‘Sleep well?’
‘Yes.’
Rink eyed me with his mouth downturned. ‘Sure doesn’t look like it.’
In truth, my sleep had been disturbed by dreams of Jimena Grajales and her boy dying in the street. When I tried to help them, Jimena sat up and riddled me full of bullets. I’d woken lathered in sweat with the sheets twisted between my fists.
‘I only got my head down for a couple hours,’ I admitted.
‘Here.’ He passed me a waxed-paper cup the size of a bucket. ‘Just the way you like it: sump oil with an extra shot of espresso.’
I accepted the take-out coffee gratefully, taking a sip. It was scalding hot and tasted as bad as it looked, but it was just what I needed.
‘That stuff’s gonna kill you.’
‘Beats a bullet in the skull,’ I told him, thinking again of my nightmare.
We were in a nondescript government car. It wouldn’t fool any criminal worth his salt, or Luke Rickard, but it didn’t matter. The car was only a means to an end. Rink drove to allow me both hands to control my super-sized caffeine fix.
The Cedars Medical Center, part of the University of Miami Hospital, is situated in the heart of the city, a full service facility providing acute care to over five hundred patients. Alisha had been rushed there after Rickard shot her, but she’d been moved since. There was no way on earth that the FBI Hostage Rescue Team could protect the building or its occupants from an attack by a determined and resourceful killer like Rickard. There were far too many variables to contend with. Many people would die, thousands of dollars’ worth of damage would ensue, and possibly millions in lawsuits would follow. Instead, the seriously injured woman had been taken to a private medical centre on the outskirts of Florida City, and a stone’s throw away from the Everglades National Park. Smaller location, smaller numbers, easier to defend, that was the thinking behind it all.
We took the South Dixie highway out of the city all the way down past Homestead to Florida City and on to Palm Drive. I missed the twists and turns after that as I concentrated on the last dregs of coffee. Once one base need was seen to, I attended to another. While cooped up in the gilded prison of my hotel room I’d been busy rebuilding my SIG from parts gleaned from other weapons. It would probably have made sense to ditch my old gun and familiarise myself with a new one, but I’d used the modified P226 for so long that it had become an extension of my hand. My palm was familiar with the contours of the grip and anything else would have felt a little alien. While Rink negotiated the roads leading out into the wilderness, I dismantled the gun and put it back together again, checked the slide and the progression of the trigger. I unloaded and then reloaded the magazine, chambered a round. The gun had survived being shot and blown up by a grenade: we had a lot in common. It seemed the injury to my hand had been superficial and I’d held the swelling under control by way of an ice pack. There was some residual pain, but I could live with it.
We followed a road that wound through groves of live oak and bald cypress trees, Spanish moss hanging like old men’s beards from the branches. It was daytime, but even then the spidery growths lent a Gothic air to the scene. It reminded me of stories I’d read of haunted swamps and witch-women mumbling curses over animal bones. Myth says that a beautiful bride-to-be was killed by Cherokee warriors, and as a warning to other interlopers on their land her hair was hacked off and thrown in a tree. As time passed, her hair grew grey and withered and spread from tree to tree. The story said that if you tried to remove the hair it would leap away and defend itself with hordes of beetles. Fanciful stuff, but like a lot of soldiers I’m superstitious and felt a trickle of unease at the thought of being eaten alive by a swarm of insects. Of course, there was only one roach I was concerned about.
‘You’re sure he’s coming, huh?’
‘No doubt about it, Rink. When Jimena told him that Alisha survived… I don’t know… it was like I could feel the anger radiating from him.’
‘What’s his goddamn problem, anyway? I’d’ve thought he’d lie low for a while, maybe set himself up a new identity. Who’s gonna hire an asshole like him when he can’t be trusted any more?’
‘The way I see things, he’s a complete maniac. He isn’t acting rationally; he’s being led by more than the lure of money. Always has been, probably.’
‘Imogen said the punk would’ve raped her given the chance. You think he’s a sex beast?’
‘Yeah, and the contract killing is just a sideline. My guess is that the money has never been that important, it’s always been about him fulfilling his sick fantasies.’
‘Dirty motherfucker.’
‘I’m with you there, buddy.’
‘Doesn’t explain why he’s so proficient with weapons.’
‘Never did get to the bottom of that,’ I agreed. ‘But it doesn’t mean a thing now. I know Harvey, though: he won’t stop looking until he finds out. Personally, I don’t think we’ll ever know.’
‘Not unless we make him tell us.’
