Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (46 page)

“Target cut south behind perimeter hedge,” reported Imara. “No eyes on target.”

Jivu should’ve split the team in case of easterly travel. He shouldn’t have assumed Turner would take his rental car.

“Should I pursue on foot?” Isaac radioed.

Jivu motioned to Siko to start the engine, and pointed to the parking lot’s exit. “Negative, One, hold. We’re going around the block to cut off that route. Two, what’s on the other side of that hedge? Is it still hotel property?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a ramp to a dock … deliveries, garbage bin, recycling compactor.”

Siko gunned it from the parking lot, passing Turner’s empty rental car on the way out.

“The long way,” Jivu directed him. “All the way around back, then up the alley.” He pressed his walkie’s button. “Two: the other side of that ramp, it’s a tall perimeter fence, yes? No exits unless the docking bay is open, correct?”

“Correct,” she replied, “and everything’s closed back there. Looks like one door into the bay, the big roll-up door, and then two emergency exits. And no path around the building. The fence ends flush with the building corner.”

Her attention to detail was a thing to love. She answered all of his other questions before he could ask.

Back to Isaac. “One, do you have eyes on target through that hedge?”

The delivery truck was parked right alongside the high wall of bushes Matthew had turned behind, but Jivu didn’t know how dense the foliage was near ground level.

“Negative …” Isaac said slowly as he confirmed. “Small gap near the trunk of this one near—
No, Mabo, I said hold for orders, so hold
… Shall I exit vehicle to check, sir?”

As Siko tapped the steering wheel, awaiting a light change, something occurred to Jivu: Turner’s motives. Someone does not simply walk inexplicably down an empty delivery ramp. There’s always a motive. If nothing of interest lay within the dock area, one must expand their field of scrutiny to adjacent areas. And just two meters from that ramp, separated only by branches and leaves, sat a delivery truck full of Jivu’s men.
That
was something of bloody interest.

The light changed.

“Go, Siko, fast!” Jivu shouted, and then, into his walkie, “One: beware, beware! You might be compromised. Two: status?”

“No eyes on target. Hedge clear in front and back of One, but no eyes on eight meter segment beside-” She cut herself off, and then, with her voice lowered, “Standby. I believe building security approaching. Advise One relocate immediately.” Her transmission clicked off.

Siko veered across traffic, bouncing across the driveway into the alley. Loose objects flew about. Jivu braced himself against the roof and the facing seat across from him.

“Show them your badge!” Jivu replied to Imara. “If the five-second excuse doesn’t work, handle the situation.” He’d give her a minute to deal with the trouble. “One: proceed as advised. Relocate. Not far, though, just move away from those bushes. Block in those hotel vans across the way, if necessary.

Isaac’s flustered transmission began mid-sentence, “—to the truck! Standby, standby!”

Siko screeched to a stop on the other side of the hotel’s perimeter fence. The ramp and loading dock were empty. They could see the wall of bushes, but not beyond it. Jivu peered up to Imara’s position. She had yet to return. Was it all a bloody setup?

“Keep alert,” he said to Siko. “I’ll watch over there. You watch everywhere else.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jivu cracked his window open a few centimeters, and listened. Only tweeting birds and the din of the nearby coastal road, but only for an instant before a hollow
bong!
rang out from beyond the hedge—the sound of someone’s back hurled against the inside of a delivery truck. And almost in sync with the impact, a single gunshot.

“Damn it!” Jivu roared.

“—arget hit, target hit!” Isaac blurted amongst a jumble of background commotion.

“Hit where?!”

Jivu waited. Beyond the bushes, muted tumult persisted—as, apparently, six goddamn men couldn’t subdue a wounded adversary with zero combat experience.

“Shall I drive around?” Siko asked.

Jivu sighed. He wanted to, but the gunshot could bring authorities any second. “No.” He brought the radio to his lips. “Isaac: he dies, you die.”

“Target on foot,” Imara radioed. He could see her back in her position on the roof. “Headed to the road along hedge… wounded … abdomen.”

“Are you
clear
up there now, Two?!”

“Yes, sir. Target heading east again, toward Zero position.”

“There!” Siko said, and Jivu spotted him, stumbling down the sidewalk a mere twenty meters ahead.

