Dead Men's Harvest

by Matt Hilton

  Now would be a good time, Cain told himself.

  Prudence, though, prudence.

  First he circled the back of the building. He passed the back door, moved round the corner. The bathroom window was shuttered, but would have given him a look inside through the slats if he had the desire. No distractions, though.

  The final room didn’t have a window.

  The man inside was as much a prisoner as Cain had been at Fort Conchar.

  Happy that Telfer couldn’t make a break for it, he returned to the front. Cat-footed, he stepped up on to the porch. From inside came the clump of boot heels, enough to cover his own movements as he moved to the door. Elbows braced to his ribs, he held both semi-automatic weapons ready. Then he rocked back, lifting his heel.

  The door opened.

  There was a split second while Cain stared into the eyes of the older marshal. The man had slipped into a jacket. He was holding a small knapsack in his left hand. Getting ready for the off.

  ‘Shit!’ the man whispered. He dropped the bag, at the same time slapping his other hand towards the Desert Eagle on his hip.

  Cain fired, both his guns pumping rounds through the marshal’s chest. This close they met little resistance. The man barely moved even though significant portions of his lungs and heart were projected across the room.

  Cain’s heel was still partly raised. Economy of motion dictated he follow the movement through. He kicked the dead man to the ground, stepping over him and into the room.

  Already the second marshal was on the move. He was still two steps from the table when Cain shot him through the neck. The man spun, beads of scarlet making a dervish whirl in the space he vacated. The marshal caromed off the far wall. He turned towards Cain, his mouth opening to shout. Cain shot him again, punching a hole through the balding spot on the man’s forehead.

  Two men dead in as many heartbeats.

  The woman was still a dangerous adversary. So might John Telfer be. It was highly unlikely that he’d been armed by his protectors, but Cain remembered that Telfer was one sly son of a bitch.

  Concluding that the woman – an armed and trained protector – was by far the greater threat, Cain quickly moved towards the bathroom door. He unloaded the entire H&K clip through the door and walls. A bullet punched through the door in an attempt at return fire, but Cain heard the unmistakable grunt of someone mortally wounded.

  Shoving the H&K back into his shoulder holster, he drew the Tanto with his left hand.

  From inside the bathroom came a crash of breaking glass. The bitch was trying to escape!

  He kicked open the door, expecting to see the woman wriggling out the window. Instead he almost lost his face as she fired. Only his super-charged instincts saved him. Wood splinters from the door frame jabbed at his right cheek, but otherwise he went unharmed.

  ‘Run, Jeff!’ the woman yelled.

  Cain studied her in the time it took to swing the Beretta towards her. She was wounded low in her gut – her childbearing days history, if she managed to survive. She had a second bullet wound on the mound of her right forearm. Blood slicked her wrist and made her grip on her weapon tenuous.

  Stepping directly into her space, he jammed the Beretta to her forehead. Her lips writhed in a grimace. But that was more to do with the seven inches of steel he’d rammed below her ribcage.

  The woman blinked slowly and Cain watched as her pupils dilated. He moved his face very close to hers, his lips trembling a hair’s breadth from hers as he inhaled her final breath. It smelled of peppermint mouthwash and the coppery tang of blood.

  As she sagged, Cain supported her on the length of his knife. Lord, but she was pretty, he thought. If only he had more time.

  Allowing her to slip off the steel, he backed away. A quick glance to his right told him Telfer hadn’t come out the bedroom. The woman’s final words had gone unheeded, which was good.

  Cain tapped on the door with the barrel of his gun.

  ‘Knock, knock. It’s the big bad wolf. Are you there, little piggy?’

  From behind the door he heard the frantic gasps of a terrified man.

  ‘It’s been a long time, John,’ Cain said. ‘Hope you didn’t forget me while I was gone?’

  Inside the room, furniture was being scraped across the floor.

  Cain booted the door and went inside.

  A bed had been upended, the mattress concealing the cowering figure behind it.

  ‘Aw, come on, John. Don’t go all shy on me. Come out and say hello to your old friend, Cain.’

  The mattress quivered, the man hiding there was shaking so hard. ‘Please!’ he yowled. ‘Dear God in heaven, please don’t kill me!’

