Cut and Run

Chapter 19

Alisha screamed all the way down, hit the pavement and then was silent. Her corpse was sprawled like a stringless marionette, surrounded by a growing pool of blood.

At least in Rickard’s mind, that was the way things happened.

In reality he eased up to her and wrapped his arms round her waist, pulled her tightly to him and nuzzled her neck. ‘Hi, babe.’

Alisha stiffened for the briefest of moments, but then, having realised who had caught her in a hug — or more likely because it was what was expected of her — she melted back against him, purring as he kissed her all the way down to her shoulder. Rickard released her, turned her round slowly and looked down at her upturned face. He kissed her gently on the tip of her nose.

‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Alisha said.

‘Couldn’t stay away any longer,’ Rickard said. ‘Did you miss me?’

‘Like crazy.’ Alisha searched for his lips. Rickard held back, teasing her, making her go up on her toes before returning the kiss. She smelled of soap and shampoo. No trace of cologne.

Got to get a hold of myself, he thought. The man in the lift had been nowhere near his apartment. Nowhere near his Alisha. She was too afraid of him to bring other men to their bed. She did not know what he did for a living, but she suspected what was in his mind and what he was capable of. He’d taught her well what would happen if ever she betrayed him.

Paranoia is an ugly, debilitating thing. It was that damned phone call he’d made that had planted the seed of doubt in his mind. Where are you, Rickard? His failure to see through his plan to rape and then dismember Imogen Ballard had been unforeseen by both his employer and him. I expect more from people working for me. Yes, he thought, and so do I. I also expect more from the people round me.

‘What are you doing out here, babe?’ Rickard peered over Alisha’s shoulder at the Miami nightscape. It was still warm, and he could smell exhaust fumes and garbage on the trembling breeze.

‘Oh, nothing. Just thinking.’

‘About me?’

Alisha stirred and looked up at him with her big blue eyes. ‘Who else?’

He didn’t reply, but strong cologne was in his olfactory memory. He wound his fingers in her hair. ‘I’ve been thinking about you as well.’

Without releasing his grip, he led her back inside and down the short flight of stairs. Amy Winehouse had moved on to croon over someone called Mr Jones. Rickard pictured the guy as a man in a suit, with short greying hair and a mobile phone in his hand. He turned off the CD as he passed then steered Alisha towards the bedroom.

When he came back out of the bedroom he was on his own. Alisha was taking her second shower of the evening and tending to the welts on her arms. When he’d entered her he’d been thinking of Imogen Ballard and he wasn’t gentle then, either. Behind the bathroom door she was sobbing and that pleased him.

Naked, he stood in the centre of his apartment, surveying it with a perfectionist’s eye for detail. Alisha had kept the room almost as spick and span as he demanded. The pile on the carpet was crushed down in places and there was a copy of a Stieg Larsson novel open on the table next to the settee. He’d make sure that she tidied up once she was done making herself pretty again.

He was very hungry. He went to the refrigerator and scanned the contents. Settled on drinking milk direct from the carton, then grabbed a handful of roast chicken from scraps on a plate. He wolfed the food down. Voracious. But, then, he thought whimsically, he was eating for two. He cleaned the grease from his fingers on a kitchen towel, then shoved it into the wash basket.

He was padding back across to check on Alisha’s progress when he heard something out of place on this private floor of the building. It was the faint crunch of a heel on grit. Most people would have gone to the front door to peer out through the peephole, but Rickard didn’t act the way others did. He knew without checking that someone with no right to be there was in his hall. He ducked into the bedroom, pulled on his trousers and unsnapped the ceramic knife from its holder. No time for shoes or shirt. He moved to the en-suite bath. Alisha had her back to him and the scratches on her back were livid. He unsnagged her gown from where she’d hung it and threw it to her. ‘Put that on. Lock the door and don’t come out until I tell you. Whatever you hear.’

Alisha’s face elongated, but before she could say anything, he pulled the door closed. He heard her throwing the bolt: another alien sound to this apartment.

Then he moved back across the room. He cursed the fact that his gun was locked inside his car, but shoved the thought aside. His knife would be enough until he could arm himself otherwise.

On his way into the apartment he’d been distracted. He had not armed the intruder alarms. He hadn’t thrown the locks on the doors. OK, so there’d be less damage when they came in; maybe that wasn’t so bad after all.

They.

He was sure that there’d be more than one.

Only a series of unforeseen events had caused the mess-up in Maine, but his employer knew how good he was. More than one man would have been sent to dispatch him; to close down the trail that might lead back to its source.

