No Tears for the Lost

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It was too late to duck back. Riley kept going, straightening her forearm and swinging it into the man’s throat with all the power she could muster.

He made a harsh, choking noise and hit the ground on his back, leaving behind an aroma of fried onions. His gun flew away and hit the wall of the house, where it went off with a bang and a flash, lighting up the surrounding area like a flare. With no time to scoop it up, Riley kept running, bouncing off the doorframe and falling inside.

Behind her, the man clambered to his feet and scrabbled away, shouting in a hoarse voice for someone called Baga. Or maybe he knew some English.

It was deathly quiet inside the house after the sound of the shot, with just the heavy tick of a clock somewhere nearby. She was in the kitchen. There were no lights on, but the room was saved from total darkness by a couple of red pilot lights on the wall above the cookers.

Riley waited until she got her breath back, then inched through the gloom, feeling her way across the stone-flagged floor until she reached the door of the storeroom. She pushed it open and stepped inside.

‘You took your time.’ The voice came in the same instant that the light came on, and Riley thought her heart was going to stop. She spun round, flattening herself against a wall.

It was Palmer, leaning against the metal cabinet as if he was waiting for tea to be served. He looked unruffled but serious.

‘I’ve been up on the roof waiting for you to do something!’ Riley muttered scathingly, determined not to show how scared she was. She brushed him aside and opened the gun cabinet. It gave her something to do while she hid her enormous relief at seeing him, and to steady her breathing. If she even thought about what she was doing right now, she’d probably fall to pieces.

To her relief, the cabinet still contained the shotgun and the box of cartridges. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘What have you been doing?’

‘Waiting for you, mostly. I figured you’d be along eventually-’ He broke off, staring at her chest. ‘Christ, what did you do up there — slaughter a heifer?’

‘What?’ She peered down and was horrified to see her jacket and shirt were drenched with darkening blood, with more on her hands and arms. It must have come from helping Sir Kenneth up the stairs to the roof. She also had a cut on one hand, probably caused by the piece of flying masonry. Fortunately, it wasn’t serious. ‘I didn’t realise… damn — my favourite jacket!’ She tugged at a large tear in one sleeve, and felt a chill in her stomach as she realised how close the bullet had come.

Palmer cast around and grabbed a sweatshirt hanging on a hook behind the door. He gestured to a small sink on the other side of the room. ‘You might want to wash your hands and put this on. I’ll watch your back while you change.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Glad to see it’s not your blood.’ Then he turned away to watch the door, suddenly awkward.

Riley nodded, feeling nauseous at the sight of the blood, but oddly touched by Palmer’s concern. ‘Thanks.’ She stripped off her jacket and shirt, unselfconscious about him turning round and seeing her in her frillies. Now, she figured, wasn’t the time for girlish modesty. She washed her hands and arms thoroughly, turning the water pink, then dried them on a handful of paper towels. ‘What were the shots I heard?’

‘You mean apart from the ones they were firing at you?’ He handed her the sweatshirt. ‘No idea. I think they were getting nervous and making noises for the sake of it.’

‘There was something burning when I got here. Was that you?’

‘Guilty, m’lady,’ he admitted. ‘By the fiendish application of paper, old leaves and rubbing two sticks together, I created a diversion and Henzigger sent one of his gunmen to investigate. We bumped into each other, but he didn’t want to dance.’

‘Bumped?’ She wanted to ask if the man had got up and walked away again, but decided against it. If Palmer was still on his feet and unharmed, it seemed doubtful.

He hefted an automatic pistol she hadn’t noticed before and smiled regretfully. ‘Only bumped, I’m afraid. He was too quick on his feet. Have you seen Myburghe?’

‘I had to leave him on the roof. Henzigger shot him.’

‘Christ. How bad?’

‘He needs a hospital, but I don’t think he’ll last long enough.’ She described where she’d left Myburghe and the Colombian, and told him of her brief exchange with the man outside.

‘Damn,’ Palmer said calmly. ‘I must be getting deaf — I didn’t hear that one coming.’ He checked the magazine of the automatic and said, ‘So we’ve got one man — possibly two — and Henzigger.’

