Death Echo (11 page)

“Would he?” Emma asked.

Mac shrugged and looked at her. “Usually, yes. He always talks about his next run like it will be the answer to all his problems.”

“It never is,” Faroe said. Not a guess.

“No, it never is.” Mac sighed and ran his hand over his short hair. “Damn, I don’t want to get Tommy into any more trouble than he’s found all by himself.”

“St. Kilda isn’t looking to hang the errand boy,” Faroe said. “We don’t fish for minnows.”

“Not even to use as live bait for bigger fish?” Emma asked, thinking of her own childhood.

Mac looked at Faroe and waited. “We work very hard to limit any collateral damage,” Faroe said. “But we’re not perfect.”

“Nothing human is,” Mac said. “But some things sure are more imperfect than others.”

“You want to investigate St. Kilda before you sign up?” Faroe asked. “If we talk long enough, we’ll find people who know people who know other people.”

“I already did. ‘Merry’ Marty Jones sends you this.” Slowly Mac raised the middle finger of his right hand.

Faroe almost fell off his chair laughing. “Good to know the son of a bitch is as mean as ever. If he wasn’t pushing eighty, I’d harass his ass into signing on with St. Kilda.” Then Faroe’s smile vanished. “You in or out?”

“I’ve got a few more calls that I’m waiting to be returned.”

“Don’t wait too long,” Faroe said bluntly. “This op has a real short clock on it. Call the instant you decide.”

Mac gave Faroe a long look before he nodded curtly.

Faroe headed for the door, with Emma right behind him. She paused at the open door.

“What if we have to contact you?” she asked Mac.

“I have your cell phone number.”

Emma bit back what she thought of Mac’s response, turned on her heel, and followed Faroe. They had a lot of intel to go over together and damn little time.

There was never enough time.

ON
THE
REZ

1:35 A.M.

A
stiff breeze blew through the mixed forest, making needles whisper and leaves rattle. Demidov was just another shadow moving among shadows, sliding between the scrubby trees with an eerie kind of grace. It had taken him an hour to discover the overgrown dirt lane leading into the forest. The “address” he’d found in the Blue Water Marine Group’s office was more of a general direction than any specific guide.

The reservation reminded him of the farthest fringes of Vladivostok, where cart roads became footpaths that unraveled into the wild, ragged land, places where somebody’s location was a matter of spirited discussion among natives.

The wind helped Demidov find his destination. He followed the odor of feces and burning trash to the moonlit clearing where bottles and plastic bags studded the wrecked vehicles in bizarre decoration. Again, it reminded him of Vladivostok. Even the can of kerosene he carried brought back memories.

There was one light burning in the sagging trailer at the far side of the clearing. Demidov circled the trailer once, then again, before he climbed carefully up the broken steps at the back door. After listening for a minute, he caught the stem of the handle in a pair of grip-lock pliers, and twisted. The lock came apart with the small whine of inferior metal.

He slid back into the shadows and waited. One minute. Two.

Ten.

The trailer remained quiet, motionless but for the occasional quiver beneath the rising wind.

Demidov waited some more. If he was a religious man, he would have prayed, but his only god was power, so he simply waited, listening.

No noises came from inside the trailer.

Quietly he skimmed over the broken steps and through the door, a shadow dancer taking his place on a shabby stage. Any small noises he made were simply part of the performance, the night and the wind and the forest dancing together.

The inside of the trailer smelled like the clearing, with an overlay of sour pizza and beer. His target was facedown on a lumpy couch, snoring into the crook of his arm. Crushed beer cans lay scattered on the floor like a fallen house of cards.

A loaded, cocked pistol waited among the cans.

This becomes more like Vladivostok with every moment,
Demidov thought in wry disgust.
Fear makes them drink. Too much alcohol makes even the smartest of them a fool.

Easy.

Demidov had planned to question the target, but experience told him that even intense pain couldn’t cut through some alcohol stupors. He set the kerosene can aside, picked up Tommy’s gun, and frowned.

A man would have to put this .22 caliber toy up a target’s ass to make any impression.

