Once More to Die Page 8

  Atkins faded in behind them, urgency overcoming his caution.

  The spotter barely spared the tourists a glance, but by then it was too late.

  As they passed him, Atkins swung behind the man and jammed his weapon into the small of the man’s back.

  “Into the doorway.”

  The spotter froze for a second, and then his professionalism took over. He walked straight into the recessed doorway. Atkins didn’t even bother checking what the place was; whatever it was, it was closed. He pushed the spotter against the locked door, the top of the door glass.

  “All right, where are they taking her?”

  “Please, Sir, take my wallet and let me live.” The voice was of an older man, maybe seventy.

  “Five.”

  “What is going on? I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Four,” said Atkins. The man had a Mexican accent.

  “I have grandchildren,” he said. “I am but a retired laborer.”

  “Three.”

  “Madre de Dios! Vicar? It cannot be.”

  “Two.”

  “It must be. Vicar, I thought you were dead.”

  “That’s what everybody thinks.” Atkins scoured his mind.

  “I meant you no harm,” said the old man, scrunching up away from the barrel of the gun without luck.

  Then he knew. Somebody that professional and capable. Only one man. Juan Pablo, no last name. The assassin from Sonora. “Juan Pablo?”

  “Sí. Mi amigo. I am retired, down in the valley, raising horses and playing with my grandchildren.”

  “In Texas?”

  “In Texas. My own country is too dangerous for raising a family. Certainly in the provinces from which I operated.”

  “You a citizen?”

  “No, but my application is in. My grandchildren and other family are citizens.”

  “The girl you took, Juan Pablo, she is my only family.”

  “I searched for you for years. You disappeared.”

  “Your people were after me. The fucking feds were after me.” Never mind what happened, he added to himself.

  “It is why I could not retire in Arizona,” admitted Juan Pablo. “It is why I couldn’t resist the big money they pay me today for a day’s work. I told you I was retired and I am.” He crossed himself, a difficult thing as he was lodged against the door. “I would like to continue that endeavor.”

  “How did you know we were here? And where to find us?”

  “Cell phone. Many cell towers nearby.”

  “Shit.” Atkins had never had a cell phone, but had read a little and knew they could find one through the GPS or some kind of triangulation between cell towers. That meant María Elena had bought a cell phone and had used it, and recently. Not for the first time did he realize things he’d been missing for twenty plus years. The first day in the ’Glades with María Elena had triggered a growing resentment at himself for his circumstances. Circumstances that prevented him from enjoying what life had to offer. And he wasn’t referring to cell phones. While, of necessity, he’d been all business, he could see the other side of life. He began to resent himself for being on the run from every organization, legal and illegal, in the country—or so it seemed.

  “Vicar? I am not a rapist coyote or mule. I do not want to die.”

  “Where’s the girl?”

  “In a house, south of here, in the barrio—if they have made it that far yet in this rain.”

  “Take me there. Now.”

  “I will, but you will kill me anyway. We both know that.”

  “You don’t know that, Juan Pablo. The longer you stay alive, the better your chances.”

  “We must have a deal first.”

  “No.”

  “Then kill me now, for I have no leverage and you will kill me anyway.”

  “Listen to my voice, Juan Pablo. Remember those grandchildren of yours in the valley? I swear upon your dead body I will kill as many as I can. And their parents. You have my word.”

  The Mexican Assassin from Sonora dropped his head. “Sometimes I talk too much.”

  It occurred to Tommy Atkins that Juan Pablo was a high-end hire. It showed the importance of María Elena. More so, it showed the importance of her enemies. “Who hired you?”

  “I know not, Vicar. An old contact. Easy money, I could not refuse. I was closest real talent—not some gangbanger. I was a fool. I should have subcontracted out the job. Instead I hired some of those gangbangers. Zetas.”

  “The kill orders?”

  “The woman, we know her name. And some hombre with her, nobody knows who that man is. She was primary.”

  “You told your men to hold her so you could use her as bait if necessary?”

  “I did.”

