risk—of injury or exposure.

Jack was inside the bar, where he could keep an eye on Roland while enjoying a beer. A temporary dye had washed the silver out of his hair. He’d added a facial scar, green contacts, forearm tattoos, and a handlebar mustache. He could be a biker. He could be a trucker. Or he could just be a guy passing through town who thought the bar looked like a good place to grab a beer.

Quinn and I patrolled. We were watching for Roland, using Evelyn’s general description—early sixties, dyed hair, my height, twice my weight. Quinn spotted him first, a block from the bar.

“Heading your way from the east,” he said over the radio. “Dark jacket. Gloves. The street’s empty, so you should spot him easily.”

“Got him,” I said as I picked up a distant figure trudging along the sidewalk. “Did you see where he parked?”

“In a lot farther down the block. I spotted him walking out. I’ll go in, feel the hoods, find the warmest one.”

“You’re good.”

A quiet laugh, as if surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”

I slipped into position in an alley across the road from the bar, where I could watch the front door. Roland was moving fast for his size, jacket pulled tight, looking anxious. Twice he glanced over his shoulder.

A first meeting is always dicey. Younger guys insist on handling everything by phone or e-mail, but the old-timers know that practice is actually more dangerous than a face-to-face meeting. Phones can be tapped. E-mail can be hacked. Yes, in person, someone can tape you, but you also have the advantage of being able to evaluate your client.

Still, an experienced middleman shouldn’t be this nervous meeting a new client. How badly had Jack scared him all those years ago? We could joke about it—the killing of the dog, Roland tied up and left to eat and drink from the bowls. But if it had happened to an ordinary citizen we’d be horrified.

I know Jack wouldn’t have left Roland there to die, but Roland hadn’t realized that. Those three days would have been terrifying. Looking at him now, I wondered if he’d ever recovered.

Roland slowed as he approached the bar. He took out his cell phone and made a note or sent a text. There was no way to tell. I sent my own texts, though, to both Jack and Quinn, giving them a heads-up. Then Roland went inside and I got comfortable at my post.

After thirty minutes, the bar door opened and a single figure stepped out. I wasn’t surprised it was Jack. He’d find it easier to convey a message in person than by text or radio. He lit a cigarette—an excuse for going outside—and strolled my way. I was in my alley behind a pile of recycling boxes. I stayed in position as he stubbed out the cigarette and swung in behind me.

“All good?” he whispered.

I nodded. “You?”

He shifted up against me, his leg against mine, tobacco-scented breath warm against my ear as I faced the bar. “Gonna be a while. He’s settled in. Ordered nachos. Figures the client’s just antsy. He’ll wait.”

“Okay.”

“Need a break?”

I gave him a look. He smiled, as if he’d been teasing me. I was a sniper. I could hold position for hours.

He stayed behind me, leg against mine, chest brushing my back. I could feel his fingertips brushing, too, skimming my ass. I was sure he didn’t know where his hand was, but my heart picked up speed. His hand moved and came to rest on my hip, as if bracing me. I was keenly aware of him there, right behind me. I figured he’d moved in to talk. Only he didn’t say anything.

I leaned my head back, slowly, stretching at first, then rested it against his shoulder. He didn’t budge. I could smell more than the cigarette smoke now, picking up shaving lotion and shampoo, too, which reminded me of
why
he’d showered and shaved.

“About dinner,” I said. “I’m sor—”

“Uh-uh. Already apologized. Only one freebie.”

I nodded. I wanted to just stay there, but while I was sure he wasn’t distracted, I was. So I straightened.

“Should get back inside,” he said.

“Have a beer for me?”

A soft chuckle. “You wouldn’t want it. American beer.”

A squeeze on my hip, and he was gone.

By the time Roland left the bar, he was pissed. By that, I mean he was angry, having wasted his time, but I suspect he was a little drunk, too. The combination of the two meant he wasn’t paying any attention to his surroundings. I zipped ahead of him, climbed a fire escape, and took up position on a rooftop overlooking the parking lot, where I could watch for his silver luxury car.

There were two exits from the lot. One headed north, the other south. Quinn would wait in his rental along the north street, Jack along the south. My job was to see which exit Roland used and which direction he went. The closer of the guys would pursue while the other picked me up.