Worse, my silencer won’t fit this barrel.

Damp salt air magnified sound like a megaphone. Demidov wanted to be off the reservation and out of sight before any alarm went out. He put the little pistol out of reach without bothering to wipe it. There was no chance of fingerprints; his thin, black driving gloves covered all manner of problems.

Demidov reached into his long leather coat and pulled out one of his own guns, an SR-1 Vektor. Eighteen rounds, quite reliable as long as the safety was put out of commission with thin tape. With the correct ammunition, the Vektor was capable of penetrating body armor, cars, walls, and light armor plate.

But tonight he was loaded for a much more fragile target. Swiftly, silently, Demidov walked forward. Habit, not necessity. The target’s snores were louder than the wind. With his gloved left hand, he reached between Tommy’s legs, found his testicles, and squeezed hard. Sometimes a sudden, brutal shock of pain could wake up even the most sodden drunk.

Tommy made a sound rather like that of the back-door lock giving way, but his eyelids didn’t open.

Demidov gave another crank, twisting as he squeezed.

With another whine, Tommy tried to curl protectively around himself. His body didn’t respond. He was under too deep.

His eyelids quivered and stayed closed.

I don’t have time for this drunken shit-eater.

With a word of disgust, Demidov released the other man’s slack flesh. He knew men who would have enjoyed trying to wake Tommy up, but Demidov wasn’t one of them. To him, torture was a means to an end, like kerosene or a silencer. A tool, not a pleasure.

If he had been worried about misleading the authorities, he would have simply poured kerosene and let them decide if it was accident, suicide, or murder. But all he was concerned about was making sure the job got done. Once, such a weapon as his had been rare outside of Russia, too distinctive to use overseas. The modern weapons trade had changed that. Using a Vektor was no longer like leaving his name written on a corpse.

Demidov took out his 9 mm pistol, pulled a sofa pillow over the target to limit the back splash of gore, and shot Tommy twice in the head.

Moving quickly, Demidov poured kerosene on and around the body. He lit it with matches the dead man had dropped. When he was sure that the fire would take hold, he went out the same way he had come in, a dark dancer moving through the forest.

ROSARIO

2:37 A.M.

T
he sirens had already awakened Emma. She was just getting back to sleep when her cell phone vibrated and warbled on the motel’s end table. With an impatient movement she snagged the phone.

“What,” she snarled.

“I’m out front in your Jeep,” Mac said. “In three minutes I leave without you.”

“I have the keys.”

“I don’t need them.”

The line went dead.

Emma had slept fully clothed—shoes, socks, jeans, and a black pullover—too exhausted after her turn watching
Blackbird
to care about undressing. She grabbed her purse and a jacket and ran out.

Twenty seconds after Mac had hung up on her, she was in the parking lot of the motel.

Sure enough, he was sitting at the wheel of her Jeep. Wires dangled from the console. She got in the passenger seat, threw him the keys, and shut the door very quietly when she really wanted to slam it.

“Is it
Blackbird
?” she asked as he drove out of the parking lot without benefit of headlights.

“Not directly.”

He went down a side street, turned onto an eastbound feeder street, and flipped on the lights.

“Where’s your truck?” she asked.

“Crapped out, waiting for a new water pump.”

Silence.

Emma turned toward him. “You have about ten seconds to tell me what the hell is going on. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m going to reach into my girly purse, pull out a Glock, and turn you into splatter patterns.”

Mac gave her a sideways look and started talking. “I have a police scanner at my house. There was a fire on the rez. They’re talking about arson. One crispy critter in the ashes.”

She grimaced. She’d seen—and smelled—enough of that kind of death in Iraq to last her a lifetime.

“I don’t know how firemen stand it,” she said.

Mac didn’t have to ask what she meant.

“Some of them turn vegetarian for a while,” he said. “Then they get over it and go back to rare beef.”

“Glad to know I wasn’t the only one.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Baghdad. You?” she asked, wondering if he would lie.

Or if his file had.

“Afghanistan,” he said shortly, accelerating onto the highway, “well beyond any city.”

“Out with the tribes?” she asked casually.

