Mr. Clear Read online

  Mr. Clear

  written by

  Graham Stewart

  Published by Graham Stewart

  © 2017 by Graham Stewart

  Cover design © 2017 by Graham Stewart

  All rights reserved.

  MR. CLEAR is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To find out more, visit grahamwrites.com

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

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  1

  Moore drove far too fast for Haye’s liking at the best of times, but when he had an excuse to really put the foot down, his partner did not spare the horses.

  The Charger’s engine flexed all of its considerable muscle as the two police officers threaded their way through industrial units flanking Miami International. Moore was hitting the speed bumps hard. It was like he saw them as an incentive to accelerate rather than slow down.

  Haye caught sight of the Aston Martin making a right at the end of the road, its brake lights glowing red in the fast fading daylight.

  The driver didn’t signal.

  Just one more traffic violation to add to the dozen or so the two police officers had already recorded since beginning their pursuit.

  They had drawn right alongside the car at one stage. Tinted windows had prevented them from seeing the occupant. The car’s rightful owner, an honest to God reality TV superstar, had been unable to give any kind of description of the individual who had taken her car.

  She had been filling the tank at a gas station out in South Beach when, next thing, the engine started up and the car sped away, leaving her with the pump in her hand, gas pouring out on to the ground. She hadn’t noticed anyone near her on the forecourt, let alone get into the car.

  She raised the alarm with the sales guy and he immediately reported it stolen. Haye guessed her cell phone must still be in the car, likely nestled in a hands-free dock on the dashboard. Officers on the scene had just confirmed this with the driver, who was shaken, but relieved to know her car had been sighted. Apparently, she was more upset at the prospect of the loss of the pair of new limited edition Christian Louboutins in the trunk of the car than the car itself.

  The uniform on site called her cell phone number out to Haye over the radio and he dialed. “Okay,” he said to Moore, who was wrenching the steering wheel left and right like he was trying to unscrew it from the steering column. “Let’s see if there’s anybody home.”

  Haye’s first assumption was that they were dealing with a two-bit, opportunistic car-jacker. But that wasn’t who answered the phone.

  “Yes, hello? How may I help you?” the unexpectedly refined voice said.

  “This is Officer Derrick Haye of the Miami-Dade Police Department, requesting you to slow your vehicle and pull over.”

  “Oh, this isn’t my vehicle,” said the voice. “I’ve stolen it.”

  Again, not what Haye was expecting. “And that is why I’m requesting you pull in. As well as the fact that you are speeding excessively and putting many innocent lives at risk.”

  “In this city? In this part of town? I wouldn’t say there are that many genuinely innocent lives, Officer.”

  Haye was buffeted in his seat as Moore took a shortcut across an area of waste ground. When they bounced down on to the road on the far side, the Aston Martin was back in sight, but only just.

  “I’m going to have to decline your request,” the voice continued. “But rest assured, I am an exceedingly good driver. No one is going to come to any harm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash.”

  Before Haye could respond, the driver hung up. Haye tried to reach him again but the call did not connect.

  “He’s switched it off,” said Haye.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Moore. “He’s not going anywhere. Air support incoming.”

  In the darkening sky, approaching low and fast, Haye could see the chopper’s search light scanning left and right, homing in on their position.

  “Dispatch, this is Air 3,” a voice smothered by the heavy background hum of rotor blades said. “Got a visual on your silver Aston Martin, travelling south.”

  Haye made a hand gesture to Moore to slow down.

  “Air 3 to base,” the chopper pilot said, “he’s made a hard right into the park and ride at Miami International.”

  “Crap,” Moore growled, nailing the gas pedal to the floor. “Chopper or no chopper, if he ditches and goes on foot, we’ll be months looking for him in there.”

  Haye had to concede. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of vehicles parked in those long-term parking lots at any one time. And they were labyrinths. Their quarry would have plenty of places to hide.

  “Air 3 to base, vehicle is in the lot, proceeding along the central spine road.”

  “Where the hell are they going to go?” said Haye. “There’s only one way in and out.”

  “Air 3, vehicle has come to a stop. Where are those ground units? I’ve got movement. The doors are opening.”

  “Christ,” Moore said, as the patrol car sped under the descending entrance barrier and around the car in front.

  “Dispatch, we’re ten seconds away,” said Haye.

  “Air 3. No one out of the car yet.”

  Up ahead the two policemen could see the Aston Martin idling in the middle of the road. Moore rolled to a stop twenty meters away.

