Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 4

  “No.” Bastian gnawed on a toothpick. “There aren’t any better angles either. Whoever these guys are, they know what they’re doing.” The footage played through on a loop. “I’d say the shooter has a silencer, so he didn’t attract any unwanted attention.” He glanced up at Mercer. Katia claimed there was a loud bang to accompany the gunshot. Again, her story was falling flat. “Are you sure she isn’t responsible for the attempted murder?”

  “Yes,” Mercer stated, but he was developing doubts.

  “Just consider the facts for a moment,” Bastian interjected. “Katia suggests they stop in the alleyway for a tryst. She’s on her knees, partially obscured by a dumpster. The men following them know where the couple dined and probably where they were headed. The intended killer comes upon the opening with a silencer, takes a single shot, and keeps going. She doesn’t call the police. She doesn’t run for help. Instead, she does nothing.”

  “She was petrified,” Mercer insisted. “The shooter and his cohorts probably planned to follow until the perfect opportunity presented itself. Maybe they’d been shadowing the couple for some time. Maybe this behavior is not uncommon for Mr. Styler and Ms. Rhoade.” He shrugged. “Plus, I heard her screaming for help. If she was responsible, she would have waited for him to bleed out before making a peep. And in an alley, the reverb from the gunshot would have sounded much louder even with a suppressor. I don’t believe she’s lying about that.”

  “But she was in the perfect position to keep Styler occupied and ensure she wasn’t accidentally shot.”

  “She isn’t involved.”

  “Jules, stop projecting. Ben isn’t Michelle.”

  “No shit.” Mercer gritted his teeth and fought with his temper. “But you didn’t see how she was in that hospital room. Her feelings are genuine.”

  “That doesn’t make her innocent. Maybe she made a mistake and regrets it now.”

  “Fine. You want to waste your time digging through her background, go ahead. But when the time comes, I hope I can count on you.”

  “You know I’ll follow your lead, Commander.” Bastian eyed Mercer curiously, wondering what his friend had in mind.

  “I’ll be back later. If anything new surfaces–”

  “I’ll ring you,” Bastian completed Mercer’s sentence, opening several applications on his computer to create a more complete profile on Katia.

  Mercer left the hotel, wandering back to the scene of the attack. There was a single piece of shredded police tape hanging from the edge of the brick at the mouth of the alleyway, but it had been three days. No one else considered this a crime scene anymore. It was just another narrow, dark dead end in a city full of dead ends.

  Entering the alley, Julian studied the walls, the ground, and the remnants of Ben Styler’s blood that hadn’t washed out of the asphalt. It was apparent Mercer wasn’t a trained investigator, but he had been in plenty of firefights. And this wasn’t like any shooting he’d ever seen before.

  Spinning around, he noted the obstructed view, the close quarters, and remembered how easily the gunman had taken the single shot and kept walking. The man barely even broke stride. The shooter had to know where Ben would be positioned within the alley. There was no other way it could have happened with such precision.

  “Bollocks,” Mercer cursed, hating to admit Bastian might be right. He searched the brick for markings of any kind. A stray bullet, a ricochet, or even some spray paint indicating where Ben would have to be standing for the shooting to go off without a hitch, but there was nothing.

  Leaving the alley, he walked up and down the street. A couple of hobos watched as he passed by another three times. They called to him, asking for money in exchange for directions. He ignored them. His eyes continued to search. He was determining how he would have carried out the failed execution. The ground provided no clues. The windows reflected across the street, not into the alley. Even the makeshift Plexiglas shelter for the buses didn’t provide any viable views. It was dark at the time of the shooting, further complicating the possibility of hitting the intended target.

  Mercer stopped on the street corner and considered if a reflection in a passing vehicle or parked car would have provided an ample view for that amazing shot. But that was too circumstantial, unless Katia planned Ben’s demise. Was she playing him like a well-worn drum? How deceptive could one young lady be?

