Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 12

  Mercer gave her a bored look, spotting Bastian behind her. Bastian shut the door and leaned against it, hoping her outburst didn’t attract the attention of the hospital’s security personnel. She paced, steam practically billowing out of her ears. The longer Mercer remained silent, the angrier she became.

  “Jules,” Bastian said, drawing the attention of everyone inside the room, “I believe it’s time we discuss our findings with the aggrieved.”

  “Very well.” Mercer tossed a quick look to Styler, but Ben didn’t say a word. “Ms. Rhoade, your fiancé sent threatening photographs to your father, who in turn hired an investigator to get to the root of the problem. Said investigator is currently in fear of his life, and as of yet, we have not identified who else has hired him to investigate Mr. Styler. While unlikely, we have not entirely ruled out the possibility that the shooting was orchestrated by your father, so please, prepare yourself for that possibility.”

  “What?” She slumped onto the edge of the bed. “But why?” She turned to face Styler, and Mercer crossed the room to take up a spot next to Bastian. “He’s lying, right? Ben, say he’s lying.”

  “Honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t threaten you. Not really. I sent your dad a photo of you when you were asleep. That was it.” She remained motionless. “I needed the money.”

  “I would have given it to you,” she snarled. “I offered. You’re such a jackass.” Styler reached for her, but she batted his hand away. “Don’t you fucking touch me.”

  “But, sweetheart,” Styler begged, “I didn’t want us to start our lives together with something like money hanging over our heads.”

  “Oh, so you thought it’d be better to blackmail my father?” She slapped him across the face. “Screw you, Ben.” She spun, prepared to flee, only to find Bastian and Mercer blocking her path. “Get out of my way.”

  “No.” Mercer studied her. “I’m not finished yet. Do you know Isaac Armann?”

  “No, now move.”

  “Someone hired him to kill Ben. And apparently, since my mates and I were getting a bit too close, Armann was instructed to remove us from the situation as well.” Mercer looked to Bastian for reinforcement on this theory, and Bastian nodded, having uncovered enough of Armann’s history to positively identify him as the contract killer. “So now that my head is also on the chopping block, we need to discuss what shall be done to remedy this situation.”

  “Get out of my way. I don’t care what happens to you or Ben,” Katia hissed, hurt and angry.

  “You don’t mean that,” Bastian said, interjecting before Styler or Mercer could say something that would piss the poor woman off more than she already was. “You love him,” he jerked his chin toward Styler, “even if he made a mistake. And I’m sure you love your father too. This seems like a family situation that has gotten out of control. Wouldn’t you agree, love?” he asked in that calming, soft lilt that tended to gain compliance from his listener.

  She let out a harsh breath. “So what do you propose we do?”

  “First, I think you should have a talk with your father, so we can completely rule him out as contracting the hit,” Bastian said. “And if he did, then he needs to call it off.” He shifted his focus to Mercer. “We were unable to locate Armann after last night’s accident. When the police arrived, he wasn’t in the vehicle or seen fleeing the scene.”

  “Accident?” Katia asked, noticing the condition Mercer was in for the first time. “Are you okay?”

  “Just ducky,” Mercer snapped.

  “Why would you think my father hired a hitman? Let alone, where would he even find one?” Katia asked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t buy it.” She swiveled to face Styler. “And oh my god, how the hell could you have sent photos to my father? I’m surprised you didn’t tape us having sex and sell that on the internet while you were at it.” She seemed more interested in berating her idiotic fiancé than finding the person responsible for nearly killing him.

  Mercer couldn’t stand the prima donna attitude anymore. “Ms. Rhoade, shut up. I’m tired of the drama, the whining, and the bitching. You are an adult, so start acting like it.” His tone immediately silenced Katia. “We’re going to have a grown-up discussion, and when we are finished, we shall devise an exit strategy. Then you will call your father. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” she said, finally acknowledging that she needed to get her priorities straight.

  “Brilliant,” Bastian sighed, “shall I begin?”

