Delta Ghost (23 page)

And his patience had been rewarded.

He looked down at Venn. “You realize there’s nothing personal about this.”

Venn didn’t answer.

“I meant what I said at our first meeting. That I’m indebted to the Marines. That hasn’t changed. But I have to see you now as a cop first, and a Marine second.”

He jerked his head. One of the four men drew a gun from his waistband and aimed it at Venn. Another did the same for Jones.

Clune, who’d been whimpering behind the gag, began to yell once more.

Venn said, “Let the kid go, at least. He’s a coward. You threaten reprisals against him, he won’t tell anyone about this. Stick him on a flight straight back to England and he won’t be any more trouble to you.”

Franciscus sighed. “Lieutenant, you disappoint me. Really,
really
disappoint me.” He indicated Clune. “He’s the one I want answers from. You were just a loose end.”

His words were punctuated by the double click of two hammers being cocked.

Venn said: “Wait. You’re missing something.”

“More disappointment, Lieutenant.” Franciscus felt genuinely rueful. “Stalling isn’t your style.”

“No,” said Venn. “I’m serious. You’ve missed a trick.”

Franciscus studied him. This was interesting. He considered it.

After ten seconds, he said, “No. Can’t think of anything. You’re going to have to tell me.”

“Salazar.”

“What about him?”

“He’s tying up loose ends, too,” said Venn. “That’s why he’s going after Clune here. That’s why he killed Kruger. He’s erasing every trace of Flowers and his associates.”

Franciscus frowned. “I still don’t see why that –”

Venn glanced at Clune. “The kid told Salazar about every errand he ran for Flowers. Every meeting he drove him to. Including the meetings here, with you.”

Franciscus felt a stirring of unease.

“Which means,” Venn went on, “that Salazar will have this place staked out. And when he learns that a guy matching Clune’s description arrived here, he’ll –”

If Venn finished his sentence, Franciscus didn’t hear it, because at that moment the window of the storeroom blew inward in a hurricane of glass and the man covering Venn with his gun screamed as he was hurled forward, gunfire stitching a bloody ragged pattern across his back.

V
enn flung himself sideways, his reflexes kicking in before his forebrain had a chance to process what was happening.

The movement toppled the entire chair to the left and his shoulder slammed painfully against the hard stone floor. As the rest of the windows shattered in a crescendo of jagged fragments and the chatter of semiautomatic fire continued outside, two more of Franciscus’ men fell twisted and shrieking.

Across from Venn, Harmony heaved herself so that her tipping chair collided with Clune’s. The impact knocked his chair over but hers remained propped up at an angle.

Franciscus’ instincts, honed like Venn’s in the military, had caused him to drop prone and flatten himself against the floor. His remaining man crouched, yelling incoherently, but he didn’t seem to Venn to have been hit.

“Franciscus,” Venn bellowed over the torrent of noise. “Cut us loose.”

Franciscus didn’t answer, but shuffled himself round, still prone, so that his head was nearer the front, from where the shooting was coming.

“God damn it, man,” Venn shouted. “We don’t know how many of them there are out there. There’s just the two of you. Cut us loose, and our chances of surviving this are better.”

Instead of arguing, Franciscus slid across to Venn and raised himself just enough that he could cut through the plastic ties with the hunting knife.

Venn wrenched himself free from the chair, grabbed the knife from Franciscus and scooted over to Harmony and Clune. He cut them free, and they ripped the gags from their mouths.

Clune rose to his knees, brandishing the stump of his finger. “He cut my finger off! I’ll never be able to –”

Venn lashed out with his foot and kicked the kid’s knees out from under him. “Stay
down
, you idiot.” He rolled to face Franciscus. “Where’d you put our guns?”

“On the shelf over there.” Franciscus indicated with a nod. He’d drawn a handgun of his own.

The shooting had stopped, but Venn wasn’t taking any chances. Staying down, he scrambled over and reached up blindly and groped until he found both guns. He tossed Harmony’s to her, then checked the Beretta was still loaded.

Franciscus’ man had taken a quick peek over the window sill. He said: “Jesus. Ten of them, maybe a dozen. They’re creeping closer.”

“How far away?” said Venn.

“Twenty yards.”

To Franciscus, Venn said, “Is there a rear entrance?”