  Cain frowned.

  ‘Please. Can’t you just let me go? I promise . . . I swear to God I won’t say a thing to anyone. I’ll disappear. Tell Mr Gambetti, I swear I won’t testify against him.’

  Mr Gambetti?

  Cain leaned in and with the barrel of his gun he forced the mattress to one side.

  The man cowering against the wall shivered uncontrollably.

  ‘You’re Jeffrey Taylor?’ Cain asked.

  The man nodded slowly, unsure of what was expected of him.

  Cain slow-blinked at him.

  He didn’t like swearing or profanity. It was unbecoming to a warrior-poet like Tubal Cain. But under these circumstances he allowed himself a little slip of the tongue.

  ‘So where the fuck is John Telfer?’

  Chapter 14

  I’d heard much talk of Russian oligarchs: those billionaires who reaped the benefits after glasnost and the fall of the Berlin Wall, who were famous in my country for purchasing soccer teams, amongst other things. Most of those mega-rich men were upstanding and honest, very savvy in business, but then there were a few others. Following the collapse of the USSR the Russian mob had flourished throughout the world, and in particular had targeted the USA as a new home for their schemes. Whenever a Russian name was tied to a mobster, it struck fear in people’s hearts. But Sigmund Petoskey didn’t quite hit it for me. As Rink eloquently put it, Petoskey was a half-assed punk with delusions of grandeur. He wasn’t even a real Russian, his only claim to the Motherland being a great-grandfather who had moved to the States at the turn of the twentieth century. Give him his due, he’d managed to claw himself out of the gutter and become a successful businessman. But he was still white trash whatever way you looked at him. He could have the fanciest of homes, talk in that plummy accent, and move in the same circles as the elite of Arkansas society, but when all came to all, he was still the same piece of crap that had scrabbled in the gutter for scraps. Or, as Rink said, who went frog-gigging for meat for his mother’s stew.

  I didn’t fear Siggy Petoskey, and I sure as hell didn’t respect him.

  Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  Healthy respect for an enemy is a prerequisite to the successful outcome of any mission. Underestimating an enemy can lead to your own undoing. With that in mind it was important that I approach him with a clear head and correct intent. It had been a busy night and I could feel the burr of fatigue at the edges of my consciousness. I needed to sleep, to recoup my senses, to take Siggy Petoskey with all cylinders firing.

  The problem with that tactic was that Rink would have to endure further hours at the hands – and ministrations – of his captors. If he was still alive. I refused to accept that he was dead. If Rink had been killed, then we’d have found him in the same state that Bryce Lang and Walter’s bodyguards had been discovered in. He’d have been displayed as a warning, not hidden away somewhere. Rink had been taken for one reason: to control me. While I was seeking Rink, I would be too distracted to thwart Tubal Cain’s plans for my younger brother. I was being manipulated, but that was OK. I was determined to find Rink whoever pushed and prodded me along.

  Instead of sleep, I made do with that shower I’d put off last night. In a stall at Harvey’s ranch-style home I practically scalded myself under the blastin
g water, before turning the nozzle to freezing to rinse off and reinvigorate myself. After shaving and brushing my teeth, I changed into the spare set of clothing from my bag. The black T-shirt and black jeans were wrinkled and carried a faint smell of must. My black leather jacket and boots finished off my funereal attire. My fashion sense didn’t generally extend to bright and cheerful, but I’d been dressed in more lugubrious attire than this when conducting night-time assaults on enemy territory.

  Harvey served up a heart-attack-inducing breakfast of eggs and crispy bacon with rounds of toast dripping in butter. He’d also had the presence of mind to brew a two-litre jug of strong coffee that I put a massive dent in. These days I didn’t smoke, rarely imbibed strong alcohol and tried to eat healthily – Harvey’s breakfast notwithstanding – so caffeine was my only guilty pleasure. When I was done, I carried my dishes over and Harvey placed them in his dishwasher. He looked efficient in his handling of the machine. He had the bachelor thing down to a tee.

  ‘So, there’s no woman in your life right now, Harvey?’

