Salvation Row

Chapter Thirty-Three

Claude Boon pushed through the raucous crowd into the space where the fight would take place. He was in an underground car park in Jersey, vacant because of the construction work taking place on the office block above. The ring, such as it was, was hemmed in by parked cars, their lights blazing, and arrayed before them was the audience. The night’s activities were not advertised. The fights were illegal and, as such, notice was last minute. The promotion amounted to a series of texts that directed people to a voicemail message that, in turn, directed them to the venue. It was a hot ticket. There were two hundred people here, mostly men, and ten fighters who would each compete twice.

The atmosphere was clamorous, sharp-edged, feverish with the prospect of bloodshed. Gritty, nasty, electric. Rap music from the ’90s — Biggie, Tupac and Jay-Z — played loud from the open windows of a souped-up muscle car. The fighters waiting their turn stood at the fringes, bare chested. Those who had already fought had ice packs on the contusions on their faces, cuts stitched up or slathered with Vaseline. The last fight had been between a pudgy kid in a T-shirt and mesh shorts and a fifty-year-old former Army Ranger from Jersey City. The kid’s arm had been broken. A hammerlock. The promoter had given the kid ten bucks to take a cab to the hospital. The Ranger had barely broken a sweat.

Boon looked across the parking lot to the man he had drawn to fight. He was called Cooke. He was bigger than Boon, muscle packed on top of muscle, a mean streak a mile wide, and had a reputation as fearsome as his appearance. Boon guessed that he must have been six six and a good two hundred and fifty pounds. He had six inches and fifty pounds on him. They called him the Vanilla Gorilla and he was undefeated. His first fight, an hour ago, had seen his opponent dragged unconscious from the lot with a mouthful of teeth scattered on the ground.

Most people wouldn’t have considered getting into the ring with Cooke. But Claude Boon wasn’t most people. He wasn’t afraid. He was relishing it.

Cooke glared down at Boon. “Gonna kill you,” he growled.

Boon smiled, took his guard and pushed it into his mouth.

“Ready?” the referee said.

“Ready,” Cooke mumbled around his mouth guard.

Boon nodded.

“Get it on.”

Boon held out his gloves and the man hammered his down, knocking his hands away, making a point.

The bell rang and the audience held up their cellphones, cameras on.

Boon danced back.

The big man lumbered at him and threw a punch. It never connected. Boon hopped back, the man’s fist whistling harmlessly to the right of his ear. Cooke jabbed with his left, and Boon struck it away and to the side with his forearm while extending his leading leg. This brought him close enough to use the edge of his hand, as hard as a block of marble. He jabbed twice, the big man lurching backwards as the pain stung him.

Cooke looked at him with sudden fear.

Boon dropped his guard insolently, rolled his shoulders, and grinned around the mouthguard.

Cooke looked to the referee.

Boon danced after him on nimble feet, kicking him first in the torso and then, lowering his target just enough, he lashed up high, his foot thumping into the fleshy nub of the man’s nose. Cartilage and bone were mashed together, blood spurted from the wreckage and, as the starburst of pain disabled him, Boon slid around and latched on a Kimura lock. It was a submission move that had been appropriated from Brazilian jiu-jitsu. It was a staple in the arsenal of anyone who knew Krav Maga to a decent level, and Boon was a grand master. MMA fighters used it, too, but theirs were ugly and inelegant in comparison to the devastating lock that Boon applied. He wrestled Cooke to the ground and cinched the lock in even tighter.

The crowd knew what was coming. A man near to them both, a can in his hand, beer spilling out of it, yelled, “Finish him!”

Boon only had to ratchet the pressure a little for the man to tap. He pulled back a little more, feeling the tendons pop and the bones starting to bend. Cooke tapped more frantically, his hand slapping against Boon’s thigh. He pulled harder, waiting for the arm to crack and then snap, Cooke screaming like a baby. Boon released the lock and rolled away.

The referee stepped in. Boon hopped to his feet and let him raise his hand.

The crowd reacted with cheers from those smart enough to back him, and jeers from those who had lost their money by betting on his opponent.

His wife, Lila, was standing at the front of the crowd. Boon went to her.

“Nice, baby.”

“Easy.”

He held up his hands, and Lila undid the Velcro that fastened his gloves. She pulled them off, dropped them into his bag, and handed him a bottle of water. He drank half of it and stood it on the hood of the nearest car. Cooke was being dragged out of the ring. His arm hung uselessly at his side. Boon and Lila stepped aside, letting his cornermen haul him away. Cooke didn’t look at him. His aggression was spent. He was timid now, and in pain.

Boon looked at his wife. Her eyes sparkled. She had something she wanted to tell him.

“What is it, baby?”

She smiled at him, his little coquette. “You know we said we could go to Hawaii?”

“Yeah, I did. But I also remember there was a qualification.”

“When we get the next job.”

“That’s right. That look, what is it? You saying we got a job?”

“We got it, baby. Came through tonight.”

“Where?”

“New Orleans.”

“From the cop?”

“Same as before.”

“Who?”

“Just some guy. Sounds like nothing. In and out, nice and easy.”

Lila handed him his towel and Boon used it to mop the sweat, and Cooke’s blood, from his face and chest.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Then you can tell me about it.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Boon and Lila flew from JFK. They were in coach, as was their habit, the better to stay under the radar. The stewardess in charge of the section was cute and quite happy to flirt with Boon, not that he was interested. He was a good-looking man. He was in his mid-forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes. He was in good shape, too, with not an ounce of fat on him. His build had been honed thanks to the fighting and the fitness regimen that he followed with near religious zeal. Boon cared about how he looked, but that last habit was not inspired by vanity. It was a prerequisite of his profession that he be fit and strong, able to defend himself should the need arise. Some of his rivals preferred to do their business from a distance, but that was not how he liked to work. He preferred to be close to take advantage of the greater engagement that proximity allowed. He enjoyed the sensation of death, the moment when you could see the spark of life extinguished in the eyes of a target. Shooting someone from fifty yards was sterile, especially with the gadgets that you could add to a rifle these days. Where was the skill in that? He wanted the flavour of it, and the flavour was more redolent when you pushed a dagger into a man’s heart, or snapped his neck, or put a loop of piano wire over his head and pulled until the blood was running through your fingers.

He looked over at Lila. She was sleeping, her body angled in his direction, with her head resting softly against his shoulder.

The plane rumbled down the taxiway and settled next to the gate. “Lila,” he said tenderly.

She stirred, her eyes slowly opening. “We here?”

“We’re here. Let’s go.”

He stood, reached up to the overhead bin and took down his carry-on bag. It was the only luggage he had with him: a change of clothes, two books, a spare pair of shoes. Lila’s case was similarly austere.

“Thanks for flying with us,” the stewardess said as he wheeled the case down the aisle to the air gate.

“Thank you,” he said, flashing the puckish smile that he knew put people in mind of Matthew McConaughey.

Their work demanded that he be in and out of a place as quickly as he could. He liked to imagine himself as a businessman, flying in for a conference or a meeting. They flew in, stayed for a day or two, did what they had been paid to do, and then flew out again. Boon was too professional to allow for a distraction. He never allowed anything that might mean that he took his eye off the ball.

He stepped onto the airbridge, the humid wash of the air slapping at him.

“Jesus,” Lila said. “Hot.”

“This is nothing.”

“I know. It’s not Gaza.”

“It is not.”

Lila hadn’t been to the south before. Boon had, several times. There had been jobs here. First with the Mossad and then, latterly, on his own account. It wasn’t his type of place. The climate was brutal, the city — especially since the hurricane — was ugly, and he found the people brash and vulgar. Not much reason to be down here save for the fact that he had a name on his docket and work to be done.

Lila was right, though. It was nothing like Gaza. But there were very few places that were.

Boon looked at the other travellers around him, the other businessmen in town for meetings or conferences or whatever it was that had drawn them here. Business. His was very different from theirs. He didn’t advertise what he did. Secrecy and discretion were his watchwords. Publicity was to be avoided at all costs. It could be fatal. When certain people had a problem, a mess that needed to be cleaned up, and if those people knew who to call — or if they knew people who knew — then maybe, for the right price, Claude Boon could be persuaded to come and do it.

Boon hired a Chevrolet from Avis and drove to the Hilton. They checked in and showered, and Boon left Lila to relax in front of the big TV while he went down to conduct business in the bar. He had taken a table a full ten minutes before the time he had scheduled for the meeting. Boon liked to be at a rendezvous early. It gave him time to check the place out, get a feel for the lay of the land. If he got a sniff that something was wrong, he would leave. His instincts had been honed to a fine edge from years of use. He had learned to trust them, implicitly, without question. He had cleared out before, many times, but today felt acceptable.

The bar was busy, but not so busy that it would have been easy for someone to observe him without his noticing. It was well lit, lots of space, there were three potential exits to get out onto the street if he needed to make a quick getaway. He knew this part of town reasonably well, and he knew he would be able to disappear if that became necessary. He didn’t relax — he never really relaxed — but he allowed himself the luxury of ordering a coffee and a Danish and then took them to a booth where he could watch everyone in the room.

He recognised Detective Peacock from before. There had been a job for him, two hoods who had raided a poker game that was supposed to be under police protection. He located the men and made an example out of them. Peacock had said that he was impressed. He should have been. It was a clean and efficient job. Not particularly difficult, but Boon treated them all the same. The ones where you relaxed, those were the ones where you ended up with a bullet in your head.

Peacock was with a man in a smart suit, suave, well groomed.

“Detective,” he said.

“Hello, Boon.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“The man I told you about.”

“Dubois.”

“That’s right.”

Peacock sat down and slid around in the booth so that Dubois could sit, too. Peacock was a louse of a man, no morals, bad hygiene, not impressive in any sense, but he had proven to be trustworthy enough, and he had promised that this job would pay enough for it to be worth Boon and Lila’s time. Dubois was a different prospect, assured, confident, even in a situation like this. Often the men who were referred to him were nervous and twitchy, knowing that what they were doing made them, at the very least, accessories to murder. The jobs he had done in some states had been enough for a trip to Death Row. Those guys were thinking about execution, the needle, things that kept them up at night, but this guy was different. He was cool and collected, ordering a coffee in a strong, clear voice, not even the hint of a tremor in his hand as he took the cup and put it to his lip. Solid, in good shape, stiff backed. Tidy, with a neat crew cut. It said ex-military all day long.

Boon was impressed.

Dubois leant forwards, indicating Peacock. “He said that you’d be here, that this was where you wanted to meet. We didn’t see anyone else coming in. Are you careful?”

“I’ve been doing this for years, Mr. Dubois. What do you think?”

“I think I’m not going to get into a business like this with someone I’m not sure I can trust. Peacock vouched for you, but, with all due respect, I hardly know Peacock and he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man in whom I would place the greatest confidence—”

“Hey,” Peacock protested. “Fuck you.”

“—and so you need to persuade me of your bona fides.”

Boon sipped his coffee and replaced the cup, very deliberately, in the saucer. “My bona fides.”

“That you can do what he says you can do.”

“I know what it means, Mr. Dubois. What did he tell you?”

“That you can make problems go away.”

He smiled. “Indeed.”

“You made any problems go away recently?”

Boon wondered how much it would be safe to reveal. He didn’t like to talk about his jobs, and he was certainly not the sort of man who gloated about past glories. Showing off, like all the other bad habits, would get you killed. “My last work was a month ago. There was a union man, in Newark. This man was causing problems for his employer. Provocative statements to the press. Suggestions that he was going to blow the whistle on some dubious business practices. You might have heard of him?”

“I think I read something.”

“He had a heart attack.”

“That was you?”

Boon gave a shallow shrug. “Who knows? But I handle things like that.”

Dubois leant over the table again. “I’m going to be completely honest with you, Mr. Boon. I’m here against my better judgment. With reservations. The last time we hired someone to ‘handle’ something for us, it was against my better judgment, too. And as soon as we were finished with this guy, he went straight to the FBI and started to tell lies like you wouldn’t believe. It’s just a good thing the fellow got cold feet when they brought him before the grand jury. And it cost us a lot of money to make sure his feet got cold, too, I can tell you.”

“There’s handled and then there’s handled,” Boon said. “When I handle something, no one goes to the FBI or to anyone else. You know what I’m saying?”

“I do.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“It is.”

“Alright, then. Just so we’re all copacetic, being careful works both ways. Anyone know where you are?”

“I didn’t see nobody else around here who knows who I am,” Peacock said, keen to reassert himself in the conversation. “We’re fine. No one knows that you’re here.”

Boon sipped his coffee again, turned his attention back to Dubois, put the cup back in the saucer, and said, “Go on. Tell me what you need.”

“My employer has a problem. A person we need to have removed. Peacock has his picture.”

“This is him,” the cop said, laying a mugshot out on the table.

Boon looked.

He frowned.

He looked again, checking, questioning his first reaction.

He struggled to contain his surprise.

The first thing he noticed was that the man looked relaxed and at ease, even though he had been put in front of a police camera in — he checked on the back of the print — the town of Victoria, Texas, and charged with assault. People not in the life would typically look a little perturbed by the experience, but this guy was relaxed and looked right into the camera as if it was nothing. He was in his forties, short dark hair, icy blue eyes. The mugshot was clipped to a printout, and he scanned it quickly.

“John Smith,” Boon said, reading the details.

“That’s not his name,” Peacock said.

“No,” Boon said. “I know.”

“What do you mean?”

“His name is John Milton.”

“How’d you know that?” Dubois frowned. “You know him?”

“I’m afraid that I do.”

Peacock gestured at the printout. “We couldn’t find—”

“This will be more expensive,” Boon interrupted him. “The price I quoted was for chumps. John Milton isn’t a chump.”

“Who is he?” Dubois said.

“What do you know?”

Peacock took over again. He slid the mugshot back into the envelope. “He’s British. An old soldier, ex-Special Forces. SAS.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

The detective leant back in the chair. “You say you know him. Why don’t you tell us?”

Boon laced his fingers on the table as he thought about how much to reveal. He couldn’t give them everything because that would give them too much about him, too. He would have to be selective. “Milton used to work for the British government. There’s a clandestine group, completely off the books. They neutralise those who offer a threat to British interests.”

“‘Neutralise?’”

“You know what I mean.”

Peacock was troubled. “So, what? You’re saying that he’s some sort of assassin?”

“The last time I met him, that was exactly what he was. But I haven’t seen him for years.”

“But you recognise him?”

“Milton isn’t the sort of person you forget.”

Dubois was listening with an inscrutable expression on his face.

Boon sipped his coffee. “As I said, it’s going to cost more.”

“How much more?”

Boon’s usual tariff was fifty per job, with a twenty per cent discount for multiples. That was pretty good cash for what was usually a day’s work, but Milton had nothing in common with the patsies and putzes whom Boon and Lila assisted on their way off this mortal coil.

“One hundred.”

Dubois didn’t flinch. “Half now, half on completion.”

“That works.” He finished his coffee and replaced the cup in the saucer. “So why do you want Milton gone? What’s he doing over here?”

“Mr. Dubois’s boss don’t want him around no more.”

Boon frowned. “Mr. Dubois isn’t the patron here?”

Dubois looked over at Peacock, but didn’t answer.

“I have a few rules, Mr. Dubois. The first is that I need to know who I’m working for. If I don’t, I’m getting up and going back to Jersey.”

“He’s—” Peacock started.

“I speak for him.” Dubois spoke over him. “You’ll deal with me.”

“Not good enough. You speak for who?”

He looked reluctant.

“You tell me or I’m out of here. I’m serious.”

“His name is Joel Babineaux.”

Boon had heard of him, or, rather, he had heard of Babineaux Properties. It was a big, respectable construction company listed on the Chicago exchange. It wasn’t a surprise that a company like that had a need for his particular services. It happened often, more than people would have expected. He had worked for bigger companies, internationally known brands. Business could be dirty and unpleasant, even the business conducted by the shinier, brighter Fortune 500 corporations.

“There are some houses being built down in the Lower Ninth,” Peacock said. “After Katrina. This charity—”

“Build It Up? I know about that. Read an article about them on the plane.”

“Yeah,” Peacock said. “Them. Milton is working with them.”

“And you want to get rid of someone building houses for a charity?”

“That’s right. He got involved in business that he has nothing to do with.”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“No.”

“Mr. Dubois?”

“No.”

“So a little background, please.”

Dubois spread his hands over the table. “We’ve been trying to buy the houses they’ve been building. They won’t sell. We sent two men to frighten them. Milton was there. Put his nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“These two men? Who were they? Guys you found on the street?”

Dubois shrugged.

Boon chuckled. “Let me guess. Milton ate them for breakfast? Broke a few bones, sent them away with a message for you?”

Dubois shifted in his chair, flickering with irritation. “You’d do better, would you?”

Boon just smiled. “Where can I find him?”

“Lower Nine,” Peacock said. “Salvation Row.”

“Salvation Row? Who comes up with that shit?”

Peacock shrugged and tapped the bulge beneath his armpit, where his pistol was holstered. “You said you wanted to get a piece here. You haven’t got anything yet?”

“Not yet. Get me a 9mm. Not from evidence, something off the street. Roll a dealer, something like that. I don’t care how you do it.”

“Easy,” Peacock said.

