Читать книгу The Full Story - Dawn Stewardson - Страница 9

ONCE DAN GOT BACK to the kitchen, Mickey eyed him expectantly.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal I’ll go for. If the killer shows up, you get your exclusive this afternoon. If he doesn’t, if I have to go to New York and find Billy, you don’t breathe a word about any of this until the situation is resolved. Then, you get your exclusive.”

She looked suspicious, so he added, “Either way, you win.”

“And what if you end up in New York and another journalist gets wind of what’s happening?” she said. “Where would my exclusive be then?”

“Don’t worry about that, because this will be over and done with today. Now, give me your laptop and purse.”

“Pardon me?”

“Your laptop and purse,” he repeated. “Just for a minute.”

She hesitated, then handed them over.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he said.

“What?”

“When you get down to writing your story, you can report the facts of what happens. And Billy’s a public figure so he’s fair game. But my name doesn’t show up in print.”

“Then how do I refer to you?”

“Mr. Brent’s bodyguard will do. And there can’t be any mention of the company I work for, either.”

“You mean you don’t work for Billy?”

“Only indirectly. At any rate, those are the other ground rules. And before we go any further, I want your word that you won’t break them.”

She nodded, although she clearly didn’t like having additional parameters. But since there was a lot about this he didn’t like, it only seemed fair.

“Oh, and I should tell you,” he continued, “that a lot of important people deal with my company. People who like the fact that it’s low profile.

“So if you did happen to make any mention of me—or it—you’d be done at the Post. And you’d never get a job with a decent paper again.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m only negotiating a deal.”

When he began rummaging through her purse, she said, “What do you figure you’re doing?”

“Just taking your car keys and phone.”

“I don’t think so!”

Sticking the keys into his pocket, he tossed her purse back, then started across the kitchen with her phone and computer.

“Give me my other things,” she demanded.

Ignoring her was immensely enjoyable.

After dumping the newspapers out of the recycle box, he took a minute to check the surveillance monitors.

They still weren’t picking up anything unusual. And even though he hated the idea of leaving them unmanned again, he hated the thought of Mickey getting in touch with the Post even more. Which meant that the best thing he could do was just get this over with as quickly as possible.

He put her laptop, cell phone and keys into the box, then picked it up and began making his way from room to room with it—her on his heels—unplugging each phone he came to and adding it to the box.

“I don’t believe this,” she finally muttered. “I simply do not believe you’re doing this.”

“You told me you wanted to stay,” he reminded her. “So you don’t need your car keys right now. And you haven’t got the story yet, so you don’t need your computer.”

“Well I certainly need a phone. I promised my boss I’d call him back.”

“He’ll understand. In the long run.”

Apparently, she couldn’t think of a response to that. She followed him silently into the last room, a huge, windowless theater that could seat twenty.

He unplugged the phone in there and topped up the pile with it, then said, “Okay. You stay here. If you hear any shots, hit the floor between the rows of chairs.”

“And how am I supposed to get my story from in here?”

“If the killer shows up, I’ll knock him unconscious and then fill you in. You can even take pictures.”

“But—”

“Mickey, the odds are very high that we’re talking about a professional hit man. Just letting you stay goes against my better judgement, and I definitely don’t have time to baby-sit.”

“I don’t need baby-sitting. I even know how to handle a gun. I used to take target shooting with my brothers.”

“You don’t have a gun, though, do you? So just sit tight.”

“But—”

“That’s how it has to be,” he snapped. “Take it or leave it.”

“All right,” she said sullenly.

He walked out of the room—closing the door behind himself, despite knowing damn well that she’d have it cracked open within thirty seconds—and headed back to the kitchen once more.

The monitors were still showing nothing out of the ordinary, so unless his killer had snuck up tight to the house during the past five minutes…

That thought didn’t sit well with him. Considering the way the day had been going so far, it just might have happened.

After concealing the recycle box in the back of a closet, keeping only his own cell phone accessible, he scanned the screens again.

The unsettled feeling worming its way around in his stomach was telling him that he’d better make sure things were still cool, so he took his Glock from his waistband and headed for the front door.

If he discovered someone plastered against the outside of the house, the way he’d found Mickey earlier, at least he’d have the element of surprise.

He silently unbolted the door and threw it open—his gun ready for action.

But there was no new company. Not out front, anyway.

Still, he’d better take a quick walk around the house. Be certain that he hadn’t missed seeing anything.

He strode down from the porch and started off, pausing to listen for a moment when he reached the corner.

