Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(77)

He heard not a peep. Just the wind in the trees. Keiko was cowering in the house, peeking out a window. No idea what to do.

John jerked on heavy-duty rubber gloves. He pulled the back open, hauled out the duct-taped Franz, dumped him onto the concrete. He wrenched the tape off the man’s mouth, and pried out the slimy little ball, sticking it back into his pocket for later.

Franz gulped for air. John grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and pressed a gun to the nape of his neck. “Call him,” he commanded.

“Huh? Who?” Franz was purple, disoriented from lack of oxygen.

“Call Keiko, shit-for-brains. Now.” John grabbed the guy’s balls, and squeezed. Hard enough to repay the kick to the knee.

Franz shrieked and complied, calling out his boyfriend’s name.

It took Keiko about twenty seconds to come to the door. John smiled at the sight. No problem here. Asian pretty boy, long shining hair, rolling eyes, girlish hands. Clutching a kitchen knife. Oh, please.

“What have you done to him?” Keiko’s voice was shrill, shaking.

“Nothing yet.” John strode toward him. “Give me time.”

Keiko actually did attempt to use the knife, making a few amateurish slashes, but a smooth parry, grab, torque, and the weapon flew to the ground, bouncing. John sprayed the guy briskly with knock-out juice, held Keiko still until it took, and dragged him inside.

It took some muscle and creativity to set the scene. First Keiko had to be firmly bound into a chair, hand and foot. The chair was placed strategically in front of the big beam, from which hung a wrought iron medieval-style chandelier. Very handy, that.

John hung up the silken noose, and went about the business of persuading Franz to stand up straight on the stool, and put his head into it, which he was understandably reluctant to do. A few feints at cutting off Keiko’s ears got him moving, and eventually, there he was, jaybird naked, clothes sliced off. Gagged and duct-taped.

Just in time for Keiko to wake up and start freaking out.

John didn’t really have to do all that much to Franzie to get results. It was clear that Keiko would tell him anything, but sadly for Franzie, he did not seem to have much to tell. Just that Lara Kirk had called late last night, after being missing for months, and had begged him to call the Tokyo police department and tip them off about a bomb set to blow, which he had subsequently done. The number was on his smartphone. That was all he knew. He repeated himself frantically.

John located the smartphone in question. Indeed, there was the number. And no, Keiko did not know her location. John made very sure of that. To Franzie’s great cost.

It was clear, based on his experience with interrogation, that Keiko was telling the truth. No more info would be forthcoming.

Clean-up time.

John set to it, meticulously careful to see that the appropriate fingerprints and genetic material were deposited on the right items. Keiko’s boss was in for a shock. Handy, that there were no neighbors to hear the screaming, or the gunshot.

He cleaned and put away the kitchen knife Keiko had dropped, moving carefully and deliberately. Every move thought through, like a game of chess. His trademark was “no mistakes.” He scrubbed and exfoliated himself before every job, wore latex, shaved his head and body. Never left even the faintest trace of himself behind.

He seeded Keiko’s car with a few extreme S&M magazines, as he had done in Keiko’s apartment. He left also a small laptop, bought used and reconfigured, with rough gay porn sites bookmarked on it. To explain the bruises, the ligature marks.

Once the work was done, he called the contact.

“What have you got?” she demanded.

“A cell phone number,” he said.

“That’s all? We needed an address! We have a time crunch here!”

“She didn’t give him an address when she called,” John said. “With your contacts, you can find the location with the number more quickly than I can. I did what I was told to do, and I expect to be paid.”

“Give me the number,” the woman grumbled. “Have the phone couriered to the Portland address. Immediately.”

“Agreed.” John rattled off the phone number.

“What’s the status of Keiko Yamada?” the woman asked.

“Dead,” John said. “He was playing nasty S&M games with his boyfriend. Sexual asphyxiation game gone tragically wrong. He shot himself, out of guilt and remorse. True love, and all. Poignant.”

“Hmmph.” The woman’s snort was heavy with disapproval. “Sounds news-mongering to me. I would have preferred a simple missing-person case.”

“You wanted info, not just a simple hit,” John said, through his teeth. “I fished for it. That’s messy, and the mess has to be accounted for. It doesn’t just disappear.”

The bitch hemmed and hawed, but finally gave him the transfer number before breaking the connection.

That quantity of money transferred into his bank account had a salutory effect on his aching knee. In fact, the pain vanished.

He got a rush of energy from it, so much so, he was sorry he’d already dispatched poor Keiko and Franz. Usually, John preferred to conduct celebratory fun and games with women.

But he could be flexible.





Sun streamed through the blinds when Miles opened his eyes.

He was disoriented. Hardly knew who the hell he was, waking up in a soft, warm bed, in a bright room, no pain in his head, no tension in his body. And a silken soft fragrant angel in his arms.