“That’d normally be enough. But Milton is Milton. I might need something heavier.” He paused, thinking about it. “I’ll let you know about that.”

“Fine.”

“And a car.”

“Sure.”

“And that’s all I need.”

“When can you do it?”

He got up. “You make the down payment, I’ll start today.”

Dubois got up, too. He removed a thick envelope from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Twenty. I’ll get you the other thirty this afternoon. The other fifty when it’s done.”

Boon took the envelope and pocketed it. “That works.”

“You talk a good game, Mr. Boon. But you still haven’t said why I should believe that you can do this.”

Boon paused. These guys were ridiculous. Part of him felt like drilling Dubois in the nose, walking out of the bar and going back to the airport. He didn’t need shit in his life, and he was starting to find this guy a little stuck-up, too smarmy for his own good. But, the money was good and, since he had promised Lila they would use it for a month in Turtle Bay, he took a moment and composed himself and gave him a nice friendly, little smile.

“I’m expensive. You want to know why that is? It’s because I’m the best there is at what I do. I can charge whatever I like, someone’ll pay it. I’m not like the guys you used, the ones who fucked up. I’m not like them at all. I don’t get drunk. I don’t do drugs. When I go after someone, I don’t go after them in a half-assed sort of way. I go after them in a serious, no mistakes, no fucking up kind of way.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’m a professional. I’ve been doing this for years, Mr. Dubois. I messed up some things in my life, but never that. When I do it, it stays done. Milton’s a dangerous man, but he doesn’t know that I’m coming. That means he doesn’t have a chance. And that you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Lila was asleep when he got back to the room.

Boon looked at her and felt the familiar surge of intense, all-consuming love. They had been together for three years, and the feelings that they shared had not dulled at all. That, he knew, was remarkable. His married friends in the Kidon, and the older men he had known in the army before that, all of them had grumbled about their domestic arrangements. That was just how it was. That was life. Boon, himself, had come to feel the same way about his first wife. There had been the usual intense first few months before the bloom came off the rose. Familiarity, contempt, all that. That it had not been that way with him and Lila was the source of all the joy in his life. He knew how lucky he was.

Lila had been born and raised in the West Bank town of Hebron. She was twenty-four, a full twenty years Boon’s junior. Her father had two careers, one public and the other private. The first was as a senior Hamas official, just a few steps removed from the leadership. His second was as an Israeli collaborator. It was his information that had led to the successful assassination of Mahmoud Al-Mabhouh, the co-founder of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades, the military wing of Hamas. Boon had benefitted from Lila’s father’s perfidy. He was one of the twenty-six Kidon agents who were responsible for his elimination in his Dubai hotel room. A colleague had administered the muscle relaxant, and Boon had smothered the man beneath a pillow.

Lila’s father’s treachery had been uncovered soon after the operation, and he was promptly executed. Lila, her mother and her sister were extracted and resettled in Jerusalem. When she and Boon met, she had been waiting tables. He had immediately fallen for her. Bright blue eyes that sparkled with life and an insouciant attitude that didn’t waver, even when — weeks later — Boon told her about the particular kind of work that he did for his country. He knew enough about her by then to know that honesty was a calculated gamble, but he couldn’t lie. She hated Hamas. She knew the men who had killed her father. Boon killed both of them, then the man who had sent them, and then the man who had sent him. As a demonstration of love, it was particularly effective.

Boon had not been Boon then. His birth name was Avi Bachman. He was still married to his first wife, a wholly unsatisfactory relationship that he maintained for the sake of appearances. The time he spent with Lila was like a long glass of cold water in the desert. She was playful. She made him feel younger. She loved him.

He would have divorced his wife and taken up with her, but that wouldn’t be possible. The Mossad’s culture was brutally nationalistic. Lila’s father might have been of value to Israel, but she was still a Palestinian. They would never have been able to trust her, and, had they known of their dalliance, it wouldn’t have been a question of his continued employment. It would have been a pistol pressed into his ear and a bullet put into his brain. Hers, too.

And so, when he could pretend no more, he engineered a way out. He had deliberately botched the assassination of a bomb maker in a Cairo slum, allowing the director to think that he had been killed when the plastique that he had been fitting to the underside of the man’s car had detonated prematurely. He had been close enough to the seat of the blast that witnesses had attested to the impossibility that he could have escaped. But he had escaped. First deeper into Egypt and then to France, where he spent fifty thousand euros on a premium false identity from a genius hacker to whom he had been referred by an old acquaintance. The acquaintance and the hacker had both been murdered to remove the threads that might lead back to him. He had boarded an Air France plane to Chicago as Claude Boon, a forty-three-year-old man with dual French and American nationality. Lila was in the first-class seat next to him. The irony was not lost on him that, for the first time in his adult life, he did not have to lie about her. He just had to lie about everything else instead.

After living as Boon for long enough, he came to refer to himself as Boon. He had been trained that way. A cover was most effective when the subject subsumed himself totally in the fictional creation within which he was hiding. It was automatic and, after a month, he no longer considered himself as Bachman. After two months, when Lila had habitually called him Avi, he hadn’t answered. His old self was dead. So she called him Claude now, too.

He traced his fingers across her face and watched her wake.

“Hey,” she said, blinking the sleep away.

“Hey.”

“How’d it go, baby?”

“Not what I was expecting.”

“Yeah?”

“The guy we’re here for, turns out I know him. From before.”

“What? The Mossad?”

“No. British.”

“Any good?”

“He was. Very good. Very good, indeed.”

“So?”

“So it’s one hundred, not fifty.”

“That’s good. Can we have an extra week?”

“Sure.”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“John Milton.”

“And Milton’s dangerous?”

“He is.”

“So you’ll be careful, baby, right?”

“I’m always careful.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Ziggy Penn parked the UPS truck that Milton had stolen on the opposite side of the street to the big house at 5201 St. Charles Avenue. It was a grand place: big, lots of windows, good-sized grounds. Milton had explained that the property was connected to a man that he wanted to know more about. He said that this man, name of Jackson Dubois, had met with two hoods after they had tried to put the heat on Isadora Bartholomew. Milton had prevented them from doing that, followed them to the rendezvous, and then had found Dubois’s details when he had broken into his car.

There were some things that Ziggy had been able to do from the comfort of his hotel room. He had discovered that the owner of the house was a company registered in the Cayman Islands. Details on the ownership of that company were obscured by a series of blind trusts, all wrapped up in the Caymans’ obsession with anonymity. It might be Dubois, but it was impossible to say. The place had been purchased, in cash, two years previously from a local cable television executive. Ziggy had called the woman on a pretext, but he had struck out. The transaction was carried out at arm’s length, through agents, and there was nothing she could offer that would shed any light on the corporation or any of the people behind it.

Those were the only details that he had been able to discern.

He needed to get creative.

He picked up his phone and called Milton.

“It’s me. I’m here. Where is he?”

“Still in the office.”

“Got any idea what he’s doing?”

“He’s with lawyers. That’s all I know.”

“Note down who they are. Maybe I can find out when I get back.”

“I already did. Are you ready?”

“I’m just going in now. If you think he’s coming back, give me plenty of notice. I haven’t done this for a while. I won’t be as quick as I used to be.”

“Got it.”

“Wish me luck.”

But Milton had already ended the call.

Ziggy got out of the truck. He was wearing a UPS delivery man’s uniform. He had hacked into their operations department’s servers yesterday — the work of a moment — and fast-tracked the delivery of a brand-new uniform. It had arrived, still in its protective polythene wrappers, before he had set out this morning. Milton had found the truck the previous night, climbing the fence of the depot, hot-wiring it and driving it to a secluded spot where they could change the plates without fear of discovery.

The street was residential and too exclusive to be particularly busy. Ziggy went around to the side of the truck and collected his case. He had assembled the contents yesterday and was as confident as he could be that he had everything that he needed. He checked both ways, waited for a Lincoln town car to trundle by, limped across the street and walked to the wrought-iron gates that blocked the driveway that led to the house.

He pretended to use the intercom, leaning in so that his mouth was close to the microphone, the angle of his body enough to obscure the scanner that he had in his hand. The gates were remote and would open whenever the remote sent a signal to the sensor. Ziggy activated the scanner and waited as it cycled through the available frequencies, sending out a million potential handshakes until it had the right one.

There was a metallic clunk as the lock opened, and then a scrape as the gates rolled back.

Ziggy hobbled up the driveway to the house.

Ziggy worked quickly. His case contained all the things that he needed: a cordless drill, with a succession of ever smaller bits; a screwdriver set; a selection of tiny bugging devices and Wi-Fi cameras. His first job had been to scout the house. It was unusually empty. There were no papers or documents that he could have copied, no computers, no electronic devices that he might have been able to compromise and mine. Three of the four bedrooms were empty, and the fourth had a futon on the floor. There were four identical suits hanging in the closet, seven identical white shirts, and a series of sober ties. The spartan appearance of the place continued downstairs, with empty cupboards and a handful of empty fast food containers in the garbage. Whoever Dubois was, he wasn’t the sort that would make a place look homely or settled. The overwhelming impression was one of impermanence. It was as if he used the house, as extensive and expensive as it was, for sleep and not much else.

Two of the empty bedrooms were above the large lounge area on the ground floor. Ziggy pulled back the carpet and the underlay and removed a foot-long section of the floorboard. There was a cavity between the joists and the drywall that formed the ceiling, more than enough space for him to rest the power supply for the miniature camera. He took his drill, selected the smallest bit, and carefully pierced through the drywall, just enough so that a tiny pinprick of light could be seen from below. Ziggy arranged the camera so that its cone lens was flush with the hole, and then secured it in place with tape. He switched the camera on, replaced the floorboard, and covered it up with the carpet.

He went through into the second bedroom. This one was not carpeted, but there was a rug that he could use to hide the surgery that he performed on the floorboards. He worked quickly and neatly, drilling a second tiny hole and lining up the camera. He flicked the power to live and obscured his handiwork.

He returned downstairs. There were two small piles of chewed-up drywall on the floor. He found a hand-held dust buster and cleaned them away. He looked up to the ceiling. The two holes were visible, but discreet enough to remain unobserved unless the target knew to look for them.

He took his case and left the house, locking the door behind him.

He made his way back to his truck and drove two blocks away. He parked and took out his phone. Footage from the cameras was broadcasting to the application that he had installed earlier. It was in colour and good quality, the fish-eye lenses distorting it a little, a price worth paying for the extended coverage that they offered. It was good work. Not perfect, because he had hoped that he might be able to get his hands on a laptop or a tablet, but it would do for now. He had a very useful piece of kit being couriered overnight, but this would serve until it arrived.

He closed the application and called Milton.

“Well?”

“Done.”

“Good. He left two minutes ago. Heading back your way.”

“You might have told me.”

“Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“If he had seen me—”

“He didn’t. Stop moaning, Ziggy. Is it working?”

“What do you think?” he said indignantly. “It’s perfect. We’ll be able to see and hear everything he does.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Detective Peacock left a second-hand Ford on the street outside the Hilton, the keys under the mat. Boon took the key and opened the trunk. There was a 9mm Beretta with plenty of ammunition under a blanket. He took the gun, shoved it into the waistband of his jeans, and got into the back. Lila slid behind the wheel.

“Where to, baby?”

“Head down to the place.”

She put the car into drive and pulled away into the traffic.

Boon took out the gun and stripped it.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s in decent shape. It’ll do.”

They crossed the Industrial Canal at the North Claiborne Bridge.

“This guy,” Lila said. “Who is he?”

Boon had been thinking about Milton ever since he had seen the picture. The details came back easily. “He worked for the British. He was very good, too.”

“As good as you, baby?”

He grinned. “Didn’t say that.”

“So you ever work with him?”

“Once. The job in Iran.”

“He was on that?”

“Him, the Americans, one other Brit.”

“And?”

“Apart from him being very good? He’s quiet. Thoughtful. A lot of the guys I worked with — CIA, especially — they’re loud and brash, kind of boring. Wouldn’t last five minutes in the Mossad with a personality like that. They would’ve been dragged out into the desert, shot in the head and buried. Milton was more like us than them. He would’ve fit in well.”

“And now?”

“No idea, baby. I haven’t seen him for years.”

“And you have no problem with him being the target?”

Boon snapped the magazine back into the well and put the gun away. “No, I don’t. Business is business. If the shoe was on the other foot, he’d have no trouble, either. He’s just unlucky that he’s ended up with us.”

They turned off North Claiborne and into the grid of devastated streets to the south. Lila followed the satnav to Salvation Row.

“Look at this place,” she said.

They saw the row of colourful houses, bright and new, standing out as a stark rejoinder to the crash of jungle and dereliction all around them.

“Over there,” Boon said, pointing to a lot that was being cleared.

“That him?”

“Don’t slow down. Just drive by.”

He slid down a little, but not enough so that he couldn’t look out of the window as Lila drove by the lot. There was a crew there, seven men hacking at the overgrown plants that had sprouted around the wreck of a house. A pickup was parked at the curb and a small riding lawnmower was being refuelled from a gas can. He focussed on one of the crew in particular. A man of average height and build, black hair, the wings of a tattoo visible on the skin revealed by a dirty muscle top. The man drove a shovel into freshly tilled earth and reached down for a bottle of water. The car went by and the man looked up. Boon remembered, years back, to Cairo and Tehran. It was Milton. He hadn’t changed.

“Baby?”

“Not now,” he said. “Too many witnesses. We’ll pick him up later, do it somewhere quieter. Keep driving.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Izzy glanced around the courtroom. It was divided in half by a scratched wooden railing, with the rows of the public gallery on one side and the counsel tables and the raised witness stand on the other. There was no box for the jurors because the appeals court did not require the service of a jury. There were a handful of reporters, some of whom she recognised, and even a courtroom artist who sketched faces for the local TV news. The seats in the public gallery were empty. Jackson Dubois and the rest of his team sat at one table. Lawyers for the city sat at the other table. Izzy had the third one to herself.

She looked up at the bench of grizzled justices and, behind them, the large bronze eagle in bas-relief, its talons clutching arrows. It was intended to inspire respect, maybe even reverence, and, despite it being the worse for wear, it still managed that for most folk. Not so much for Izzy, though. She felt the same buzz of anticipation, the welcome frisson of nervous energy that she had harnessed during all of the previous hearings. And she respected the history of the court, and the line of eminent jurists who had presided over the cases she had studied as a student — some of whom were immortalised in dusty portraits that had been hung from the walls — but the incumbents had done nothing to disabuse her of the notion that they were nothing more than a rubber stamp for the government.

The chief justice cleared his throat.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is the case of Build It Up, Inc. vs City of New Orleans, continuing from the last adjournment.” He squinted out into the room. With the wrinkles around his eyes and the black robe draped over his withered form, he reminded Izzy of the eagle behind him. “Miss Bartholomew, concerns have been raised with the bench that you have conducted this appeal in a fashion designed to prolong it for as long as possible. The bench is making no accusations of that, but we do make the point that it is incumbent upon you to proceed with all due expediency. You are entitled to a fair hearing, but we will not allow the legal process to be used as a delaying mechanism.”

“Who raised those concerns, sir?”

“Counsel for the city and for Babineaux Properties.”

“Well, they can rest assured that I am proceeding as quickly as I can. As you can see, I’m doing this on my own. I don’t have their resources.”

“Be that as it may, Miss Bartholomew, my suggestion remains, please proceed with alacrity.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Now, then, shall we get started?”

“I’d like that.”

The double door at the end of the room opened and a handsome, well-dressed man walked inside. The lawyers immediately straightened their backs and looked intensely at their notes. Only Dubois looked up at the newcomer and nodded in recognition. Izzy looked at him, too. She recognised him. Joel Babineaux. It was the first time that he had been in court. Was he here, she wondered, because he had been told that the proceedings might come to an end this morning? Was he here to gloat, to grandstand in front of the press? If he was, she was going to disappoint him. She didn’t take her eyes off of him as he walked with the barely noticeable limp that gave away his prosthetic. He sat down, undid his jacket, and then, slowly and deliberately, he looked up and across the room at her. Izzy held his gaze.

She was still staring at him when the chief justice cleared his throat again. “We adjourned so that the city could procure a report. I believe that report has been prepared?”

Counsel for the city started to rise, but Izzy spoke first. “Before we do that, sir, I’d like to make another argument. I’ve been looking at the case of Kelo vs New London. I think it’s pertinent.”

The justice couldn’t prevent the weary sigh. “Is it important, Miss Bartholomew?”

“I think it is.”

The justice nodded, the resignation obvious. “Very well. Proceed.”

Izzy looked across the room at the benches of expensively assembled lawyers, saw the irritation on their faces, and couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She turned her focus back on to Babineaux. His expression was inscrutable.

She took out her notes, cleared her throat, and began.

Joel Babineaux made sure that he was already on his way out of the courtroom before the day’s proceedings were adjourned. He waited outside, his thousand-dollar shoes clicking against the polished black and white chequerboard tiles. The lawyers he had retained had been the first to emerge, grumbling as they came through the double doors, their disposition changing immediately as they saw him. They were pandering toadies, all of them, and he waved them off with a brusque flick of his hand. Jackson Dubois was next. Babineaux waved him off, too.

