Condemned (Julian Mercer Book 1) Page 9

  When Mercer arrived at their makeshift prison, he sent Hans to pick up some first aid supplies, pain relievers, and a few basic necessities. By now, Welks was in agony; his ankle was swollen so badly his shoe would probably have to be cut off. The man was tired, hungry, and in pain. If he was going to talk, now was the time. And if he cooperated, he would be rewarded.

  When Julian entered the room, Welks looked up. His eye was swollen and puffy, and his cheek had a gash. But other than that, he didn’t look too much worse for wear. Seeing Julian, Welks shrunk as far into the seat as he could, given the restraints. He was afraid, and that fact satisfied Mercer.

  “Please,” Welks rasped, “I told your partner the same thing I told you. Just let me go. I won’t say a word about you. I won’t go to the police.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you. I will, but I’d prefer not to. Your wife would like you back in one piece, and I don’t want to disappoint her.”

  “You fucking animal, I swear to god, if you lay a hand on her, I will kill you.” It was the proper response, and Julian smiled. “What have you done to Teresa?” Welks asked, horrified.

  “Nothing. Yet. Let’s get down to business. You’re on retainer at Carlton Rhoade’s newspaper. You’ve met his daughter and her fiancé at the company Christmas party. And that’s just the bloody tip of the iceberg, isn’t it?”

  Welks swallowed, hoping to find his voice, but his mouth was dry. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Tell me everything you know about Benjamin Styler, and I’ll consider sending you on your way.”

  “I…can’t.”

  “Why not?” Julian’s question was met with silence, so he continued. “You would rather protect someone who gives you a paycheck than your own wife?” Mercer’s face contorted. “What kind of man fails to protect the woman he loves?” He turned the internal guilt and anger outward, focusing the intensity of his feelings on Welks.

  The fear reflected in Welks’ eyes wasn’t faked, and he began spilling his guts, believing Julian would slaughter him if he didn’t provide answers to the questions. “Mr. Rhoade asked me to investigate Ben. It was right around Christmas, and they had just announced the engagement. But Mr. Rhoade was afraid Ben was using Katia. The kid had money troubles. He used drugs recreationally, got caught in the midst of a buy, and narced on the dealer to get himself out of trouble. The kid was a mess. Bad business deals, late payments on his bills, questionable morals, no real loyalty to anyone except himself, but he’s turned it around recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “Over the past six months or so. And I told that to Mr. Rhoade.” Welks pressed his lips together. “Please, whatever you do, don’t tell him I said this.” Mercer’s face contorted in a question. “I know he hired you to guard his daughter. I’ve seen you bring her home in the evenings and pick her up from work.”

  “So you admit to spying on Katia.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Mercer slapped him across the face as a warning. “I found you outside with the camera. Don’t fucking lie to me.”

  “I’m not,” Welks snapped.

  “Bollocks,” Mercer muttered, circling the room, “then what the hell were you doing with that camera?”

  “Making sure no one else showed up.” At those words, Mercer stopped pacing. “Since I was already on retainer for Mr. Rhoade, he asked that I investigate the shooting. He wanted to make sure whoever came for Ben didn’t come for Katia too.” Welks took a deep breath. “I didn’t realize Mr. Rhoade also hired you to investigate. I’m assuming that’s how you determined when I first met Ben and Katia.”

  “So since we’re both employed by Carlton Rhoade, why the secrecy? Why are you so afraid of Mr. Rhoade? When I questioned you earlier, you said your boss would kill you if you talked. Do you expect me to believe that Carlton Rhoade is a killer?”

  Welks shrugged. “He might be. Someone from the newspaper contracted the hit on Benjamin Styler, and I have no way of knowing that it wasn’t Carlton himself.”

  “Rubbish.”

  The story Welks shared was contradictory. Why hire an investigator to look into a shooting if you were to blame? It made no sense. Shaking his head, Mercer left the room.

  “Jules, are you okay?” Hans asked, worry etching his face.

