Текст книги "Chameleon"
Автор книги: Jackson J. Bentley
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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
Chapter 70
Dale City, I95 South of Washington DC, USA, Monday noon.
Katie Norman was concealed under a blanket in the rear of the minivan; she had been injected with some kind of sedative by Barry Mitchinson, who was now in a service station grabbing some drinks and sandwiches. Rob Donkin took the opportunity to sneak into the back of the van and look at his girlfriend. She was beautiful; young, pretty and yet sensual. He stroked her cheek gently; it was as smooth as porcelain but warm and soft.
She pressed all of his buttons whether she knew it or not, whether she intended it or not. Rob daydreamed of the times they would be spending together very soon. She would be reluctant at first, but he would win her over, and if he couldn’t he would blackmail her into staying, but he didn’t want that. Successful relationships can’t be built on fear. No, he would win her over with love. But he would take pictures of her which would cause controversy and wreck her career, just in case. A back up plan, that’s all it would be. He loved her too much to hurt her like that, and he could take the pictures whilst she was drugged, so she wouldn’t even know. That was how he would do it, he decided.
Donkin was sitting back in the front seat when Barry returned to the van with a white carry bag filled with drinks, pastries and chocolate bars. He passed the bag to Rob and took the slip road back onto I95. As they drove and ate he made Donkin practice the script until he was word perfect.
***
Dee had swum, exercised, read a novel and eaten, and she was bored. There were still two days to go until Josh arrived, and so she decided to call into the local Vastrick office, just for something to do. Before she could do so, however, her phone rang. The screen registered a US cell phone with a number she did not recognise. She clicked the green button on her BlackBerry and said hello. There was a brief silence, as if she had lost signal, and it was followed by a click.
“Hello,” she said again, a little louder this time.
“Hello, Dee. Long time no see. Or, if you had your way, I would never see again.”
Dee was sure she recognised the voice.
“Donkin?”
“The very same. Now, listen carefully and say nothing that might make me angry.” Donkin’s confident statement puzzled her, but she decided to listen anyway.
“I have Katie Norman.” He paused as he heard a sharp intake of breath from his hated opponent. “I am on my way to you, and if you do everything we say, Katie will be returned to you safely. Now, listen carefully. These items are not negotiable:
One, you will contact no-one. We will know and Katie Norman will be punished.
Two, you will meet us at a point of our choosing in the Richmond area in the next two hours. We’ll text you the coordinates.
Three, you will tell us where Gillian Davis is, and where we can find her, or Norman will be punished.
If we find Davis where you say she will be, my companion will release you and Norman and we will disappear from your lives – unless you report any of this, in which case you will both be punished. Understood?”
“I understand,” Dee replied, giving nothing away. “Please, can I talk to Katie? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine at the moment, and no, you can’t talk to her. Just do what I say, OK? I’ll call you again when we’re at the meeting point. It will be a few minutes from your hotel. Yes, we know where you’re staying. Don’t contact the authorities or warn Davis.” Donkin paused. “Oh, by the way, you might want to send some flowers to Deanna Pope.” The line went dead. There was another silence and then a click before the dial tone reappeared.
***
Barry praised the young loser for being able to remember the thrust of the script, even if he had adlibbed quite a bit.
“Barry, how will this all go down?”
“I’ve already explained. I get the whereabouts of Davis from the Hammond woman, I leave them with you, and when I see Davis with my own eyes I call you.
“And I can do whatever I want with the women?” Donkin smiled nastily, feeling the pressure of the Sig Sauer handgun in his waistband.
“Yes. Once I have Davis I don’t give a damn about the others, they are simply a means to an end. The Hammond woman is a tough customer. She won’t talk without encouragement, and our cherubic passenger will provide the incentive.”
“You won’t really hurt Katie, will you?” Donkin asked.
“Won’t have to, Rob. Hammond will fold like a cheap suit when she sees I’m serious.”
***
Dee had many options; despite the suspicious clicking on her phone she did not believe Donkin could monitor her calls. She could have called Steve Post from a landline, anyway. She could have called Vastrick for help, or at least the loan of a weapon, but time was short and she needed to think.
***
An hour away from Richmond at her lodge in Lynchburg, Gillian Davis unplugged her iPhone Vox from her iPad. The grid on the screen showed that Dee Hammond was still at her hotel in Richmond. Thank goodness for GPS.
When Gillian Davis had cloned Dee’s phone she’d felt mildly guilty. The woman was asleep and, in a strange way, she had trusted Gillian Davis, perhaps unwisely. With the clone of Dee’s phone residing on the second of the twin sim cards in her iPhone Vox, Gillian could read any text, listen in on any call and make a call as if it originated from Dee’s phone. She had also ensured that the GPS was activated. Her intention was to ensure that Dee Hammond didn’t get any wild ideas about taking Gillian out, or having her rendered back to the UK, and so this call was a surprise.