It was Turner, for sure. He’d shaved his beard. White keffiyeh on his head, matching white dishdasha, save for the bright red stain blossoming at his midsection. He passed the perimeter fence and walked along the parking lot, checking for pursuers behind him. Turner straightened his posture as much as he could manage and began bunching together the bloody front of his dishdasha. He twisted the mass of material into a ball, pressing it against the wound to slow the bleeding.

Passing vehicles gawked at him, but no one stopped. No one wants that sort of trouble, now, do they?

“Should I go fetch him?” Siko asked.

Jivu considered as Turner cut diagonally across the empty, little-used lot, toward the mass of vehicles parked up close to the shopping center entrance.

He was out in the wide open, seeking cover and shelter. The fact that he still strove to appear normal, concealing his wound, meant he didn’t trust local emergency responders. Jivu had none on the payroll today, but it was a shrewd precaution, nonetheless. What better transport than an ambulance to covertly shuttle a captive from the city? A delivery truck had felt the more discreet option.

“No. He’s not seeking medical assistance. If he keeps walking, no matter how much pressure he tries to apply there, he’s bleeding out inside. He’ll be dead within minutes. We don’t need that happening on the floor of this fine machine.”

Siko threw an arm over his seat, turning his thick neck to face Jivu, and lowered his sunglasses. His scrunched forehead looked like eel sushi.

Jivu smiled. “No, I don’t need you to kill Isaac. Thank you, though. Stay here and
watch me. If you lose sight of me, correct it.” He picked up the walkie again. “Tw
o: you still have eyes on target?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Zero pursuing on foot. Watch both. One: stay where you are. I don’t want to know who was unable to follow orders.” That should calm the nerves surely building in the truck. “Two: do you have eyes on Zero?”

He opened the door on the hotel side.

“Eyes on Zero,” she replied. “Target now crouched between blue Bug and gold sedan.”

Jivu stood up, and found the indicated vehicles around thirty meters across the lot. His spine popped as he twisted his sore back, too long stagnant in the car. He turned the radio down and slid it into his tight jeans’ back pocket, ensuring his silk polo shirt’s tail covered the little .380 Ruger clipped inside his waistband.

Strolling around the rear of the Mercedes, Jivu kept his eyes fixed on Turner’s shadow beneath the rusty old VW Beetle.

What would he say to him now that time was much more limited than planned? Did it matter? Was a more anguished death really his goal for Turner? There was no lesson to be taught here, no
“next time you’ll think twice”
nonsense, or
“I warned you what happens when…”
type of movie villain clichés. He was not the villain in this scenario. He was only a businessman and leader willing to do what every other truly successful man in history had done. And he was a husband and father. Turner was no liberator, but an embittered meddler who
lost
. He lost to a worthier suitor, a superior lover, a superior man.

Jivu slowed as he rounded the VW’s back end, craning his neck for a vigilant preview. Imara’s muffled voice reverberated in his pocket.

The space between the cars was empty.

Turner had strung his bloody dishdasha across the cars’ door handles, and left.

Jivu pulled out the walkie. “Where is he?!”

Imara, containing irritation, “Target now
fifteen
vehicles east of Zero. Shall I slow target?”

Jivu skimmed the tops of vehicles. “How fast is target moving?”

“No eyes at present. Alternating between a sliding low crawl and high crawl on last engagement.”

“Then no,” Jivu said. “Loose and obtuse.”

A noisy family of bag-laden shoppers congregated around a vehicle two rows over, oblivious to the nearby goings-on.

Jivu abandoned the complacent saunter, striding purposefully down the row of cars. How moronic it would be to miss Turner’s last moment and last breath, all for negligent overconfidence.

“Eyes?” he inquired.

“Negati—affirmative! Target crossing Ali Moustafa toward the library plaza!”

“What?!” Jivu bolted across the parking lot. The street was more than a hundred meters away! Turner had to have stood and ran to get that far. “How could you have missed him?!”

“Sorry, sir. Target must’ve cut south to the other rows blocked by the hotel’s east tower. Repositioning to east tower now.”

“No! Go get the girl!”

“Moving,” Imara replied.

Jivu fumed as he ran. Everyone needed to stop underestimating this American punk. “Siko, you with me?!”