  Atkins thought about it. Somebody had enough power to isolate one cell phone and chase it down. Enough power and money to buy the best assassin, even if he was retired.

  Tommy recalled the forlorn, trusting figure hunched over on the curb at the mall in Ft. Myers.

  “All right, Juan Pablo. Here’s the deal: you and I go and retrieve the girl. If she is hurt in anyway, I will kill all of your family. You got that?”

  “There is utter certainty in your voice. I would believe you even if you were not the Vicar.”

  “Think little children bleeding on the grass, staining their toys. Think their parents running to their aid and not knowing they’re running to their own deaths.”

  “Vicar, I feel the cold. I believe you. My van is near.” He paused. “But it is not like you. Not like the old days. You do not war upon women and children. The contrary.”

  “Now you know how important the woman is to me. Let us go, then, Juan Pablo. I will let you remain armed, for I will kill you if you even make a false move toward the weapon.”

  “Yes, Vicar.”

  They drove in an old van, Juan Pablo driving and Tommy Atkins sitting directly behind him with the barrel of his gun in the assassin’s neck.

  By instruction, Juan Pablo pulled up directly in front of the ramshackle house. The torrential rain kept a veil over them and Atkins couldn’t see any neighbors.

  “A moment,” said Juan Pablo as he turned off the ignition. He dropped his head and murmured. Then he crossed himself. “I have made peace. Now I am ready.”

  It had not escaped Tommy’s attention that if someone had hired Juan Pablo and located a burner cell phone the hard way, that this whole thing was a much larger deal than it appeared on the surface.

  They hurried up the walkway, as planned, with Juan Pablo behind Tommy Atkins. Tommy’s gun was in his hand lodged against the sidewall of Juan Pablo’s lungs. It gave every impression of Juan Pablo bringing in a prisoner. Tommy had figured that the Mexican had hired local talent because of the short lead-time. He hoped he was right.

  At the front door, Tommy pulled the screen door aside with his left hand. He edged Juan Pablo in front of him. “Take out your weapon. When we go in, shoot the first man you see.”

  Juan Pablo hesitated. “I have your word you will let my family live?”

  “You do. If the woman is okay.”

  “Thank you, Vicar.” The Mexican assassin sounded like he knew he was going to die.

  “Go,” commanded Tommy.

  Juan Pablo hesitated no longer. He knocked briefly on the door, three quick raps, turned the knob and went in quickly. A man with a wide broom of a mustache was standing in front of the opening door. Juan Pablo shot him in the center of the chest.

  Tommy Atkins, now the Vicar, killed the most dangerous man in the room. He shot Juan Pablo in the back of the head, just as Juan Pablo had known he would. Yet the old man kept his bargain, going to his death to protect the children.

  Atkins swept the room and two men were scrambling off a couch. Atkins shot them quickly, one at a time with body shots. He didn’t want to chance missing with headshots. Three down.

  Nobody else in the front room.

  “Tommy!” María Elena screamed. “Back here.
One man.”

  Without stopping, Atkins reflected that María Elena was keeping her head about her. He’d be proud of her later if they got out of here alive.

  Tommy lifted the man Juan Pablo had shot and ran toward the only hallway leading from the front room. It emptied upon a typical kitchen with scarred and chipped linoleum on the floor. Tommy held the mustache man in front of him.

  Number four was a balding punk with no shirt on and gangbanger tats all over his torso. He stood behind María Elena with a gun to her head. She was sitting taped to a chair behind the kitchen table.

  Number four shifted his revolver toward the door and fired immediately. The sound was as if he were hitting one of the hanging pots and pans with a wooden spoon.

  Tommy launched the body toward the kitchen table as the punk continued to fire into the body.

  María Elena’s eyes were as big as saucers when she saw Tommy throw the dead man. But she retained her senses and banged her head back into tattoo guy to spoil his aim, and then she ducked away from him, tilting her chair, trying to tip it over.

  This gave Tommy the time and angle he needed. As the man swung his weapon unable to decide between shooting Tommy or the girl, Tommy triggered three shots into him. Number four jitterbugged backwards into the refrigerator and slid down it to the floor, smearing blood all over the brand new icebox, dead before he hit the floor.

