Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 16

  “Not yet. By the time I had the information, the news broke concerning the hospital shooting. Hans should be there now.”

  “Does he know what to do?”

  “Yes.” Bastian eyed Mercer uneasily. “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’m not entirely certain.”

  “That’s never good,” Bastian muttered as Rowlins returned with the information.

  “We should be finishing up with Katia and Ben, if you’d like a word with them,” Rowlins said, hinting at the ulterior motive, and Mercer nodded, letting the detective lead the way to the interrogation room.

  “Mr. Mercer, thank you,” Katia said, standing and giving him a hug. “This is the second time you’ve come to the rescue. I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t there.” She kissed his cheek. Rowlins jerked his chin at the door, and the officer nodded and left the room. “You have to do something to keep us safe. The police want us to stay in custody, but I don’t want to be locked up like a criminal.” Her cold gaze fixed on Rowlins.

  “My team is prepared to move you to an undisclosed location until Armann and the man responsible are stopped.” Mercer eyed Styler, wondering what else he might know but failed to mention. “Ms. Rhoade, I was hired to keep you safe, and the farther you are from Mr. Styler, the safer you’ll be.”

  “No. I didn’t leave Ben in that alley, and I’m not leaving him now.” She looked disgusted. “You sound just like my father.”

  “Ma’am, do you think he could be involved?” Rowlins asked, but Katia frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want to remain under police protection? We will do our best to keep you safe.”

  “Just like the officers at the hospital kept us safe? I don’t think so.” Her frown turned to an angry glare.

  “Looks like they’re your problem now,” Rowlins muttered, patting Julian on the back.

  “They always were,” Mercer replied. As soon as the three of them were alone, Mercer sat in the chair across from Katia and Ben. “We need to have a conversation, and before I take either of you anywhere, we need to get to the bottom of a few things. First, tell me exactly what your father said to you today. If he has any idea who might want to frame him, we need to know, now. Next,” he held out the photos, “I want you to tell me precisely who these blokes are.”

  Styler took the photos, and Katia explained how her father insisted she come home. But Carlton hadn’t given any indication that he knew more than what he was letting on. Given Carlton’s predilection for destroying those who wronged him, it seemed likely he’d point fingers if he had the slightest inkling of who could be responsible for this mess.

  “Who are they?” Mercer asked Ben. “Are those your business associates?”

  “I don’t recognize them.” Styler continued to study the photographs taken inside his apartment building.

  “Odd, on account that they are exiting your apartment,” Mercer snapped.

  “I know I was home that day.” Styler’s brow furrowed, and he ran his thumb over the date and timestamp. “It was our anniversary. Remember, Kat,” he handed her the photos, “you came by for brunch, and we stayed at my place for a few hours. Then we went out to dinner and a show later that night.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” She shifted her gaze from the pictures to Ben. “And like I told Mr. Mercer, I remembered seeing men leaving your apartment that day,” her voice grew harsh. “Are you lying to me, Benjamin?”

  “I’m not lying. No one else came to my house that day.”

  “And you were there the entire time?” Bastian asked, joining the three of them.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So how come you don’t remember two men leaving your apartment?” Mercer asked. “What were you doing immediately before Katia arrived?”

  “Um…” Ben scrunched his face together, contemplating what happened weeks ago. “I got up, made brunch, popped some muffins in the oven, took a shower, ordered some flowers, checked the market, and did some work.”

  “Flowers,” Mercer’s mind flashed to yellow roses, and he inhaled, shaking off the distraction, “did you pick them up?”

  “No, they were delivered.”

  “To your front door?” Bastian was working on a theory but wasn’t ready to share it.

  “No, they were left in the lobby. I ran down the steps to grab them. I wasn’t even gone five minutes.”

  “I’ll get a complete copy of the video footage,” Bastian said, leaving the room.

  “Fair warning, if you’re lying, you will regret it,” Mercer warned.

