The King (9 page)

Chapter 39

“It’s up there,” Smiley said, pointing out the front of the black SUV as Stevens drove furiously up the road, through a grove of trees.

Stevens turned the SUV in the direction he was pointing and saw the barest outline of tire tracks, leading deeper into the forest. He sped through the trees, following the tracks over a small hill, and then down into a valley where he spotted a BMW X3 parked next to a smoking hole. Stevens came to a skidding stop next to it, the SUV and a big van carrying the Swat team barely missing them as they slammed on the brakes.

Stevens jumped out of the car and pointed at the smoking hole. “Is that where it is?”

Smiley looked at him, dumbfounded. “Yeah, but it wasn’t covered like that when I last saw it.”

Stevens went to the hole and started kicking through the rocks. “How far down is it?”

“Fifteen feet.”

“Fifteen feet...” Stevens looked down at the covered hole. “Didn’t you wonder what the hell you were building?”

“He said it was a survivalist shelter,” Smiley said.

“Survivalist shelter?”

“Yeah, and it’s not the first one I’ve built.”

“How are we getting in there?” Emory said.

Stevens looked over at the swat guys and nodded at the van. “Do you have explosives in there?”

The Commander nodded. “Yes, and a few shovels.”

“Then get them,” Emory said, “and let’s do this.”

Stevens looked at his watch: it had been just over nine and a half hours. How many of them, he wondered, had Russell Scott spent “working” on Billy.

Chapter 40

Russell knew he should hold off – take a break – but he couldn’t. He’d planned for so long, imagined how it was going to go, how long and slow he would make it. Once he’d started, he couldn’t control himself.

Billy had planted a seed of doubt in his mind, and he knew that if he didn’t keep going, that seed would take root and grow, make him question everything he was doing.

Russell couldn’t do that. Billy Stone had hurt London. London had killed herself because of Billy. Billy was going to suffer for it. That was the plan. The plan was the only thing that had kept him going. He was going to finish what he started.

Sweat was pouring down Russell Scott’s forehead as he swung the mallet down and broke Billy’s collarbone. Billy barely moved: the pain had made him black out again and again, and Russell was afraid that another shot of adrenaline would kill him. Russell couldn’t let that happen. Billy needed to keep suffering. Billy needed to feel the pain that Russell had felt as he held London’s limp body in his arms.

The thought.

That thought.

Of her.

Of the blood.

The red water.

The pain.

The helplessness.

The fury.

He reached out for the bat. It was time to take it to the next level. It was time to hit the big bones. It was time to lash out.

Russell swung the bat as hard as he could at Billy’s hipbone and heard a crack as the bone shattered. Billy’s eyes shot open. He tried to scream through his ruined jaw, and then his body started convulsing. Blood was forming under Billy’s skin, in and around his hip. A lot of blood. And his body was shaking.

“No!”

Russell reached out and pressed against Billy’s hip, but there was nothing he could do to stop the blood from streaming out under the skin. Seconds later, Billy’s body seized up and he stopped breathing.

“No!”

Russell reached for one of the bottles of adrenaline. He grabbed the syringe he’d been using, but his hands were shaking so badly that he struggled to get the needle in, and when he did, it bent.

“Fuck!” He hurled the bottle and syringe against the wall, and then picked up another bottle, only to realize that it was empty. Another bottle had some adrenaline still in it, but he opened up the package with the new syringe too quickly and it dropped to the floor. He dropped to his hands and knees, fumbling for the syringe, ramming it into the bottle and drawing back the plunger. He stood up, ready to slam it into Billy’s chest, but then stopped. 

Billy’s face was bone white. A large pool of blood had bubbled up just under the skin of Billy’s hip and leg. There was no amount of adrenaline he could shoot into Billy to make that pool of blood flow backwards. 

When he’d shattered Billy’s hip with the bat, the bone had cut through the femoral artery, and Billy had bled out internally.

Billy was dead.

“Damn it.” Russell stumbled back against the wall, tears rolling down his face as he looked at Billy’s broken, dead body. His legs gave out under him, and he dropped to the ground. He suddenly felt empty, purposeless, defeated. All those months of planning, all those months of preparation, all that time looking forward to the satisfaction of finally taking his revenge, and thinking that everything would be better once he had.

But now that Billy was dead... and Billy had suffered... he felt even worse.

Was it possible, he’d been wrong?

