Camden, Maine
Tate didn’t know what it was that woke him. He lay still on the bed, eyes wide open, staring at a crack of pale sunlight that had slipped between the curtains of his hotel room. Even before he checked his watch he knew it was early; he was still on Camden time – Camden UK that was. He rolled out of bed and padded naked to the bathroom. He showered and felt more alive. Wrapped in a bath towel, he brushed his teeth and carried out a self-assessment. He looked tired, or perhaps he just looked old. He’d never thought he would reach thirty-five. He was glad he had all his hair. That had been one of his greatest fears as a kid – going bald. He and his brother used to chat about it. He smiled.
A year after officially leaving the SAS his fitness hadn’t diminished; if anything, he had trained harder. He had to because his new, highly specialised role demanded it. But for now he was on holiday and allowed to relax, paid to in fact; however, the problem was that he couldn’t. Something inside would not let go.
Shootings, both professional and amateur, intentional and unintentional happened all the time, true more so in the states than the UK, but even here a chain of professional hits was unusual. Especially in Maine. Especially when he was in Maine. Little wonder the police chief had been sceptical. Tate mentally shrugged. Sometimes coincidences were just that. He dressed and headed for the door. His stomach was rumbling but he knew that save for an all-night diner he was too early for breakfast, and during his walk the night before he’d not seen a single one.
Outside the light was flat, pale, causing shapeless shadows around the vehicles and buildings as though a shimmering sheet had been thrown over the world. Directly in front of his door sat his hire car – the black Chevrolet Tahoe. Next to that sat another, and another. Three black Tahoes, his and the two driven by the Russian guests. A row of three, like a line of tanks waiting to advance on an unsuspecting enemy. His SUV had a small rental sticker in the rear window; the others did not. Tate’s mind drifted back to the words of the police officer who had pulled him over, ‘This is a large vehicle for one person.’ And here were three Tahoes in a row, each being driven by a single person.
Tate cast a glance at the window of the Russians’ room, the curtains closed and the lights out. They had two SUVs but one room. Military men thought nothing of sharing a room, a dormitory with twenty, thirty other soldiers all coughing, farting and flicking their bogies, and they travelled in vehicles packed like sardines in tins to full capacity. And that was the contradiction here. Two men, seemingly working together, seemingly military or ex-military, sharing a room but using two separate large vehicles?
Tate let out a long sigh. Anything could look dodgy, unusual, out of place if you looked too long at it, and two different cars probably just meant they’d come from two different places. But then again …
Tate’s eyes fell on the three SUVs. With the exception of the rental sticker they looked exactly the same, clones even down to the rims. He consigned the plates of the Russian SUVs to memory and then crouched down and surveyed the underside of his rented Tahoe. He then compared it to the underside of the nearest one being used by the Russians. The ride height appeared to be the same but yes, there were differences. He then checked the next. In the gloomy light he could make out that both of the Russian vehicles had uprated suspension made to compensate for a heavier load or perhaps the rigours of “off roading”. The Tahoe could handle bumps, sand and snow but nothing that would warrant upgraded suspension. But then if you’d gone to the trouble of upgrading the suspension, why not raise the ride height and add larger rims and tyres? Why keep the street rims and stock tyres? Unless the idea was for the vehicle to look stock, like a sleeper.
Had the engines been uprated too? Without popping the hood he had no way to check. Tate frowned. The two Russian vehicles were armoured; they had to be. Without checking the shut-lines very carefully or banging his palm against the panels he couldn’t be sure, but he would wager good money on it. This was the only logical explanation. But who rode around in vehicles augmented with ballistic glass and panelling? The rich and famous, VIPs, mafia bosses? If this was Mexico City or Moscow, he wouldn’t have found it odd, but in the car park of a three-star Maine inn?
Tate stood and walked away towards the road. Past the dark windows of the reception and bar. He reached the road and stopped. A little after five on a Sunday morning, Camden was asleep around him. He’d retrace his route from the night before into town and back. Perhaps he’d even head to the harbour to see if any of the fishing boats were coming back and then perhaps walk along the coastal path whilst it was tourist-free. But first he had a call to make and a question to ask. He retrieved his encrypted iPhone from his pocket, brought the screen up but then a shape shimmered in the distance. The ever-increasing morning sun now hit the polished roof like a mirror. A car, a Camden PD patrol car. Its roof lights silently rotated and flashed for a couple of seconds as it came to a halt in front of him.
