DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series) (10 page)

“Well, he’s
not
ready,” I said flatly. “Now I can tell you that for a fact.”

I heard him sigh. “What happened?”

I sat on a concrete planter, kicking my heels against the stucco while I explained, watching a weird shiny black insect about the size of a mouse climbing up the trunk of a potted tree. I gave him my report, clear and concise, not offering any opinions one way or another.

“He really has reverted back to military mode,” Parker said at once when I was done.

“That’s my take on it, yes.”

“Well, you’re going to have to snap him out of it—and do it fast, before he lands the pair of you in deep trouble.”

“Would you like me to find a workable solution to the Middle East situation while I’m at it?” I demanded, allowing a hint of snark. “How about the energy crisis? Climate change?”

“When you put it like that, I guess you may as well,” Parker said gravely, “although I’m not convinced climate change isn’t just the Arctic oscillation in play.”

I knew he was trying to lighten the situation, but this time it didn’t seem to help. “And our client is not being straight with us either,” I said. “He’s got some history with a local politico called Ysabeau van Zant. Bad history at a guess, but he clammed up tighter than a fish’s armpit when we pressed him on it. That’s another thing—Sean seems to have had a diplomacy bypass at the same time as—”

I was suddenly aware of a feeling of being watched. I let the phone drop into my lap and hopped down from the edge of the planter, twisting as soon as my feet hit the ground.

Across by the entrance to the hotel, exchanging a cigarette for a light from the valet, was my old nemesis, Vic Morton.

The sight of him, so unexpected, brought a repeat of the raw urge to reach for my weapon, point and shoot. For a second I daren’t move for fear I’d follow through on it.

He was still wearing the suit I’d seen him in at the van Zant mansion. I assumed he’d only just delivered Jimmy O’Day safely back to the hotel after an all-nighter. Never my favourite detail. Still, he looked lively enough on it.

Morton wasn’t a big guy but he had always been quick on his feet. Quick to grease himself out of danger if there was blame to be apportioned, too, I seemed to remember.

It pleased me to note, in a purely bitchy kind of way, that he looked older than he should have done considering the time that had passed. I hoped the weight of carrying round a guilty conscience was responsible for the premature ageing. Certainly, his once high forehead was now a definite full-blown receding hairline.

What guilty conscience?

I pushed aside the hint of bile that had risen at the back of my throat and checked the distance between us, reassuring myself he was too far away to possibly overhear. But I took one look at that knowing smirk and the suspicion he’d somehow been listening to my entire conversation wouldn’t be shaken. I slowly brought the phone back up to my ear.

“Charlie! Are you OK?”

“Fine,” I murmured. “Look, I’ve got to go, but I think you need to check out the connection to the politician for me—soon as you can, if you wouldn’t mind? The big shindig on the paddle steamer is tomorrow night and I’ve no desire to have things turn into a remake of that old disaster movie
The Poseidon Adventure
.”

Parker laughed. “The
Miss Francis
is an ex-floating casino and party boat,” he said. “I doubt if she will even untie from the dock. But I’ll get Bill right on it.”

“One last thing,” I said, casually shifting my grip on the phone so my mouth was obscured by my hand. “There’s a guy subbing on Jimmy O’Day’s security detail—name of Vic Morton. Get Bill to do a run on him as well while he’s at it. If there’s dirt, I want to know it.”

As I spoke, I was watching Morton shoot the breeze with the valet. And the more I watched him, the more convinced I became that he’d been eavesdropping.

“Vic Morton . . . why do I know that name?” Parker asked slowly. “Wait a moment, wasn’t he—?”

“Just get Bill to dig up something—anything—that will get that sneaky bastard packed back to the UK in the hold of the first cargo plane heading east, will you?” I said, my voice rough. “I’ve had quite enough nasty surprises for one trip.”

The surprises weren’t over yet.

As I ended the call and walked back towards the hotel entrance, Morton gave the valet a sideways flick of his eyes that was an obvious signal for the guy to make himself scarce.

The valet threw me a slightly panicked look, as if he’d been happy enough to take whatever gratuity Morton had palmed him to leave the two of us alone together, but now it came down to it he was having second thoughts. Didn’t stop him leaving, though.

I braced unconsciously, tried hard to keep the stress out of my frame as I approached. Knees soft, shoulders open, hands ready. In my left I still carried my cellphone, carefully gripped so I could weight a punch with it if I needed to. Or use the hard plastic corners on any one of the strategic strike points. The list of exposed areas scrolled through my head as I moved.

Better than shooting him, however much satisfaction that might bring.

Because I knew I didn’t trust myself not to simply keep firing long after the target went down. If I had a second magazine on me I would probably empty that into him as well.

About half a dozen strides away, I stopped. There was no point in letting him get too close. Better for him to telegraph his first move—if he was planning on making one—to give me time to consider.

To consider just how much damage I might possibly get away with doing him.

I let my awareness expand outwards but he’d picked his time and place well. Apart from the single security camera, which we both knew provided only rotating views with four other fixed-position cameras relayed to the monitor behind the reception desk, we had the space to ourselves.

He took a drag on his cigarette, deep enough to hollow his cheeks, then regarded me with narrowed eyes through a long exhale of smoke. I assumed it was supposed to make him look dangerous. All it did was give him a slight squint.

I almost laughed. I’d once been terrorised by this man, woken in abject sweats in the night from the memory of what he and the others had done to me.

Of what I had allowed them to do.

I felt the pressure begin to build inside my head, my body, until I vibrated with the force required to keep it contained.

