Choke Point (4 page)

Robbie leaned forward, carefully smoothing the tape along the top edge of the trauma bandage, then stepped back and smiled, admiring his handiwork. “That should do it.”

Mawl nodded once, showing his approval, but careful not to make too much of it. “Thanks, Jocko.” The nickname had nothing to do with the kid’s athletic ability—they were all athletes, or former athletes—but everything to do with his gung-ho, buddy-up enthusiasm. At twenty-four he was the newest and youngest of the group, and still thought being a commando mercenary the
most crackin’
job on the planet. Mawl knew better, and taking a bullet in the side had been a good reminder. Though he was still in excellent shape, he suddenly felt every one of his fifty years, and realized he was pushing the envelope of a young man’s game.

Robbie held up the tiny lump of gray metal. “Aye, you’re lucky it was small-caliber.”

Mawl nodded again.
Damn lucky.
Another inch to the right and…

“I’m thinkin’ you should have taken backup.”

Mawl took a deep breath and counted to five, fighting to control his anger. Of course he should have taken backup. That was obvious—
now!
He should have worn body armor. He should have had the gun set to semi instead of single shot. Lots of mistakes. And if Rynerson survived, such mistakes could magnify themselves into a full-blown catastrophe. Getting to such a man twice would not be easy, and making it look like an accident would be impossible. “It was supposed to look like a bungled nick. A snatch job that went bad.” He realized he was explaining his actions, something he made a habit of never doing. “He was supposed to be alone.” Which didn’t excuse his lack of foresight; he could have taken at least two members of the team without jeopardizing the mission.

The furrow between Robbie’s eyebrows deepened to a trench. “Aye, but—”

Mawl never allowed backtalk, but let it go with a look.
The look
was always enough.

Robbie took a step back, finally realizing he had ventured into a minefield. “I mean…I—”

Mawl held up a hand, cutting off the words. “You’re dismissed.”

Robbie started to salute, then remembered that such displays of military protocol were never allowed—a dead giveaway of the team’s background—and quickly retreated into the adjoining room, closing the door behind him. Mawl smiled to himself. Jocko was a good kid, fearless and blindly loyal, but like most pumped-up and puffed-up young men, his ability to think was hampered by an overabundance of testosterone.
Assets and liabilities,
Mawl thought, the yin and yang of his high-risk profession.

He pushed himself away from the cheap wooden table and stood up, a fresh jolt of pain pulsating down his side and into his groin.
Bloody hell,
it felt like he had just taken a hard kick in the goolies. He waited, letting the fire dampen, then crossed to the single window and carefully peeled back the curtain. The guesthouse was old and shabby, only six rooms, located in a run-down neighborhood near the border that separated the Macau province from the rest of socialist China—well away from the casinos and tourist hotels, and well away from their private security and the notice of local police. The street was dark and quiet, not a whisper of movement. Confident that no one had followed—that the police would never look for a
qai loh
in such an out-of-the-way flea trap—Mawl dropped the curtain back in place, then stepped into the bathroom: nothing more than a dimly lit corner, separated from the main room by a thin parchment partition.

The meager facilities were old and limited—a squat toilet, a cold-water sink, a cracked mirror—and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and a moment longer to mentally block out the pungent odor of stale urine that embedded the floorboards. Breathing through his mouth, Mawl slowly raised his arm, gently probing the area around the dressing for any swelling or other signs of internal bleeding. The kid had done a good job, the bandage dry and tight, the skin tender but not swollen.
Very lucky.

Satisfied, he studied himself in the mirror, measuring himself against the memory of his youth. On the outside he looked as tough and toned as any of his men, but below the surface he could feel a bit of softness, the subtle changes of age that couldn’t be held back no matter how much he exercised. It would start to show soon enough, and he hated the thought of it, the loss of his warrior edge. Though only five-ten, he was tall for that part of the world and the teahouse girls still found him attractive. They liked his shaved head, his pale-blue eyes, his washboard gut, the protection and warmth of his strong arms. That too would change. It was time to find a new profession.
But what?
There weren’t many choices in the New Territories for old soldiers, especially ex-Brits, who had ruled the area for nearly a century. Unfortunately, after thirty years, Mawl couldn’t imagine living anywhere other than Hong Kong, a city of magic and mystery.

