Chapter 10
TEN
Escaping hadn’t been hard. For someone who’d graduated SERE with only a busted shoulder to show for it, getting out of the fancy building with the pretty, pretend security had been a cakewalk.
Up the fire escape, and up onto the roof. It was night and the satellites that passed weren’t equipped with infrared cameras. That was for war zones.
Outlaw was seriously annoyed at having his work interrupted, though.
And by someone who knew what he was doing.
Fuck, another few minutes and the lady would have talked.
She’d been terrified. He could still feel the deep tremors running through her.
He’d even been tempted for a second there.
The bitch was a real looker and Outlaw liked his women just a little scared. Made them real accommodating.
But he knew better than to mix sex with the job. It was the kind of mistake that could have gotten him killed in the service and the kind of mistake that would cost him money in his new job. So sex while working was off the table, always.
The job wasn’t done. He’d just sat down to her computer when he’d heard the key in the lock and had barely made it to the door and turned out the lights before she walked in.
And a couple of minutes later, the big asshole from across the way picked the lock and came in and the whole mission had gone FUBAR in a second.
It was a very good thing that the guy cared about Nicole Pearce. Outlaw had seen it in an instant and realized that she was his get-out-of-jail-free card.
He’d tossed her at the window, knowing that if the guy didn’t catch her, she’d fall nine stories to her death and he’d never get the info. But he also knew the guy would rather catch her than him.
Up on the rooftop, Outlaw went to the southern edge of the building. Only two feet separated this wall from the next building. He tossed the trolley suitcase and his briefcase over onto the next roof and jumped.
This building had a service elevator from the roof to the garage, and a quarter of an hour later, Outlaw was dressed in his banker’s suit and driving away in his rental.
Next stop—Nicole Pearce’s house. She would either go home and he could get the job done there or if she didn’t, he’d grab the dad and force her hand.
Outlaw had never understood the hostage thing.
There wasn’t anyone in the world he’d give something up for.
You could blow up any head you wanted and he didn’t care.
But for the rest of the world, it was a surefire winner.
There were people who’d give up anything if you held a gun to a loved one’s head.
Or knee or elbow, promising to shoot the hostage to death, piece by piece.
Ah, yes. That always got results.
Outlaw parked two blocks from Nicole Pearce’s house, then made his way in the dark to the back of the Pearce house.
It wasn’t a wealthy part of town. The houses were small, about sixty years old, most of them badly kept.
He knew how to move in the dark, it was in his bones.
He ghosted from tree to shrub to wall, ending up crouching behind the Pearce house, looking out over the backyard.
It was the best-kept house on the street, sporting a fresh paint job.
The garden was well tended, with neatly trimmed shrubbery and flowering plants and a recently mown lawn. Someone worked hard.
There were lights on in every room downstairs.
It was ten thirty. Pretty soon the household would be going to bed, if there was an old man in the house.
Outlaw would make his move a few hours after lights out, when the father would be deep in sleep.
He leaned his ear against the wall. There were voices in the room, a male rumble and the lighter tones of a woman, but he couldn’t make out the words.
Well, he’d come prepared. That’s what they paid him for.
He entered the combination to open his suitcase.
Inside the lining was a soundless electric mini-drill and a snake mike with inbuilt microcamera.
He carefully drilled a hole through the exterior wall of the house, the drill so silent he could barely hear it inches away.
He broke through at floor level and threaded the mike and camera into the hole.
Shit!
The room was set up like a hospital room. There was a high cot surrounded by medical instruments, an IV tree, a bedside table with pills, a man in a wheelchair. A woman in a nurse’s uniform bending over him.
Outlaw pulled his eye away and sat with his back to the wall.
Well, fuck. Nicole Pearce’s father was sick.
How the hell could he have known? It’s not as if it was on her website.
That complicated things, because the geezer might die on him and he’d instantly lose his leverage.
And that bag hanging from the IV tree would probably have a sedative in it.
Outlaw could end up having an unconscious hostage.
Not to mention the fact that the nurse was contractually obliged to stay awake and by his bedside all night.
Shit. This was supposed to be fucking easy.
