Matt Hilton - Cut and run

'About what?'

'About the people who wanted Rickard to work for them?'

Wetherby rolled his head on his shoulders. 'Like I told you: I don't use criminals.'

'But you were happy to make the introductions between the two parties?'

Wetherby's pause told me that I'd struck a nerve. 'It will please you to know that I got nothing from the deal. Yes, I put Rickard in touch with them, but that was it. I wouldn't have it any other way.'

'Did you know why they wanted him?'

Wetherby sat there straight-faced. 'No.'

Standing up I looked down at him with a face equally flat. 'We'll leave things at that, then.'

'You didn't get that from me, right?' Wetherby nodded at my pocket where I'd slipped the note.

I patted him on the shoulder. 'As long as we're good now.'

'We're good,' he said.

Rink came up and dug a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket which he placed on the desk. 'Buy your guys a beer when they get back from hospital, Wetherby. Forget all about us. Everything will feel so much better afterwards.'

We left him staring at the tip and made our way outside.

'He's lying, Rink.'

'Of course he is. But he's also a self-serving asshole. I think the phone number's genuine, though. Why'd you think he gave us it?'

'My guess? He's greedy. Like he said, he didn't get anything from the deal. Maybe this is his way of getting something he wants.'

We'd just made it back to the Chrysler when my mobile phone rang.

Without preamble Harvey gave me an address over in Liberty City. 'Cops are already on the way there now, so you'd better hurry if you want to get Rickard first.'

Rink drove so I could get the rest of the details.

'It's him for sure?' Over the roar of the engine, I had to shout and Harvey sounded a little breathless in his need to tell me the facts.

'Without a doubt. Someone murdered a cab driver from the same company that picked up Alisha Rickard from behind the mall. Just before he died the cabbie radioed and asked his co-worker where he'd taken his fare and then that was it. It looks like Rickard has gone after his wife.'

I felt a jolt of adrenalin.

'OK, Harvey. We're on our way.'

Rink's normal mode of transport is his Porsche, and he drives it like a pro. He made no exception behind the wheel of the Chrysler. We blasted across town, hoping to beat the cops heading to the same location. Going for us was the fact that we were good to go while the police would be planning their approach. Directions would be shooting back and forth over the radio as the chain of command was organised. Their orders would be for a covert approach, the area surveilled and then a plan of action drawn up. The Miami Dade Special Response Team would be mobilised, negotiators brought in, the FBI on standby. All of that would take time. In comparison our plan was simple: get there quick and kill Rickard even quicker.

Standing on the peak of the roof, silhouetted against the skyline, Rickard should have felt exposed, but he didn't. He felt invincible. Like he was a god towering over the mortals below him. He watched the car speed along the street and then come to a skidding halt. His first thought was that this was an unmarked police cruiser responding to the shots fired, but the two men leaping out the car weren't cops. They were tough guys with guns, but no one of any consequence to him. They were just a couple more of the drug dealer's gang called in as reinforcements. They would die as easily as every other man that got between him and Alisha.

The two newcomers took cover behind the car, and he could hear them swearing in that clipped manner of gangbangers. From further along the street came another curse and Rickard realised where the other guard had gone. He was hunkering down behind some trash cans. Unless they were full of building bricks, the cans were no cover for the man. Rickard braced his feet each side of the roof, while with both hands he drew a gun from his belt and flicked off the safety catches.

He fired seconds before the men below him did. His intention wasn't necessarily to kill, only to keep them down and unable to get a clear shot at him. His guns rolled a double volley, one at the car and one at the trash cans. The men's return fire was disjointed and badly aimed, but even so he was too obvious a target where he stood. His thoughts of giants and invincibility could only last as long as was pragmatic. A bullet drilled the roofline next to his right foot and he felt the sting of splinters in his shin. He crouched now, and depleted both guns at his twin targets. A yelp came from the man behind the trash cans but it sounded more a shout of alarm than that of someone taking a mortal wound.

Rickard dropped both empty guns; they clattered down the roof and thumped to the ground. Rickard heard none of that because he was already reaching for the third gun: his own. He fired repeatedly, swinging his aim from one target to the other. Then, in a practised move, he dipped his hand into a pocket and came out with a full magazine. He ejected the empty one from his gun, pushed the other in and racked the slide. Fired one round. All in the space of two seconds.

In the next two seconds he grabbed the roof at its apex and swung down and kicked through the window. To the men below ducking for cover it would have been like he'd done a disappearing act. He forgot all about them for now. Unless they intended climbing the roof they were stuck outside and no immediate threat, so he went after those who were inside. The room he found himself in was a cramped and jumbled space, little more than a peaked crawl space filled with junk and old furniture. There was no bulb in the ceiling fixture, but enough ambient light was coming through the shattered window for him to negotiate the junk and make for the exit door. He didn't observe niceties, just booted open the flimsy door and leaned out and fired his gun in a short volley of three rounds. The man he'd expected to find waiting on him didn't disappoint: he took two of the bullets in his chest and went down screaming. An illegal machine pistol clattered on the floor beside him. Rickard quickly stooped and grabbed the gun in his left hand. Distractedly he noted that the gun was a Czechoslovakian Scorpion – the old type that still used.32 ACP rounds. It was a popular machine pistol throughout the world; he only hoped that there weren't any more in the house.

Earlier he'd counted three male voices from inside – the mathematics were subjective: maybe there were others who were more disciplined and could keep their mouths shut, so he had no idea how many he was going up against. He didn't care because the Scorpion kind of levelled the playing field in his favour.

He was in a short hallway with a flight of steps leading down to the living space: a bottleneck if he didn't move. He went down the stairs at a run and ducked into the nearest doorway he could find, the machine pistol extended in his left hand. Without looking he unloaded a burst of fire into the room, sweeping low where people would naturally crouch. The bullets churned the furniture, and struck flesh. Rickard barely flicked a glance at the man lying dead behind a grimy settee. He turned and looked back out into the hallway. Whispering voices filtered to him from rooms nearer the back of the house. He quickly scanned over his shoulder and saw that the main entrance was indeed barricaded by a steel door with a single slot cut in it through which money would be exchanged for drugs. The reinforcements couldn't come on him that way.

Immediately he went along the hall. On his right was a kitchen area. Of course this house wasn't where the drug dealer lived – he'd have a fancy-assed pad somewhere – so the kitchen wasn't used in its conventional sense. He saw counters with weighing scales and stacks of polythene bags and there were traces of white dust on many of the surfaces. No way any of these guys were going to call for police assistance, not with that amount of evidence lying round.