Chapter 42

A stack of twenty-dollar bills on the counter were all that stood between Rickard’s anonymity and the doctor’s hopes for a long life. It would be a shame if he had to kill the doc; he was one of the few people that Rickard actually liked.

‘Two thousand,’ Rickard said. ‘It’s the fee you always asked for before.’

Adam Rothman, the disgraced surgeon who had once numbered the social elite of Florida among his clients, picked up the thick wad of notes and riffled them between his long, almost feminine fingers. ‘Times change, Luke, and so does my expense bill.’

‘It’s more than you make performing illegal abortions and cutting gangrenous limbs from junkies poisoned by dirty needles.’

Rothman was a big man, flabby and ungainly. He looked nothing like the man who’d served his internship at Johns Hopkins before moving into private practice in downtown Miami. But his looks suited him now that he’d relocated to this dingy apartment on the fringe of South Beach. His face was florid, with broken veins across his bulbous nose, testament to his secret drinking problem. With his grey watery eyes and thin lips; he did not look like someone you’d trust to guide a scalpel. He waved the notes towards Rickard, who was sitting on the gurney checking out the dressings on his wounded ribs. ‘As ever, you are not buying my expertise, you are buying my silence.’

Rickard looked up at Rothman, the contact lenses removed so he caught the man under a baleful, icy stare. ‘Silence works both ways, Doctor.’

Rothman smiled. ‘That it does.’

He stuffed the two grand in the pocket of his white overcoat. Then he reached into a cardboard box and pulled out a couple of packets. He tossed them on the gurney beside Rickard. ‘Take those three times a day; they’ll keep any infection at bay. Take the NAIDs as and when required.’

Rickard studied the packets. The first contained brand-named antibiotics, but the second was an anonymous white box. ‘NAIDs?’

‘Non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs. They’ll keep the fever down without impairing consciousness. You want to remain alert, don’t you?’

‘For two thousand dollars I get cheap drugs you’ve purchased off the internet?’

Rothman flicked him a smile. ‘If you’re not up to paying my going rate I have to make a profit elsewhere. Any way, what are you complaining about? I’ve thrown the bandages in for free.’

‘You’re all heart, Doc.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Rothman bustled over to a trash can overflowing with blood-speckled tissue and used syringes. He peeled off his latex gloves and dropped them in the can. He pointed a skinny digit at Rickard. ‘The bullet barely grazed your ribs, Luke. It’s your shoulder wound you’ll have to be most careful of. Luckily the wound was a through and through, superficial, but there is the threat of infection if you don’t keep it clean.’

Rickard touched the wad of dressing on his left trapezius muscle, just below his collar-line. ‘Feels OK to me.’

‘It’ll stay that way if you dress it regularly. Here.’ He passed over a tube of antiseptic cream. ‘No charge.’

‘Thanks,’ Rickard said with no real enthusiasm.

‘The sutures will dissolve themselves, no need to come back to have them removed.’

‘You don’t want to see me again?’

Rothman pulled a hurt face that was as much a sham as Rickard’s pout. ‘Luke, I’m quite willing to take your money any time you please. Just more of it next time, eh?’

Rickard stood up off the gurney and studied himself in a full-length mirror riveted to the wall of the consulting room. Apart from the criss-crossed bandages, he still struck quite an imposing figure. He’d changed his looks, but this time without the need of Rothman’s expertise. His latest disguise was purely cosmetic. He thought that his newly shaved head gave him a tough look that the bruising on his face actually helped. Turning from his reflection, he pulled on a black T-shirt emblazoned with a Gothic image for a rock band he’d never heard of. He let the shirt hang outside his jeans to cover the blade clipped on his belt. Then he shrugged into a black leather motorcycle jacket that had a contrasting red collar and stripes down the sleeves. Lastly he thumbed a pair of wraparound shades on.

‘What do you think?’

‘If I was a woman I’d have you back on that gurney in a flash.’

