Or did morality not enter into the equation at all? Maybe he killed for amusement or lust or out of boredom.
Shaw turned his attention back to the place, noting evidence of a weapon.
Ammunition, but not the firearm itself.
Very little personal was here. Shaw was itinerate. He was on the road most of the year. Yet, the Winnebago contained artifacts that connected him with family. A photo of the Compound, preserves his mother had put up, photos of the children on hikes, Ashton holding the trout he’d caught not with rod and reel but with a simple line and hook he’d made himself, paintings that Dorion’s two daughters had done for him, documents his father had sent that had launched Shaw on the quest to find the people who had killed the man.
He glanced again at the papers he’d riffled through when he’d first gotten inside. Like the bullets, they were evidence of impending murder.
A text hummed and he read it.
He replaced what he’d found exactly in the order he’d discovered the items. He then rose and stepped into the corner of the room. He reached to his right hip and drew the black Glock. Held it firmly.
There was only a faint click when the key card slipped into and out of the lock slot. The door swung open slowly and the man walked inside, eyes on his phone.
When the door closed, Shaw said calmly, “You’re targeted. Don’t move.”
Leggy Sergei Lemerov stopped.
Did his shoulders sag slightly? Shaw wasn’t sure.
“Mr. Colter Shaw.”
“Drop the phone. Raise your hands.”
“Maybe I am talking to beautiful woman. That will make her unhappy.”
Shaw was silent.
Never banter...
The Russian muttered, “Ah, all right.”
The Apple bounced when it hit the carpeted floor.
“Turn.”
He did and the dots of black eyes in the angular face looked Shaw up and down.
“With your right hand, thumb and forefinger, remove the gun.” Lemerov was predominantly left-handed, he could tell, but the Russian military teaches ambidextrous shooting.
With no inclination for heroics, he went through the prescribed routine. The weapon ended up on the armchair Shaw had just been sitting on. Shaw tossed a zip tie to him. He grimaced but pulled the band on. He didn’t play the looseness game. They efficiently secured his wrists.
Shaw indicated a chair and the man sat, tossed his head to get a stray shock of long blond hair from his eyes.
The Russian did not seem particularly troubled. Shaw was a reward-seeker and a troubleshooter for Harmon Energy. There was no risk that Lemerov would be taken into an alley and treated the way the GRU disposed of its prisoners.
Shaw glanced at the papers he’d been through earlier. Maps, photos of himself and of the Winnebago, notes, names and addresses he did not recognize. Shaw had taken time with them, looking specifically for any reference to Allison Parker. It wasn’t logical that Lemerov knew of her personally, but it was her brainchild he wanted. And Shaw had to make certain that there was indeed no connection between Jon Merritt’s mission and the S.I.T.
And there was not.
He now said to the Russian, “All of your homework. You have a destination plan. And I’m the traveler.”
A faint frown. Lemerov would be curious how Shaw had come to know the euphemisms used by Russian security services for a targeted kill. He had learned this from his brother, who swam in the current of intelligence.
He recovered. A smile. “What you talking? Everything you say is news to me. All that?” A nod at the paperwork. “Just about surveillancing you, when you went looking for that S.I.T.”
Shaw didn’t reply that the pictures were taken after the scam with Ahmad, Rass and LeClaire.
Yes, this might have to do with Marty Harmon’s reactor trigger, but if so, it was a future plan to steal it. Shaw would have to be eliminated; the message would be clear to Harmon: There’ll be consequences if we don’t get the device.
Then too this might be personal. Maybe Lemerov was just a very sore loser.
“Who ordered it? Be better if you tell me.”
“Ha, Mr. Colter Shaw, truth? Okay. Truth? Just wanted scare you. So you take bargaining serious. Nobody hurt a hair on head. Come on, come on, let’s us get back to turkey talking... You are not made of money. I can line your pockets. We can do accounts, we can do offshore. Bring in the experts. We have insurance, guarantees in place, so you safe, family safe. No more that.” A nod at the paperwork, the plan to get Shaw to his “destination.”
Shaw frowned. “How do I know your money’s good? Who’d write the check?”
“A rich friend.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“He likes secrecy. Or she likes secrecy.”
“You’ve got to have a handler.”
“Why?”
“You don’t sound like you come from Boston or Atlanta.”
“Oh, maybe I am born in the U.S.A. Maybe my handler is Bruce Springsteen! Two hundred fifty thousand. A quarter million! Buy you lots of anything.”
“Tell me who.”
Instantly the man changed. His face contorted and his voice was a snarl. “Fuck Abe Lincoln. No fun and cute anymore. You don’t help, I come back and visit you. Middle of night. I will say, ‘Hello, Mr. Colter Shaw’ and that will be all you hear. Maybe when you with your woman. Surprise, surprise, and goodbye to both of you.” His wild gaze danced around the room, twitchy, if eyes could twitch. Like Jon Merritt, perhaps, Lemerov sported a borderline personality.
And, true to his diagnosis, the cheerful side of Lemerov returned, so quickly the transformation was eerie. “But what will come of this today? Your little clever scheme? What? I wonder.” He was as calm as could be. “Here is what happens, your police people come and take me away. I spend hour or two in jail, meet interesting friends. Have a Coca-Cola. Then lawyer comes and I leave. How is that? Because I have friends here, oh, in the state capital. What do you think of that? I call them, they call someone else, I finish my Coca-Cola and I’m out.” He affected a pout. “We have to start all over again. Waste of time. Two hundred fifty thousand? All you do is walk into HEP, walk out with trigger and you a rich man.” His grin was conspiratorial.
Shaw knew there were places where a quarter million made you rich. Not even Ferrington was one of them.
A knock sounded.
Shaw walked to the door, keeping the gun aimed at Lemerov’s torso — in a moment of mania he could charge them; his hands were bound but they were in front of him and could still punch and strangle.
“Yes?”
“Customs and Border Protection,” came a husky woman’s voice.
The captive’s smile vanished.
He was being arrested by the feds. Whoever he’d paid off in state government would have no sway. Shaw had called his friend Tom Pepper, who arranged for the takedown with CBP.
A large man and a large woman stepped into the room, both in dark blue uniforms. Three other agents stood in the hallway. They too were not small.
“Colter,” the woman said.
“Agent Gillespie,” Shaw offered, then nodded to the man, dark complected, muscled and broad. “Agent Stahl.”
They looked over Lemerov. Gillespie, blond hair in a ponytail, nodded to her partner, who walked forward and, while the woman kept her hand near her gun, cut off the zip and cuffed the Russian, hands behind his back. The agent then frisked him and removed his wallet and passport, money, a long locking-blade knife, which Gillespie glanced at with raised eyebrows.
“You can’t do this! I didn’t commit no crime!”