All He Has Left(24)
The building was basically a run-down mobile home sitting on about an acre of land in industrial East Austin surrounded by other business strips and complexes. The lights were off in the building, and no one was around. Jake stood at a chain-link security fence behind the building and from a distance stared at four different black tow trucks parked side by side. It sure as hell looked like one of them had a Geaux Tigers bumper sticker.
Reaching up, Jake began climbing the chain-link security fence, pulled his legs over, and then found himself back on the pavement on the other side. He hustled over to the short row of tow trucks. His heart rate jumped. It was indeed the same bumper stick he’d spotted earlier. The truck looked like the exact same model, too. He’d found the vehicle—he felt certain of it. Both doors were locked on the truck. Jake peered into the windows to see if he could spot anything inside that might tell him who the driver was tonight. He didn’t see anything lying around that might be useful. No company name tags or lanyards. No magazines with subscription labels. The cabin of the tow truck was very clean. He thought about breaking the window and searching the glove box but decided against it. Someone nearby might hear him and call the police.
Jake stood there a moment, wondering what to do next. How would he go about identifying the driver? The company website didn’t list anyone specifically. Looking at his phone, he decided to dial the phone number for the tow-truck company. Maybe he could talk his way into information. It was nearly two in the morning. Could he expect to get an answer at this hour? The phone rang four times and went to an automated company voice mail, asking callers to leave a message about their situation; someone would call back shortly. He left a quick message: “Yeah, my name is Jeff. I need a tow ASAP. Call me back, please.” He went on to leave his new phone number. He thought about saying someone was on-site breaking into their building, like he was an eyewitness or something, and telling them they should get down here right away. But again, Jake was concerned about potential police involvement.
Climbing back over the security fence, Jake returned to the front side of the building. He wondered if he should find some way to break in and have a look around. The door had a sticker on it claiming the building was guarded by an alarm system and a security company. Was that true? By the looks of things, he highly doubted it. But it wasn’t a risk he wanted to take right now. He called the phone number for the towing company a second time and left an even more urgent message, begging them to call back. He then paced in a circle in front of the building for about twenty minutes before he lost all hope of a return phone call tonight. Still, he wasn’t leaving this place until someone called him back or showed up in the morning. He had no other leads to pursue. The man who drove that tow truck held Jake’s whole life in his hands.
SIXTEEN
The Gulfstream G450 touched down on a private strip at Austin–Bergstrom International Airport at 4:22 a.m. The pilot then taxied into an empty hangar where a white Range Rover and a black Ford Taurus sat parked next to each other. There was only one passenger on the flight. He’d been picked up at a private airstrip in New Jersey a few hours ago. His name was Logan Gervais. Born in Quebec, he was once a promising Canadian federal agent specializing in cyberterrorism. Gervais was as skilled with the computer as he was with his gun. But he’d left his government position ten years ago to become an independent contractor in New York City. He was best known around Manhattan as the Ghost because of his uncanny ability to appear and disappear in the most impossible places to get a job done. Gervais hadn’t come up with the name himself—a client who wanted a business competitor eliminated gave it to him—but he certainly loved it.
As the jet came to a stop, Gervais remained sitting in his plush leather seat, sipping a cup of coffee while staring out the window at the two parked vehicles. At five nine and 160 pounds with close-cropped brown hair, Gervais looked more like an accountant than a hit man—which, of course, played well for him in his work. It was unusual for him to take a job on such short notice, much less get on a plane at such an obscenely early hour. But this client had agreed to pay more than double his normal retaining fee, so he said yes. Plus, he liked Austin. He’d been there a couple of times over the years for music festivals. There was also a Formula One race scheduled for the coming week. Gervais thought he might hang around town after he finished and check it out.
The pilot came out of the cockpit, opened the cabin door, lowered the stairs, and left the plane. A minute later, a sixtysomething man in a black suit got out of the Range Rover, walked over to the plane, and boarded. The pilot remained outside. Gervais recognized the man in the suit as the same lawyer who’d worked the proper back channels to contact him. This man was not the client, but he worked for the client—this was usually how these things were done. He rarely met face-to-face with the powerful and wealthy individuals who wanted someone dead. Sometimes Gervais wasn’t even sure who was paying the bill—which didn’t really matter to him as long as the money was transferred into his account.
“Mr. Gervais, my name is Nelson Wyatt. I spoke with you on the phone earlier. Thank you for coming here so quickly.”
“Do you have everything I requested?”
Wyatt nodded. “I had a car delivered. It’s waiting outside for you. I just sent the digital file to the encrypted link you forwarded to me earlier. Everything you wanted should be in there. If not, please do let me know.”