  “Dandy,” Mercer growled. “Do what you like with him. I need some air. I can’t think straight.” Without another word, he returned to the car and went to the police station. Someone there must know how to conduct a proper investigation.

  Sixteen

  Police reports were considered public information in most instances, and Mercer requested everything they had on Carlton and Katia Rhoade and Benjamin Styler. When the desk sergeant failed to comply with his request, he asked to speak with Detective Rowlins. Rowlins appeared almost instantaneously and ushered Mercer upstairs to his desk.

  Twenty minutes later, Mercer was still reading through the police reports. Things that weren’t necessarily public information were also pulled, and Rowlins possessed enough knowledge of Styler’s history to grab the records regarding his drug connections too. When Mercer finished, he shut his eyes and exhaled slowly.

  “It’s not the drug dealer or any of his known associates,” Rowlins said, tossing the manila folder on top of the stack. “I’ve checked. Styler doesn’t owe them any money. The last time they were even in contact was over a year ago.”

  “What do you know about John Welks?”

  “The private dick that works for the big security firm?” Rowlins shrugged. “Not much. They’re heavy hitters over there at Piper Investigations. They work a lot of corporate security and high profile cases.” He chuckled. “You planning on using him as a job reference or something?”

  “No. Do you think he has any clue how to conduct an investigation? He’s a glorified fact-checker for a newspaper.”

  “Carlton Rhoade’s newspaper.” The detective leaned back and sipped his coffee. “You want to share that lead that’s circling through your brain like a toy car on a Hot Wheels track?”

  “I found him with a telephoto camera lens pointed at Ms. Rhoade’s bedroom window,” Mercer said, leaving out the rest of the information he had gotten while interrogating Welks.

  “Do you know what other photos he’s taken? Because I’d love to check out those snapshots.”

  “That’s just it.” Mercer gave the pile of intel a dirty look. “The memory card was blank.” Bastian was analyzing the camera’s data, but initially, he didn’t find any incriminating photos of Katia or Ben. So either Welks replaced the card before Mercer got a hold of the camera, or the P.I. hadn’t gotten a chance to take any candid shots last night.

  “Strange. Maybe the guy was only using the lens to zoom in. Perhaps he’s a modern day peeping tom. Did you hear about that guy that was photographing ladies underwear using a telephoto lens? I swear, just when we start to get an edge over these sickos, technology jumps light years ahead, and they find other ways to be disgusting.”

  “Have you made any progress on the information Bastian has shared with you?” Mercer asked, diverting the conversation back to the matter at hand.

  “Not yet. The system takes time. We have I’s to dot and T’s to cross. And just so you know, I like your friend better.”

  “Good. You can bother him the next time you have pointless questions that need answering, but I do appreciate the intel.” Mercer jerked his chin at the stack of files. “Someone will be in touch.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Rowlins replied.

  Back on the street, Mercer noted the pedestrians on the sidewalks and the groups congregating near the bus and taxi stands. His eyes darted through the throng. Something was eating away at him. Perhaps it was the situation getting the best of his imagination, but he had spent years honing his instincts. Continuing on a random path, he turned down another street, keeping his pace steady. Crossing the street, he monitored the reflections of the people behind him, but he didn’t spot a tail. Seei
ng a sign for the L, he took the steps up to the elevated platform.

  He waited, leaning against a support pillar and appearing lost in his own thoughts. After fifteen minutes, the train came. He entered the nearest door, walked through the car, and exited from a different door just as the chime sounded to indicate that the doors were closing. No one else exited, and none of the people that were waiting on the platform were the same from before the train arrived. Reassured that no one was in pursuit, Julian went down the steps and back to street level.

  He only made it a few feet when a car horn blared in the distance. Turning to see what the commotion was about, he barely had time to dive out of the way of a speeding black van that was intent on mowing him down. The van missed, knocking off the back bumper of another car before shooting back into traffic. Screams and expletives echoed through the air. This was no accident.

