The Fourth Option

by Matt Hilton

  A crease formed between Booth’s eyes, and Walter saw how the grey man’s eyes widened in understanding. Booth’s mouth opened, and he struggled to rise.

  Walter hadn’t discarded his empty tumbler. It was still cupped in his palm as he swung it. The glass impacted under Booth’s right ear, with all of Walter’s burly weight behind it. The glass shattered into razor sharp chunks, biting into Walter’s fingers, but it was a small price to pay in flesh compared to what was levied from Booth. Walter ground the broken tumbler into the man’s neck, feeling hot blood jetting over his hand.

  Walter stepped back and Booth dragged his ungainly body to his feet. The man’s spectacles had fallen off during the assault, and his eyes now appeared beadier, but still round with shock. Booth’s long pianist’s fingers were ineffective in staunching the blood as he staggered away from Walter, crying out for his bodyguard.

  Walter said, ‘I told you we can’t be overheard, but go ahead, open the door, call for your man.’

  Booth — with blood raining in his wake — stumbled towards the door and grasped at the handle. He wrenched at it to pull open the door, and half fell over the threshold onto the porch. He fell to his knees before he reached the steps. Blood gouted between his fingers, and in desperation he croaked his bodyguard’s name.

  The tall man didn’t respond. He couldn’t as he was already dead, as was the driver of the limousine who’d also been shot dead by Walter’s security detail the instant Booth had entered the lodge.

  Booth lost the strength to kneel. He sprawled on the porch, his slick hands sliding down the steps. Somehow, he found a way to turn his head so that he could see Walter out of the corner of one eye. Walter stood over him, squeezing his fist to stop the blood oozing from his fingers.

  ‘Do…you…know…what you’ve done?’ Booth gasped.

  ‘Yeah,’ Walter said, ‘I just declared war.’

  Spencer Booth died.

  Walter’s security men had served him for many years, and he trusted them impeccably, but what he’d asked of them was a lot. By throwing in their hand with him they’d probably signed their own death warrants, but they were men that understood inevitability. Had Walter done as Booth asked, and betrayed Hunter and Rink, he’d be the next loose end to be tied up. Somebody would come for Walter, and the chances where his security detail would be murdered during the attempt. At least this way they had a fighting man’s chance at survival, and a hefty pay-off apiece from Walter to help set them up with new identities and lives. After tonight, he’d say goodbye to his loyal guards, as he would to the fishing lodge that he loved so much.

  ‘Lock the bodies down in the panic room for me, fellas,’ he said, ‘and then you’d best be on your way.’

  ‘What about the limo, Walt?’

  ‘I’ll handle it.’ He already had a spot in his favourite fishing hole picked out for it.

  30

  I’d later learn that at that time, corpses were being sealed in a secure vault underneath Walter Conrad’s Adirondacks fishing lodge. Locked behind several inches of steel, they would go undisturbed without a concerted effort made to find and liberate them. The same couldn’t be said for Sue Bouchard’s body. We did our best for her, and with as much dignity as possible too, but Sue was laid out on a trestle in a tomb smelling of cement dust, damp cardboard and engine oil. Jason Mercer had scrutinised Sue’s property dossier, then decided that a ranch-style house at the verge of a wildlife management area alongside the Apalachicola River offered us most anonymity. The ranch was remote, but within an hour’s drive of Panama City, and maybe twice that to Tallahassee, it was still a handy staging post should we need to travel anywhere fast.

  Mercer chose the house for an extra feature: it had a drive-in and lock-up parking garage separate to the main house, so it was somewhere private and self-contained where we could lay out Sue’s body. We wrapped her in a plastic tarp, and raised her off the floor on the trestle workbench, to protect and preserve her as best we could, until we could arrange a proper internment of her remains. Mercer stayed with her a few minutes after the rest of us retired to the house, and we allowed him, so he could say what he needed to say out of our earshot. We found the key in a secure lock box, to which Sue’s notes gave us the access code, and let ourselves in. Mercer joined us, red-eyed and shaky, very shortly, as he was in dire need of medical assistance and rest. The wound to his side had stopped bleeding, but he’d lost a fair amount of blood, and his broken ribs made breathing difficult. I had availed myself of the bathroom by then, and Rink was in the process of washing and dressing the wound on his forearm when Mercer stumbled inside. Harvey was nearest to him. He’d taken off the Ghillie suit before getting back in the car at the glade, but his ebony features were still smeared with camouflage grease paint. At six-feet five tall, built of lean muscle, he looked every inch a warrior, rather than a nursemaid. His fearsome appearance contradicted the care with which he caught and supported Mercer over to a large couch that dominated half of the ranch’s main living space. He helped him to lie down, whispering soft encouragement for Mercer to show him his wound.

