DIE EASY: Charlie Fox book ten (the Charlie Fox crime thriller series) (42 page)

Jimmy’s official bodyguard had fallen sick just before this trip, I remembered—conveniently sick—and Morton had stepped in as a last-minute replacement. The cynic in me wondered how much he’d had to do with that.

But . . .

He could have let Castille kill you
, I reminded myself again
. He didn’t.

“OK,” I said at last, my tone still cautious. “Let’s go and see what she has to say for herself, shall we?”

He stepped back with a mocking half bow, gestured to the stairs leading upwards. “After you.”

I made no moves to go first, just gave him a level gaze. He pulled an apologetic face. “Yeah, well can’t blame you for that, I suppose,” he said over his shoulder as he started to climb. “I’ll tell you one thing, though.”

I started up after him, still wary. “What’s that?”

Morton put both hands on the railing and jacked his lower body up, punching down and back with both feet, aiming for my head and upper body.

I ducked instinctively. My change in pace threw off his aim. The heel of his shoe caught my cheekbone, scuffed past my ear. The other foot hit me square in the chest. My ribs imploded as the air blasted from my lungs and I went down in a twisting tumble of limbs.

I tried to go loose, to remember all those break-falls from the martial arts and self-defence training I’d done.

The corded carpet was still thin and the concrete steps underneath it were still bloody hard. I smacked down brutally on elbows, hips and knees, bounced into a heap and lay there for a moment. My back was wedged painfully against the corner of the wall by the exit to the fourth floor. I fought to catch my breath.

Morton jumped the last few steps and booted me almost casually in the ribs as he landed. The jolt of pain was electric. I fell back, gasping.

“Yeah,” he said cheerfully, nodding down at me. “I think that about covers it.”

I said nothing. I didn’t have the breath to speak.

Being taken by surprise was different to being surprised. In truth I realised I’d been expecting this moment—something very like it—since the first time I’d laid eyes on Vic Morton again at Ysabeau van Zant’s mansion.

A painful image of him shaking hands with Sean just before we’d left the reception flashed into my mind. So that was something else Sean seemed to have lost along with chunks of his memory—his judgement of character.

I managed to get one hand underneath me, started to push myself off the floor. Morton waited until I was nearly there, then kicked at my elbow. I saw it coming just early enough to let the joint fold before he struck. My face hit the floor, but at least he hadn’t succeeded in breaking my arm.

I turned my head, scraping my already grazed cheek against the rough carpet, and looked up at him. He was not close enough for me to do anything about, but too close for comfort. He was breathing fast through his nose and his hands were clenched rage-tight.

“Going to finish what you started?” I asked, my voice still wheezy.

We both knew I wasn’t talking about now.

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” he muttered. “I’ve dreamed about doing this ever since I saw your name on the list for this thing. That was weird—actually seeing it there in black and white because you’ve been fucking haunting me for years.”

Whose fault is that?

A bubble of laughter forced its way out of my mouth bringing blood with it. I’d bitten my tongue but let him think it might be something worse.

“Finally growing a conscience, Vic?”

He ignored the question. “If there’s one thing I regret it’s that we didn’t kill you when we had the chance and put you in the ground somewhere out on Pen-Y-Fan where you would never have been found,” he said calmly. “If I’d known the stink was going to follow me around for years afterwards . . .”

No words of regret for the rape itself, I noted bitterly. Or for what effect it might have had on me, either at the time or in the intervening years.

The pain had settled back from piercing to dull. I took a shallow breath and sat up in one movement, not letting him get the boot in again.

Morton stood over me, almost casually, balanced on the balls of his feet waiting to strike again. I knew I shouldn’t do anything to antagonise him while I was at such a tactical disadvantage.

Sod that.

“I was the one who was court-martialled,” I pointed out. “I was the one thrown out in disgrace.”

“And yet here you are now, working for one of the best outfits in the country. Do you know what it’s cost me to have my record cleaned up so I can get
any
kind of a job in this industry?” he demanded. “And sod’s law says when I do—just when I think I’ve got it made—I run across someone who was around at the time, or heard about it from a mate of a mate, and then I’m being shown the fucking door again. All down to you.”

I took in his words in silence for a moment, realisation settling over me. Then I shook my head, managed a small bitter laugh. “Bollocks,” I said. “That’s utter bollocks and you know it, Vic. The reason you keep getting shown the door is because you talk big but when it comes down to it you’re just not good enough, and you won’t admit it.”

He took a step in closer. “You’re in no position to get smart with me, you little bitch.”

I watched him without fear, bolstered by the knowledge that I was right. I’d been a better soldier and now I was a better bodyguard, and the fact burned him until I’d become his personal nemesis—the reason for all his faults and failings.

I made a limp gesture with one hand. “And how is . . .
this
going to help you?”

He blew out a frustrated angry breath. “You think I don’t know you’ll have put the word out? That I won’t be out on my ear again by Monday morning? By which time you’ll be back in New York or wherever—all nice and cosy and out of reach. I reckoned this was my last chance to give you a kicking.”

I thought of my conversation with Parker. He’d offered to do exactly what Morton feared—to have him blacklisted. I’d settled for a quiet word in O’Day’s ear, but the effect would have been the same. Morton would indeed have been sent packing.

So, was this little more than straightforward revenge? Do unto others before they do unto you. Was that it?

No, I realised. That was never going to be it.

