Hostage (3 page)

Chapter Four

Casper, Wyoming, USA

30th November, 5.22 p.m., North American Mountain Time

Only now did Danny Shanklin answer.

‘I need to speak to Mary Watts,' he said, unblinking and not stepping back. ‘I need to know that she's alive.'

‘You what?' the skinny guy shrieked.

His tone of voice said it all. More resistance? More defiance? He clearly couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not after having watched Danny from a distance earlier, as he'd sunk to his knees in apparent misery and weakness and defeat. He tore his goggles down from his face, so they snapped against his throat.

‘Shut the hell up!' he shrieked. ‘You'll do as you're damn well told!' He stepped forward, close enough for Danny to finally see his eyes, where the goggles had been pulled away. Blue eyes. Flecked with green. His pupils were dilated like piss-holes in the snow. His lips were bulbous like a trout's. One of his top front teeth was cracked. His whole mouth glistened with spit.

Even seeing Danny staring, the skinny guy made no attempt to conceal the exposed patches of his face. He made no show of regret either, as if he'd either forgotten about the need for disguise, or simply no longer cared. Danny noticed his booted feet shuffling in the dirt.

Drugs, Danny guessed. The skinny guy had to be wired on something. The way he'd started moving, the way he now couldn't seem to stop, or wasn't even aware of it happening, Danny reckoned he was most likely tweaking on crystal meth. Either that or speed or coke.

Whichever. It made no difference. Danny's mind was now made up: this guy was definitely an amateur. And even though Danny knew that to anyone outside his area of business, this probably would have sounded like good news, to Danny it spelled trouble with a capital T.

Because when you were trying to get a hostage back, you were always going to stand a far better chance of success if the kidnappers were professionals. Professionals kept their identities secret. They made sure there was no way in hell they could ever get traced. Meaning that usually they had no problem with releasing a victim alive once they'd got what they wanted. Meaning also that everyone else involved could walk away from the situation in one piece.

Amateurs were the ones who screwed things up. Amateurs like this skinny junkie who was now waving an Uzi up close in Danny Shanklin's face.

‘I already told you,' Danny said. ‘I need proof of life.'

He said it slowly. He said it clearly. So there could be no mistake. He was here to exchange, not negotiate.

Because that was rule two in any hostage retrieval situation. If the kidnappers started upping their demands at the last minute, then the probability was that they'd never had any intention of returning the hostage alive. And this was even more true when they started demanding the ransom in a live exchange, without first proving that the hostage was alive.

But the skinny guy clearly hadn't read the rulebook. He stepped up to Danny and jabbed the Uzi's barrel so hard and so fast against Danny's face that Danny heard a noise like a snapping stick as his cheekbone fractured, and only afterwards felt the pain.

He gritted his teeth to stop himself shouting out loud. He forced the pain to the back of his mind. He told himself it was heat. He told himself it would pass. He made himself believe that this was true.

‘One more word from you and I'll give you proof of death,' the skinny guy said.

Fear. Danny felt it as he stared back into the barrel of that gun and smelt that it had been recently fired. He felt a whole spiderweb of fear, settling on his skin and clinging to him like shrink wrap.

But fear was an old enemy, one he'd learnt how to handle. He didn't – wouldn't – let it govern his actions. Or swamp his thoughts. The way he saw it, you didn't try to overcome fear. You used it. You channelled it into an energy, something vicious and strong, that you could then hold tight inside you like a bomb until you were ready to unleash it on somebody else.

Danny let the fear flow through him and sharpen him like the blade of a knife.

He stepped back and lowered his arms.

‘Whatever you say,' he answered the skinny guy. ‘You're the boss.'

The skinny guy did a little jump. Buzzing. Reckoning he'd won. He even took his eyes off Danny for a second, to check his two friends had witnessed that he truly was the man.

He then spun back round to face Danny and said, ‘Anything in that case apart from them bonds and I'm gonna blow your naked ass clear across that bridge, you understand?'