  Mercer’s shirt and trousers were stiff with dried blood. His side was smeared with the stuff, but on inspection the bullet wound amounted to a shallow groove and the two ribs either side were cracked but not shattered: he was fortunate he was turning as the bullet flew at him, or the projectile would’ve pierced his ribs and torn out a large part of a lung too. In his current agony he probably didn’t deem himself the luckiest person in the world, and besides, his salvation had been Sue’s damnation. I’d bet that in his mind he wished she’d lived rather than he. Harvey, having a decent knowledge of field medicine from his years as an army Ranger, cleaned and dressed Mercer’s wound, and then his patient promptly fell asleep.

  We were all in need of rest. Except for a couple of hours of uncomfortable slumber in the car last night, I hadn’t slept for any length since my last undisturbed night in the hotel. Rink had suffered a similar lack of shuteye, and even Harvey must’ve been weary after our summons had seen him set off from Little Rock in the pre-dawn. We needed rest, and equally we had to eat and drink, or we’d lack the strength or brain function to react if our enemies attacked us again. It still concerned me that my face might be on a wanted poster by then — and the news feeds — and the cops might also expect me to be accompanied by my business partner and best pal, Rink. Therefore Harvey was the best man to send out on a supply run. Despite him having killed two opponents earlier in the evening, nobody had seen his face or was aware he was the shooter that’d saved our necks back in the glade. We had called on Harvey’s services before, so it was only a matter of time before Arrowsake pieced together who had assisted us, though I doubted they’d share that knowledge with regular law enforcement agencies.

  There was a nearby community called Dalkeith, but it was unlikely any services would still be open this late in the evening, so Harvey offered to drive ten miles towards the town of Wewahitchka and see what supplies he could drum up. Earlier we’d driven through the small town, and found it buzzing with evening activity, the very reason we hadn’t slowed for fear anyone noticed Sue’s condition.

  Before Harvey could go anywhere he had to remove his grease paint and get cleaned up. He’d fetched a grab bag, some snacks for the road and his rifle before setting off on a ten hours drive across four states to join us in Florida. He showered, and even ran a razor over his jaw, and dressed in fresh clothes before he deemed he was presentable enough to face the checkout girls in the Wewahitchka branch of Piggly Wiggly. Harvey wasn’t vain; he simply had personal standards he adhered to. His car had been left in Panama City, so he had to take the Ford, but we were reasonably confident his trip would go without a hitch: the cops might be on the lookout for me and Rink, not a lone African American.

  After he headed out, Rink and I tiptoed our way around Mercer and set up in the ranch’s kitchen, so we wouldn’t disturb him. The basic furnishings in the living space didn’t extend to the
kitchen, but there was a cooking range and microwave oven we could put to use on Harvey’s return. I could’ve killed a coffee or three by then, but we lacked the makings. Rink rummaged through the cupboards but came up with nothing appetizing. Whoever had stayed at the ranch previously hadn’t left us as much as a tea bag we could’ve run under a tap and wrung out between us. We drank cold water from chipped mugs left by the previous occupier on the draining board.

  We were killing time, waiting for Harvey to return, but more realistically keeping our minds off Sue’s regretful death. I barely knew her, but I still ached at losing her. Rink hurt worse, but he controlled his grief admirably. We set to planning our next move; unbeknown to us that Walter had already gotten things in motion with his slaying of Spencer Booth and his security detail. I’d telephoned Walter earlier, filling him in on our failed attempt to rescue Sue, and warning him of the consequences of Vince’s escape. He’d taken my words more sanguinely than expected, and I should’ve suspected then that he was not a man to go quietly. In common with us, Walter was an advocate that attack was the best form of defence.

  We sat on the kitchen counter, discussing our options for a long time, and maybe at some point we’d forgotten we had a man slumbering next door and raised our voices. We heard Mercer’s halting approach as a series of scuffs and scrapes, and then he appeared at the door, one hand steadying him against the frame. His other arm was clutched across his injured ribs. His face was as pale as a fish’s belly. He gave us a look that suggested he hoped that this was all a dream and we were figments of his worst nightmare. When we didn’t fade from view, he shook his head and groaned in abject misery: it was true, Sue had died.

  ‘You need to go and lie down, buddy,’ Rink said.

  To Mercer it must have sounded like an instruction, that perhaps he wasn’t welcome to join our conversation. He moistened his lips with his tongue before speaking. ‘I woke through there with no real memory of where I was for a moment. It happens sometimes, it’s because of…well it doesn’t matter. I thought I’d been abandoned but then I heard your voices and came looking for you.’

  Rink shrugged noncommittally.

  I said, ‘You’re welcome to join us, it’s just there’s no comfortable place to sit. Tell you what, now that you’re awake, we’ll come back in the living room with you. That way you can rest, and still be part of the planning.’

  My offer was to help reassure him: maybe now that Sue was dead and he was no longer needed to help rescue her he might have thought we’d dump him, or worse. He began shivering, and his eyes darted between us, before they practically zoned out. His mind was somewhere in the past or future, but not with us in that moment. His knees gave several jerks as if he was on the verge of collapse. I jumped down from the counter and took two hurried steps towards him. He snapped out of his fugue, alarm now in his refocused gaze. ‘C’mon,’ I said, taking his arm, ‘let me help you.’