  Without wasting a movement, Tommy ejected the magazine and slammed another home. “Lesson number five. Always reload immediately. Is there anyone else here?”

  María Elena’s eyes were still enlarged and she was desperately trying to remain upright now. Finally, she stabilized herself.

  Tommy had turned and was scanning the hallway.

  “Three others, far as I know,” she said.

  “Not any longer.” Tommy pulled his knife out of his boot and sliced her bonds. “We gotta get the fuck outa here, Pocahontas, pronto.”

  “If you’re waiting on me, you’re backing up,” she said, yet her voice quivered.

  Tommy took the time to search the men swiftly for money and weapons. They all had five crisp hundred-dollar bills and no ID. He picked up a throwaway .32 auto and a couple of clips for María Elena and gave it to her.

  “You know how to use this?”

  “You betcha, Mr. Atkins.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Tommy?” She was trying to hold it together. He could see the emotions race across her face. She moved toward him, as if for support, then stopped.

  “What?”

  “Thanks. Again.” She shook her head. “Damn, I gotta pee bad.”

  “Any time, college girl. My pleasure.” He felt a proprietary pride. She’d been through a lot and was holding it together well. Not many women—or men, for that matter—would have showed the presence of mind that she had. And none of them were as professional at this business as he was.

  He retrieved his magazine and wiped her prints from the metal on the chair and the surface of the table.

  CHAPTER TEN: THEM

  “Five more dead?”

  “The local FBI office says the local cops are calling it a charnel house. The main guy is called ‘The Mexican Assassin’, for what it’s worth.”

  Suzie Q pondered. “That wouldn’t be Juan Pablo from Sonora?”

  “You know him?”

  “Not personally, Linda. I’ve heard of him. Jesus. This is getting bad. That idiot Don Diego hired Juan Pablo? This is high profile shit.”

  Linda shrugged. “What did you expect? You play with the devil; somebody’s hands are going to get burned.”

  “You are speculating this girl, María Elena, and her phantom friend, done all that?”

  “It looks that way, Suze. I suggest we rethink what the fuck we’re doing and how the fuck we’re doing it.”

  “No word on who the shooter is?”

  “Actually, yes. The local Indians down there in the Everglades admit his name is Tom Atkins. That’s all they know. He’s been a hermit back in there for years.”

  The secretary buzzed, three rings: priority.

  Suzie Q answered. “Yes.”

  She said nothing, then after a moment, “Okay. We don’t have a choice.” She slammed the phone into its cradle. “Oh, shit.”

  Linda leaned across the desk. “What now?”

  “The US Marshal Service and some assistant muckety muck from the Attorney General’s office are on the way to talk to us.”

  “About?”

  “Tommy Atkins.”

  Linda sat back. “When it rains, it pours.”

  Suzie Q looked directly at Linda L. “I do not think it is necessary to share the extent of the blood bath we’ve got going on.”

  “Concur, hon. But listen, I ain’t altogether certain that all those dead guys is a bad thing. In fact, the world might be better off for their unlamented passing.”

  “We don’t know that, Linda. Even if you’re right, we face criticism from the PC crowd around here. You can’t just be involved in ten plus deaths in this day and age. In fact, I’d think we’d be in extreme jeopardy.”

  “Oh.”

  Suzie thought some more, and then went on. “Keep in mind they’re hanging other CIA operatives for a little persuasive questioning. And they’re court-martialing Navy SEALS for slapping a known terrorist and killer around. I could go on—“

  “Please don’t,” Linda said. “I don’t want to think about it. In fact, I need a smoke.”

  “Are the geeks making progress on the surveillance recordings from Orlando International?”

  “I’ll check. I don’t trust that facial recognition software all that much, but we have the exact time of the cell phone call which simplifies matters.”

  Suzie Q smelled the cigarette smoke on Linda L’s flowery yellow dress and once again regretted quitting herself. Unfortunately, it was one of Suzie Q’s favorite dresses on Linda and now they’d have to add it to the dry cleaning load.

