Diabolical (22 page)

Hatcher rolled his head back until he was staring at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. “Maybe. But that shouldn't matter if I find Isaac.” He leveled his gaze at her. “That means I need to get to Bartlett. Now.”

“Bartlett? Why?”

“Do I really have to spell it out? He used me, used me to track down Isaac. That means he used you, too.”

“Jake, please. You're going to get yourself killed. Or hurt. Can't you just . . .”

Hatcher tossed his hands into the air. “What? Let it go? Jesus, Vivian, what's gotten into you?”

“I . . .” She lowered her gaze to his shoes. “Nothing. This is spinning out of control, that's all.”

“I don't understand. Yesterday, when you thought he had Isaac, you were all for me ‘doing what I do.' Now we know he does, and you're all timid about it.”

“How do you know?” she asked, deep furrows creasing her brow. “You said they had masks.”

Hatcher lowered his head, swinging his jaw slowly from one side to the other several times. God, women could be stubborn.

“And yesterday,” she continued, “I was telling you to do what Bartlett wanted, not to go against him.”

“Look, Viv, you need to be honest with me—did he threaten you?”

She shut her eyes, let out a weary sigh. “No.”

“Well, he's done something. You can spin it all you want, but he's gotten in your head somehow.”

The words seemed to frustrate her. She reached forward, placed her fingertips on his knee. “Jake, don't. You can't be sure it was him.”

“You know something? You're right. I can't. Not until I confront him. So, I need you to tell me how to find him.”

“I told you before,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “I don't know.”

“Vivian.”

“Please, Jake.”

He rocked forward out of the chair. He took hold of her upper arms and lifted her. Not much, but enough she wasn't quite sitting anymore. “Tell me.”

“Jake . . .”

“Tell me.”

She turned her head and shut her eyes, a pained expression tightening her face. She seemed to think long and hard before answering.

“He's rented a house. I heard a couple of his men talk about it. They said it's a big one, a corner lot. On Mulholland Drive.”

 

 

THE PLACE WAS LESS A HOUSE THAN A COMPOUND. FULL PERIMETER wall, iron gate complete with guardhouse. The guardhouse looked empty, but there was a CCTV camera pointed at the drive.

Through the twisted curves of the gate, Hatcher could see a bald guy in camouflage pants and a dark shirt walking a circuit. He had an earpiece over one ear with a flex mike curving down to the side of his mouth. One hand rested along the top of an M4, with the other loosely wrapped around the grip, trigger finger resting on the guard, strap pulled taut over his shoulder, holding it across his body in a ready position.

Sometimes, Hatcher figured, the direct approach is best.

He parked Vivian's rental along the street and walked toward the gate. It had enough play for him to move it open and walk through. He walked straight toward the sentry with the M4.

The guard eased the muzzle of the rifle in Hatcher's direction. Not quite at him, but close enough to make the point.

“That's far enough,” the man said.

Hatcher took two more steps, stopped about ten feet away. “I'm here to see Bartlett.”

“Get down on your knees, hands clasped behind your head.” The guard raised a hand to his earpiece, was about to speak into the mike.

Rolling his eyes and his head in an exaggerated gesture, Hatcher frowned and moved a few steps closer. “Look, my name's—”

The man snapped the weapon up, staring through the sights. “I know who you are. And I gave you an order. On the ground.”

“If I can just—”

Hatcher slapped a hand to his neck. He pulled it away and looked at his palm, then held it out to show the guard. Blood, and a metal dart. Then he collapsed.

The guard covered him with his rifle, approaching cautiously. He looked down at the dart, warily glanced to each side. He nudged Hatcher's body with his foot, then gave it a prodding kick. Nothing. He swept the perimeter with a quick rotation of his head before taking a knee and reaching for the dart next to Hatcher's palm. He raised his other hand to his earpiece, started to speak.