  Mercer chuckled at that particular thought. Women were always deceptive and manipulative, and they had every reason to be. They possessed a certain power over men, at least heterosexual men. The prettier they were, the more influence they exuded. Maybe it was evolution’s way of making up for the physical disparities. Men were stronger, brutish, violent, and likely to force their point while women had other tricks at their disposal. His mind drifted briefly to Michelle, and he cursed that unidentified man for destroying the woman he loved.

  From across the street, he leaned against the brick wall of a pub and stared into the alley, but trying to make sense of the location was giving him a headache. It would have been dark and hard to see without the illumination from a streetlight. How was this single event conducted so perfectly? As Mercer mulled over the possibilities, the only thing that made any sense was the shooter must be a professional, either a contract killer or a sharpshooter. Unless he was a sharpshooting contract killer.

  “Rubbish,” he muttered, turning and heading back to the hotel.

  Half a block later, he felt a tail. He didn’t spot anyone behind him or acting suspicious, but he was certain he was being followed. Detouring into a clothing boutique, he browsed the racks of shirts, but his focus was on the street just beyond the large display window. Across the way, a man stopped to read a sign for an upcoming music festival.

  Exiting, Mercer continued past the hotel with the man still in pursuit. Rounding to the other side of the street, Julian looped around and yanked the man into a small alcove next to a sealed door of an abandoned building. “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

  The man shoved himself free and pulled a chain from around his neck, revealing a badge clipped to the end. “Detective Rowlins, CPD.” He glared at Julian, considering arresting him for assaulting a police officer. “Mr. Mercer, I’d like to have a chat with you. We can either get a cup of coffee, or you can come with me to the precinct.”

  “Coffee sounds fine.”

  “Excellent,” Rowlins said, leading Julian to the diner two stores down. “Thank you for your cooperation.” It sounded more like disappointment than gratitude. The detective called a waitress over and ordered coffee. Mercer declined, and the two sat, sizing each other up. “They always say the guilty return to the scene of the crime. Were you afraid you left some incriminating evidence behind?”

  “I’m not the shooter.” Mercer’s face contorted into a sneer. “The family has asked that I provide protection and assistance in identifying the shooter.”

  “Convenient,” Rowlins responded, taking a sip and reaching for the sugar packets. “Let’s pretend for a moment that I believe you. Are you any closer to identifying this alleged mystery shooter than we are?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if you were?”

  “No.”

  Rowlins stirred the sugar into his coffee and took another sip. It was more to his liking now, and he glanced at the counter, eyeing a piece of pumpkin pie. “Since your brief overnight stay with us, we’ve run your history. Ex-military. Personal tragedy. And now you’re claiming to be a security specialist.” He raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “Why don’t you level with me?” He gave Mercer a dead-eye stare. “You’re a mercenary, right?”

  “No.”

  “Are you capable of saying anything besides no?”

  “What do you want?” Mercer was losing his patience.

  “Katia’s father is a friend of my lieutenant, so if you say the family hired you, then the family hired you. But I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when something’s fishy, and you sho
wing up in that alley immediately after the shooting smells like yesterday’s catch after it sat in the hot sun all day.” He narrowed his eyes. “Why did Carlton Rhoade really hire you?”

  “I’ve already told you, even though that is none of your business.”

  “With experience like yours, it’s hard to believe that you’re just here for protection.” He glanced around the diner and lowered his voice, leaning forward. “Carlton Rhoade is a man of action. He knows people and can make things happen. I’d prefer not having more bodies to clean up. The homicide unit is busy as it is.”

  “This wasn’t a homicide. Styler’s still kicking.”

  “Is that a confession?”

  “No.”

  “Just the same, I’m keeping tabs on you, buddy.” Rowlins’ words were meant to be ominous, but Mercer snorted.

  “Your time would be better spent learning how to be a tough guy from actual tough guys rather than the cheap facsimiles Hollywood creates in shitty movies.” Mercer stood from the table. “Stay out of my way, Detective.”

