The Ilium Obligation (A Matt Savage Adventure) Chapter 34

[seymoure]

Not a Simple Exit

“War is the statesman's game,

the priest's delight, the lawyer's jest,

the hired assassin's trade.”
-Percy Bysshe Shelley

 

I walked to the phone stall in the lobby and dialed Rusty’s office. Luckily I got hold of him right away. I told him about the note from Connie and asked his opinion of what the best course to take might be.

“We at the FBI have to work this kind of thing one way,” he advised me, “but you have to make your own path here. We wait for some kind of contact from the abductors before we do anything.”

“What kind of contact?”

“They should ask for a ransom,” he was stern, “but that is usually demanded from the family or boss. What is your exact connection with the girl?”

“I met her yesterday for the first time,” I told him. “She’s the cousin of someone I work with, but I don’t know who would know that.”

“Then it’s doubtful that they kidnapped her to get something from you,” he informed me. “Then again, it’s pretty well known you are loaded. By the way, thanks for the car. I was only kidding. I don’t know if I can keep it.”

“Give it to charity then,” I said, “But what do I do about Connie?”

“Leave contact information with the desk,” he said. “Then get with me if they get in touch with you again.”

I walked to the desk and asked for the manager again. Together he and I mapped out what plane I would take, what hotel I would be staying at in New York, even what cab company we were calling for transport from one to the other. I also got the number for this hotel to check in with regularly.

That was all I could do.

Hugo had joined me a few minutes before and had been filled in on what was going on.

Our cab was here and the doorman had already moved our bags to the trunk of the cab, so we walked to the door and set to enter the car.

Three quick shots rang out.

One hit the door of the cab that I had just opened. A second before, without the car door in front of me, and the shot would have gone into my belly. As it was the shot was deflected enough to miss me and careen through the door and fly to my right.

The second shot cut a swath through the car roof from the left front to the right rear. It missed Hugo by ½ an inch.

The third shot grazed Hugo in the side.

I looked up and saw the area that the shots must have come from.

It was across the street but on street level. It was near the corner of a building housing a drycleaners on one side, and a travel agency on the other.

A policeman, standing at the corner, drew his firearm and aimed it. That action took the same amount of time taken for two of the three shots. He returned fire almost exactly simultaneous with the final round.

The fourth shot hit the cop and brought him down.

“Check the cop,” I yelled to Hugo, “I’m going here.”

We were both across the street in seconds. There were no more shots, probably because the shooter was dealing with the policeman. I was behind a car on the nearer side of the street and looking for the gunman. I could smell the gun powder, but couldn’t see him anywhere.

Now was the report of another shot, this one from farther distant than the others.

I ducked for a second.

Hugo had joined me, saying, “He’s dead.”

We moved to opposite ends of the car and then, on a count of three, we moved out.

We leaned up against the corner stones, holding for a beat, and then peered around into the alley.

A man in all black, with a rifle near him, was lying on the ground. He was in a pool of blood.

We drew up on him, being sure to watch for any other shooter. I pulled the hood off him and didn’t see any face I knew. I looked up at Hugo, but he indicated that he had no idea either.

His chest was nearly gone. The shot that had killed him had come from behind. So it wasn’t the policeman’s shot that killed him.

He had been killed by someone he trusted. Perhaps he was dead because he hadn’t killed us with the first attempt.

Another gunshot rang out, pushing us back.

Just as we were about to charge again, there was an explosion of gunfire. Someone was firing a rapid-firing gun.

We held up behind the granite corner stones until the shooting paused.

Looking around, we saw through a fog of carbonate that the body was gone! The machine gun blasts had been a cover for moving the corpse to keep it from being traced to whoever wanted us dead.

Sirens pierced the momentarily quiet air.

Now we were going to have to explain a murdered policeman.

I think we were going to take a later flight.

 

© C. Wayne Owens

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