The urge to kill—the
need
to kill—was a chant in my head, a buzz in my ears, an acrid taste in the back of my mouth like smoke from a chemical fire. And now I knew just how small a step I needed to take to satisfy that urge.

A stark image flashed into my head. A figure lying on a darkened walkway, blood oozing from the single bullet wound that had killed him, the gun still warm in my hand. And most of all, the fierce gladness in my heart.

I shook my head a fraction and the vision folded, blinked out. But while it was there it had been sharp and vivid. The realisation of what I had allowed myself to become scared me far more than I’d been prepared for. Far more than I liked to admit.

I had to clear my throat before I could speak, found I could do so only with effort.

“There something on your mind, Morton?”

He noted my reaction and misinterpreted it badly enough for a tiny smirk to form at the corner of his lips.

“Never thought I’d come up against you again, Foxcroft. Or should I call you
Miss Fox
now, eh? Heard you changed your name. Trying to escape your past sins, were you?” He paused. “Didn’t think you had the balls for this kind of work, though.”

I took my time about replying, let my eyes do a slow survey with my face blank as if what I saw had no meaning. As if I was staring at nothing. Through nothing.

“Sometimes not having balls has its advantages,” I said coolly. “At least I don’t have to think with them all the time.”

He kept the hit out of his face but couldn’t prevent the reflexive twitch of his fingers around the cigarette. As if realising the betrayal he dropped the half-finished butt on the concrete and ground it out. He stepped forwards, aiming to get in my face with a sneer.

“Did you think you’d be any safer here, Fox? Did you think anybody was going to stand up for you when they never did before?”

Instead of backing off I stepped up too, got in
his
face toe-to-toe. He didn’t have much on me in height anyway.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Morton?” I murmured. “And that’s a pity—for you. Because I
have
changed—a lot.” It felt like the mother of all understatements.

My eyes dropped to his mouth, lingered, then I lunged forwards a fraction, as if either to kiss him or bite out his tongue. He jerked away automatically, annoyance ticking at his jaw.

“You really think I give a flying fuck if anyone’s prepared to stand up for me?” I said, keeping my voice entirely conversational. I dialled down both the volume and the temperature. “Well, you might like to keep in mind that this time you haven’t got three other cowards backing you up, and I don’t
need
anyone backing
me
up. Not any more. You try to mess with me, sunshine, and
this time
I will fucking
bury
you.”

I stepped back, arranged my face into a smile that did little to reassure him. “Have a nice day.”

Blake Dyer was up bright and early for his room-service breakfast, despite the disturbed night. Bearing in mind my own lack of sleep I’d been quietly hoping he’d opt for a lie-in that would allow the rest of us to do the same.

“Today it all begins, huh?” he said, shaking out the starched linen napkin and laying it across his knees. He lifted the domed lid covering his breakfast, scooped up a forkful of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs with a sigh of pleasure. From the evident enthusiasm I guessed his wife kept a watchful eye on his cholesterol intake at home and he was determined to make the most of being unsupervised.

“It does indeed, sir.”

I sat opposite at the small table. I was cradling a coffee I’d poured from one of the insulated jugs that had arrived a few minutes earlier. It was delivered by a waiter called Jerold whose background check revealed he still lived at home with his mother and had a liking for tropical fighting fish.

Sean helped himself to his own cup. He’d made an effort to overcome last night’s awkwardness on the journey back with Dyer. I reckoned he was largely succeeding.

And if he’d been quieter than usual I didn’t find anything too odd about that. After all, I’d dealt him a couple of hefty blows which he’d apparently absorbed without obvious mental trauma.

So far, so good.

Dyer chewed and swallowed. “I understand Tom’s organised a little sightseeing for us this morning,” he said. “I guess he plans to show us the ongoing effects of Katrina first-hand before he hits us for the big bucks tomorrow night.”

“It’s what I’d do,” I agreed.

Dyer grinned at me as he fed in a mouthful of toasted bagel slathered with full-fat cream cheese.

Oh yeah, he was definitely off the nutritional leash.

“Mr O’Day’s people have sent through a revised schedule for the helicopter tour,” Sean said. “There’ve been one or two drop-outs after last night’s bash.”

News to me.
I sent Sean a brief questioning glance, which he pointedly ignored.

“Well, I guess not everyone wants a bumpy flight over an environmental war zone with a hell of a hangover,” Dyer said. “And there’ll be a few of those this morning.” He sounded gleeful not to be among their number. “I hear young Jimmy O’Day didn’t make it in before dawn.”

I glanced at him sharply but didn’t detect more to his words than their face value.

“You’ve known the O’Days a long time?” Sean asked. He moved over to the window and leaned his shoulder against the wall alongside it, where he could survey the street without presenting an easy target. Some habits were too deeply ingrained ever to change.

“He and my father met in Korea,” Dyer said. “Tom was a young cryptographer in the navy back then—one of the best. Fluent in Russian, Korean, Chinese.” He paused reflectively. “In fact, I do believe it was my father who introduced Tom to his wife. They moved in the same circles.” He gave a small chuckle. “Made Dad
persona non grata
for a while there, I can tell you.”

“Oh?”

Dyer gave me an assessing glance. “Back in those days Tom didn’t have two cents to his name, but Marie’s people were big into mining. Lost most of it in the late ’seventies. Seemed like their star was falling as Tom’s was rising. I’m proud to know him.” He paused. “Jimmy was a late gift, you might say—I think they’d given up hope of having children. My wife and I are godparents.”

I felt a damning flush steal up into my face. So I hadn’t just knocked his host’s son on his arse at the party last night, but my principal’s godson as well.
Nice going, Fox.