Bad Turn Page 8

  This time, on a hunch, I smiled politely and murmured something to the effect that Mrs Kincaid was so naturally efficient that she made the job of organising her almost superfluous. The woman laughed as though I’d said something terribly amusing and was instantly distracted by someone more worthy of her attention. As she turned away, Helena caught my eye and the corner of her mouth quirked into what might have been a smile.

  Progress, of a sort.

  After that, I made sure I dressed to fit the role I’d tacitly agreed to play—shirts with enough of a collar to hide the faint scar that still laced my throat, worn under suits that allowed me room to move without restriction and hid the gun behind my right hip.

  For the first week after I joined the Kincaid household, the most exciting thing that happened was a violent thunderstorm that frightened one of the horses into barging through the post-and-rail fence of his paddock and hightailing it across country. He made it almost to the boundary of the property before we tracked him down in one of the Range Rovers, and Helena, jumping out into the downpour without a murmur, calmed and caught him.

  She ordered me to keep back, something I wasn’t happy to do when there was three-quarters of a ton of self-guided weapon on the loose around her. I recognised the frightened animal would not come to a stranger, but I climbed out into the rain anyway and stood near the front end of the Range Rover, leaving Schade behind the wheel.

  Having coaxed the horse close enough to clip the lead rope to his headcollar, Helena grinned back at the pair of us. I just had time for my stomach to drop before she vaulted onto the animal’s back. And I’d already started to swear under my breath even as she dug her heels into the horse’s sides. He bounded forwards into a gallop, heading back up the sandy track in the direction of the horse barns and the house, with her bending low over his neck.

  As I clambered soggily back into the Range Rover and slammed the door, Schade threw me a wry look that might even have been sympathetic at the cause of my disgust.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes Mrs K has too much spunk for her own good, huh?”

  Then, just when I thought Helena and I had taken a couple of steps forward, we took half a dozen back again. And, this time, her husband joined in.

  “No,” he said firmly. “It’s dinner, just the two of us. A quiet romantic meal. No way are you two doing a full roll-out, Schade, so suck it up.”

  Schade’s eyes behind those wire-rimmed glasses were expressionless. So was his voice. “You’re the boss, dude.”

  Kincaid stared at him for long enough that I felt I ought to offer to hold their coats while they took it outside. We were in his spacious office—me standing, Schade leaning against the nearest wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright, and Kincaid perched on the front edge of the enormous desk. He’d called us in to announce his plans for an evening out, seemingly already prepared for the arguments he knew we’d throw against it. As security chief as well as Kincaid’s personal bodyguard, Schade had seniority when it came to most of the arguing. His boss batted everything straight back, but Schade was dogged in his persistence.

  Eventually, Kincaid sighed, rubbed a hand round the back of his neck.

  “Look, it’s our anniversary, for God’s sake. You know how Helena feels about being spied on. Is it too much to ask that we be allowed some privacy for one meal? Or are you planning to watch us the whole night? Maybe give us marks for style?”

  Schade’s face didn’t twitch. “I was gonna go with technical difficulty,” he said. “Maybe a final round against the clock—”

  “Enough! Minimum cover only. Is that clear?” Kincaid held the bodyguard’s gaze until he received a brief, reluctant nod. “Just you and Fox, one chase car, two drivers. And that’s it.”

  Schade gave a nod. “Like I said—you’re the boss.” Even if his tone suggested there might be some doubt about that.

  Kincaid sighed again. “It’s just a quiet anniversary dinner,” he repeated wearily. “Not a gala at the Met, for fuck’s sake.”

  He rounded his desk and sat behind it. The dismissal was loud and clear. Schade and I made the long trek to the office door and passed through. I closed it behind us with a lot less force than I would have liked to use. In the outer office, Mrs Heedles didn’t look up from her computer screen, just held up a hand to forestall any pleas we might have been about to make.

