Kill Fee (25 page)

H
e found the target’s room without a problem. Followed the signs to the bank of elevators, showed the room key to the security guard, and joined a group of young people in a crowded car. They piled off on the fourteenth floor. Lind rode alone to the thirty-fifth.

He had memorized the target’s room number. Now he walked down the long corridor, reaching back for his pistol and disengaging the safety.
He gripped the gun tight in one hand and knocked on the target’s door with the other.

There was no answer from within. No movement behind the pinprick peephole. The light behind it stayed constant. Lind gave it a minute before he knocked again. Still no answer. He slid his key in the lock and felt the lock disengage.

Slowly he pushed the door open and crept into the room. The gun was heavy in his hand, the steel slick. Behind the door was a long hallway, dark, save for a thin beam of light coming through the curtains in the room at the end.

The hallway opened up into a spacious living area. There was nobody waiting, no movement. There were no lights on anywhere. Lind checked the whole suite: the kitchenette, both bedrooms. The sheets were tangled and lived in; there were clothes on the floor. Bottles in the living room, half-empty glasses. Thin lines of white powder and a baggie of pills, but no people. The target was gone.

Lind stood in the dark living area and waited. Gripped the gun tight and hoped the target would return quickly. He realized he was nervous.

It was a new kind of nervous. It wasn’t the sensation he normally felt as he waited to complete an assignment, the sick fear that he would fail, that the target wouldn’t show, that he would disappoint the man. Lind knew the target was coming. The target always came. The man was never wrong. No, there was something else unsettling Lind. He felt a hint of panic when he tried to explore it.

Caity Sherman. He kept thinking about the girl. He’d thought about her on the flight out, on the cab ride to the hotel. He’d thought about her all morning as he wandered the Strip. He’d thought about her, he realized, while he dreamed.

He knew he should have killed her. He knew the man would be angry. He shouldn’t be thinking of her now, in this hotel room, on assignment. He should be focused on the target. On pleasing the man. He should be focused on making the visions go away. But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Caity Sherman. The way she’d smiled at him. The way she’d laughed and teased him. The way her face had fallen when he’d tried to brush her aside. Lind caught himself hoping he hadn’t hurt her feelings. He hoped he would see her again.

This was bad. Lind knew it was bad. He felt the panic behind his eyes whenever he saw her. The buzzing like a million hornets inside his skull. He felt like he wanted to claw his brain out through his ears.

Still, he couldn’t escape her. He stood in the target’s dark room and thought about Caity Sherman, fighting the waves of panic and trying to stay calm. He stood there for a long time. He started to feel worried. He started to wonder if the target wouldn’t come.

Then he heard voices, and a key in the door. Laughter from the hallway, and a fresh beam of light. The target was here. Lind gripped his pistol tighter and tried to push Caity Sherman from his mind.

A
man and two women. They came into the room, laughing, dressed for the pool. The man went for the cocaine on the table. Dragged a woman with him. The second woman fumbled with the light switch. Then she saw Lind and screamed.

Lind stepped out of the shadows. Leveled the gun at the man as the women shrank back. He was a big guy, the target, slick hair, middle-aged. He wore a towel around his waist and a gold chain on his neck, and he glared at Lind, masking confusion with anger. “What the fuck, man?” he said. “Who the fuck are you?”

The woman screamed again, from the corner. Lind knew he would
have to kill them, too. Collateral damage. They’d seen his face. The man would expect them to die.

The target stood, his palms up. “What do you want, man? Who are you?”

It was an easy assignment. He would shoot the target, and then he would shoot the women. Then he would leave. Quick and clean. An easy assignment.

The target took a step toward Lind. Lind took a step with the gun. The target drew back. The women gasped from the corner. The target’s anger was gone now. “What do you want, man?” he said, his voice high-pitched and frantic. “You want money? Whatever you need, man, it’s yours.”

Lind didn’t reply. He brought the gun up to the target’s face. Reached out and grabbed him by his gold chain. Twisted it, dragging the man closer. The target gasped for air, begged, the gun to his temple.

Pull the trigger. Pullthetriggerpullthetriggerpullthetrigger.

Lind saw the man in Duluth. Saw the man in Miami. Saw the blood. It seemed to fill the hotel room, and it belonged to the Miami target, the Saint Paul target, the Hollywood executive, and the New York adulterers. It was the blood of the terrified soldier, chained to that brick wall.