All he heard was the raucous call of a jay and the clicking sound that some insect made when it flew.

So far so good. Then he headed around the corner and found himself face-to-face with big trouble.

Actually, face to mask, he thought uneasily.

A man wearing a rubber mask that made him look like an alien was standing five feet in front of him—with a Magnum centered on his chest.

“Put down your gun,” the masked man said. “Slowly.”

Wordlessly Dan set his Glock on the ground.

“Good. Now we’re going into the house. You first.”

He turned and began walking back toward the front door, both his heart and his thoughts racing.

Most likely, he was only still breathing because this guy figured Billy was inside and hadn’t wanted to alert him with a shot.

But he couldn’t count on staying alive for long. Not when professional killers tended to have a take-no-prisoners, leave-no-witnesses style of thinking.

However, the man didn’t know the house and Dan did. Which meant that all he needed was one little break.

Adrenaline pumping, he stepped inside.

“Where’s Billy?” the killer asked.

“This way.”

He started across the polished pine floor of the entrance area, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head.

Ages ago, he’d perfected a move that would work if the man was close enough. At least, it had worked a few times in the past, in dark New Orleans alleys.

But if he guessed wrong and the killer was too far back, he’d get himself shot for sure. Then this guy would search the place and Mickey would take the next round of bullets.

So he couldn’t guess. He’d just have to hope to hell that—

“Stop dead and put your hands up,” Mickey ordered.

There was his break!

He whirled around and dove toward the floor in one motion, catching the killer around the knees as the Magnum exploded.

They both went sprawling and the gun skittered across the floor, vanishing beneath a massive desk.

The killer swore, grabbing Dan by the throat.

He slammed his fist into the guy’s face hard enough to make him let go. Then there was another deafening shot. Just as he realized that Mickey must have fired again, she screamed, “Stop! Both of you!”

Instinctively he glanced in her direction, which proved to be a really stupid move. The killer caught him with such a wicked fist to the temple that it almost knocked him senseless.

While bells were bonging inside his head, the other man tore out of the place.

Mickey slammed the door shut after him, threw the bolt, then hurried over to where Dan was sitting on the floor.

She had a semiautomatic in one hand. The other, she tentatively rested on his shoulder, saying, “Are you okay?”

“I’ve got to catch him,” he told her, managing to lurch to his feet.

“Dan, I don’t think—”

“There’s only one way he can go. And I can drive that road faster than someone who doesn’t know it.”

He reached for her gun; she whipped it behind her back and said, “Let’s give that idea some thought.”

DAN FELT AS IF he’d been hit with a tire iron rather than a fist, and when he tried to ask Mickey where she’d gotten a gun no words came out, which he took to be a bad sign.

If not for that, and if he had more confidence about getting farther than the porch without collapsing, he’d wrestle Mickey for the gun and head after the killer.

Given the reality of the situation, however, he simply stood waiting to hear what she’d say next.

“Dan, you hardly look up to chasing after a hit man,” she began. “And for all we know, he has another gun in his car or wherever.”

Right. And he’d need another one. That Magnum was still lying under the desk.

Everything had happened so quickly that Dan had almost forgotten about it. But he’d dig it out before he left. It never hurt to have an extra weapon.

“So if he does have a second gun,” Mickey was saying, “and you go looking for him, you might end up awfully sorry.”

He’d have nodded that she had a point, only he suspected the movement would make his head explode.

“I should have shot him,” she said more quietly. “Instead of simply firing into the air, I should have shot him in the leg or something. I was afraid of hitting you, though. Then he sprinted by me like a track star and that was that.”

“It’s okay,” he managed to say. “You probably kept us both from getting killed. So…thanks.”

When she smiled and said he was welcome, the thought that she had a great smile somehow found its way into his mind.

He wasn’t sure which was more bizarre—the fact that he was having the thought at all or that he was having it while his head was pounding.

At any rate, he told it to find its way back out, then put together the words to ask where the gun had come from.

“It was in a drawer,” she told him. “In the theater. I don’t usually go poking around in other people’s drawers,” she continued quickly. “But you seemed certain the killer was going to show up, and I remembered reading somewhere that Billy kept guns around.”

“Ah,” he said. Then he gingerly touched his temple to see whether it had started to swell.

Not surprisingly, it had.

“We should put ice on that,” Mickey said.

Before he could tell her he didn’t have time to waste on first aid, she added, “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get some.”