Gillian Davis too had options, and needed to consider them carefully. She could not blame Dee for disclosing Gil’s whereabouts, even though it meant that she would have to move on again, just as she was getting settled. Gil made a decision and started packing a bag.
***
Dee’s phone rang again at six minutes past two in the afternoon. She was ready; her plans were made. She would go it alone, sort of.
“Hello”. Dee responded to the call, again offering no clues as to her attitude or state of mind. The voice on the other end was different this time. It was English, the accent suggesting education at a minor public school somewhere, but the voice was determined and bordering on the harsh.
“You keep this phone on until we meet, do you understand?” Barry demanded.
“Yes.”
“Go to your car and head towards the I95 on the Downtown Expressway. Do not talk to anyone. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Dee’s phone beeped, and co-ordinates appeared on her BlackBerry.
“Type these coordinates into your sat nav and you will be here in ten minutes. Now, keep your phone on so I can hear what you’re doing.” Barry fell silent and Dee walked through reception to the valet parking area.
“Miss Hammond. Silver Chrysler 300. I’ll just get it for you,” the attendant said cheerily.
“Who was that?” Barry demanded.
“Valet Parking, they’re bringing my car,” Dee replied as she wrote quickly on a post it note which she stuck to a twenty dollar bill. The valet delivered her car and she handed the valet the cash. He saw the twenty and gushed, “Thank you Miss Hammond!”
Dee held her finger to her lips to demand silence from the valet, and stepped into the car.
“OK,” the voice said, “that’s the last talking you do, unless it’s to me!”
The valet spotted the post it note and peeled it off his tip. It read:
“Ring Richmond FBI Field Office, Steve Post, and tell him to meet me at these coordinates ASAP, silent approach only.”
The boy ran inside to talk to his manager.
Chapter 71
Darvell Salvage Yard, East 7 th Street, Richmond, Virginia. USA, Monday 2.45pm.
Dee left the expressway and headed south over the river on the Mayos Bridge which took South 14th Street over Mayo Island. On the south side of the river the road became Hull Street, which bisected the East and West versions of 1st to 6th Streets before the sat nav told her to take a left onto East 7th Street.
Dee travelled through the industrial area, much of it quiet, some of it abandoned, for six blocks. Richmond’s industry had obviously succumbed to the global recession in much the same way as the UK had.
“You have reached your destination,” the lady on the sat nav announced. A second later her BlackBerry sprang to life in its cradle in the centre console. She switched it out of speaker mode and lifted it to her ear.
“OK, Mrs Hammond. Be sensible, now. Park over the road on the waste ground, behind the stretch limo will do nicely. Then cross Dinwiddle Avenue. You are joining me in the junk yard between 7th and 8th Street. Keep the phone to your ear until I can see you.”
Dee did as she was told and walked around the perimeter of the salvage yard, which was completely fenced off, until she saw the sole entrance. She pushed the rusty old gates and they scraped long gouges in the ground until there was an opening large enough for her to pass through.
In front of her around twenty yards away she could see a new minivan. It stood out because everything else around it was scrap. There were narrow corridors of open space between precariously stacked squashed cars. There were rusty fridges, containers and oil drums that might have been stacked here in the 1960s. The place had the stink of dereliction. Dee walked carefully up to the van with the phone still at her ear, and looked inside. It was empty.
“We can dispense with the phone now.” Barry stepped out of a shadow and let her see a deadly looking hunting knife. He saw her staring at the lethal blade and he smiled.
“I love the USA. I picked this up for thirty five dollars at a truck stop come hunting store. It’s razor sharp, so don’t try any heroics,” he offered by way of introduction.
***
The junk yard had obviously not been used for some time. All of the cars were from the 1970s and 80s. Dee walked ahead of Barry and found herself in a preparation yard, a cleared area surrounded by mountains of scrap. Escape was only going to be possible by exiting the way she came in. Trying to clamber over the scrap could bring tons of the rusted metal down on top of anyone who attempted it.
In the middle of the clearing Dee could see two old folding chairs with ropes tied to them. The first chair was occupied by a tied and gagged Katie Norman, terror and bemusement visible in her teary eyes. She sobbed when she saw Dee. Dee moved towards her, but Rob Donkin stepped in front of the young starlet, blocking the way. Dee could have hit him twice and then moved his lifeless body out of her way, but she restrained herself. His time would come.
“Hands on your head,” Barry insisted, poking the point of the knife into her back. Dee obeyed slowly. He frisked her whilst Ron Donkin held the knife. The balding middle aged creep ran his hands over her body with an intensity that spoke more of sexual control than of searching. Dee showed no emotion, but she registered her disgust internally. She was keeping score.