  Twenty-one

  Isaac Armann had fled the scene of the accident. Mercer wasn’t sure how the semiconscious man managed to crawl out of the rubble of the totaled car, but according to the police accounts, no one was present at the scene. The only signs that anyone had even been inside the vehicle were the blood smears that covered the deployed airbag and a few droplets on the passenger’s side floor mat.

  Armann was a pro and a local. He knew the ins and outs of the city better than the ex-SAS. He probably had connections or contacts that could assist in his disappearance, maybe even some of his friends were men who possessed badges and guns.

  Despite Bastian’s insistence that Detective Rowlins was not in on some grand conspiracy, Mercer was still having issues accepting this fact as the truth. He was certain someone at the precinct was assisting Armann or the kamikaze van driver, who were likely working together if the two were not in fact one in the same. The events from the last two days were too well-timed to be purely coincidental.

  The more important question worthy of contemplation was who was in a position to come across someone of Armann’s specific skill set and possessed the means to hire him and his two unnamed associates to eliminate Benjamin Styler. Mercer was willing to blame every rich son of a bitch they encountered in Chicago as the culprit. That left Jack Pierce and Carlton Rhoade at the top of the short list, while Bastian continued to delve into Katia’s background for jilted lovers or potential stalkers.

  Fortunately, Katia provided some useful assistance concerning her father’s potential involvement. Finally dropping the entitled air that she had exuded since their first encounter, she spoke of an article her father had researched early in his career on organized crime and contract killers. By this point, the article was somewhat dated, but it named a few undisclosed sources and served as an exposé enumerating the benefits and detriments of an underground criminal element functioning within the established system of law and order. It sounded like rubbish, but it might have been a glimpse into Carlton’s questionable connections.

  Bastian had spent an entire evening analyzing Carlton’s spending habits and routine, hoping to find a blip in the normal pattern. The only thing that came close to pinging as suspicious was the purchase of a cappuccino from a coffee cart across town from Carlton’s typical haunts. It wasn’t en route to any 0f the other locations that he normally frequented, and from what Bastian determined, there was no reason for Rhoade to venture into that sketchy part of town.

  “I tried to check through nearby footage to figure out how Armann disappeared, but the city’s DOT camera grid hasn’t been cooperating with my latest infiltration attempts,” Bastian muttered. Despite the fact he had hacked into the servers before, security had been upgraded, and it was a safe bet to assume it was because of his earlier breach. “We might have to share this information with Rowlins.”

  “He won’t be able to do anything. We don’t exactly have evidence. It’s not like Armann is in custody,” Mercer spat, still on the fence over not putting a bullet into the man when he had the chance. Now Armann was in the wind, and he knew Julian would pose a problem. The matter just became exponentially more dangerous, and for once, this didn’t seem like a good thing. “We’ll have to find another way to determine who wants Styler dead since our previous plan to obtain this information from the hired gun has gone awry.”

  “I can just ask my dad,” Katia said. She met Mercer’s eyes. “You can’t really believe he’s to blame for this. Why wouldn’t he just tell me what Ben
did instead of hiring someone to kill him?”

  “We don’t believe your father’s responsible,” Bastian interjected. “The issue isn’t necessarily with your father. It’s with determining who else would have known he hired a private investigator to look into the matter. John Welks is the P.I. your father hired. Do you have any idea who might have been aware of this?”

  “Maybe his friends at the paper,” Katia suggested. “Dad tends to relegate a lot of the workload. I’m sure his assistants must have scheduled meetings or made phone calls on his behalf. They might have even taken a message or cut a check for Mr. Welks’ invoice.”

  “It’s still the paper,” Mercer mumbled, recalling Welks’ insistence that the anonymous e-mail had been sent internally.

  “I don’t understand what’s going on. What does Ben’s asinine behavior have to do with what happened the other night in the alley?” Katia asked.