He was still waiting as he saw the man walk down the corridor. He was dressed in cut-off jeans and a T-shirt, his clothes discoloured with dirt and sweat. He looked hopelessly out of place, but, despite that, there was something about him that suggested that it would have been unwise to confront him. He came up to the entrance to the court and took a seat on the pew opposite the door. Babineaux glanced at him. He was staring right back, his eyes the iciest of blues.

Babineaux smiled. “Hello.”

“Mr. Babineaux.”

“Are you here for the case?”

“I’m here for Miss Bartholomew.”

“I’m afraid you have my advantage.”

“John Smith.”

Babineaux extended a hand. The man wiped his palm against his sullied T-shirt and took it. He had a firm grip, but so did Babineaux. They held for a moment. Neither squeezed too hard, but just enough so that the other might take away the right impression.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”

The man’s mouth stretched flat and taut, something between a sardonic smile and a grimace, and his eyes glittered. Babineaux found the effect unsettling.

Isadora Bartholomew was one of the last people to emerge, struggling with the case of notes to which she had so expertly referred during the day’s proceedings.

Smith stood. The woman looked at him, then at Babineaux.

“What do you want?” she said to him.

Babineaux stepped across to her, a broad smile on his face. “Can I give you a hand?”

That surprised her. Her face registered immediate suspicion then hostility, both of which she quickly hid with a polite and professional shake of the head. “No, thank you, Mr. Babineaux.”

“We can manage,” Smith said.

“Please.”

“I’m fine,” she said, with more heat.

“Let me talk to you, then,” he said.

She shook her head and continued on.

Babineaux watched her, his eyes racing ahead to where the lawyers were waiting at the end of the corridor. He noticed them hovering, ready to do his bidding. The sight of them suddenly sickened him. They were all ready to do what he commanded them to do, all of them suckling from his teat, yet none of them could solve this simple fucking problem.

He closed his eyes, concentrated on smothering his temper, and then set off after her. “Please, Miss Bartholomew. Five minutes, that’s all.”

Smith was quickly alongside him. “She’s not interested.”

“Please. Just hear me out.”

She stopped. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” Smith said.

“It’s all right. What is it?”

“This,” Babineaux said, indicating the court with a broad sweep of his arm. “The case. The disagreement. I’m upset that it’s come to this.”

“You didn’t leave us with a choice. If I hadn’t brought the case, you’d have already bulldozed the houses, wouldn’t you?”

“I do admire what you’ve done, you know. Construction isn’t easy at the best of times, and the houses you’ve built — I’ve seen them, Miss Bartholomew. I’ve driven down that street, more than once. They are very impressive.”

“And you still want to knock them down.”

“We want to move them.”

“That’s semantics and you know it.”

“You might not believe it, but I want to help. We both know that all you can possibly do with this is to delay the inevitable. We will win in the end. It might take a few weeks, and it’ll be expensive, but the law is on our side.”

“That’s debatable. Did you listen to what the judge said today?”

“The law is on our side,” he repeated, “and there is a political will to regenerate the parish. I can do that. I can make it right.”

“And what about the people who live there now? What is it, ‘sorry, I know you’ve only just moved back into your homes, but we need you to move out again while we knock them down?’ Is that it?”

His stomach clenched with anger, but he smiled and swallowed it all down and found his most emollient tone. “Let me help you. If you withdraw this action and let us build on Salvation Row, I’ll give you twice as much land in return and I’ll pay enough for you to build twice as many houses. I’ll lend you a team to build them, too. For free. Think of the good that you could do with that. Twice as many families in brand-new accommodations. I know you don’t trust me, Miss Bartholomew, and that’s fair enough, but I’m telling you, hand on heart, I will make sure you get more than you have now. We could make a real difference.”

That last suggestion was a step too far, and he could see it as soon as the words left his mouth. “We are already making a difference,” she snapped.

“That’s not what I—”

She rested the heavy case on the floor and turned to him, anger flashing across her face. “Let me tell you something. You think you can come down there, take out your wallet and wave your money around and then, just like that, you get your way. Maybe that’s what life is like for you, but, I’m telling you, Mr. Babineaux, it’s not going to work for you this time. My family has lived in the Lower Ninth for years. My mom and dad live there and my mom’s family lived there, too. If you think you can pay us off and then knock down the houses that hard-working men and women sweated to build, then I’m here to tell you that ain’t ever going to happen.” She leaned down, wrapped her fingers around the handle and hefted the case again. “Now, if that’s all you had to say, I’ve got preparation today for tomorrow. Maybe you are going to beat us. Maybe. But I’ll tell you this for damn sure, I ain’t gonna make it easy for you.”

Babineaux stood there, unsure of what he was supposed to say. She didn’t give him the chance. The two of them walked around him and went down the corridor.

Dubois approached him.

“What did she say?”

“There’s no talking to her. They won’t see sense.”

“Do you want me to step it up?”

“This man, you’ve met him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He seems very proficient.”

“You’re confident? I’m depending on your judgment, Jackson.”

“I am. He’s a professional.”

“Tell him to do it.”

“And her, too?”

“No. Not while this case lasts, it’d look much too convenient.”

“This man can make it look natural—”

“I said no, Jackson. That man looking after her. The Englishman. Him. Start with him.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Milton stayed in his car outside the Comfort Inn all night. He parked in the lot, choosing an angle that allowed him a clear view to the front of the building. He knew that it was unlikely that they would make another attempt on her life while she was in the hotel, but, since he couldn’t rule it out, he was not prepared to take the chance. He hadn’t told Izzy that he would be there because he knew that she would have objected. The stakes had been raised now, and he knew that it was likely that another attempt would be made to force Izzy to drop the case.

They had tried once, and failed.

They would try again.

His vantage point made it very difficult for anyone to approach the building without him noticing. Hotel guests had returned to their rooms until the small hours, but, once the last stragglers had been accommodated, it stayed quiet. A light was overhead, throwing its dead white glow over the car. Milton had plugged his phone into the car’s sound system and listened to his music. He had ordered a delivery pizza at midnight, picking it up from the delivery driver as he pulled into the lot. He had eaten it and drank a bottle of Coke, listening to the old albums that made him think back to his time in the regiment and the innocent times before that.

He looked at his watch. Six thirty. She would be up and about now, getting her things ready for the day in court. Milton had said that he would pick her up at nine. She would be safe once she was inside the courtroom, and he anticipated that he would be able to grab a couple of hours’ sleep then. He thought it would be safe to leave her until he came to pick her up. He rubbed his palm across the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin. He needed a shower and a shave. He started the engine, put the car into drive, and headed back to his motel.

Milton said hello to the woman on the desk, went to his room and undressed. He showered, turning the tap to cold and standing under the jet until his skin tingled. He washed, then filled the bowl with warm water and shaved with the straight razor that he always carried with him in his pack. He dressed in fresh clothes and packed his case. He had left his razor in the bathroom and went back to get it.

There was a small window. Milton’s room was at the end of the row, and the window offered a view of the parking lot that wasn’t visible from the main room. He saw a car pull up. A plain-looking sedan. Something about the car snagged his attention, but the sun was bouncing off the windshield and obscuring the interior. Milton watched and, as he idly ran his finger along the blade of the razor, the car backed into a space. It stopped and, after a moment, both doors opened.

A man and a woman got out. The low, early sun was in his eyes, and he couldn’t make out their faces. The man had an athletic build and a confident gait. The woman was slender, with good legs.

There was something about the man that caught Milton’s attention.

It made him uneasy.

They walked over to the motel rooms, coming closer to the window.

Milton frowned. He squinted into the sun, and as he did, a cloud scudded across the sky and a pillar of shadow rushed across the lot.

Milton gaped.

Avi Bachman?

What the…?

He almost dropped the razor in shock.

He was supposed to be dead.

Bachman reached a hand into his jacket and took out a pistol.

Milton thought as fast as he could.

What were the odds that Avi Bachman, who was supposed to be dead, was here, at a low-rent motel in New Orleans, at the precise same time as he was? A million to one. A billion to one. It couldn’t be a coincidence, and if it wasn’t a coincidence, then it could only mean that Bachman was here for him.

What to do? Bachman was armed: a 9mm. Milton had his Sig Sauer on the bedside table. The M16 and the MP5 were in the trunk of his rental. But there was no time to get to them.

He hurried into the main room.

Boon waited as Lila approached the door. The row of rooms was connected by a wooden veranda, the paint blistered in the sun, the planks warped and buckled. Numbers were fixed to the doors. This one was 10.

They had been given the address by the detective. The police had found out that the Bartholomews had been moved into the Comfort Inn, and it wasn’t a stretch to think that Milton would stand guard. They had followed him back here. Boon was surprised that it had been as easy as it was. Perhaps Milton was getting sloppy in his old age?

He held his pistol low, hidden from the rest of the rooms by the angle of his body. He knew that Milton would recognise him if he saw him, just as Boon had recognised him, and even though that would probably make no difference since he had the overwhelming advantage of surprise, he didn’t like to take chances. The doors all had peepholes, and there was no way of predicting how Milton would react if he saw him standing outside his door. Milton would have heard the news. As far as he was concerned, Avi Bachman was dead. Milton knew his profession, and it wouldn’t have been a difficult mental leap for someone so inherently suspicious to recognise that he was here on business.

There was a good chance that he would shoot first and ask questions later.

The alternative was to kick down the door, go in hard, gun up, and take him out. But that was messy and unpredictable and unattractive.

So, he thought, no, there was a better way.

Milton had never seen Lila before. She could knock on the door and confirm that he was there. He would open the door for her. Boon would wait to the side, out of sight, and, on Lila’s signal, he would step into the doorway and shoot him.

Lila stepped up onto the veranda. Boon held his breath. She took a step to the door, raised her hand, and rapped against it three times.

Lila knew better than to look across at him, or, worse, to say anything, but Boon knew from the twist to her face that something was amiss. She reached up and pressed her fingers against the door. It swung open.

“Hello?”

There was no reply.

“Hello?”

She pushed the door all the way open and, before Boon could stop her, she stepped inside.

“Hello?”

Boon gripped the pistol tight. He didn’t want Lila to be in there. Milton had been Number One. He knew what that meant.

“Shit,” Lila called out. “Baby?”

Boon stepped out and went through the open door. He stood just in front of the door, taking the measure of the room, looking to see where everything was. He held his breath, listening, trying to get a sense for the room and what it might mean. Lila was standing next to the bed. It hadn’t been slept in, but the sheets and blankets were ruffled, as if something had been placed atop them. There was an interconnecting door between this room and the one alongside. It was standing open, just an inch or two.

Boon shut the front door, put on the latch, held up a hand, mouthed “stay here,” and stepped farther into the room. He checked the bathroom, held his hand against the porcelain sink. It was damp, still a little warm, a tideline of scum just below the level of the overflow. Little bristles. Milton had shaved. He knelt down beside the shower cubicle, reached down to the tray, felt that it was wet. He had been here, and not long ago.

He went back into the room and approached the interconnecting door. He paused there, listening. A toilet flushed somewhere, and a door latch clicked. Didn’t sound like it was next door, maybe one of the rooms farther along the line. He held the gun ahead of him, his finger tight around the trigger. He only needed just an extra ounce or two of pressure to bring it all the way back and fire.

He yanked the door. A woman sat up in the bed, naked, her breasts exposed. Boon shot her three times and left her blood spread across the headboard and the wall behind it. The bathroom door swung open and a man in pajamas was standing there, his mouth open. Boon shot him three times, just as quick, sending him back into the bathroom, blood splashing onto the threadbare carpet and the salmon bathroom tiles.

Boon paused, listening. Floorboards creaked, but not here, maybe the next room over. This couple were not involved. It looked domestic, two people stopping for the night, wrong place, wrong time. Tough luck. Their cases were open, pushed up against the wall, clothes spilling out of them. The only thing out of place was the front door. It was unlatched and ajar.

Boon crept ahead, his gun arm steady, but, before he could reach the door, he heard the sound of an engine. He heard lots of revs and the screech of rubber, biting on asphalt. He opened it as a Toyota Corolla raced away, taking the sharp bend out of the lot at speed, making the road and melting into the early traffic.

“Shit,” Lila said.

She was behind him, just inside the door. She looked at the dead woman in the bed, saw the legs of the dead man stretching out through the door to the bathroom. She wasn’t perturbed by either of them. She had seen plenty of death in the last two years, plenty worse than this. It was the sight of the open front door, the sound of the car, the evidence that Milton had evaded them. It was that which had annoyed her.

“Yeah,” Boon said. “Shit.”

“He knows we’re coming now.”

“Yes.”

“That was our best chance to get at him.”

“I know, baby.”

“He’ll be impossible now.”

“Not impossible. Difficult.”

“So what do we do?”

“You know what we do, baby. Leverage. We pick a different target.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Milton drove at a steady sixty. Not too fast to risk attention from the police, but not so slow that he would give Bachman the chance to get ahead of him.

His body was flooded with adrenaline. His hands were trembling.

Avi Bachman.

That was something that he couldn’t possibly have foreseen.

And it changed everything.

He took out his phone and looked at the time.

8.30AM.

He dialled Izzy, activated the speaker, and rested the phone on the dash.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Where are you?”

“At the hotel. Just getting ready.”

“Stay there. Do not leave your room without me.”

“I wasn’t going to. You said—”

“Listen to me, Izzy. Your parents, too. They need to come with us today.”

“To court?”

“They need to be with us.”

“What’s happened, Milton?”

He held his tongue. No sense in worrying her any more than she was already worried. “Something has changed. I’ll tell you when I see you. But it’ll be fine. I just want us to be extra careful from now on.”

“You’re worrying me, John. I told you, no secrets, okay? Sounds like you’re holding out on me. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Everything is fine. I’ll explain when I get there. Just stay in the room.”

Milton arrived at the Comfort Inn and called Izzy again. She came out five minutes later, dragging her document case behind her. Her parents followed behind. Milton left the engine running, stepped out and waved them over. The pistol was jammed against his hip, a comforting presence. He let them come all the way over to him, unwilling to allow himself the distraction of meeting them halfway. He scanned with avid, hungry eyes. If the roles had been reversed, and he was in Bachman’s shoes, this would have been a prime opportunity. He felt the buzz of adrenaline again as he looked left and right. But there was nothing.

Izzy stepped out, put a little distance between herself and her parents. “What is it?” she hissed at him.

“I’ll explain later. When we’re alone.”

“You’re frightening me.”

“I’m sorry. You have to trust me.”

Solomon and Elsie reached the car. “Morning, John,” the old man said. “Got room in the car for the two of us? Izzy says we need to see her in action today.”

“Plenty of room,” he said, opening the back door, his eyes still roving left and right.

“Thanks for the ride,” Elsie said as she lowered herself onto the bench seat.

“You’re welcome.”

Solomon got in alongside his wife, and Milton shut the door.

“What?” Izzy hissed again. “You tell me now, or we’re not going anywhere and you can explain to them what the hell is going on.”

Milton gritted his teeth. Why couldn’t things be easy, just one time?

“Someone came after me this morning.”

“What does that mean?”

“Someone I know, from a long time ago. He came to kill me.”

“What the—?”

“It’s fine. I saw him coming—”

“It’s fine?”

“It’s fine—”

“It’s not fine. They ran us off the road, tried to kill us, now they send someone else after you.”

He put his finger to his lips. “Not now. You want to worry them?”

Her parents were talking to each other in the car.

“When?”

“After court. Get through today, we can talk about it then. All right?”

She fired a hot stare at him. “Fine. But no sugar-coating. I need to know everything. I need to know that this is still worth it, whether the stakes are getting too high, you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Get in the car, Izzy. We don’t want to be late.”

Chapter Forty

Boon found the place without any trouble. It was a large, modern building, and the lights in the windows glittered in the wan light of dusk. He turned off the road and found a space in the parking lot. He switched off the engine and turned to Lila.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“You know what you’re doing?”

“Sure. It’ll be fine. Easy. Won’t take long.”

Lila was wearing a police officer’s uniform. It was authentic, supplied by Detective Peacock from out of the NOPD’s stores. He reached across and rested his hand on his wife’s knee. “Be careful.”

Lila smiled. “I’m always careful.” She leant over and kissed him, then opened the door and stepped out into the parking lot.

Boon left the engine running, reached down for the radio and tuned through the stations. He found nothing that he liked and switched it off.

He looked out at the building and thought of Lila inside it. She was shrewd and clever and a quick study. She had worked hard to make their partnership as effective as it had turned out to be. She was an excellent face woman, chameleonic in her ability to morph into whomever the job at hand required her to be. Their last job, the liquidation of the owner of a fracking operation in Pennsylvania, had required Lila to work for the target as one of his PAs for three weeks. The target’s schedule was ascertained far enough in advance that Boon had known precisely when he would visit his remote lakeside cabin so that he could lie up and wait for him. The information she had provided on the target’s security detail provided him with what he needed to find the vulnerabilities, and allowed for the efficient execution of the operation.

Lila emerged from the building and stepped into the parking lot. She had a black man with her, her hand on his shoulder with a proprietary air. Boon reached over into the back and opened the door for them. The man’s face clouded with confusion when he saw the Ford and not the police cruiser he must have been expecting, but, by that time, Lila had drawn the 9mm and discreetly pressed it into the small of the man’s back. Boon looked at him, recognised Alexander Bartholomew from the description Peacock had given him, and nodded in satisfaction.