He took a deep breath, the pungent odor stinging his eyes, and forced himself to focus on a more immediate problem: the client. Returning to the main room, he quickly calculated the time difference to the States, attached a digital micro-recorder to his scrambler phone, and punched in the number. As the call worked its way around the planet, Mawl carefully lowered himself into one of the molded plastic chairs and prepared his mind for what he knew would be a very uncomfortable conversation. It wouldn’t take long for word to slip out that Rynerson had been shot, and was clinging to life—not the kind of news Mawl wanted the client to receive secondhand.

Calm. Center. Focus.

The phone rang four times, followed by a faint click as the call was automatically routed to another location, followed by another click, followed by the client’s familiar voice and code name. “This is Trader.”

“And this is English,” Mawl responded.

“Is it over?”

“Yes,” Mawl answered, “but not done.”

There was a long pause, far beyond the normal hesitation of global long-distance. “What…do…you…mean…by…that?” Each word came slow and hard, verbal bullets searching for a target.

Determined not to lose control, Mawl waited a good five seconds before responding. “It means things went bad.” He could have said more, but wanted to wait for the right moment, to save the only positive news until it would do some good.

“What happened?”

“He didn’t follow instructions,” Mawl answered, trying to deflect some of the blame without making it sound like an excuse. “His security team showed up before I could close the deal.” From what he had seen—though it was difficult to be sure in the fog—there had been no
team,
but with one bullet in his side and others flying, he wasn’t about to hang around and count heads.

Trader’s voice dropped to a lockjaw growl, his tone accusatory. “You said he would be alone.”

“That was our mistake,” Mawl admitted, “thinking we could trust him.”

“I was
assured
—” He accentuated the word, a climbing sarcastic drawl. “—you people don’t make mistakes.”

Mawl took a deep breath, long and slow, suppressing the urge to snap back. “We guarantee our work.”

“Guarantee.” Trader snorted, as if the word gave him a bad taste. “You missed your chance. You’ll never get close to him again.”

It was time, Mawl realized, to play his last card, the only good-news card he had in what was otherwise a busted hand. “There’s an excellent chance we won’t need to. He may already be dead.”

“You hit him?”

“That’s affirmative,” Mawl answered, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. “I saw him go down.”

“You’re quite sure?”

Mawl found the question insulting—he always hit what he aimed at—but realized this was no time to make the point. “I have a source at the hospital. I should know something soon.”

“I’ll expect a call the minute you do. The
very
minute.”

“Of course. And what about the hotel?” Mawl hated having to ask; it made him feel like a lackey. “Is it time for another problem?”

“No! Absolutely not. After the shooting, that would be too suspicious.”

“That’s not a concern. It’ll look like an accident.”

“No! The press is going to be all over this. I don’t want to draw any kind of negative attention.”

The man was half a world away, clearly beyond “attention,” but Mawl made it a rule never to argue with a client, especially those with deep pockets and shallow tempers. “So what do you want us to do?”

“Do?” The answer came hissing back over the line. “I want you to finish the fucking job! That’s what I want you to do!”

There was a faint click and the line went silent.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Teterboro Airport, Teterboro, New Jersey

Wednesday, 27 June 13:26:21 GMT-0500

Simon watched as the small jet completed its rollout and turned onto the taxiway, directly toward his courtesy car parked at the edge of the tarmac. Though nowhere near the size or opulence of Jake’s
whale taxi
—used to ferry high-rollers to his gaming Mecca in the desert—the Gulfstream G550 was no less impressive. Sleek and fast, with skin the color of champagne, it only whispered of the power and wealth it represented.

