A Soldier's Revenge: A Will Cochrane Novel (33 page)

Carley nodded. “Clever, Mr. Cochrane. Are you wearing a police wire? Here to get a confession out of me?”

“What do you think?”

“You’re pointing a gun at my head. You don’t want police involvement.” He chose his words carefully. “I’ll give you a hypothetical scenario. It’s not a confession. I have to be careful in case you
are
here to incriminate me. A story—to bring Sarah and James to their knees involved fake letters from the taxman, money filtered out of their accounts, expenditures made in strip clubs that James had never attended, and a pony in the middle of the road that made James swerve and crash his car. Everything else you’ve said is accurate. Your sister was beyond desperate when I called her pretending to be a headhunter and invited her to interview for a well-paid job in New York. I made that call within days of your trip to the States, and had been watching you longer than Sarah. I knew all of your plans. My men recorded your voice using long-range audio equipment, and they used some of those recordings in the basement where they held Tom Koenig. They followed you when you arrived at JFK. And they watched you check into the Waldorf Astoria. What happened next was precisely as you described—the sleeping gas in the hotel room, the injection to knock you out, Sarah’s murder in the bathtub, contaminating the crime scene with your prints and DNA, and at every stage thereafter ensuring you were set up to become a mass murderer and kidnapper of people who you were supposed to love and protect.”

I placed my finger over the trigger.

Carley said, “Don’t be stupid. I know you killed my men. No doubt you tortured one of them; probably Zhukov, though I’ve no idea how you got to him. Do you honestly think I’d just wait here for you to show up and shove a gun in my face?”

I didn’t reply.

Carley said, “The correct answer is yes, I did hope you’d show. I wanted to see how wretched I’d made you. Seeing you now doesn’t disappoint. But I’m in no danger. I have a bigger gun. A man, not too far from here, is watching you through a telescope attached to a rifle that is designed to bring elephants to their knees. You kill me, he kills you.”

I was motionless.

“But I don’t want either of you to pull your triggers. I want you to live.”

“A life of hell?”

“Yes.” Carley picked up an asparagus spear and bit its head off. “Or you can take the coward’s way out, shoot me, and commit suicide. You choose.”

I gripped my gun tighter. “Your brother was a traitor to America. I did nothing wrong by highlighting that fact.”

Carley stared at me. “My brother was stupid, greedy, and vain. But he was still my brother. He’s dead. Your sister’s dead. Now you know how I feel. I suggest you get off my property.”

My every instinct was to pull the trigger. But I knew Carley wasn’t bluffing about having a sniper watching me. And Antaeus had predicted the same in his note to me. Someone like that will always have people watching over him.

I lowered my gun. “One day, you’ll die.”

Carley smiled. “As a former medical man, I can tell you your statement is wholly accurate. The mystery is always when it will happen.”

My gun bobbed as anger coursed through me.

“Good-bye, Mr. Cochrane. Welcome to the life I’ve gifted you.”

“What you did to my family and friends is unforgiveable.” I spun around and walked off the yacht, knowing my every movement was being scrutinized through crosshairs. I exited the jetty, and ten minutes later was in Simon Tap’s vehicle. As I drove away from the harbor, I took an erratic route, to ensure that the sniper had no chance of keeping me in his sights.

Two minutes later, the bomb I’d placed under Edward Carley’s dining table erupted and sent more than a thousand pieces of Carley’s brain and body into the sea.

CHAPTER 31

T
hree hours later, I was in New York City.

Back where it had all started.

I’d parked my car on the outskirts, leaving my backpack inside. I’d only taken one hundred dollars of the money Antaeus had given me, one SIG Sauer, and a couple of spare magazines. The other handgun, rest of the cash, and everything else I’d left in the vehicle. The chances of me getting back to the car were probably nonexistent.

But there was one more thing to be done, and I had to see it through.

No matter what the cost.

I got on the subway and headed for lower Manhattan, wearing my hood over a baseball hat that was tilted over my eyes. My head throbbed, partly from stress and partly from spending the last week driving in daylight and sleeping in my car at night. If I could, I’d willingly give half of Antaeus’s three hundred thousand dollars just to get a bed for the night and undisturbed sleep. But that luxury would have to wait, if indeed I would ever experience it again.

After alighting from the train at Park Place, I walked up Broadway. Traffic was slow moving and heavy; throngs of people were still on the street despite the late hour. Many of them looked like tourists—smiling, laughing, carrying shopping bags, having a good time. Never in my life had I felt so removed from the people around me. I guessed that was how it would always be now. Me versus everyone else. No friends or colleagues. The last remaining member of my family allegedly murdered by my own hand. A leper apart from society.

A wanted fugitive.

I had to make that end.

My destination was nearby, but I couldn’t get too close yet. First, I had to turn lower Manhattan into chaos. Everything had to look natural, as if I’d been found out and pushed to the brink. But if I survived that chaos, the thought of what would happen next made me want to vomit.

I needed a trigger to set things in motion. I scoured the crowds around me. There. Two cops on foot, about seventy yards away. They were slowly walking in my direction, oblivious to their proximity to America’s most dangerous criminal. I stopped and turned my back to them, using the reflection of a store window to watch behind me. I couldn’t see them now, only the nearest people moving around me. If the officers were no longer coming toward me, I’d soon find out. If that happened, I’d find them or other cops and repeat the drill until my plan worked. Getting caught off guard was key. It didn’t have to be perfect. Appearing momentarily careless was fine. All that mattered was that I got law enforcement’s blood boiling and rushing to their head.