  “Save your breath,” she said. “I’ve been trying all morning to talk him out of the idea.”

  Schade waited until we were in the corridor before he let out a long breath down his nose, the most emotion I’d seen him display. “Well, I’d give him a four.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” I said. “Is that for style or technical difficulty?”

  “No,” he said. “For conviction. He knows it’s a bad plan—especially with what’s happening right now. He’s just being stubborn, and stupid, and hoping to get lucky tonight.”

  I raised an eyebrow, unsure if this was an aspect of the Kincaids’ marriage I wanted, or even needed, to know about. It was hard to tell if Schade was ever being entirely serious in what he said. But if our principals had tired of each other sexually—and were satisfying that need elsewhere—it might explain Helena’s aversion to having me cramping her style whenever she left the property.

  “This anniversary,” I said. “Which is it?”

  Schade looked at me as if I should have known the answer to that one without having to ask.

  “It’s their first.”

  16

  “Quiet anniversary dinner, my arse,” I muttered under my breath.

  I stood at the back of a darkened hall, which was set with perhaps thirty or forty cabaret tables, each lit by shaded candles. On stage at the front, in the narrow cone of a single spotlight, a young Chinese woman in a long red dress played one of the Bach cello suites with what sounded to me like an exquisite touch.

  Certainly, if the tilt of Helena Kincaid’s head was anything to go by, she was transfixed by the music. Eric Kincaid sat alongside her, looking pleased to have pleased her. They held hands across the starched white linen.

  I kept the couple’s table in my peripheral view at all times, letting my gaze rove across the rest of the audience. The staff moved between tables with deceptive pace, never appearing to hurry but not obviously dawdling, either. I watched closely for dress or movement that didn’t quite match, comparing faces against a mental database, straining my eyes in the low light.

  “From what little I’ve seen of your ass, I wouldn’t confuse the two.” Schade’s voice sounded in my ear. He was behind the stage somewhere, covering the entrances and exits back there, circulating through the kitchen at regular intervals. We’d done a quick walk-through when we arrived—and again before the performance began. The place was a rabbit warren, but at least he didn’t need night-vision goggles to do his job effectively.

  “If you want a turn out front, let me know,” I said, hoping for a chance to emerge into the light for a change. “This girl is amazing.”

  “No thanks, I brought a book,” Schade said, and once again I wouldn’t have put it past him to be telling something close to the truth.

  “If you’re sure? But you’re missing a treat.”

  “Yeah, sorry, this chick doesn’t do it for me.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I murmured, still scanning constantly. “The kind of bands you go to see live have to play behind Plexiglas because of the flying bottles at the end of the night?”

  “Not so much,” he replied easily. “The reason I’m not into this chick is because she’s all about the technical precision without any emotional connection to the piece. That and her bowing’s slightly off. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s most likely damaged the rotator cuff in her right shoulder.”

  “Schade, you are a constant source of wonder.”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “Naturally, I also go to see those bands who play behind the Plexiglas—goes without saying.”

  “Oh, of course it�
��”

  Movement over to my right caught my eye.

  “What’s up, Fox?” The lazy relaxation had disappeared from Schade’s voice.

  “New waiter.” I frowned, unsure how to put a gut feeling into words. “He’s…out of sync with the others.”

  “You sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, ’course you are. Sorry. Force of habit.”

  I kept my gaze locked on the waiter. He was weaving smoothly between the tables—but he was doing it a little too smoothly. His eyes were everywhere. Not simply scanning tabletops for plates or glasses that might need his attention, but the angle of his head told me he was also checking out exits and blind spots. And he was spending a fraction too long checking on the other staff, who were people he should have known, and on the bystanders, of which I was one.

  We made eye contact. He gave a slight nod and a smile. It was almost perfectly weighted, like he knew his job was to remain invisible and he was feeling a little guilty to realise someone could see him. Just like a skilled waiter should.

  Or a skilled assassin.