He avoided the urge to peer out the peephole. He’d heard of assassins waiting until the peephole became shadowed, when they would press a gun to the lens and fire a round through the orbital socket and into the brain. Maybe that was just in the movies, but Rickard wouldn’t fall for it. He moved instead for the door leading to the flight of stairs to the roof. He’d been remiss in locking that door too, and the one on to the roof.

Although he owned the uppermost floor, building regulations meant that there had to be ample escape routes in the event of an emergency. He could lock the elevator by way of his key, but access could be gained via two fire escapes: one was inside the building and one outside. The internal one had already been breached and so too, he guessed, had the metal stairwell on the side of the building. Against fire regulations he’d installed a gate that he kept padlocked, but anyone with a pair of bolt croppers could be through that in seconds.

Rickard moved quickly up the stairs.

He paused at the door to the roof, listening. He couldn’t hear anything but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He placed the knife between his teeth, and dropping low so he was supported on his fingers and toes, he crawled out. Alisha’s imported plants were both a blessing and a curse. They gave him cover as he made his way over to a service conduit, but they also blocked his view of anyone coming on to the roof via the fire escape.

In the shadows of the conduit, he crouched, feeding the knife from lips to hand. He didn’t have to wait long. Beyond Alisha’s palms he caught movement. Big man in dark clothing, beanie hat pulled low. The man was holding a handgun. Judging by the length of the barrel it wasn’t silenced, which Rickard found odd. Impulse was to attack the man immediately, stick him in the throat and open his carotid artery, but Rickard waited.

A second figure came over the balustrade and on to the roof. He too was dressed in dark clothing and packing a gun.

So, at least three of them. Rickard weighed the equation in his mind. Three men, possibly more, with guns. Him with a knife. No problem.

The men made their way across the roof warily, eyes scanning. They paused to whisper to each other, then one of them lifted something and pressed a button. To his credit he didn’t talk into the radio, just depressed the button in a prearranged sequence. Giving the all clear to the others downstairs.

The men paused at the open door, but then one of them shrugged and used the barrel of his gun to tease it wider. Bad form, Rickard noted: you never compromise your weapon like that. Then one of them went down the stairs. A few seconds later — a final check over his shoulder — and the second man followed into the stairwell.

Rickard moved after them.

Dressed only in trousers, chest bared, he felt primal, like an unstoppable force of nature.

At the entrance to his apartment both men had halted. One of them nudged open the door and took a quick look into the room. The one with the radio quickly keyed the send button. Almost immediately, there was the sound of the front door crashing back on the jamb as someone powered their way inside. From the bathroom, Alisha shrieked loudly.

Good girl, Rickard thought. Her screech attracted the attention of both men in the stairwell. One of them moved forwards, his friend’s hand on his shoulder.

Rickard came down the stairs silently.

His knife whispered across the throat of the man at the back. The ceramic blade was sharper than any made of steel and opened him up from ear to ear. The man dropped as though pole-axed. Rickard stood on him as he fell, used him as a springboard and went after the leading man. At the same time, he was looking for and assessing the others in the room. There was only one more.

Goddamnit! I knew it!

Coming in through the front door was the man from the elevator. He’d changed his suit for a windcheater and jeans, and the mobile for a radio and a handgun.

So he wasn’t Alisha’s secret fling, but an assassin scoping the terrain before making his assault. His reaction when surprised by Rickard’s appearance as the elevator doors opened now held more sense.

It took Rickard all of a split second to analyse the facts and to act on them. The elevator man was surprised by his sudden unexpected arrival and he was a second too slow in lifting his gun. His shot missed and put a hole in the wall a foot behind Rickard’s moving form. Rickard caught up with the big guy in the beanie hat just as the man was turning round. He jabbed his knife under the man’s jaw, the blade cutting through the tissue and piercing his tongue. Not an immediately fatal stab but one designed to cause debilitation of the senses and a lot of blood. Without stopping, Rickard ducked under the man’s arms and came up behind him. Elevator Man had no clear shot. Rickard jammed his blade into his human shield just below his floating rib, not deep enough to reach the liver, but enough to induce shocking pain. He released the handle and grabbed the gun out of the man’s lifeless grip. Considerately the big man had already racked the slide, putting a bullet in the firing chamber.

Realising the inevitability of the next few seconds, Elevator Man was already turning, hoping to make it back out the door where he could at least use the cover of the door jamb to return fire.

Should have just gone for it, Rickard thought. Then he shot the man between his shoulder blades as Alisha screamed a second time. The dead man made it to the doorway, but he was face down, his arms outstretched.

In the same moment Rickard disengaged from the big guy, plucked free his knife then shot the man in the side of the head. The guy went over sideways and landed on the carpet, his blood fanning out on the usually pristine flooring. Rickard grimaced at the mess because he was fastidious about those kinds of things. But not now. The apartment was no longer his; he was moving out immediately.