Matt Hilton - Cut and run

'Great,' I said.

Before I could ask, Walter went on, 'It's at a private airstrip outside of Miami. But the pilot isn't speaking.'

'Give me a couple minutes with him,' Rink said.

'Still won't speak,' Walter said. 'He's dead. A single round to the back of the head. His body was found jammed into a dumpster.'

'So the killer's covering his tracks, eliminating anyone who can identify him?' It didn't bode well for Imogen.

Walter read my meaning. 'I'll contact Hubbard and have her guard doubled. But I wouldn't worry.'

Easier said than done, but I knew what he was getting at. The killer had moved on to the next part of his plan.

'You have people on this already,' I said. 'Where has their investigation led?'

'Initially they were looking at you.'

'But you knew there was no truth in that.' I nodded at Bryce, who'd already confirmed that. 'They must have been looking at others.'

'We have a team on it in Colombia, another at this end. Up until now they've come up empty-handed. We're working with the FBI on this, so they have people on it as well.'

'I don't want any of them getting in our way.'

'It's every man for himself, Hunter. The CIA is on board because of the international implications of this one, but it's the FBI who have jurisdiction because of the federal nature of the crimes.'

'All these G-men running round but still you've come to us.' Rink's words more or less echoed my own thoughts.

'It serves a purpose, Rink.'

'As usual,' Rink said.

'As usual. These people are threatening us all. I'm as valid a target as Hunter or Bryce. It's in all our interests if we put a stop to them. No trials, no chance of them getting away, no retribution.'

'Sounds like we don't have official sanction after all,' I said.

Walter jammed his cigar between his teeth, speaking round it like one of those gangsters in old black and white movies. 'You have my sanction. The paperwork can be sorted later.'

Basically what he was saying was that we were going to be his personal assassins. Ordinarily I'd have told him to stick his sanction, except this time I was happy with the arrangement. While the killer was still out there, Imogen and others were still in great danger. It would remain that way until the killer, and whoever was guiding him, was stopped for good.

Alisha screamed all the way down, hit the pavement and then was silent. Her corpse was sprawled like a stringless marionette, surrounded by a growing pool of blood.

At least in Rickard's mind, that was the way things happened.

In reality he eased up to her and wrapped his arms round her waist, pulled her tightly to him and nuzzled her neck. 'Hi, babe.'

Alisha stiffened for the briefest of moments, but then, having realised who had caught her in a hug – or more likely because it was what was expected of her – she melted back against him, purring as he kissed her all the way down to her shoulder. Rickard released her, turned her round slowly and looked down at her upturned face. He kissed her gently on the tip of her nose.

'I wasn't expecting you,' Alisha said.

'Couldn't stay away any longer,' Rickard said. 'Did you miss me?'

'Like crazy.' Alisha searched for his lips. Rickard held back, teasing her, making her go up on her toes before returning the kiss. She smelled of soap and shampoo. No trace of cologne.

Got to get a hold of myself, he thought. The man in the lift had been nowhere near his apartment. Nowhere near his Alisha. She was too afraid of him to bring other men to their bed. She did not know what he did for a living, but she suspected what was in his mind and what he was capable of. He'd taught her well what would happen if ever she betrayed him.

Paranoia is an ugly, debilitating thing. It was that damned phone call he'd made that had planted the seed of doubt in his mind. Where are you, Rickard? His failure to see through his plan to rape and then dismember Imogen Ballard had been unforeseen by both his employer and him. I expect more from people working for me. Yes, he thought, and so do I. I also expect more from the people round me.

'What are you doing out here, babe?' Rickard peered over Alisha's shoulder at the Miami nightscape. It was still warm, and he could smell exhaust fumes and garbage on the trembling breeze.

'Oh, nothing. Just thinking.'

'About me?'

Alisha stirred and looked up at him with her big blue eyes. 'Who else?'

He didn't reply, but strong cologne was in his olfactory memory. He wound his fingers in her hair. 'I've been thinking about you as well.'

Without releasing his grip, he led her back inside and down the short flight of stairs. Amy Winehouse had moved on to croon over someone called Mr Jones. Rickard pictured the guy as a man in a suit, with short greying hair and a mobile phone in his hand. He turned off the CD as he passed then steered Alisha towards the bedroom.

When he came back out of the bedroom he was on his own. Alisha was taking her second shower of the evening and tending to the welts on her arms. When he'd entered her he'd been thinking of Imogen Ballard and he wasn't gentle then, either. Behind the bathroom door she was sobbing and that pleased him.

Naked, he stood in the centre of his apartment, surveying it with a perfectionist's eye for detail. Alisha had kept the room almost as spick and span as he demanded. The pile on the carpet was crushed down in places and there was a copy of a Stieg Larsson novel open on the table next to the settee. He'd make sure that she tidied up once she was done making herself pretty again.

He was very hungry. He went to the refrigerator and scanned the contents. Settled on drinking milk direct from the carton, then grabbed a handful of roast chicken from scraps on a plate. He wolfed the food down. Voracious. But, then, he thought whimsically, he was eating for two. He cleaned the grease from his fingers on a kitchen towel, then shoved it into the wash basket.

He was padding back across to check on Alisha's progress when he heard something out of place on this private floor of the building. It was the faint crunch of a heel on grit. Most people would have gone to the front door to peer out through the peephole, but Rickard didn't act the way others did. He knew without checking that someone with no right to be there was in his hall. He ducked into the bedroom, pulled on his trousers and unsnapped the ceramic knife from its holder. No time for shoes or shirt. He moved to the en-suite bath. Alisha had her back to him and the scratches on her back were livid. He unsnagged her gown from where she'd hung it and threw it to her. 'Put that on. Lock the door and don't come out until I tell you. Whatever you hear.'

Alisha's face elongated, but before she could say anything, he pulled the door closed. He heard her throwing the bolt: another alien sound to this apartment.

Then he moved back across the room. He cursed the fact that his gun was locked inside his car, but shoved the thought aside. His knife would be enough until he could arm himself otherwise.

On his way into the apartment he'd been distracted. He had not armed the intruder alarms. He hadn't thrown the locks on the doors. OK, so there'd be less damage when they came in; maybe that wasn't so bad after all.

They.

He was sure that there'd be more than one.

Only a series of unforeseen events had caused the mess-up in Maine, but his employer knew how good he was. More than one man would have been sent to dispatch him; to close down the trail that might lead back to its source.

He avoided the urge to peer out the peephole. He'd heard of assassins waiting until the peephole became shadowed, when they would press a gun to the lens and fire a round through the orbital socket and into the brain. Maybe that was just in the movies, but Rickard wouldn't fall for it. He moved instead for the door leading to the flight of stairs to the roof. He'd been remiss in locking that door too, and the one on to the roof.