Blood List (23 page)

Running such an outfit required a great deal of equipment that the United States Government frowned upon, and so by necessity he had acquired a wide variety of black-market contacts. Most were basically good people who weren't interested in law and order, but some were complete scumbags, common criminals with no sense of honor or integrity. Sometimes, these common criminals would try to blackmail or rob him. Sometimes they would rat him out, and the police would come sniffing around. Once in a while, they even tried to kill him.

This made Geoffrey MacUther suspicious of last-minute meetings, even when set up by reliable contacts in the United States military. It was with this in mind that he stared out his front window. The Lexus pulling into the driveway had a single passenger, as per the arrangement made early that morning. House security frisked the man when he exited the newly rented car, just as the car had been searched when it reached the main gate. The man approached the front stoop, flanked by a pair of guards.

He was average height, average build, with black hair and blue eyes. MacUther opened the door. "You're Paul Renner?" The man nodded and stepped inside.

MacUther poured himself a cup of coffee. "Want some?"

"No, thanks," Paul said, admiring the decor.
Classic California asshole.
"I don't plan on being here that long."

"All right, Mr. Renner," MacUther said as he flipped a switch on the wall. Paul raised his eyebrows in question.

"Broad-band electromagnetic noise generator. No unshielded recording device, listening device, and so forth will work until I turn it off. No TV or radio, either. I've got random tumblers in the walls to fool laser microphones, too." He sat on the couch in the living room, and motioned for Paul to take the love seat. Two guards lurked in the doorway behind MacUther, hands inside their jackets with no pretense at subtlety. The tall guard stood behind the short one, so that they both had good fields of fire.

Suckers
, Paul thought.

"I'm a very busy man, but you have some dreadfully important friends. So what do you want?"

"Well," Paul said, "it's sort of about the team you sent to Martha's Vineyard to assassinate Doctor Lefkowitz." In his peripheral vision, Paul watched as the short guard's eyes fluttered closed, then snapped back to the conversation. He suppressed a grin.

MacUther raised an eyebrow. "How exactly does this concern you?"

"Well, the concern is two-fold. First off, the whole thing was a setup to get to you, which worked. Second off, I'm pretty sure you sent a goon to kill me some time ago, and I want to know who hired you to do it."

MacUther cleared his throat, then took a sip of his coffee. "Did any of my team escape?"

Paul shrugged. "I don’t think so."

"That's a shame. I feared that was the case when no one checked in. They were good men, Mr. Renner." Behind MacUther, the tall guard yawned. The short one closed his eyes.

"Good men?" Paul scoffed. "They were ambushed and slaughtered before they even knew they were in trouble. Who paid them to kill Lefkowitz?"

"I did," MacUther said.

"And why would you want the doctor killed, Mr. MacUther?"

"I wouldn't. That is to say, I don't care one way or another, aside from a contract. They were just men doing a job."

"I see. Operating under the assumption that the same person paid you to kill me, who paid you for the Lefkowitz job?" 

The big Scot shook his head. "You know I can't tell you that."

Paul sighed. "I might have to kill you if you don't." Without looking, MacUther gestured to the guards behind him. They were fast asleep on their feet. "So be it," MacUther said. "I'm not one for breaking contracts. Nobody'd trust me after that, and then where would I be?"

Paul chuckled. "Living in a foreign country on the giant piles of money you've already made?"

"But I like my work. So no, I'm not going to tell you that. Is there anything else before I have my men throw you out?"

Paul smiled. "I don't think your men are able to do any such thing."

MacUther looked back at the men behind him. One tottered, his head lolling, as the other slowly slid down the wall. He turned back to Paul, who aimed a tiny pistol at his chest. MacUther remained cool and collected. "What did you do to my men, Mr. Renner?"

"Just a little contact poison when they frisked me. Nothing they won't sleep off." 

"So you're here to kill me, Mr. Renner?"

Paul rolled his eyes. "No, you weren't listening. I'm here to find out who hired
you
to kill
me
. Whether or not you die is entirely up to you. Personally, I'd rather avoid it."