Boon watched in the mirror as the man slid across the seat to the opposite door, yanking the handle. It was no good. The child lock had been activated.

“Hello, Alexander.”

“What is this, man?”

“We need you to come with us for a little while.”

“Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. But it’s best that you just take it easy. There’s no sense in making this more difficult for yourself than it needs to be.”

Lila got in next to Alexander and shut the door.

Boon pulled away. “Any trouble?”

“Easy,” Lila said with a broad, white-toothed smile.

“Well done, baby,” Boon said.

He turned out of the parking lot and aimed the car to the west. They had an hour’s drive ahead of them.

The place was in the middle of the bayou. Boon drove carefully along the single track, the ruts and dips baked in the daytime heat until they were as solid as rock. They passed stands of cypress and oak, with ugly roots and malignant nooses of Spanish moss weighing down the boughs of the trees. Their destination was remote and isolated. The track wound its way through the overgrown vegetation, picking a path between the wide expanses of swamp. It had turned to night as they drove out of town, and the darkness was total here, the stars and moon blocked out by the thick canopy of leaves. Boon found himself gripping the wheel a little tighter. The atmosphere was tense and foreboding. He remembered the Lovecraft books that he had read as a child, and found himself picturing the reddish glares of distant fires and voodoo orgies.

They came to the end of the track. There were two tumbledown shacks, arranged side to side in the shape of an L, and, twenty yards away from them, two freight containers that had been adapted so that they could be used as accommodation. The place had been a meth lab until it was busted six months earlier. Peacock had suggested that it would be a suitable place to keep Bartholomew. Boon had scouted it earlier and had been satisfied with it.

He parked the car and, leaving the headlamps on so that the path ahead was lit, helped Lila take Bartholomew to one of the containers. A door had been cut into one side. The door opened out and was secured by a metal bar that slotted through two brackets that had been welded on either side of the aperture. Boon pulled the bar free, opened the door, and muscled Alexander inside. There was a single light fixture on the ceiling, a bedroll, and a bucket to be used as a toilet. Nothing else.

Boon released his grip on Alexander, and he dropped to the floor.

“You can’t leave me in here.”

“Just for a while. Until the person who is paying us has gotten what he wants.”

“What does he want? What does it have to do with me?”

“Your sister needs to learn that being stubborn isn’t in her best interests. Or yours.”

He left the light on and stepped back. He took out his phone, snapped a quick picture, then pushed the door closed and slotted the bar back through the brackets. They had only taken a handful of steps to the shacks when the door clanged and rattled against the bar.

Lila nodded back to the container. “He’s going to get on my nerves if he keeps that up.”

“Only things that’ll hear him out here are the wildlife.”

“I’m going to get a headache, baby.”

He smiled. “Maybe we’ll feed him to the gators, then.”

There was no cellphone signal this far into the swamp, so Boon left Lila in charge of the camp and drove back down to the interstate until his iPhone showed a bar of reception. He parked by the edge of the road, got out, and rested against the hood of the car. Night had fallen properly now, and the car was lit by the occasional lights of cars that were rushing to and from the city. The winking lights of passenger jets passed high overhead, and stretched out for miles before him was the exhausted, fractured landscape of Louisiana. A desolate expanse of plain covered with tall sere grass that rustled in the nighttime zephyrs. There were blasted trees here and there, distant refineries and distilleries that fed off the network of pipes that funnelled offshore oil and gas, smokestacks spewing columns of chemical pollution, a coastline choked with detritus, all of it slowly sinking into the Gulf of Mexico. Cancer Alley. Boon looked out at it, let it seep onto him. He wasn’t a religious man, but, he thought, if the apocalypse happened, it would look something like this.

He lit a cigarette and then dialled the number that he had been given. He put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Isadora Bartholomew?”

“Who is this?”

“Who I am isn’t important. You need to listen very carefully, Miss Bartholomew.”

“Who is this?”

“Your brother, Alexander, needs you to stop the case you have brought against those who are trying to improve the city—”

“What do you mean, my brother?”

“Listen to me, please, Miss Bartholomew, and don’t interrupt. Alexander is with me. I’m going to send you a picture of him when I end this call. You are to stop the case. You are to apologise for wasting the court’s time and withdraw your complaint. Is that clear?”

There was no reply, just the sound of static buzzing on the line.

“Miss Bartholomew, I need you to tell me that you understand.”

“If you hurt him—”

“He will be returned to you, unharmed, if you do what I ask. Are we clear?”

There was more static.

“I need an answer.”

“We’re clear,” she said. “I understand.”

“Drop the case and I will return him to you. Goodbye, Miss Bartholomew.”

He ended the call. He selected the picture that he had taken of Alexander and sent it to her, then he put the phone back into his pocket. He remained propped against the car for a moment longer, the warm tropical wind blowing around him, and then ground his cigarette beneath his boot and returned to the car.

Chapter Forty-One

Milton was watching outside the hotel when Izzy called him.

“Where are you?” Her tone was frantic.

“I’m outside. What is it?”

“I need to see you.”

“What is it, Izzy?”

“Alexander.”

She came down five minutes later. Milton was waiting for her in the lobby.

“What is it? He’s checked himself out?”

“Someone came and took him.”

She was frightened. Milton’s attention snapped into sharp focus. “What do you mean?”

“What I said,” she snapped. “A woman, dressed as a police officer, went there and told them that he was wanted for questioning and they had to let him out.”

“How do you know?”

“I called rehab. That’s what they said.”

“How did you know that he was gone, Izzy?”

“Whoever it was who took him, some man working with her, he called me.”

“And said what?”

“That I had to drop the case against Babineaux.”

“What exactly did he say? Try to remember.”

She waved her hand in irritation, puckered her forehead, and repeated as much of the conversation as she could. “They had him, I had to stop the case, they’d bring him back if I did. Then they sent me this.”

She found the photograph on her phone and handed it to Milton. He looked and saw Alexander Bartholomew, his face bleached out by camera flash, shrinking away from whoever it was who was taking the picture.

“All right,” he said.

“All right? What am I going to do? They’ve got my brother.”

She started to cry. Milton had never been one for affection, and he invariably felt awkward when presented with emotion. But when he reached out to touch her on the shoulder, she folded into his embrace and let him hold her, the breath sobbing out of her. He held her for a minute until she had brought her sobbing under control and, breathing deeply, she disengaged.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just… it’s just, I don’t want to sound like I’m whining, but there’s so much to think about. I don’t know where I am some times. And now this. I can handle things if I think I can control them, affect them, but this…I’m helpless. And being helpless frightens me.”

“You’re not helpless. I’m here. I’m going to help you. We’re going to get him back.”

“How can you say that?”

“When have I let you down?” He didn’t give her a chance to think too deeply on that. “Come on. I want to speak to the rehab.”

Alexander’s abduction had caused a commotion at the facility. They were met by a senior doctor who, while effusive in her apology, was defensive, too. Milton knew why. The woman was primed for the threat of a lawsuit. Perhaps she knew Izzy’s reputation from the court case since it had had enough media coverage, after all. She would be helpful, but there would be no admissions, and her help would only extend up until the point where it caused the clinic no harm.

“We’ve called the police,” she said.

“You sure these are the real ones?” Izzy said sharply.

The doctor frowned at her, but didn’t bite. “And we’re reviewing the feed from the cameras.”

“You mind if I have a look?” Milton asked.

She looked up at him with anxiety and then suspicion. “Can I ask who you are, please, sir?”

“My name is Smith. I’m a friend of the family.”

She looked at Izzy for confirmation and, when she nodded her assent, she paused to consider the request and then, no doubt realising that it would do her no good to refuse, agreed to it. She led them into a small office behind the reception. A male member of staff was spinning through footage that had been shot from the security camera behind the desk.

“Show them,” the doctor said.

The man pressed play and Milton watched. The woman, masquerading as a policewoman, was young and good looking. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her before.

“What did she say?”

“That she had reason to believe that Mr. Bartholomew was involved in a serious assault. She said that we had to release him for questioning. There’s not much that we could’ve done.”

“You didn’t think to check her credentials?”

“We did check, sir. Everything looked like it was in order.”

“You didn’t call the precinct?”

The woman was getting defensive. “Why would we do that? I told you, everything looked like it was in order.”

Milton reined it back in. He wasn’t finished with the clinic yet and he sensed that if he pushed too hard, the woman would ask him to leave.

“You’ve got a camera out in the parking lot?”

“Sure we do.”

The picture switched to footage from a camera that offered a high angle of the lot. They scrolled through the footage until they saw the woman emerge into the left of the shot, Alexander in front of her. Milton watched as Alexander said something, protesting, and the woman pressed her arm close to his back. The pistol that she must have been holding was hidden by Alexander’s body. The camera swivelled to the right, losing them for a moment, but then it stopped and they re-emerged into the shot again. They walked to a parked car with a man inside it. Milton estimated that the car was twenty feet from the camera.

“Can you zoom in on the driver?”

The man selected that portion of the image and zoomed. The picture was heavily pixellated, but even before the software took steps to clean it up, Milton had identified the man behind the wheel.

“Thank you.”

Milton left Izzy to speak to the administrator and waited for her outside. It was a warm and damp night. The palm trees that fringed the lot rustled in the breeze. A storm coming in, perhaps? He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. He had already started to plan what he was going to have to do. The process had begun subconsciously, but, now that he was alone and quiet, he opened himself up to it. There were few options open to him. Retaliation was all he had.

Izzy followed him outside.

“We need to speak to the police, right?”

“Yes,” Milton said. “But I’m not sure how helpful it’ll be.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Two reasons. They’re involved. They arrested you and the crew, no reason for them to do that unless they wanted to cause you disruption. And why would they want to do that? You’re not doing anything wrong. No. The only person who stands to benefit from it is Babineaux. If you ask me, he’s bought them off. They won’t help.”

“And?”

“The second reason’s worse. The guy who came to kill me this morning? His name is Avi Bachman. He worked for the Mossad. Have you heard of them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I think so.”

“Israeli intelligence. Very dangerous. Very ruthless.”

She was confused. “What do they have to do with it?”

“Them? Probably nothing. But Bachman was driving the car that took your brother away.”

Milton took Izzy to the Comfort Inn, delivering her right to the door of the room next to the one where her parents were staying. He told her not to leave the room. When she paused at the door, a pained expression on her face, he smiled at her with all the reassurance he could muster.

“What are we going to do, John?”

“We’re not going to do anything. I am. I’m going to get him back.”

“How? You don’t even know where he is.”

“I’ll find out. I’ll get him, Izzy. I promise.”

“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do that. If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it.”

She looked at him, started to say something, then changed her mind. “But what do I tell them?” she said, gesturing at her parents’ room.

“I wouldn’t tell them anything yet. There’s no sense in worrying them.”

“How long can I keep that up for? They’ve got a right to know.”

“Yes, they do. But if I can get him back before they know he’s gone, isn’t that better for them? They think he’s in rehab. They don’t expect to hear from him. No harm done. Just give me two days.”

He took out his cellphone in the lobby and called Ziggy Penn.

“Where are you?”

“Outside Dubois’s house.”

“I need you.”

“Not now. I’m getting some very juicy stuff.”

“Now, Ziggy.”

“What is it?”

“We’ve got work to do.”

“More important than this?”

“Much more.”

Chapter Forty-Two

They met at the Café du Monde again. Ziggy hobbled across the open space, picking a route between the tables, still busy despite the late hour. He sat down opposite Milton and took the coffee that was waiting for him. Milton banished his distractions and scanned left and right, his eyes adjusting to the glare of the floodlights and the pools of darkness between them. Decatur Street buzzed with life, traffic and pedestrians passing by, but he saw nothing that gave him a reason for concern.

“You sure this is important?” Ziggy started. “I’ve got some great stuff on our friend.”

“That doesn’t matter right now.”

“So?”

“It’s Alexander Bartholomew.”

“Izzy’s brother?”

He nodded. “The man who saved your life.”

“You don’t need to remind me. What?”

“He’s in a lot of trouble.”

A waiter hustled alongside and asked if they wanted anything to eat. Milton dismissed him brusquely and waited until he was out of earshot.

“What trouble?” Ziggy asked.

“Babineaux and Dubois are deeper into this than I thought. I should’ve anticipated it, the money at stake here, what they might do. I’ve underestimated them.”

“Tell me what the problem is, Milton.”

“They’ve hired someone I used to know, a long time ago.”

“What kind of someone? Someone like you?”

“Yes,” Milton said. “Just like me.”

“How do you know?”

“He tried to kill me this morning.”

Ziggy gaped. “Fuck, Milton.”

“Just dumb luck that he didn’t.”

“And Bartholomew?”

“Not so lucky. He was in rehab. I should’ve gone and gotten him, taken him somewhere else, him and his family, all of them, somewhere away from the city. This man checked him out. He’s using him to make Izzy drop the case. It won’t matter what happens. He’ll kill him. He’s not in the business of leaving people around who can identify him. If we don’t help him, he’s dead. That’s as near to a sure thing as there is.”

Ziggy stared at him. He looked fearful.

“He’s dangerous, Ziggy, but so am I. And I know he’s here now.”

Ziggy gave a quick nod. “Okay. I get it. What do I need to know?”

Milton explained about Bachman, about the Mossad, about the operation where he had worked with him, about what had happened at the clinic that day. He gave him everything he knew which, he realised as he relayed it, was not very much at all. Ziggy listened intently, tapping details into his phone.

“What do you need?”

“Two things,” Milton said. “First, I need as much as you can find about Bachman. He was supposed to be dead. Obviously, he isn’t. Anything on what might have happened to him. I don’t like going into something blind, and that’s what I feel like. You need to give me some coverage on him.”

“I can try. The second thing?”

“We’re on the back foot. I don’t like that, either, not at all. We need to do something to put that right.”

“You want to retaliate?”

“I want some leverage.”

Milton drove down to the river, got out of the car, and rested against the hood. He looked down at the wide, sluggish Mississippi. A fisherman cast his line into the brown water as a gargantuan light-spangled oil tanker drifted by. The air was heavy with the effluent and pollutants sprayed out of bilge tanks, and it was quiet save for the susurration of traffic passing over a nearby bridge and the call of gulls disgusted by the fetid carrion that was all the river had to offer them.

Ziggy had stayed at the table for another five minutes. He explained that he had taken delivery of a piece of equipment that allowed him to eavesdrop on both sides of Dubois’s cellphone conversations, and that he was building up a collection of evidence that would expose the scale and scope of the conspiracy.

Milton had hardly heard a word of it.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Avi Bachman.

He closed his eyes.

Bachman.

Jesus. What had he gotten himself into?

An email buzzed on his cellphone. Milton opened it. It was from Ziggy. It was a précis of Bachman’s MI5 file. He had no idea how Ziggy could possibly have obtained it so quickly and, seemingly, so easily. But he had learnt long ago that some things were best not enquired into too deeply.

He opened the email and read.

Bachman had been well known to MI5. Information on his early life had always been sketchy, but it was believed that he was born in the early 1970s in Paris to a French mother and an Israeli father. After spending his early years in Paris, he had moved to the United States. His father, a diplomat, had died after driving his car into a culvert. His mother had taken that as badly as might be expected and had developed a reliance on prescription tranquillisers. One day she took too many and the young Avi found her on her bed, dead. Milton wasn’t one for over-analysis, but, even to his jaded mind, it was pretty straightforward to see that an early experience of death had become a preoccupation that would stay with Bachman through the whole of his life.

Bachman was shipped to his grandparents in Jerusalem and, after finishing school, he was enlisted into the IDF and assigned to the Combat Engineering Corps. There was a period of service in the West Bank. Combat experience included an ambush on two Hezbollah vehicles during which eight militants were killed. His file recorded a commendation from his CO and the suggestion that he showed great promise.

Information was thin after that. He had been recruited by the Mossad after the end of his military service and had submerged into deep cover. It was known that he was sent to the London School of Economics as part of his preparation for service, operating under non-official cover, meaning that he would have had no diplomatic immunity had anything gone amiss. Nothing had, the testament to his efficiency being that the spooks only found out about the work that he had been doing once he had been reassigned and, even then, they didn’t know precisely what it was.

He had been assigned to the Mossad’s Kidon unit some time after his return to Israel. Kidon was a Mossad within the Mossad, an elite subset of forty-eight men and women whose main function was to eliminate the plentiful threats to the state. The unit was based in the Negev desert, scrupulously trained with all manner of weapons and in espionage techniques, self-defence and vehicle handling, and was deployed only when a target’s elimination had been signed off by the prime minister himself.

It was rumoured that Bachman had been a Kidon combatant in sub-Saharan Africa, and hacks on the CIA and FBI had revealed that he had served in an official liaison capacity with those organisations. He was reputed to have played a leading role in the assassination of Fawzi Mustapha Assi, a Hezbollah operative who was procuring weapons technology in the United States. There were unconfirmed reports that he had been active in Syria, Azerbaijan, North Africa, and Iran. He was credited with the execution of al-Qaeda confederates responsible for the 1998 United States embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania. He was also suspected of being behind the sniping of two Iranian agents in South Africa. MI5 was certain that he had led the two-man team who had shot Gerald Bull, the ballistics expert who had offered to build a super-gun for Saddam. And there were rumours that he had led the expedition to kill Mahmoud Al-Mabhouh in Dubai.