“There’s a fire door. But they may have that covered.”

“We’ll have to take that chance.” Venn pointed at Franciscus’ man. “What’s your name?”

“Munez.”

“All right. You and Harmony stay here. Franciscus, you and I are going out the back.”

Clune said, gibbering, “What about me?”

“You’re going out the front door.”

“What?”

Venn explained quickly.

*

C
lune began to snivel. “I can’t –”

“Kid. Listen to me.” Venn spoke low, urgently. “There’s no time to debate this. You’re the safest of all of us. Salazar wants you alive, otherwise he’d have killed you long ago in New York, when he had the chance. They won’t shoot you. But you gotta be bold, if this is going to work.”

“I
can’t
.”

“Yes,” said Harmony, her eyes spewing poison. “You god damn can. What’s more, you
will
.”

“Okay,” said Venn. He glanced at the others in turn.
“Go.”

He and Franciscus scuttled for the door, Franciscus leading the way. Beyond was a passage running left to right. Franciscus took them right, then sharply left, down a shorter corridor which led to the fire door.

Both men paused in front of it. Then Franciscus pushed down the bar and shoved it open, Venn aiming past him across his shoulder.

There was nobody outside. Just an overgrown, untended yard segueing into dusty tarmac.

Hugging the wall, they moved round the back and side of the building. The timing of all of this was crucial, and there was no way they could co-ordinate their moves precisely.

Franciscus reached the corner at the front and stopped, his gun raised. Venn pressed in close beside him.

They waited. Two seconds. Three.

Then Clune’s voice came, high and uncertain, from round the front, and Venn knew he was at the front door. “Hey. I s-surrender.”

The men in front began to shout.

“
Now
,” hissed Venn, and he and Franciscus leaped round the corner.

As he fired, Venn saw what he’d been hoping for. Salazar’s men – who were frighteningly close to the front of the building – had been distracted by the sight of Clune appearing in the doorway. They reacted quickly, but not quickly enough.

Venn’s first shot caught one of the men in the chest. The second did the same with another man. Almost simultaneously, Franciscus dropped two more of them.

And through the open window space along the front, Harmony’s and Munez’ guns joined in, the assorted firearms setting up a terrible counterpoint to each other. Venn saw three more of the men jerk and sprawl in the dirt.

The remaining three were fast, diving behind the two four-by-fours parked in front. Franciscus fired, but his shots smashed into the side panels of the cars. One of the tires sagged with an audible hiss.

“Get back inside, idiot,” Venn yelled at Clune, who was standing in the doorway, paralyzed. The kid disappeared from sight, slamming the door.

From behind the cars the three remaining men began to return fire, and Venn and Franciscus had to duck back round the corner as the high-velocity bullets shrieked past them.

Venn dropped to the ground and crawled so that he could peer round the corner. He sighted along his arm, saw part of one crouching man’s knee under the chassis of the car.

Taking careful aim, Venn fired. He saw the knee jerk, heard a scream, and the man emerged partially in front of the car.

Franciscus shot him in the head.

Two left.

A new fusillade of shots came from the window, but succeeded only in riddling the cars. One of the remaining men fired back, ducking away as Venn and Franciscus took a bead on him.

Venn heard a man’s scream from inside the window. Munez.

The shooting stopped. Venn stared at the cars, looking for an exposed part, a hand or a shoe.

The standoff dragged out across six seconds. Ten.

Then one of the men broke out, running sideways away from the car, a berserker’s roar erupting from his lungs as he fired blindly, raking the window space and the corner where Venn and Franciscus were huddled with semiautomatic fire.

Venn rolled, staying low because the man was controlling the weapon poorly, which meant the recoil was jerking the shots too high. In Venn’s field of vision the running man turned over and over, and Venn knew he’d have just one shot before the guy swung the rifle to bear on him.

He fired in mid-roll, kept on rolling, saw the guy lifted off his feet and flung on his back, his dead finger still pulling the trigger back for a second until the gun fell from his grasp.

The echo of the gunfire rang in Venn’s ears. He knew it would last a long time.

He called out to the single remaining guy: “Listen up. You’re on your own. You don’t stand a chance. Throw your gun clear and come on out with your hands behind your head, fingers interlocked.”

