Matt Hilton - Cut and run

The gangbangers accepted the money with their chins lifted. They looked like they were sniffing the air, trying to decide if he was friend or foe.

'Call it a bonus,' Rickard said.

He straddled the Fireblade, flicked them a quick salute then started the bike. He shot off along the road and took the next corner almost leaning into the asphalt. Let them try to follow me now, he thought.

He took the McArthur Causeway across Biscayne Bay and on to the I-95 south, breezing by traffic at seventy miles an hour all the way down through the city to where the interstate merged with Route 1 and became the South Dixie Highway. There he opened up the bike, shooting along past Pine Crest and Perrine and heading for Florida City at the southernmost tip of the sprawling city. At a strip mall complete with a Denny's, a Comfort Inn and a Texaco petrol station, he pulled the Fireblade to a halt under a stand of palm. Searching for the golden arches, he pulled out into the highway and drove into the fast food take-out lot a little further on.

There he waited, resting with his butt on the bike seat, arms crossed over his chest. He could feel the heat on his forehead as he stared back at the road, searching for the arrival of the man he'd called on his phone. Quite a large number of vehicles passed through the drive-thru before he saw the silver Land Rover he was expecting.

He stood still, waiting for the large vehicle to come to him. He could see three men inside, indistinct shadows, two in the front and one in the back. The Land Rover drew alongside the bike and he exchanged a nod with the passenger. Guy had a nasty bruise under his eyes. Like Rickard's, the swelling on this man's face was courtesy of Joe Hunter. Rickard hopped back on the Fireblade and peeled out of the lot, the Land Rover following to somewhere less public.

Next stop the Florida Keys. Rickard read signs on the road, but he'd no intention of travelling so far. He found an agricultural trail just outside of town and pulled on to the track. His wheels kicked up dust as he sped down it with the Land Rover following close behind.

He found a place where the track widened out, a grass verge on one side next to an irrigation channel. A wide field of tall grass spread away to the distant horizon on his right, but the other side of the trail was bordered by spindly trees choked with Spanish moss. There were also gumbo limbo trees, with weird twisted trunks and bark like leather.

Putting the bike on its stand, he walked out as the Land Rover passed by. He watched the driver throw the big vehicle into reverse and then pull in near to the bike. Rickard stood with his arms folded across his chest, watching closely as all three men got out, dust settling round them.

The driver leaned against the tailgate of the Land Rover, folding his arms on his chest in a copy of Rickard's stance. The man from the back stood with a thumb tucked into his belt. Rickard saw a cast on the man's forearm, poking out from under the cuff of his sleeve. The third man walked towards him, extending a hand in greeting. Rickard didn't take it, just observed the man from behind his sunglasses. Finally he unfolded his arms, but only to reach up and push the shades back on his head.

Kenneth Wetherby didn't know what to do with his hand and it took him a second or two to withdraw it. He rubbed his palm down the thigh of his trousers, leaving a damp smear on the material.

'You brought what I wanted?' Rickard stared at the livid bruise on the man's face.

Wetherby nodded at the man standing by the Land Rover and he unlocked and dropped the tailgate. He leaned inside and pulled a large plastic trunk towards him, flipped open the lid. He stepped away as Rickard approached, crossing his arms again. Rickard knew the man's pose wasn't as nonchalant as it looked: there was a gun in a shoulder rig inside his jacket.

Rickard took a quick glance in the box. 'How current is this?'

Behind him, Wetherby said, 'Brand new issue. Have a contact at SWAT who moonlights for me off and on.'

Rickard nodded, satisfied. When he turned round, Wetherby took a step backwards, he'd been so close. 'Quite a mess Hunter made of your face, Ken.'

Wetherby touched the swelling under his eye. 'Asshole sucker-punched me.'

Rickard grunted, taking in the scrapes on the face of the man with his arms folded, the broken arm of the other. 'He sucker-punched the three of you?'

'He had help.' Wetherby scowled, touched the swelling again. 'I took this for you, Rickard. He wanted me to tell him who you were.'

'So you told him?'

All three men stirred uncomfortably, a sign of the lies to follow.

'No way,' Wetherby said. 'Why'd you think he hit me?'

'Just wondering how he happened to turn up in Colombia. Bit of a coincidence, huh?'

'Don't know how he did it, but does it really matter now? He's dead, right?'

'Blown to hell,' Rickard said.

'Good fuckin' riddance, I say.'

'You said that he had help?'

'Jared Rington.'

'A tall black guy?'

'No. A Jap.'

'Odd name for an Oriental.'

'Goes by Rink. He's a PI outa Tampa. Hunter works with him, does the dirty work when required.'

'So who's the black guy?'

'Don't know any black guy,' Wetherby said.

Rickard shrugged. It paid to know who he might be going up against, but maybe the point was immaterial. He fully expected that Rink and the black guy hadn't made it out of Cesar Calle's house alive. The German mercenary, Metzger, looked like he was their equal, plus he had more than a dozen others to back him up.

Out of nowhere, Rickard said, 'I killed Gutierrez.'

Wetherby exhaled loudly, shaking his head. 'He was your ticket, man. Why'd you do that?'

'He was playing both sides: sooner or later he'd have betrayed me. I don't tolerate betrayal.'

His words were loaded and Wetherby wasn't too slow to pick up on that.

'I didn't tell Hunter where to find you.'

Rickard ignored him. He looked inside the plastic box again. 'The SWAT guy: he didn't ask why you wanted these?'

'I pay him enough that he doesn't ask.'

'Even if I'm going up against his own people?'

'Like I said, he takes the money and he doesn't ask.'

'Good enough,' Rickard nodded. 'Weapons?'

This time the man with the cast on his arm opened the rear door of the Land Rover. Pulling out a long black lacquered case from the back seat, he unsnapped clips and swung open the lid, holding it like an emissary bearing gifts to a foreign court.

'Same rifle I used in Tampa,' Rickard noted. 'I thought you were going to get rid of it, Ken.'

'There was no chance that the cops would find it. They were looking for Hunter. No way that they would come to my office.'

'Hunter did.'

'He had no idea I'd hired you on behalf of the Colombians. He was just clutching at straws when he turned up.'

'But you didn't tell him anything.' Lifting out the M-40A3 bolt-action rifle, Rickard studied it. The gun was an original Remington 700, extensively remodelled by United States Marine Corps armourers. It had a five-round detachable box magazine and telescopic sights. Spare 7.62? 51 mm NATO rounds were arranged in the lining of the case, alongside a long suppressor. The cartridges he'd used when killing the two cops, Castle and Soames, had been replaced. He put the rifle back into the box and closed the lid. Placed it on the ground.

He turned slowly to look at Wetherby.

'It's going to be difficult carrying the rifle while driving a motorcycle.' Rickard scratched idly at his lower back while thinking the problem over. 'I'm going to have to take the Land Rover.'

'What? Leave us out here? No way.'

Rickard pulled out his gun. Back in Dr Rothman's office he'd primed the weapon, screwing a suppressor in place. 'I'm taking it.'

This wasn't about the Land Rover. Rickard had planned to kill Wetherby and his goons the instant he'd called the man. After he killed Alisha, he was going to disappear, and Wetherby was the only living person who could lead the cops to him. He couldn't leave behind any loose threads if he was to set himself up in another part of the country.