He never got the chance. Hatcher launched his legs over the man's head, scissoring his neck. He grabbed the rifle stock in the same motion, pointing the muzzle away from his body, and gave a violent twist of his hips. Both of them came crashing to the concrete, Hatcher's lower body slapping flat, the guard slamming down onto his back. Air blasted from the guard's lungs with a loud grunt. Hatcher released his grip, spun himself around, and flipped on top of the man, punching him once, twice, three times, each blow causing the back of the man's skull to bounce off the concrete.

The guard's eyes rolled back. Hatcher ripped off the headset, unfastened the rifle sling, and took the M4. He shot looks front and back, side to side, checking for movement. Nothing.

His best assessment was there was really no chance that they didn't know he was there, though he figured there were still two ways to play it. But it didn't matter, because anger was making the choice for him. He grabbed the man by the back of his collar and yanked him to his feet.

A body, especially one of a grown man, is heavier than most people realize. The key to forcing someone's body to do what you wanted was getting them to assist you with their own movement. That meant a state of dazed consciousness worked best, the kind where the person would try to stand, use some of their own balance and leg strength to achieve the goal. Though he was a little too wobbly to walk smoothly, the man offered just enough of an effort at keeping his feet for Hatcher to push him toward the house, rifle in his back. The man staggered forward, his head bent into his hand.

The front door to the house was constructed of ornate panels of etched glass set in a cherrywood frame. Hatcher dug his hand deeper into the man's shirt, bunching more cloth into his fist and clenching as tightly as he could. He pulled back slightly, then thrust forward, running the stumbling man into a near sprint, propelling over two low steps, across the porch, and smashing him headfirst through the designer glass.

Two of the glass panels shattered in a burst of shards. Hatcher jumped through the opening and shouldered the rifle. The guard lay on the floor of the foyer, having cleared the door. A spill of blood leaked over the sand-colored tile beneath him.

The foyer was massive. A wide wooden staircase the color of tea wound around a baby grand piano and fanned onto an open stretch of second-story hall. There was an overlook, fenced by a decorative railing that matched the banister.

To the left was a study, or perhaps a library. To the right, a spacious dining room, elegantly furnished with service for ten or twelve. Beyond the staircase, the area opened into a room so bright it almost hurt his eyes to look at. Hatcher could see the backs of a sofa and chair, white and puffy. A huge window took up most of the far wall. Beyond it, the glistening water of a pool reflected the azure California sky.

What Hatcher couldn't see, or hear, was any sign of people. No footfalls, no shuffling, no bumps or knocks or sounds of hushed voices. Only the light whistle of a breeze through the smashed glass door behind him.

One step, then another, swinging the rifle along points in a pattern to cover every angle. He continued creeping forward, passing the piano, dropping down one step, then another, into a living room.

The furniture was so white it seemed to require a power source. Accent tables of chrome and glass added to the brightness. White marble statues and colorful pieces of artwork, little more than random brushstrokes on canvas to Hatcher's eye, rounded out the decor. Beyond the room to the right, an expanse of kitchen stretched out behind a half wall, spilling into a breakfast nook. To his immediate left stood a fireplace. A flat-screen television, large and conspicuously black, hung on the wall above it. The screen was blank, but with a subtle glow to it, like someone had left it on.

Hatcher moved through a doorway to a bedroom. Four-poster bed, neatly made. A spacious bathroom with dark tiling. All empty.

He passed back through the living room and into the foyer, looking up the stairs. He doubted anyone was up there, but he knew assumptions like that got people killed. He was going to have to check.

Or maybe not.

The guard was still on the floor. He was pushing his chest up, trying to raise his head off the tiles and having a tough time of it. Blood was dripping off his scalp and puddling along the grout.

Hatcher gave him a firm kick to the ribs.

“Where is he?”

The man fell off his hands and onto his side, coughing.

“I asked you a question.”

Another cough, then a low groan.
“I don't know . . .”

Hatcher put a heel on his shoulder and shoved him into his back. “Don't make me get creative.”