  The van pulled a tight u-turn, launching itself between two parked cars and knocking off both side mirrors. People jumped out of the way as it careened out of control, bouncing like a pinball between the row of parked cars and numerous storefronts while hurtling down the sidewalk, directly toward Mercer.

  Julian darted across the street, pulling his Sig from its holster. As soon as the van found a break in the parked cars, it launched off of the sidewalk and into the road, another car t-boned it, spinning both vehicles. More horns blared as the pile-up continued to grow. But the van righted itself and kept going. The side door falling off as it jerked through traffic, slamming against other motorists. The delay gave Mercer time to fire into the windshield, emptying his clip before ducking into a building alcove to avoid any possible return fire. Sirens blared, and the driver of the van panicked, crashing into the back of a pick-up truck and forcing the impeding vehicle forward just enough to allow for an illegal turn and escape from the approaching police cars.

  After conducting a quick scan of the area for other threats, Mercer breathed a sigh of relief. Holstering his weapon, he continued walking down the street like nothing happened. Everyone’s focus was on the numerous accidents, not the man that just opened fire in broad daylight. This was like any other city or any other situation. Acting naturally and uninterested ensured no one paid a bit of attention, and right now, Julian couldn’t afford any undue attention. Whoever was behind the wheel had been waiting for him.

  Continuing calmly down the street, only the telltale shaking in his hands provided any indication of the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Cautioning a glance across the way, at least three people had been injured by the van. It was possible pedestrians had been killed or maimed, and that didn’t include any of the people in the affected vehicles. Ambulances and fire trucks rolled in, adding to the growing chaos. Whoever did this wanted Mercer dead, and they didn’t care to destroy any obstacles that got in the way. This needed to end. And it needed to end tonight.

  Shutting his eyes, he recalled every detail that he could. The van was black, an older model from the 1990s, with no license plate, and tinted windows. Oh, and it was missing a door and both side mirrors, and it had a dozen or so of his bullets lodged inside of it. Finding his phone, he dialed Bastian.

  “Hack into the city’s DOT grid. We need eyes on a black van.” He gave the current address and told Bastian to turn on the television. A news helicopter was lingering overhead, likely reporting live on the unfolding chaos that just erupted. “The bastard tried to kill me.”

  “Obviously, he wasn’t quite successful,” Bastian remarked, the sound of the television filling the background. “Are you okay?”

  “I will be once he’s dead.”

  Mercer’s trek away from the scene led to less trafficked streets, and he hailed a cab and went straight to the hospital. The police were guarding Styler in Donovan’s absence, but obviously, whoever was responsible had big brass ones. And Mercer didn’t doubt for a second that the perpetrator would open fire in a hospital. However, the assailant’s newly acquired target seemed to be Julian Mercer, and that added a whole new dynamic to this mess.

  Mercer returned to Styler’s room. Barging through the door, his entire focus was on the man in the bed. Ben offered an uncertain smile, confused by the brusqueness and reappearance of the ex-SAS bodyguard.

  “I’m sick and tired of playing games,” Mercer bellowed, shoving the chair beneath the doorknob to keep everyone outside. “What the bloody hell is going on?” Styler moved to open his mouth with another unhelpful comment or non-answer, so Mercer intervened. “Someone just tried to kill me. So don’t you dare speak a word of bullshit. I’m not in the mood.”

  “What?”

  “I’m assuming your attackers want me dead. Just like how they’d prefer you to be. So talk. Who do you owe money to?”

  “No one. They were legitimate business expenses, but I paid off my debts. I came into some cash recently, and that was that.”

  “Katia,” Mercer stepped forward and watched Styler’s Adam’s apple bob uncontrollably, “believes you still owe money to some unsavory chaps. That those people are the ones responsible for the attack. Are you saying she’s wrong?”

  Ben tapped the hospital call button repeatedly, fearing Mercer might strangle him. “No. I mean yes. She’s wrong. I’m in the black. My name’s not in anyone’s ledger. Honestly. I promise.” His eyes grew wide as Mercer continued the approach.