‘He won’t have the opportunity. First chance I get, I’m putting him down.’
‘Not if I beat you to him.’ Rink grinned at me. Then he nodded ahead and I saw the outlines of a white building through the trees.
‘That the hospital?’
Rink looked at a printed page folded on the dashboard of the car. It was a map of the area that Harvey had supplied us with. ‘Outer administration buildings, the hospital’s a bit further back. Maybe a little over a mile into the swamp.’
‘OK. This is as far as we go.’
Rink pulled the vehicle off the road and down a beaten track. The Spanish moss scraped along the roof of the car. No beetles attacked, but there were plenty of tiny gnats knocked from the branches scuttling down the windscreen. Rink hit the wipers and tiny streaks of blood made rainbows on the glass. ‘Hope you fetched plenty of Deet,’ I said.
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that, Hunter. The mosquitoes drink your blood, they’ll probably be struck dead by all the caffeine.’
‘Either that or they’ll be hooked and head off to a Starbucks for their next hit. Both are OK by me.’
‘Amen to that,’ Rink laughed.
We were engaged in nonsense. It was usually the way we prepared for impending violence. Pretty soon, it would be time for silence. Rink would grow fidgety, I’d go sullen, and then we’d both slide into the calmness more befitting the task ahead.
Anhinga Key Medical Center was a heavy slog through the swamp away from us. Would have been easier by the road, but Hubbard’s men would be watching the main approach, and probably many of the lesser trails. We would have to move in via a route unlikely even for someone intent on murder. The plan was to go in, set up a lying-up point and then wait for the inevitable arrival of Luke Rickard. Then we’d kill him. Or at least try to.
His arrival at the remote AKMC was inevitable for two reasons: he wouldn’t stop coming until he’d killed Alisha and we had Harvey on the case ensuring that he’d be sent directly to her. I’m not known for placing women in the way of harm, but this was different. Rickard was hell-bent on killing his wife, so it made sense to use her as bait. Harvey was currently hacking into the records at The Cedars so that a simple check would send the killer our way.
Rickard believed that I’d been eviscerated by a fragmentation grenade; he wouldn’t expect me to be waiting for him to arrive. However, the proliferation of feebies and cops at the scene would put him on high alert. Wouldn’t stop him coming, but he’d be prepared for war. That was all supposing that he’d survived the events in Colombia and was now headed here. If not, we could have a few uncomfortable days squatting in a swamp to look forward to. But Rink and I were up to it: we’d spent many days and nights waiting in even less appealing locations throughout our careers.
Coming to the end of the trail, Rink parked the car under a stand of live oak. We made sure that the windows were all shut tight before climbing out. We didn’t want to return to a vehicle infested with swamp life. Rink popped the trunk and I joined him to haul out our equipment. We’d travelled here in the clothing that Walter had supplied to us the night before, but now we stripped down to our boxers and then slipped into the lightweight DPMs we’d brought. The disruptive pattern material was good camouflage against the swamp. There was netting that we pulled around our faces and peaked caps to cover our hair, but Rink still pulled out a canister of insecticide that we sprayed ourselves with. I was conscious of the chemical smell, but five minutes into the swamp and even a bloodhound would struggle to sniff us out.
Rink dished out the weapons. Courtesy of Walter, we each had a Colt M4 carbine — basically the shorter version of the US Army M16A2 assault rifle — with its capacity for firing one or three bullets with each pull of the trigger. The guns were favoured by special forces teams engaged in urban warfare as they provided more control over where bullets were placed when fired in shorter bursts. If we ended up entering the hospital buildings that feature would become very important.
Next Rink handed me a Ka-Bar knife in black epoxy and I clipped it to my belt. I had the switchblade as a back-up knife in its obligatory place in my hip pocket. Then there was the SIG Sauer P226, my weapon of choice.
If all these weapons failed, I still had my fists to fall back on — part of me even relished the opportunity to take up with Rickard where we’d left off before the interruption of the L2A2 hand grenade.
‘Ready, bud?’
I nodded. ‘More than.’
Throwing our discarded clothing inside the trunk, we lifted out backpacks nowhere near as large as the bergens we once carried on military operations but roomy enough to carry field rations, water, a small medical kit and extra ammunition. Rink also brought extras in the way of a nylon DPM sheet and more netting. Then we slipped down an animal trail and under the trees.
‘You’d think we were a thousand miles from nowhere,’ Rink drawled.
