by Matt Hilton
“You don’t know my secret.”
“But that’s part of the bargain. It’s the only way we can work together. You tell me why you’re on the run, and I’ll do the same. Call it leverage against one another. We have to work together to keep both our secrets. That way we can’t afford to betray each other.”
“No, I’m not having any part of it,” the thief said. “This is all just a trick so that you can escape. You’ll drop me in it first chance you get.”
“Not if I tell you my secret first,” Cain offered.
“So what’s the big secret you’re hiding?” he demanded.
“We have to make a deal first,” Cain said.
“Uh-uh, not until I know what the hell you’re talking about,” the thief said.
“Okay. But first, you have to show a little faith. Put the gun down.”
“No.”
“At least point it at the floor, then. I don’t want it going off by accident.”
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing you could tell me that’ll surprise me that much.”
“Want to bet?” Cain asked.
The thief shrugged another time, but there was something in Cain’s face that made him lower the gun.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Tell me.”
“Okay,” Cain said. “Drumroll please.”
“Just get on with it.”
“Fine, but it is a little dramatic. You could at least allow me my big moment.”
And then the thief made the mistake. He sighed, glanced up at the ceiling as if in search of spiritual guidance. It was the moment Cain had been waiting for. He erupted from the bed in a blur of motion. He grabbed the thief’s gun hand before he could bring it back up. Then Cain’s other hand was at the thief’s throat as he snaked a leg around the back of his ankles. In the next instant Cain was standing over him as he sprawled on the floor. And now pointing the gun at his chest.
“My big secret,” Cain said with a look of triumph, “is that I’m a killer, and unlike you, I’m prepared to prove it.”
24
ONCE, I WAS PURSUED THROUGH A RAINSTORM THAT DID LITTLE to dampen the fires raging through Grozny. Rebel Chechen soldiers were nipping at my heels. It was unfortunate; I wasn’t their enemy. Trouble was that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, on a mission to take out a rogue Russian Spetsnaz—special forces—soldier who was just a little too fond of prepubescent girls. To infiltrate his position, I’d gone disguised in Russian uniform, and now the Chechens were after my blood. Ironic, you might say. I was there to kill their worst kind of enemy, yet here I was being hunted like a rabid dog.
I had no intention of returning fire, so I chose to run. They were persistent. To elude my pursuers, I lay up beneath the corpse of a steer. The poor thing had avoided slaughter to feed the invading Russian troops by haphazardly wandering into a pasture sown with land mines. The steer’s folly was my salvation. Even so, it was about the most miserable twenty-eight hours of my life. The stench was bad enough, but the crawling infestation of maggots made it almost unendurable. Believe me; I came close to surrender.
Yes, I’ve slept in some pretty grim places in my time. But even a steer’s belly can be comfortable when compared to an office chair.
I slept fitfully, waking at dawn with a stiff neck and the feeling of an intense hangover.
Harvey had invited us back to his split-level ranch out beyond the suburbs, but we’d declined, wanting an early start and knowing that the tranquility of a remote farmhouse and a soft bed wasn’t conducive to an early rise. Struggling out of the chair, I cracked my lower back and blinked around the small office. Rink was gone. Probably a good thing. I wasn’t a pretty sight. I rubbed my eyes with both hands and yawned.
I pushed into the washroom, yawning again. Rink was standing by one of the two small sinks, his upper torso bared. The tattoo on his left shoulder was stark even against his tawny flesh. I have an identical tattoo on my shoulder, a testament to our time in the joint Special Forces unit we’d both been part of for all those years. It was a tattoo sported by only a handful of living men, and not one we ever wore when we were active in the field.
Midstroke with his razor Rink paused, glancing at me in the mirror. “Boy, you look like shit this morning.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I feel like shit, too, if it’s any consolation.”
“There’s a spare razor if you want to use it.”
I ambled over to the sink and picked up the disposable razor. “Courtesy of Harvey?”
