Carved in Darkness (18 page)

“Paging Kyle Day … Kyle Day, please pick up a white courtesy phone.”
Kyle Day was the name stamped on his ticket. It matched the name on the driver’s license and credit cards in his wallet. He took the escalator to the first floor and bypassed baggage claim. Kyle Day was paged a second and third time before he reached the predetermined alcove. He lifted the white courtesy phone. “This is Kyle Day.”

“Please hold, sir.” A series of clicks, then a voice. Not Lark’s.

“Two-nineteen.” The line went dead.

He dropped the receiver in its cradle before picking up the entire phone. A small white envelope was taped to its underside. He took the envelope and left the alcove.

Each operative had one handler. One person specifically in charge of feeding them real-time information, logistics and reporting their mission stats to the Top Floor. Lark was his handler. Calling him was Lark’s job; it should have been him on that phone.

He stopped at a newsstand on his way out of the airport and bought a newspaper. He gave it a trifold and tucked it under his right arm before he rolled his carry-on out to the curb and waited. A half-dozen cabs trolled by before he saw the one he wanted. A yellow cab with the numbers 2-1-9 stenciled on the side in black letters. He pulled the newspaper from under his arm with his left hand and used it to flag the cab down. This was the signal that brought the cab he wanted curbside. He rescued his suit jacket and climbed into the back seat while the cabbie stowed his carry-on in the trunk. He didn’t need to tell the cabbie where he wanted to go.

All this cloak-and-dagger bullshit was just that—bullshit. He much preferred the Colombians and their straightforward approach.
See this man? He makes trouble for me. Kill him
. That was it. No trifolded newspapers or white courtesy phones. Just him and the specific level of violence needed to convey the client’s message.

A year ago his life had been much simpler but essentially the same. He was a living, breathing weapon. People used him to kill other people. The only real difference was that he no longer had a choice in who or when. He could no longer pass on or take a job as he saw fit. He took the jobs they told him to; in return, he was allowed to live in relative peace. It was what he’d agreed to. No use in bitching about it now.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. The cabbie was watching him. Checking out the tap-dance routine Sabrina’d done all over his face. He smirked slightly. The facial movement caused him some discomfort. The swelling in his cheek had gone down enough to remain unnoticeable and the tear in the corner of his mouth was healing fast. Most of the lasting damage was covered by the monkey suit. The cabbie was still looking at him. Probably trying to find something juicy to tell the boss. He was low-level FSS—water boy to his NFL hall-of-famer. Probably staring at him in the rearview wondering,
what does this asshole have that I don’t?
Guy didn’t understand that it wasn’t what he
had
that made him different. It was what he lacked.

Abruptly, he thought of Frankie. Missed her so much he wanted to do something. Hurt something. An image of Sabrina shoved Frankie out of the way. He squeezed his eyes tighter, tried to push her out of his mind. She wouldn’t budge.

He gave up and opened his eyes. His phone buzzed inside his pocket. It was a picture text of a middle-aged man. He looked like a lawyer or a doctor but was probably neither. He studied the man’s face. Memorized it. He had no idea who or what he was beyond the obvious: he was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.

Michael finished with the photo and deleted it before tucking his phone away. He rolled down his sleeves and straightened his tie. He shrugged his jacket on and rolled his neck on his shoulders, trying to loosen some of the business-class knots that lodged themselves there during the four-hour flight.

“We’re here.”

He flicked a glance at the rearview. Yup, Water Boy had that look. That
you ain’t such hot shit
look. He gave him a small smile. It really wasn’t a point worth arguing.

The cab’s tires hit the curb in front of an upscale downtown hotel, the name of which didn’t matter. Water Boy flipped on the hazards and popped the trunk. He met him on the curb with his carry-on and a briefcase that didn’t belong to him. “Here’s your briefcase, sir.”

He took the case, exchanged it for a twenty-dollar bill. Water Boy took the money and drove away.

He checked into a business suite reserved in the same name he flew under. He tipped readily but not extravagantly; he was cordial but not friendly. He declined turn-down service, made no special requests. He was forgotten by the hotel staff minutes after he closed the door to his suite.

Tossing the case on the bed, he loosened his tie again. This meant he’d have to fix it a second time, but he didn’t care. It was like a noose, choking him. He opened the case and looked inside. A Kimber .45 and suppressor were nestled atop four kilos of uncut heroin. He ignored the H and the dull itch the sight of it created in the palms of his hands—like the tingling of new skin underneath a scab that was long past falling off. The itch was faint and fleeting, born more from memory than actual want or need. It faded as soon as it appeared.

He lifted the Kimber. No sloppy seconds for FSS. This baby was straight from the box and completely untraceable. His phone pinged with an incoming text that contained the only instructions he needed.
11:45.
He knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to make a switch. Why he was switching a briefcase full of heroin and what he was switching it for was none of his business. He didn’t care—in fact, he was paid
not
to care.

He looked at his watch. He had thirty minutes.

He took off his jacket and stretched out on top of the bed, closing his eyes. He hadn’t slept,
really slept
, in days. Last night was spent in a hard chair watching Sabrina sleep. For a while, he’d been afraid he’d broken her. She usually came alive twenty minutes after her head hit the pillow, but not this time. With the exception of her brief surfacing, she’d slept the entire night through. He was envious.

The minutes ticked by in his head.
Five, ten, fifteen …
When he opened his eyes, he felt relatively rested. It was eleven-thirty.

Standing, he straightened his tie. Smoothed out the rumpled bedspread. He screwed the suppressor into the barrel of the Kimber and tucked it into the waistband of his tailored pants, then put on his jacket and picked up the briefcase. He left his room and took the stairs to the tenth floor.

