Aftermath by Michael Kerr

wife and daughter knew nothing.  But paranoia is a force to be reckoned with.  To Jerry’s way of thinking he needed to wipe the slate clean, and not spend his time wondering when the hammer might fall and ruin his life.
    He sat back in the leather swivel chair and put his booted feet up on the mahogany desktop and looked at the paneled wall and the framed photos hanging on it: of himself with the mayor, with the Country singer Toby Keith, and his favourite, the prior Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, his arm around Jerry’s shoulder and both of them chomping down on expensive Havana cigars.
    No, Jerry thought, he wasn’t going to risk losing his wealth, his status or his freedom.  Whatever actions it took to maintain the status quo, he would take them.
    The phone rang, and Jerry picked up.  “Yes, Marcie,” he said to his receptionist.
    “I’ve got a Mr Johnson on the phone, Mr Brandon.  He says that you’ll want to have a word with him.”
    Jerry’s mouth fell open.  This could not be happening.  “OK, Marcie,” he said.  “Put him through.”
    “Brandon?”  A deep, steady voice.  No emotion.
    “Yeah.  Who are you?”
    “You know who I am.  I’m sure Sammy, Sal or Roy has been in touch.”
    “What do you want?”
    “You know that as well.”
    “So humour me.”
    “Okay, I’m Johnson.  And you are in serious danger of coming face to face with me in the very near future.”
    “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
    “So why did you take the call, Jerry?”
    “Tell me what it is you think you have a problem with me over.”
    “You had Richard Jennings mown down by a car.  Now you have a contract out on his wife and daughter.”
    “That’s ludicrous.  Richard was my friend.  It was a hit and run.”
    “Whatever.  Thing is, you need to call off the dogs.”
    “I haven’t―”
    “Do you want to die, Brandon, because if you don’t back off, that’s the way this will end?”
    “You have no fuckin’ right to threaten me.”
    “I’m not threatening you, Brandon.  I’m promising you that if anything should happen to Rita or Sharon Jennings, then you get to wash up in the Kanawha River with your throat cut.  Ask Roy what kind of guy I am, and then think long and hard about what you should do.”
    The call was terminated and Jerry just sat for a minute holding the receiver in a white-knuckled grip.  His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he thought he was going to have a heart attack.
    It didn’t compute.  The two inept killers had no idea that he had put the contract out; not unless Sammy had told them, and there was no reason that he would have.  But the stranger had hurt one of them bad, and had got Sammy’s name.
    Jerry took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, and then punched Sammy’s number into an untraceable cell that he kept for very private calls.
    “Yeah, boss,”
    “Where are you now?” Jerry said.
    “On my way back to Twomile.”
    “Turn round and get back here.  We need to talk.”
    “On my way,” Sammy said a half second after the connection had been broken.
    Sammy gave Ray Darrow, at the lot where the limo service was run from, a call.  Told Ray that he’d have to cover a pickup at the airport for him.  He then headed back to see what Brandon wanted.
    Sammy was worried.  His boss had spat the words down the phone.  Something bad had happened in the short space of time it had been since they’d talked at the lot.  But what?  He couldn’t begin to guess.
    Jerry was standing outside the office, grinding a cigarette butt into the gravel with the heel of his boot, when Sammy pulled in and parked up.
    “I got a call shortly after you left, Sammy,” Jerry said as Sammy stepped out of the cherry-red Nissan pickup and sauntered over to him.
    Sammy waited.  He knew when to keep his mouth shut and listen.  Best way with Jerry was to wait for a question and answer it.
    “Guess who it was?  Jerry