He was right but that of course wasn’t the case. Nearby were the hospital buildings and not too distantly the historical Anhinga Trail. There could be any number of civilians wandering around out there, so we’d have to be extra careful. The last thing either of us wanted was to come across a group of trigger-happy hunters who might mistake us for a couple of deer. It would be a grossly unjust way to end our days.
For such a big man Rink moved with the casual grace normally associated with dancers. He had the build and size of his Scottish-Canadian father, but the fluidity of movement was reminiscent of his mother, Yukiko, as were his hooded eyes. He loped along the barely discernible trail without stirring any of the branches that tried their damndest to snag on his clothing. I followed three paces behind, conscious of my footfall and the thud of my heart.
The stench of rotting vegetation clogged my senses. Nearby something large splashed though water. Alligator, I thought, or maybe just a bird diving for fish. Worst-case scenario was that it was Luke Rickard already on his way to assault the hospital. I came to a halt, listening intently, but the sound didn’t repeat itself. Alligator, I thought a second time. Then I moved on, trying to cut down on the lead that Rink had set in those few seconds.
Coming to a sluggish inlet of water, we paused.
‘We’re gonna have to cross it,’ Rink said. ‘Else we’ll be too close to Hubbard’s crew.’
The water looked murky and deep, almost black with silt and decomposing plant life. On the far side the bank was choked with mangrove roots. I studied the still water. Anything could lurk beneath the surface and the first we’d know about it was when jaws clamped on to our limbs. Maybe I studied it for just a little too long, because Rink turned to me with a smile. ‘Don’t worry about the ’gators; it’s the turtles you have to watch out for.’
He was making light of things, but I’d seen a TV programme where a snapping turtle bit through the boot of a naturalist. It had done so as easily as had the shrapnel that shredded mine back in Cesar Calle’s house. ‘More concerned about getting our weapons wet.’
Rink chuckled at me and I nudged him in the gut with my elbow. To show him I wasn’t afraid of critters I went down the slick bank and into the water. My boots sank deep in the muddy bottom and the water crept up towards my waist. I transferred my SIG to my left hand, the rifle to my right and waded out, holding the guns above my head. When I pushed among the mangroves at the far side Rink followed. If we’d just been on a hiking trip he’d most likely have pretended that some huge reptile had grabbed him, but he was totally serious this time, coming through the water with his face set and his weapons held high. The time for fooling was over: now it was all business. The calm came on us.
The mangrove roots were like the gnarled bars of a huge cage, some poked from the surface like the teasing fingers of a water nymph inviting us down to her deathly realms. The going wasn’t easy and judging by how far the tangled branches stretched out before us it wasn’t going to get any better.
We slogged through the swamp, using our uncanny knack for directions to steer us. The mangroves were tortuous to push through, but we made it, using some of the more exposed roots as stepping stones. Then we came out on to a wide sandbank where saw-tooth grass proliferated. The grass hid us well as we moved towards the hospital. The only problem was it concealed other things too. At one point a bird broke from cover, its wings clattering through the branches of an overhead tree as it sought to flee us. We halted, waited, but apparently no one was alerted by the bird’s frantic escape, so we moved on again.
There was another channel of water and a stand of trees to contend with before we reached the outer perimeter of the hospital grounds. A fence of interwoven branches made a windbreak to keep some of the smells of the swamp at bay, but as a security measure it was hopeless. The wood was so dry and brittle that anyone could push it over or dive directly through it. We weren’t intending to go to such extremes; we just followed the fence to a point where a gate had been erected. Here a track led from the hospital grounds and into the woods. There was a small cluster of sheds, one of which was a parking garage for the sit-on lawn mowers that the groundskeepers used. A small compound formed from tin sheets held a variety of unused office furniture, and also the remains of a bonfire from where combustible waste was burned. It was mad to bypass the workspace without checking it out first. Could be a gardener lurking around who might spot us.
The area was clear of people, so we moved to the gate and scanned the lawns and the huddle of buildings that formed the hospital. Clinic might have been a better description, or maybe holiday retreat. From the map Harvey supplied I’d been expecting a modern structure of preformed concrete and glass, but the hospital looked more like it had once been at the centre of a wealthy estate or plantation. It brought to my mind the glossy magazine adverts for Southern Comfort. It was obvious from the plushness of the building and its surroundings that the AKMC was a strictly fee-paying and very private facility. What surprised me most was that this beautiful old building had been selected: it made me wonder who the actual owners of the hospital were. CIA, I decided, seeing as Walter had given his blessing for us to stage our war with Luke Rickard here.