MacUther sat back and folded his arms. "I'm sorry, but I'm still not going to tell you. You have nothing to hold over me but my life, and if I talk to you about contracts, someone else will kill me. We're at an impasse, Mr. Renner."

Paul smiled. "No, we're not."

MacUther raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"No, sir. I know that there's something you value, and I know where she is. Your granddaughter's a cutie, just like her mom."

"Mr. Renner, you're treading on dangerous ground. Even so, I think we can be reasonable."

"Excellent," Paul said, even as MacUther's knife cleared its sheath. MacUther was fast for his size, but Paul pulled the trigger before the knife left his hand. The .38 round hit MacUther in the stomach. Paul knew it wouldn't hurt more than a hard punch, not at first anyway, but it threw off the big man's aim. He charged off the couch, and Paul shot him four more times, center of mass.

The impact barreled Paul right off the loveseat, and the two men crashed to the floor. Paul's chest compressed, forcing the air out his lungs, and they both lay still for a moment. Paul's ribs burned.

Paul punched MacUther in the stomach, twice. He grunted, but didn't otherwise respond. Paul rolled the large man off him and struggled to draw breath. He coughed and gagged his way to his feet, then examined the body on the floor.

MacUther was breathing, but wouldn't be for long. All five shots had hit him in the abdomen and chest. It looked like two had scattered off his ribs, but the other three had punched through. A .38 won't kill much of anything right away, but he'd hit something important, and MacUther was in shock. His breath came in a mess of gurgling wheezes, and he had blood on his lips.
Shit
, Paul thought.

Paul knelt and patted the dying man's pockets. He found a variety of objects that he pulled out to inspect. One was a remote alarm, the red LED blinking.
Who wants to bet that it works through the electric jammer?
Paul dropped MacUther's keys on the floor and turned his attention to the cellular phone. Paul turned off the jammer, then flipped open the phone and scanned through the caller ID.

Two calls stood out. One was from Gabrielle's Fine Jewelry, in the San Francisco area code, at 2:28 PM on January 30th. Another was to the same place, at 1:17 AM on February 2nd.
A few hours after the bait was set, and less than an hour after they sprang the trap. I don't know what kind of jewelry store takes calls at one in the morning.
He cleared the memory on the phone and put it back in MacUther's pocket. He picked up the house phone from its cradle, dialed 911, and dropped it on the floor.

Bending down, he flipped MacUther onto his stomach. He spoke in a low voice as he picked up the pistol. "That should help your lungs drain until help arrives. Sorry."
Speaking of help….
Paul heard gravel crunch in the driveway.

A peek out the front window revealed a white panel van next to his rented Lexus,
SoFiaK
emblazoned in bold red letters on the side.
Great
, thought Paul. He backed away from the door and stumbled up the stairs. Every step jarred his injured ribs. At the top he took a quick look outside, then popped open the window.

He swung out and grabbed the balcony railing. He tried to lower himself, but a chest spasm betrayed him. He dropped twelve feet to the ground, knees bent to absorb as much of the impact as possible. He stumbled to the wall and leaned against it, gasping.

He crept over to the dividing wall and clambered over the fence into the neighbor's yard. Within two minutes he was driving away, home-free.

*   *   *

February 2nd, 6:21 PM EST; Home of Emile Frank; Springfield, Virginia.

Doctor Emile Frank, his wife Nancy, and their four-year-old son Scott sat inside a 7,800-square-foot gated mansion, eating a delicious dinner of apple-glazed pork chops, Caesar salad, and fresh apple chutney. They chewed in silence while their son prattled on about preschool.

Emile's phone buzzed in his pocket, and his face flushed. This particular phone blocked all incoming calls except for a select few, and it had never rung before. He set down his silverware and wiped his hands on the napkin in his lap, then pulled out the phone. The caller ID said
Dino's BBQ Ribs
.

He stood, and placed his napkin beside his plate. "What is it, honey?" Nancy asked. She frowned at the phone. He knew she'd never quite come to fully trust him after his affair three years prior.

"Nothing," he replied. "Just work. Excuse me, I have to take this."

She pouted. "Honey, I thought we agreed no phone calls during dinner. This is
family
time."