Milton knew the report was just the tip of the iceberg. These things could only ever be educated guesses. There would be a file on him, too, somewhere in the Mossad’s files, and he knew it would contain the same suppositions, estimations, and hunches. The truth, as with Bachman, was much bloodier.

He and Bachman were cut from the same cloth.

And that was a worrying thought.

Their paths had crossed just the one time.

Milton didn’t need the file to remember that.

It was in 2010. The Iranians had been close to developing a workable nuclear bomb. In exchange for Israel postponing a military attack on Iran, the CIA and MI6 worked with the Mossad to sabotage Tehran’s program. GCHQ had introduced the Stuxnet virus into thirty thousand Iranian computers in Iran’s nuclear reactors. That, alone, was not enough to deter the Israelis and, in addition, a joint MI6, CIA and Mossad operation was responsible for the explosions at a factory in the Zagros Mountains. The factory manufactured Iran’s Shihab missiles, and the deaths of eighteen technicians retarded its abilities by a year. The subsequent assassination of five scientists delayed the fundamentalist bomb by another year.

Milton and another Group Fifteen agent had been the British contingent.

Avi Bachman had represented the Mossad.

Milton remembered him very well. He had a brash personality that Milton found a little grating, confident to the point of arrogance, but he could certainly walk the walk. He was lethal in Krav Maga, the mongrel martial art that fused jiu-jitsu, boxing, savate, Muay Thai, Wing Chun, and wrestling. The Mossad taught it to all its recruits, and, as Bachman had rather vaingloriously boasted as they shared a drink in Cairo before the operation was green-lit, he was the best proponent in Kidon, which meant, if it were true, that he was one of the most dangerous men that Milton had ever met.

The Iranian job had been in 2010, and Milton never heard from Bachman again. The file reported that he reached the rank of sgan aluf, or lieutenant colonel, before the operation that led to the reports of his death. Premature reports, as Milton now knew. The file suggested that he had been killed when a car bomb that he was preparing had detonated. Milton could only speculate what had happened, but he was confident of one thing: Bachman had wanted out of the Mossad, just as he had wanted out of Group Fifteen, but his duplicity had been more successful in achieving that than Milton’s honesty.

There was nothing in the file that suggested the identity of his accomplice.

He deleted the email and called Isadora.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes. We’re fine.”

“Stay in the hotel, please.”

“You said. I will.”

“Don’t answer the door to anyone.”

“You told me that already. I won’t.” There was a pause, and Milton saw a flash of flame from the horizon, a distant refinery venting gas.

“Are you okay?”

“Worried.”

“You’re going to have to trust me.”

“I…I do, Milton. I do trust you.”

“Goodnight, Izzy.”

“Goodnight.”

The flames belched again as Milton ended the call, scrolled through his contacts, and called Ziggy.

“You get it?”

“I did. Thanks.”

“He sounds serious.”

“He is.”

“And you still want to go through with this?”

“We haven’t got another card to play. It’s this or give up, and I’m not giving up.”

“All right. I’m game if you are. You’re the one taking the bigger risk.”

That was the truth. “Where’s our friend?”

“At home. I’m a block away.”

“You ready?”

“Five minutes to set up my gear and I’m good. Won’t be difficult.”

Milton pushed himself off of the body of the car as the spurt of flame lit up the darkened horizon for a third time. “I’ll call you when I’m there.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Ziggy had tailed Joel Babineaux from the offices of Babineaux Properties all the way to his mansion in the Garden District. He had carried on after Babineaux had turned off the street. The Bentley had nosed up against the wrought-iron gates, waiting for them to open. But Ziggy had continued on, only turning when it was safe to do so and driving back for a second, more careful, look. The car had driven down the drive and pulled up next to the front door. Ziggy drove on for another half block and parked. The neighbourhood was upscale, and the other houses around and about were all grand and obviously extremely, excessively expensive. Jackson Dubois’s place had been nice, but Babineaux’s place was a cut above.

Ziggy reached across to the passenger seat and collected his MacBook. He had stopped at Radio Shack for the things that he thought he might need, and one of his purchases had been a 29dBi 5GHz parabolic dish antenna. He connected it to the laptop. The dish wasn’t as big or powerful as the one he used in Tokyo, but he didn’t need it to be. He logged on, scanning the available Wi-Fi frequencies until he found the signal that was emanating from the house, and piggybacked onto it. It took thirty seconds to crack the password. He had guessed, correctly, that a house like Babineaux’s would have plenty of systems that were controlled by computer. Lighting, entertainment, communications, security. Now they would all be accessible to him. His fingers flashed across the keyboard, stripping away protections until he had isolated the systems that he needed.

He took out his phone, propped it on the dash, activated the speaker, and called Milton.

“I’m ready,” he said.

Milton had plugged in the phone’s headphones. There was a small microphone on the cable, next to his throat, and he was able to talk to Ziggy while he kept his hands free. He had the P226 holstered beneath his left arm and the LUCIE night vision goggles rested against his forehead.

The street was quiet in both directions.

Time to move.

“Watcher, Milton. Do you copy?”

“Milton, Watcher. Affirmative. Where are you?”

“Next to the wall.” It was ten feet tall and topped with metal spikes. There was a beautiful old oak alongside, with a thick bough that reached out at the same level as the wall. “What do I need to know?”

There was a pause, and the sound of keys being tapped. “Motion sensors in the grounds. Switching them off…now.”

“Copy that.” Milton climbed the tree, his hands fixing around the bough of the oak, and then hauled himself up and onto it, staying close to the trunk where the bough was strongest. He balanced carefully and, reaching up to his head, he brought the night vision goggles down and settled them over his eyes. The surroundings were washed with ghostly green. A row of security lights burned bright, their glow a harsh white against the subdued emerald. Fifty feet away, he saw a security camera atop a metal pole.

“Watcher, Milton. I’ve got security lights to the east and a camera.”

“Hold on, Milton, I’m on it.”

Milton patted the comforting shape of the Sig, then watched the lights wink out all at the same time.

“Lights off?”

“Yes,” Milton said.

“Camera’s dead, too. You’re clear to move.”

“Eyes open, Watcher.”

“You got it. Good luck.”

Milton shuffled ahead on the bough, making sure it was sturdy enough to bear his weight. He scanned ahead again. This part of the grounds had been dedicated to a garden of ornamental grasses. There were Mexican feather grass, purple fountain grass, lavender, Oriental fountain grass, and miscanthus. Milton hopped across the short space between the bough and the top of the wall. It had been fitted with spikes farther along its length and, here, broken glass had been set in the mortar to ward against those who might try to scale it. Milton’s boots dealt with that without bother. He lowered himself to a crouch and, looking down to make sure that the spot he had chosen to jump into was clear, he hopped off the wall. He landed behind a wide planting of hibiscus, the dinner-plate-sized flowers dangling from plants that reached over his head. He stepped through the plants, parted a border of Indian pinks and crested iris, and, after checking that the thirty feet of lawn was clear in both directions, sprinted to a screen of tropical bamboo.

The house was on the other side of the screen, separated by a series of raised beds and a geometrical, oblong mirror pool. Milton parted the bamboo, surveilled the gardens ahead again, and waited to move.

Joel Babineaux wasn’t sure what it was that had awoken him. His alarm was usually set for five, but he always woke ten minutes before. He had disciplined himself to do that, and it was his usual habit to have showered and changed into his gym gear before the alarm sounded. This was earlier, and that was unusual for him. He stretched out across the king-sized bed, feeling the rich cotton against the arch of his left foot, the toes, and the stump of his right leg.

He checked the clock on the table next to him, closed his eyes again, and tried to work out what it was that had awakened him. He could feel the weight of his wife next to him, the warmth from her body radiating across the inches between them, but he reached out an arm and ran his fingertips along the contour of her hip. She was still deep in sleep. Whatever it was, it wasn’t her. He strained his ears, but he could hear nothing out of place. He heard the gentle bubbling from the large aquarium on the landing outside the bedroom, the tick of a pipe, but nothing else.

He wondered whether he should try to get back to sleep, but he knew that would be a waste of time. Once his mind was awake, that was it. He was a lark, not an owl, and he had always done his best thinking in the mornings. Might as well get up and get started. He levered himself up with his elbow and slid his leg out from underneath the covers and onto the floor. He felt the sisal rug between his toes, reached his foot out for his prosthesis, dragged it closer and grabbed it with his hand. He pulled a stocking over his stump and strapped on the prosthesis, pressing the Velcro tabs together, and then stood. His balance took a moment to adjust, like it always did, even though it had been years since he had started to use the prosthesis. He hobbled naked to the bathroom to take a leak.

He started to think about what needed to be done today. The first thing, the main thing, the thing that was holding up everything else, was the problem with access to the development. He had to get that sorted out, once and for all. He thought of Isadora Bartholomew. She was something else, that much was for sure. He had watched her do her thing in the court — brimming with fire and passion, dismissive of the points made by his million-dollar lawyers, and almost insolent to the judge when she had the temerity to question the precedent upon which she was relying — and he had concluded that she was an extremely attractive woman. He meant intellectually, in terms of her character, although there was no question that she was physically attractive, too. Smart, confident, sassy, her eyes full of life, an edge to her that said that she would be a demon in bed. He wondered whether he might make a call on her when this was all settled. She might take some persuasion, for sure. She wouldn’t initially be disposed to him after what he was going to do to her precious houses. But Babineaux was a persuasive man, especially when there was something that he wanted.

The bathroom was lit by the light of the moon. He pissed and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He was in great shape. Six foot two, a linebacker’s build, the muscle on his arms, shoulders and left leg making up for the obscene absence of his right. No fat on him anywhere. A tattoo on his right biceps from his time in the Rangers. Dubois had the same tattoo, on the same arm. They’d had them done together by the same guy while they were at Fort Benning. He worked out every day between six and eight, a punishing routine administered by an acquaintance who had served with him before getting out and setting up as a trainer. Babineaux was fifty this year, but he knew that he had the body of someone fifteen years younger.

He looked down at the stump and the carbon-fibre-reinforced artificial leg that had cost him two hundred grand to have built to his exacting specifications, and he was at ease about that, too. The loss of his leg had been a trauma, and then a challenge, and then a problem that he had swept aside like every other problem that was placed in his path. Everything since had been as nothing. Pierce Morgan, Isadora Bartholomew, the man who was protecting her, they were all of no consequence to him. They would step out of his way or they would be destroyed.

He walked out of the bathroom and into his dressing room, flicking the light switch for the soft light that he had on the table at the other end of the room. It didn’t come on. He tried the switch again and still got nothing. The bulb must have gone. He went over to the window and opened the blind. It was still dark outside, the first faint tracings of the dawn on the horizon. He stood there for a long moment, staring out at the point where the perfect blacks became indigos, then lighter purples, soon to transition to the blues and pastels that would herald the sun. He loved the South. He had always lived here, and he always would. He loved this house, the gardens. He even loved the city itself, that seething, swirling pit of corruption and inequity.

He loved N’Awlins because he had mastered it.

He put on the loose-fitting trousers and sweatshirt he wore when he was working out and went downstairs. He paused in the hallway, realising that the lights were all off down here, too. He frowned, wondering whether it could be something as banal as a power cut, and realised that he had seen the street lights and the lights on in the adjoining houses when he looked out of the window.

He realised then, too late, that he was in big trouble.

Babineaux heard the footsteps coming behind him, and, pivoting quickly, saw the man in the night vision goggles, the eerie green glow from the eyepieces leaking out into the darkness from which he had melted. The man had his arm up, leading with a silenced Sig Sauer P226 that was held in a steady and confident grip. The man’s face was obscured by the goggles, but Babineaux could see the stern horizontal line of his lips and the finger held vertically against them.

“Shush.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Joel Babineaux was in the trunk of his Bentley. His hands were fastened behind his back with cable ties, and electrical cord had been looped around his knees and knotted until it was secure. He was hog-tied, good and proper, and helpless. The man who tied him was obviously a professional. He had been calm, yet firm, and Babineaux had quickly concluded there was no profit in trying to see whether he would be prepared to use his weapon. There was a flintiness in his blue eyes that made it very clear that he was.

He didn’t know how long he had been in the trunk, but he had listened hard, detecting the change from the busy urban hum of the city to the noise of faster traffic on the highway. He guessed that they were headed west.

He tried not to panic. It was unsettling, but when he addressed it rationally, this could only really be for one purpose. Pierce Morgan was fighting back. He had pushed all his chips into the middle. He wouldn’t come to harm. He owned Pierce’s company lock, stock and barrel. If he wanted it back, he would have to deal with him.

And then, when that was done, he would retaliate.

The car swung to the left, bumped and bounced over a railroad track, and then, after five minutes of travel along a much quieter road, it slowed and pulled over.

Babineaux composed himself.

The trunk opened. The man was standing there.

Milton.

“Out.”

“I can’t,” he said. “My leg.”

Milton reached down, grabbed him beneath the shoulders and hauled him out.

Babineaux looked around. They were in the middle of nowhere, a minor road that cut right down the middle of a wide expanse of carpet-grass. He saw the belched flames from a refinery in the distance and, closer, he could hear the hum from the interstate. He turned his head to the sound and saw a raised embankment and metal barriers. He saw the glow of lights, the cars hidden behind the ironwork, the yellows and whites and reds. He turned back. There were two other cars parked on the side of the road: a Toyota Corolla and a Hyundai Sonata. The man took him by the arm and led him away from the Bentley.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re changing cars.”

“Why?”

“Because your car is very nice, Mr. Babineaux, but it’s also rather conspicuous. I expect people will already be looking for you. And I’d rather we didn’t attract attention.”

Milton pulled him again, and he hobbled to the Hyundai. The trunk was open.

“So, what is this,” he said, forcing some steel into his voice. “You’re kidnapping me?”

“Just going to hold you for a little while.”

“And you know who I am?”

“Yes, Mr. Babineaux. We met, didn’t we? I know you.”

“So you know how stupid something like this is!”

Milton paused and released his arm. The sudden outburst, the indignation, seemed to register with him. Milton turned. His face was impassive. Frightening.

“You abducted someone I know. A friend.”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re just wasting your time. You want some property in the Lower Nine and, maybe, most of the time, that kind of thing works for you. But I’m here to tell you, Mr. Babineaux, that bullies don’t prosper. I’m involved now. And if you think you have a monopoly on those kinds of tricks, you don’t. So now you’re going to have to put up with a little discomfort until the things that you’ve done have been put right.”

“We can talk about this—”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Get in the car.”

“Please. Come on—”

“You either get in the trunk, or I put you in. Your choice.”

Babineaux looked at the man’s face again. He saw no pity there. No mercy. No pliability, no weakness, nothing that he could exploit. He paused, tottered a little on his prosthetic, his eyes going down to the man’s belt and the butt of the pistol that had been jammed there.

He walked to the Hyundai. He saw the silhouette of another person in the front of the car, the shape of his head outlined by the electric blue light of the device that was in his lap. The light died and the door opened. The man who stepped out was physically unimpressive, out of shape and sweating in the heat.

“Ready?” he asked the man.

“Do it. Over there.”

Babineaux watched with dawning horror as the second man went to the Bentley and slid into the front seat. He started the engine, put it into drive, and drove it a short distance down the road to where the gradient that led down into the bayou was steepest.

“No,” Babineaux said to the first man. “That’s a very expensive car.”

The second man stopped the car when it was on the slope, stepped out, and then released the brake. The Bentley rolled down the incline and into the thick, foul-smelling waters below. Babineaux couldn’t see if the water was deep enough to cover it since the car was invisible from the road.

“What are you doing!”

“I’m just getting started, Mr. Babineaux.”

He could see that there was no point in negotiating with them. When bargaining failed, there was always the direct appeal to a man’s venality. “How much would it take for you to drive me back to town?”

“I’m not for sale.”

“You know that money wouldn’t be an object? A million bucks? Come on. Two million?”

The man grabbed him with both hands and slammed him against the back of the car, his back jackknifing over the lip of the open trunk. He leant in close and, when he spoke, his voice was low and menacing. “You need to learn something — you can’t buy everything you want. You started this. You upped the stakes. That has consequences. Now you’re going to help me put it right.”

The man pushed down so that Babineaux’s shoulders were in the trunk and then shoved his legs in after him.

“Keep quiet. If you start making noise, I’ll put a rag in your mouth.”

The lid of the trunk slammed shut, and Babineaux was plunged into darkness again.

Outside, he heard muffled voices.

The first man, “Did you call him?”

The second man, “It’s done.”

“All set?”

“Yes. You and Bachman.”

A door slammed, the engine started, and Joel Babineaux was jostled and bumped as the car moved away.

Chapter Forty-Five

Claude Boon was there first. It was a cheap neighbourhood bar, plenty of wear and tear, the kind of place working men came at the end of the day to drink away their troubles. It was early evening and there were already eight other drinkers in the bar. The pace was slow, and Boon leaned back on the bentwood stool and observed. His eyes flicked up to the old TV above the bar. He listened as the waitress chatted with the other drinkers. But, most of the time, he eyed the door and waited for Milton.