‘And Mitcheson. He’s armed, by the way.’

Palmer nodded, unsurprised. ‘I had a feeling he was out there. Thanks for the warning.’

‘I also called Weller. He’s on his way in with an armed response team.’

‘How much time have we got?’

‘Fifteen minutes, at a guess. Why?’

‘Too long. Henzigger’s not going to sit around waiting. They had a plane arranged to take them out, but it failed to turn up. That’s why he’s so pissed. He’ll want to finish this, and the longer we leave him, the more likely he is to find us. The odds aren’t great.’

‘Why won’t he run?’

‘He will, eventually. But we’re not dealing with rational men; he’ll want to silence us, and his Colombians won’t dare go back without knowing Myburghe is dead.’

‘What do you suggest?’

He took the shotgun out of the cabinet and loaded it, then handed it to her with some spare cartridges. He jerked his head towards the roof. ‘You’ll be better off back on the roof watching Myburghe. Try to keep him awake. I’ll see if I can hook up with Mitcheson without him blowing me away. Anyone comes over the roof or through the door without singing out who they are, point and pull.’

Riley resisted the idea. ‘But-’

‘But nothing.’ John Mitcheson’s voice came from right outside the door. ‘This isn’t your thing, Riley. It’s ours. We need to know you’re safely out of the way. Go now. We’ll watch your back.’

Riley did as instructed, waving at Mitcheson’s dense shadow against the wall as she passed.

Palmer watched Riley go, ready for the first sign of movement by the trees. He waited for her to disappear among the scaffolding, before turning towards Mitcheson.

‘You heard?’ he said. ‘We’ve got company coming.’

‘Yeah. Not soon enough, though. Let’s finish it.’

Palmer nodded. ‘It might be best if you aren’t seen here.’

Mitcheson grunted. ‘I’ll deal with it when it comes, don’t worry.’

Palmer scanned the gardens for signs of activity. But if Henzigger was out there, he was keeping his head down. And probably becoming more desperate by the minute. Men like Toby Henzigger were resourceful, and with a briefcase full of money, there would be plenty of takers with boats and small aircraft willing to provide an escape route, no questions asked.

For the moment, though, he knew Henzigger wanted to finish it on his terms. Without Riley, Palmer or Myburghe to testify to his involvement in the drugs shipments, the American probably reasoned on having a good chance of getting away free. He also had to satisfy his Colombian watchers that he had control of the mopping-up, otherwise they might have orders to demonstrate their displeasure in an extreme way.

Which made Riley and Myburghe the main targets for his anger.

The only spoiler was he and Mitcheson being stuck here clutching weapons when, any minute now, Weller’s men might come swarming down out of the night sky. Awkward wouldn’t even come close.

‘Lead the way, Hawkeye,’ he called. He hoped Mitcheson would have the sense to keep his head down when the shit hit the fan. With his past record and his previous involvement in Colombia, the last thing Mitcheson needed was to be found in the middle of a drugs scam originating from the same corner of the world. ‘I’ll take the stable,’ he added. ‘You watch the trees.’ He waited for an acknowledgment, but there was silence. ‘Hello?’

Palmer swore softly and slid outside. Everything was quiet, save for a soft breeze ruffling the foliage in the trees. An owl hooted somewhere and a night creature gave a high-pitched squeak. Without all the shooting it could almost have been a normal evening.

He made his way across the lawns to the stable block. Being out in the open set all his alarm bells screaming, but there was no alternative. Going round via the trees would be noisier and take too long. And Henzigger wasn’t going to wait forever. He also had help, which gave the American a considerable edge when it came to hunting in the dark.

He reached the corner of the stalls and paused. If he’d been in Henzigger’s shoes, he would have been waiting outside, knowing there were others out here who had to make the first approach. But as he’d said to Riley, Henzigger wasn’t rational.

A sound came from a stall halfway along the opposite block. Nobody showed themselves, so he slipped back and round to the rear of the accommodation block and found an open window into one of the rooms. It was a tight fit, but he took a deep breath and hoisted himself onto the ledge. He slid through and waited to see if someone would come and investigate. Nobody did.

