Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Another set of overhead lights exploded as the Jaguar’s engine roared to life. It backed up, tyres peeling across the garage floor. Ortega pulled his weapon. He was looking down the target sight, advancing to the car, when the car turned around and faced him.

More lights exploded and he screamed at the driver to stand down. The car’s headlights were turned off but eerie green orbs of light glowed and pulsated from the centre of the car’s front grille.

The green lights exploded in blinding flashes of light. The colour burned his eyes and he heard the fat guy screaming ‘ Run, Miranda, get the hell out of the way ’ and Ortega couldn’t see, oh, God no, he had been blinded by that green light and he couldn’t see. He heard tyres squealing and he staggered around aimlessly as the Jaguar raced out of the garage.

Fletcher pulled into the destination he had researched earlier in the day — a self-service car wash located on the fringes of Manhattan that operated on coin-and-dollar-fed machinery so people could clean their vehicles any time, day or night. It had four wide bays equipped with sprayers and vacuum hoses, dented kiosks offering Armor All wipes, packages of micro-fibre towels and a wide variety of chemically scented air fresheners. The small shack, where a daytime cashier usually sat behind a bulletproof window to collect money or swipe credit cards for customers who pulled in for gas, was dark and empty.

He would have preferred to wash the Jaguar inside one of the day-operated washes with their enclosed bays and powerful brushes. This would have to do. He fed the final dollar into the machine and the motor’s compressor rumbled and roared.

He started with the front hood. The spray of water exploded with a hiss of steam. He moved the spray nozzle closer to the hood and the powerful spray peeled away cracked chips of black paint, sending them flying into the air. It took nearly forty minutes to clean away all the black paint.

Now the Jaguar was white. The police wouldn’t be looking for a white Jaguar, and he didn’t have far to travel. Fletcher drove away, watching the streets.

M had made arrangements for the use of another vehicle — a forest-green Jeep Grand Cherokee parked on the fourth level of a private New York garage free of security cameras. Fletcher parked next to it and got out.

He reached underneath the Cherokee’s front bumper, found the magnetic box and took out the car key. He opened the hatchback and then returned to the Jaguar to remove a fresh set of clothes from a suitcase.

After he finished changing, he placed his tactical belt on the backseat of the Jeep. He returned to the Jaguar and quickly collected the items he needed. Then he grabbed the final item, the netbook computer, shut the trunk and drove away in the Jeep.

Dawn had broken by the time he reached the back of a strip mall lot in New Brunswick, New Jersey. A silver Ford Mustang was parked by a nearby dumpster. The door opened and M stepped out, bundled up in a heavy coat and wearing sunglasses.

Fletcher parked next to her. He left the Jeep’s engine running and, tactical belt in hand, got out and made his way to the hatchback.

M joined him, hands tucked in her jacket pockets, breath steaming in the frigid air.

‘I listened to the news on the way here,’ Fletcher said.

‘I did too.’

‘So you know Borgia is missing, and since you were the last one seen with him, you’ve become a person of interest.’

‘They’re also talking about your escape, although they haven’t mentioned you by name.’ There was no emotion in her voice, just that flat, neutral tone. ‘The reporters camped out in front of Karim’s house got footage of what happened inside the garage — the smoke and the exploding lights. They’re saying an agent has been blinded.’

‘I installed a laser dazzler system in the Jaguar’s front grille. The blindness is only temporary.’

‘Is that the computer?’

‘Why?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Why did you go with him?’

‘To talk to him about Karim. Why else?’

Fletcher sighed. ‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing useful. Maybe you’ll have better luck with him.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Hog-tied in the trunk of my car. I brought him here in case you wanted to speak to him. I relieved him of his clothing in case he was wearing some sort of device that would allow the FBI to track him.’

‘And his car?’

‘Someplace where they can’t find it — unless it has a hidden GPS or tracking unit. I also disconnected the battery from his phone, tossed everything on to the highway. Give me your computer. I want to get to work.’

Fletcher handed it to her, and told her the name of the software program he used to analyse cell-phone data.

‘I’m assuming you have a location where you can work safely.’

‘I have everything I need.’

‘Any news from Karim’s Baltimore contact?’ Fletcher asked. M had emailed the homicide detective several images of the disfigured man who had killed Boyd Paulson and abducted Nathan Santiago and Dr Sin.

‘He left a message,’ she said. ‘The disfigured man is named Brandon Arkoff. He’s the co-owner of the funeral home in West Baltimore, Washington Memorial Park. His partner is a woman named Marie Clouzot. He said he released their images, along with the ones I gave him for Nathan Santiago, to the Baltimore press. He released copies to the newspapers. This morning he’s going to hold a press conference asking the public for help. Maybe something will come of it. Karim is awake.’

‘When?

‘As of an hour ago,’ she said. ‘I spoke with Karim’s bodyguard.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Being moved to Manhattan. He’ll be heavily guarded. Do you want to speak with Borgia, or do you want me to take care of it?’

‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘The keys are in the ignition. I also left a disposable cell on the seat. I wrote my number on it. I’ll get to work on analysing Corrigan’s cell-phone data. I’ll contact you when I’m finished.’

Fletcher was about to speak when she turned abruptly on her heel and marched around the front of the Jeep.

‘M?’

She looked at him from across the Jeep’s roof.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

M seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘For what?’ she asked.

She didn’t wait for an answer. She slipped behind the wheel and drove away.

Fletcher would have preferred someplace private to conduct his questioning. While Karim owned a good amount of both commercial and residential property within the state of New Jersey — some of which, M had told him, was unoccupied — Fletcher did not want any evidence of what he was about to do to be traced back to Karim. There was no need to give the FBI’s case against Karim any additional ammunition.

The small town of Monroe, New Jersey, was a fifteen-minute drive from New Brunswick. Named after the fifth President of the United States, James Monroe, the picturesque town offered an abundance of farmland and thickly settled forests.

Fletcher stopped when he spotted an ideal location: an undeveloped field that stretched for miles in every direction, no homes or buildings anywhere in sight. He scouted the edge of the forest and found an area where he could park without being seen from the main road.

He performed a final check and, finding no witnesses or approaching cars, pulled off the road and drove across the field of frozen ground and dead grass. He parked in a spot offering a good amount of tree cover, popped the trunk and got out to speak with Alexander Borgia.

Having spent the last hours caged in darkness, Agent Borgia winced in the sudden light. Naked except for a pair of grey boxers, he lay on his side against a bright blue polyurethane tarp, his arms stretched behind him. M had used several zip ties to bind the man’s ankles and arms together and then used a final pair to hog-tie him.