  They sat in a basic government conference room, Linda and her on one side of the rectangular table and the two men on the other side. Each position had an official government yellow ruled tablet and official government pen. One of Linda’s attractive aides was at the foot of the table ready to work the computer and the large screen. Linda did not allow ugly women to work in her office. Plus they were all so very competent, which spoke well for Linda’s own competence. Hire good people, get good results. It was just that, did they all have to be so damn good looking? On the ninth hand, Linda herself was the most attractive person in the room.

  The balding guy was the rep from the U.S. Marshall Service named Eisenberg. Suzie Q didn’t know whether to call him officer, agent, deputy or what. She settled on mister. The other guy, a third assistant Attorney General, she dismissed as a political flack. They sensed something was up and wanted in on it to share the credit if something good came out of this. Which led her to speculate that whoever this Tommy Atkins was, he had some importance. The assistant AG was, in real life before the political storm caught him up, a professor of law. BFD, thought Suzie. But this guy, Henderson, went by the professorial moniker of doctor.

  Henderson opened the meeting. He went on about interagency cooperation and the importance of what they were doing.

  Finally, Suzie Q had enough. “Fine Doctor Henderson, how can we help?”

  Henderson paused, gathered himself, and pointed to Eisenberg. “Mallory Eisenberg is charge of our cold case JTF.” And that’s all he said as if it was supposed to floor them and put them in their place. Eisenberg had been openly looking at Linda, apparently working hard to keep from staring.

  Eisenberg spoke, his voice a low base. “We’re responding to your NCIC inquiry.”

  Suzie Q waited and nobody said anything. So, she said, “Okay, go ahead and respond.”

  “So where did you get the prints? Is this man alive? Where is he?”

  “Why do you want to know?” asked Linda.

  Both men switched their eyes to Linda, n
ot a hard thing to do, as Linda L was gorgeous. Her voice was whiskey-like, probably from all that smoking thought Suzie Q.

  The two men exchanged a look. “We have nothing to hide, so we’ll lay our cards on the table.”

  To Suzie’s jaundiced view of government bureaucrats, this meant they weren’t going to lay out all their cards and they did have something to hide.

  Suzie glanced at Linda who was watching her, telling Suzie that Linda suspected the same thing Suzie was thinking. Then Suzie saw the marshal guy Eisenberg had been paying attention and was aware of the exchange between the two women. Uh oh, this guy was sharper than he let on. The AAG was the traditional political appointee idiot, but not the man with the star.

  Eisenberg cleared his throat. “The info I’m going to tell you we do not know exactly, but we are pretty sure it is correct. If the prints are the same person, he is an escaped federal and state of Florida convict. One we long thought dead. From what I can tell, this man Atkins has also been known to us variously as John Doe, Sam Adams, The Vicar, and a few other minor aliases. It is thought his birth name is Evan Longboat, but we don’t know that for sure.”

  “What in the world did he do?” asked Linda.

  “Ms. Landover, the question should be, what didn’t he do?” Eisenberg said.

  “He’s a shooter,” said Linda, trying already to be inane, but Eisenberg apparently wasn’t buying her act.

  “Well, this Tom Atkins, he was at one time or another, a numbers runner, a U.S. Marine, a hitman, an outlaw biker, a mobster, and, we’re pretty sure, a French Foreign Legionnaire.” He shook his head. “The French are notorious about their legion and security and privacy. If we think it’s really important, perhaps higher authority can pressure them?” Eisenberg looked directly at Henderson.

  Henderson shifted uncomfortably.

  Eisenberg turned his attention back to the other side of the conference table. “Why is it the FBI search did not find a print match?”

  “I’d like to know that also,” Linda admitted. “I’ll check with my superiors.”

  “Ah, ahem,” started Henderson.”

  “Yes, Doctor?” said Suzie Q.

  “Ah, there is a minute possibility that it was, ah, blocked, in order to flag some higher authority or, ah, security program.”