  “Based upon everything we know, it stands to reason that whoever wants Mr. Styler dead is well-off and powerful, and given the planning and trajectory that were necessary to make that shot, we are also working under the assumption that the party responsible stipulated that your safety must never be jeopardized.” Bastian pressed his lips together, unsure how much more he should say. “And lastly, the person responsible used the internal e-mail system at your father’s paper to request this information from Mr. Welks anonymously.”

  Mercer let out an exhale and closed his eyes. This was the first time he’d heard the facts laid out so clearly. Either he’d been too preoccupied to notice before, or his team had pieced together a lot of the puzzle while he was crashing cars and babysitting Styler.

  “Jules?” Bastian asked, his voice cutting through the monotony. “Are you all right?”

  That was the real question, wasn’t it? Mercer opened his eyes and stared at his friend. Truthfully, he wasn’t, and he hadn’t been for a long time. Somehow, working kidnappings didn’t take this toll. It let whatever malady that was eating away at his soul continue to fester unnoticed, but this was different. This was a contracted killing. Or maybe two since Julian had agreed to exact revenge on Katia’s behalf. The questions spun through his mind, unraveling bits of his sanity and unleashing a hell that he couldn’t even begin to control. His vision began to blur, and everything started to dim.

  “Jules?” Bastian asked again as Mercer’s legs turned to gelatin. “Shit.”

  Consciousness seemed to escape Mercer’s grasp momentarily as he slumped to the floor in the midst of the discussion. At least a hospital seemed like the appropriate place to have this type of reaction. Bastian knelt next to him, automatically checking his pulse.

  “Love, get a doctor,” Bastian instructed, turning to Katia.

  “I’m fine,” Mercer hissed, shaking away the pain and darkness. “I just got a little lightheaded. It’s nothing.” Bastian continued to give him that annoying, worried look. “Wipe that bloody expression off your face, Clarke, and help me up.” It was rare that Mercer referred to his second-in-command by his last name, and Bastian knew better than to argue. He hoisted Mercer to his feet but looked pointedly at the vacant chair which Julian ignored. “Let’s have a discussion with that private eye before we bring any of this to Mr. Rhoade’s attention.” There was too much for Julian to wrap his mind around, and with Armann on the loose, the next threat could be imminent. His focus shifted to Katia and Ben. “The two of you should hash things out. Donovan or Hans will monitor the situation, but I’d suggest you don’t leave this room. Do you understand?” It wasn’t a suggestion, and Katia silently agreed.

  “But I’m supposed to be discharged today,” Ben replied. Mercer gave him a hard stare, and Ben shrunk back, correcting his earlier declaration by adding, “Maybe they need to run some more tests. I’m really not feeling very well.”

  “That makes two of us,” Mercer muttered.

  “Stay put,” Bastian urged, following Mercer from the room. Once the door was shut, he passed the orders on to Hans who was stationed outside in his usual spot and then rushed to catch up to Julian who was already halfway out the door. “Would you stop for one moment?”

  “Staying still is what led to that episode. So we’re on the move since I don’t have time for this.”

  “Staying still has nothing to do with it,” Bastian shot back. “You were in a car accident. And that episode was probably the result of a concussion. At least that’s what happens to normal human beings, the ones without such hard heads.” He snatched the car keys from Mercer’s grip. “And just so we’re clear, there isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting you drive.”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  “I know it wasn’t an accident, but–”

  “Bollocks.” Mercer’s mind was somewhere else. “Running into Welks outside of Rhoade’s flat wasn’t an accident. He was waiting, just like Armann was waiting inside the vehicle last night.” He turned to Bastian. “We’re being played, and I’m not positive who’s pulling the strings. We need to start over from the beginning.” Mercer’s mind drifted to Welks, then the attempt made on his life outside the police station, and lastly to the unfortunate meeting with Armann. “This is too simple. One thing inevitably led to another. First, we get Welks, who tells us Ben was blackmailing Carlton, and then Armann shows up to warn us off. It’s too easy. Someone else is calling the shots and playing us for fools, hoping we’ll blame Carlton Rhoade for this predicament.” He glanced at Bastian. “Which, admittedly, I almost did.”