  ‘Nothing serious,’ he said. ‘Couple of ladies I see now and then, but none that I’d want to set up shop with. I haven’t found the right one, yet, Hunter. I’m not as lucky as you.’

  I pinched my lips round an answer, offered only a nod. I hadn’t told him of my decision regarding Imogen, but maybe he’d read something in me. Perhaps this was his way of telling me I was a fool for letting her go.

  Harvey reached into his trouser pocket to pull out an item smaller than the last joint of his pinkie finger. Handing it over, he said, ‘Keep that safe.’

  I tucked the item into a hidden change pocket under the waistband of my jeans.

  ‘I’m not happy with the plan, Hunter. Just so you know, man.’

  I shrugged. ‘What’s the worst that can go wrong?’

  Death would be the least of it, for certain.

  Harvey said, ‘You and Rink. Sometimes I can’t believe either of you. How can you be so blasé about dying?’

  ‘We all die, Harve. Sooner or later.’

  ‘I’d rather it was later, thanks. I see myself in my nineties, tucked up in bed with a pretty nurse mopping my brow.’

  ‘What are the chances, huh?’

  ‘For you? About the same as a jelly doughnut making it to the final of America’s Biggest Loser.’

  I laughed, then glanced at my watch. ‘C’mon. It’s time to get moving.’

  Harvey had an old Chevrolet pick-up truck that he occasionally used when conducting undercover operations. It was white, but was splashed with trail mud, rusted around the wheel arches, and there was a big dent in the front fender. It looked clapped out, but under the hood it was finely tuned. Not unlike my friend, I thought: Harvey had affected a disguise in direct contrast with his usual sharp look. We climbed into the truck and Harvey set it rolling towards Little Rock. It would take a quarter-hour to reach the city, another to get to the building where we’d find Siggy Petoskey. As we headed over, I checked in with the voicemail box but found it still empty. I called Velasquez and McTeer, got them both at their respective home numbers, but they had nothing new for me, apart from further exhortations to find their boss. Hanging up the phone, I said, ‘It looks like we’re still on.’

  Harvey sucked in his cheeks. He’d neglected to shave this morning and fine grey bristles winked in the reflection of the sun through the windscreen. ‘I still think it’s a crazy plan.’

  ‘I always was too impulsive for my own good,’ I retorted. That’s what my stepdad Bob Telfer used to tell me, as did my ex-wife, Diane. More recently Rink had been saying the same. ‘But short of torturing Rink’s location out of Petoskey, I can’t think of a quicker way.’

  ‘I vote we torture Petoskey.’

  ‘We could do that, but there’s always the chance he doesn’t actually know where Rink has been taken. This way, at least we get a shoe in Hendrickson’s door.’

  ‘Unless you’re killed,’ Harvey pointed out, ‘which will kinda fuck things up for us all.’

  ‘Hopefully that won’t happen. I’ve been thinking about that pretty nurse of yours mopping my brow too . . .’

  I checked my weapons and the spare ammo I’d jammed in my jacket pocket. My old SIG Sauer P226 had been exchanged for one that Harvey kept in a strongbox at the ranch. I had left mine with him for safe keeping. Likely this one would be taken away after the shooting I was about to commit. Harvey had wondered why I chose to carry the SIG when he had a couple of cheaper models lying around. Frankly, I preferred the SIG to other handguns. It had an unusually heavy stock, but instead of it being an impediment, that made for a great bludgeoning weapon when the fighting got so close that a clean shot wasn’t an option. The poundage necessary to depress the trigger on the first shot was always greater than the next – a safeguard against misfiring a round – the resulting snatching action throwing off the aim of those unfamiliar with the gun. But I’d been using a SIG since my training in Point Shooting way back when and knew how to compensate. My other weapon was a standard issue military Ka-bar knife. The knife was in an ankle holster inside my right boot, the gun I carried in a shoulder rig under my left arm. That was unusual for me: usually I carried my adapted gun in my waistband at the small of my back, but this gun still had the sights and safety lever intact so could easily snag in my clothing.

  ‘Cocked and locked?’

  Harvey’s words were clichéd, as was my answer. ‘Ready to rock and roll.’

