Wild Night is Calling (4 page)

Authors: J.A. Konrath

BOOK: Wild Night is Calling

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“See you, Carmen.”

He switched off the camera. I initiated my tracking software, locating his IP address. It was the same one he always used. Previously, I’d hacked his ISP and gotten his billing information, and from there it had been easy to run a background check. Victor Cormack, as far as I could research using both public and private records, had been telling me the truth about his job, his education, his past. On the surface, he was a normal, average person.

But anyone checking out my identity would assume the same about me.

I erased my Internet footsteps, deleting cookies, clearing the cache, and reformatting the C drive. A pain in the ass to do every time I went online, but a necessary one. Then I began my morning work-out.

Halfway into it, my encrypted cell phone rang. I finished my two hundred thirty-ninth push-up, slid the sweaty bangs off my eyebrows with my forearm, and padded over to the breakfast bar to answer it. Only one person—the same person who knew my address—had this number. A call meant work. And work couldn’t be refused. The phone was even waterproof so I could take it into the shower.

I hit the connect button and waited, habit making me tune in to my surroundings. I could smell traces of the green pepper omelet and wheat toast I’d had for breakfast, along with a slightly sour odor coming from the sink telling me dishes needed to be done. The ambient sounds were unremarkable; the thermostat kicking on, the hum of the fridge, the ticking of a wall clock hanging over my computer, pigeons warbling outside.

“Is Velma there?” The familiar voice was digitally altered and sounded slightly robotic. I’ve never heard his real voice, never met the man it belonged to.

I closed my eyes, shutting off part of me. The part that had just chatted with Victor. The part that was going to go shopping for a new pair of running shoes. The part that read books and watched television and was normal as normal could be.

Then I slipped into the other part.

“Velma’s on vacation in Milan, can I take a message?”

A pause, then, “It’s over, Chandler.”

“Jacob? What’s over?”

Jacob wasn’t his real name any more than mine was Chandler.

“We’re over. Blown.”

I processed this. “I thought no one knew—”

“Things have gotten ugly, fast. You need to go to ground. I’ll contact you at oh ten thirty hours.”

My skin prickled.
Go to ground.
This was bad.

“How long do I have?”

“Five minutes. Maybe less. And… I assume you know about Cory.”

That’s a name I hadn’t heard in a while. The fact that I’d never discussed Cory with Jacob, or pretty much anyone else, didn’t faze me. Jacob knew everything about everyone.

“I know that two weeks ago he killed four guards and escaped maximum security,” I said, wondering if there was more to know. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, but he doesn’t know where I live or my current name. You think he’s behind this?”

“No. I’m looking at a satellite image of your building. A black sedan just double parked in front. Two people, a man and a woman. Infrared coming back… they’re both armed. Get out, now. And don’t answer your phone, it’s about to ring.”

My normal phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Kauffman, calling three days before his scheduled time.

“Oh ten-thirty,” I said to Jacob, hanging up.

Kauffman would have to wait.

Training took over, sparing me the indecisiveness inherently brought on by panic. The innumerable days of practicing insertion and extraction, fight and flight, and the prep work necessary to execute flawlessly, constituted ninety percent of my job.

The other ten percent involved action; the implementation of what I’d learned and planned for.

The assassins would split up, one taking the elevator, one the stairs. If they had intel—and they must have to know where I lived—they’d be aware of the fire escape outside my window, and a second team would be covering it.

I made an instant mental checklist, the things I needed in the order I needed them. Weapon, then shoes, then purse. The house was clean; nothing to burn me here. I wore sweats and an old tee. I pinched the waistband, felt the ever-present strip of wire. Then I leaned over the sink, reached behind the refrigerator, and yanked the Glock 19 off the Velcro strip that held it there.

The phone rang a final time, the answering machine picking up.

“You’ve reached Carmen Saywer’s phone.”
That wasn’t my real name either.
“I’m not available right now, so please leave a message.”

“Hiya, babe. It’s been a while,” a male voice said on the machine. A voice I’d hoped to never hear again. “We’ve got your Mr. Kauffman. If you don’t do exactly what I say, he dies.”

My concentration fizzled, interrupted by a mental picture of Kauffman’s kind eyes, smiling at me. That image was replaced by Cory’s face.

The fucker had found me.

“Pick up the phone, babe.” The tone was soft, almost seductive. I could tell the bastard was smiling. “If you don’t pick up within three seconds, I’m cutting Kauffman’s—”

His voice was drowned out by my proximity alarm, beeping like crazy on my countertop next to the Mr. Coffee. I hit the button, and the flatscreen TV—actually a video monitor—blinked on, my hallway camera showing a man with a shotgun at the door. Too soon for the duo from the sedan to have gotten up to the eighth floor, so this was someone new.

“One…” Cory said.

