Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

He crouched in the corner shadows and drew the Glock 17-the one he’d used to kill Valenti-then put on the same suppressor, the SVR.

They were babbling excitedly in Spanish when they entered the stairwell below him. He heard their scuffing footsteps as they started up the stairs. One of them made an obscene comment about some puta; the other hooted, his laughter echoing sharply off the concrete walls.

Deep breath. Out slow.

The street lights outside cast a bobbing shadow across the floor before him as one of the men reached the top of the stairs. It was Maldonado. Cardenas, still out of sight on the stairs, was complaining about the weight of his haul. Maldenado laughed and hoisted his duffle bag repeatedly overhead, making like a weightlifter.

He rose smoothly from his crouch. Then, just as he brought the Glock around to sight on where Cardenas would appear, Maldonado spun to face his companion.

And saw him.

“Ese!” the man yelled.

He moved the gun back toward Maldonado at the same time that the guy heaved the duffle bag at him. He fired blindly and tried to jump aside, but the heavy bag caught his legs, knocking him to his knees.

Maldonado was yanking his own pistol from under his jersey. In response, he launched himself from his knees into a side roll against the wall and came up with the Glock while Maldonado fired. The blast was deafening and stinging chips of concrete from the wall above him sprayed his back and legs. He squeezed his trigger three times, fast. He couldn’t even hear his own suppressed shots through the ringing in his ears, but saw them hit-thigh-chest-face. The Mexican bucked with each impact. He collapsed, and his gun hand, in spasms, unleashed another thunderous shot that sparked off the floor and ricocheted off into the night.

Plan B.

He heard Cardenas screaming in the stairwell. He pushed himself to his feet and flattened against the wall, watching the floor at the top of the stairs for the murderer’s shadow to appear.

Instead, he heard a fading rush of footsteps.

He’s running.

He spun around the wall and ran to the top of the stairs. The guy was almost to the ground floor entrance, struggling awkwardly to get free of the cross-body strap of the duffle bag. He snapped off a shot at him, but it careened off the wire-mesh screens. Cardenas dumped the bag and ran outside. He hurtled down the stairs after him.

When he emerged it took a moment to spot his target. Cardenas had rounded the structure and tried to cross the highway. Blocked by the metal fence barrier running down the median strip, he turned and ran back into the parking lot.

He raced after the guy. Cardenas glanced back over his shoulder at him in terror, trying to zig-zag among the remaining parked cars and small islands of decorative trees scattered throughout the lot.

Ahead in the distance he saw a flashing yellow light at the far end of the mall. The security car. Cardenas was headed toward it.

This had to end fast, or end badly.

His panicked quarry was winded and slowing. He wasn’t. He cut a direct route toward the security car, gaining rapidly. As he closed, Cardenas reached another patch of trees and half-turned to look behind him. Then his low-slung jeans caught his heel. He stumbled.

Fatal fashion faux pas.

He dropped to one knee and from a distance of about thirty yards fired once, center-mass. The suppressed shot wasn’t loud at all. But the Fiocchi 9mm round knocked Cardenas right off his feet.

He trotted up to him. The guy lay on his back across a patch of grass under a small tree. His eyes were wide with shock and his lips sucked for air, like a fish in a bowl of dirty water. He didn’t have enough breath even to moan. Blood poured from the hole in the belly of his Baltimore Orioles jersey. Cardenas would be gone in another couple of minutes.

But he didn’t have a couple of minutes to wait around.

He leaned over him. Looked into his rat’s eyes.

“For Tommy Banacek,” he said quietly.

He pointed the end of the silencer at the middle “o” in “Orioles” and pulled the trigger.

Tomas Ernesto Cardenas stopped sucking air.

*

Unscrewing the silencer, he looked around. Incredibly, he could spot nobody looking his way.

Plan C. Leave the body here with the slug in it. They’ll do a ballistics match with the one from Valenti and figure out who did it. And why.

Good. But not good enough.

Maybe you can still pull it off. All of it.

Back to Plan A.

He stowed the gun and suppressor in the raincoat as he walked, not ran, back to his car. It was a late-model Crown Vic with a whip antenna, rigged to look like an unmarked police car.

He got in and drove it over to the body, backing it in. He popped the trunk and went back there. Pulling up the carpeting, he clicked the hidden latch. The lid of the false bottom flipped up alongside the spare tire.

He glanced up again. The security car was drifting his way along the storefronts, getting closer.

He pulled out a body bag from the hidden compartment. Crouching under the tree, he spread it open beside the body. Flipped it inside. Zipped it up fast.

Remaining in a crouch, he waited until the security car moved behind a couple of vehicles that blocked a direct line of sight. He seized the body bag, then in one fluid motion powered by his thighs, hoisted it, spun, and dumped it into the deep well inside. He worked it into position so that the lid would close. Then noticed bloodstains on his gloves and raincoat. He ripped them off and stuffed them down there, too, along with the Glock, holster, and silencer.

He closed the hidden inner lid and smoothed the carpet over it.

He reached up to close the trunk and the high beams hit him.

*

He glanced casually toward the security car, squinting against the headlights as it rolled up. Two silhouettes inside. One held the shape of a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

He waited. Kept his hands out at his sides, where they could see them.

Both guys got out at the same time and approached, staying apart. They were young, as most security guards tend to be, still in their twenties. Also armed. Looked like Glocks on their hips. The kid to his right had a hand resting on the butt of his.

He smiled at them. “You fellas are a little late. Sure coulda used your help a few minutes ago.” He motioned his thumb toward the car. “Had a flat.”

The two shot glances at each other. The one on the left, a fit-looking blond kid, said, “We saw you putting something in your trunk.”

He nodded. “Yep. Just finished up.”

They looked uncertain. “You mind if we asked for some identification?”

He forced himself to grin. “Hell no, ’course not. Left my wallet in the glove compartment. Mind if I fetch it for you?”

They were edgy. The kid on the right, dark hair, played it well. “I’d actually prefer if you let me get it, sir. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Keep the grin. “Hey, sure. Be my guest. It’s unlocked.”

He watched the dark-haired guard circle the long way, behind the car, so that he could take a glance inside the open trunk as he passed. He hoped that the kid wouldn’t look the other way, at the ground behind the car, and spot all that blood.

After a moment, the guard emerged from the passenger side with the wallet in hand. Hustled back to them, this time around the front of the car.

“I’m really sorry to have troubled you, sir,” the kid said, looking anxious. He handed over the wallet, opened to reveal the gold badge so that his partner could see it, too. “You should have said something, Detective Talionis.”

He laughed. “Nah, no trouble at all, fellas. Just wanted to play along and see how you performed. And you know what? You guys are really on your game. We don’t see enough of this kind of professionalism with private security. I’ll have to write a letter to your boss, tell him how impressed I am.”