Delta Ghost (22 page)

“It’s LOOtenant. And the deal is, in return for that smoke, you keep your mouth shut for the rest of the trip. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Or I’ll kick your
arse
.”

*

A
t eleven p.m., just as they were nearing Knoxville, Tennessee, Venn’s phone rang, startling him.

It was Mike Crowe, his contact at the Quantico training base. “Venn. Sorry to take so long to get back to you.”

“What you got, Mike?”

“It’s the damnedest thing,” said Crowe. “The reason it’s taken me so long is that I had to jump through a whole bunch of extra hoops to find anything out about this Franciscus guy. There are layers of restriction and secrecy like I’ve never seen. Enough to deter anybody.”

“Anybody but a dogged cuss like you.”

“Yeah. Anyhow, what I did find out turned out to be anticlimactic, to say the least. I was expecting to learn that this guy had been involved in some kind of top-secret mission with the Rangers, or had moved to the CIA, or something. But all I got was his postings while he was in service, none of which are particularly unusual, and his career since he left, which is a straightforward one: law school, then the New York bar, then his current private practise in Lower Manhattan.”

“Huh.” Venn thought for a moment. “Tell me about his postings with the Rangers.”

Crowe listed them. Panama, as Franciscus had already told Venn when they first met. Iraq, the first time round in 1991. Stints in Bosnia. Iraq again.

Then, in 2004, Franciscus had spent nine months involved in training exercises in San Antonio, Texas.

There was no detail available about what he’d actually done during those nine months. Venn thought that probably his military work there had been uncontroversial. But it meant he had a historical link with the place.

Venn thanked Crowe and ended the call. Beside him, Harmony said, “Anything?”

“Not a lot,” said Venn. “But our boy has links with San Antonio that go back ten years, at least.”

They drove on through the night.

T
hey reached the outskirts of San Antonio at around five-thirty the following afternoon, which Venn thought was a pretty damn good run, considering the stops along the way. He and Harmony had driven in four-hour shifts each. Neither had slept a great deal in between, and Harmony looked as haggard as Venn suspected he did.

He’d considered asking the kid to take a turn at the wheel, but decided against it. Clune was a one-man catastrophe, and he’d probably end up getting them pulled over for speeding, or crash into a billboard, or something.

Around lunchtime Venn called Beth, and was surprised to learn she was still at the hospital.

“Your shift finished at seven this morning,” he said.

“We’re short-staffed,” she said. He could hear the tiredness in her voice, even though she did a good job of hiding it. “I’m hoping to get out of here by three at the latest.”

“Love you, babe,” he murmured, conscious that Clune was eavesdropping with interest in the backseat.

“Love you too,” Beth said.

Now, Venn slowed, taking the Subaru through the unfamiliar streets of San Antonio. Clune sat up on the backseat, peering around.

“Head that way,” he said uncertainly.

It took them a further half-hour before Clune said, suddenly: “Okay. Got it. I know where we are.” He nodded toward a highway sign. “Take that turn. It’s about four miles straight down there.”

Venn kept up a steady speed, not driving too fast in case the kid told him to change direction suddenly.

“There,” Clune said, jabbing his finger.

Venn took the turn-off, and saw a dirt track leading away from the main road. He slowed, the Subaru jouncing over the rutted ground. Ahead, he saw a forecourt lined on the far side by buildings, many of them looking unused.

“The one over there, on the left,” Clune said. “That’s where I delivered Flowers.”

Two vehicles were parked on the forecourt, both of them four-wheel-drive offroad cars. There was nobody in sight.

“How are we going to play this?” asked Harmony.

Venn pulled the Subaru to a stop, halfway down the track and two hundred yards from the forecourt. He said: “We don’t know who’s there, or even who they are. I’m going to go in there and inquire. I’ll flash my shield. Doesn’t matter that it’s New York, whoever’s there will think twice about attacking me. You stay here. Any sound of trouble, get the hell out.”

“Better if I come in with you,” said Harmony.

Venn shook his head. “Can’t leave the kid here on his own. And we can’t bring him with us, in case he’s recognized.”

