by Matt Hilton
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 singlestory 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.
<
br /> 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 viv idly 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.
I leaped and rolled, putting a chair between us. It wasn't any protection from a high-velocity round, but that wasn't my purpose. I threw myself into the room to draw the man's attention to me. Away from Louise.
Sure enough, he shot at me. I kissed the carpet and tatters of upholstery sifted down on me. Then I was up and moving. So was Rink. The man was caught in a pincer move and there was only one way out. He spun Louise into Rink's arms. His gun came up. And for one second I feared he would put a bullet in her spine. My response was to fire.
Lucky son of a bitch jerked aside at the exact same moment and my round nicked only a small portion of his ear—instead of a large chunk of skull. The slippery bastard lurched away from me, and now Louise and Rink were between us. Encumbered with Louise, he couldn't bring the Mossberg to bear on the man.
The man took three running steps and dove headlong at the nearest window. Drapes tangled him, glass wedged in his deep blue suit, but then he was crashing out into sunshine. I charged across the room and leaned through the window after him. The man vaulted through the topiary hedge we'd so recently stood behind. That suit of his was going to be a mess.
As he charged through the neighboring yard toward the street, a pale blue Chevrolet squealed along the asphalt toward him. I got a bead on him. I squeezed. His suit was going to get messier.
A bullet cracked the window frame next to my head. Splinters of wood jabbed into my cheek. Automatically I flinched, the action transposed to my trigger finger, and my bullet went wide.
Only one person could have fired on me. The guy I'd already winged. Move, Hunter, or die, my mind screamed at me. I dropped and spun onto my haunches. My gun began to rise, but I was again caught in a snapshot moment.
The injured man was coming toward me. His mouth was wide with a silent curse. The muzzle of his handgun was a yawning black hole about to suck the life out of me. John's face flashed through my vision. Eyes sad.
There was a single crack.
Despite myself, I jerked against the pain.
Above me the man swayed. His angry face lengthened in surprise, eyelids shuddering. I saw a deep red blossom on the breast of his silk shirt. His knees folded and he fell toward me. He was limp as I shoved him aside. Beyond him, Harvey Lucas was like an angel with a Glock in his fist.
"Welcome to the dance," I said to him.
Harvey stepped forward and, gripping the shoulder of the man, pulled him over onto his back. Air escaped from the man's lips. A grunt. A spark remained in his eyes. He made a futile attempt at lifting his gun. Futile because Harvey's size twelves ground his wrist into the floor.
"You like hurting girls?" Harvey asked him.
Then he placed a single round in the man's open mouth.
It was a classic hit. One in the heart, one in the head. It's the only way to make sure your enemy is dead.
Harvey stretched a hand out to me. I took it and he hauled me up.
"Thanks, Harvey," I said. "I owe you."
"Was nothin'." His eyes were a reflection of my own. As a Ranger, he'd known action. But not up close. Eye to eye. Harvey was now one of the exclusive club that Rink and I held lifetime membership in.
27
there was no time for cleanup. We had to move fast. Priority was getting Louise away from any backlash from the turmoil at her house. Harvey was up to the task. He took Louise one way with instructions to meet us in an hour. Rink and I streaked away from the house and the rising wail of approaching sirens.
Away from the cordon of police vehicles, I asked Rink to pull up at a telephone booth.
The call was enough to ensure that police action would be in our favor. Walter has that effect. It's the weight a sub-division director of the CIA wields.
We met at the same diner as last time. Louise was dressed as before. Still good-looking. Still worn around the edges. But she was different now. She held herself tentatively, like every muscle in her body ached. Fear haunted her eyes.
She was hurting from the beating she'd taken. Scared half to death by what she'd witnessed. I sympathized with her, but that wasn't why we were there. The men who'd tortured her did so for a reason. She knew more than she was admitting to.
She'd already swallowed a cup of black coffee and was asking for more when we walked in. Harvey, playing chaperone, was sitting opposite her in the same booth. He looked as sharp as Samuel L. Jackson did in the remak
e of Shaft.
In contrast, I felt, and probably looked, like someone who'd slept in his clothes and tended to his ablutions in a tiny bowl in a cramped bathroom. Though washed and shaved, my body felt gritty and as rumpled as my shirt. The splinters of wood in my cheek itched like hell.