  Haye flicked on the roof-mounted loudspeaker.

  “Step out of the car slowly and place your hands on the roof.”

  No response.

  “I say again, step out of the vehicle and place your hands on the roof.”

  Again, nothing.

  Moore turned on the high beams.

  Even though the rear glass in the Aston Martin was tinted, it was possible to make out the shapes of the headrests on the seats.

  “You know,” said Moore, “I don’t think there’s anyone inside that car.”

  “This is Unit 8,” said Haye. “Dispatch, let me speak directly to air support.”

  Two seconds later: “Roger that Unit 8, you’re thro
ugh.”

  “Air 3, you sure no one’s gotten out of the car?”

  “One hundred per cent,” came the pilot’s reply. “Only movement I’ve seen was the doors opening.”

  “Copy that.”

  Haye undid his seatbelt and turned to Moore. “Only one way to find out for sure.” He got out of the car and drew his weapon, prowling toward the Aston Martin and then carefully along the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  Haye stopped at the rear wheel arch and craned his neck as far as he could into the cockpit. There were no hands visible on the steering wheel or any shoes in the foot well.

  He inched forward and edged his head around the doorframe.

  The car was empty, just the way Moore thought.

  What the hell?

  Haye pulled his head out of the car and looked all around. “Air 3, car’s empty.”

  “Stand by,” the pilot said, “switching to thermal imaging.”

  Haye couldn’t understand why the imaging system hadn’t been used from the get-go, given the fact it was now practically full dark. Still, they wouldn’t be long now finding their guy with the all-seeing eye of the infrared.

  Moore pulled the patrol car up next to Haye and raised his palms as if to say WTF?

  Before Haye could answer, their radios spoke with the excited voice of the pilot in unison.

  “This is Air 3… I’ve got two guys, in the line of cars to your right, zigzagging through the vehicles. About thirty meters straight ahead of where you are now.”

  Haye pulled out his Maglite and jogged along the cars, shining the high intensity beam down the corridors created by the spaces between them. “Guide me, Air 3.”

  “They’ve stopped. Three rows up from where you are now, in between two SUVs.”

  Haye dropped to a squat and shone the Maglite underneath the vehicles, expecting to see two pairs of shoes. But he saw nothing. Maybe they were standing on the runner board at the side of one of the SUVs, anticipating what he would do. Fools hadn’t anticipated the power of the thermal imaging camera on the chopper though. There was nowhere for them to hide, and they were about to find that out.

  Haye killed the Maglite and gave Moore the signal to drive on past, hoping to lure them into a false sense of security. He padded up to the corner as silently as his shoes would permit, hoping to get the jump on the suspects. He took a deep breath, readied his weapon, and switched the flashlight back on. He leapt out into the space between the SUVs, both his sidearm and the Maglite trained on their position, but they were gone.

  “Air 3, where are they?”

  “Where are they?” the chopper pilot nearly laughed back at Haye. “Right in front of you. They’re looking right at you.”

  “Say again?”

  “They’re moving now,” the pilot came back. “Into the next aisle over, running.”

  Haye sprinted down the lane between the SUVs out into the road. He couldn’t see the suspects, but he had a good idea where they were heading.

  The pick-up point for the shuttle bus to the airport was fifty meters ahead. And the approaching sound of a large diesel engine heralded that the suspects’ ticket out of the lot was about to pull in.

  There was a fair-sized crowd at the stop. Maybe twenty people. Not knowing what these guys looked like, if the two made it into the crowd, identifying them would be next to impossible.

  Haye keyed his radio. “Moore, they’re heading for the shuttle bus, get up there and cut them off.”

  “On it,” Moore replied.

  “They’re not even bothering trying to hide now,” said the pilot. “They’re running right up the middle of the road.”

  Really? There was precious little light in the lot. The overhead sodiums were out. But when Haye pointed his flashlight in the direction of the stop, he still couldn’t see the suspects, even though he could clearly see the crowd gathered beyond the point where they were supposed to be.

  “Air 3, are you sure about that? There’s no chance your camera is acting up? I’m not seeing any of what you’re telling me.”

  “It’s your eyes need looking at, not my equipment. By the way, your guys are heading straight for your unit.”

  The Charger had stopped at the end of the aisle.

  “Moore? You hearing that?”

  “I’m hearing it Haye, but just like you I’m not seeing it.”

  Haye was close enough to see the puzzled look on his partner’s face.

  The shuttle bus pulled in and its gas-powered doors hissed open.