Donkin handed the knife back to Barry and took his place behind Katie’s chair, stroking her hair proprietarily as he grinned at Dee. Barry Mitchinson ushered Dee to the second chair and ordered her to sit down. The second chair was around four yards from Katie’s chair, and they both faced inwards towards the centre of the clearing. Dee knew that once she was tied up her survival would lie in the hands of a valet parking attendant ten miles away, but at the moment she was out of options, so she sat down.
Barry told Donkin to tie Dee’s hands and feet and then secure her to the chair. Donkin pushed Dee forward on the chair so that she was leaning forwards and so he could get to her hands. Barry stood in front of her, wielding the wicked looking blade. It was now or never.
Whilst remaining in her seat, Dee flung her head back with as much force as she could, smashing the back of her head into Donkin’s forehead. He went down, falling backwards with a yelp of pain and surprise. As she moved back into position, she sprang from the chair, pushing down on bent legs to power herself into the moderately built Mitchinson. He tried to bring the knife around but he was too late. Her head butt to the chest had unbalanced him and as he began to tumble his fingers loosened their grip on the knife. Dee turned through one hundred and eighty degrees so that her back was toward Mitchinson, and she used both hands to grab his knife arm. Her thumb, forced into the pressure point in his wrist, elicited a scream and an involuntary opening of his fingers. The knife clattered onto the dirt. Pulling his arm down at an unnatural angle, she bent the MI5 man double and used her right arm to secure him in a headlock, whilst twisting his arm up his back. It seemed to be all over, but Dee heard a muffled cry from Katie. Without relaxing her hold on Mitchinson, she turned her head just in time to see the twisted, bloodied face of Donkin forming a painful grin as he fired the gun at Dee from a distance of just three yards.
The bullet hit her like a heavyweight boxer’s punch and she felt a searing pain in her right side, punctuated by the crack of a rib as the bullet passed through her midsection, just missing Mitchinson.
How she remained standing she would never quite work out. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was just bloody mindedness, but she did more than just stand. She looked at the bloody damage to her shirt and shouted, her voice a mixture of pain and rage.
“Not again!” She let go of the stunned MI5 man, who had not known that his accomplice had a gun.
“You damn fool, Donkin!” Barry blustered. “We need her alive!”
By the time he had uttered the words, Donkin had raised the gun again, ready to defend himself against the approaching Dee Hammond. She was advancing towards him, and her murderous expression scared him witless. He fired a second time, but the kick on the gun sent the second bullet harmlessly through Dee’s billowing jacket, thankfully missing her body. Realising that he had missed, Donkin dropped the gun and tried to turn and run, but he was too late. With one last desperate lunge, Dee packed all of her remaining power into a right hook which caught Donkin on the left side of his jaw. His head twisted oddly, and an audible crack echoed around the junk yard. Donkin collapsed in a heap on the dusty, littered ground. His body lay at an impossible angle. His neck was clearly broken, and Dee thought he was most probably dead.
Dee tried to hold on to the chair for support, but the bone handle of the hunting knife crashed into her head and her body went limp as she joined Donkin on the dusty junk yard floor.
***
Dee had no idea how long she was out of it, but when she finally awoke her face was wet and she was tied to a chair, whilst Mitchinson, remarkably uninjured, stood over her, holding a bottle of water.
After a moment Dee noticed that Donkin still lay where he’d fallen. Mitchinson paid him scant attention, and had not even checked for a pulse. She realised then that Katie, Donkin and herself were never destined to leave this junk yard alive.
“Welcome back, Mrs Hammond. I suspect that within the hour you will bleed to death, so you have one chance and one chance only. You may think that chance is slim, and so it is, but it is a chance.” He paused as he walked towards Katie, whose eyes were wide with fear. He was holding the gun.
“Mrs Hammond, I am a significantly better shot than the boy, and in any case I can’t miss from here. Please tell me, where can I find Gillian Davis?”
“You’re going to kill us both anyway, so why should I cooperate?”
“Firstly because I may, in fact, decide to let you both live, and secondly, because you can die quickly or slowly, dependent upon how generous I’m feeling. Let me say that I will feel more benevolent towards the pair of you if I can get my hands around the scrawny neck of Gillian Davis.”
Dee had to play for time. She didn’t buy any of that. She was certain that the moment he knew where Davis was, Katie and herself would both be dead.
“I’m sorry, Barry, whatever your name is, but I will not tell you unless you let Katie go. If you do that, I’ll tell you and you can take me with you to find Davis, and you can kill me if we don’t find her.”
“Sorry, Mrs Hammond. You wouldn’t last the journey.” He raised the gun to Katie’s head and flicked off the safety catch. “I’m sorry, young lady, but your good friend is sacrificing your life in order to protect a paid killer.”