Lind tried to shake his head clear as the target begged for his life. Gritted his teeth and felt that awful panic rising, pounding in his ears like a drumbeat. His world shook and shattered. He closed his eyes and saw Caity Sherman. Saw blood. Heard the gun roar and realized he’d pulled the trigger.

The target screamed. The women screamed. Lind opened his eyes, expecting carnage. Instead, he saw gun smoke. A bullet hole in the ceiling. The target clutched at his ear. Lind had missed him.

The target struggled. Gasped. Swore. He’d dropped his towel; he fought in a blue Speedo for his life, his body fat and unremarkable and
pathetic. He clawed at the chain around his neck. The women screamed again, a chorus, never ceasing. The panic roared in Lind’s ears. The whole world was one narrow tunnel, his ears staticky noise. He knew he had to kill the target.

He couldn’t.

Lind let go of the target’s chain. The man wrenched free, scrabbled backward, across the room. Lind fought more waves of panic. He lowered the gun. Somewhere in the chaos, he realized he should run.

L
ind hurried to the elevators. Pressed the call button three times and glanced down the long hallway. Nobody was coming. Somewhere in the distance an alarm was sounding. Lind pressed the call button again.

The elevator doors opened. Lind stuffed the gun in his waistband and climbed aboard, his heart still pounding, the panic at his throat. He leaned against the elevator wall and waited as the car plunged to earth.

He sleepwalked across the gaming floor. Passed an army of uniformed security guards headed up into the tower and felt a wave of panic so strong, it forced him off his feet. He sat at an electronic slot machine and tried to clear his head. He’d failed to complete the assignment. The man was going to be angry.

Lind steadied himself on the back of his chair and then walked across the casino and out the front doors. He started down the curving driveway toward Las Vegas Boulevard, stopped halfway down, and walked to the shore of the vast lake that fronted the casino. Took out his cell phone and dialed the man’s number. After a moment, the man picked up. “You good?”

“No good,” Lind told him. “I failed the assignment.”

The man swore. “What the hell do you mean?”

“The assignment wasn’t completed. I failed to complete it.”

“Jesus Christ.” The man paused. “What the hell happened? Don’t answer that. Where are you now?”

“Outside the casino. I found the target, but I couldn’t complete the assignment.”

“You found him. He
saw
you?”

Lind looked around. “Yes.”

“God damn it. You have to get out of there.” The man paused again. “Your flight’s in, what, ninety minutes? Get to the airport and get the hell out of town.”

Lind nodded. “Okay.”

“We’ll talk about this later.
Go.
” The man ended the call. Lind pocketed the cell phone. Took the gun from his waistband and threw it in the lake. Then he walked to the Strip. Pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk. Hesitated a moment, and then walked off the curb and out onto the boulevard.

Horns honked. Brakes squealed. Lind walked to a marooned cab. Opened the door and slid in the backseat. “Airport,” he said.

The cabbie spun in his seat. “Shit, man, you crazy? I can’t pick you up here.”

“Airport.”
Lind pulled out his wallet. “A hundred dollars, cash.”

The cabbie stared at him. More horns blared outside. Finally, the cabbie shook his head. “Shit,” he said. “Fucking tourists.” Then he stepped on the gas.

S
omeone knocked on the door. “One second,” Parkerson called, struggling to keep his voice calm. “I’ll be out in one second.”

“Dad?”

“Sweetheart, I just need one second.”
Parkerson turned back to his computer. Stared at it a moment, blankly, and then reached for his scotch. The asset had failed his assignment. Who the hell knew why?

The kid had been compromised in Miami. That was the problem. He should have been terminated. Should have died that night by the swamp. Parkerson hadn’t killed him, and now the Vegas job was shot. Now the whole program was at risk.

Someone knocked on the door again. “Dinner’s getting cold, Daddy.”

Parkerson spun.
“One goddamn second,”
he said.
“Just give me one goddamn second of peace.”

There was a pause. Then a wail from outside. Fast footsteps away from the door. Parkerson exhaled, shaking his head. Turned back to his computer. Tried to figure out a plan. He picked up the Killswitch phone. Dialed the Las Vegas client. “There’s been a problem,” he said. “The target wasn’t destroyed.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Fuck you.”

“We had unexpected difficulties. I’ll refund the money. No problem.”

The client swore again. “Fucking right it’s a problem. I need that man dead.”