There was no response.

Venn called, “Three seconds. Two.”

The rifle came heaving out from behind the car to land on the forecourt. A moment later the man emerged.

Venn had been prepared for the next move.

Franciscus brought his gun up to point at Venn and Venn slammed the butt of the Beretta down on Franciscus’ forearm, hard enough that he heard bone crack. Franciscus gasped, his hand opening reflexively, releasing the gun.

Venn punched him in the face, but Franciscus was fast and averted his head so that Venn’s fist caught the cheekbone rather than the nose and mouth. Franciscus brought a knee up toward Venn’s groin and caught his thigh a glancing blow that hurt like hell.

With his good hand, Franciscus grasped Venn’s gun arm and twisted the Beretta up and away from him. Franciscus lunged in with his head, his forehead striking Venn’s chin and causing stars to explode behind Venn’s eyes.

An animal rage catching fire inside him, Venn yanked his arm free from Franciscus’ grip and brought the Beretta down on the crown of his head, once, twice, beating him down as though hammering a tent-peg into the ground. Franciscus groaned, and sagged, and dropped to his knees.

Venn kicked him in the face, then kicked his gun into the distance.

He turned to see the remaining Salazar man kneeling on the forecourt, Harmony standing over him with her gun leveled.

“You okay?” Venn said.

“Yeah. You?”

“I’ll live.”

He reached down and dragged Franciscus by the feet so that he was laid out on the forecourt. Through the shattered window he called, “Come on out, kid. It’s over.”

Clune emerged gradually through the front door, like a snail peeking out of its shell.

“What now?” said Harmony.

Venn nudged Franciscus with his boot. “We take him inside,” he said. “This other guy too.”

*

I
n the storeroom they found a box of plastic ties, and Harmony helped secure the still semi-conscious Franciscus to a chair in the same way he’d done to them. They bound Salazar’s man’s hands behind his back, too, though Venn left his legs free.

Venn turned to Harmony. “Take this guy and the kid and wait outside.”

“Venn -”

“I need to find out if Franciscus is worth taking in.”

She said, with a glance at the ruined window, “Salazar will be sending more men.”

“I know,” said Venn. “This won’t take long.”

He waited until he saw them out on the forecourt, some distance away, the prisoner stumbling ahead of Harmony, Clune shambling beside her.

Then he turned to Franciscus.

The man’s head lolled, jerking erect from time to time and then slumping again. Venn picked up one of the empty buckets that had been used to douse his head and went from room to room until he found a kitchenette. He filled the bucket and brought it back.

Franciscus stared blearily at him, blood from his torn scalp caked in his hair. He winced as his injured arm pulled against the ties.

“Franciscus,” said Venn. “My turn to do the asking.”

He tore one of the drapes off the rail above the window and threw it over Franciscus’ head.

“What... what are you doing?” the man muttered, his voice indistinct for all kinds of reasons.

“You know what this is,” said Venn. “Waterboarding. Simulated drowning. I don’t have time to waste.”

He hefted the bucket and tipped it. As the water began to trickle out, Franciscus said: “You haven’t asked me anything yet.”

Venn lowered the bucket, pulled off the drape. Franciscus looked weary.

“Why are you even bothering?” he asked. “You’re going to hand me over to the Federal authorities anyway. They’ll just interrogate me. Save yourself some time and energy, and leave it.”

“Two reasons I need answers,” Venn said. “The first is that I haven’t decided yet whether to take you in, or kill you right here. Your answers may influence that decision. The second, is that it’s insurance. If I take you in, and you cut a deal, or your protectors in government, whoever they are, organize a coverup, at least
I’ll
know the truth. And I won’t be silenced so easily.”

Franciscus nodded, as if this was sound reasoning.

“All right, Marine,” he said.

And he began to talk.

Venn listened to the story. About the Delta project and its hatching, almost a decade earlier. About how Franciscus got involved because he’d been stationed in San Antonio for close on a year and had taken an interest in the local drug scene and how Salazar’s cartel had it locked down. About Franciscus’ handling of Flowers, his bi-monthly trips to the office to get progress updates. His influence in the decision not to have Salazar killed when he’d taken out Flowers, but rather to allow him to remain in place while Delta continued to be rolled out.