Rickard grinned. ‘No wonder you got yourself struck off, Doc!’

Rothman seemed pleased with that. He fed a hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He held it out to Rickard. ‘Here.’

‘You got it for me.’ Rickard eyed the handwritten address, a smile playing over his lips. He folded it over and placed the note in his hip pocket.

‘Cost you.’

Rickard dug another stack of bills from his jacket pocket and handed them over. ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to get this for me. Not now you’re the pariah of the medical world.’

Rothman nipped his bottom lip between his nicotine-stained teeth. Then he nodded at the out-of-date certificate displayed on his wall. ‘I called The Cedars. Asked. Simple as that, when you have letters after your name. No one checks credentials these days, especially not a first-year intern who’s already done a twenty-three-hour shift with God knows how many more before he gets to go home.’

‘Letters after your name.’ Rickard read Rothman’s glowing endorsements as he shoved his handgun into his waistband. ‘Just make sure RIP doesn’t join them, Doc. I might need you again before long.’

‘I’m pretty fond of the green stuff,’ Rothman reassured him, ‘and I don’t intend dying any time soon.’

‘Both things we have in common,’ Rickard said. He clapped a hand on the doctor’s shoulder as he passed him by. ‘Take it easy, Doc.’

‘You too, Luke. You know how badly the cops are searching for you, right?’

‘Keeps life interesting.’

‘Hey, when you find her give your wife a kiss for me, will ya?’

Rickard lifted his sunglasses and peered back at the doctor from the doorway. ‘That I will do, Doc.’

He left Rothman chuckling to himself, letting himself out into a corridor in the apartment block where the quack had set up practice. The hallway stank of urine. A little way up the hall a kid no older than sixteen was huddled in a doorway. Rickard walked past him and the boy stuck out a grimy hand. ‘Any change, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Rickard said, ‘the doctor’s a miracle worker: I’m feeling quite good now.’

The boy blinked at him in a confusion hindered by his latest fix. He slowly withdrew his hand as Rickard walked away, laughing at his own joke.

He was three floors up but there was no way he would use the elevator. He suspected it was the source of the smell. Instead he went down the stairs, negotiating the trash and puddles while he made a call on his mobile phone. He’d finished the call by the time he pushed through an exit door on to the sidewalk. It was a fine morning in SoBe. The shadows of the buildings across the way blocked much of the sunlight, but it was already growing warm. By midday these streets would be bleached out, so the sunglasses were a good idea.

He walked across the street, flagrantly ignoring the jaywalking laws, and approached his newly acquired Honda Fireblade. The bike was a beauty, voted top for its looks and performance by many aficionados, but it was just a tool to Rickard. And part of his new disguise. Two young gangbangers were leaning on the hood of a muscle car, the bumper of their Chevrolet Camaro almost nudging the Fireblade. They stirred as he approached.

‘Thanks for watching my ride, guys.’ Rickard peeled a couple of twenty notes out, thinking that he might have to withdraw some more pocket money from his emergency stash. He’d already given the young toughs a hundred bucks each, but the extra cash would sweeten them even more. He wasn’t afraid of them, but at least this way he wouldn’t be troubled by having them follow him with the idea of taking everything from him. On any other occasion he’d lead them somewhere remote and then show them who the fuck they were trying to roll, but he had a more pressing date with Alisha.

The gangbangers accepted the money with their chins lifted. They looked like they were sniffing the air, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

‘Call it a bonus,’ Rickard said.

He straddled the Fireblade, flicked them a quick salute then started the bike. He shot off along the road and took the next corner almost leaning into the asphalt. Let them try to follow me now, he thought.

He took the McArthur Causeway across Biscayne Bay and on to the I-95 south, breezing by traffic at seventy miles an hour all the way down through the city to where the interstate merged with Route 1 and became the South Dixie Highway. There he opened up the bike, shooting along past Pine Crest and Perrine and heading for Florida City at the southernmost tip of the sprawling city. At a strip mall complete with a Denny’s, a Comfort Inn and a Texaco petrol station, he pulled the Fireblade to a halt under a stand of palm. Searching for the golden arches, he pulled out into the highway and drove into the fast food take-out lot a little further on.