“Yup,” Rink said, taking another stroke at his chin. “Keeps a stock of them for shaving his head.”
I grimaced at the blade, checking for short bristles caught between the twin blades. “He hasn’t used it already?”
Rink laughed. Didn’t answer. I shrugged, ran the blade under the tap. Rink tossed me a can of shaving foam. I nodded my thanks at him, then stopped.
“Problem?” Rink asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“You’ve shaved off your mustache?”
“Can’t hide anything from you, can I?”
I grunted. “That’s what makes me a damn good detective.”
Rink slapped me on my shoulder as he brushed past, heading back to the office. I washed and shaved, dried off. When I returned to the office, Rink was on the telephone to Harvey.
“Harvey’s over at Louise Blake’s place. He wants us over there,” Rink said. “He just watched a couple of guys go inside. Didn’t look like they were selling home insurance.”
“How slick did they look?”
“Like eels in a bucket of sump oil.”
25
JOHN TELFER SAT ON HIS HOTEL RECLINER AND STARED AT a blank canvas no more than a couple of centimeters past the end of his nose. Light from the overhead bulb filtered through the cloth, and if he stared closely enough he could make out the minute nuances of texture and pattern in the cotton weave. It was all he’d had to visually focus on for the best part of five hours. His other senses hadn’t been given many stimuli, either, not since the man had forced the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back with an electric cord torn from a desk lamp.
He sat mute, listening for any telltale sign that his time was up, that the maniac was approaching, knife or gun ready to take his life. But all he heard was the occasional shifting of body weight on the bed across from him. Not for the first time he wondered if his captor had fallen asleep.
He heard a soft grunt. Was it the sound a man makes as he slips into dreamland? Or more likely, the sound of one coming to a decision? Fearing he was about to find out, he straightened and craned his neck to try to shift the hood enough that he could see beneath it.
“Sit still,” the man commanded from across the room.
“What are you doing?” Telfer asked. His own voice was strained and distant.
“Thinking,” answered the maniac. “Now please be quiet and allow me to do so.”
Telfer nodded beneath the bag. Show that I’m not a threat, he thought. But he couldn’t help asking, “What’re you gonna do with me?”
The man snorted in derision. “What do you think?”
Telfer’s shoulders slumped. He felt like asking, Why didn’t he just get on with it then? But that would be suicidal. He didn’t want to die, and every second of life he could hold on to, he’d do so with all his might. He kept quiet.
The minutes passed and Telfer went back to scrutinizing the inside of the cloth bag. He stared at the blurry cloth, lost in some still, Zenlike place. After a while, he began to rock back and forth.
“Will you please be quiet?”
“Unh?” Telfer asked.
“You’re humming again,” said the man. “That same godawful tune that has no melody.”
“I didn’t realize,” Telfer said. Beneath his hood, he blinked slowly. He had no comprehension of having been humming a tune.
“It’s getting right on my nerves. Maybe I should just cut out your voice box so you can’t do it anymore?”
Telfer shook his head. “I won’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.”
“Good. Now if you’ll just give me a little peace and quiet, I can come to some sort of decision.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“Probably. Only thing is, I haven’t decided how yet.”
“Thanks for being so honest.”
He heard the man get up from the bed and walk over. Telfer’s whole frame tightened in response. He made a short wailing sound, before something made him stop. He didn’t want to die, but if he had to, he didn’t intend shrieking like a lost soul. In defiance, he lifted his chin, exposing his throat for a quick slash. Then he blinked at the sudden intrusion of light as the hood was snatched away. The man wasn’t holding a knife, but Telfer’s own gun was pointed at him.
“I’ve asked and asked for you to be quiet,” said the man, “but you just can’t seem to keep your mouth shut. So I’ve decided. What I want you to do is to keep right on talking. Okay?”
