Cal Winter 03 The Saint Jude Rules by Dominic Adler

Author:Dominic Adler [Adler, Dominic]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781786080264
Google: UTL5swEACAAJ
Publisher: Thistle Publishing
Published: 2017-01-01T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter seventeen

The park was leafy salient encircled by concrete and brick. Kids played basketball in a metal-fenced court, laughing and shouting. Young women with buggies chatted, watching their kids toddle around a playground. I walked quickly into the trees and waited.

An operative entered the park, a sinewy woman wearing a green jacket. She was the same person who’d followed us from De Soto’s office the day before. Eyes hidden behind shades, a day-sack over her shoulder. She stopped and pulled a bottle of water from her pocket to take a drink. It gave her time to watch, take bearings. The grey Toyota appeared on the opposite side of the park, engine idling.

The woman spoke into a hidden mic. She walked towards me, into cover. She’d checked out the playground and basketball court and decided they were of no interest. I guessed there was a guy in the car tracking the GPS signal coming from Pilbeam’s watch, relaying instructions.

The park grew denser, in the shadow of graffiti-covered concrete and thorn bushes. I pulled out Pilbeam’s watch and set the alarm function. Thirty seconds. I put it on the ground and stood behind a thick-trunked tree. The operative walked towards my position, talking into her mic with one hand inside her jacket. She circled the area, like a wary animal at a new watering hole.

Pilbeam’s watch made an audible beep. She glanced at it, distracted.

I stepped out from behind the tree. “Hide and seek. Not a proper game for grown-ups, is it?” Green jacket went for her gun, but she was already staring down the barrel of my suppressed .45.

“Okay, I’m going to put my sidearm on the ground,” she replied in a clipped American accent. She placed a weapon on the grass. “Here’s how this goes down: I’m gonna walk away, and you ain’t gonna shoot. Okay?”

“Wrong,” I said. My .45 hissed. The bullet sliced through Green jacket’s hamstring, making a vivid red slash along her trouser leg. “I’ve got a message for Drexler.”

The American looked at me, teeth gritted, icy blue eyes lasering into mine. She clamped a hand over her bloodied leg, clear-gel earpiece dangling loose.

I pocketed her pistol. Yeah, it was an FN 5-7. “Give me your radio,” I ordered.

She handed me a small body-set on a flesh-coloured harness. I un-jacked her earpiece and keyed the mic. “Drexler, d’you hear me?”

“Identify yourself,” said a voice. Deep and slow, New Orleans lazy.

“Cal Winter.”

“Ah, Winter. I’ve read your file. Shouldn’t you be dead of cirrhosis by now?”

“I know your plan,” I said. “I’ve got Pilbeam and Hoffman.”

“The plan? Awesome, ain’t it?” Drexler replied. “Let Kris and Bryan go. Oh, and please tell me you haven’t killed my operative in there. I value my people. Unlike The Firm.”

“She’s slightly damaged. Why don’t you come and get her?”

Drexler sighed. “No, she’s a big girl. And I’m running to a schedule. What do you want?”

“I want you. You are The Firm now, Drexler. Bad mistake. And I’m not having you attack my country with it.

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