The door was reinforced, solid. But I no longer had time to grab my shoes and purse. I switched my encrypted cell to silent mode and clipped it to the inside of my panties, on my hip, then reached for the cordless handset.

“Two…”

A shotgun blast, from the hall. I felt the vibration in the soles of my bare feet. The door held. I didn’t stick around to see if it would withstand a second salvo.

“Three…”

I pressed the talk button while sprinting for the window.

“It’s me.” My breath was even, voice calm, though I could feel my pulse spiking. I smelled gunpowder, and my own sweat. Background noise on the phone was standard static and hum. “Let me speak to Kauffman.”

My blinds were drawn. They always were. I put my back against the wall next to the window and twisted the rod, levering them open. A shot punched through the pane, making a small hole without shattering the glass. Sniper round, high velocity. The fire escape wasn’t an option.

“What’s the rush?” Cory said, his deep voice oozing. “We got a lot to catch up on. It’s been twenty years.”

“Put him on, Cory, or I swear I’m hanging up right now.

Kauffman spoke, making my feelings temporarily override my brain. His words came out in a rush. “I’m near the lake he’s not alone he has—”

A slapping sound. Kauffman being hit. It was repeated, and he grunted in pain.

I pushed back the emotion welling up in me, killed it before it could erupt, and pictured myself encased in a block of ice. Cold. Calculating. Hard.

“You ready to talk to me now?” Cory said.

“Yes.”

Another shotgun blast. The door shook and one of the hinges twisted off, shedding a screw onto the carpeting.

“What was that sound?” Cory demanded.

Focus. Stay focused. Too much happening at once.

I let out a slow breath, falling back on what I was taught.

Process. Evaluate. Segregate. Then take control of the situation.

“I’m having phone problems. I may need to call you back.”

“If you hang up this phone, bitch, I’ll take some tin snips and—”

I tuned Cory out, crawling on my knees and elbows under the window, over to the front door, squatting alongside it.

A third shot rocked the apartment, making the wall shake. As the door fell inward I watched the vid monitor on my kitchen counter. The man was hiding on the right side of the doorway, opposite me. While the door was reinforced steel, the wall was plain old wood and plaster. Using the video monitor as a guide, I placed the barrel of my Glock an inch from the surface and fired twice. My loads were beryillium copper, and penetrated both the wall and the assassin’s right knee. As he fell forward I was already aiming through the doorway where his head would appear. My third shot ended him.

“—horrible pain. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said into the phone.

I went through the doorway, low. My assailant was Caucasian, in his forties, muscular, dressed in a trench coat, jeans, and black leather gloves. His face was hard to make out under the damage my bullet had done, but I noticed a scar trailing from the right corner of his mouth down to his neck. I memorized it.

No use patting the guy down—he wouldn’t be carrying ID. The shotgun wouldn’t be traceable either. I took it anyway, a Remington 11-87, tucking the warm stock under my armpit and moving in a crouch to the stairwell door. Underneath the gunpowder haze the hallway smelled faintly of cigarettes. Mrs. Coursey in Apartment 912. Someone, probably the elderly man in 914, had burned toast earlier. Animal scents, a dog, from the woman in the apartment above. The pungent stench of blood as the hitman soaked the floor.

“What the hell is going on?”

I whirled, aiming the Glock at my neighbor, Mr. Grant, sticking his head out of 907. This was Chicago, and most people knew when they heard gunfire to not open their doors.

He looked at me, looked at my gun, and slid back inside the imaginary safety of his home. I heard his lock snick into place. Then I held my breath, listening for other sounds. Mr. Knoll in 910 was watching CNN. I was able to make out the words
dramatic prison escape
. From the stairwell, muted sounds of footsteps nearing. One set, heavy, probably the man from the sedan. From behind me—

“Here are the instructions,” Cory said. “I’ll only give these to you once.”

—the elevator reaching my floor.

I pinched the receiver between my ear and shoulder, freed the shotgun, and held it by the hot barrel.

The stairwell footsteps echoed closer, the man jogging up the last flight. Both of the assassins had to have heard the gunfire, and would alter the strategy accordingly. That made me alter mine, and I ran to the right, out of the line of sight of the elevator.

“We want thirty thousand dollars in US currency. Hundred dollar bills, unmarked.”

“Money? You want ransom for Kauffman?”

“That’s just for starters.”

The lift doors opened and a familiar green pineapple shape arced out and rolled into the hallway. Which is what I would have done. Which is why I was ready.

I stretched the shotgun out. Using it like a mini-golf putter, I swung the stock, tapping the grenade and rolling it back into the elevator as the doors were closing.

I flipped the shotgun, grabbing the grip in the air just as the elevator exploded and the man came charging low out of the stairwell.

Ears ringing from the grenade, I didn’t hear the next thing the kidnapper said over the phone, nor did I hear the shotgun go off when I pulled the trigger.