  “I’m not,” Styler replied, but despite the likelihood of his innocence, he gulped. On his best day, Julian Mercer was intimidating, and on his worst, he was downright scary. And today wasn’t one of his better days.

  Twenty-eight

  Leaving the precinct that evening was a harrowing experience. Julian had to give his statement, turn over his firearm as evidence in the hospital shooting, and call in a few favors from federal agencies on both sides of the pond in order to avoid being stuck in police custody for forty-eight hours. Thankfully, he still had some friends in government, despite his forced retirement.

  Bastian cloned Katia’s phone, giving her an untraceable throwaway after placing her cell in Det. Rowlins desk drawer with Styler’s. Since the possibility existed that Armann or whoever else might be involved in the hit was tracking Katia and Ben’s movements via their phones’ GPS systems, this would make it a little more difficult. But the possibilities seemed endless in terms of who might want to kill Benjamin Styler – his business associates, clients, Jack Pierce, any one of Katia’s former boyfriends, stalkers, or just a random run-of-the-mill psychopath. And that didn’t take into account the slew of individuals who had an axe to grind with newspaper mogul Carlton Rhoade.

  Bastian’s first order of business once they were settled would be to cross-reference the two lists of suspects and focus on the overlap. Perhaps killing Styler wasn’t personal, but it was the best way to place the blame on Carlton. After all, Styler was a blackmailer of sorts, and Carlton had his future son-in-law investigated. So it would make sense that the overprotective and vengeful father would take extreme measures to ensure his daughter’s safety. So far, the intel they’d gathered added up to a well-endowed benefactor with access to Carlton’s newspaper.

  Donovan was tracking Armann. Hans was interrogating the private eye they’d taken captive. Bastian was analyzing the police data and piecing the facts together, and Mercer was barely managing not to be arrested or make any more enemies, which might have been the hardest job of all.

  “I’ll take them to our safe house,” Bastian whispered in Mercer’s ear, leaving the commander to finish the paperwork with Det. Rowlins. “Rendezvous when you get the chance. Hans will meet us there.”

  “Fine, but there are a few things that require my attention first. Then I’ll check in with Donovan, and we’ll meet you at the prearranged location.” He grabbed Bastian’s arm, halting his procession. “We have to end this quickly. If whoever hired Armann saw the news report, a secondary team might be set to move.”

  “Are you serious?” Rowlins asked, interrupting the exchange.

  “Wouldn’t you have a contingency plan?” Mercer retorted, and Bastian continued on his way, cognizant of his surroundings and the officers watching him. No one could be trusted. And until one of his teammates joined him, he was solely responsible for Katia and Ben’s safety.

  “I guess, if I was that desperate to kill someone. However, the smart thing would be to pack up and write it off as a loss.”

  Mercer remained silent, putting the final touches on the forms he was filling out. “Are we done?”

  Rowlins scanned the sheet. “Yeah, we’re done.” He watched Mercer slide uneasily into his jacket. The ex-SAS commander felt naked without his handgun, but they had plenty of excess artillery available back at the safe house. And Donovan always came to the party overly prepared. “When you find Armann, give me a call.” Rowlins lowere
d his timbre, so his voice wouldn’t carry. “It makes no difference to me what condition he’s in. No questions asked.”

  Mercer smirked. “I thought you weren’t in favor of mercenary work or a body count.”

  “That was before. This is a no holds barred type of situation.”

  “Detective.” Mercer nodded and left the precinct.

  Climbing inside a taxi, Mercer gave the cabbie the address of Carlton Rhoade’s newspaper building and settled into the backseat. The authorities were on high alert, and if another crazed motorist wanted to make a run at Mercer, now was the least opportune time to do it. Thankfully, the only kamikaze drivers on the road were the usual rush-hour variety. Paying the man, Mercer exited in front of the building, took a deep breath, and marched inside. He wanted answers.

  “Can I help you?” Carlton’s assistant, Donna, asked.

  “No.” Mercer continued through her office to the closed door with the gold nameplate.