He had been contacted by Peacock this morning. The principal, this guy Babineaux, had been abducted from his home some time in the night. It was pretty audacious. The place was wired up with the best security that money could buy, some kind of Fort Knox. And yet, from what Peacock was saying, whoever had taken him had walked right in and driven out again in the guy’s own car.

Whoever had taken him? What was he thinking? He knew who it was.

It was Milton.

A male caller had contacted Babineaux’s wife first thing this morning and had explained what had happened. She had spoken with Dubois, Dubois had called Detective Peacock, and Peacock had called him. Boon had driven in from the swamp to a meeting of the three of them, down by the river. Dubois had given Boon another blast of attitude, suggesting that what had happened was because of his tactics, and he had thought about leaving them to get on with things. Cleaning up would be simple enough. Put a bullet in Bartholomew’s head, throw the body to the gators, and get out of town. There was a moment, Dubois giving him attitude, when he had seriously considered it. But then he thought of the money and his promise to Lila. And he thought of Milton, too.

He liked a challenge.

And so he had swallowed the attitude and stuck around. He said he would meet Milton and straighten things out.

And here he was.

He didn’t have long to wait.

Milton came inside on the stroke of six. He saw Boon, walked across, and took the stool next to him.

“Fuck,” Boon said. “John Milton. Look at you. Fuck.”

“Hello, Bachman.”

The use of his old name gave him pause, but he didn’t correct him. “Long time.”

“Years.”

“Iran.”

Boon nodded. “That was a hell of a job. Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Me, neither. You do what we do, longevity isn’t something you expect.”

“Suppose we both got lucky. What are you having?”

Milton shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“What is that? A lifestyle choice?”

“Something like that.”

Boon looked at him and saw the eyes of a drunk. “No way. You got a problem with it? You serious?”

Milton paused and didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Boon could see it.

He laughed. “That’s good. How long?”

“Long enough.”

“Why? Drinking to get away from it all? The memories? Nightmares.”

“You’re not my counsellor, Bachman.”

“If it’s any consolation, I felt the same after the first few. I got over it, though.”

“Good for you, Bachman.”

Boon ordered a bottle of beer. The bartender brought it over and he took a sip, assessing Milton as he did. He hadn’t changed much. A little more ragged around the edges, the expensive clothes he had worn before were replaced by cheap department store jeans and an unironed shirt. Grime beneath his nails. Hair that hadn’t been cut professionally for a while. He still radiated the same air of extreme competence that Boon remembered.

“You got out, then?” Boon said.

“Eventually.”

“How’d they take that?”

“About as well as you’d expect.”

“Yeah. I know that feeling. I thought about leaving, once or twice, but they would have put a bullet in my head.”

“But you’re still out.”

“Didn’t give them a choice in the end.”

“We heard about that. Big explosion.”

“Wasn’t what it seemed.”

“Clearly. What happened after that?”

“I actually tried to go straight.” He laughed at the thought of it. “Funny, right? I tried to do something else. But I still thought about it. What I did. The men and women I killed.”

“Then stop taking people out.”

He shrugged. “It’s not that, Milton. I’m not complaining. It doesn’t bother me. I do what I do best. I take people out. I enjoy the work. And I don’t know how to do anything else.” Milton shifted, a little uncomfortably, and Boon took another sip of his beer. “And this thing we do,” he continued, “the skills we have, they’re not what you’d call transferable. I can’t, you know, take what I’m good at and waltz into another job. Can you imagine working in an office? How’s that gonna play, Milton?”

“It’s not the thing we do, Bachman. Speak for yourself. I don’t know anything else, either, but that doesn’t mean I still do it. I’m out. I’ve been out for months.”

He chuckled. “So, what are you saying, you want a normal life? A woman, kids, a house? Trips to the beach? Take the kids to ballgames?”

“No. I’m not a fool. We don’t get to have those things.”

“So what is it now, then? You come down to this fucking shit-hole of a town, help out hard-luck cases, build houses for people who are too lazy to pick themselves up? What? You saying you’ve turned into some kind of saint?”

Milton laughed bitterly. “I’m not a saint.”

“What is it, then? Redemption? Atonement?”

“I can’t get redeemed, Bachman. You can’t get redeemed. We can’t make up for the things that we’ve done. But maybe I can start paying back, even if it’s only a little. Maybe I can do that.”

Milton took out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it.

“Look at the two of us,” Boon said. “Sitting in a bar, shooting the breeze as if we’re best buddies, haven’t seen each other for years, catching up on old times. What a fucking joke, right? What a fucking joke.”

Milton pushed the pack across the bar. But Boon rejected it, holding up a hand.

“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry about before. The motel. Nothing personal.”

“Just business?”

“Exactly. Just business.”

Milton had the dead-eyed, ice-blue stare that Boon remembered from before. “People who come to take me out don’t usually have the liberty to sit next to me, have a drink, pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“Why’s that? They’re all dead?”

“Exactly.”

Boon raised his glass in a mock salute. “Same here.”

Milton took a deep drag on the cigarette, the smoke going all the way down into his lungs. He angled his head and blew it out, up to the ceiling. He balanced the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. We’re not friends. We never were friends, and we never will be. The only reason you’re still breathing the same air as me is because you’ve got Alexander Bartholomew.”

“I know. And the only reason you’re still standing is because you’ve got Babineaux.”

“No,” Milton said. “There’s a difference. You had your shot and you missed. I won’t miss when it’s your turn to go.”

Boon pushed out a grin, bravado, but Milton was as cold as steel. Most people would’ve shown some nerves, just a little, but Milton was sitting there with his hands folded on the bar as if they were shooting the breeze about the Saints’ chances at the weekend. “Let’s not get into a dick-waving contest,” he said. “You’re tough, I know that. I know your reputation. I know the way you look at people like that, your eyes all cold. I know how that makes people feel. But I’m not just somebody, Milton.”

“I know.”

“And we both have something the other wants. What do you say we swap them? I’ll give you the junkie, you give me Babineaux.”

“And then what?”

“We find another way to fix it. This situation with the houses you’re helping them build, I’m told that they’re in the way of a development. Maybe, you and me, maybe we can help get that squared away.”

“So we’re mediators now? Maybe it can’t get sorted. What then? You take another shot at me?”

“Wouldn’t necessarily be you next time.”

It was an obvious threat, and Boon could see that it registered. Milton unfolded his arms and, with slow deliberation, laid his right hand on the bar. “Listen to me, Avi. If anything happens to her or to her family, all bets are off. I’ll kill you, then I’ll kill Dubois, then I’ll kill Babineaux. You know that’s not a bluff.”

Boon eyed him. “Isadora Bartholomew will be crushed in the end. We both know it. It might take a few months and a few million dollars, but doesn’t it make more sense for that money to go straight to her rather than making rich lawyers even richer?”

Milton nodded. “Maybe we can agree on that.”

“They’ll negotiate?”

Milton spoke calmly. “How’s this, I’ll talk to Babineaux and make him realise that it’s going to take a lot more money than he’s offering. If he agrees, I’ll talk to the charity. If I can get them to agree, we can move on to what comes next. You give me the kid, I give you him.”

“And I’ll speak to my side. Make them see sense. That might work.”

Milton stood. “We good?”

Boon reached out and took Milton’s wrist, anchoring it. “Hold on. We do what we gotta do, right? I’ve been retained by Babineaux. I only get work if people know I can do what I tell them I can do. Maybe this time, the problem gets solved another way, no need to spill blood over it. But, let me tell you something, Milton, and this is no word of a lie. If we can’t get this sorted, if we can’t get them to agree on a price, then, odds are, we go back to where we were before. Now that we’ve had this nice chat, this chance to reminisce, I can’t say that I’m gonna get any pleasure from taking you out. But, Milton, don’t mistake me, if it’s between you and my reputation, I’m taking you out.”

Milton nodded his understanding. “That cuts both ways. Like I said, you only get one shot at me. The way I see it now, you are owed. If this isn’t settled, and I have to come after you — you, Babineaux, and anyone else who gets in my way — you are done for. I don’t want any more blood on my conscience, but you need to know that I’ve killed since I left the service. And I’ll kill again if you make me. Between you and me, Bachman, I’ve tried to bury the monster so deep that I could never find it again. But I can’t. It’s there, right beneath the surface. Ready.” He held his eye and clicked his fingers. “That’s all it takes to switch all that back on again. Now — take your hand off my arm before I break your wrist.”

Boon left it there for a moment and then lifted it clear.

“We both understand each other, then.”

“We do.”

“Maybe it comes to that, maybe it doesn’t.”

“Or maybe we’ll never see each other again.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, neither of them prepared to blink first. Then Boon took out his wallet and left a ten on the bar, standing his empty bottle over one corner of the note. He stood, gave Milton a nod of his head, and left the bar.

Chapter Forty-Six

The man who Milton had identified as Avi Bachman was driving a scruffy Ford, dust slathered around the wheel arches. Ziggy watched him from his own car parked a hundred yards away on the opposite side of the road. Bachman paused for five minutes, long enough for Milton to come out of the bar and get into his Corolla and drive away. Bachman stepped outside then, with a small handheld device in his hand. Ziggy recognised it. He was checking for the traces of a signal that would give away the presence of a tracker. When he was satisfied that the car was clean, he went back inside and pulled away.

Ziggy waited for thirty seconds and then followed.

The road was quiet and Ziggy drove a little closer to Bachman’s car. He was driving slowly and carefully.

Ziggy had been busy. Milton had taken a laptop from Babineaux’s house. It had reasonably robust encryption, but that didn’t delay him for very long. Once he was past the protection, he had extracted all of the data and then analysed it. Babineaux was no fool. There were no smoking guns to be found, but there were plenty of clues to follow to secondary sources of information. His lawyer. His accountant. Neither with particularly secure servers. Once he was done, he could demonstrate clear links between Babineaux Properties and the mayor’s office, including instructions to a bank in the Caymans to transfer a series of large payments to an account that he was confident he would be able to link to the mayor’s wife. That evidence had been collected in just a few hours. There were over ninety gigabytes of emails and other data for him to investigate. He was sure that, with a little extra time, he would be able to tie Babineaux up in a bow and deliver him to Izzy.

His phone vibrated. He took the call on the speaker.

“You got him?” Milton asked.

“I got him.”

“Stay back. He’s very careful.”

“Don’t worry, Milton.”

“And dangerous.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Stay on the line.”

He reached down and powered up the StingRay. It was a rectangular box, twenty inches wide, six inches high and six inches deep. The fascia was furnished with a power switch, DC input and a number of jacks for TX, RX, DF, and GPS antennas. The box was an IMSI catcher. Every device that communicated with a cell tower — mobile phone, smartphone or tablet — had an IMSI chip. The StingRay broadcasted a pilot signal that was stronger than the signals from legitimate cell sites operating in the vicinity. It drew the unique IMSI signals into its grasp and, when it had achieved that, once it was locked onto the signal, then the magic started. The box could siphon data from the phone, block it from working, or, best of all, it could track it.

Ziggy had known about the technology for months. Military police had discovered Russian-made catchers attached to light poles in the Pentagon parking lot. Others had been found near defense contractors and in the parking lots of tech firms in Palo Alto. There were rumours that the FBI attached StingRay-like devices called Dirtboxes to the undersides of helicopters and flew them over foreign embassies in Washington. This one had been sourced from a tech start-up in Brazil. It was small enough to fit inside a suitcase. A hacker who offered illicit goods on the Silk Road, a woman he had IMed and trusted — insofar as trust was a legitimate concept on a site like that — had couriered it to him. It had cost ten grand. Ziggy would normally have added that as an expense, but he was going to let it slide this time. It didn’t seem like the right thing to do in the circumstances and, besides, it was a funky toy. He had wanted one for months.

Ziggy let Bachman drift out again. He was still within range of the unit, he just needed to maintain line of sight. Ziggy was concentrating hard. He felt the prickle of adrenaline and saw that the hairs on the backs of his arms were standing up. This was what he had always imagined fieldwork would be like: clandestine, furtive, on the edge of things. He had long harboured an interest in the history of espionage. He knew about the Nazi radio trucks that had cruised the streets of Paris, looking for signals sent by Resistance agents. Wasn’t this just the same, albeit light years more advanced?

“Has he called out?” Milton said.

“Not yet.”

“Where are you?”

“Kenner. Headed west. Just coming up to the airport.”

“He’s going out of town.”

“I know.”

“If he gets out of the city, it’ll be quieter. You won’t be able to follow him. He’s too good, Ziggy.”

“Jesus, I know that, Milton. Stop telling me my job. We’re not there yet. He’s not going to be able to make me yet.”

“You need to get a fix on him before that happens.”

“That’s on him. I can’t make him call.”

“I know. I’m just on the 610. Ten minutes behind you.”

The junction ahead went to red. Bachman’s car slowed and drew to a stop. Ziggy pulled up four cars back, in the lane directly to Bachman’s left. He could see across the road, through the window of the car directly behind him, and see Bachman. He watched as he reached into his pocket, took out a cellphone and put it to his ear. He held his breath. This was it. Bachman started to talk. Ziggy double-checked that the StingRay was powered, watching the readout as it corralled all of the signals in the area. There were several thousand phones within range. The StingRay would force all of them to connect to it, and then it would store their identifiers.

The lights changed to green and the snake of traffic slithered on.

Bachman removed the phone from his ear and replaced it in his pocket.

Ziggy needed to keep following. As long as he was able to stay unobserved, he would narrow the area that they would subsequently have to quarter and search. Milton had suggested that Bachman would have taken Bartholomew to a quiet area, probably somewhere out of town. He would have chosen somewhere deserted, difficult to find, and, if it was compromised, easier to defend. The quieter it was, the less traffic there would be, and the sooner Bachman would make Ziggy. If that happened, it would be game over. But if he broke off the pursuit too soon, the area that they would be left with would be too broad to search. He had to play it just right.

“Ziggy?”

“He called out. Thirty seconds, no more.”

“That’s enough?”

“Should be.”

“Where are you now?”

Ziggy looked at the satnav stuck to the inside of the windshield.

“Just coming up to the edge of town. He’s going west.”

“Into the bayou.”

“There’s still a lot of traffic. I’m still on him.”

“Be careful. We don’t want to spook him.”

“Affirmative. Where are you?”

“Metairie.”

“Stay back. I’ve got this.”

Ziggy drifted out to a hundred feet behind Bachman. The Ford was doing a steady sixty, careful to stay under the limit, careful not to attract attention. Ziggy started to speculate where he might be headed when he saw the right blinker on Bachman’s car flashing. He indicated, too, following Bachman off the interstate and onto the slip road. The road continued down to a junction. There was no other traffic, just the two of them as Bachman slowed at the stop sign and Ziggy drew in behind him. There were two: one to the northwest, the other to the northeast.

“Ziggy?”

The roads ahead were empty. Ziggy knew he could go no farther. Bachman pulled away and took the first exit. Ziggy followed after him, taking the second exit. The road Bachman had chosen was empty and desolate, a sign up ahead suggesting that it would lead into the swamp around Lake Maurepas.

“Ziggy?”

“I’ve let him go.”

“Where?”

“Junction of the 10 and the 55.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t stop. Keep driving. If he’s made you, he’ll come back. You don’t want to be there if he does.”

“He didn’t make me.”

“Like the Irish didn’t make you?”

Ziggy felt a flash of hot humiliation. “It’s not—”

“You can’t say for sure.” Milton spoke over him. “No chances. Keep driving.”

Ziggy did as he was told. He didn’t know much about Bachman. But if Milton was concerned about what he was capable of doing, that was good enough for him. He looked down at the StingRay. He thought that he had enough data now. Bachman just needed enough time to get back to wherever it was that he was hiding. Ziggy would wait for Milton, then follow Bachman’s route to the northwest and have the StingRay force connections from all compatible devices in the area. Eventually, they would find the identifier of the phone that Bachman had used at the lights. Once they had that, they could triangulate the signal and trace him.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Milton drove as fast as he dared. He knew that Ziggy was careful. And he knew that his experience the last time he had visited New Orleans would, most likely, inure him to the temptation of trying to be a hero. But he also knew that Avi Bachman was a dangerous operator, with a résumé that would match his own for prolificacy. He was smart and savvy, with the kind of instincts that were developed in the brutal crucible of the field, when a mistake would end with a bullet in your head or a knife between the shoulder blades. But Ziggy was proud, too, and Milton had not completely dismissed the possibility that he would try to do something to impress him to make up for his failures from nine years earlier.

He drove a little faster.

He found him parked at the side of the road. He slotted the Corolla behind the Hyundai and stepped out onto the baking asphalt, a denunciation ready on his lips. He had told Ziggy to keep driving. He stalked to the car, but, before he could say anything, Ziggy opened the door and stepped out.

“I found him.”

“What? How?”

“The exits back at the roundabout?”

“Yes. Two of them.”

“This one bends back to the northwest after a mile, and then they run pretty much parallel to each other. There’s a mile, maybe two, between them. I drove on, just put the StingRay onto track, and it picked up his phone.”

He stepped aside and Milton glimpsed into the car. The StingRay was on the passenger seat with an Apple MacBook resting on top of it, the laptop angled so that the screen was easily visible to the driver. The computer was displaying a map. The StingRay had placed a glowing red dot on the map in the countryside between the two roads.