I saw them.

Sauntering ten yards behind me.

If I were a religious man, I’d probably have made the sign of the cross over my chest. It wouldn’t have helped me.

Five yards.

Time to make this happen.

I removed my hood and baseball cap, turned while rubbing my hair, froze, and shouted, “Shit!” as I stared straight at the officers.

For two seconds they didn’t seem to know what the problem was.

Then they recognized me.

And reached for their pistols.

“Get your hands on your head!”

I whipped out my handgun, fired two shots over their heads, and ran across Broadway, leaping onto the hood of a car, jumping down and swerving around other cars, my gun still in my hand. People were screaming and shouting, drivers leaning on their horns. I yelled at people to get out of my way and spun around. The two cops were halfway across Broadway, guns unholstered, one of them on his radio calling for backup. I fired two more shots into the air.

They sent all of lower Manhattan into a frenzied panic.

K
opa
ń
ski ran into Painter’s midtown precinct office. “Sighting of Cochrane on lower Broadway. One hundred percent it’s him. Shots have been fired.”

She immediately got to her feet. “I’ll slow you down. Get out there. I’ll coordinate units from here.”

As Kopa
ń
ski ran to the basement parking lot, Painter ripped down a wall map of lower Manhattan and picked up her police radio.

I
switched direction, moving south down Broadway, dodging petrified pedestrians. The cops were still behind me, screaming at me to stop and hit the ground, yelling at people to get out of the way. Two more cops were ahead of me, in body armor, sweeping their arms left and right to tell people to move out of the line of fire. People complied. There was a forty-yard clear channel between me and the cops. Time to up the ante. Without slowing, I shot them both in the chest, causing them to crash to the ground. They’d live. I ran over their supine bodies and swerved left onto Worth Street.

“I
want a helicopter in the air, now.” Painter was leaning over the map on her desk. “Where is he?”

An officer on the radio responded breathlessly, “We’re pursuing on foot on Worth Street. Heading east. He’s just shot two of our men. They’re okay. Vests saved them.”

What the hell was Cochrane doing back in New York? she wondered as she ran her finger over the map. She asked for the location of mobile and foot patrols in the immediate vicinity and then gave each patrol specific instructions.

“Block off the east end of Worth Street. Two mobile and one foot patrol follow in from the west. On-foot units head to Worth from Lafayette, Centre, Baxter, Mulberry, Mott, and Elizabeth Streets. Mobiles head north to Worth along Centre Street.”

Painter called Kopa
ń
ski. “Where are you?”

“Driving down Broadway. I’m getting updates on the radio.”

“If you can, take him alive. But if you see any threat to civilian life, go for a head shot.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

A
police car turned onto Worth Street and came hurtling toward me, its lights flashing and sirens wailing. I stopped, took aim, and fired four shots. All of them entered the engine block and stopped the vehicle. But the cops were out of the car quickly. One of them had a shotgun. Shit. I had to change direction. Glancing back, I could see twelve cops on foot, running toward me. The only reason they hadn’t opened fire was because there were too many pedestrians around me, all of them crazed with fear, their movements erratic and confused.

I glanced up a side street. Other cops were coming down it, guns in hand. Police were converging from all directions. My plan had gone seriously awry. It was time to improvise.

A small Chinese restaurant was to my left. It was at capacity, diners staring out of the windows. No doubt they were wondering what all the sirens meant. I ran in.

A man shouted, “Oh my God, he’s got a gun!”

I shouted, “Anyone tries to leave—I shoot!”

People dropped their cutlery. Some screamed.

At the far end of the restaurant, a middle-aged Chinese woman in black tunic and pants looked like she might be the restaurant owner. She had her hand to her mouth; her eyes were wide.

“Are you in charge?”

She nodded emphatically.

“Lock the front door.”

Customers were begging me not to hurt them as I pointed my gun at the proprietor’s head. “Do it now!”

Outside, stationary police cars were everywhere, officers on foot and using the car doors as protection while they aimed their weapons at the restaurant. I could hear a helicopter drawing closer. Its searchlight bathed the police units. The back of the restaurant would have similar coverage.

I was completely surrounded.

“Close the curtains.”

The restaurant owner was speaking to herself in Cantonese as she complied, her hands shaking.

“Mister, we don’t want trouble,” said one of the male diners.

“Shut up!” I paced back and forth, deliberately looking like I was a desperate man capable of anything. It wasn’t far from the truth.

There were twenty-two customers in the restaurant, three chefs in an open-plan kitchen that was visible to all diners, and two waitstaff. In total, there were six children and nine women.

I pointed at a back door and asked the proprietor, “Does that lead out onto a street?”

She nodded.

In a loud voice I said to everyone, “Are any children here only accompanied by a male?”

No one replied in the affirmative.

“Give me your set of keys,” I said to the proprietor.

She did as I asked. “All right. Listen up. All women, including female members of staff, plus all children are to leave by the back door. Now!”

Mothers ushered their kids, all of them shooting horrified looks at their male partners.

“Move! Now!”

The kids were crying, mothers and female waiters sobbing, as I waved them toward the back door.

“When I open the back door, move fast.”

They were in a line, ready to go.

The restaurant owner was in the back of the line. I asked her, “Which key locks the back door?”

She pointed at one of the keys on the bunch.

“When you leave, you slam the door behind you. Got it?”

“Yes, yes.”

I put my back flush against the wall adjacent to the back door, my gun pointing at the center of the restaurant and the men. “Right. Get out of here.”