Coming to the final level, he pressed himself into the door frame, out of sight of anyone in the corridor, and peered through glass made practically opaque by the number of greasy fingerprints smearing the window. The elevator doors were approximately twenty feet away and were closed. Beyond them he could make out two bulky figures moving along the hall, attempting to be cat-footed, but still cumbersome from the way they were bunched together. Markus thought about rushing along the hall behind them and shooting them before they knew he was there, but the noise would most assuredly alert his targets, who would already be on high alert. Should he approach them in another manner — his gun hidden — and take them out silently? He was confident that he could handle the two of them, even though they carried clubs. Their weapons would hinder them in the confined space, whereas he’d have plenty of room to deliver a couple of larynx-crushing blows. The idea was tempting but he chose to wait, his finger hooked around the trigger of his gun, observing the men as they took up position to each side of the second to last door. There was no doubt now that they had come for Parnell. But with their weapons of choice they had not come to kill him; he would enter the apartment after them, kill them, then take Parnell at his leisure.
Markus crouched slightly, attempting to find a cleaner spot on the window. When he could find none, he took the decision to push the swing doors open a little and he watched the action through the gap down the centre. He was in time to see the nearest man rap softly on the door. Immediately the tough guy slipped out of the way; possibly so he couldn’t be seen if anyone checked through a spyhole. Markus couldn’t recall if there was a peephole or not. When there was no reply the two guys huddled together, but their words were merely a sibilant hiss from this distance. One of them backed up, placing his hips to the small wall that formed the balustrade. Then he lunged forward, lifting his knee and crashing his heel close to the door handle. His first attempt to kick open the door failed, so he lifted his knee and booted it again. The clatter of a chain snapping and the links scattering on the floor was loud even to Markus’s ear. The door swung inwards this time, and crashed off a wall. Immediately the two guys charged inside.
Markus didn’t stop to think. If they were here to harm Parnell and Faulks, he had seconds to respond or they would get to his targets first. He thrust through the swing doors and raced along the hall.
He could hear the stamps of the men as they surged around the apartment, the thud of doors being thrown open, and the sounds were almost Markus’s undoing. He was concentrating on them so much that he almost missed the final door on the landing being pulled open and a man stepping into sight. He thought that the man was possibly a concerned neighbour, checking on the sounds of commotion. But then it struck him. He knew the face that briefly turned to regard him. He saw the man’s eyes widen in recognition, and in the next instant the man’s hand was coming up and it was clutching a handgun. Unlike the two tough guys who’d mounted their attack with the finesse of charging bulls, this man moved with professional calm. The man centred his gaze on Markus the way he had in that moment when they’d glanced at each other over the fence in Yoshida Takumi’s back yard. The stranger aimed his gun at Markus’s chest.
Markus also lifted his gun, but he wasn’t quick enough. He fired, but it was a moment after the stranger had already done so. Markus had no way of knowing if his aim was on target, because his reaction was to throw himself to one side. It didn’t save him: the bullet struck his side like a hammer blow. Caught mid-dive the impact spun him and Markus caromed against the low wall.
Pain flared through him, a white flash of agony lancing through his senses. He wanted to scream but the pain ensured his teeth were clamped tight. Before this he’d had no idea of what being shot felt like, but he knew now. He wondered if he was dying, his mind racing, rage boiling up because he’d been thwarted before completing his mission. The wind was caught in his lungs, his throat pinching tight, and then the world tilted.
He could see the evening sky, the clouds a bilious orange tinted by the city lights. Then his vision was filled with the lights of the buildings opposite, and they were slipping and arching, following his sideways pitch as he tumbled out over the balustrade. Everything moved with a lazy calm, and Markus looked down at the hard-packed dirt of the fallow ground behind Hayes Tower.
Then the earth rushed up to meet him.
Chapter 28
So that’s Markus finished then.
That was my acerbic thought as I watched the killer tumble from the sixth-floor balcony and plummet from sight.
My next thought: Rink’s going to be pissed at me.
After Rink had collected McTeer and Velasquez from the airport and they had taken over the minder duties, I’d briefed him about Harvey’s discovery, and the likelihood that our enemy was Charles Peterson’s firstborn son, Markus Colby. Discovering that Markus was so hell-bent on destruction he’d murdered Michaela Douchard, and even his half-brother, Nicolas, it stood to reason that he would not stop until he’d had his day with Parnell and Faulks. His agenda had escalated exponentially, and neither of us believed he’d allow more than a couple of days to go by without trying to get at one or the other of them. He had no way of knowing that we’d already snatched the old guys out from under him, so the probability of him launching an attack at Hayes Tower was a firm one.
We’d arrived just as dusk was falling, leaving our car in a lot on the far side of a service yard bordering the Christian book depository, and entering via the rear of the building. We had bypassed Faulks’s place, electing instead to set up a trap at the highest and most defensible point on the upper floor. Parnell informed us that his neighbour who held tenancy of the final apartment on his level was currently out of town, visiting relatives down in Los Angeles. I jimmied the flimsy lock and set up in the neighbouring apartment while Rink ensconced himself in Parnell’s. Two pay-as-you-go cellphones we’d picked up on our way in allowed us to keep in touch, and to coordinate a pincer movement for when the killer showed.
We hadn’t expected our unknown friends in the sand-coloured car to take up observations again. We had waited for them to make their move, but apparently they were stalling until there were no witnesses out on the street. Finally as evening had settled in, Rink had made a decision.
‘Let’s find out what these jokers want and who the fuck they’re working for.’
He had jerked aside the curtains, ensuring that they noticed the sudden movement.
I had angled myself so that I could watch from the neighbouring window and saw the guys exit their car and tool up. The guy who leaned inside the trunk to fetch their weapons concealed his actions, but I still caught a glint of steel before he shoved the items under his coat. Whatever they were bringing to the party it wasn’t handguns: they looked more like steel bars. I concluded they weren’t here for either of the old men, but to extract information from them about where to find us. Rink’s warning had been explicit to Sean Chaney, but it seemed that his buddies weren’t the type to listen. As the second guy collected his weapon from his friend, he looked up at Parnell’s window.
The two men had then headed quickly for the tower and I’d moved for the front door, awaiting their arrival. Cracking the door open I’d heard their approach along the corridor, listened as they’d knocked at Parnell’s door, no doubt hopeful of drawing the old man into their clutches. When I heard the first boot smash into the door I drew my SIG, held my breath, waiting for the second crash as they went inside. Immediately I pulled open the door and went to follow them in. Damn the stupid fools, but they’d diverted us from our main objective.