Chapter 41

It took twenty-five minutes to get all of the debris away from the wall at the bottom of the stairs. The Swat Commander set up the charges to make the final push through, and then looked up at Emory Thomas and Stevens for the go ahead. They nodded, guns out.

The commander ran back up the stairs with the remote for the charges in his hand. He looked at his men, who held their guns up, he held up three fingers, then two, then one, and hit the remote. The charges blew the wall inward and they ran down the stairs.

Inside, the room was full of smoke. The lights were still on. The beams of the flashlights on the front of the SWAT guns cut through the smoke in streams. They found Billy, strapped to a metal chair in the middle of the room.

There was no sign of Russell Scott until he came roaring at them from the corner of the room, a bat held over his head. Four M-16s shot three-round bursts into his chest, sending him flying back at the corner of the wall.

Emory, Sarah, and the SWAT Commander ran towards Billy to check for a pulse, but as Emory put his hand on the side of Billy’s neck his skin was cold: he’d been dead for hours.

The four SWAT members approached Russell Scott, guns up and ready to shoot. Russell was sliding down the wall, leaving a trail of blood and gore as he went. He was still alive, but barely, as Stevens pushed through the SWAT guys and knelt down next to him. The M-16s had nearly torn him in two; all Stevens could do was bend over him as he whispered a last word that Stevens instantly understood, a word that filled him with rage.

Stevens stood up, pushed through the SWAT guys and headed for the door.

“Stevens?” Emory said, looking up at him from Billy Stone’s broken body.

Stevens looked back at him. “This isn’t over,” he said as he stalked up the stairs, disappearing into the smoke. 

Chapter 42

Blake Fitzpatrick was sitting in the den of his house. The fire was burning and cracking in the stone fireplace. He had a full glass of scotch in his hand. Billy Stone was dead – he’d been taken and killed under his watch and Fitzpatrick knew that that was going to be the end of his career. A career in security, no matter how stellar, couldn’t recover from having one of the richest men in the world kidnapped and killed under his nose.

He took another drink, and let the slow burn radiate through his body. There wasn’t much else he could do. The end was inevitable. He could talk to The Agency about doing some damage control, but Black Hawk would still end up kicking him to the curb, if for no other reason than to cover their ass and move forward.

Fitzpatrick shook his head.  He had money. He could retire, but he’d tried that when he came out of the service. You can’t live on the adrenaline of combat for years and just fade away. That would mean too much time, with nothing to do but let his mind creep back, dwell on dark memories that would lead to him eating a bullet, sooner or later.

Before he could go too far down that dark pathway, his front doorbell rang. He took another drink, put down the glass, and sighed as he got up. Probably the first of many reporters he was going to have to chase away. He walked out of the den, down the hallway and opened the door to a very angry looking Jon Stevens

“We need to talk,” Stevens said as he pushed past.

Chapter 43

Tom Francis was on the phone, talking to Josh Bond.

“Look,” he said. “All we do is use the publicity around Billy’s death as a way to promote a transition within the company. Billy was always the figurehead, but you were there from the beginning. We start floating a few stories that quote inside sources who say that you were the brains all along, and that without Billy there you’ll be able to start implementing the changes that you always felt would make PushThrough a better product for its customers.”

“Come on Tom, you know that’s bullshit.”

“Maybe so, but before we’re done it’ll be beautifully packaged bullshit, and people will eat it up.”

“I don’t know...” He heard Josh, sighing on the other end of the line.

“Josh,” he said, “you have to think of the alternatives. If we don’t–”

The doors to his office blew in and men in black came rushing through, M-16s swinging towards him.

“FBI!” they yelled. “Get down on the floor! Get down on the floor NOW!”

Frances started to stand. “What the he–”

Two of the FBI Agents hit him hard in the gut with the butt ends of their guns and threw him face first onto the floor. They swung his arms up violently behind him, and hit his wrist with cold metal handcuffs.

“Tom Francis,” the agent with his knee in Francis’ back hissed into his ear, “you are under arrest for the crime of murder in the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand your rights?”

“I’m not–”

The agent ground his knee in a little deeper. “Do you understand your rights?”

“Yes!” Francis squealed. “Yes!”

The agent got up off his back. Francis heard the group of them walk out and close the door. When he rolled over he saw Stevens, looking down at him from his own chair.

“You like a good show, don’t you?” Stevens said.