  “Sir, I really must insist,” she began, but Mercer barged inside. She came up behind him. “Mr. Rhoade, I’m so sorry. Shall I call security?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Donna,” Carlton replied, studying Mercer. “Why don’t you take a seat?” Once the office door shut, Carlton stood, clearly angry. “Where is my daughter?”

  “She’s safe.”

  “No thanks to you.” He glowered. “I was at the police station when they took her statement. Three men were killed. And the person responsible escaped. I hired you to protect her. Obviously, I was mistaken in placing any faith in your abilities.”

  Waiting for the vilification to end, Mercer studied the dynamics of the room and Rhoade’s personal effects. “Are you quite through?” he asked after a time. Carlton made a harrumph noise but didn’t speak. “Very good. Whoever wants Styler dead works at the newspaper and knows intimate details about your habits and the investigation you asked John Welks to conduct. A member of my team will be in contact for your employee information, but if you fail to divulge it, we’ll get it another way. And I want to make one thing very clear, if you know who did this and can stop it, you better. Whenever the truth comes to light, I will end the person responsible, even if that’s you. Do you understand?”

  “How dare you?” Rhoade flushed a deep scarlet. “I would never hurt Katia. She’s the only thing that’s important in this world.”

  “Says the man who is back at work less than six hours after she was almost killed. Bloody brilliant,” Mercer scoffed, standing. He went to the door, opening it with such force that he almost knocked the man on the other side over.

  “Excuse me,” the man said, and Mercer focused on his face for a split second. The man’s expression read smug amusement, and he looked vaguely familiar.

  “Daniel, get in here,” Rhoade barked, and the man brushed past Julian and shut the door behind him. Heading for the exit, Mercer filed it away for later consideration and dialed Donovan on his way out of the building. They needed answers, and wasting more time with Carlton Rhoade was not going to get them.

  Donovan gave Julian his location. Then the two disconnected, and Mercer hailed another cab. His eyes performed a continuous sweep of the area and traffic, but no one followed him or the cab. After paying the driver, Mercer stepped out in front of a pub and went inside to find Donovan seated in the back corner. It was the best and only strategic spot in the entire place. Mercer took a seat across from him, scanning the bar’s mirrored back to ensure Armann wasn’t hiding inside.

  “Here.” Donovan passed a gun under the table, and Mercer holstered it automatically. “Isaac Armann frequents this bar and does business out of the back room. I haven’t spotted him, but if he’s hurt, I’d say the owners would cover for him.”

  “Have you inquired as to his whereabouts?”

  “Not yet.” Donovan tilted his chin toward the narrow hallway with three doors. Two were restrooms, and one led to something else. “It’s locked, and I wasn’t sure how loudly I should knock.” He jerked his chin toward the floor, and Mercer noticed the blood smears that were a dark reddish-brown. “I’m guessing he’s inside, either hiding out or getting patched up.”

  “Did you see him?” Mercer asked.

  “No. I picked up his trail from what I can only assume is his staging ground and followed him here. Frankly, it’s mostly speculation on my part, and it could turn out to be total rubbish.”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  Mercer stood, heading for the door. He stopped in the narrow hallway, waiting for Donovan to join him. The bar was full of regulars. They were grizzled, working class people. But given the neighborhood and the fact that Isaac Armann used this bar to make contacts and run his business, going in loud would only draw unwanted attention which could come with deadly repercussions. Knocking on the door, Mercer waited for a response. When none came, he tried again.

  “Yo, Isaac, let me in,” Mercer said, once again making a feeble attempt at an American accent. “I got the stuff you wanted.”

  Donovan cocked an eyebrow, remaining in the adjacent doorway of the men’s room. The doorknob turned, and Mercer pressed his back against the wall, waiting for the door to open. As soon as it did, he shouldered his way inside. The woman inside the room screamed in surprise and ran into the bar. From the strewn blood-soaked towels that littered the chair and floor, it was apparent Armann had been here.