Telfer squinted up at him. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me who you are and how you wound up here. And I want the truth. No lies. Believe me, if you lie to me, I will know. And I will hurt you. Understand?”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“Good. Now go ahead. But don’t go raising your voice. We don’t want anyone eavesdropping on our conversation, do we?”
Telfer glanced at the wall behind him. Like most hotel walls, these were about as porous as a sponge. He couldn’t be sure if anyone was in residence next door, and he couldn’t take the chance that their conversation would be overheard. A bit of a strange notion, considering that a psycho was holding him at gunpoint. He looked back at the man and saw a faint smile playing about his lips. He seemed amused, as though he knew that Telfer could not shout for help.
“My name isn’t Ambrose,” he began.
“I know that. So what is it? Your real name?”
“John.”
“Mmm.”
“Honestly. My name’s John Telfer.”
The man nodded as though he was confirming something he already knew.
“I’m from England.”
“We’ve already established that.” Again the nod of the head, the amused smile.
“I came here on a work permit,” Telfer said.
“That has since run out?”
It was Telfer’s turn to nod. “I haven’t been able to get a full visa yet.”
The man nodded. “You and a couple million others.”
“So,” Telfer said, “I’ve had to move on. If I stayed put, I’d have been deported back home.”
The man watched him steadily for more than half a dozen heartbeats. Then he moved closer, pushing the gun down in the waistband of his trousers. He took out the curved knife and held it below Telfer’s nose. Telfer edged back from it, the cords in his neck tightening.
“I told you not to lie.” The man placed the blade so that it lay flat on Telfer’s cheek, the point millimeters from his right eye. “That also includes half-truths. Now I don’t doubt that you have no visa, but that’s not the reason you’re running. I want the full truth. Take this as your last warning.” He turned the blade on its edge and sliced through the flesh. Not a deep cut, just enough to part the outer dermis. Still, blood flowed warm down Telfer’s face to pool at the corner of his mouth.
“Jesus,” Telfer hissed.
“Hurts like a bugger, doesn’t it?” said the madman. “But you know that’s just the start, Johnny boy. No more lies?”
“No more lies,” Telfer echoed.
The man retreated a couple of steps, wiped the tip of the knife on Telfer’s knee. He placed the knife back in his trouser pocket. Then the gun was back in his hand and pointed at Telfer’s face.
“I’ve done something wrong,” Telfer began.
The man nodded, sitting on a corner of the coffee table.
“I’m on the run.”
“Also already established. Get on with it.”
Telfer twisted his mouth into a knot. He didn’t want the knife coming out again. “I stole something.”
“Yes,” said the man.
“I’m not a thief,” Telfer began.
“Oh? What about my car? My knife?”
Telfer shook his head. “Okay. But I’m not normally a thief.”
“You’re not? You do a good impression of one.”
“Until four weeks ago, I never stole a thing in my life.” Telfer stopped. He knew he was lying to himself. There was the small matter of the money his brother Joe had given him to clear off a debt. Money he’d immediately lost on another hopeless bet. In one sense that did make him a thief. Then there was the matter of Jennifer and the kids. He’d stolen their hearts. Broken them into little pieces and snatched a random handful that could never be returned.
“What are you crying for?”
“Uh?”
“You’re crying,” the man pointed out. “Was this theft so dreadful that it brings you to tears?”
Telfer sniffed. “No. Not the theft.”
“Oh. I see. There’s more to it than that? Go on. Tell me.”
“I have a wife and kids.”
The man nodded slowly. A shadow passed behind his features. “Haven’t we all?”
“I wronged them,” Telfer went on. “I wanted to make things right for them again.”
“Which is why you stole this thing?” The man bent down and pulled Telfer’s backpack from beneath the coffee table. Telfer jolted as if he’d sat on an exposed electrical wire. He watched, eyes intense, as the man fished in his backpack and pulled out an oblong package wrapped in black tape. He placed it on the coffee table next to him, then he upended the bag and thick wads of cash thudded onto the carpet.