“What the hell is going on?” Francis was terrified, but he managed to pull it together enough to be angry.

“You heard the Agent. You’ve been arrested for murder,” Stevens said with a grin as he spun back and forth in Francis’ chair.

“I didn’t murder anyone!”

“Really? We tracked a check you wrote to the man who just murdered Billy Stone.”

“What?”

“Yes. The murderer made sure that it was your money, and only your money that paid for the property, the killing room, and a metal chair made specifically so Billy could have every one of his bones broken while he was held immobile – which, as you know, led to his death.”

“I...I didn’t...”

Stevens held up a file that had been sitting on his lap. “I have it all right here. A professionally made paper trail that includes copies of the check you wrote, where it was deposited, and who it was transferred to, as well as orders, purchases, and copies of checks written after the money was transferred. All of which implicate you.”

“Who...” Francis said weakly.

“London Scott.”

Francis remembered the girl. He remembered the crushed look on her face, he remembered Billy firing him, and he remembered writing the check. His stomach felt like it had just been kicked in, but he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. “You know I didn’t do this,” he said.

Stevens shook his head slowly. “No...I don’t.”

“Jesus...” Francis started to shake. “But I didn’t do anything...”

Stevens leaned forward and spoke to him softly. “The truth of the matter is, I know you didn’t order Russell Scott to kill Billy Stone. I also know that you’re the reason it happened. I talked to Blake Fitzpatrick. I know that you forced London Scott to take that money. I know that Billy Stone was head over heals in love with that girl, and I know that she died because of what you did.”

“But I didn’t make her–”

Stevens held the file in Francis’s face. “My report states that Russell Scott’s last words implicate you in Billy’s death. He said those last words to me...your name. Which in case you didn’t know is admissible in court as what’s called a ‘dying declaration’ and that gets around hearsay rules. Combine that with the perfect paper trail that leads back to you, and you’re going away for the rest of your life.”

“That’s bullshit. My lawyers will tear that apart in court!”

Stevens smiled knowingly.

“What are you smiling about?” Francis said.

Stevens leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling, his hands calmly clasped over his stomach. “You know, I hate the media. I don’t care if it’s newspapers, T.V., or the internet – whatever it is, they usually get in the way of my investigations. They report things incorrectly, and are in general a pain in the ass. Especially when people like you–” he pointed at Francis “–get out in front of stories and manipulate them.”

“It’s a free country,” Francis said with a smirk, “and it’s a free press. We use it as we see fit.”

Stevens leaned forward menacingly. “You know, now that you mention it, you might have a point: manipulated perception sometimes has a far greater impact than the actual truth.”

“Yes, it does,” Francis said. “Anything can be spun.”

Stevens laughed. He didn’t look like the type of man who laughed often; it sounded out of place, and cruel. “You know what’s funny?”

Francis grinned back at him. “What?”

Stevens leaned forward again and put his finger an inch from Francis’ nose. “That you haven’t figured this out yet.”

“Figured what out?”

“When an agent like myself, one that the media has been trying to talk to for years, one that never gives interviews or talks to the press... When an agent like that calls and invites the media to a certain place at a certain time, to give them a personal statement on the death of one of the richest men in the world, do you know what happens?”

“You can’t...You wouldn’t...”

Stevens pulled out the stack of papers that Francis had given him and held them up. “When that agent steps out in front of the media and details what is in these documents, the paper trail that leads to you, and the fact that you’ve been arrested for murder? Everyone, everywhere, on every media outlet in the entire world, will be listening. It won’t matter if the murder charge sticks or not: you’ll be toxic. No client in the world will go near you. You’ll be lucky if you can leave your house without being spit on.”

Years of work. Years of creating a name. Years of building up his businesses. Years of attracting all of the top clients. Years of his life would be destroyed in a single press conference. The weight of what Stevens was saying came crashing down on him. He couldn’t breathe, and for the first time in his life he couldn’t say anything other than a dry–throated, whispered word. “Th-th-that’s...s...slander!”

“Slander!” Stevens sat up as if he hadn’t considered that, but then he smiled. “Come on, Francis, you better than anyone know the rules on Liable and Slander.” He pointed at the documents Francis had given him earlier in the investigation. “Heck, you quote the rules in your contracts. If it’s documented truth, then it can’t be liable and slander.”

Stevens was telling the truth. He was screwed. Stevens was going to throw him under the bus and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.