Blood Trails (The Heir Hunter Book 1) Read online

  ALSO BY DIANE CAPRI

  THE JESS KIMBALL THRILLERS SERIES

  Fatal Fall

  Fatal Game

  Fatal Error

  Fatal Demand

  Fatal Distraction

  Fatal Enemy

  THE HUNT FOR JACK REACHER SERIES

  Deep Cover Jack

  Jack and Joe

  Get Back Jack

  Don’t Know Jack

  Jack in the Green

  Jack and Kill

  Jack in a Box

  THE HUNT FOR JUSTICE SERIES

  False Truth: A Jordan Fox Mystery Serial

  Due Justice

  Twisted Justice

  Secret Justice

  Wasted Justice

  Raw Justice

  Mistaken Justice

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 by M. Diane Vogt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503939950

  ISBN-10: 1503939952

  Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen

  For the readers who have supported me and enjoyed my books and asked for more.

  I couldn’t do this without you.

  Thank you.

  CONTENTS

  CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

  “Alea iacta est . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CAST OF PRIMARY CHARACTERS

  Michael Flint

  Kathryn (Katie) Scarlett

  Alonzo Drake

  Sebastian (Baz) Shaw

  Felix Crane

  Laura Oakwood

  Selma Oakwood Prieto

  Bette Maxwell

  Madeline (Maddy) Scarlett

  “Alea iacta est.” (“The die is cast.”)

  —Julius Caesar

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, England

  Grosvenor Square

  Friday, 8:20 a.m.

  Michael Flint watched and waited while each element fell according to plan. He had a great view. Mayfair was one of the most exclusive areas of London, and the neo-Georgian houses that surrounded Grosvenor Square reeked of very old money used to full advantage. The verdant park in the center of the square reflected the British climate that ensured no plant went unwatered for long. Bronze statues of Eisenhower and Reagan stood rigidly proud in the corners. They were an unlikely sight in this most British of spots, but the affluent district had long been popular with Americans, which explained Flint’s presence here.

  At 8:20 a.m., a postman appeared at the end of the street, precisely on time, as he had every day this week. He worked his way from door to door, pushing bundles of mail through ornate brass letterboxes.

  Flint was dressed in black jeans, black leather jacket, and supple black leather gloves that fit like a second skin. He balanced easily on the deserted gantry platform halfway up the tower crane. The construction crew working on the north side of Grosvenor Square would arrive in forty minutes. An American crew would have been on the job hours ago, but construction times were strictly limited here to the hours wealthy residents found acceptable.

  Plenty of time to get what he came for, if the postman followed his routine.

  Flint scanned the large garden square seventy feet below once more. Frost crusted the grass inside the park, which was uncharacteristically empty of people. Otherwise, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  He shivered and hunched deeper into his jacket. He’d been waiting only an hour, but the damp cold compressed his body from all sides like he was standing naked in a meat locker. He felt as stiff as the statues in the park. By the time the air had warmed enough for the usual crowds to enjoy being outdoors, he’d be long gone.

  He had a clear sight line to the home, thirty-five yards away, of James Ashton, the ostensible owner of a priceless painting. The painting wasn’t rightfully his. Ashton’s uncle, Reginald Taylor, had inherited it from his father, but in 1940, the Nazis had stolen it from a French woman. A month ago, the same woman had turned to Flint after her other attempts to find it had failed. She wanted her painting back and Flint’s job was to get it. Normally, his persuasive powers were formidable, but experience proved they rarely worked on the dead. And Reginald Taylor was very dead.

  Which was what had led Flint here. To James Ashton, Taylor’s heir. He was also Taylor’s murderer. When Flint tracked Taylor down, he’d found that Ashton had killed his rich relative in Taylor’s New York apartment some time ago and left him stuffed in the freezer. Because Taylor was something of a recluse, his death hadn’t been discovered until Flint had reported the murder anonymously.

  Ashton was now running from the law, holed up in his London penthouse with a savage little Welsh Corgi and a professional around-the-clock security detail.

  Ashton hadn’t once stepped outside the luxury apartment since he slid inside, cloaked by darkness, last week. Flint had watched the place for seven days before a plan had emerged. Not a perfect solution, but a workable one.

  Flint adjusted his earpiece. He heard only the expected silence from inside the residence. Ashton and his companions didn’t routinely gather in the common rooms until after nine o’clock. Flint raised his binoculars to check the sensitive listening device he had propelled with an illegal air pistol from his position atop a tourist bus two days ago. He confirmed that the device remained glued to the top-floor window.