Telfer had no words. He simply sat looking at the taped package. The money was of no immediate interest, though there had to be upward of $600,000. Likewise, the man gave the money no attention. He nudged the package with the muzzle of the gun. He said, “I’ve got a feeling I know what this is.”
26
LOUISE BLAKE’S HOUSE WAS MODEST WHEN COMPARED TO some in her neighborhood, but a palace compared to the flat John left his wife and kids in back home in England. It was a single-story clapboard cape, with a porch and adjoining garage. The lawn and shrubs were well tended. A ginger tomcat cleaned himself on the front stoop.
The scene was one of suburban tranquillity.
But that was about to be shattered.
Rink parked the rental a block away and we rushed toward the house. Dawn in Arkansas can be cool at this time of year, but that wasn’t why we wore coats. Rink’s Mossberg was slung from a harness beneath his armpit. I had my SIG holstered in a shoulder rig.
Harvey was waiting for us, standing in the shadows of a shed on the next-door property. He gave a low whistle and we angled toward him.
“What kept you guys?” he hissed. “I thought I was gonna have to start the party without you.”
“What’s the deal?” I asked. “They still inside?”
“Yup. Two of them.” He nodded up the road. “Another guy in a Chevrolet parked a block over.”
“Same guys as before?”
“Yeah.”
“Any movement?” Rink asked. Our view of Louise’s house was partially blocked by a hedge. But we could see her kitchen windows. They reflected the early sunrise. Our vantage point didn’t offer a view of the front, but as we had arrived, I’d noticed that the blinds were drawn.
“Haven’t seen anything since they went in. Heard raised voices just before you got here, but it’s been quiet since.” Harvey held my gaze. There were the beginnings of a cold sweat on his brow. “We going in or what?”
“We’re going in,” I told him.
“Good,” he said. He pulled a Glock from within his leather coat, racked the slide. “They’ve touched her, I’m gonna rain some hurt on these assholes.”
“We don’t know what we’re going into,” I cautioned him. “Could get
nasty.”
“Believe me, Hunter. If they’ve hurt her, you can bet your ass things is gettin’ nasty.”
“Just so long as you know things’re gonna get hot in there.”
He winked at me. “Don’t you worry. I’m up for it.”
“Okay.” That was the prep done. Now all that was left was the hard part.
We fanned out. No preamble, just instinct sending us on our merry way. Harvey headed for Louise’s backyard, Rink and me to the front door. Best tactic? In fast and noisy, shoot anything that wasn’t wearing lip gloss.
The ginger cat was wise enough to flee.
From within, I heard something crash to the floor. Before the sound stopped echoing, I rammed straight through the screen and unlocked door and into a scene straight out of Goodfellas.
It was one of those snapshot moments where everything is so vividly imprinted on the optic nerves that you don’t have to physically look to see even the minutest of details.
It was like this:
Louise Blake on her knees, flowery skirt gathered up around her thighs. Streaked mascara. Smear of blood on her lips.
First Latin male holding her bunched hair and her two hands in one of his. Stretching her up. Exposing her ribs.
Second Latin male lifting a rolled telephone directory for another whack at her side.
These guys weren’t CIA or FBI. Even if they were, they still deserved to die.
I fired.
The report of the SIG set the world back in motion.
The man with the impromptu torture device took my 9-mm slug high in his shoulder. The directory spun from his hand, pages fluttering. He staggered away, crashing up against a dresser. Stacked dishes slid and exploded onto the floor.
My next step was followed by another shot. We all have imperfections; this bullet missed him, drilling a hole in the plaster behind him.
Rink burst into the room all spit and venom. His shotgun remained silent. The second man had the sense to place Louise in the way of Rink’s attack. Shielded by her body the man backpedaled. From his hip he snatched a semiautomatic handgun. The gun flashed metallic blue as it passed through a beam of sunlight pushing through a gap in the curtains.
