Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Read online

  “Bloody hell,” Mercer exhaled.

  Two of the walls were covered in surveillance photos of Katia and Ben. Their apartments’ blueprints were laid out, and a list of restaurants and shops they frequented were enumerated. Their daily routine and estimated arrival and departure times were all listed in black and white. Isaac Armann was definitely a professional who planned for every detail. It was amazing his shot missed. If he had killed Ben in that alley, this would be over, and the contract killer likely would have gotten away clean. Unfortunately, the one factor Armann didn’t prepare for was the appearance of Julian Mercer.

  “That’s not the half of it,” Donovan said, stepping inside and pulling a tarp off the wall. On the third wall were photos of Mercer. “At least he got your good side.”

  “What about the rest of you? Has the entire team been compromised?”

  “I don’t think so. There’s a shot or two of Bas, but that’s all I found.”

  Thinking back, Mercer was positive that Armann didn’t know which hospital room was Styler’s. If he had, the scene that played out earlier would have resulted in less collateral damage. Mercer scanned the photos, the information, the maps, and the data that plastered the walls. Even miniature, made-to-scale facsimiles of the street, storefronts, and alley where Styler had been shot were inside the storage unit.

  “Any idea who is working with him?” Mercer asked, stepping out of the room.

  “No.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  “After I determined which pub he used to acquire his clients, Bas pulled the nearby surveillance feed which led here. I broke into the manager’s office, skimmed for names, but came up blank. So we kept an eye on the feed, monitoring the people who came and went. Right after the hospital shooting, a man in dark clothes and a hood stopped by. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he appeared injured. So I headed straight here.”

  “Why didn’t you intervene when he was in your sights?” Mercer growled, clenching his fists.

  “Because by the time I found this,” Donovan gestured around the room, frustrated, “he was already on the move.” Donovan sifted through another box containing an array of firearms and medical supplies. “This place is closer to the hospital than the bar. He probably had to get the bleeding under control before going there for help.”

  Mercer blinked but didn’t respond. He wanted Armann dead, but first, he wanted answers, names, accomplices, and clients. That was the current focus.

  “Let’s retrace his steps. Precisely where did he go after he left here? What path did he take? He must have an apartment close by under an alias. In his condition, he can’t get far without being spotted since his face is plastered across every news outlet in this city. And he’s hurt. He’ll need to hole up somewhere secure to mend.”

  “What about you?” Donovan eyed Mercer’s arm. The brawl only exacerbated the situation, and some of the stitches must have ripped, leaving a darkening red spot on Mercer’s sleeve.

  “I’m functional. And we don’t have time for this.” Leading the way out of the storage unit, Julian picked up the phone and relayed the information to Bastian. As soon as they captured Armann, Bastian could begin analyzing the information inside the storage unit while the rest of the team protected Ben and Katia and questioned Armann about his accomplices. “Sometimes, I miss having the resources of the Crown.”

  Donovan chuckled. “That makes one of us.”

  Night had fallen, and they wandered the streets, checking for signs that Armann had been there. A random red smear on the ground might lead to the bleeding man. But once they mimicked Donovan’s earlier path back to the pub, the trail went cold. Checking the side streets, Mercer cocked his head up, analyzing an outdoor staircase used as a fire escape.

  “He’s smart, but he probably has a place close by, somewhere to duck into if it gets a bit too hot,” Mercer mused, scratching his chin. “Someplace with a vantage point to keep tabs on the bar.”

  Donovan scanned the area, determining which perch provided the best view and cover. When he turned back around, Mercer was making his way to the building across the street. The commander crouched on the fourth floor landing, studying the railing and signaling.

  “Blood,” Mercer said, pointing to a smear outside the window. “He must have waited here to make sure we left.”

  “He probably waited for the perfect shot. Unfortunately, we moved westward, and he missed his opportunity.”

  “Open it.” Julian stepped to the side, letting Donovan lift the heavy double-paned glass.

  The window wasn’t locked, and Donovan held it while Mercer slipped underneath. Once Julian set foot in the apartment, he removed his handgun, holding it down at his side. He silently signaled to Donovan to check the back rooms while he went right, toward the kitchen.

  Spread across the dirty linoleum was an unconscious heap. Mercer waited, not moving or even breathing, his focus split between Armann’s prone form and the hallway Donovan entered. When the younger man returned, indicating it was clear, Mercer kicked Armann in the side, causing the contract killer to elicit a shriek.

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t miss next time,” Mercer taunted, yanking Armann by the collar and dragging him into the middle of the room, away from the cabinets and the few sharp medical instruments which had been used to remove the bullets and suture the gaping holes. “Seems you missed again. You really ought to consider lowering your fee, mate.”

  “Mercer,” Armann gasped, a faint gurgle rattling through his chest, “have you come to finish the job?” He tried to smile, but it looked like a grimace. “You didn’t have the stones before. I doubt you grew a pair in such a short amount of time.” He chuckled, gripping the side of his abdomen where both of Mercer’s bullets had ripped through his flesh. “You had your chance twice. Was this really the best you could do?”