“Right behind you,” Siko replied. “Pick up?”

Jivu reached the sidewalk and halted, waiting for speeding cars to pass. He glanced back at the Mercedes, driving through empty parking spaces and rolling up behind him. “Too slow. Exit the lot and pull into that drop-off area, there.” He pointed to the small avenue that divided the Bibliotheca Alexandrina from the University. “I may need you on foot.”

“Yes, sir,” Siko replied as Jivu dashed across the street. “That’s bus and taxi zone, though. If you want me to leave the car, I might …”

He shoved the radio back in his pocket and veered left into the funneling plaza entrance.

Tourists and students ambled aimlessly through the brick-paved strip, likely enjoying the shadow-cast realm between the library’s tall, outlying buildings. Not so many as to obstruct his chase, but he slowed so as not to raise alarm. Besides, Turner was hobbling along less than ten meters ahead, and the run had clearly ruined him.

Turner’s head was cocked slightly right, his shoulders arched forward, and each step on his right side triggered a little jolt. Now, sans his dishdasha, he had on a pair of bronze-tone slacks and an even whiter dress shirt. Dragging himself along with one hand pinned to his abdomen, some passers-by threw double-takes toward his belly, and though most immediately averted their eyes, a few kind souls actually approached, asking if he needed help.

And like a gift to Jivu, ensuring they’d have their special moment together, Turner cordially waved them all off.

A Spanish man who had offered assistance murmured to his companion as they passed Jivu, “… said he only needs to find a lavatory.”

The promenade widened at the buildings’ ends, and the Bibliotheca’s array of glass doors stood before them, curving off toward a fountain. Only a dozen or so of the center doors appeared to be accessible, and uniformed guards with security wands stood at each.

Jivu paused and glanced right toward the university campus. Siko had parked at the front of the bus stop and had a keen eye on him.

“Shall I come?” blared from the walkie he’d left at max volume.

Jivu fumbled it from his pocket and glared across the sunny courtyard. He pressed his lips to the mic and whispered, “Standby!”

A female guard waved Turner through the door to the busy lobby. Jivu strolled along outside, tracking Turner’s deteriorating shamble across the room.

Finally, he radioed Siko, “Come here, fast as you can!”

Jivu meandered to the last open door and held there, thumbs in pockets, pretending to examine the toe of his shoe. He wouldn’t risk attempting to get his gun past one of the guards, but plenty of other weapons adorned his person that no metal detector would find. The ceramic dagger dangling from his neck would be sufficient in any unexpected event.

Siko jangled up behind him, wheezing.

Jivu kept his back to him and muttered in Swahili to hold his gear, “
Kuchukua bastola yangu na redio.
” Siko wanted so badly to ask questions or comment, but he’d worked for him long enough to know to hold his tongue. Jivu turned to him and quickly said, “Stay out here. Keep me in sight,” and then marched to a door.

The tall, black guard shot a look his way, and Jivu halted in place, digging in his pockets as if he’d forgotten something. But what had really stopped him was doubt. Turner hadn’t looked back once since entering the promenade, nor stolen a glimpse outside since entering the Bibliotheca. He was the injured bunny awaiting the lurking wolf’s inevitable attack.

What exactly awaited Jivu inside those doors? A hundred soldiers? Why not surround him now? Why wait for him to enter? Just to disarm him and lure him from a single armed associate? It would make no sense. You’d never want to bring the dangerous person
inside
with even more innocent bystanders. And what, had Turner not really been shot in the truck? Some ruse, perfectly timed as Imara was drawn away? But what then? He risked a sniper’s shot to the head for that entire walk across the parking lot?

Turner was almost out of sight, staggering at the far end of the lobby. He appeared primed for collapse at any second, tottering head searching the ceiling mounted banners and signs. He crossed behind a column and plowed straight into a stainless steel garbage bin, lurching over the top, and both went crashing to the tile with a harsh clatter.

That
was clearly no farce.

Jivu cast aside his debilitating paranoia, only hoping it hadn’t once more robbed him of something precious. He offered a pleasant grin to the distracted guard, received a cursory wanding, and entered the lobby.

A crowd of overly compassionate witnesses was gathering around Turner, some righting the waste bin or gathering the strewn garbage, while others tried to talk to him or check his wound.