As short as the corridor was between the room and the anteroom where David Hilary had died, it was the longest walk of Palmer’s life. He stepped carefully along the cold floor, checking each room was clear. Each tiny sound he made seemed magnified a hundred times. Every step of the way he expected Henzigger or one of his men to appear. His shoes crunched on minute dirt particles as he emerged into the anteroom, and he felt his stomach lock tight at the idea that he might be walking into a trap.

It was too dark to see if the anteroom had been cleaned. He could smell the sickly aroma of blood overlaying the sharp tang of chemicals, and guessed the forensic teams hadn’t yet finished. This was confirmed when he saw the fluttering outline of plastic crime scene tape stretched across the open doorway.

He peered through the gap between the door and the jamb. It gave him a narrow view out across the yard. If Henzigger’s men weren’t in here, they must be out there somewhere. And being very patient.

He checked his watch. There wasn’t much time left. Any minute now, a helicopter would be dropping armed men behind the trees. Anyone moving would be spotted through image intensifiers. No doubt they would have been alerted about the shooting, and in spite of their rules of engagement, Palmer didn’t place too much reliance on first warnings. In a hot fire-zone, anyone with a weapon would be classified as the enemy and taken out.

In the distance a shot slammed out, followed by a stuttering rattle. A high-rate automatic, he guessed, and felt his shoulders bunch at the thought of the hail of bullets slicing through the night. It was followed by a double-tap, then silence.

Mitcheson?

Palmer edged round the doorjamb and ducked out into the yard. With this end clear, he could now check the stalls. He was barely halfway there, when he saw movement across the yard in a doorway. A tall shape came charging out of the gloom, the gleam of a pistol in his hand.

Henzigger. The American had caught him blind-sided.

Palmer threw himself flat, instinctively making himself as small a target as possible. As he did so, the gun in Henzigger’s hand flared, lighting up the yard momentarily, the sound of the shot hitting Palmer a nano-second later.

As he hit the ground, he felt a burning sensation seer its way across his back. He yelped involuntarily and rolled away in desperation. Thrusting out the pistol, he pulled the trigger three times, the shots merging like a drum roll. The yard lit up again and he heard a scream and the thump of a body falling.

The American swore, a harsh, featureless word ending in a sob.

Lying here, Palmer knew he was just as exposed as Henzigger, especially if the American had anyone backing him up. He flexed his shoulders and felt a sharp pain lancing across his back. But at least he could still move. So far, he thought wryly, so good. He checked his surroundings. The dark bulk of a stall was just inches away. Rolling over, he reached up and felt for the bolt on the door, easing it across. If he could get inside, he’d be safe.

But Henzigger had other ideas.

As Palmer pulled himself towards the door, there was a click in the dark. A light came on and he felt the muscles in his neck go rigid. He looked round.

Toby Henzigger was hanging off one of the opposing stable doors, his hand on a light switch. In his other hand was a gun.

The man looked almost demented. His clothing was dirty and ripped, and one arm was hanging down, the sleeve shredded. His shirt was soaked in blood, which was dripping from his stomach and forming a small, glossy puddle at his feet. He had a wild look in his eyes. For a man who’d just been shot, he looked livelier than he had any right to.

Palmer stayed very still. His gun was by his side but pointing the wrong way. It would take a visible effort to bring it round. If he tried, Henzigger, even in his state, would kill him without blinking.

‘Looks like you’ve lost this one, Toby,’ Palmer said, with more confidence than he felt. His voice was shaky and he felt an insane urge to giggle. His back was burning badly now, and he was beginning to feel light-headed. He tried to rationalise his situation; either he’d taken another shot without realising it and was sinking into shock, or he was just over-excited.

He wondered how Riley was getting on. He hoped she’d got out all right.

Henzigger nodded slowly. His body shuddered. He took a couple of great gulps of air and swayed a bit, but the gun in his fist didn’t waver by a millimetre. Palmer gave him full marks for cool; no denials, no threats, no claims about how he was going to get out of here and live the high life somewhere in the Caribbean. He simply stared in what could have been bewilderment or anger, but which Palmer guessed was just good old, plain disbelief.