  The only way I could tell the difference for sure was when he didn’t break the connection soon enough. A genuine waiter would have been more concerned with regaining his invisible status. This guy kept his eyes on me while he worked out if his cover was blown.

  And by doing so, he blew it himself.

  “Waiter,” I snapped into the throat mic, already pushing away from the wall. “We need to get them out of here, Schade. Right now.”

  As soon as I started moving to intercept, the man dressed as a waiter registered that he’d been made. Even in the low light, I saw him hesitate, just for a second. That was all it took for him to calculate that he couldn’t get to his target before I got to him.

  The fake waiter altered course without apparent effort, movements still unhurried and even. He reached a door by the side of the stage, twisting as he went through to take a last look at me, and how far I was behind him. My stride faltered. The urge to chase, to attack and bring down tempered by the need to protect.

  At the opposite side of the stage, the door opened and Schade came out onto the floor. He spotted me at once. I saw the question in his face and jerked my head in the direction the would-be assailant had taken. Schade stabbed a finger that way impatiently, his message clear: Get after him!

  I knew I should stick with my principal, but the opportunity to go after the guy, to gather intel, was too tempting to ignore. Besides, I had few doubts that Schade was probably very good at his job. He was already ushering the Kincaids from their seats, heading for the exit.

  I quickened my pace, not caring about the disapproving glances from patrons as I brushed between their chairs. By the time I reached the door where my quarry had disappeared, I was practically running.

  I hit the door with my shoulder and spun through. Because of that, the blow that should have landed on the back of my skull glanced off my upper arm instead. I ducked, bringing my hands up on reflex to protect my head. As I turned into my attacker, his fist grazed past me again. Momentum had him overreaching. I darted past his guard, slid across the outside of his arm and plunged stiffened fingers into his right eye.

  He jerked back with a grunt, then lashed out again. Short, vicious blows with his bodyweight behind them, any one of which should have finished the fight—if he’d managed to land it.

  I crowded in on top of him, hands up by my head so I took the brunt on my forearms and biceps. My bent elbows stopped him getting close enough to grab my torso, but lured him in as far as I needed in order to pound his sternum and larynx—short blows with a twist at the end of them—then slice down under the side of his jawline.

  He started to crumple, letting fly with his boot as he did so in a last-ditch attempt to put me down first. I hammer-fisted his ankle to one side. He landed off balance, staggering. I leapt, stamping into the back of his knee and grabbing the collar of his shirt to yank him off his feet. Stitching ripped, scattering buttons, but his head still cracked down hard enough on the solid wood floor to put him out.

  I stepped back, breathing hard. “Schade, what’s happening? Talk to me.”

  Nothing.

  Then, somewhere outside the hall came the sound of gunshots. The cellist stopped playing in mid-stroke.

  I started running again.

  17

  By the time I hit the front of the building, the SIG was in my hand. To hell with trying to keep things low-key and not frightening the other diners or the staff. As soon as the shooting began, any kind of subtlety went out of the window.

  I’d taken a side door and legged it around the building. It seemed easier and faster than going back through the audience, who might be stampeding by now.

  Since we’d gone in, the weather had turned and the heavens had opened. The rain gushed down, overflowing the gutters. It sat in a visible layer on the concrete path, pelting into my back. When I slowed at the front corner and dropped to one knee, it soaked instantly through the leg of my trousers. I edged my head around the brickwork just far enough to give one eye a clear view of the scene.

  Schade stood in the centre of the driveway, oblivious to the rain, holding one of the tactical shotguns up to his shoulder. He was firing slugs from the Mossberg as fast as he could work the pump-action, into the back end of a Range Rover that was accelerating rapidly away from the scene. It was hard to tell in the dark and the rain, but the vehicle looked suspiciously like the one I’d arrived in with Helena Kincaid.