  He checked his pockets. He felt the remote control and the small crowbar resting against his sides where he’d placed them. The pistol snugged into his belt at the flat center of his back looked lethal enough at a glance, which was all the inspection time he planned to allow. The puny thing was one of the few remaining legal we
apons in Britain only because it had no stopping power. Ashton might not recognize the gun as worthless, but his security detail would if they got a close enough look.

  Flint picked up a crossbow fitted with a serrated dart designed to embed itself into wood. The dart was secured to high-strength wire. He’d secured the wire to the tower crane.

  A leggy, lithe brunette crossed the square, chattering away on her cell phone. Two nights ago, Flint had followed her to a bar, where she bent his ear for an hour. She was broke and only too happy to carry his message for the right price. He checked his watch. Exactly 8:28. He’d paid the right price, and she was right on time. He’d promised her a generous bonus when she completed the job, and her eyes lit up like sparklers. He nodded as if she could see his approval from that distance.

  She crossed the road, made her way between rows of security barriers, and entered the large concrete building that occupied the entire western edge of the square. The American embassy.

  The message she carried was simple. He’d instructed her to say that Ashton would be surrendering himself into custody. She would also mention that the authorities might have to turn a blind eye to the manner in which Ashton actually surrendered.

  Flint had supplied her with enough details to interest law enforcement on both sides of the Atlantic. But she would reveal those details only after Ashton signed the necessary documents—which Flint carried in his pocket—relinquishing all legal claims to the French woman’s painting.

  Flint’s gaze returned to the postman, who had now reached Ashton’s residence. He climbed the steps. He pushed a bundle of mail and a small yellow envelope through Ashton’s letterbox. The postman descended the stairs and moved on toward the next house.

  Flint moved his tongue over his teeth and pulled the remote from his pocket. He counted slowly to ten, giving the postman time to move a safe distance away and the security detail time to retrieve the envelope.

  At precisely 8:45 a.m., Flint pushed the button on the remote.

  He imagined the yellow package expanding exactly as it had during his tests. The edges of the package would burst. An almost invisible dust would spray out, covering everyone within a ten-foot radius. Only it wasn’t just dust. It was Mucuna pruriens, an itching powder so incredibly powerful that the plant from which it was derived was known as the Devil Bean in Nigeria. There was enough powder to disable the security detail for the length of time Flint would need. Longer if they tried to wash the powder off with water.

  Flint fired the crossbow at the solid wood center of Ashton’s rooftop garden. The dart landed squarely as aimed, taking the long wire to its destination. He tested the wire with his full weight, and the dart held.

  Flint clipped himself on and zip-lined straight to the flat rooftop.

  He pulled the crowbar from his jacket and pried open the door that led from the roof to the interior of the penthouse. He headed straight for the stairs, pulling the pistol from his belt as he ran.

  He’d estimated sixty seconds to find Ashton, collect his signature, and then convince him to walk down five flights of stairs, across six hundred feet of the most expensive real estate in London, step onto American soil, and capitulate. No problem, right?

  Flint reached the top floor of the penthouse apartment. The floor plans he’d studied showed the kitchen at the base of the rooftop stairs. The remaining two thousand square feet on the top floor was an open floor plan with breathtaking views of Mayfair.

  The spiral staircase in the center led down to bedrooms on the floor below. Flint barely noticed the stunning views as he passed down through the sixth floor and entered the master suite directly below, on the fifth floor.

  He stopped outside the massive door to the master suite for a quick breath. He raised the gun to shooting position. He silently pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  A quick scan of the enormous bedroom revealed an exceptionally high king-size bed against one wall. Sheets mussed. Pillows tossed. Except for a snoring, short-legged Welsh Corgi, the bed was empty.

  The house had no exits, secret or otherwise, that Flint had failed to monitor, so Ashton was somewhere inside the house. Hopefully alone. Because the air pistol would not fool anyone for long.

  Flint scanned the bedroom walls until he located the nearly invisible panel that could have been a doorway. He padded quickly to the panel and pushed. It opened silently to a modern bathroom, massive even by his Texas standards.

  He glanced back at the Corgi. Still sleeping. Some watchdog.

  In the center of the dark granite tile was a matching marble bath large enough to accommodate four adults. On Flint’s right the same marble lined a similar-sized shower with curved glass. On his left were a bank of blindingly bright gilt cabinetry, mirrors, countertops, sinks, and golden faucets fit for King Louis XIV.

  Straight ahead, opposite the swinging panel door, was a hinged, six-foot steamed-up glass panel that led to a sauna. Flint headed across the marble floor, rapped on the glass, and stood back, poised to shoot.