The cabin door was open and the stairway extended even before the twin Rolls-Royce turbofans quit spinning. Looking no less impressive than her father’s plane, Kyra Rynerson stepped into the doorway and waved. “Hiya.” Dressed in a white button-down oxford shirt and khaki wash pants, she looked both stylish and casual, a woman in her mid thirties with the body of a college athlete.

Forcing a cheerful smile, Simon scrambled up the steps with his luggage. “Hiya to you.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek and stepped back. “Thanks for coming.”

It never occurred to him that he had a choice. “Thanks for picking me up.” He stepped inside, she punched a button next to the door, and the stairs instantly began to fold up and retract into the fuselage. He dropped his bags and leaned forward, giving her the eye-to-eye. “You okay?”

“Oh sure.” She glanced away. “I’m fine.”

But what he saw was a little girl playing brave soldier, and what he heard was:
Hell no, I’m not okay
—
my father’s been shot and I don’t think he’s going to make it.
He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t worry, kiddo, your dad’s the toughest guy I know. He’s going to be fine.” And he believed it; to think of Big Jake Rynerson losing a battle, even a battle with the Almighty, was inconceivable.

Her stoic resolve seemed to crumble, her body melting into his, silent tears dripping onto his shirt. He waited, saying nothing, letting her get it out. After a minute, maybe two, he felt her body stiffen and grow taller as she gathered herself, drawing on that deep genetic pool of Rynerson strength. Finally she stepped back, took a deep breath, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry.”

“No need. If you can’t shed a few tears when—”

She cut him off, clearly not trusting her emotions to talk about it. “Hey, what’s with you?” She gave his belly a playful jab. “You’ve shrunk.”

Embarrassed, though he didn’t know why, he had certainly worked hard enough to shed the pounds. He gave a little shrug, as if the dramatic change to his physique had snuck up without notice. “You think?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Leonidovich—”

For some reason, all the women he had ever been intimate with, called him Leonidovich. Kyra, of course, was not one of those women, but the two of them had shared an experience that seemed to exceed even the most intimate emotions, bonding them in a way that most people could never understand.

“—you look really good.”

And he felt it: stronger and more energetic, at least a decade younger than his forty-three years. “Thanks.”

“Great in fact.”

Even better,
and hearing it from a beauty like Kyra Rynerson was almost enough to make him forget all the rabbit food and all the sweaty hours at the gym. “I’ve been watching my diet a bit.”

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the back of the plane. “Yeah, right, a bit.”

A young man dressed in the blue uniform of a flight steward suddenly materialized from the galley. “I’ll take your bags, sir.”

“Thanks.” Simon grabbed his security case, empty except for his laptop, and followed Kyra through the cabin. The Gulf 5 was Jake’s personal toy, the colors and fabrics done in shades of brown mustard, everything solid and warm and masculine, like the man himself. They settled into one of the conversational areas near the back, away from the galley and flight steward, who had taken a seat directly behind the cockpit. Kyra swiveled her recliner toward the communication console and pressed the
FLIGHT-DECK
button. “We’re all set, guys. Let’s get this thing back in the air.”

A tiny indicator light marked
CO-PILOT
flashed green, the man’s crisp reply pulsing through the overhead speaker. “Roger that, Ms. Rynerson. We’ve already gotten clearance. Flight time to Washington is ninety minutes.”

Simon buckled his seat belt and leaned back into the soft calfskin. “I’m surprised you’re not up there yourself.”

“It’s a twenty-plus hour flight,” she answered. “I’ll take a shift after we leave D.C.” She gave him a little smile. “You can take the right seat.”

“I hope you’re kidding.” But he knew better, could see it in the flashing glint of her sea-green eyes.

“Why not? This thing isn’t any harder to fly than that Beech King turboprop you used to get your multiengine.”

“I’ll tell you why not. It’s—”

“That was rhetorical,” she interrupted. “It’ll be a good first lesson.”

“Yeah but—”

“No buts, Leonidovich. This thing is easy to fly.”

“That’s what you told me the first time.” He regretted the words instantly, knowing it would conjure up memories of her dead husband: a day and place neither of them wanted to revisit.