  “Where’d you get the money?” Mercer heard hospital staff outside the door.

  “I…um…found an untapped revenue source.”

  “Meaning?” Loud banging erupted from the other side of the door, and Mercer was sure the police would burst through any second. The chair wouldn’t hold them off for long.

  “I can’t,” Styler muttered, and Mercer pressed his palm into the bandage on Ben’s chest.

  Ben screamed, wincing and writhing in pain. But before he could say another word, the two police officers broke through the door and grabbed Mercer, throwing him against the floor and pressing a taser into his back. The electric current ripped through Julian’s body, and he remained subdued and twitching on the ground.

  As the police hauled Mercer to his feet, Styler met Julian’s eyes with remorse. “Thanks for intervening, but that’s not really necessary. You don’t have to arrest Mr. Mercer. This is all just a big misunderstanding,” Styler insisted.

  The violent takedown had been more than Styler expected. He had panicked when things had gotten out of hand. Now he regretted his hesitation in answering Julian’s questions. After all, Mercer was hired to protect him and Katia, but the policemen ignored his protests, tightening the handcuffs and reading Mercer his rights.

  Seventeen

  “I’m getting tired of seeing you in lockup,” Rowlins said, opening the door. The few other crooks inside the holding cell didn’t even bother to glance up at Mercer’s release. “Weren’t you supposed to be protecting the kid?”

  “I’m protecting the girl,” Mercer walked haughtily past Rowlins, “but frankly, I might be through with this bloody job.”

  The detective handed the keys back to the desk sergeant and pulled Mercer aside. “A couple of hours ago, you were reviewing the police files. What changed in such a short amount of time?”

  “I believe someone wants me dead.” Mercer studied Rowlins, scrutinizing his face for any micro-expressions or signs of guilt. “I was tracked from this precinct through the streets. The results made the news. And I don’t take fondly to failed attempts.” His gaze turned hard and cold. “There will be lethal repercussions.”

  “I’d suggest you refrain from making threats inside a police station and to an officer of the law.” Rowlins returned the look. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “You better hope not.” Mercer signed the receipt and took the clear plastic bag that held his personal items and continued toward the door. At the front desk, he found Bastian waiting.

  “Jules, slow down,” Bastian called, tossing a quick nod to Rowlins before chasing after Mercer. “We need to discuss our next course
of action.”

  “I already know what our next course of action is. We’re relocating to our secondary location. The hotel is no longer secure. Not that it ever was.”

  “I’ve completed the move already,” Bastian continued, falling into step with Mercer. “I’ve also spoken to Styler while you were getting your arse thrown in jail again.” He lowered his voice as they exited, both men immediately on alert for potential threats. “I know who sent the photos to Carlton Rhoade.” He led Mercer to a new vehicle, having scrapped the last one to make it more difficult for anyone to follow or monitor them while they were mobile. “It seems Styler got creative in paying off his debts.”

  “How?”

  Bastian smirked. “That bloke is one ballsy chap. He took the photos of Katia and sent them to her father.”

  “Does Rhoade know? Or Katia?”

  Bastian shrugged. “I’m still working on that part.” He glanced at Mercer, sitting sullenly in the passenger’s seat. “Donovan’s getting closer to narrowing down the list of local contractors. Not many of them have the skills to make that shot. And a few who could were out of town when the shooting occurred. So the possibilities are dwindling, and once I’m able to identify the two men that accompanied the shooter, that will narrow our potentials even further.”

  “What’s being done with Welks?”

  “He’s alone, but Hans assured me that he’s secure.”

  “Any idea what happened to the van driver from earlier this afternoon?” Mercer asked, referencing the man that tried to run him down, but Bas just shrugged. “All I can say for certain is it’s unlikely he’s the same hitman from the alley. The shooting was precise and calculated, and today’s attempt was messy and opportunistic. Maybe the kamikaze driver was one of the shooter’s two associates.”