“Not much else out there but rock. Got a lot of that, all of it standing on end.”

“How long were you there?”

“Why do you care?”

“Call me curious,” she said.

“Call me classified.”

Behind them an official vehicle came on fast, light bar flashing and siren screaming the need for speed.

Mac pulled over like a good citizen.

The sheriff’s car blew past them into the darkness.

“Guess he’s late to the barbeque,” Mac said.

She grimaced, thought about calling Faroe, and decided against it until she knew more. There was no point in waking her boss up to share the ignorance.

“I’ll wait until the sheriff’s car is out of sight,” Mac said. “Then I’m going to speed like a dirty bastard. Every official in a twelve-mile radius will already be at the fire.”

Mac hit the accelerator hard. Being a rental, the Jeep took its time getting up to eighty.

And that was all it had. Eighty.

“What a piece of crap,” he muttered.

“Wheels need alignment or balancing,” Emma said. “Or both.”

“What it needs is another engine.”

“That, too. Sweet thing is, the mileage really sucks.”

Mac almost smiled. Emma was that rare find in a partner, male or female—easy to be with.

Especially when she pulled a Glock from her purse and checked it over with the motions of someone who knew which end of a gun bit and which didn’t.

“Think we’ll need that?” he asked.

“I think I’d rather be ready than point my index finger and say ‘bang.’” She put the weapon back into her purse.

They drove in silence until they rounded the long curve half a mile from Tommy’s lane. Instantly Mac lifted his foot off the accelerator and began losing speed fast.

At least sixteen official vehicles were parked on both sides of Tribal Road, light bars wheeling. The lane to Tommy’s trailer was choked with more vehicles. Their lights stabbed through the woods in flashes of blue and red and spotlight-white.

Wary of making a loud screeching noise, Mac slowly engaged the emergency brake.

“Tommy’s place,” he said.

“How did you know?” Emma asked tightly, reaching for her cell phone. “Was the address on the scanner?”

“Not in so many words. But even on the rez, most people have addresses. The place that burned didn’t.” He glanced at her phone. “Don’t bother waking Faroe up yet. We don’t know what’s going on.”

Dead slow, the Jeep bumped along the verge of the road. After about sixty feet, Mac stopped, reversed, cranked the wheel, and started backing up. Once there had been another nameless lane here, but someone had moved on or died and everything was completely overgrown now.

As the Jeep backed in, it bent brush and small saplings away from the vehicle. Branches shivered and scraped. Most of the undergrowth sprang back upright after the Jeep passed.

When they were invisible from the road, Mac turned and looked Emma over, taking in her outfit.

Before he could open his mouth, she started removing her watch and small earrings, things that could reflect light, giving away her position. It had been years since she had been trained in covert ops, but it was coming back to her. Along with a wave of adrenaline.

“Any mud nearby?” she asked.

“I don’t think I’ll need it for camouflage. I don’t want to get that close.”

“If you think I’m staying here, you’re not smart enough to sign on with St. Kilda.”

Mac had been expecting that since he’d seen the Glock. He didn’t waste time arguing with her. He just fished around on the floor and tossed her one of the black knit caps he had stuffed under the seat.

“Pull it on,” he said, reaching down again for his own cap.

“You carrying?”

“Knife,” he said. “Quieter than a gun.”

“Range bites.”

His lips quirked. “I’ve got a good arm.”

Together they eased out into the night. Emma followed him as he angled through brush and around bigger trees, always holding his course to the same general direction. When the moonlight was bright enough, she could see the faint line of the overgrown trail Mac was following. She tried to make as little noise as he did, but it had been a long time since she’d gone through night training.

They walked for ten minutes before they began to catch the smell of burning excrement and garbage, bitter and foul and disgusting, like a trash fire jacked on steroids. Through a screen of trees and brush, they saw flashes of bright red lights on emergency vehicles and the steady white spears of headlights parked at all angles.

Emma didn’t need Mac’s signal to freeze and drop. She was already on her belly, wriggling as close as she could. A hand on her ankle halted her. Mac slithered along her left side and breathed into her ear.