A perfect tactical plan. Except Roland didn’t climb into the driver’s seat. He walked to the passenger door, looked around, and then took out his phone.

Gravel crunched behind me. I whirled, gun up, finger on the trigger. I didn’t fire. I couldn’t because all I could see was a male figure, and in the second it took for me to be sure it wasn’t Quinn or Jack, I’d lost my chance. I still fired my gun, but he saw it coming. He ducked and came out shooting.

Two guns. Two shooters. In the Old West, it’d be a simple matter of hammering away at each other until someone went down. But we weren’t on a dusty street with six-shooters. In an urban close-quarters firefight, you have two options. Either you duck and weave, while hoping to hell your wild shots hit your opponent. Or you stand still and get a decent shot—while giving your opponent an easy target. I go with the combination platter. Dodge and shoot until I can get to cover and take a real shot. Which works so much better when there is cover. Otherwise? Well, my gun didn’t have unlimited ammo.

Shot number three hit his arm. His left arm, unfortunately, meaning he didn’t drop his weapon. But he did stumble. I raised my gun and—

“Drop it,” said a voice.

I glanced back quickly. It was Roland at the top of the fire escape. He had a gun—pointed at my head. My attacker had recovered, his gun going up—

I hit the roof. Stop, drop, and roll. One of them fired. The bullet whizzed through my jacket. I leapt up and scrambled for the edge.

“Stop her!” Roland said. “Don’t shoot—grab her.”

My attacker ran at me. I skidded onto my stomach, arms outstretched over my head like I was sliding into home base. If I really had been trying to escape over the edge, I’d have fallen three stories, headfirst. I wasn’t suicidal. I had something in my other hand—the radio. I dropped it and then leaped up with a very uncharacteristic roar of rage to cover the sound of it hitting the pavement below.

My opponent hit me. He took me down and wrested the gun from my hand. I put up a token struggle, but not enough to get the shit kicked out of me. I dropped the radio because I knew I wasn’t winning this fight. I had two rounds left, and two gun-wielding attackers, and not enough ego to think I could pull that off. From Roland’s orders, he didn’t want me dead. Not until he figured out what was going on.

So I let my opponent win while putting up a very noisy fight. Quinn and Jack were both down there. Inside cars. And we’d been shooting with silencers. So I made all the noise I could, until my attacker jammed a beefy hand over my mouth. That’s when I got my first really good look at him. In the dark, I’d thought he could be Quinn’s size. He wasn’t. He had a good two inches and fifty pounds on Quinn. A big bruiser of a thug, with a badly set nose and hair chopped crew-cut short.

Bodyguard. That’s why Roland had been getting into the passenger side. It’s also why he’d been glancing over his shoulder on his way to the bar. He was old and he was overweight, and he’d had a helluva scare eighteen years ago. Now he had a guy he could call when he went to meet a new client, a bodyguard who’d keep his distance so he didn’t call attention to Roland.

Shit.

Which was exactly what Roland said once his thug had my hands bound and he flipped me onto my back.

“Shit. That’s . . .”

He shone a penlight on my face and leaned over, his broad face dripping sweat from his three-story climb. He took his phone from his pocket and checked something on it. I knew what he was looking at. Photos. One of the woman his client wanted dead. One of Nadia Stafford.

“Who is it?” the bodyguard asked.

“An explanation,” Roland said. “For my missing employee.”

The bodyguard’s face screwed up. Roland didn’t enlighten him. He just turned to peer over the edge of the roof.

“Any sign she wasn’t alone?” he asked.

The bodyguard shook his head. “It’s just her. She saw you coming out of the bar and went on ahead. She knew where you’d parked. Looks like she was going to take you out from up here.”

Take him out? From over a hundred meters with a handgun? Someone didn’t know his weapons well enough. Two people, it seemed, as Roland nodded.

“Search her,” he said. “Check for any sign she has friends.”

That’s why I’d tossed the radio. My special Felix phone had another nifty feature—it didn’t retain any record of calls or texts. Also, it looks like any other plain-Jane cell. The bodyguard checked it and said, “Burner phone. Seems like she hasn’t even used it yet.”

“Toss it.”