Danny nodded. He crouched on the ground. He pulled the case towards him. So what had that Uzi been fired at? That was what he was thinking now. Target practice? Or Mary Watts? The way the skinny guy was acting, Danny figured either could be true.

A chill ran through him, colder even than the wind, so cold that he forgot all about the pain in his cheek. Was that why the kidnappers wanted the ransom right now? Was it because they had nothing to trade, because their hostage, Mary Watts, was already dead?

Danny rolled the dual combination locks on the attaché case. He popped the lid. Slowly he turned the case round to face the skinny guy. He saw the flash of triumph in the other man's piercing blue eyes. But above all that, Danny Shanklin saw greed. Because the bonds were all there.

‘Step away,' the skinny guy said.

Slowly, Danny did as he was told.

‘Bob,' the skinny guy called out, eyes and weapon still locked on Danny. ‘Check it's all good.'

Bob?

First, the skinny guy had given away where he was from. Then he'd shown Danny his eyes and cracked tooth. And now he'd given away one of his associates' names.

Danny had hoped the first two were mistakes. But this? He doubted it. It was much more likely, he decided, that the reason they didn't care if Danny could identify them was because they weren't planning on letting him get out of here alive.

Bob clambered off the back of the Suzuki. He was armed with an Uzi too. But the weapon was slung carelessly from his shoulder, the way a school kid might carry a bag. Looking at him, Danny doubted he'd ever fired a gun in life.

Bob was shorter than the skinny guy, but maybe twice as heavy. He fumbled for a pen torch. Dropped it. Cursed. He lifted his night-vision goggles, and jerked his balaclava up to his brow. He didn't seem to care what Danny saw of his face, either.

Danny knew then for sure that they were planning to kill him. He only prayed they'd not already done the same for Mary Watts.

Bob picked up the torch and shone it into the case. Light bounced back at him off the case's shiny metal interior, lighting up his face like a beacon. Like he'd just had his mug shot taken.

Which, in a way, he just had.

Bob was twenty years old, Danny estimated. At the most. He was just a kid. Residual acne patterned his lower jaw. He had unusual tortoiseshell eyes that Danny would be able to pick out in an FBI identity parade at a glance.

Bob looked sick with nerves. Not once had he dared glance Danny's way. Beads of sweat ran down his brow. His hands shook as he took out a paper-testing kit from a bulky body belt. Ultraviolet light strobed, as he ran a bunch of bonds through the noisily chattering machine.

‘They're good,' he finally said.

His voice was quavering worse than the skinny's guy's had. He was clearly terrified. His accent was New York too. Brooklyn, Danny guessed. He sounded educated and completely out of his depth. These boys were a long way from home.

‘I'm checking the case for trackers and cash degradation systems,' he called out, as he took a second scanner from his belt and ran it over the case.

Trackers? Degradation? Bob knew his stuff. So what did that make him? Danny wondered. Someone who'd worked in banking? Or for a security delivery company? Or maybe just a stupid kid. A student even. Because, as with the paper-testing kit and the night-vision goggles, Danny knew this kind of technology was easy to find online. Or in a surveillance store. Or at a trade fair. Or even on eBay. It was all something a smart undergraduate could get hold of, no sweat.

And the more Danny looked at Bob, and the more he watched his hands tremble and thought of his educated accent, the more Danny was thinking that that was exactly what Bob was. A student. A college boy. Someone who'd most likely been bullied into coming tonight. Someone who wished he was anywhere else but here.

If he'd not been carrying an Uzi, Danny might have been generous with him. He might have assumed that the kidnappers had somehow forced Bob to help them. But the weapon strapped across him meant that he was one of them and every bit as guilty as them.

‘All clear,' Bob called out over the wind, which was picking up again now, and coming at them in gusts.

The skinny guy told him, ‘Take the case. Get back on the bike.'

Bob clumsily packed up his things and did as he was told. He didn't bother lowering his goggles or balaclava.

Danny said, ‘When do I get to see Mary Watts?'

The skinny guy shrugged his gun strap off his shoulder, so he could wield the weapon more freely.

Never a good idea with an Uzi Model B, Danny thought.