“Okay,” said Harmony. She shifted over behind the wheel, placing her gun on the seat beside her.

Venn strode up the track toward the building, tensing himself instinctively in anticipation of a hail of gunfire he would have no defense against. Inside his shoulder holster the Beretta was fully loaded. The heat pounded down mercilessly, far worse than anything he was used to in New York.

The building in question was a squat two-storey office block, the kind that might house a small business. There were no signs up to give a clue as to what it was being used for. Venn glanced into the two four-by-fours as he passed them. They were empty.

He squinted up at the windows. They were closed, and the glare of the rays from the low sun made it impossible to see anything beyond them.

With his shield in one hand, Venn stepped up to the wooden front door and knocked sharply.

He expected to hear either silence, or the furtive movements of one or more people taken by surprise. Instead, the door opened almost immediately, as though somebody had been waiting behind it.

A Latino man peered out, looked Venn up and down. “What you want?”

Venn showed his badge. “Police. I’d like to come in and ask a few questions.”

Again, to his surprise, the man stepped aside without hesitation and opened the door wider. Venn saw a reception room beyond, with the usual couches and coffee table strewn with magazines.

The man who’d let him in stood waiting, his arms hanging by his sides. “Who you want to speak to?”

Venn understood, too late, that the man’s unthreatening manner was intended to catch Venn off guard, because he heard the movement behind him just as he started to turn.

A flash of brilliant white pain exploded in Venn’s head and he felt himself going down, though not hitting the floor.

F
ranciscus nodded at one of the men, who stepped forward and tipped the bucket of water over Venn’s head.

Venn coughed and snorted, his head jerking up and back, though his eyes remained shut. He was tethered to a solid wooden chair, his wrists bound behind the back with plastic ties, his feet similarly secured to the chair’s front legs. Venn’s jacket was off and his Beretta had been removed from its holster.

“Again,” said Franciscus.

The man picked up the second bucket he’d brought in and upended it onto the tethered detective. This time Venn gave a roar and shook his head from side to side.

Something that must have hurt, Franciscus thought, considering the bump that had risen on the back of Venn’s scalp where he’d been hit.

Gasping, Venn hunched forward as far as he could, blinking his eyes, peering up at Franciscus.

“Lieutenant Venn,” said Franciscus. “You’re back with us.”

He saw Venn’s eyes dart around the room, taking stock. They were in a storeroom on the first floor, which Franciscus had selected because of its uncarpeted stone floor, something that made it easier to clean.

Venn’s gaze took in Franciscus himself, and the two men who’d been in the office with him when Venn had arrived.

He also saw the woman, Jones, and the young man, Clune, over to the side. They too were secured to chairs. On either side of them stood two more men, the ones who’d pulled up behind the Subaru and blocked it from leaving.

The woman had been ready for a fight, and she’d moved fast, loosing off a shot from her handgun through the windshield of the car behind. The two men had avoided getting hit, and had convinced her to drop her weapon, not through any particularly persuasive technique they possessed but rather by aiming rifles at her.

“You’re finished,” said Venn. His voice sounded ragged, and he cleared his throat. “Feds’ll be here any moment.”

Franciscus said, “I don’t think so.” He nodded at one of his men, never taking his eyes off Venn’s face. The man handed him something. Franciscus saw Venn’s gaze follow it.

A hunting knife.

Franciscus moved beside Clune, who like the woman had a gag tied across his mouth. The kid’s eyes were white pools of terror.

Without pausing, Franciscus grasped the boy’s left hand where it was tethered behind his back and sawed through the end joint of his little finger.

The gag was barely enough to muffle the scream, and the echo off the walls amplified it.

Franciscus raised the tip of the pinkie and held it out, showing it to Venn and Jones in turn as though displaying a diamond he’d just found on the sidewalk. He tossed it on the ground and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood off his hands, then off the blade of the knife.

“For God’s sake, Franciscus,” snarled Venn between clenched teeth.

“Just setting the scene,” said Franciscus conversationally. He didn’t look at the boy, who was alternately roaring and sobbing through the cloth of the gag.

Franciscus stood before Venn, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing the knife.