“How much did Castille pay you?” I asked instead. “To tip him off which flight Baptiste was on.”

Morton stared down at me for a moment. He was trying to keep nothing in his face and not managing it well. I caught glimpses of nervy surprise, fear and a kind of weary resignation.

“How do you work that out?” he asked, a challenge more than a question.

“Because I saw Castille kill Ysabeau van Zant, and I know she was the one who got him onto the boat. But somebody else tipped him off about the helo flight. And that someone had to be you.”

He shrugged. “Plenty of people on that rooftop. Could have been any of them.”

“But you’ve got a rep, Morton, for being able to supply whatever a client wants. In this little corner of the world, Castille seems to have been the go-to guy. That means you had to know him. And he knew you—that you had a price. He missed Baptiste in the parking garage, didn’t he? So he wanted a second bite.”

Morton smiled, little more than a bitter twist of his lips, but instead of the denial I’d been expecting he said, “Ah well, it’s not easy saying no to a guy like Castille. He’s had a hard-on for the kid since the whispers first got out that Baptiste might have been around when his brother bought it.”

“So you sold him out,” I said. “What about John Franks? What about the other people on that helo?”

If anything, the smile widened and I knew he was thinking of the fact that I’d been one of those extra passengers. A bonus, clearly.

“Franks was a pro—he knew the risks.” He shrugged again. “And everyone has a price, Charlie. Even you.”

I shook my head. A mistake. It made the world tilt and waver slightly. I waited for it to level out, said tightly, “I don’t think so.”

He laughed out loud then. “Course you do. Only with you it’s more of a weak spot rather than a price, isn’t it? Sean Meyer.”

My heart rate jolted. I didn’t answer. That was an answer in itself and both of us knew it.

Morton nodded as if I’d spoken. “Only trouble is he doesn’t remember you, does he? If he did, he wouldn’t have let me get away with saying a word against you. Don’t take it personally, though—he can’t really remember me, either, can he? Not
really
remember. Or Gabe Baptiste for that matter. Tell me, Charlie—does it eat you up inside that you only got half of him back?”

“I don’t know, Vic,” I said, putting everything I had into keeping my voice level. “Does it eat
you
up inside that he’s still twice the man you’ll ever be?”

His face pinched. He hooked his free hand under my good arm and wrenched me to my feet. I allowed him to yank me upright and deliberately overbalanced into him, stumbling against his legs.

His hands dropped automatically to block me, just in case I was about to bring a knee up into his groin. Instead, I reached over the top of his guard and chopped the straight edges of my hands into the sides of his neck.

A relatively light blow to the vagus nerves and the main arterial blood supply to the brain is enough to disorientate an opponent. I’d given it just about all I’d got and was mildly disappointed that Morton had stayed on his feet, albeit semi-conscious.

The shocked eyes and unfocused stare told me he was out of it. Even if he hadn’t quite realised it yet. I opened his jacket and patted him down. He made a half-hearted attempt to bat my hands away. I found a folding pocket knife in his trouser pocket, and a Glock 9mm in his jacket.

I dropped the knife inside my own jacket, stepped back and slid the magazine out of the Glock. It had one in the chamber and a full load. Something about the gun bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I shook my head, slotted the mag back into the pistol grip.

Morton, meanwhile, had slumped back against the stairwell railing, legs beginning to fold.

We were four floors up. Behind him, the drop was around twelve metres—forty feet—straight down onto the bare concrete floor at ground level. The stairwell was deserted and not covered by security cameras—no doubt part of the reason Morton had felt free to attack me there in the first place. I had the bruises to prove it.

Do it. Do it quickly. Do it now.

I got as far as putting my forearm across his throat, starting to arch him backwards over the railing. I looked straight into his eyes as I did so. He returned the stare glassily, barely comprehending.

Who would know?

Very slowly, I relaxed upright, let Morton straighten. He did so gasping, bending forwards to catch his breath, trying to lessen the buzzing in his ears, the haziness in his brain. I was pretty sure he had no idea how close he’d just been to dying.

And still the words echoed bitterly inside my head.

Who would have known?

I would.

Morton was still shaky as I prodded him along the fifth floor corridor towards the O’Days’ suite. Just before we reached the doorway, I halted, forcing him to halt with me.

“So why
didn’t
you let Castille kill the pair of us—back there on the boat?”

He glanced at me and laughed softly. “Never had anything personal against Meyer,” he said. “And I needed someone alive to tell the world what a fucking hero I was. In fact, I’m kinda hoping he might offer me a job. Seeing as how I was the one who saved his life when you didn’t have the nous to take the shot.”

I didn’t bother to repeat there was no clear shot to be taken. We both knew that already. “And you expect he might—even after all this?”

“Why not?” he demanded. “Better than having me running round loose, telling the world how your lover boy is so brain-damaged he can’t even remember who he’s killed.”

There had been enough rumours about Sean’s state of health already, and the close-protection industry thrived on gossip. Could Sean survive this?

Would he want to?

Even so, sheer bravado made me ask, “What makes you think anyone would believe you?”

He shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “Why not? Meyer came over here and walked straight into partnership with Armstrong when there was plenty of home-grown talent who thought they should have been in with a shout. Put a lot of noses out of joint. They can’t wait to see him fall.” His eyes flicked over me. “And if he goes, so do you.”

I didn’t point out that he had so nearly been the one who’d fallen—four storeys straight down onto concrete.

I hoped my regret would fade over time.