‘The thing is,' the skinny guy said, stepping up close again now. ‘On account of how quick you paid up this time, I'm now figuring I didn't ask your boss for enough …'

He said ‘I'. Implying he was in charge. And that he wasn't working for anyone else.

Which also meant that this was the guy who'd had the bright idea to leave Danny freezing out here buck naked for the last half hour …

And that this was the same sick guy who'd taken those photos of poor Mary Watts …

The skinny guy's jaw clenched like he was going to crack the rest of his teeth. His blue eyes glinted as he said, ‘Now I'm figuring Mr Watts should maybe pay us the same again…'

And keep on paying, Danny guessed, until they'd milked him dry. And the moment he stopped, Mary was dead. Assuming they hadn't killed her already. Which seemed equally likely to Danny right now.

The skinny guy cocked the gun.

Here we go, Danny thought.

‘Get down on your knees, asshole,' the skinny guy said. ‘It's time you said your prayers.'

Chapter Five

Casper, Wyoming, USA

30th November, 5.26 p.m., North American Mountain Time

Danny crouched. Didn't kneel. Not like he'd been told. He'd always had a problem with authority, unless it was his own. He kept balanced on his toes instead. A sprinter waiting for the crack of the starting pistol.

The cloud cover shifted. The skinny guy closed in. Stars shone above him like studs on a black leather jacket. His blue eyes glinted like a Hollywood hero's. He gripped the Uzi in both hands. His uneven teeth filled the mouth hole of his balaclava. He grinned.

‘Say hi to Jesus for me,' he told Danny. He was power-tripping now. Showboating for his friends.

What Danny had hoped to avoid had now happened. The skinny guy had broken all the rules. He'd left Danny no choice.

‘Wait,' Danny called out. He clasped his hands together above his head, like he was pleading for his life. ‘Please.' There was panic in his voice. Desperation. ‘Don't kill me. I'm begging you. Please. You've got to hear me out.'

The skinny guy kept his finger on the trigger and asked him, ‘Why?'

Danny didn't answer. Instead, he slowly separated his hands, so that only his thumbs remained intertwined. He stretched his fingers upwards and outwards, like the spreading wings of a dove.

It was the signal Danny's partner, Spartak Sidarov, had been waiting for.

The driver of the Suzuki was the first to die. He tipped off the bike like a drunk and hit the ground hard. Head first. Neck twisted. Maybe snapped. Not that it mattered either way. The round from Spartak's rifle had already punched a fist-sized hole clean through his skull.

Bob went next. Jerked upwards. Backwards. Like a rodeo cowboy bucked off by a steer. He hit the dirt next to his friend.

Danny didn't know where Spartak was. Across the bridge. Or on it. Keeping to the lip of the ravine. Or flat at the edge of the parking lot. It made no difference now. Wherever he was, he was in range. Doing what he was paid to do.

Spartak Sidarov was doing what he always did best. He was watching Danny Shanklin's back.

Danny had a real-time GPS tracker secreted beneath a skin swab just below his left knee. Spartak would have been following him remotely ever since the taxi had picked Danny up from the Colonial Inn. He'd have had plenty of time to get in position. And pick his shots.

And the skinny guy had no one to blame but himself. He shouldn't have left Danny Shanklin waiting here so long.

But the kidnapper's biggest mistake had been telling Danny to drop to his knees. They'd given Spartak a clear line of fire.

The skinny guy turned just in time to see the Suzuki toppling over onto Bob's legs. Bob didn't seem to notice. He was too busy writhing, trying to get up, grasping at his chest. Like he was hoping to claw the bullet out.

Spartak had taken Bob down with a body shot. Most likely in case he'd started moving after his friend had been killed. A percentage shot. There'd been too much wind to have risked anything cleaner.

Danny didn't wait to see Bob slam back flat on the ground as a second bullet found its mark.

Instead Danny was already moving, rising, zoning and launching himself hard up into the skinny guy.

He'd agreed with Spartak at their final briefing yesterday morning that if things did go wrong, and if shots did have to be fired, they were going to need at least one of the kidnappers alive. And able to talk. In other words, not shot at at all.