There he waited, resting with his butt on the bike seat, arms crossed over his chest. He could feel the heat on his forehead as he stared back at the road, searching for the arrival of the man he’d called on his phone. Quite a large number of vehicles passed through the drive-thru before he saw the silver Land Rover he was expecting.

He stood still, waiting for the large vehicle to come to him. He could see three men inside, indistinct shadows, two in the front and one in the back. The Land Rover drew alongside the bike and he exchanged a nod with the passenger. Guy had a nasty bruise under his eyes. Like Rickard’s, the swelling on this man’s face was courtesy of Joe Hunter. Rickard hopped back on the Fireblade and peeled out of the lot, the Land Rover following to somewhere less public.

Next stop the Florida Keys. Rickard read signs on the road, but he’d no intention of travelling so far. He found an agricultural trail just outside of town and pulled on to the track. His wheels kicked up dust as he sped down it with the Land Rover following close behind.

He found a place where the track widened out, a grass verge on one side next to an irrigation channel. A wide field of tall grass spread away to the distant horizon on his right, but the other side of the trail was bordered by spindly trees choked with Spanish moss. There were also gumbo limbo trees, with weird twisted trunks and bark like leather.

Putting the bike on its stand, he walked out as the Land Rover passed by. He watched the driver throw the big vehicle into reverse and then pull in near to the bike. Rickard stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching closely as all three men got out, dust settling round them.

The driver leaned against the tailgate of the Land Rover, folding his arms on his chest in a copy of Rickard’s stance. The man from the back stood with a thumb tucked into his belt. Rickard saw a cast on the man’s forearm, poking out from under the cuff of his sleeve. The third man walked towards him, extending a hand in greeting. Rickard didn’t take it, just observed the man from behind his sunglasses. Finally he unfolded his arms, but only to reach up and push the shades back on his head.

Kenneth Wetherby didn’t know what to do with his hand and it took him a second or two to withdraw it. He rubbed his palm down the thigh of his trousers, leaving a damp smear on the material.

‘You brought what I wanted?’ Rickard stared at the livid bruise on the man’s face.

Wetherby nodded at the man standing by the Land Rover and he unlocked and dropped the tailgate. He leaned inside and pulled a large plastic trunk towards him, flipped open the lid. He stepped away as Rickard approached, crossing his arms again. Rickard knew the man’s pose wasn’t as nonchalant as it looked: there was a gun in a shoulder rig inside his jacket.

Rickard took a quick glance in the box. ‘How current is this?’

Behind him, Wetherby said, ‘Brand new issue. Have a contact at SWAT who moonlights for me off and on.’

Rickard nodded, satisfied. When he turned round, Wetherby took a step backwards, he’d been so close. ‘Quite a mess Hunter made of your face, Ken.’

Wetherby touched the swelling under his eye. ‘Asshole sucker-punched me.’

Rickard grunted, taking in the scrapes on the face of the man with his arms folded, the broken arm of the other. ‘He sucker-punched the three of you?’

‘He had help.’ Wetherby scowled, touched the swelling again. ‘I took this for you, Rickard. He wanted me to tell him who you were.’

‘So you told him?’

All three men stirred uncomfortably, a sign of the lies to follow.

‘No way,’ Wetherby said. ‘Why’d you think he hit me?’

‘Just wondering how he happened to turn up in Colombia. Bit of a coincidence, huh?’

‘Don’t know how he did it, but does it really matter now? He’s dead, right?’

‘Blown to hell,’ Rickard said.

‘Good fuckin’ riddance, I say.’

‘You said that he had help?’

‘Jared Rington.’

‘A tall black guy?’

‘No. A Jap.’