  He pulled the Chevrolet into a parking lot alongside a municipal building. The old truck would have stood out against the sedans and minivans favoured by the public servants inside the building but for the fact the Department of Works and Sanitation held offices here, and ours wasn’t the only battered pick-up in the lot. We weren’t interested in this place, but in another building across the road. This was a fleapit cinema showing a season of comedy movies from the black and white heyday, and it appeared that Sigmund Petoskey was a huge fan of Abbott and Costello’s zany antics. He was a regular at the matinée showing – all part of his plan to look like a normal law-abiding citizen. The show was about to end.

  And another was about to begin.

  We waited in the lot. Harvey powered up his notebook computer and logged in. Harvey was good with many weapons, but none as powerful as the laptop he carried. He rattled off codes and clicked on to a site that would look no different from Google Earth to a casual observer. Of course, this was not a programme in the public domain, and was very much up to the second. I didn’t bother looking, that was his territory. I watched the exit from the cinema. Some people were already beginning to trickle out, blinking as they walked from subdued lighting into the glare of day. It looked like Abbott and Costello didn’t have that many fans keen enough to attend this early showing as there was little more than a handful of people leaving the cinema. That was all the better for me.

  Stepping out of the truck, I gave Harvey a wink, then headed across the lot towards the road.

  Another small group came out of the cinema. They milled momentarily in place, three men in windcheaters and cargo pants surrounding one other man. Something instantly apparent was that these three weren’t the cauliflower-eared fools who had been Siggy’s protectors the last time we’d met. These men had the cool aloofness and sharp eyes of professionals. I had to be wary of them, but my attention was focused on the other. It was the man in the middle I’d come to see.

  Siggy Petoskey was a large man, though not in the way that Rink is large. He was soft-featured, with rounded shoulders and a paunch that came from excess. He was dressed for business in a tailored charcoal suit, cream shirt and red tie, but to stave off the winter nip he had donned an overcoat that reached to his knees. A flat cap covered his bald pate, and he wore leather gloves. On his face was the sour sneer I recalled from last time.

  We were on the fringes of the Downtown Convention District here. Traffic was quite busy and there were plenty of pedestrians on the sidewalks and waiting at
the nearest crossing. So many eyes that I hoped that it would temper the response of Petoskey’s guards long enough to do what had to be done. I speeded up, saw a gap in the traffic and rushed across the road, receiving the honk of a horn from a motorist who deemed my brash move injudicious. I angled quickly towards Petoskey’s group, who were to my left and no more than twenty yards away. Already I’d caught the attention of one of his guards. Hearing the car horn he’d turned my way, seen how fast I was approaching, and maybe even read the intent in the stern set of my features. His eyes narrowed in recognition.

  He moved, and true to form it wasn’t to pull a gun, but to warn his colleagues and to cover his mark. They responded instantly, closing in a box around Petoskey, two of them shielding him from my approach as the third covered him with his arm and side and began ushering him towards a limousine parked near the kerb. I snatched a glance that way, saw a fourth man was out of the car and had the door open to receive their charge. I couldn’t get Petoskey without first shooting one of the two men in front of me. I pulled out my SIG, continued forward, but then lifted the gun to the sky and discharged a round.

  All around us, pedestrians reacted to the sound, some shrieking, others racing for cover. Birds broke from their roosts. I yelled something wordless and animalistic, adding to the panic, before firing off another round into the sky. Two rounds down, that was all I was prepared to waste, just in case things went to pot, which was always a possibility.

  I was only yards away now and the close protection team had Siggy in the car, one of them throwing himself on top of his boss while the fourth man slammed shut the door. The car began to pull away and I raced forward, causing the three still on the pavement to turn to cut me off. Thankfully they hadn’t yet drawn their weapons. They each grappled me, and my SIG was knocked from my hand and clattered on to the floor. I swore and struggled with the guards, butting my head into a face that came too close.

  As the limousine sped away, the guards both sighed with relief that their mark was safe but also steeled themselves to deal with the maniac in their midst. They were, however, conscious of the number of witnesses on the street, and now that I was disarmed they weren’t prepared to shoot me. Thank God.