Sitting down struck him as an excellent suggestion. But since his cell was lying on the kitchen counter, and he didn’t trust her not to grab it and call her editor, he followed along to make sure she wouldn’t, his head only hurting a little more with each step he took.

He picked up the phone and clipped it to his belt, thinking that even though his plan to lure the killer here had worked, the end result sure wasn’t what he’d been hoping for.

So now he was back to square one, and there wasn’t a chance in the world of that guy giving up. He’d try something again, just as soon as he had a good opportunity—which, unless Ken lucked out in New York, could well be tomorrow morning.

“Here,” Mickey said, handing him some ice wrapped in a dish towel.

“Thanks.” He pressed the ice pack to his temple, saying, “I’ve got to make a call.”

That was her cue to give him privacy, of course, but when she pretended not to pick up on the hint, he couldn’t be bothered making a big deal out of it.

Since she already knew the basic story, what would it matter if she listened in on the next installment?

He got hold of Ken and asked whether he’d found Billy yet.

“Still working on it,” he said. “But I have to admit I’m losing hope. Anything happen there?”

“Yeah, and it wasn’t pretty.”

He began filling the other man in, trying not to think that Ken must figure he was an idiot.

What else would he think, though?

It was just a good thing he was the type to keep quiet. Because Dan O’Neill setting a trap for a killer, and then entirely missing the guy’s arrival, was so much not the norm for him that a lot of people would find it too damn funny.

After he finished relating the basics of what had happened, Ken said, “Are you still hearing bells?”

“No, I’m fine now.”

And that was only a slight exaggeration. He was feeling a lot better than he’d been a few minutes ago.

“But Billy sure isn’t going to be fine,” he added. “Not if this guy gets to him before we do.”

“And we don’t have any more idea of who we’re up against than we did before,” Ken said.

“Uh-uh. His mask was the kind that pulls down over the head. So all I know is that he’s average height, average build, and hits like a heavyweight.”

“You think he’s going to hear about Billy being on Sherry Sherman’s show?”

“Yeah, I think there’s a real good chance. Even if he’s still thinking Billy’s holed up here, he wouldn’t come back. He’ll realize that his first visit put me on high alert, which would make a second one too dangerous. So now he’ll start planning a different approach. And he’ll hear about the show as soon as he begins nosing around for fresh information.”

“I assume you’ll be leaving for New York right away, then.”

“As soon as I can get a flight. I didn’t have a chance to check on them, but I’ll just head to the airport and take whatever’s available.”

“Well, I’ll keep looking here.”

“Right. And I’ll call you again later.”

“So,” Mickey said as he clipped the phone to his belt once more. “We’re on our way to New York now.”

We? He almost laughed.

Did she figure that getting punched in the head had given him amnesia? That she’d be able to convince him he’d agreed to more than he had?

If so, she was about to be very disappointed.

“I’m going to New York,” he told her. “Alone.”

“But—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Our deal wasn’t that you’d go along. It was that, if I went, you’d stay here and get your exclusive once the excitement was over. And that you wouldn’t breathe a word about the story until then.”

“But things have changed.”

“Meaning?”

She shrugged. “Meaning I kept you from getting killed. I probably did,” she added before he had the chance to correct her.

“Plus, that ice is working wonders. I can hardly see any swelling now. So all in all, you owe me.”

Ah. She was trying emotional blackmail this time around.

“Maybe I do,” he admitted. “But I don’t owe you a trip to New York.”

He set down the ice pack and picked up the semiautomatic she’d put on the counter, then started toward the front door.

“Wait a minute,” she said.

He kept walking, not even remotely surprised when she followed him.

“Look,” he said, stopping a few feet short of the door. “This isn’t open for discussion. My gun’s outside and I’m going to get it. After that, I intend to throw a few things into a suitcase and—”

“So you’re expecting to be in New York for a while?”

“No, I doubt I’ll be there long. But the only way I can get a gun on a plane is in checked luggage.”

“People can still do that? Doesn’t airport security X-ray everything these days? Whether it’s checked or not?”

“Uh-huh. But my stuff gets special treatment.”

“What?” she said, looking as if she figured he was delusional.

He simply shrugged. He didn’t care whether she thought he was crazy, and he had no intention of getting into any hows and whys with her—although the “arrangement” his company had for transporting guns was really a blessing.

It wasn’t always easy to acquire the sort of weapon you wanted when you’d just arrived in a city.