The window powered down. Chief Donoghue looked up. He appeared tired. ‘Get in.’
It sounded like a command, one soldier to another, not a friendly request. Tate didn’t bother to question it until he’d climbed in, negotiated the extra law enforcement panels jutting out from the dashboard, and shut the door. ‘You arresting me for jaywalking?’
Donoghue checked the rear mirror and the car pulled away. ‘Guilty conscience?’
‘Always.’
Donoghue worked the wheel. The car made a tight turn and headed back in the direction it had come, back to Camden. Tate glanced at the police chief, and tried to read his face. ‘What gives so early on a Sunday?’
‘I’m going to talk to you frankly, Mr Tate. I’d appreciate the courtesy of you helping me. This is a small department in a small town and we just don’t have access to the experts with the right skill sets.’
‘And you think I have those skill sets?’
‘Tate, I know you have them.’
‘OK.’ Tate tried to be noncommittal. ‘So where are you taking me, Chief?’
‘There’s been another shooting, an assassination. Same MO, same weapon we believe – but the ballistics have not come back yet.’
Tate whistled. ‘The third in three days?’
‘The third in two days – this happened last night.’
‘Two hits in the same day? That’s highly—’
‘Unusual?’ Donoghue cut him off.
‘Unheard of.’
‘This one was different, maybe it was poor planning or bad luck but the shooter was interrupted.’ Donoghue explained the crime scene at the two properties at Northport, bordering the Atlantic Highway; that a large black SUV had been seen speeding away from the second crime scene and lastly who the victims had been.
‘A retired general and what, a bunch of crooks?’
‘Crooks certainly but they may well be the same crew who held up an armoured car in Boston a month ago. Too coincidental for any other explanation. Look, even though we may be looking at the same perp as the previous two shootings, these crime scenes come under the jurisdiction of Northport. They’re covered in tape and techs and they’re waiting for the FBI and the whole works. Northport’s given me copies of the crime scene photos. I want you to look at them, and they’re back at my office.’
The PD cruiser retraced Tate’s journey of the day before but in reverse. They pulled up in front of the columns. Donoghue opened up, let Tate in and then locked the main door again. Without waiting he strode to his office and took a seat behind his desk. He nodded at the coffee station. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks.’ Tate took a mug and poured a full cup of tepid coffee. Black was OK but he preferred his with a dollop of cream.
‘Here.’ Donoghue pushed a letter-sized manila folder across his desk.
Tate sat, took the folder and opened it. There were two sets of 10x8 prints, each set collated with a paperclip. The first were of the retired general. They showed the position of his body from several different angles. Tate didn’t know what religious denomination the general had been but it was going to be a closed-casket affair. ‘Single gunshot, to the head. A heavy round, the bullet exited and took his face with it. He never heard it or felt it.’ Tate looked up. ‘Have the local PD found the shooter’s LUP – where the shot was taken?’
‘Nope. But obviously it’s somewhere in the woods on the property. I’m sure they’ll find it.’
‘All they’ll find will be a few flattened twigs and broken leaves.’
‘Because?’
‘He’s good, elite in fact; he took the shot undetected and then exfilled.’
‘Which takes us to those.’ Donoghue nodded at the second set of prints.
Tate put the shots of retired general Richard Leavesley to one side and spread out the rest. Four more victims, two with large holes in them, and two without heads. ‘So these three were hit with a large-calibre round – from the same rifle I imagine – and this one by a smaller round, probably a 9mm but several times.’
‘That much we know. But the why – is what I need to know.’
Tate nodded. ‘The rifle we think he’s using, the Blaser, has a five-round clip. That’s one round for the general and four more. Now our shooter encounters four new, unexpected targets—’
‘Whoa. How do you know they were unexpected? These guys had bags of money at the ready, could have been to pay the shooter. Again, too much of a coincidence otherwise.’
‘Did he take the cash?’
‘Not sure yet. Five sports bags stuffed with hundred-dollar bills in Federal Reserve $10,000 straps were recovered at the scene.’
