Chapter 6 #4
Had the whistleblower been taken out by a sniper’s bullet, the police would have looked closely at his affairs and would have found material incriminating Munro, who would have had some explaining to do, which would have made pointless the hundred thousand dollars Munro had transferred to Outlaw’s bank in Aruba.
As it was, the police couldn’t track the knife on which there were no prints and after a fruitless two weeks, the whistleblower’s file was already a cold case.
That hit had made him. He became the go-to guy for anyone in the financial sector who had a problem that couldn’t be solved by throwing money at it, including divorcing wives where there was no prenup.
Outlaw had had more than twenty jobs in the past five years, all executed perfectly.
A study of the terrain and the subject, a quick in and out, using methods that varied widely, and no one was the wiser.
He had even put together a team of former soldiers, good men who, after giving their all to Uncle Sam, were now up for earning real money.
Outlaw had learned from the finance guys, too. Corner a market and charge big. He was up to five hundred grand a pop now, plus expenses.
Outlaw had given Munro a cell phone number on a card, knowing Munro would spread it around. Munro lived in a world of men used to winning, no matter what. And if they didn’t have the necessary set of skills to do specific jobs, they simply hired men who did.
The call came as he was looking out over the hundred acres he’d bought in Georgia, less than an hour from the hub that was Hartsfield International.
The land was extensive enough to have firing ranges, a shoot house and endurance courses for his men, while offering complete privacy.
The perimeter was surrounded by sensors sensitive enough to detect a jackrabbit, with webcams every five feet.
In essence, Outlaw had his own country.
He’d built an enormous house that offered every comfort he could possibly want. Standing at the huge reinforced plate-glass window sipping a Jack Daniel’s, he answered his cell. It was his business cell phone, never used for anything but clients with jobs.
Well good, he thought. Time to make me some more money.
“Are you the man known as Outlaw?” The voice was soft, not deep, standard American.
“Yeah.” He didn’t ask who was calling. It didn’t make any difference. The guy would lie anyway. If necessary for the job, Outlaw could find out. Otherwise, he didn’t give a shit as long as the money landed in the bank. “What do you need?”
“Ah, a man who comes directly to the point. I like that.”
“Well, since I’ve got myself a rep as a straight shooter, let me tell you straight out I’m not moving until my fee is in my bank.”
“I was told about your…style, Mr. Outlaw. If you check your bank account, you will find your fee. Plus. I will send you the information on the person of interest in ten minutes, once you’ve ascertained this.”
Outlaw didn’t need ten minutes. Inside a minute, he’d logged onto his bank account and yes, there it was, 500K with an extra 100K thrown in for goodwill.
Outlaw knew his employers lived, breathed and died for money. Extra money meant this was extra important.
After ten minutes, a beep from his cell phone. He had a text message.
Nicole Pearce. Translation agency, Wordsmith. Morrison Building, San Diego, California.
Nicole Pearce received data in e-mail sent from Marseilles on June 28. Retrieve hard disk, possible flash drive, search for backups, eliminate computer, eliminate Nicole Pearce. Strict timeline. Job must be completed by July 2.
Okay.
Get a hard disk from a woman, snuff woman. He’d done harder things in his life. He checked the website of this business, Wordsmith. After half an hour, he had a handle on what it did and he’d gotten a good look at Nicole Pearce.
Christ. She was a fucking looker. One of his men, Dalton, was perpetually horny. If Dalton had been on this op, he’d toss Dalton this Pearce babe to play with for a while. Make him grateful.
He checked Vital Statistics and saw that she lived with one Nicholas Pearce, her father, not her husband.
Outlaw purged his search history from his computer, stood up and stretched. He finished his bourbon looking out the window at his little fiefdom.
He loved this life. He loved the heft and feel of it, the money and the power. He loved having hard skills and making soft men pay through the nose for them.
Outlaw stood at the window, watching the planes from Hartfield climb into the sky, one after another, like clockwork. In his own way, he was as precise a technician as any pilot or surgeon.
He’d go down to his state-of-the-art gym and give himself a good workout, get limber, then would have a light lunch with water. No more booze. He was now officially on Op Time, dedicated solely to the mission, and would be until the job was done.
He had a private plane at his disposal. He’d book it for 3 P.M., give him time to research the person, the hit.
His eyes lingered on the lovely face on his computer screen.
Christ, a real beauty. Who was about to be sacrificed to the money men.
Sorry, honey, he thought. I don’t know how you did it, but you just stepped on the wrong toes.