Dee was about to blurt out the address when Barry Mitchinson’s hand suddenly disappeared in a dense red mist. All three of them stared in horror, as what was left of his tattered right hand fell to the floor, along with the gun.
Mitchinson screamed in terror as he used his left hand to grip the remains of his wrist, in a doomed effort to stop the arterial blood spraying out like a fountain in a parody of a low budget horror film. He collapsed to his knees.
“Steve, is that you?” Dee yelled, the pain in her side making her feel winded at the effort.
A figure carrying a hunting rifle with a light coloured wooden grip and stock appeared from behind a scrap car and picked its way carefully across the debris of junk until it was walking towards the two restrained women.
“I’m afraid your knight in shining armour didn’t quite make it in time,” Gillian Davis said in an ironic tone.
Gillian Davis propped up the Browning X Bolt 7mm Hunter rifle against an old refrigerator, and walked over to collect the Sig from where it had fallen. She carefully slid her pen into the barrel and lifted the gun, being careful not to touch it, whist sliding it in to her shoulder bag. She then picked up the knife and swung a hefty kick into Mitchinson’s ribs. He was physically lifted off the floor by the force of it. He landed shaking and sobbing, his life blood seeping into the dust.
“That’s for trying to kill me at the Strand Tube Station, you bastard. I did everything you ever asked of me, you malicious creep.” She steadied herself, ready to deliver another kick, but he cowered away.
“Please, I need medical assistance. I’m dying! You’re better than this, Gilly. You were my wondergirl. Don’t let me die! Please!”
Gillian Davis looked down at what was left of his wrist. The hunting ammunition had exploded the joint, amputated his hand and destroyed the artery, pretty much as she had expected when she loaded 150gram, 7mm hunting ammunition.
“Sorry, Barry,” she said with genuine remorse, “You are already dead. I suggest you make peace with your maker while you still have the chance.”
Barry began weeping openly.
Dee was now concerned for her own safety.
“What about us?” she asked tentatively. “Despite everything, Katie doesn’t deserve to die.”
Gillian looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then she grinned.
“Nor do you, Dee. Do I deserve to die? Well, that’s debatable, and these two are beyond deserving, but you’ve done nothing wrong. All you ever wanted was to find justice for those two sweet people who died at the hands of the Chameleon. Anyway, we don’t have time for this. We need to get you to hospital, and a damn sight quicker than an ambulance would.”
Gillian cut Katie’s bonds and carefully removed her gag. Gillian looked at Katie Norman and saw herself as she might once have been; the innocence, the optimism, the normality.
“Come on, sweetheart. We have to get Dee to the minivan.”
Gillian cut Dee free and took off her own jacket and shirt. Standing there, incongruously, in a lacy blue Victoria’s Secret bra, she tore her Armani shirt into strips and, balling two strips into fist sized pads, she placed one on the bullet entry wound and the other on the exit wound. Dee squirmed. Katie held the pads in place as Gil wrapped the remaining strips of the shirt around Dee’s body to form a bandage. She then removed her belt and tightened it around the makeshift bandage. Gillian then replaced her jacket to preserve a modicum of modesty.
“Katie, it will be your job to keep this tight. She can squeal all she wants, but don’t let up. The pain is too bad, but she can survive that. Blood loss she can’t. Understand?” She smiled reassuringly at the young woman. Katie Norman nodded, her jaw set in determination.
***
Gil Davis gunned the engine of the minibus. It was not the vehicle she would have chosen for a race to the hospital seven miles away, but it was all she had. She slammed the shift into drive and rammed her foot onto the accelerator. The minivan smashed though the chain link gates and onto Dinwiddle, before turning immediately left up Seventh Street. By the time she reached Hull Street she was doing over seventy miles an hour. Luckily there was little traffic south of the river. The minivan held onto the road as it careened around the corner and headed to the bridge.
By the time Gil saw the sign for the hospital, her driving had attracted two Richmond PD cruisers who were in hot pursuit, lights flashing, sirens blazing. Gil smiled as the road ahead cleared. After one final crazy turn onto Nine Miles Road, the van fishtailing madly, the Hospital was in sight. Gil ignored the Ambulances Only sign and slammed the van to a stop outside the emergency room entrance.
Immediately behind her the two cruisers screeched to a halt. The drivers were out in a second, perched behind their doors, guns out of holsters.
“Stop! Police!” they shouted in unison.
Gil carried on helping a bloodstained and barely conscious Dee out of the back seat of the van.
“Either shoot me, or come and help. This woman is dying!” Gil yelled.
The two policemen looked at the woman who was wearing a leather jacket over a blue bra, holstered their guns and ran to assist. Gil could be arrested and handcuffed when the sick woman was safely on a gurney.