‘That’s an awful lot of paper money for one guy to move, physically and financially. Cash is no longer king.’ Tate shrugged. ‘I don’t know why these four victims were there, but it wasn’t for him. So he surprises them and he’s got four rounds for four targets. Now that’s tight, even for our guy and especially with a straight-pull rifle. He missed one of them.’
‘So he switched to a backup weapon?’
Tate nodded. ‘If he’d known there were more targets, he’d have had at least a second clip. And we know the Blaser was supressed.’
‘There was a phone call made to the Northport PD. Reporting gunshots.’
‘The backup weapon.’
Donoghue retrieved a map from his drawer, laid it on the table and pointed with a thick index finger. ‘That’s Atlantic Highway running between Northport and Belfast. The general’s house was here, and here – roughly a mile away – is where the shootout took place.’ Tate leaned forward, studied the map, as the police chief continued, ‘So our shooter sets up here, takes the shot, somehow exfils without alerting the general’s wife then walks a mile along a highway back to his vehicle? That is nonsensical. No one walks the highway especially without being seen.’
Tate ran his finger along the map between the two locations. ‘He went through the trees, a straight line. Bang – he takes the first kill shot here and then exfils to his vehicle here.’
‘Directly through a neighbouring property?’
‘That’s what I would have done, if I had done it.’
Now Donoghue nodded. His desk phone rang. He held up his hand, made a quieting motion to Tate and then sat and answered it. Tate took the hint, picked up his mug, wandered away from the desk and drank his coffee. It was cold and bitter but he could taste the caffeine. Donoghue listened, didn’t ask questions, thanked the caller and then ended the call. ‘That was my counterpart at Northport. They’ve found what looks like three .338 rounds, one they dug out of a wall and five 9mm rounds.’
‘That was quick.’
‘The chief in Northport has more funding than me.’ He laced his heavy hands across his stomach and sat back wearily. ‘So it appears our shooter fired just three rifle rounds at the second location.’
Tate looked at the photographs again of the four men dressed in dark clothing, and the images showing their relative positions. The scene had been illuminated by arc lights so he could make out the detail well. He tried to visualise in which order the men fell. He closed his eyes. The house was on the left and to the right of that a red pick-up was parked but in between the pair was a vehicle-sized space. And that was odd. Why park further away from the house than they had to? No that was where the Tahoe had been.
‘Tate, it’s me who’s been up all night and you’re sleeping?’
His eyes snapped open, a connection made. ‘I don’t think he fired only four rounds in total. He emptied his clip – he wanted it to stay quiet but then he had no choice.’
‘Because he missed? In that case we’ll find the fifth round.’
‘He took them out one at a time. The last one had time to move, to shield himself.’
‘Where?’
‘Behind the shooter’s SUV. Think about it. This assassin, a guy who comes and goes like a ghost, discovers a larger force blocking his escape. What does he do?’
‘He takes them out and gets the hell out of there, just like he did.’
‘And risks things going noisy? No. He waits for them to leave, but then they force him to act.’
‘How, they see him?’
‘No, they’re thieves. They try to take his ride.’
‘So he risked, like you said, being compromised over an SUV?’
‘Exactly. He could have got another vehicle, but there had to be something about that vehicle or something inside it that he couldn’t afford to lose.’
‘Yeah, OK. The fact is that our shooter murdered five citizens last night – four of them over a damn car? This is one cold-blooded perp. What matters to me is finding him, stopping him from killing again. He’s attached to his Tahoe? Good, that’s why we have a BOLO out for a black Tahoe.’
‘Not just any Tahoe, an armour-plated one.’
‘Wait, what?’
‘A Tahoe fitted with ballistic plates.’
‘I know what one is I just wanted to know why you would say that.’
‘There are three black Tahoes at my hotel.’
‘Those I am aware of. Two are driven by the Russians guests – the hotel’s CCTV footage shows that they were parked, in plain sight, when each of the previous shootings took place. That’s why we eliminated them from our inquiries and why we questioned you.’
‘And those same two Tahoes at the hotel, driven by the Russians, are armour-plated.’
‘You know this how?’