At least the nurse would be easy. And he had a preloaded syringe of adrenaline he could always shoot into the geezer. It would work.
He’d wait until all the lights went out, then break in. The place had no security, none. No cameras, no burglar alarm and he’d seen the locks on the front and back doors. Pathetic. These people deserved what was going to happen to them.
Outlaw settled with his back to the rear left-hand corner where he could keep an eye on the front and back of the house, stretched his legs out, preparing to go into sniper’s lethargy for a couple of hours, when every cell in his body went on red alert.
A squad car pulled up outside the Pearce house.
Two cops in the front seats. The passenger window rolled down and Outlaw could hear the squawk of the radio.
The guy riding shotgun pulled a mike from the dashboard attached to a curly wire, put it up to his mouth and talked, staring out the window at the facade of the house.
The cop listened to a static-filled voice, then got out of the car, hand on the grip of the Beretta 92 in its holster, clearly preparatory to doing a look-see.
He was wearing body armor and he looked alert.
He started walking toward the side of the house.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Outlaw melted into the shadows, moving beyond the cop’s vision, thinking furiously.
Now there were two cops to take out, besides the nurse.
Count in Nicole Pearce and her father, that made five fucking bodies.
His usual fee didn’t cover that. Particularly not snuffing cops.
Cops never gave up on cop killings. There was no such thing as a cold case when a cop was offed. It remained hot till the end of time.
Outlaw’s hits were carefully planned and even more carefully executed. No improv, no surprises. He’d avoided capture so far because he left nothing to chance. No prints, no DNA, nada. He was meticulous, almost surgical in his precision.
Tonight he was being forced to work on the fly, leaving behind a trail of dead bodies, two of them cops.
Furious, he pulled out his cell and sent an encrypted message.
Job now requires taking out two cops, a nurse and sick old man. Will need backup. Awaiting instructions.
He was well hidden behind a neighbor’s tool shed and was prepared to wait all night for instructions, but it wasn’t necessary. Fifteen minutes later, he had an answer.
Check your bank. Then do it. Expenses OK.
When he checked his bank account, there was a payment for $1,000,000 there. Shit, for a cool million and a half, he’d off an extra two cops, a nurse and a sick geezer. Particularly since he had the element of surprise.
Killing two cops was serious stuff, though. He’d have to take the money and disappear for a while. A year, maybe more. There was a small property he’d bought in Costa Rica. He could add to it, make himself real comfortable. Dollars went a long way there. He could stay off the grid for a long time.
His gun was untraceable: he’d loaded the magazines wearing latex. He turned everything over in his mind, planning it step by step until he knew it was feasible.
It was a go.
He waited. The cops rang the doorbell and talked to the nurse, then went back to the patrol car and called in a report.
He quietly made his way back to the rental Lexus and pulled out. A couple of minutes later, he was pulling up beside the Crown Vic parked outside the Pearce home.
He buzzed down the window, a smile on his face. He knew what the cops were seeing. A perfectly normal guy in a suit driving an expensive car, clearly lost. He pasted a sheepish expression on his face.
“Good evening…officers.” He let his eyes go wide, as if just noticing they were in uniform.
“Sir,” the uniform in the driver’s seat said.
Outlaw widened his smile. “I need some help here. I think I’m really off base. My GPS is on the fritz. I’m looking for the Gaslamp Quarter, and I’ve been driving around in circles for the past hour.”
“Well, you’re going in the wrong direction.
You’ll have to—” The cop never finished the sentence.
A red hole blossomed on his forehead and a halo of pink mist surrounded his head.
The pink mist erupted around the other cop’s head, too.
There had only been the softest of sounds, completely inaudible to anyone even five feet away.
There was no one within five feet. There was no one within a hundred feet.
Outlaw had heard the cops checking in. This would be a routine surveillance. They’d only check in a couple of times in the shift, but it would be well to move fast now. As sure as hell as soon as the two cops didn’t report in, this place would be swarming with cops.
He wanted the whole job over fast. They’d be searching airports, bus and train stations.
Time for backup.
Outlaw had a list of collaborators, ex-military all. Men more than willing to use their gifts and training in the private sector.