“How accurate is it?”

“Right now? Not very. All it has is the signal strength and the general direction of the ping. It’ll give us a search area of two or three miles in diameter. I need to get more readings. If I can get five or six, the software can draw circles from each point and wherever they intersect will be within one hundred metres of the location.”

“How long will that take?”

“An hour.” He opened the door, collected the computer and rested it on the roof. He traced the local features with his finger. “This road bends around and joins the other one ten miles ahead, here. If we follow that, come back on the other one, we should get what we need.”

“We need to do it now. He’s going to think about moving Alexander soon. I need to attack before he does. Out here will be a lot better than if he takes him back into the city.”

Milton followed Ziggy’s car. He was driving at a steady forty, and Milton watched as he frequently turned his head to the laptop on the seat next to him, occasionally reaching across to, he guessed, tap something on the keyboard that was out of his line of sight.

They followed the road to the north, turned west, then came down on the other side of the area within which Bachman’s cell had been located. They reached the roundabout that led back to the interstate and took the second exit again. They completed the loop for a second time.

Eventually, Ziggy drew over to the side of the road next to a narrow track that disappeared into the swamp.

“I’ve got him,” he said through the open window of the car.

Milton looked into the cabin. Ziggy held the laptop for him to see. The red dot had shifted half a mile closer to them. The satellite image of the terrain revealed the track and, next to the dot, a collection of small buildings.

“You’re sure?”

“That’s where the phone is. I’ve got seven readings. That’s about as certain as I can be.”

Milton nodded. “Well done.”

“What’s next?”

“You go back to the city.”

He looked disappointed. “You don’t want me to stick around. In case—”

“No,” he cut him off. “It’s too dangerous. He’s had a day or two to prepare this. I’m guessing there’ll be tripwires, maybe grenades. And I’ve no idea what hardware he’s got. I can’t worry about you, too.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Stay with Isadora. Bachman might not be working on his own. And I’m not playing them straight. There’s no reason they won’t be doing the same with us.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Milton watched Ziggy’s Hyundai as it disappeared to the southeast. He went to the back of the Corolla, popped the trunk, and took out the equipment that he had retrieved from the buried cache. He took a covert ballistic vest. It was lightweight, made from layers of high-grade Kevlar. It would be effective against knives and most small-calibre, low-velocity rounds. Bigger bullets would still make a mess, but he’d try to make sure that he didn’t get hit by any of those. The weather was baking hot, and he was already sweating. Wearing the vest was going to be a bitch, but it would be worth the discomfort. He pulled it on and fastened the zip. It was a little small, but not uncomfortably so. It would do.

He went back to the trunk and looked down at the weapons arrayed there. He had not expected to have a use for the M16, but now he was pleased to have it. He took it out, ejected and checked the magazine, then pushed four spare mags into his pockets. He took the P226, shoved it into his jeans, and added the MP5, too. None of the weapons were particularly heavy and, since he had no idea what he would face when he reached Bachman’s location, he preferred to have more than he needed rather than less.

He slapped his palm against the magazine of the M16, making sure that it was snugly fitted into the well, and then pulled back the charging handle. He tapped the forward assist assembly to ensure the bolt was closed, released the handle and the bolt slammed home, feeding a round into the chamber and locking into place. The rifle was equipped with a strap, and he put it over his head, arranging the gun so that it was diagonally across his back.

He closed the trunk, took out his cellphone, and called up the map.

Due east.

One mile.

He crunched across the gravel at the side of the road, descended the slope into the scrubby vegetation below, and kept moving.

Claude Boon took a bottle of water from the fridge, unscrewed the cap, and slugged down half of it in hungry gulps. Babineaux was paying him and Lila a lot of money for this, but he was beginning to doubt whether it was worth it. Forced out into this godforsaken swamp, eaten alive by mosquitoes, with John Milton out there to deal with. It took plenty to give Boon cause for concern, but Milton had managed to do it.

Lila came out of the kitchen with a plate of gumbo.

“You hungry, baby?”

“Famished.”

“Got a recipe off the Internet. What do you think?”

She put the bowl on the table, took an empty plastic bottle and filled it at the sink. Boon took a fork, speared a shrimp and put it in his mouth. It was delicious.

“Good?”

“Are you serious? Delicious.”

She leant down and kissed him on the lips.

“How is he?” he asked.

She shrugged. “What you think? Shitting himself.”

“Yeah, well, nothing surprising in that. Most people would be shitting themselves, they find themselves locked up in a place like this.”

“What we gonna do with him?”

“I don’t know, baby. I guess that depends on what happens.”

“What Milton say?”

“He knows I’m serious, not to try to fuck around. He wants Bartholomew, we want Babineaux. We’re gonna do a swap. I’m thinking, when that happens, maybe you’re waiting with that.” He pointed to the AK-47 that was resting against the wall. “Bang, bang, no more Milton, no more Bartholomew.”

Lila grinned. “That could happen.”

Boon got up, collected the AK and brought it back to the table. He pressed the magazine release lever, rotated the magazine forward and pulled it out. Peacock had delivered the gun, one that had been confiscated from the meth cook who used it to defend this cookhouse. The man obviously wasn’t as scrupulous about keeping his weapons maintained as Boon was. He pulled the bolt handle to open the action, checked that the chamber was empty, and then removed the receiver cover. “Fuck’s sake,” he said, brushing out little fragments of dirt. “Look at this. People don’t look after their weapons, they’re asking for trouble. Last thing you want, this jamming when you need it. I’m gonna have to clean it.”

“You do that, baby. There’s more stew on the stove.”

“You gonna eat with me?”

“In a minute.”

“What you doing now?”

“Giving that poor bastard his dinner.”

Milton tracked ahead through a brake of giant cane. He stayed low, the cane brushing his shoulders and the top of his head. The M16 was cradled ready, the muzzle pointing low to the ground, but ready to be brought up and aimed.

He came across a wide expanse of tea-coloured water, so still that a film of vivid green algae had grown over the top of it. Cypress trees stood in the middle of the water, veils of Spanish moss cascading down from their boughs. Heat weighed down on him. Everything was quiet. It was as if the insects and the animals were too woozy in the furnace to muster a chirp or a call. He passed between two trees with an enormous spider web strung between them, a huge spider scuttling away as he swiped the sticky fibres from his face. He heard the whir of a barred owl’s wings as it arrowed through the trees. Away from the swamp, the ground was caked and cracked as he walked across it. The swamp smelled musty and ancient, antediluvian.

The ground was too hard for him to find a trail, but, after a short while, he came across a narrow track that was fringed on both sides by thick vegetation. He knelt down and ran his fingers across the ridged grooves that had been left by a car’s tires when the ground had been wet, later to bake in the heat until they were solid as rock.

The track ran to the east, right to the spot where Bachman’s cellphone had pinged the StingRay.

He stayed in the margins of the undergrowth and followed the track deeper into the swamp. The terrain rose up, the road cresting a ridge and then descending again into a flat-bottomed basin. Milton paused at the top and looked down onto the landscape that was spread out beyond. He saw the dull glitter of sunlight that struck off mirror-flat and duckweed-strewn lakes, areas of bog and fen. He saw stands of cypress and tupelo, huge swathes of salvinia, patches of water lilies, the trees on the banks of the waterways, their roots stretching thirstily down to the brackish water beneath them. In the middle of the basin, at the heart of an enclave from which the vegetation had been cut away, Milton saw a collection of buildings. Two wooden shacks had been arranged in the shape of an L; an outhouse, perhaps a privy, twenty feet away; and two freight crates, their orange paint decaying with rust. The track that Milton had been following snaked between Chinese tallow trees and oaks, ending at the buildings. A car had been parked beneath the spreading boughs of a big oak.

Bachman’s Ford.

Milton arranged the M16 so that he had the plastic forestock cupped in his left hand, the fingers of his right hand near the hand guard for a more accurate shot. He grasped the grip and placed his index finger on the side of the gun, over the trigger guard.

He crouched down and crept on.

Boon took a jar of cold water from the fridge, went back to the table and sat down with it. He refilled his bottle, took a long drag, and then fished his phone from his pocket.

Miracle. The signal from before was still there.

He dialled the number.

“Yes?”

Jackson Dubois sounded tense.

“It’s me.”

“What happened?”

“I spoke to him.”

“Yes — and?”

“And we’re going to exchange. He brings your boss, I bring Bartholomew.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning at six. I’m going to call him with the location. There won’t be anyone there. Just him and us.”

“And then?”

“We get Babineaux, and then we take him out.”

“You’ve got that in hand?”

“You need to relax. You paid me to do it, it’ll get done.”

“You have backup?”

“I do. Don’t worry.”

“No fuck-ups. This has already gone on too long.”

He gritted his teeth. “It’ll be done.”

“You just make sure it is.”

Boon ended the call and put the phone back into his pocket. It was just as well that the pay for the job was significant, because he sure as hell wouldn’t have put up with Dubois’s attitude if they had tried to short-change him.

The ridge descended into the basin down a steep slope. The swamp encroached all around the buildings, and they were saved from being submerged by the slight camber of the plateau upon which they had been constructed. Milton stayed down low, picking his way through the greenbrier that piled down from the overhanging branches. He was halfway down the slope when he saw it: a thin filament of wire, almost transparent against the green of the vegetation, stretched for two metres between the trunks of an oak and a tupelo tree. He stopped, crouched right down, and followed the wire to the left where it had been fastened around the pin of a fragmentation grenade. Disturbing the wire would pull the pin and detonate the grenade. He would have been killed or maimed, and Bachman and whoever else was down in those buildings would know that the perimeter was breached.

Milton cut the wire with his knife, undid the loop that attached it to the pin, and put the grenade in his pocket. It might be useful.

He stopped again when he was thirty feet from the nearest of the two freight containers. A door had been cut into the side, kept shut by a metal bar that slotted through two metal brackets that had been welded to it on either side. It looked like a promising place to start.

Milton put his hand to his face and wiped the sweat from his eyes, the taste of it salty in his mouth.

As he paused there, formulating the best plan of attack, he heard the unmistakable sound of a cry of protest from inside the container. It was muffled, the words indistinguishable, a mixture of anger and desperation.

Milton was sure that the voice belonged to Alexander Bartholomew.

He shuffled ahead again, the rifle ready, and then he saw a flash of motion from the two buildings that made the L over to his left. He stopped dead, edging behind the generous fronds of a sweet acacia, sharing the cover of the leaves with a Carolina wolf spider as big as his fist.

A woman Milton did not recognise came out of the shack. She was slender, attractive, and looked foreign. Arabic, maybe. That was unusual in a place like this. She was carrying a bowl with some sort of stew, jambalaya or gumbo, and a litre bottle of water. She had a pistol in her right hand. Milton watched as she crossed the distance between the shack and the freight crate, then waited as she set the plate and the bottle on the ground and worked the bar out of the brackets. She rested the bar against the crate and opened the door.

She led with the gun, said something — Milton thought it was “food”—and then bent down to collect the stew and the water and disappeared inside with them both.

Milton waited another ten seconds, his attention on the other buildings, but there was no sign of Bachman.

This was too good of an opportunity to miss.

He moved quickly through the shrubs and trees, his attention flicking between the open door and the other buildings. He reached the edge of the clearing and, vulnerable, he checked one final time and then sprinted for the door.

The woman came out of the gloom just as Milton reached the opening. She opened her mouth, ready to yell, her hand with the pistol starting to rise, but Milton was much too quick for her. He reversed the rifle and jabbed the stock into her stomach. She staggered backwards, her hands flapping over her belly. Milton followed inside, his eyes quickly taking in the quickest flashes of the interior: a bedroll on the floor, a dirty plate, a bucket, another man in the corner.

He stepped over to her quickly, pulled back the rifle and jabbed again, the stock crashing against the woman’s forehead. She toppled back, unconscious before she hit the floor.

Milton scanned. Alexander Bartholomew was at the other side of the crate, crouched down, his knees bent, his back pressed up against the wall. There was no one else inside.

“Keep quiet,” Milton said as he looped his hands beneath the woman’s shoulders and dragged her dead weight away from the door and into the deeper darkness. He checked her vitals. She was breathing, but out of it.

“Help me,” Alexander said.

“That’s what I’m here to do.” Milton looked at him. His eyes were wide, eloquent with fear, his cheeks bore two days’ growth, and he was caked with dirt. “How many people have you seen here?”

“Just two. Her”—he pointed to the unconscious woman—“and another guy. She took me out of rehab. She said she was a policewoman.”

“She’s not.”

“No shit!”

“I know the man a little. They’re working for someone your sister has annoyed. They’re trying to use you to make her do something that she doesn’t want to do.”

“The houses?”

“Yes.”

Milton edged back to the door.

“I thought they were going to kill me.”

“You’re going to be fine.”

Boon saw it in the corner of his eye. He was putting the AK back together again when there was a flash of motion, a quick disturbance in his peripheral vision that caused him to turn his head to look at the two storage containers. The door in the container they were using to keep Bartholomew was open, an oblong of darkness against the orange paint and the disfiguring scads of rust, and, as he squinted towards it with the sun spearing into his eyes, he saw a dim shape inside. He stared at it, his hand stretching out for the AK. Medium height, slender. A white male.

Not Lila.

Not Bartholomew, either.

Milton?

He was almost sick with fear.

He collected the AK, slapped the magazine back into its housing, released the bolt and went to the open screen door. He raised the rifle, started to aim it when the figure in the doorway appeared again, facing out this time, staring right at him.

It was Milton.

He raised the AK and fired a six-shot burst.

Milton spun out of the way, leaving the darkness whole once again. The rounds left vapour trails through the humid air and sliced inside, right where he had been standing.

Alexander shrieked.

Milton turned to look. “You hit?”

He shook his head, then jerked a hand in the direction of the woman. Her skull had been caved in. One of the rounds had ricocheted off the metal roof and drilled her from the back of the head all the way to the front. It had made a mess, with blood splashes thrown all around and gouts of brain matter splattered against the wall.

One less tango to worry about.

“Listen to me, Alexander. The man outside is very dangerous, but so am I.”

“But you work in IT!”

Milton ignored that and held up the grenade. “He’s got us penned in, but I’ve got this. It’ll buy us a few seconds. When I say run, you run. Okay? As fast as you can. As soon as you come out of here, there’s a slope that heads up to your right. There’s cover up there, trees and shrubs. Get right into the middle of it, as deep as you can, and keep going.”

Alexander nodded. Milton took him by the shoulder and pressed him back against the wall, next to the door. He slotted himself between him and the opening, took a fresh magazine from his pocket and held it with his left hand, pressed against the forestock of the rifle.

“Bachman!”

No response, just the sounds of the swamp.

“You’ve missed twice now.”

There was another pause, and then an angry voice shouting out, “You got lucky twice.”

“You’re getting old.”

“Maybe I am. But that’s it, Milton. You’re done.”

Milton listened hard, eyes closed, trying to pinpoint the location of the voice.

“Leave now, Bachman. I’ve got Bartholomew. If you’re still out there when I come out, I’ll shoot you.”

“You’re not going anywhere!”

There was an ear-splitting rattle as another fusillade from the AK studded the side of the container.

Milton turned to Alexander and told him, with his eyes, to be ready.

He wiped the sweat from his face, took a breath, and moved.

He swivelled on his right foot until he was in the doorway, scanning out even as the muzzle of Bachman’s AK flashed again, continuing the pivot until his back was against the wall on the other side of the doorway. The bullets screamed at the crate, several pinging against it, a few whistling through the open doorway and crashing, with bright chings, against the metal walls.

He breathed in and out, composing himself. He had to move quickly. Bachman was in the other building, but he would move positions soon.

“Well done, Bachman. You just killed the container.”

“Try it again and see what happens.”

Milton took the grenade, pulled the pin and, his thumb over the spoon, counted to three.

One.

Two.

Three.

He pivoted back into the doorway and lobbed the grenade at where he had seen the flashing of the AK and took cover again.

There was a burst of gunfire, bullets crashing against the metal, the sound of scrabbled footsteps, and then, as Milton’s count reached five, a crump as the grenade detonated.

“Now!”

Milton was first. He hurried out of the doorway, dropping down to one knee.

Alexander stumbled out after him, tripping over the sill, his feet sliding through the dust as he fought to right himself, eventually scrambling into cover on the right.

Milton brought the rifle up, pressing the butt between his breast and the front ball of his shoulder. He tilted his head so that his right eye was looking straight down the top of the barrel and focussed on the front sight, aimed into the blackened walls where the grenade had just exploded, and squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, chewing through the rounds in the magazine. The glass that remained in the frames went opaque before it was blown into the room beyond.

When the M16 ran dry, Milton ejected the empty magazine with his right hand and slapped in the fresh one with his left, firing off another burst as he took quick sideways steps to the fringe of the vegetation and the cover offered inside it. Alexander was just ahead of him, struggling through the monkey flower and milkweed. Milton caught up with him, took him by the elbow, and hauled him along.

He had started to wonder whether Bachman had been caught in the storm of shrapnel from the grenade when the AK clattered again. The leaves rustled and the boughs jerked as the bullets scattered through them. Alexander’s face was rigid with terror, the colour blanched from it.