  “Who do you work for?” Mercer was starting to see red, and his body tingled with a dark need to finish what he started. Flashes of the slaughtered police officers entered his mind, and he inhaled sharply, looking away. “Who?” he screamed, stomping his heel into the wounds.

  Armann’s yelp turned into a scream and then utter silence when he blacked out. Mercer stepped back, holstering the gun before he could shoot the guy. They needed answers. Retribution had to wait, but Mercer’s entire body trembled with anger and torment. Fighting to control it, he thought he would explode any second.

  “Jules?” Donovan asked quietly. He had never seen Mercer so close to the edge before.

  “Make sure he’s stable. We can’t afford for him to die on us before he talks. I’ll search the apartment in the meantime.”

  “Should I call–” Donovan began, but Mercer interrupted.

  “I don’t bloody well care what you do. Just get him healthy enough to answer our questions. Dying right now would be far too pleasant an experience for a piece of shit like him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Donovan set to work while Mercer went to the back room. Sinking onto the bed, Julian put his face in his hands and took a few deep breaths, waiting for the tremors to stop. He never had a reaction like this to any job before. When he was in the military, he followed orders, carried out government-sanctioned hits, recoveries, and interrogations without batting an eye, even the kidnapping cases he’d worked over the last two years never led to anything more than mild irritation and occasionally shooting some greedy, sadistic bastards. But this was different.

  Armann was a killer who performed hits for money and sport. There was no personal vendetta to support his gung-ho attitude to destroy Benjamin Styler. He tried and failed twice. And yet, even as he lay a bleeding, destroyed mess, he still had the audacity to gloat. This sick son of a bitch really thought he would get away with killing innocents scot-free.

  “Not again. Not another one,” Mercer growled, compartmentalizing his anger issues. Finding clues as to who Armann’s partners were and who painted the target on Styler’s back were far more prod
uctive ways for Mercer to spend his time and energy. And at this particular moment, he had a lot of pent-up energy. “You will regret every goddamn thing you’ve ever done,” he muttered, ripping through the closet.

  Thirty

  Armann was careful not to keep anything damning inside the apartment. Once Donovan performed some basic first aid to ward off infection and ensure the bleeding had stopped, he and Julian moved the now sedated assassin to the warehouse where they were keeping John Welks. At this rate, Chicago would have a new prison, courtesy of Julian Mercer.

  Not willing to risk taking any chances, they shackled Armann to a few metal pipes that ran through the interior, bound his legs and arms together behind his back, gagged and blindfolded him, and activated the jammer to prevent any radio or cell signals from entering or leaving the warehouse. Isaac Armann wasn’t going to escape again. Once he was secured and the entire place was locked down, Julian and Donovan returned to Armann’s little home away from home.

  The apartment didn’t lead to anything useful, but the same could not be said for the storage unit. Inside were maps, photos, and enough evidence to put Armann behind bars for the rest of his natural life or a needle in his arm. Unfortunately, there was no smoking gun pointing to his two accomplices from the alley or any indication of who might have hired him to exterminate Benjamin Styler.

  “He must have more of these units,” Donovan said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Trade out with Bastian. We’ll let him muck around in case we’ve missed anything.” Mercer drummed his fingers against one of the boxes. “It’s all we can do.”

  As soon as Donovan was gone, Mercer took a deep breath and opened another of the file boxes that had been stacked in the corner. Armann kept records, but they were in some indecipherable shorthand. Granted, now that they had Armann locked down, they would eventually get answers out of him, but Mercer wasn’t ready for that encounter. Donovan sedated Armann with a tranquilizer strong enough to knock him out for the next twelve hours. It was designed to give them time to search for answers and come up with a stronger basis for their questioning, or so Donovan said. However, it seemed obvious it was to give Armann a slight reprieve because, given the way he looked sprawled across the floor, it was unlikely he’d survive an interrogation at the present. And they needed him to live just long enough to give up a name.

  “Bollocks.” Mercer replaced the meaningless dossier back inside the box.

  “I thought we were meeting at the safe house,” Bastian said, startling Mercer who hadn’t realized how much time had passed.

  “Opportunities presented themselves.” He spun around to face his friend.

  “Go back to the safe house. You wanted a two-man team guarding Katia and Ben, and you need to sleep. It’s been over twenty-four hours, and you’ve been through the wringer.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Go.”

  “Cheeky bastard.” Mercer was quickly losing the battle against his fatigue. How long had he been awake? So much had happened, he couldn’t think straight. “We need to analyze the information. It’s imperative I have leverage to use against Armann. He’s going to be a tough nut to crack, and…”

  “And you’ll probably end up cracking open his skull. I’m well aware of this fact, not to mention the promises you’ve made to Katia and Detective Rowlins.” Bastian raised a challenging eyebrow. “I know what’s at stake, and I know precisely what to do. Now go.” He jerked his chin at the opened door to the storage unit. “Take my car. I’ll have Hans pick me up later.”