  Alongside the bodyguard, not afraid of getting his hands dirty, Eric Kincaid poured semiautomatic fire from an M4 into the rear of the Range Rover. From the way both men were aiming for the tyres rather than the glass, there was only one conclusion I could draw.

  “Helena?” I demanded. “Where’s Helena?”

  Neither man heard me above the gunfire and the sluice of falling water. I hardly needed them to answer, in any case.

  Gaining speed, the Range Rover side-swiped one of the trees lining the drive as the driver misjudged a bend, kicking up a plume of spray. One of the rear lights splintered and went out. The vehicle shimmied from the impact, righted itself and was lost from view.

  Schade ceased firing immediately. Kincaid carried on until the moving parts locked back on an empty magazine. Even then, he continued to grip the weapon like he could will more rounds into it. Schade slung the Mossberg onto its shoulder strap, reached across and very gently peeled the M4 out of his principal’s nerveless hands. It steamed and hissed as the water droplets hit hot steel.

  “We’ll get her back, Kincaid,” he said softly. “I promise you.”

  Kincaid barely looked at him. His hair was plastered flat to his skull, shirt soaked almost translucent. He was shivering and seemed utterly dazed.

  “Helena,” he muttered. “They took her…”

  Then he dropped to his knees, threw his head back, and howled into the heavens.

  18

  “They caught us with our pants down,” Schade said. “Almost literally.”

  I agreed with his assessment, but said nothing.

  We had found Helena’s driver—a replacement for the dead Ellis—out cold in the gents’ toilet, his trousers still unzipped. After that, it was easy to put together what had happened.

  I still wasn’t sure if the man who’d been posing as a waiter had been a genuine threat, or simply a means to spring the trap they’d set for us. Either way, it had worked to drive the Kincaids out of the relative safety of the crowded concert hall and into the more exposed parking area. There, in the dark and the rain, Helena’s Range Rover had been waiting for her exactly where it should have been. She was hustled into it without anybody stopping to check on the identity of the driver.

  I’d run back for the fake waiter, only to find him already gone—whether under his own steam or scooped up by other members of his team, I wasn’t sure. I certainly thought I’d hit him hard enough to stop him walking for a while.

  N
ow, I was sitting squashed into the rear of the remaining Range Rover, with Schade on the other side and Helena’s semiconscious driver lolling in the centre between us. Kincaid had taken the front passenger seat. He was leaning forwards against his seatbelt as if in pain, one hand braced on the dashboard. Utter rage roiled off him in waves.

  I knew the feeling.

  Losing a principal—no, I corrected myself, Helena was ‘temporarily mislaid’ not lost as in lost—was making me feel physically sick. I could understand Kincaid’s reaction. I’d responded in a very similar way myself on the day Sean Meyer was shot in front of me. It still surprised me that I hadn’t killed the bastard who’d done it, right there and then.

  Perhaps I would have found it easier to live with if I had.

  Half a mile up the road, at a rural intersection, we found the Range Rover abandoned with the doors gaping wide in the continuing downpour. Both rear tyres were shot out and the alloy rims were distorted and scarred.

  I gave the inside a cursory inspection, looking for blood. I didn’t find any. Helena’s purse, with her new all-singing, all-dancing smartphone inside, had been tipped out into the rear footwell.

  Her driver, Lopez, had come round enough to be mortified at being so easily caught out. Or maybe he had a better idea than I did of what punishment awaited us. It was hard to get a read on what Kincaid might do. Either way, the man was pale and silent when Kincaid ordered him to stay with the vehicle until his collection team arrived. “And don’t touch anything. We may get something we can use off of the interior.”

  I half-expected to be ordered to wait with him in the rain, but Kincaid jerked his head and I retook my seat in his car. He twisted in his seat to face me and I mentally braced myself.

  “I’m…sorry,” he said through gritted teeth, the reluctant apology taking me by surprise. “You were right—both of you. Trying to do this low-key was a mistake. But you know how Helena feels about being overwhelmed with security. I just…”