  Seven

  “Bugger,” Bastian muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “What am I supposed to do with this additional bit of information?”

  “Figure it out.” Mercer was tired of this job, and they’d only been in Carlton Rhoade’s employ for two days.

  The profiles on Katia, her father, and Benjamin Styler were complete. Even Bastian’s contact at Interpol didn’t come to any profound conclusions regarding who might have performed the failed hit. The only lead they had was Benjamin Styler’s questionable business associates. The police file that Hans obtained didn’t point to any real suspects, and now with the appearance of Det. Rowlins, there had to be more to the story. As usual, Mercer wanted answers and expected Bastian to supply them.

  “I’ll dig through my sources and try to pinpoint the connection between this unnamed police lieutenant and Mr. Rhoade.” Bastian bit his lip, wanting a cigarette with every fiber of his being. “You do realize that it’s not a crime to have friends. That’s how the majority of the world functions.”

  “It was the way he said it.” Mercer’s mind replayed the meeting with Rowlins. “Something doesn’t coalesce. Either the coppers are dirty, or Rhoade is.” He snatched the Carlton Rhoade file off the top of the stack and skimmed through the financial records, phone logs, and work history. “Based on my experiences, I’d wager it’s the bloody bobbies.”

  “Jules, I know you hate the police, but you have no basis for that. They don’t have a dog in the fight. What incentive would they have for dragging their heels on this investigation?”

  Mercer contemplated the point for a few moments, turned without another word, and left the hotel room. In twenty-five minutes, Katia would be leaving work, and he was on guard duty. Hans was still keeping tabs on Ben, and Donovan was shadowing Carlton. But acting defensively wouldn’t locate the party responsible for the shooting, and that’s what Katia wanted the ex-SAS team to do.

  The only fact that Mercer knew for certain was the shooter was a professional. And since he didn’t finish the job, at some point, he’d return to rectify the situation. This led to two options. Continue to bodyguard and hope to intervene before someone ended up dead or determine who the shooter was and have a pleasant chat concerning who hired him. Katia wanted the man tortured and killed, and Mercer agreed. Bastian wouldn’t be pleased. Hans and Donovan would probably shrug it off eventually. But would it change the dynamic of their team? Frankly, it didn’t matter anymore. More important things were at stake.

  Parking in front of a hydrant outside the building, Mercer waited for Katia to emerge. His eyes roamed the area, searching for potential dangers. Carlton hired the team to protect his daughter. It made sense because she was in close proximity to the shooting. But could there be more to the story? Maybe Rhoade had received some threats but didn’t bother to divulge this information. Like the detective said, something smelled fishy.

  As Katia stepped into the late afternoon sunlight, Mercer tabled the thought and got out of the car. Going around, he opened the passenger’s side door and waited. She snorted, moving past him, and climbed inside the car.

  “Is that supposed to be some sort of apology for the shit you were spewing last night?” she asked after he got behind the wheel.

  “No.”

  “So you’re pretending to be a gentleman for some other reason?”

  He ignored her, pulling into traffic and watching the mirrors for signs of trouble. “I assume you want to go back to the hospital.” It wasn’t much of a question, and she barely grunted a response before turning away from him and staring out the window as the city whizzed by.

  When he parked the car, he grabbed her arm before she could escape. She jerked away, scrutinizing him. “Now what do you want from me?” she asked.

  “Were you threatened?”

  She pressed her lips into a tight line, narrowing her eyes. “Why would you ask me that? Ben’s the one who was shot. He’s fighting for his life because of some business deal that went awry. And you want to know if I’ve been threatened?”

  “Answer me.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” Mercer took a breath, attempting to be patient while he waited for her elaboration. “The magazine occasionally gets threats from some lunatics. It gets sorted out in the mailroom. But I take pictures, and most of those crazies are either psychotic fans who want access to the celebrities we interview or are pissed by the note from the editor section.”