  Relenting, Mercer took the car, executing numerous counter-surveillance measures and monitoring the mirrors and traffic patterns for signs of a tail before returning to the safe house. Inside, Hans and Donovan were discussing Isaac Armann’s condition and the evidence they’d found. Mercer ducked into the bathroom to shower and assess his condition. His shoulder burned and ached, and the bruises and abrasions on his face and body were darker than they had been. He downed a few of the antibiotics the medical staff had given him, redressed his wounds, and returned to the kitchen.

  “Get some sleep,” Hans suggested. “Donovan went back to the warehouse to ensure our captives don’t try anything. Bastian’s hard at work, and I have this situation under control.”

  Nodding, Mercer sifted through the pile of supplies that were on top of the kitchen table, slipped his arm back into the sling, and went down the hallway to the back bedroom. The sun was coming up, so he drew the drapes before climbing into bed. Propping himself against the headboard, he shut his eyes, letting the dull buzz of his headache combat the errant thoughts that entered his mind. The exhaustion set in, and he slipped deeper into the abyss.

  “Mr. Mercer?” A slight knocking sound followed Katia’s soft voice. She cracked the door open. “Can I come in?”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Fine.” His mind felt jumbled, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep or even if he had enough time to fall asleep before her interruption.

  She shut the door behind her and sat on the edge of the bed. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

  “No need.”

  “Don’t be modest.” She rubbed her forehead, studying the sling. “Does it hurt?”

  He snorted. “It could be worse. What do you want?”

  “I just can’t stop thinking about the hospital. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the shots in the hallway. I heard your friends talking about it,” she admitted, leaning closer to him and resting her hand on his leg. “They said you found the shooter.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do to him?” A fire ignited behind her eyes.

  “Whatever is necessary to ensure your safety.” Mercer narrowed his eyes at her hand, disliking such intimate contact. “Once he provides answers, I’ll do what you asked.”

  “Thank you.” She cocked her head to the side. “Your sling is tangled. That can’t be comfortable.” She leaned closer. “Let me fix it.” She got on her knees, reaching around his shoulders and practically straddling him in order to untangle the strap.

  With his mind still sluggish, he reacted instinctively when her fingers scraped against his bandaged arm by grabbing her wrist and yanking her arm upward and away. She fell forward, catching herself with her other hand and coming to rest inches from him.

  “Sorry.” He released her hand.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She sat upright. “I just wanted to help.”

  “No need. Now if you wouldn’t mind getting off of me.”

  She blushed, suddenly realizing she was sitting on top of him. “I’m such an idiot. I don’t know why I do these things. I’m sorry. Please just forget this ever happened.”

  “Fine.”

  “Jules,” Bastian said, entering the room to find Katia on Mercer’s lap. He paused, casting a questioning glance from one to the other. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining. When you’re finished, I need to have a word with you.”

  “We’re done,” Mercer said, and Katia flushed bright red and scurried past Bastian.

  Bas watched her duck back into the bedroom she was sharing with Styler, and then he shut the door to Julian’s room. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing with that bird, mate? Her head’s not screwed on straight, and she’s nuttier than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I can’t believe you.”

  Mercer rolled his eyes, too tired and aggravated to address the misguided assumption. “What’s so important?”

  “I’ve identified Isaac Armann’s two associates.”

  Thirty-one

  Dean Manning and Keith Westin were hired by Isaac Armann to provide a service. However, after extensive research, Bastian decided that the two men were completely useless leads. Armann had taken an ad out in a few of the city’s performing arts magazines, posted on various message boards, and hung flyers near a few drama schools for two men to fulfill the roles as extras in a new crime film. It was so stupid that it actually worked. The men that answered the bil
l had to provide photos and general physical statistics to a post-office box.

  Armann was looking to fill a type, and the scary fact was he wanted men that resembled Jack Pierce’s co-workers. Along with a strong physical resemblance, Armann found men who had a history of petty crimes in their past. It explained how Katia’s wallet and phone were lifted without her noticing. Dean Manning was the lowest level of conman. He ran three card monte on street corners and had been arrested for panhandling. Westin had multiple run-ins with the authorities. He was a purse snatcher, pick-pocket, and shoplifter. Neither man was particularly grandiose with their criminal records. A few misdemeanors, community service, and parole with no time served was all the penal system was willing to throw at them, which made them perfect candidates for Isaac Armann’s new crime movie, except of course it wasn’t a movie, and now these two men were accomplices in an attempted homicide.

  Bastian found police and court records for both men, but it was unlikely they knew anything about the hit. From what Bastian gathered, they simply showed up to play their parts and returned to their lives. Mercer listened to the news, remaining silent as he contemplated the ramifications. As of yet, it was unclear what the commander planned to do with this new information.

  “Where are they now?” Mercer asked, hauling himself off the bed. He was achy and stiff, and he winced as he stretched, removing the sling and straightening his arm.

  “What? The bird didn’t work out your kinks?” Bastian challenged, and Mercer shot him a look on the way to the closet to change. “After arriving at the unlikelihood that they were criminal geniuses, I passed the intel along to Rowlins.”

  “Did he ask about the progress we’ve made?”

  “He did, so I gave him the apartment where you found Armann and the storage unit.”