He waved her off, flipped open the phone, and walked out of the room. Being in the dog house was the least of his worries. Behind him his son copied his mother's tone perfectly. "It's family time, Daddy!" Emile smiled at Scott's impersonation and put the phone to his ear. He kept walking and spoke quietly.

"This is Shelley."

The voice on the other end tried and failed to sound like a stereotypical Jersey goombah. "Hey, ah, this is Dino's calling. You got an order of steaks with us?"

"Yeah." He walked into the study and shut the door, then turned on the radio. He'd swept the room for bugs yesterday, but one couldn't be too careful.

"Um, well, they ain't coming in. Looks like trouble at the slaughterhouse. Union issues of some kind, you know?"

His heart raced. "What kind of trouble?"

"Can't say specifically. You'll have to call the foreman."

"I'll do that."

Emile Frank hung up the cell phone and put it in his pocket. He picked up the desk-phone receiver and dialed a string of numbers, activating the day's cipher. He heard a series of clicks as the encryption algorithm kicked in, then a dial tone. He dialed another number.

"How bad is it?" he asked.

"Geoff's down, shot several times, unknown assailant. We're en route to the hospital."

"Can he talk?"

"A little. Looks like a collapsed lung, but we're getting him stabilized, and he'll probably pull through."

"Great."
I don't give a fuck about his health, you moron.
"Who shot him?"

"Caucasian male, thirties, gave the name Paul Renner. Was asking about the Martha's Vineyard job."

"Did he learn anything?"

The ensuing pause was far too long for comfort. "He's not sure. He knows the guy got a look at his cell phone. Called 911 after he shot him."

"Anything in the cell?"

"We're not sure. The caller ID was wiped, but Geoff isn't sure if he'd done it himself or if the guy did it."

"Can you find the assailant?" Frank asked.

"Not sure. We got a picture from the security feed out front of MacUther's place."

"Send it to me, and stand by."

"You got it."

"Watch his hospital room. Let me know if anyone comes to see him."

He hung up the phone, picked it back up, and called yet another number, this one local.

A feminine voice answered, smothered in Southern twang. "Department of Homeland Security, Bioterrorism. How may I direct your call?"

He didn't bother to give his name. "Jeannie, put me through to my office, now."

"Yes, sir!"

February 2nd, 4:23 PM PST; Highway 280, northbound; San Bruno, California.

Three thousand miles away, Gene, Doug, and Carl screamed north up Interstate 280, lights flashing and siren blaring as they blew past the traffic.

The GPS was leading them to the Daly City home of Geoffrey MacUther, just south of San Francisco. The money trail was circumstantial, but the forensic accounting team had led them to a California-based startup called SoFiaK. They'd all slept on the plane, and they looked it. The car reeked of body odor.

Sam's voice erupted from both the speakerphone and his COM ear-bead with an odd reverberation effect. "I have a Geoffrey MacUther, admitted a half hour ago under John Doe to the emergency room at Kaiser Permanente, 395 Hickey Boulevard, Daly City, with multiple gunshot wounds. They ran his prints on DigiLink, and the database flagged it for me." Doug slammed on the brakes. Onlookers gaped as the unmarked SUV skidded to a stop in the middle of the fast lane.

"How do we get there, Sam?" Carl looked down at the GPS and started punching in
Hospital
. He didn't have a clue how to spell "Kaiser Permanente."

"Hold on, I'm routing it to your GPS now."

Directions for MacUther's house disappeared. Directions for the hospital appeared. Doug hit the gas.

Ten minutes later Gene stalked through the Emergency Department entrance and up to the triage desk, flanked by Doug and Carl. It looked like the Boston hospital where Marty was recovering, only five times smaller and ten times cleaner.

Gene flashed his badge at the receptionist. Doug and Carl wore theirs. Other than the official identification, they looked and smelled like homeless men in wrinkled suits. "Gene Palomini, FBI. What room is the gunshot John Doe in?" Doug and Carl barged past her and started looking in windows.

"You gentlemen got here fast." The woman looked at the badge with mild suspicion and pecked at her keyboard. "One moment." She typed a little more. "4A, down on the right."