  “What about your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Don’t play coy.”

  “He has his enemies. It happens when you buy out a newspaper and fire people.” She shrugged. “Whatever. That doesn’t concern me, and that sure as hell doesn’t have anything to do with Ben. You think someone threatened me and that’s why my father hired you?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “He overreacts since I’m all he has. But the reason you’re guarding me is because you showed up in that alley, and I passed along your card and suggested he hire you.” Her lips curled at the corners. “You offered your assistance, Mr. Mercer. And I want retribution. You seemed pretty capable with that handgun of yours. Afraid you bit off more than you can chew?”

  The words processed through his brain. She wasn’t pretending to be a clueless waif anymore. She was calling the shots. Or at least she thought she was. Their initial encounter was the impetus that led to his hiring. This wasn’t about protection. She wanted blood and believed he would do as she wished.

  “You read me that easily?” he asked, releasing his seatbelt and unlocking the doors.

  “I screamed for help, and for the longest time, no one came. But then you did. And you had a gun. There was no guesswork. If the men who hurt Ben were still there, you would have killed them.”

  “Fair enough.” The two got out of the car and went inside the hospital. “When your fiancé wakes up, I’d like a few words with him.”

  “Of course.” She offered a weak smile, and they went down the hallway. This time, she recognized Hans and nodded at him before stepping inside Styler’s room.

  “Looks like you and the bird are getting along, again,” Hans commented.

  Mercer leaned against the wall outside the door and checked the hallways. Aside from hospital staff, no one was around. He was unfamiliar with police procedures, particularly in the States, but shouldn’t some type of protection be provided to shooting victims?

  “Do you think you can do some more digging at the police station?” Mercer asked.

  “Digging, plowing, pounding,” Hans grinned, “maybe some nailing and screwing, too.” He caught the irritated look on Julian’s face and cut his crude commentary short. “What do you want, sir?”

  “Find out why no one’s guarding Styler. Then check into Detective Rowlins. And if you have time with all your farm work and carpentry, find out everything you can on Rowlins’ supervising lieutenant and any connection that might
exist between him and Carlton Rhoade.”

  “Wouldn’t Bas be better suited for this?”

  “He’s on it, but you might get the answers faster since you already have an in.” Mercer tilted his head, his eyes traveling down the hallway. “I’ll keep watch on Katia and Ben until you get back.”

  “Right-o.”

  “And Hans, keep it in your pants. We don’t have time to waste.”

  Mercer perched on the vacant chair. His thoughts were random. The only one that repeated itself concerned the shooter. He knew some of the best private military contractors in the business. He worked with a few of them, and the others, he’d run up against a time or two when carrying out his black ops missions. As far as he knew, none of them were working in the area. And furthermore, they weren’t sloppy enough to leave the target alive. But whoever did it made a hell of a shot. Running through the usual means for hiring a professional hitman, he phoned Donovan and asked him to run recon on the typical haunts once Carlton was secured for the night.

  “Mr. Mercer,” Katia said, startling him from his musing, “Ben’s awake. He’s not terribly coherent, but you can talk to him.” Her mascara was streaked, and her nose and cheeks were blotchy and red.

  “Thank you.” He stood. “You need not cry. I believe we are making progress, as is your intended.”

  Eight

  Speaking to Benjamin Styler was like having a conversation with a blackout drunk. Instead of getting answers, Mercer was forced to respond to the same question over and over again. The only thing Ben wanted to know was who Mercer was. After Mercer answered, Ben would nod, but a few seconds later, he would just ask the same thing again.

  Mercer rubbed his eyes and stepped farther from the bed. “Is he normally like this?” he asked Katia. “Or did he sustain head trauma?”

  She laughed. It wasn’t because the question was funny, and the sound of her laugh wasn’t pleasant. It was pained. “No. They have him on high doses of pain medication and sedatives. At least that’s what the doctors said. He’s normally very intelligent and charismatic.”