Page 79 of Witness 8

‘Who shot Harry?’ I asked.

‘We can talk about that later. There are other, more interesting matters to discuss.’

‘If you came to buy me breakfast, you’re too late. I already paid and I ain’t hungry,’ I said.

‘This isn’t a social call, Mr. Flynn. While I am not technically here on business, hence your current good health, I am not here to make small talk either. Now that I have introduced myself, I think we can get to the point.’

He paused, caught the waitress’s eye and politely asked for coffee. The waitress brought over a cup for him, and gave me another refill. I was glad I’d tipped well.

He first stared into the cup, warily, then brought it to his lips. There was a mild look of distaste as he smacked his lips and set the coffee cup down.

‘I spent eight years in Sicily. It spoiled me. The coffee was so good there I can still smell it. And this . . .’ He pointed to the mug. ‘Forgive me – I digress. I wanted to enquire as to the nature of your relationship with Mr. Lake.’

When he’d sat down, I had no idea what this guy wanted to talk about. I had never met anyone more polite who appeared intent on killing me at some point down the line. It was a little like meeting the guy who was going to make your coffin. Whatever guesses I could’ve made about what Mr. Christmas wanted, I would not have thought Gabriel Lake would have been his point of interest.

‘He’s my friend. And my investigator. Freelance. Do you know him?’

‘We’ve met,’ said Mr. Christmas. ‘It was a brief interlude, but pleasing nonetheless. My interest in Mr. Lake is professional, mostly. He used to work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation . . .’

He gave the feds their full and correct title. It was the Bureau of Investigation, not Investigations. If a guy ever flashes a badge and says he’s from the Federal Bureau of Investigations, you can be pretty sure the badge and the guy that goes with it are fake.

‘I know his résumé,’ I said. ‘He worked in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Lake hunted serial killers. He’s taken that business into the private sector now.’

Again with the smile, Mr. Christmas said, ‘I am aware he is no longer with the Bureau. Has he ever told you why that is the case?’

I nodded.

‘Did he tell you the whole story, I wonder?’

‘He said he got a tip-off from a federal informer about the whereabouts of a serial killer. Lake went to the property, kicked the door down, but by then it was too late. It wasn’t a killer’s home – it was a heroin bank. Lake was almost killed, but he took out every armed man in the building before he passed out from blood loss. That much was in the newspapers. Or most of it. By the time Lake woke up in the hospital, the informer was dead. Lake thinks someone in the Bureau set him up and sent him into a death trap. That last part didn’t make the news cycle.’

Mr. Christmas cocked his head, his expression curious. ‘There are certain aspects of the events of that evening that have lain hidden. Either by necessity or design. He didn’t tell you the identity of the killer he was searching for that evening?’

His tone had changed. The timber more somber. He didn’t need to spell it out.

‘He was looking for you?’ I asked.

Mr. Christmas softly closed and then opened his eyes as he gave a slight nod by way of agreement.

‘Mr. Lake drew the ire of agents in the Bureau because of his somewhat radical approach to the identification, pursuit and detection of those who regularly commit murder, either by desire or as a legitimate business enterprise. Some in the Bureau thought he was right. If he had been allowed to remain in the service and progress, he would have altered that organization. He could have embarrassed some agents. Ended the careers and the life’s work of others. Mr. Lake had been warned – or perhapsthreatenedis a better description – that he may become a target. I may say that his courage and determination drove him onward, but I could equally offer the comment that he is both stubborn and perhaps over-confident in his beliefs. Needless to say, the outcome was predictable.’

‘What’s your interest in Gabriel?’ I asked.

‘He intrigues me. I have been in my current line of work for a very long time. It is not often that I meet an opponent of that skill. And, I feel, in another life, it could well have beenmechasinghim.He may be your friend. He may be a brilliant investigator. But he is also a killer. I think you knew that already.’

‘Are you targeting Lake?’

‘No. I have no interest in killing Mr. Lake. It so happens that he has stumbled into my business here, with you . . .’

I’d had enough. My best friend was in a coma. I had a case starting for a client I knew was innocent and there was a real killer out there, somewhere, walking free.

I leaned forward, said, ‘I don’t really have time for a walk down memory lane with a hitman. Even one as polite and well-mannered as you. I got shit to do, so if you want to kill me, I suggest you make your move. Plenty have tried and failed. You know who shot Harry?’

He nodded.

‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Angel. Or at least that is his moniker in the trade. He is a former Special Forces operative. Seal team sniper. Quite skilled. His identity should not be difficult to discover. As I understand it, his experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq were unpleasant, to say the least. His team was tasked with tracking and executing an ISIS operative who targeted US military patrols. This operative’s method was to strap explosives to children and make them get close to the American soldiers before . . . well . . . you can imagine. Angel provided cover for the patrols. In the military, soldiers are conditioned to kill on the basis that if they fail to execute the enemy, they are essentially sacrificing one of their comrades. Kill to protect the man next to you. That works quite well. In Angel’s case, he had to shootmore than a dozen children in order to protect his team. Not all of those children were carrying explosives. It’s difficult to know if it happened after he shot the first child, or the twelfth, but it appears that something inside Angel broke. Something that could not be put back together. I have respect for him as a fellow professional, but if you don’t kill him I think I might.’