“My asset ran into a situation,” Parkerson said. “Look, I’ll get the job done. I’m just going to need a little more time.”

“Bullshit,” said the client. “I need him gone this weekend. You’re saying you can’t finish the job?”

Parkerson stared at his computer screen. Had a bad idea. A risky idea. “I might have somebody else,” he said. “Let me get back to you.”

M
athers sat up. “Bull’s-eye,” he said. “You’re a genius, Carla.”

Windermere hurried over. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Mathers. What’d I do now?”

“Ballistics.” Mathers grinned at her. “You were right.”

Windermere frowned. “You’re shitting me,” she said, peering over Mathers’s shoulder. “The Nadeau piece is in the system?”

If it was true, it was a lottery-ticket break in the case. The FBI’s ballistics database held unique fingerprints for over 500,000 weapons, data that could allow law enforcement officers to link crimes that had been committed using the same guns. Trouble was, there were over 220 million firearms in the country. The odds of hitting a match were pretty damn slim.

“It’s not the weapon,” Mathers said. “It’s the bullets.” He gestured at the screen, his smile growing. “The killer left shell casings on the floor of the Carlyle. According to the NYPD, they’re a particular brand of nine-millimeter rounds, custom stuff. Only available direct from the manufacturer, somebody called OneShot, out of Galveston, Texas.”

Windermere stared at the screen. “Custom rounds,” she said, straightening. “Anyone from the NYPD talk to these OneShot people?”

“They didn’t get anywhere,” Mathers said. “Too many people buying up these bullets. But they had no idea the Nadeau murder was anything more than a stand-alone case.”

“But if Killswitch used these bullets for more than one killing . . .” Windermere clapped her hands. “Hot damn, Mathers. Told you I was a genius. Stevens is going to flip when he hears this.”

Mathers looked at her. “Assuming he cares.”

“Of course he’ll care, Mathers. It’s his case, too.”

“Except he bailed on us.”

“He didn’t—” Windermere sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess he did.”

Mathers glanced at his computer again. “Anyway,” he said. “Probably have to wait until Monday to get ahold of the OneShot people. And that search is going to take some time, too.”

“So what do we do until we get the results back?”

Mathers grinned at her again. “How about dinner?”

THEY ATE AT A FONDUE JOINT
a few blocks from the hotel. Three courses: cheese, meat, and dessert, the whole works. Mathers gave her his all-American smile. “It’s Saturday night in the City of Brotherly Love,” he said. “Might as well live it up.”

They drank beer instead of wine, at Windermere’s insistence. A couple bottles in and she started to forget about Stevens. She looked across the table at Mathers. “All right, you goof,” she said. “What’s your story, anyway?”

Mathers grinned wider. “Grew up in Wisconsin,” he said. “Studied law at Marquette. Graduated, joined the Bureau. Hilarity ensued.”

“Why?” she said.

“Why what?” He laughed. “Hilarity didn’t actually ensue, Carla. It’s—”

She shook her head. “Why’d you join the Feds, dummy? What’s so great about law enforcement?”

Mathers chewed for a moment. “You want the truth?”

“Hell no.” She drank. “I want the lie you tell the pretty girls at the bar. Of course I want the truth.”

“All right.” Mathers grinned at her again. “You ever see that movie
Point Break
? Keanu Reeves, Patrick Swayze?”

“The bank robbers in the Richard Nixon masks. Yeah, I saw it.”

“The surfers. Keanu’s Johnny Utah. Has to infiltrate that gang of surfers, only Swayze figures him out.”

“I remember,” said Windermere. “They go skydiving.”

“And the end, he tracks Swayze to that one beach. Monster waves. Swayze convinces Keanu to let him go out and surf, knowing full well he’s going to die.”

“Good times,” said Windermere. “But what the hell does this have to do with you? You figured you’d join the FBI and it’d be all surfing and skydiving?”

Mathers nodded. “Something like that.”

“Instead you’re in Philadelphia. Working the damn phone book.”

“I’m eating fondue with a beautiful woman,” said Mathers. “I’d say I’m pretty comfortable with my career choice right now.”

Windermere might have laughed in his face some other time. Tonight, though, she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Jesus,” she said, looking down at her plate. “Easy, buddy.”

Mathers looked at her. She could feel it, his eyes on her. Knew he was smiling that shit-eating grin. Thing was, she was starting to like it.