  “Officers, your boys are mixing into the people boarding the bus,” said the pilot.

  The sign asking passengers to form an orderly queue was not being observed. People were milling around the entrance like hungry ants. Haye caught his breath and walked around the perimeter of the crowd. He replayed mentally the recording he had of the driver’s voice against the faces he saw. There were only a couple of likely prospects. Everyone was eyes straight. Some threw the odd curious glance his way, but nobody rang his alarm bells. And he had no idea about the second guy.

  The crowd was filing on to the bus quickly. He didn’t want to hold it at the stop. It could give the suspects the opportunity to barge past him and back off. At least if the bus was moving, they would be contained.

  “Moore,” said Haye, “I’m going for a ride.” He brought up the rear of the line and flashed his badge at the driver, who looked at him with a face full of questions that would be answered all in good time.

  The bus pulled out and Haye steadied himself, using the overhead handrails to methodically work his way down the aisle and scan the faces left and right.

  These guys were not going to sit up front and tempt fate. From what Haye could see, those in the first few seats were genuine passengers putting themselves in the best positions to get to their bags and then off the bus as fast as possible once it arrived at the terminal.

  Anyone who had ever been to school knew the bad boys always sat at the back. And that’s where his eyes were drawn.

  Only a pair of idiots would have remained together if they were trying to hide in this tight space. Chances were they had split up. One or two guys who piqued his curiosity. The one with his hair slicked back in a ponytail was staring intently at the floor in front of Haye’s feet. He was clutching the handle of a small, wheeled carry-on case. So either he wasn’t Haye’s man or he had procured it from the shelf opposite before he had sat down to help manufacture a disguise.

  A possibility.

  The voice on the phone could have been his.

  Two rows behind the ponytail sat a couple, hand in hand. Who was to say that the second suspect wasn’t a woman? It would have been nigh on impossible to distinguish gender from the infrared image. And the eyesight of the pilot was not to be trusted, not on the evidence so far.

  Haye drew level with the ponytail.

  “Hello, where are you off to?” he asked in a polite, interested manner.

  “The airport,” the ponytail answered with an accent that was distinctly not that of the voice on the phone earlier.

  “Right,” said Haye. Smart-ass. “Mind if I see some identification?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Just let me see your passport, sir.”

  The ponytail huffed and puffed. He eventually dug his passport out of his inside pocket, opening it on the photo page and handing it to Haye.

  “Eduardo Sanchez,” Haye read aloud. He reached down and held up the corner of the tag on the carry-on. Sanchez’s name was on it. Haye handed the passport back. “Thank you for your co-operation.”

  Haye turned to the couple. Both were looking up at him nervously. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of people felt guilty for no reason when a police officer approached them. The wedding bands on their tightly knitted fingers were shiny new, their faces sunburnt. Newlyweds. Probably just dropped off their rental car before jumping the shuttle.

  “Where you guys from?” asked Haye with a big smile.


  “Ireland,” they replied.

  “Oh yeah? Which part?”

  “Dublin.”

  “Cool.” It was one of only two places in Ireland Haye could name. There and Galway. Their accents were Irish all right. Not the traditional American notion of what an Irish accent was. More the Colin Farrell version.

  Haye looked beyond them to the backseat. There was only one guy left, staring out at the lights of the airport through the window and not paying him a single bit of attention.

  “Excuse me. Sir?”

  The guy didn’t respond to him.

  “Sir?”

  The man turned his head slowly and looked at Haye. He looked like he was a million miles away. Or maybe that was the impression he wanted to give off.

  “Are you travelling alone?”

  The guy looked at the row of empty seats next to him. “Yeah.”

  “Where are you flying to?”

  “Denver.”

  “No baggage with you?”

  “It’s on the rack. What’s this all about?”

  “Can you show me the bag, sir? Please?”

  “I suppose,” the guy said, and stood. He was tall. And wide. Haye readied himself in case he made a move.

  The guy tripped as he sidled out into the aisle, falling over. “What the f-” He moved to get up, but fell again. He groaned and raised his head, then head-butted the floor. Hard.

  “Christ almighty,” said Haye. He stepped forward and took a heavy punch in the stomach. From where, he could not determine. Maybe his quarry had been hiding behind the seat. Doubled over from the blow, a knee was driven into his face in rapid succession. The pain was unbelievable, and was accompanied by an audible crunch as the bones in his nose shattered. The strength drained out of his legs and they folded underneath him as he crumpled to the floor.