  Ashton pulled the glass door inward and stepped through the steam. His well-muscled body was naked and glistening with sweat.

  “James Ashton, I presume.” Flint leveled the air pistol directly at the shorter man’s heart, as if the gun’s payload might actually cause more than a bad bruise if his aim landed even a millimeter off target.

  Ashton’s dark eyes narrowed. He pulled his arm from behind his back.

  Flint instantly recognized the weapon Ashton held in his hand because he owned one himself.

  Glock 19 Gen4. Utilitarian, tough, reliable. Comfortable grip, controllable recoil, easily concealed. Used by law enforcement because of its stopping power. A perfect choice for a man anticipating precisely this situation.

  “Drop it,” Flint said, as if he could back up the threat with the puny air pistol. His life and history lacked many things. He’d never known stability or human warmth or a conventional existence of any kind. He counted on danger first, unpredictability second. He accepted everything exactly as it came. He felt no shock, no surprise, no disbelief. His entire life had trained him for moments precisely like this. Ashton was a problem in need of an immediate and practical solution. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Flint’s brain registered the micromovement of Ashton’s right index finger beginning to apply pressure on the trigger. He knew where the first bullet would be aimed.

  Ashton smirked.

  Flint dropped onto his left side as Ashton fired.

  He twisted away as he hit the floor. He heard the shot and felt the air move past the empty space where his right shoulder had been a split second before. Glass exploded and filled the room with reflecting shards like a kaleidoscope.

  Ashton’s eyes widened in surprise. He’d expected the first shot to do the job.

  His combat skills were rudimentary. He’d practiced a specific plan, probably on a range somewhere, with a tutor. He was unable to react to the unexpected.

  The Corgi began barking from the bedroom.

  Ashton twisted his body, moved his right arm stiffly, and aimed the Glock toward Flint again.

  Flint ducked behind the marble bath in the center of the room.

  As Ashton aimed and fired, he moved in the opposite direction, shooting on the run.

  The Corgi’s barking intensified.

  Ashton’s second shot hit the marble. A boulder-sized chunk blasted off and landed four inches from Flint’s leg. Chips slashed his face. He felt the blood trickle down his cheek.

  Ashton reached the open panel door. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the hook with his left hand and struggled to don them as he moved into the bedroom, firing again and again into the bathroom where Flint crouched behind the marble tub.

  The Corgi was frantic now. His barking was almost as deafening as the gunshots bouncing inside the tiled bathroom.

  Ashton fired again until the Glock’s fifteen-round clip was done, tossed the gun aside, and dashed through the bedroom door into the corridor.r />
  Flint scrambled to follow after he registered the empty weapon’s clang on the floor. He was two steps toward the bedroom when he turned and went back for the Glock. A man like Ashton would keep his gun close while he slept.

  Flint ran to the bedside table. He rummaged around in the drawers while the Corgi’s snarling, snapping barks continued. He found two more fifteen-round magazines. He slapped one of them into place and dropped the second into his pocket before he rushed out in hot pursuit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Flint sprinted down the corridor, following Ashton’s only possible route toward the elevator. He reached the elevator after the doors had closed and the car was already descending.

  He shoved the Glock into his waistband and dashed down the emergency stairs to the ground floor. He pulled the door open. Two armed security guards stomped and shouted in the entranceway, covered in Mucuna pruriens powder, cursing and scratching their arms raw.

  Flint glanced at the elevator, which was still descending. He ducked behind the door and ran down two more flights to the basement level, where the staircase ended. He opened the fire door and stepped into a parking garage.

  The elevator had been called back upstairs. Ashton must have exited into the garage.

  Flint looked around for Ashton’s head bobbing above the vehicles. He spied a valet stand on the opposite side of the elevator door. A powerful engine roared to life. Flint watched as a glistening black Ferrari with Ashton at the wheel raced up the ramp and out to the street.

  Flint surveyed the closest vehicles and the keys on the valet stand. He grabbed a key marked “Suzuki” and inserted it into the only Suzuki motorcycle near the stand. Seconds later, Flint raced up and out of the garage, following Ashton’s Ferrari along the small street behind Grosvenor Square. He couldn’t see the Ferrari, but he could hear it straight ahead before it turned south along Park Lane.

  Flint ignored all distractions and concentrated on the Ferrari. Ashton drove wildly, dangerously, looping around Hyde Park Corner to get away. Flint leaned forward over the Suzuki and accelerated flat out behind, but it was no match for the powerful sports car.

  Flint had come too far to give up now. He whipped his head around looking for an opening. It was still early. Still cold. Not many pedestrians and tourists along the sidewalks.