  “He’s gone,” Mercer declared after checking the entirety of the room, noting a window large enough for a man to squeeze through.

  “Jules, we have another problem,” Donovan said, noting the crowd of burly men that were now blocking the exit.

  “Shit.”

  Donovan snorted. “Normally, I’m with Hans when things like this happen.”

  “Hardy har har.” Under different circumstances, Mercer wouldn’t have minded a bar fight, but time was of the essence. And despite his invincible attitude, his shoulder ached after the dislocation and stitched up gunshot wound. “Let’s make this quick.”

  “Right-o.” Donovan tossed a grin over his shoulder and sauntered into the center of the group. Six or seven men formed a circle in the middle of the room, armed with fat-covered muscles, half-empty beer bottles, and a random pool cue or dart. “Why don’t you chaps settle down? We just stepped in for a pint. We’ll be on our way.”

  The woman was behind the bar, and Donovan noted the bartender’s stance. He shifted ever so slightly, bringing his handgun closer to reach while continuing his chummy exchange with the men. Two of them decided that taking a seat and downing the rest of their beers was a better use of their time, but the one with the pool cue and two others seemed puffed up by the possibility of knocking in some heads.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” one of them asked. Mercer stepped forward, and the men moved in closer to surround them. “You just think you can barge into our bar with your twink accents and scare the shit out of Laila? It’s time you learn some manners.”

  “Listen, mate,” Donovan said, putting a friendly hand against the man’s arm, “we don’t want any trouble. It’s best that we get going.”

  A bottle smashed nearby, and Julian elbowed the nearest man in the gut, following through with an uppercut to the jaw that had the man teetering backward. He kicked the man in the stomach, knocking him backward into two of the goons standing behind him, sending one of them sprawling across a table.

  “I thought you said to do this quietly,” Donovan hissed, deflecting a punch that launched at his face and retaliating with a right cross that likely broke the guy’s jaw and downed him with one move.

  Glass continued to break, and two men grabbed Julian. One wrenched his injured arm backward, and the other pummeled him in the stomach. Donovan ducked down, ramming the attacker with his shoulder and launching him out of the fray. Continuing pursuit, he knocked the guy against the wall a few times until the man stopped throwing haphazard punches and crumpled to the floor.

  “Down,” Mercer ordered just in time for
Donovan to duck and roll before a man could crash a chair over his back.

  The man spun, focusing his rage on Julian. He approached, cracking the chair ineffectually against the bar as Mercer sidestepped. The ratcheting of bullets in a double-barreled shotgun brought the fight to a sudden standstill, and the bartender stood with the business end focused on Julian.

  “I’d reconsider, mate,” Donovan warned, stepping closer with the laser sight of his handgun trained on the bartender’s head. “We don’t want any trouble. We’re leaving. I’d suggest you don’t stop us or follow us.”

  The bartender jerked the shotgun toward the door, and Donovan gave a curt nod, never lowering his weapon as he backed toward the exit. Mercer followed, turning at the door to survey the damage that was done. Three men were out cold. Another two were bruised or bleeding, and a few looked like they might have shit themselves.

  “Much obliged, partner,” Mercer mused, exiting the bar and heading down the street.

  “You and your bloody westerns,” Donovan said, once he ensured they were clear and not being followed. “As soon as this job is over, I’m updating your movie collection with nothing but musicals.”

  Twenty-nine

  Scouting the area, it was obvious they lost track of Armann. There was no way of knowing when he left the bar. Despite the fact that Donovan had determined where Armann went after leaving the hospital, the former SAS had no way of knowing how long it had been since Armann slipped out the back. With no other leads, Donovan backtracked, taking Mercer to the place Armann used to plan his kills.

  The large, self-serve storage unit was housed inside a converted warehouse. Each individual unit had a roll-down steel door and cement walls. When they came to 203, Donovan picked the lock and rolled up the door while Mercer took aim, prepared to decimate anyone inside.