It looked like it was the skinny guy's lucky day: Spartak had decided to let him live.

That said, Danny doubted the skinny guy was feeling too lucky right now, as Danny's skull smashed hard into the bottom of his jaw.

The military had taught Danny how to hurt. Where to hurt. It was something he now did instinctively, like running water seeking out the quickest path.

As the skinny guy swayed, Danny stood upright and punched him fast in the windpipe. He tried snatching the Uzi from him then, wary of it firing. But he was already too late. In his surprise, the skinny guy had already released it. It was spinning through the air.

Danny swept the skinny guy's feet out from under him and threw him to the ground. Danny went down with him, dropping onto him and gathering him up like a spider would a fly.

Fearing what might happen when the Uzi hit the ground, Danny turned the skinny guy to face it and used his body as a shield.

And Danny was right to be fearful. The second the Uzi landed, it started juddering, chattering out lead. This was why the skinny guy should never have taken it off his shoulder. The Model B was notorious for firing when exposed to sudden shocks.

A terrifying couple of seconds. Then the sound of gunfire cut. The magazine was spent. Or jammed. Danny didn't give a damn which. Only that he hadn't been cut in two.

He flipped the skinny guy onto his back. Splayed him. Pinned him. He went for his throat. And for the pressure point on his collar bone. He squeezed hard. The skinny guy froze. Agonised. His eyes looked like they were about to pop.

Danny checked the skinny guy for injuries. But the Uzi had missed him as well.

Danny was panting. Heat raged through him, even in this terrible cold.

The skinny guy's Uzi was two feet away, pointing at the Suzuki driver's head. Or what was left of it.

Miraculously, Bob was still alive. In spite of Spartak having shot or winged him twice. Squirming. Making pig noises. But going nowhere fast.

Danny hadn't wanted it to come to this. One dead. One dying. Killing was always the last resort.

He tightened his grip and locked eyes with the skinny guy, like he was locking horns with a bull. Mary was now at even greater risk than she had been before. Danny needed this sorted. And quick.

‘I wanted to do this the easy way,' he told the skinny guy. ‘I wanted to pay you the money and get Mrs Watts back alive.'

Danny gave the skinny guy a couple of seconds to think about this.

‘But now,' Danny continued, ‘because of your choices, one of your friends is dead. One of them is dying. And you're gonna be next, unless you tell me exactly what I need to know.'

Danny gave the skinny guy a couple of seconds to think about this, too. The skinny guy didn't answer. Couldn't. He could hardly breathe. All he could move were his eyes. They kept flickering to where Bob was grunting and choking in the dirt. Rattling.

‘You're going to tell me everything I want to know,' Danny said. ‘You probably think you won't, but you will.'

Danny twisted the skinny guy's head, so he could get a better look at Bob, who'd now started shuddering like he'd just been plugged into a mains electricity socket. Seizure, Danny thought. Or shock. The shuddering stopped.

‘You want to end up dead like Bob there?' Danny hissed into the skinny guy's ear.

Whether Bob was actually dead now or just dying was academic. There sure as hell weren't any paramedics on the scene.

No point in radioing for help either, Danny was thinking. Bob wasn't bouncing back from those wounds. Not with the ammo Spartak used.

Danny watched fear and panic flood the skinny guy's eyes. He must have already worked out that Danny wasn't a lawyer. Well, now he sure as hell knew he wasn't a cop either. Because cops didn't just let people die, did they?

Danny momentarily slackened his grip on the skinny guy's throat. Long enough for the skinny guy to wheeze, ‘Please … '

Danny tore the balaclava off the skinny guy. Thin junkie face. Black greasy hair. Tapered sideburns. Face screwed up like a baby starting to wail. The skinny guy was maybe a year older than Bob. Just another dumb kid.

‘Good,' Danny said. ‘Now you're going to tell me where Mrs Watts is. Who's holding her. And how you're meant to contact them.' Danny glared unblinkingly into the skinny guy's eyes. ‘And then you're going to help me get her back.'