I winced as the bodyguard literally tossed it, sending it thumping across the roof.

“She was definitely watching you,” the bodyguard said, pulling out my binoculars. “You think she was the woman who called about the job?”

Roland shook his head, as if he wasn’t dignifying such a stupid question with a response. Obviously Mark Lewiston had given me Roland’s contact information, and I came here to . . . well, apparently to shoot him, according to their theory, though I’m not sure how that would have helped. Revenge maybe? Or figuring if Roland was dead, his client couldn’t send anyone else after me?

Roland leaned over me again and said, “Who are you?”

“You already know.”

“I don’t think that”—he pointed at my gun—“is the sort of weapon a nature lodge owner uses for vermin.”

“Depends on the vermin.”

No sneer. No smile, either. His expression remained neutral, brow furrowed as he studied me, far more interested in this mystery than in the fate of his hitman.

“You didn’t do your research before you sent Mark Lewiston after me,” I said. “You might know what I do for a living these days, but you didn’t dig further. You would have if I was a man.”

A flicker of disconcertion, followed by a headshake. “In my experience, it’s rarely worth the effort to conduct a full background search. That’s for the movies, my dear.”

“Oh, this wouldn’t have required more than ten seconds on the Internet. A cop who shoots an unarmed perp point-blank makes the news.”

He winced. The world was changing fast, and old-timers like Roland didn’t often keep up.

“She
was
a mark, right?” the bodyguard said. “She killed whoever you sent after her and then came after you?”

Again, Roland deemed this perfectly obvious and only walked to the edge, scanning the surrounding landscape again.

“Okay, so yes,” the bodyguard said. “Which means we should finish her off. Collect the payment.”

Shit, not a complete idiot. I’d foreseen this, though, as soon as Roland made me. I’d just hoped the cavalry would have shown up by now. Since I wasn’t answering my radio, they’d be looking. I only hoped they didn’t call my cell. And, while hoping that, it would be even more helpful if I could figure out how to avoid being killed.

“What’s a hitman’s cut?” the bodyguard asked.

“Less than I’d pay you. Pulling a hit is about more than pulling a trigger, and she’s done most of the work for you by showing up . . .”

Yes, let’s bicker about money. Perfect.
As they hashed it out, I flexed my foot. The bodyguard hadn’t found the knife strapped to my calf. I sent up a silent thank-you to Jack for insisting I bring it, but even as I did, I wasn’t sure how much good it would do when my hands were bound. I measured the distance to the edge. I could make it. With my hands tied, it could be a nasty landing, but—

They agreed the bodyguard would get 10 percent of the hit price for shooting me. I flexed my hands behind my back, ready to push up, hoping the move would startle him enough—

“You can’t do it here,” Roland said.

“Why not? No one to see us.”

“It’s a condition of the contract. She has to disappear.”

I’d forgotten that. The client stipulated that it had to look like suicide or I had to disappear. Roland skipped the suicide option for good reason—if I was found hundreds of miles from home, dead of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound on a rooftop, that was as suspicious as murder. Of course, they could leave my body here and just hope I wouldn’t be found for a long time, but Roland didn’t strike me as a gambler. And I sure as hell wasn’t suggesting the option.

The bodyguard gagged me with rope. Then he untied my hands to let me climb down the fire escape before he refastened my bonds. They led me to the car and popped the trunk. If I was a civilian, I’d never have gone along with this. Rule one of abduction: don’t let them take you to a second location. Do whatever you can to escape or call attention to yourself, even at the risk of death, because once you get to that second—secluded—location, your chance of survival plummets. I still did put up a token resistance so they wouldn’t suspect I was playing too nicely.

They dumped me into the trunk and slammed it shut. And I went straight for my knife. A few minutes ago, Roland commented that this wasn’t the movies. That was a shame, because in them, I’d have gotten that knife out and had my bonds severed in seconds. Of course, in a movie, the bad guys would have found the knife because viewers wouldn’t believe they would actually miss it. If criminals really were as smart as movie audiences expect, my job would be a whole lot tougher. Truth is, I’ve met very few criminals who strap a weapon to their leg. One reason? It’s a bugger to get it off when you need it. Especially if your hands are tied.