Inside the envelope he’d pulled off the phone at the airport was a hotel keycard. He used it to gain access to the secure floor and walked down the plush carpeted hallway like he belonged there. The number on the keycard read 1075. He found the corresponding room number and gave the door a soft courtesy knock before using the keycard. He let himself in—making sure that the briefcase he carried was visible—and closed the door behind him.

This was a business deal about to go horribly wrong.

He recognized the man in the picture instantly. He was seated at a small dinette, a briefcase of his own on the table in front of him. Two thugs that looked a lot like Pips flanked the man in the picture. They eyed him with the smug glare of the supremely stupid and didn’t even bother to unbutton their suit jackets. His jacket was already unbuttoned.

The movement was fast and fluid.
Ssk, ssk, ssk.
Three trigger pulls. Three bullets drilled dead center into three foreheads. The exit wounds were gruesome, but Michael barely noticed. Pulling his cell from the inside breast pocket of his suit, he snapped a few pictures. He chose the one that best showcased the business man’s spanking-new bullet hole. He retrieved a number from his short list of contacts and sent the photo. He swapped briefcases and left.

He left the way he came, exiting the stairwell and crossing the lobby, briefcase in hand. He let the doorman open the door for him but shook his head when he offered to hail him a cab. The cab that brought him would be taking him back to the airport.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb in front of him. A Pip exited the driver’s side in a dark suit and even darker glasses. This guy was no low-level runner. The man walked around the front of the limo and opened the rear door for him, as self-assured as the right hand of God.

Michael hesitated for a moment. Two men, cast in shadow, waited in the dark cave of the car. One of them was Lark. He was worried but hid it well. They’d been in more than one scrape together, so he knew the look. He took a step forward. The Pip smiled.

He was getting in the car—that was a given. Walking away would be like burning down his own house. A happy thought at times, but when faced with the reality of the situation, it was hardly an option worth considering.

He climbed into the back of the limo next to Lark, and the Pip shut the door behind him. He looked at the man seated on the soft leather bench seat across from him.

As far as Michael was concerned, it was Satan himself.

TWENTY
-
NINE

I
T TOOK TWO DAYS
for her to crack. Two days of wandering, restless and alone, through the house before Sabrina was ready to pull her hair out in frustration. She called the number on the card Richards had given her and scheduled her first session with the department therapist for eleven o’clock that morning. Maybe if he saw that she was compliant, Richards would let her come back to work. It was a long shot, but it was better than doing nothing.

That wasn’t the only thing getting to her. Two days and not a glimpse of or word from Michael. It wasn’t like before, where she knew he was there but couldn’t see him. He was gone.

His little babysitting routine didn’t mean a thing. He blamed her for his sister’s death. He was angry with her for what happened to Frankie, and she couldn’t blame him. Either way, what he wanted was obvious: for her to come back to Jessup with him. That was never going to happen.

He made his demands and got his answer. No matter what he promised Lucy, he wouldn’t be back. It’d been Lucy’s fear that brought him here, not some unseen danger. She was sorry about Frankie, she really was, but getting herself killed wouldn’t bring anyone back.

Random thoughts rapid-fired in her head while she ran down the sidewalk. Her faithful sidekick sprinted ahead of her to circle back, nose to ground, tail wagging. She began to lose herself in the pound and rhythm, the hard crunch of her shoes against the dirt, the easy pull of air through lungs that were just beginning to ache.

In a few short hours she’d be bullshitting her way through a fifty-minute with someone trained to find cracks in her psyche. Not her idea of a good time, but she was beginning to pull clear of the nightmares. She felt better than she had in weeks. She figured she had an above-average shot of making it off the therapist couch sans straightjacket. That alone was cause for celebration.

After her session, maybe she’d swing by and grab Strickland for lunch. She hadn’t talked to him in days—

A sharp bark sounded behind her, followed by another and another until she was forced to slow and then stop. She turned to see the dog standing on the trail behind her—tail tucked low, head turned toward the woods bordering the trail to the north. He barked again and turned to look at her.

“What is it, Noodlehead? A rabbit?” she said, but instead of shooting off into the trees, he sat down and whined. He turned his gaze toward her again and lifted his paw. “If you want the rabbit,
you
go get it.” She walked back down the trail toward the dog. This wasn’t the first time her jogging partner tried to talk her into a rabbit hunt.

She hunkered down to ruffle his ears and peered into the trees. The woods were still.

Too still.

“Come on Noodlehead, I don’t have time—” She grabbed his collar and gave it a gentle pull. The dog growled, low in his throat. She dropped her hand immediately, but Noodles wasn’t growling at her. He was growling at something hidden in the trees.

Her eyes swept across the thick carpet of dead leaves on the ground, still hoping to see a rabbit bolt for cover. She saw them almost immediately. Drag marks. Two grooves, deep and black, cut a swath through the carpet of leaves. They led from the top of the slope, a gentle S that wound along the ground as if the person who made them had been out for a leisurely stroll. The marks continued on for about twenty yards, ending at what looked like a small mound of dead leaves.

She rose slowly and so did Noodles, his feet dancing with apprehension. “Come on.”

They started down the slope together, the rustle of dead leaves sounding like a swarm of locust beneath their feet. Ten yards from the bottom of the slope,
Sabrina stopped and studied the ground, looking for whatever it was that made her companion so nervous—and then she spotted it. The police officer in her told her to stop there, call it in. Keep her distance, not disturb the crime scene.

But no matter what the cop in her knew was right, there was no stopping herself from moving toward the pile of leaves and what waited for her beneath.