‘Odd name for an Oriental.’

‘Goes by Rink. He’s a PI outa Tampa. Hunter works with him, does the dirty work when required.’

‘So who’s the black guy?’

‘Don’t know any black guy,’ Wetherby said.

Rickard shrugged. It paid to know who he might be going up against, but maybe the point was immaterial. He fully expected that Rink and the black guy hadn’t made it out of Cesar Calle’s house alive. The German mercenary, Metzger, looked like he was their equal, plus he had more than a dozen others to back him up.

Out of nowhere, Rickard said, ‘I killed Gutierrez.’

Wetherby exhaled loudly, shaking his head. ‘He was your ticket, man. Why’d you do that?’

‘He was playing both sides: sooner or later he’d have betrayed me. I don’t tolerate betrayal.’

His words were loaded and Wetherby wasn’t too slow to pick up on that.

‘I didn’t tell Hunter where to find you.’

Rickard ignored him. He looked inside the plastic box again. ‘The SWAT guy: he didn’t ask why you wanted these?’

‘I pay him enough that he doesn’t ask.’

‘Even if I’m going up against his own people?’

‘Like I said, he takes the money and he doesn’t ask.’

‘Good enough,’ Rickard nodded. ‘Weapons?’

This time the man with the cast on his arm opened the rear door of the Land Rover. Pulling out a long black lacquered case from the back seat, he unsnapped clips and swung open the lid, holding it like an emissary bearing gifts to a foreign court.

‘Same rifle I used in Tampa,’ Rickard noted. ‘I thought you were going to get rid of it, Ken.’

‘There was no chance that the cops would find it. They were looking for Hunter. No way that they would come to my office.’

‘Hunter did.’

‘He had no idea I’d hired you on behalf of the Colombians. He was just clutching at straws when he turned up.’

‘But you didn’t tell him anything.’ Lifting out the M-40A3 bolt-action rifle, Rickard studied it. The gun was an original Remington 700, extensively remodelled by United States Marine Corps armourers. It had a five-round detachable box magazine and telescopic sights. Spare 7.62 × 51 mm NATO rounds were arranged in the lining of the case, alongside a long suppressor. The cartridges he’d used when killing the two cops, Castle and Soames, had been replaced. He put the rifle back into the box and closed the lid. Placed it on the ground.

He turned slowly to look at Wetherby.

‘It’s going to be difficult carrying the rifle while driving a motorcycle.’ Rickard scratched idly at his lower back while thinking the problem over. ‘I’m going to have to take the Land Rover.’

‘What? Leave us out here? No way.’

Rickard pulled out his gun. Back in Dr Rothman’s office he’d primed the weapon, screwing a suppressor in place. ‘I’m taking it.’

This wasn’t about the Land Rover. Rickard had planned to kill Wetherby and his goons the instant he’d called the man. After he killed Alisha, he was going to disappear, and Wetherby was the only living person who could lead the cops to him. He couldn’t leave behind any loose threads if he was to set himself up in another part of the country.

He shot the first man in the heart, just beneath his folded arms, and in the same movement swung on the man with the broken arm. The guy shrieked in panic, trying to get at the gun in his jacket but impeded by the cast. Rickard fired once and the bullet struck the man’s left cheek. Blood and brain matter puffed in the dusty air behind him. Both men collapsed at the same time, one to each side of Rickard’s extended arm. A little over two seconds was all that had elapsed between Rickard drawing the handgun and both men lying dead in the road.

In those couple of seconds Wetherby knew the truth, but his reaction wasn’t to fight back. Fear struck him and gave him the false sense of capability that said he could outrace a bullet. He set off running along the road, kicking up dirt.

Rickard shook his head at the man’s cowardice. He lifted the gun and aimed, firing a single round.

Wetherby slapped a hand down hard on his right buttock. It did nothing to stop the damage caused by the bullet. His leg gave under him and he spun to the ground, screaming in pain. He rolled over on his back, eyes wide as he watched Rickard walk calmly towards him. Finally he went for the gun clipped in a snap-holster on his hip.