‘I checked out their suspension – compared it to my own. It’s beefed up, enhanced, reinforced.’
‘You know about cars?’
‘Enough to get by.’ In the SAS Tate had been in mobility group, therefore trained in motor mechanics, but he didn’t feel the need to mention this.
‘Why do you think all this is linked, the Russians’ Tahoes and the shooter’s?’
‘Because I don’t think the shooter missed the last guy in black. I think the guy was hiding behind an armour-plated Tahoe and the .338 round couldn’t get to him.’
‘So now we’re looking for a Tahoe with what a bullet hole in it?’
‘Yes.’
Donoghue raised his hands to his face and rubbed it with both palms. ‘Right.’
‘Right?’
‘Right, let’s follow your hunch.’ Donoghue stood. ‘We’re going back to the hotel and we’re talking to those Russians.’
They drove in silence back to the inn. Donoghue seemed too tired to waste his energy on extraneous conversation and if humming along to music wasn’t an option, Tate preferred to travel in silence. They pulled slowly into the car park, coming to a halt level with reception but blocking the exit for any vehicles to the road.
‘They’ve gone,’ Tate stated.
Donoghue nodded. He took a moment to collect his thoughts then said, ‘I’ll check the CCTV. At least then we’ll see exactly when they left.’ Donoghue pressed the gas pedal and steered the Crown Victoria over to a parking spot immediately outside reception. ‘Thank you for your time this morning, Mr Tate.’
Tate took this as his cue that he was no longer needed and got out of the car. His stomach rumbled again, but now that it was after seven he knew that the inn would be open. He entered via the reception door to see the place deserted save for Sara who was behind the bar making notes on a piece of paper.
‘Good morning.’
‘Hi. One for breakfast?’
‘Unless you want to join me?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m doing intermittent fasting. I don’t eat till eleven.’
Tate had been told by his first girlfriend never to mention a woman’s weight, this included comments about any diet she may or may not be on. So he didn’t. ‘The chief is outside. He wants to see your CCTV footage.’
‘Chief Donoghue?’
‘I didn’t mean a leader of the Panawahpskek Indians.’
‘Someone’s swallowed a guidebook. And they’re called “Native Americans”, not Indians.’ She nodded to a pot of coffee. ‘If I can trust you to be left alone for five minutes, help yourself to a coffee and a paper.’
Tate poured himself his second coffee of the day – this time there was cream – then took a seat at the bar. The coffee was much better than Donoghue’s. As Tate drank he reflected on the events of the past two days. It certainly had not been the sleepy, relaxing holiday he’d expected. There was a stack of newspapers at the end of the bar. He pulled over one that claimed to be national and browsed the front page. Nothing of much interest: worries about a potential storm somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico, the US president’s views on a new hybrid car plant in Detroit and at the bottom, almost as an afterthought, a report on the death of retired senator Clifford Piper.
He read the paragraph under the headline and turned to page four where the report carried on but now focused on the senator’s record, the loss of his wife and what he had meant for the country. It was a “puff piece” and he learned nothing new. Although it listed his death as a murder, the word “assassination” had not been used. Tate wondered what the paper would say tomorrow after the third kill had hit the news.
He drank the rest of his coffee as he flicked through the broadsheet until he came to the business section. There was a brief report on a contract signed with the US Department of Defense for next-generation body armour. Even when he’d been in the Regiment, soldiers were always complaining about their kit. Tate sighed. Trust the Americans to get the good stuff first. He closed the paper and put it back on the top of the pile and then remembered the phone call he was going to make. He pulled his encrypted iPhone from his jeans pocket but before he could dial, Sara returned.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘What?’ He played dumb.
She folded her arms. ‘Why is Chief Donoghue so interested in my Russian guests?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’ Tate didn’t want to lie, especially if it put Sara or anyone else in danger.
‘Would I be asking you if he had?’
‘There was another shooting last night.’
Sara gasped. ‘Where?’
‘Northport. Eyewitnesses saw a black SUV hightailing it away.’
‘And Donoghue wants to eliminate the two that were parked on my property?’
‘Three – remember I have one too. But yes.’
‘I see.’ She shuddered. ‘So what will you have to eat?’
‘You haven’t given me a menu.’