‘Damn,’ Henzigger said at last in a breathless whisper, as if reading his mind. ‘I should have listened to Hilary. He said you were bad news. You and your girlfriend.’ He coughed and spat something onto the floor, where it lay glistening wetly in the dirt. ‘Say, as a matter of interest, she’s not butch, is she?’

Palmer shook his head, eyes on Henzigger’s gun muzzle. He knew what the American was doing: the question was meant to provoke him into an unwise move. But he wasn’t going to play. They were thirty feet apart, which was quite a distance for a pistol shot in dubious light. But it was still like staring into a black bucket, and he didn’t doubt that Henzigger knew how to shoot. One wrong flinch and that would be the end of it.

‘Yeah, well who cares, right?’ Henzigger coughed again and shook his head. ‘Are the cops coming?’

Palmer nodded once. ‘Not just ordinary cops, either.’

‘Yeah?’ Henzigger sounded genuinely interested, in spite of the rattle in his throat. Palmer thought he might be balancing on the edge of hysteria. ‘Black-hats, huh? Say, is it right they still carry truncheons over here? Hell of a way to arm cops, you ask me. If they tried that in LA, they’d get the crap beat out of them.’ He tried to laugh but it brought on a fit of coughing instead. He nearly doubled over with the effort, but the gun never wavered, and Palmer had to marvel at the other man’s control.

He heard a noise from out in the darkness. A footfall. Deliberate. If Henzigger heard it, too, he didn’t react. If it was one of the Colombians, Palmer knew he was in trouble. If not, he didn’t want to get in the way. But he might as well play for time.

‘Why did you have to do that to Hilary?’ he asked.

Henzigger shrugged. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. ‘Shit, that was the Colombians, not me. He got in the way and let Myburghe slip away. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I woulda just given him a slap, but they had their orders. That’s how they do things back there. It’s called — what’s it in French?’

Palmer supplied the answer. ‘Pour encourager les autres.’ He’d been right. Hilary’s death had been punishment, not torture.

But Toby didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘Well, can’t stand talking here all day,’ he said suddenly. He staggered away from the stable door and stood directly beneath the light illuminating the yard, suddenly larger than life. He even had a semblance of a smile on his face. ‘Things to do, places to go.’ He was talking louder than before, and making no attempt to hide, as if bidding goodnight to a fellow drinker in a bar.

Palmer stared at him. What was he playing at?

Then he had his answer. John Mitcheson stepped into the pool of light. He looked calm and steady and dangerous and was carrying his automatic by his side. He eyed Toby carefully, assessing the potential threat.

‘Whoa,’ grunted Toby. ‘Who’ve we got here?’ He turned his head unsteadily to stare at Palmer with almost comical accusation. ‘A new boy? You been playing sneaky, Palmer. That’s not cricket.’ He turned back to Mitcheson and said, ‘What’ve you done to my vaqueros, huh?’ He waved a vague hand, like a drunk talking to a lamppost. ‘No need to answer that. Believe it or not, they were supposed to be good. Top notch. Just shows, you can’t trust anybody these days.’ His voice trailed off into a faint gargle and he spat again, then shuddered as if in revulsion.

‘Put it down,’ Mitcheson urged him quietly. ‘It’s over.’

‘Uh-uh.’ Henzigger winced, then spoke in a rush, his chest heaving. ‘Can’t do that. If the black-hats get their hands on me, they’ll lock me up for a gazillion years. And that ain’t me. I’m too keen on the open air and the wind in my face.’ He smiled softly. ‘Sorry.’

As he finished speaking, he swung the gun with an almost casual air towards Palmer and pulled the trigger.

The shot was shockingly loud. But the bullet hit the ground a long way beyond Palmer and whined off into the darkness like an angry hornet, embedding itself in a stable door and tearing off a large slice of wood.

Henzigger swore and went to pull the trigger again. Mitcheson didn’t flinch. He fired twice. Both shots took Henzigger high in the chest and slammed him backwards against the stable wall. The gun fell from his hand, and with a long sigh, the American toppled lazily forward.

He was dead before he hit the ground.