“How much do you know?”

Venn glared at him. “About what?”

Franciscus sighed. “Ten fingers, including the thumbs. Twenty-eight segments in total. I hope you don’t lie to me twenty-eight times, Lieutenant. Because I’ll probably get bored long before then, and start taking shortcuts. Like, moving to the wrists instead.”

This provoked a fresh bout of muffled howling from Clune. One of the men slapped him alongside his head and the boy rocked sideways, falling silent in shock.

Venn said: “I know you were stationed here in San Antonio ten years ago when you were with the Rangers. I know you’ve had dealings with Oscar Flowers, AKA Flores. I know you recognize the Salazar brand, the tattoo. Beyond that... I know nothing.”

Franciscus studied the cop. The words rang true. But there were lies of omission, as well as commission.

He moved swiftly behind Clune again and took off the second joint of his pinkie. It was harder this time, because his grip was made difficult by the slickness of the blood, and Franciscus had to twist the bone before it snapped free.

The boy’s scream would have sent a tiger fleeing from its forest domain.

“You know something else,” said Franciscus to Venn, quietly.

He watched the man’s face work, as he tried to recall something he’d missed. “I know there’s something politically sensitive about all of this, and your involvement in it,” Venn said. “That’s why I was warned off when I started researching the links between O’Dell, Kruger, Flowers and Salazar. But I don’t know what it is.”

“Better,” said Franciscus. He cleaned his hands and the blade with the handkerchief once more. “My next question is: who else knows what you know? Who have you told?”

“Nobody,” Venn answered immediately.

Franciscus raised his eyebrows. He hefted the knife, glanced at Clune.

“Nobody,” said Venn again, with more emphasis. “Not my boss. Or anyone else. I got a contact in the military to research your background, but I didn’t tell him why. The only other person who knew anything was my partner, Detective Sickert. And he’s dead.”

“So why did you say the Feds were on their way?”

“I was bluffing,” said Venn.

Franciscus nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s honest. We seem to understand each other, Lieutenant. You tell me the truth, and I won’t need to do any more cutting.”

He thought Venn
was
telling the truth. Back in New York, with no obvious leads, Franciscus had gotten an associate to hack him into the police radio channels, to see if he could pick up any signs of activity in the city that might lead him to Clune. He’d learned about an outdoor shooting involving piled-up cars in Harlem, and when he’d heard a report of a large, shaven-headed man fleeing the scene together with an African-American woman and a slightly-built younger man, he’d headed immediately for the scene. It was already cordoned off, but through the sea of police uniforms he’d spotted the Mustang half-crushed under the other car. He recognized the Mustang from the parking lot behind Venn’s office.

So Venn and the Jones cop had escaped with Clune, and were presumably working off the grid, since Franciscus knew for a fact they’d been warned off the case. Which didn’t help him much, because they’d now be harder to find than ever.

Except he found himself thinking back to the moment he’d recognized Clune as Flowers’ driver. Clune had been out in the car, and Franciscus had noticed his face.

And Clune had been looking straight back at him.

Which meant, if Clune remembered Franciscus, he might identify him to Venn. And that, in turn, might send Venn to San Antonio to investigate further.

It was a long shot. Another possibility was that Venn might decide to go back on the grid, and persuade the FBI to investigate the San Antonio connection. Either way, though, Franciscus needed to secure the San Antonio office.

So he’d made some calls, pulled some strings, and arranged a flight to San Antonio. It took less than three-and-a-half hours, with a further twenty minutes to reach the office out of town. On the way, Franciscus made further calls to employees of the Delta project in Texas. They were to start removing hard drives and all paper documentation from the office, and to post a permanent guard there. If the local police or Federal agents arrived, they were to get out of there quickly. But if anybody matching the descriptions of Venn, Jones or Clune turned up, they had to be captured and held until Franciscus himself got there.

As it happened, nobody else showed. Franciscus assisted with the cleansing of the office, then debated what to do. The sensible thing would be to return to New York. But a part of him, the intuitive faculty that had served him well both as an Army Ranger and as a lawyer, told him to stay put. To wait for Venn, who was surely on his way.