“Come on,” Milton said. “We need to move.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Alexander crashed through the palmetto, ascending the ridge, his breath heaving out of his chest in ragged sobs. Milton came after him more carefully, pausing every fifty feet and turning back, the M16 raised and ready to fire. Bachman wouldn’t take unnecessary risks, but, he reminded himself, he had just lost the only bargaining chip that he had to use against them. Without Alexander, he would have to change his tactics or abandon the job, and his fee, and run. Milton didn’t know the man well enough to be able to guess, but he was dangerous enough that he preferred to assume the worst. If he was still coming after them, he would have no compunction in coming at them hard with everything he had.

Milton reached the top and paused again, crouching down, raising the M16 and tracking it across the dense scrub through which they had passed. He couldn’t hear anything save the chatter of a startled egret and the wet slap of an animal in the algae-topped waters of the swamp. He held his breath, concentrating hard, looking for signs of a clandestine approach; he heard, and saw, nothing.

And then, he did hear it. A rending, awful scream of anguish. It came from down the slope, from the direction of the encampment.

At first, Milton thought it was an animal.

And then he realised that it was Bachman.

Milton knew, then, that they were in trouble.

There was a tremendous crash from the top of the ridge. Milton turned. Alexander wasn’t there and, as he pressed up and set off after him, he heard the sound of something tumbling down the other side of the slope. He crested the rise and saw Alexander, on his back, at the foot of the slope. He must have tripped over an exposed root and then rolled all the way down. He was on his back now, jackknifed over the lip of the swamp, his legs submerged in the dirty water, slowly sliding farther and farther into it.

Milton picked a cautious route to get to him, proceeding backwards for the last few steps, the rifle aimed up the slope.

“You all right?”

“Tripped.”

“We need to get out of here.”

Alexander stayed where he was, panting.

“Get up!”

He thought he heard something behind them, a twig, perhaps, something snapping.

He pressed the rifle into his shoulder and held his breath, aiming left and right, swivelling smoothly from the waist. Alexander pulled himself out of the muck, wrapping his hands around a trunk and yanking himself clear.

Milton thought he saw something. A brake of cane, moving against the wind?

“Down!”

He fired, spraying bullets into the vegetation.

There was no return fire.

“Move!”

Alexander scrabbled away, heading west, and Milton came after him. The magazine was dry. He ejected it and pressed in the second spare. One left. He had the MP5, too, but the AK would outgun that if it came to a showdown.

They were halfway back to the road. Alexander struggled through a curtain of Spanish moss and broke out onto the track that Bachman had used to drive into the compound. Milton followed him reluctantly, aware that they were ceding cover for speed. But, he concluded, Alexander did not know how to exfiltrate safely in cover. There might be more tripwires, he was clumsy and loud, and any small advantage that they might have wrested would have been lost. It might be better to just let him run.

Milton would cover him as best he could.

Milton’s Toyota was where he had left it, untouched.

He tossed the keys to Alexander. “You drive.”

“What?”

“Get in the car, Alexander. Right now.”

He did as he was told, fumbling the key into the lock, opening the door and getting inside. Milton backed around to the passenger side, feeling the chassis against him as he aimed the M16 back into the swamp. The engine turned over and started. Milton kept the gun up, reached down with his left hand and opened the door.

“When I get in, drive,” he called. “Floor it. Understand?”

Milton edged across, briefly rested the rifle on the roof and scanned the cypress and oak, the dark vegetation clustered between the trunks and beneath the canopy of their boughs, and then, not even close to being satisfied, he ducked down into the car. Alexander punched the gas before the door had closed. The Corolla’s engine whined impotently, but the car just juddered ahead.

The brake was still on.

“Shit!” Alexander said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Milton turned in the seat so that he could aim the M16 back through the car, out of the rear window and into the bayou again.

“Just relax,” Milton said. “Release the brake.”

He punched the gas again. The car jerked ahead, quickly getting up to thirty and then forty.

Milton maintained his aim through the rear window, staring down the hard sight, but there was nothing.

Bachman wasn’t giving pursuit.

Chapter Fifty

Milton called Ziggy Penn on the way back into the city.

“How did it go?”

“I found him. He was where you said he would be.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Where are you now?”

“In the city.”

“Where’s Izzy?”

“I just saw her. She left ten minutes ago.”

“Left?”

“For court. The hearing.”

“On her own?”

“She’s got her mother and father with her, like you said.”

“I meant, you’re not with her?”

“You didn’t say…”

Milton gritted his teeth. He hadn’t told Ziggy to stay with Izzy. He wasn’t a field agent, and the last time he had tried to take the initiative he had very nearly been killed. But, still, some common sense would have been nice.

Izzy was out there, on her own.

Bachman was out there, too.

There was no guarantee that he had given up yet, and the memory of that rending scream was fresh. Who was the woman in the crate? Did Bachman know her? Milton didn’t like what that might mean.

He was going to need Ziggy to get to her fast.

“You need to go and find her. And you need to stay with her.”

His tone changed. “Why?”

“I don’t know if I got Bachman or not. I don’t think I did.”

“So he could still be out there?”

“Yes. And if he still is, he might not exfiltrate. He might come after me. And if he doesn’t think a direct run at me is a good idea, he knows there are other ways to get my attention.”

“With her.”

“Yes, or her parents. You need to get her right now. You’ve got a head start over him, but I don’t know if this is him on his own or if he has a team. If there are others…” He looked over at Alexander, a frown of concentration on his face, and decided not to spell it out. “You get the picture.”

“I’m on it.”

“Have you given her the information she needs?”

“To get an adjournment? Shit, Milton, yes. Very strong evidence that Dubois has been paying the mayor, the police, more than enough. Babineaux is implicated. She’s going to try to get it postponed for the rest of the week. That’ll give me the time I need to get a dossier in a presentable state. But you don’t need to worry. It’s all there. She’ll have everything she needs.”

“Well done. Now — go and get her to court.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Ziggy got into his car, took out his cellphone and activated the mapping application. He was on Salvation Row. He entered the address of the courthouse at 410 Royal Street and waited for the route to be plotted. The solid blue line that appeared revealed the only sensible way to get there: the bridge over the canal, then Elysian Fields Avenue, then the court. Ziggy knew that an operative, someone like Milton, would have advised her to get off the main road and make her way there through the quieter, less obvious streets, but Izzy wasn’t an operative. And he hadn’t warned her. She didn’t know that she was in danger.

At least it would make it easier for him to find her.

But, he reminded himself, if it was easier for him, it would be easier for Bachman, too.

He set off to the west.

He found her at the junction of Elysian Fields Avenue and North Rampart Street. Her car was snagged in a long queue of slow-moving traffic, jockeying to get past the lights at the junction. The line of traffic that was filtering to the left was moving more quickly, and he swung into the lane and stopped when he was alongside.

The driver of the car that was jammed in behind him leant on his horn as Ziggy got out, waving at Izzy to lower the window.

She did. “Oh, shit,” she said, her eyes going wide. “Alexander?”

“He’s safe. Milton has him.”

“So what is it?”

“We need to change cars.”

“What are you talking about? I need to get—”

“The man who took Alexander is dangerous, and Milton doesn’t know where he is. He thinks he might be coming after you. He probably knows what car you’re driving. He probably doesn’t know about me.”

“I have to get to court, Ziggy. If I don’t, the case will get thrown out. We’ll lose.”

“I’ll get you there. Come on.”

There was a cacophony of horns as Ziggy went back to his car. Izzy explained to her parents what they needed to do, and they complied with her instructions without complaint, crossing over to the Hyundai and getting into the back. Ziggy opened the trunk of Izzy’s car and transferred her two heavy legal cases. He couldn’t put them into the trunk of the Sonata because Babineaux was still inside, so he hauled them into the back next to Elsie. Izzy got into the car, dropping into the passenger side.

His hands were shaking with adrenaline as he put the car into drive. This was what he had imagined things would be like when he had been seconded to the Group. Field operations, life and death, working with men and women like Milton rather than being stuck in a cubicle farm behind his computer, feeding them the information so that they could do their jobs, but never getting his hands dirty. He had tried to get involved the last time he had been in New Orleans, and that hadn’t turned out the way he had wanted. It had nearly gotten him killed. He knew that was why Control had busted him back to GCHQ, not even waiting for his wounds to heal until he was rid of him.

His failure had always bothered him. Ziggy’s childhood had been full of people telling him he wasn’t good enough, and it was something he had never been able to entirely forget. His adult life had been spent by ensuring that no one ever had cause to say that to him again. And so the incident with the Irishmen rankled. It was a failure. He had failed. He couldn’t forget it and, as time had passed, he had allowed it to reinforce the old taunts from when he was younger.

He had almost come to believe them again. He wasn’t good enough.

Ziggy was about to hit the gas when he saw the flash of blue lights behind him.

“Po-lice,” Solomon Bartholomew said, craning around to look out of the rear window.

Ziggy glanced into the mirror and saw the cruiser turn out of St. Claude Avenue and start to bully its way through the traffic.

Izzy laid her hand across his. “We can’t stop,” she said.

He looked over at her, unable to ignore how beautiful she was, her fingers around his wrist, and nodded. “We’re not going to.”

The cruiser was nearly on them. They were penned in at the front and rear by the queue. If the cruiser got alongside, it would be able to box them in and that would be that.

“Hold tight.”

Ziggy turned the wheel, punched the gas, and sped out of the queue and onto the sidewalk.

The bleeps of the cruiser’s siren immediately modulated into an angrier, more urgent, up and down wail.

Ziggy stomped on the gas.

They had to stop at a set of lights in Kenner, and Milton took the opportunity to change seats with Alexander. He floored the pedal, leaving rubber as they rushed back into the flow of traffic, cutting into the fast lane and accelerating.

Milton took out his phone and dialled the number that the StingRay had extracted from Bachman’s phone.

It rang five times.

Six.

Seven.

And then Bachman picked up.

“Who is this?”

“Milton.”

Bachman didn’t reply.

“You there?”

His voice, when it came, was flat and emotionless. “You’re a dead man.”

“You didn’t give me—”

“You know who you killed?”

“I didn’t—”

“You killed my wife.”

Milton gripped the wheel. He felt a shiver of dread ripple up and down his spine.

“I didn’t. I put her down. She took a ricochet when you fired at us.”

There was no reply again.

“Bachman?”

“You’re lying. You shot her.”

“I’m not lying.”

He didn’t hear him. “I can’t let that stand, Milton. You know that, right? There’s got to be payback.”

“No, you listen to me. You’ve got one chance to exfil. Take it.”

“I don’t think so. Not now. The job’s irrelevant. You just made it personal.”

Milton punched the gas to overtake a slow-moving truck. “You fucked up. Don’t compound the error.”

There was a cruel edge to Bachman’s voice when he spoke again. “Took your time getting out of the swamp, didn’t you? Didn’t know for sure whether I was coming after you? I heard you shooting up the trees. Do you know where your girlfriend is?”

Milton took the phone, killed the speaker and put it to his ear instead. He didn’t want Alexander to hear this.

“I’m warning you, Avi.”

He laughed. “There’s another way out. Thought I’d get a start on you. Where are you now?”

“Close.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve got ten minutes on you. Minimum. I’m already in the city. How are you going to stop me if you’re ten minutes behind?”

“I’m not alone on this. It’s not just me you have to worry about.”

Bachman laughed again. “Yes, you are, Milton. You always worked alone. You can’t bluff me. And if you do have anyone else, then I’m going to murder them before I get to the girl. I’m going to murder her. Then her parents. Then I’m coming for you. I’m going to make you choke on your own blood.”

“Bachman—”

“Goodbye, Milton.”

Ziggy turned right at Washington Square and onto Royal Street. The road was quieter, so he was able to pick up speed. The police cruiser was still after them, the siren presaging its approach until it raced around the corner and barrelled ahead, pressing hard.

“What’s going on?” Elsie Bartholomew asked.

Ziggy looked back at her in the mirror. Her face was eloquent with concern and fear.

“It’s all right, Momma,” Izzy said. “You’re gonna have to trust me.”

“I do, baby. I’m just not used to running from the police is all.”

Ziggy’s phone rang.

He fumbled in the centre console for it, accepted the call, and put it to his ear.

“Milton!”

“I’m coming.”

“The police are after us.”

“Where are you?”

“Royal Street. Just went by the Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro. I don’t know how long I can hold them off.”

“Have you got Izzy?”

“Yes. And her parents. I don’t know—”

“Don’t stop for anyone.”

“But what if I—”

“Bachman’s coming after you.”

“Fuck!” A jaywalker stepped off the sidewalk without looking and Ziggy spun the wheel, the tires screaming as the car slid to the right. Ziggy dropped the phone, the wheels clashing off the curb as he fought for control. The police car was slower to take evasive action, swinging out of the way just in time to miss the man. The driver couldn’t correct the sudden skid and the car climbed the curb, clipped a light post, and crunched into the wall of a building. Ziggy watched in the mirror. The pursuit was over, at least for the moment.

Izzy had reached down for the phone. She held it to Ziggy’s ear.

“Ziggy?”

“I’m here.”

“Hang in there.”

“Where are you?”

“Five minutes away. Just get to court.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Traffic was heavy in front of the courthouse. Milton parked a block away. He got out and sprinted the remaining distance, Alexander lagging behind him and quickly outdistanced. No time to worry about him.

There was a scrum on the courthouse steps. Another case had drawn to a conclusion and, whatever it was, it had excited plenty of media attention. A lawyer was standing at the top, answering questions from a clutch of newspaper reporters. An outside broadcast truck had just pulled up and a cameraman and sound man were setting up their gear, a reporter primping himself in the window of the truck. Other people had gathered to listen to the attorney’s words, contributing to the commotion.

Isadora Bartholomew was pulling her two cases along the sidewalk to the start of the steps. Her mother and father followed a few steps behind her. Ziggy was behind them, scanning left and right. He looked frightened beyond belief, but he was still there, still doing what Milton had asked him to do.

He shouldered through the scrum and reached him.

“Milton. Jesus, am I glad to see you.”

“The police?”

“Lost them.”

Milton looked around. There was no sign of Bachman, but the crowd was heavy and chaotic, and he couldn’t be sure.

Alexander Bartholomew caught up with him.

“Inside,” Milton said to both of them. “It’s not safe out here.”

He climbed the steps. Izzy turned, saw him, saw her brother, and stopped.

“What are you doing here?” Solomon said to his son. “You supposed to be in the rehab.”

“Let’s get inside,” Milton said, placing his hand on the old man’s back and gently impelling him up the steps.

“What’s all this fuss and nonsense about, John?”

“I’ll explain when we’re inside. Please.”

“Pops,” Izzy said. “Let’s go.”

She had relinquished her grip on the two cases. Milton stooped, grabbed the handles, and, waiting as Ziggy ushered Elsie and Solomon up the steps, brought up the rear. They passed from the clamour to the relative peace and quiet of the lobby, the light glinting off the black-and-white tiled floor, and made their way to the courtroom.

Milton didn’t relax — he couldn’t — but it felt as if the threat had passed, if only for the moment.

They reached the entrance to the courtroom.

Dubois was standing outside, his arms folded across his chest. He stepped out and blocked the way ahead.

“Move,” Milton said to him.

“Where’s Babineaux?”

“You don’t need to worry. He’s safe.”

“Where?”

“In the trunk of my friend’s car. You can go and get him if you like.”

“Are you mad?”

Milton rested the cases on the floor. “We’re just getting started. I hope you’ve brought a toothbrush. You’re not going home tonight.”

Dubois took a step up, closer to him. Milton intercepted him smoothly, reaching out to take his wrist. He rested his thumb where his watch would have been and his fingers in the groove where the blood vessels passed by the underside of the wrist and squeezed, compressing the arteries. The jolt of pain flashed across Dubois’s face, and Milton used the moment to place his left hand on his sternum and push him back against the wall, out of the way. It was discreet and swift.

“Don’t do anything silly,” Milton said to him. His voice was even and calm, but laced with threat.

“You’re crazy,” Dubois growled.

Milton squeezed the pressure point again. “I know I am. But I’m not the one who’s going to wake up in Angola tomorrow.”

Milton released his grip. Dubois instinctively massaged the wrist before he realised that he was admitting weakness. He stopped, let his arm fall loose, and glared at Milton.

“Ziggy,” Milton said. “Where did you park?”

“Two blocks north.”

“Give him your keys.”

He looked at him askance.

“Don’t worry.”

Ziggy did as he was asked, handing them to Dubois.

“Like I say, he’s in the trunk. Probably quite vexed about that. Let him out. You’ll save time for everyone if you both go straight to the police.”

“You think this is over?”

“I’m pretty sure it is.”

“It’s not.”

Dubois turned and walked down the corridor and away.

“What are you doing?” Ziggy asked.

“Let them go. They won’t be hard to find. Men like that don’t disappear.”

Izzy looked back at Milton. Her face was lined with concentration, focussed on the things she knew that she would have to say as the hearing began, but, for a moment, a smile broke through. She had dynamite now. Ziggy had provided it for her. When she was done, the city’s case would have been blown into tiny fragments and cast to the wind.

“You ready?” Milton asked her.

“You gonna come watch? It’s gonna be fun.”

Milton said that he would.

She turned back, striding on with purpose, her heels ringing against the tile, and Milton followed behind her.