“I don't know . . . go back and ask him . . .”

And just how am I supposed to do that?
Hatcher started to say, but his head snapped up before he could.

Either his ears were playing tricks on him or he'd heard a voice. Someone speaking. There was an artificial aspect to it, like a recording, or a phone call. He waited, listening.

There it was again. This time, there was no mistaking it. Faint, but distinct. Someone calling his name.

He hurried back to the living room, M4 up and ready. Nothing.

“Hatcher.”

Hatcher spun, muzzle up and aiming. General Bartlett was there, wearing a gabardine suit coat and a turtleneck, staring down from the television screen.

The general frowned. “I have to assume that's Engel's weapon. I hope you didn't kill him.”

“He'll live.”

“Given the look on your face, I suppose I should be grateful. You should know he was instructed to alert me regarding your presence, then escort you into the house. There was no need for violence.”

“In that case, why have an armed guard at all? And why aren't you here?”

“Because you, Chief Warrant Officer Second Class Hatcher, are prone to breaking bones first and asking questions later. I can see I underestimated your proclivity for recklessness.”

“That's sort of funny, coming from a lying sack of shit like you.”

Bartlett bristled at the words, shifting his body and cocking his jaw to one side. “I like to think of myself as a patient man, Hatcher. But you're testing me.”

Hatcher ran his eyes around the edges of the monitor. The camera had to be embedded. “What have you done with the boy?”

“Nothing, Hatcher. That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“Where is he?”

“I have no idea,” the general said, shaking his head slightly.

“Suppose I dragged your man Engels in here and started planting rounds in his body until I started feeling better about your answers.”

Bartlett stared down from the screen as if he were on the other side, looking directly through it. “Are you saying you'd just kill a man rather than believe me?”

“Not right away.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head again. “I don't think you would. Engels doesn't know anything, and you're smart enough to know that. That's precisely why I brought him in. Besides, you
Kittens
pride yourselves on your ability to sniff out deception. You can see it in my face. Hear it in my voice. I'm not lying.”

Hatcher knew it shouldn't bother him to hear Bartlett refer to him as a Kitten—Coercive Interrogation Tactician—but it did. Few people were supposed to even know such a program existed, and while a general like Bartlett would be one of them, the fact he knew Hatcher had been one meant he'd dug way deeper than a personnel record.

“Well, you sure as hell aren't being candid. How's that?”

“Candid? Please. Candor would mean putting all my cards on the table, and you of all people understand that is not a luxury I can afford. I'm not going to let you know where I am, so you can cause more trouble and get someone killed. And I'm not going to jeopardize an operation by letting you know too much. But a lack of candor doesn't mean I'm lying when I tell you I have no idea where the boy is.”

“And I'm supposed to believe you didn't take him?”

“Yes, because it's true. I didn't take him, and I didn't authorize anyone to.”

“Then why did you lead me to believe you already had him?”

Bartlett stiffened in his seat. “When did I do any such thing?”

Hatcher watched the screen, studied the man's expression, took a measure of his body language and demeanor. He didn't like what he saw, because there was nothing there to indicate his indignance was feigned. Had Edgar played him?

“I think I see what's going on here,” Bartlett said. “
She
told you that, didn't she?”

Hatcher said nothing.

“I think you've been misled, son.”

No, he told himself. No way. Vivian? But even to his own mind, it was a weak protest.

“Why would she do something like that?”

Bartlett remained silent, he looked on pensively, as if it were a rhetorical question. It wasn't.

“What do you want with me, General?”

“I didn't take your nephew, Hatcher. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about who put it in your mind that I did. Let me leave you with this—there's a reason I didn't invite you to join my team. You're too much of a wild card. I can't have some cowboy with oppositional defiance disorder disrupting things, substituting his own judgment for mine. This situation is a perfect example of your lack of discipline. Try not to make any more rookie mistakes. Next time, you might get yourself killed. Good luck, soldier. Godspeed.”