Rickard stamped on his elbow, pinning his arm to the ground. He pulled loose Wetherby’s gun. It was a stainless steel revolver, six-shot, an old-timer’s weapon.

‘Please.’ The word came out as a long whine.

‘The truth now, Ken.’ Rickard stepped off his elbow. ‘You told Hunter how to find me.’

‘I didn’t…’

‘The truth, I said.’

‘He must have figured it out himself.’

Rickard shook his head slowly. He leaned down so he was staring deeply into Wetherby’s face. ‘You were at the centre of this, Ken. It was you who fed Jimena Grajales the information on Hunter and his team and who directed my movements on her behalf. You’re the only person who knew the connection between me and Gutierrez, and with Jimena. Hunter didn’t just turn up at Cesar Calle’s place by chance: someone gave him the tip-off.’

‘Why would I do that? I wanted him dead as much as Jimena did.’

‘Because you’re a coward, Ken, and you’re afraid of Hunter. You were the only person who knew I was going to Colombia. You hoped that by sending him after me we’d end up killing each other. You didn’t expect either of us to come back.’ Wetherby tried to sit up, his hands coming up imploringly. Rickard placed the toe of his boot to the man’s chest and pressed him down again. ‘You must have hated Joe Hunter a great deal to decide you’d set me up as well. Did you not consider what that would mean if I survived?’

‘I did hate him, Rickard. He threatened to close my business down, I couldn’t let that happen. So, yeah, I jumped at the chance to have him murdered. When Gutierrez contacted me looking for someone to do the job, you were the first name that came to my mind. I knew you were better than him. I knew that you could take him wherever you met.’

‘I thought you said you had nothing to do with sending him after me?’

‘Jesus, Rickard, you’re putting words in my mouth.’

‘No, Ken, I’m putting this in your mouth.’ He jammed the end of the suppressor against Wetherby’s teeth. ‘Say aah!’

Wetherby cried now. Rickard thought it strange that someone could screw their eyes so tight and still produce tears. His lips were equally puckered.

Rickard pulled the gun away.

‘Open your eyes, Ken.’

Wetherby couldn’t. The prospect of a horrible death had such a powerful hold on him that his brain function temporarily rebelled. He just lay there mewling like a broken-backed cat.

‘Open your freakin’ eyes. Look at me like a man, not crying like a little girl.’

Rickard kicked Wetherby in the backside, toe digging painfully into the bullet wound. The pain did the trick and Wetherby’s eyelids shot open. His pupils remained unfocused for a few seconds afterwards, but he finally looked up at Rickard.

‘Jesus… God…’

‘Shut up, Ken. You’re embarrassing yourself. You’re beginning to sound like my goddamn wife.’

‘Don’t hurt me… please!’

‘Well,’ Rickard said, ‘I’ve nothing else I can come up with. I was going to let you take the Fireblade back, but I can’t have you bleeding over such a beautiful piece of machinery.’

Rickard smiled, making the ill-concealed lie even more obvious.

‘Please…’

‘Can’t allow it. You betrayed me. Goodbye, Ken.’

He shot Wetherby in the chest.

The life went out of Wetherby like a tyre with a slow puncture, his arms flopping in slow-motion by his sides, mouth drooping open.

Rickard ejected the magazine from his gun, checked how many rounds he’d used. Still plenty left, so he pushed it back in place. While unscrewing the suppressor, he looked down at Wetherby dispassionately.

He thought that killing the man might cause more of a reaction. Wetherby had been his major source of income over the last few years and for most of them they’d been friends. It was a shame that Wetherby had allowed his hatred of Joe Hunter to come between them.

‘You should have just hired me to kill him straight off, Ken, kept things simple, instead of allowing a woman to call the shots. Do you see where a scheming bitch has got us now?’

Загрузка...