Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Rink turned and fed his thumbs into his belt. He grinned at Wetherby. 'What are you payin' those idiots for?'

I caught Wetherby by his collar and pulled him up. He was out of wind from the kick to his guts and I wasn't going to give him an opportunity to catch his breath. I spun him round and threw him backwards so that he landed in his office chair. The chair skidded a couple of feet before he banged against the office window overlooking MacArthur Causeway. We were only nine floors up the fifty-storey building but the road still looked a long way down from here. I followed him and caught him by the chin, twisting his head so he got a skewed look out over Biscayne Bay. 'Unless you want a one-way trip down there, you'd better start talking, Wetherby.'

'This has got nothing to do with me. I don't even know why you'd think that.'

There were reasons. Harvey Lucas had come up with a couple of names from his search of ex-military with sniper training. They were on Wetherby's books. Then there was the fact that Wetherby had once tried to recruit me, except the kind of people he supplied muscle to were the type I usually banged heads with. I'd told Wetherby to stick his job where the sun didn't shine and as a parting shot Wetherby had told me I'd made a big mistake crossing him and his outfit. There had to be a reckoning. Sooner or later I'd have been calling on Wetherby again, so this visit had turned out to be quite fortunate, just a little sooner than anticipated.

'We know that your business is just a front,' I said. 'You can masquerade as a security consultancy, but the truth is that you supply mercenaries to those willing to pay your fees. It's well known that you're indiscreet about the kind of people you serve.'

'Listen to me, Hunter. Doesn't matter what you think… this has nothing to do with me.'

'Stop screaming like a bitch,' I snapped. 'Now, we have two names: Jean Shrier and Ben Le Duke. Where are they now?'

'I'm not telling you that. I have a duty of care to those who work for me. You can't expect me to divulge classified information?'

'You will unless you fancy takin' a dive through that window,' Rink said.

I grabbed hold of his chair and dragged it back to his desk. The computer had avoided the crashing fall to the floor that had cleared the rest of his work space. 'Bring up their files, Wetherby.'

'Don't need to. Neither of them are who you're looking for.'

'Where are they?'

Wetherby sighed. His eyes went to the loose pile of unconscious men littering his office. 'You didn't get this from me, OK?'

'Just get on with it,' I said.

'Shrier's got a gig protecting a Hong Kong businessman. Le Duke, he's over in Nigeria protecting an oil field. I told you… they're not involved.'

I pulled out a photograph supplied to me by Walter.

'Him?'

'Don't know the guy.'

'Look again,' I ordered. 'He was a pilot. Miguel Suarez. Did he work for you?'

Wetherby picked up on the past tense.

'He's dead?'

'A bullet in the skull kinda has that effect on most folks,' Rink said. His words were loaded and Wetherby picked up on that too.

Wetherby shook his head. 'Still don't know him.'

'You don't seem to know very much,' I said. 'For such a top guy as you think you are.'

He shrugged and I could see he was beginning to gather a little composure. 'I told you that all along.'

'You're still a prick.'

He gave me a sickly smile. 'You're wrong about me. In every way.'

'Just hope that I never find out otherwise, Wetherby. If I have to come back again, things will be much worse next time.'

I punched him directly in his face, aiming to cause pain rather than unconsciousness. Let him dwell on that for a while.

We left Wetherby tending his bleeding face. Back outside the office building we stood side by side and looked out across the water towards Miami Beach. It was early in the morning in late February, and here in the subtropics it was unseasonably warm, but I felt very cold.

'Dead end,' I said to Rink.

'It was always a long shot. At least you taught Wetherby not to fuck with you again.'

'Maybe.' I clapped him on the shoulder. 'Except if they're going to be frightened of anyone, I guess that it'll be you. Those were some good moves back there.'

'It don't take much to slap down a few pussies like them,' he said, playing it cool.

'I'm surprised you broke that guy's arm. You're not usually as brutal as that.'

'You didn't see the switchblade he pulled outa his pocket?'

'Too busy with Wetherby,' I admitted.

'Here,' he said, handing me a black-handled flick knife – old type, like something out of Rebel without a Cause. 'Memento for you.'

I slipped the knife into my jeans pocket. My mobile was ringing and I pulled it out.

It was Harvey.

'How'd things go with Wetherby?'

'Waste of time,' I said. 'We're going to keep looking, though. Couple other names in Miami I want to look up.'

'You might want to get yourselves back here first.'

'Problem?'

'No. A possible lead.'

'Who?'

'Not who: what. Walter's liaising with the local PD on what looks like a hit that went wrong. The mark turned the tables this time.'

'He's dead?' Part of me wished that was true, but another part was full of regret. After what he'd done to Imogen I still wanted my day with the killer.

'That's the thing, Hunter. It looks like the man you're after was the mark this time. He killed three men as quick as you like.'

It was just an expression, but in reality I would have said quite the opposite. I didn't like this turn of events one bit.

'Dry your eyes, Alisha. People are starting to notice you.'

Sitting looking at his wife, Luke Rickard wondered what to do with her. Right now she was baggage that he could do without. Ordinarily he fed off the fear in her, but now it was too damn inconvenient. Her snivelling had grown so annoying that he considered doing her right there and then in front of the breakfast crowd in the diner.

She used a napkin to dab her eyes, lifting her sunglasses one lens at a time. 'I… I'm sorry, Luke. I just can't get those men's faces out of my mind.'

Rickard took her wrists in his hands. 'Don't speak about that here.'

'When can we speak about it? You haven't answered any of my questions.'

Rickard took a less-than-surreptitious look round. At a nearby table an elderly man was eyeing him back over the top of his coffee mug. Rickard stared directly at the man until the guy got the message and returned his attention to his eggs and ham. Rickard turned back to Alisha. 'We can talk about it later.'

'You've been saying that for hours.'

Rickard lowered his voice. 'They wanted to kill me, Alisha. Would you rather it was me lying dead back there?'

Her face went rigid. 'No. Of course not. But… well… maybe they weren't coming to kill you.'

He expelled a breath. 'Why else would men with guns sneak into our apartment?'

Alisha turned her face away. It was only a momentary dipping of her chin, but Rickard caught it. It was a sign of deception. He recalled the smell of the lead assassin's cologne and how he was sure that it had lingered in his apartment on his return home. Maybe he'd been scoping the terrain a little closer than was expected.

'You knew him, didn't you, Alisha? The one with the grey hair?'

Alisha shook her head with just a little more exaggeration than was necessary.

'He was in my home,' Rickard said. 'You must have let him in.'

'I didn't…' Her voice was a child's whimper.

'What lies did he tell you?'

'He didn't… I mean… he wasn't there.'

Rickard was still holding her wrists. Not in a supportive manner now.

'Luke,' Alisha said. 'You're hurting me.'