Headhunters

Chapter Twenty

Milton had no idea of the time when he finally awoke. The temperature had climbed inside the back of the van and it was beginning to get stuffy. He opened his eyes and saw lines of sunlight edged around the sides of the doors and little shafts piercing through holes and gaps in the bodywork. The sunlight lent just enough illumination for Milton to be able to see around the inside of the van. It had been cleared out thoroughly, and he couldn’t identify anything that would help him remove the cuffs and get out. Matilda’s head was against his shoulder. He craned his neck around so that he could look down at her. Her hair had fallen across her face in a curtain that reached down to his elbow. Her breathing was relaxed and even, with a gentle sighing each time she exhaled.

He didn’t want to disturb her.

He conducted a quick assessment of his own body, starting with his head and scanning down to his feet. All the usual aches and pains were present, almost reassuring in their constancy. It was something to focus on, and as he sat there in the back of the van, waiting for something to happen, it was a helpful distraction. He decided to let Matilda sleep, stretched out his aching legs, and settled in to wait.

He guessed that it was another fifteen minutes before he heard the voices again.

“Get ready.”

He heard the lock turn and the doors were thrown open. Light flooded inside, and Milton had to look away until his eyes adjusted to it.

Avi Bachman was standing in the sunlight.

Milton blinked the glare away.

“John,” Bachman said.

Milton quickly mastered his surprise. He had entertained the possibility that this might have something to do with Bachman. But Bachman was locked up in Angola, awaiting trial for multiple homicides, and it looked very much like a life behind bars was the very best sentence he could hope to receive. However, Milton hadn’t dismissed the prospect, not completely. A small part of him, buried deep, had always entertained the notion that Bachman had a hand in this. And, now that that suspicion was vindicated, other details became apparent.

This was a government operation.

Somehow, Avi Bachman had been released from custody and had enlisted the assistance of his old employer to seize Milton.

The Mossad.

And that meant Matilda wasn’t part of the deal. She was collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time, but that was scant consolation for her now. Bachman wouldn’t spare her. And if he thought that hurting her would hurt Milton, things would get even worse for her.

It took a lot to make Milton frightened, and he was frightened now.

“Surprised to see me?”

“Of course. I thought you were in Louisiana.”

“Things change. We’ve got unfinished business.”

Bachman was not a big man, perhaps a shade taller than Milton, but he was powerfully built. Milton thought that, if anything, he was a little bulkier than he had been the last time he had seen him. Bachman had had a lot of time on his hands. He had clearly spent some of it in the penitentiary’s gymnasium.

“John,” Matilda said, “who is this?” She stirred and tried to sit up.

Bachman’s attention had been fixed on Milton, but, now that she had spoken, he turned his cold eyes on her. “I heard we had another passenger. Who are you?”

“Matilda Douglas. And who the fuck are you?”

Bachman laughed. “Feisty. Like the girl in New Orleans. Right, Milton? Just like her.”

The mention of Isadora reminded Milton that if Bachman was out, then she and her family were in danger, too. Anyone who knew him — anyone who could say that they were friendly with him — was in a great deal of danger. “She’s the friend of a friend,” he said, trying to deflect attention away from her and knowing that it was a futile gesture. “I know her brother. I was working for him.”

Bachman gave Matilda a little tip of the head. “My name is Avi. Has John mentioned me?”

“No.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. We’re not really friends.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“He killed my wife. No reason why he’d tell you that. Doesn’t paint him in the best light, though, does it, John?”

“I didn’t—”

Bachman’s seeming affability vanished in the blink of an eye. He raised the pistol and aimed it at Milton’s head.

“Deny it one more time.”

Milton looked at him, at the mask of fury that had fallen across his face, and knew that he should pull back, but he couldn’t. “I didn’t kill her, Avi. I told you what happened. She was killed by a ricochet. From one of your rounds.”

“Say that one more time.” He came forward and jammed the gun against Milton’s head.

“Take it easy.”

Bachman pushed hard until Milton’s head was pressed up against the side of the van. The muzzle of the pistol pushed against his skull, just above his ear, and he thought of the bullet nestled in the chamber, two inches away, so close.

“How well do you know John, Matilda?”

Bachman held the pistol in place. Milton’s arm was outstretched from the position he had been forced into.

“Not very well.”

“No, I doubt you do. I can’t imagine that you’d want to have anything to do with him if you knew what he was really like. I’ll tell you a few things, shall I? See what you think then.”

“Avi—”

“He used to be an assassin. He’s a murderer. A professional killer. He tell you that?”

“No,” she said, her voice wavering.

“I know he didn’t tell you that he killed Lila, but he did. Lila — that’s my wife. He shot her. And she’s just the last that I know about. You killed anyone since, John? Anyone else Matilda should know about?”

“No.”

“That’s the thing, Matilda. Psychopaths, the worst ones — they’re good at hiding it. Someone like Milton”—he pressed harder with the gun—“someone who seems like he’s just another guy, just another ordinary guy… You got to ask, what kind of person is it that can hide like that?”

Milton pushed back, straining his neck until he had moved his head away from the wall. Bachman let him do it, but he left the gun still pressed there.

Milton stared into his face. “Shoot me or don’t shoot me,” he said. “I don’t care. But, please, for God’s sake, just shut the fuck up. If you believe a word of that, you’re even more insane that I thought you were.”

Bachman held the gun in place for another long second and then brought it away.

There was glee in his face. Milton looked into his eyes and saw madness.

“I’m not going to shoot you. You know me, John. That’s not my style. Too easy. We’re going to finish what we started in the fairground. You and me. Man on man. No weapons. No one else.” He stepped back, handed the gun to one of the other men and then took off his jacket. “Get him out of there, Malakhi. Take the cuffs off and take them both down to the lake. I was going to wait, but we might as well get this over with now.”