“You mean,” she was saying, “that you can walk into any airport, carrying anything you like in your luggage and—”

“I didn’t say anything I like. I said guns. Now let’s drop it, okay?” he added as he took a few final steps to the door.

Cautiously he opened it and surveyed the clearing, virtually certain the killer wouldn’t have hung around but not wanting to take any chances.

Then he glanced at her again, and said, “Would you mind waiting inside?”

For once, she did as he asked and simply stood in the doorway while he collected his Glock.

As he headed back up the porch steps, she said, “I could be a big help in New York.”

“I told you it wasn’t open for discussion,” he reminded her.

“Then we won’t discuss,” she said, trailing after him when he started toward his room. “I’ll talk and you just listen.”

TURK HAD RUN like hell almost the entire way from Billy Brent’s place back to where he’d left his rental car—hidden down an old pull-off that was so overgrown it couldn’t have been used in years. For a city slicker, he’d done well to even spot it.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and took his Beretta from the glove compartment in case things went even further off course.

Then he powered down the windows, thinking that he hadn’t had such a close call in…hell, he’d probably never had such a close one. But at least he knew where the problem lay. It was simply that he was out of his element.

Maybe contract killers did have to go wherever their work took them, but Vancouver Island was so different from Manhattan it could be on another planet.

He was used to bright lights and big city noise. So put him in the wilderness and it was hardly surprising that he wasn’t totally on top of his game.

Oh, not that the entire island was wall-to-wall forest. He’d landed in a city. Actually, to be specific, he’d landed in its harbor. But same difference.

Victoria. The capital of British Columbia, a fact he’d carefully tucked away.

He was a trivia nut, and after millions of hours of Jeopardy and Wheel and Millionaire he could usually come up with at least some inconsequential fact relating to just about any subject.

Foreign geography, however, was his weak suit. So whenever he traveled he paid special attention to names and places.

At any rate, from what little he’d seen of Victoria it seemed like a nice place. And only half an hour by float plane north of Seattle.

Still, once you left the city behind, there was nothing except mile after mile of mountains and trees, and he just didn’t get the appeal of this nature crap. You wanted nature, you went to Central Park. You didn’t head for Canada and total isolation.

He didn’t, anyway. Not unless someone was paying him big bucks to make the trip, which, of course, explained why he was here.

But when it came to Billy Brent, the guy made over twenty million a picture. He could afford to be anywhere in the world on his downtime. So why would he want to spend a single day of it in the middle of nowhere?

Oh, hell, he was back to thinking about Billy Brent and his damned retreat. And what a screwup that scene had been.

It would have been even worse, though, if he wasn’t in good shape. All those hours at the gym—in the ring, lifting weights, running laps—had really paid off today.

If he hadn’t landed that one smoker of a punch he might be in real trouble now. Because whoever the guy at Billy’s was, he wasn’t any pushover. That one punch had probably made the difference between getting away and not.

Of course, the important thing was that he had gotten away.

But that bitch with the gun had surprised the shit out of him and if he ever laid eyes on her again she’d be dead.

Hell, she’d be dead already if his Magnum hadn’t gone flying, which was another point against her. Her sneaking up on him had cost him his favorite piece.

That had him royally pissed, and it wasn’t the only thing that was frosting him off.

This job should already be over and done with. But because of her, it wasn’t.

He thought about that for a minute, then backed up his logic a little.

If not for her, the job would be over and done with, assuming that Billy Brent had actually been in there. Which might not have been the case.

What if Billy had realized he was being targeted?

That could be. And it would mean all the media crap about his being at his retreat had been nothing but a setup.

Turk lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with the hot smoke, feeling pretty much back to normal now, able to contemplate where things stood with a clear brain.

He’d pegged the guy with the Glock for a bodyguard. Maybe that wasn’t it, though. Maybe he’d been there instead of Billy, waiting to see whether anyone came looking for the superstar.

But if Billy wasn’t there, where was he?

After considering the question, he retrieved his laptop from the floor of the back seat, thinking he’d better see—courtesy of the world of wireless Internet connections—if there was anything new going on in Billy’s life.

Once he was into cyberspace, he clicked on his bookmark for the best of the Billy Brent fan sites he’d found.

The message scrolling across the top of the screen read, “Watch Billy tomorrow morning! Live on the Sherry Sherman Show!”

Well. Wasn’t that interesting.

He read the text saying that Sherry had announced Billy would be her special guest. Then he got off the Internet and shut the laptop, smiling to himself.

He’d really grown to love modern technology.