  “You’re daft.” Bastian climbed behind the wheel and turned in his seat, checking the back for any unwanted guests. “Everything isn’t some grand conspiracy.”

  “Actually, I’m certain this time it is.”

  “You’re always certain it is. You’ve been certain it is since…” Bastian faltered.

  “Michelle,” Mercer swallowed, completing the sentence. “I’m not wrong. Stop treating me like an imbecile or a loon. I’m neither.”

  “So now you just happen to have some bloody brilliant skills of deduction?”

  “Bas, you’re the best intelligence analyst I’ve ever known. Look at this objectively, like you would a mission. Do you believe the intel is sound?”

  “What we’ve determined on our own is sound.”

  “And what about everything else?”

  Bastian ran a hand down his face then switched lanes and altered course. Originally, he planned to take Mercer back to the flat for a rest, but logic dictated that they reevaluate the intricacies of these new developments with a wary eye. “Unfortunately, I believe you might be correct.”

  “Unfortunately?” Mercer asked.

  “Yes. Which means the poor bloke we have tied up will probably remain in that chair for the next few days, despite the promised early release I hoped to grant him.”

  “Pity.”

  “And for the record, I never thought Rhoade was responsible. You’re the one accusing him of wanting to murder his future son-in-law.”

  “Well, that I believe is still true. The only aspect up for debate is whether or not he would actually follow through fulfilling that desire.”

  Bastian rolled his eyes, and Mercer settled further into the seat, hoping for a few minutes of shut-eye before conducting the interrogation.

  Twenty-two

  Mercer found another chair and dragged it into the room they were using as a makeshift prison. He sat, afraid that another dizzy spell would show weakness in front of their captive. Welks was only in slightly better shape than he had been the last time Mercer saw him. Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Julian waited, hoping Welks would voluntarily spill his guts in order to avoid more violence.

  “I don’t know who would want to frame Carlton Rhoade or how anyone could know who you are or where you would be. I told you everything I know,” Welks insisted.

  “You haven’t, and you probably won’t. Frankly, I could use some peace and quiet, so if you aren’t going to say anything useful, don’t speak.”

  Thi
s was a different approach from what Welks had already been subjected to, and he seemed uneasy with this new caveat. He remained silent for a little over a minute, studying Mercer. The office door was open, but Bastian remained out of sight.

  “Where are we?” Welks asked, leaning as far to the side as the duct tape would allow so he could peer out the door.

  “Shh.” Mercer flicked his gaze to Welks and then closed his eyes again. Humans were a social species, and lack of communication would loosen his captive’s tongue.

  The silence lasted for another couple of minutes before Welks’ chair squeaked. “Come on, man, let me go. It’s just the two of us. I won’t say a word.”

  “Tell me who hired you.”

  “I work for Piper Investigations, and they assigned me to assist Carlton Rhoade at the paper.”

  “And who told you to wait outside Rhoade’s apartment building with your camera?”

  Welks gulped but didn’t speak. The silence returned, and this time, it was deafening. Welks fidgeted, shifting in his seat and contemplating his chances of escape or maybe survival. With freedom less than ten feet away, his resolve to stave off answering Mercer’s questions was fading quickly. Freedom was the one thing Welks wanted, and leaving the door open had whet his appetite.

  “If I say any more, I could be next. He’ll have me killed.”

  “Who is he?” Mercer asked, intrigue playing across his face. Welks considered his options, but he was doing it too slowly for his interrogator’s liking. “Are you afraid of Carlton Rhoade? Because I find it improbable that Mr. Rhoade would hire anyone to photograph his daughter. After all, didn’t this start with a few questionable photos?” Something passed across Welks’ face that could only be described as ‘oh shit’, and Mercer smiled. “So this started before the photographs. Something else happened that forced Rhoade to hire an investigator. What was it? When did it happen?”