  He gently withdrew from my grasp. ‘I’m okay; I’m not about to fall again. Is there anything to drink, I’m parched?’

  ‘Will lukewarm water from the faucet do ya?’ Rink shook droplets from the mug he’d used, and then ran it under the tap.

  I walked with Mercer across the kitchen, ready to grab him if he dropped. He winced with each step, his wound tormenting him. He set his back to the counter, and accepted the mug from Rink. He gulped down the water as if he’d just stumbled in from a desert trek. He held out the mug for Rink to replenish it.

  Before following the request, Rink eyed his former enemy. ‘I asked before if you were ready to avenge Sue, and I’ll ask again. See, you don’t look up to the job to me.’

  ‘I’m hurt, yeah, but I’m not an invalid,’ Mercer responded. ‘Once I’ve rested up and healed some—’

  ‘We don’t have time for healin’ up. You’re hurt, but still on your feet. Either you’re good to go, or you ain’t.’

  ‘Rink,’ I cautioned, but he shook his head at me.

  ‘This bullshit has to stop, Hunter,’ he growled, although his sentiment was aimed elsewhere. ‘We’re all hurtin’ in our own way. It’s time to tighten our bootlaces and man up, or it’s time to curl up and die.’

  As pep talks went it was a bit brusque, but I understood it was as much about getting his head in the game for Rink as for the rest of us. He dashed water into the mug and shoved it towards Mercer, with a terse command to ‘Suck it up, buttercup.’

  Mercer glared at him, his upper lip curled, but after a second or two he nodded sharply. ‘I’m good to go.’

  ‘That’s what I need to hear,’ said Rink, lightening up a little. ‘Now you listen up, ’cause it’s the last time I’m gonna say this. You still have doubts about us, and that’s understandable. You’ve probably carried what I did to you all these years, hatin’ me ever wakin’ minute of every day, and that’s fine. The feelin’ was kinda mutual. Back there, you probably suspected that we were willin’ to sacrifice you for Sue’s sake, but you were wrong. We gave you a gun, made it so’s you could help us get Sue safely away from Vince and those other bozos, when we coulda hogtied you and tossed you to them instead. We got her away from Vince, and you helped, and then things went sideways. If I thought you’d be no good to us now, I’d have put a bullet in your bread pan, there and then and had done. I didn’t. We brought you with us. You’re still with us now, d’you get me?’

  It was quite a mouthful coming from Rink, but it was necessary to get his point across. I waited with him while Mercer absorbed his words.

  ‘I get you,’ Mercer said.

  ‘So stop worrying about us abandoning you, or doing you harm,’ Rink went on. ‘Get your head back in the fight. That girl out there, she didn’t deserve what happened to her, and I’m going to make sure somebody pays for killing her. Vince is a royal prick. But he’s just a prick following orders. It doesn’t excuse him for what happened, and he’ll be made to pay, but it won’t — it can’t — stop with him. If we’re gonna survive this, and make Arrowsake pay, there’s only one way I know how: we take the offensive.’

  ‘I second the motion,’ I said, and gave Mercer an in.

  He didn’t come straight to the point. ‘When we got Sue back, she scolded me for risking my life to save hers. She said how she’d resisted torture, refused to lead them to me, so I didn’t come to harm from those bastards. She even took the bullet intended for me. Damn right, I think we should take the offensive!’

  He stood breathless after his outburst. But I was glad to see that he was standing stronger and clearer of eye. His injury was painful, but no longer crippling. There was no hint of a tremor in the hand holding his mug, or in his pupils.

  Rink stuck out a fist. After a moment, Mercer released his side, and returned the gesture, and they bumped knuckles. Fist bumping wasn’t really a custom of mine, but I offered my ‘welcome aboard’ to Mercer with a clap of his shoulder.

  31

  ‘You’re just gonna have to start wearing your hair longer on the sides,’ Vince told his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and laughed.

  Jason’s Mercer’s wild shot had come close to killing him. It had struck the top of his right shoulder, and ricocheted, taking off a chunk of his ear and scouring a small furrow towards the back of his head. Travelling another quarter inch deeper it would have completely ruined his day, instead of his rakish good looks. He could be ebullient about his near miss now, but by God, he had been unhappy at the time. As he’d scurried like a rat for the cover of the woods, his skull felt like a beaten piñata, and he’d fully expected to find it laid open to the grey matter by the amount of blood gushing from him.

  His mission had been to kill Mercer, and he had a contingency in place in the shape of Gary McMahon and a high-powered rifle, so hadn’t hung around trading rounds with Hunter and Rink. There wasn’t any value in it after Scott, Davis and Patrick had bought it, but he’d had faith in McMahon’s ability as a sniper. Even as he ran, he heard the rifle shots, and took it that Mercer had died, but then he’d heard an
other barrage of shots and doubted McMahon would be collecting his paycheck. Hunter and Rink had brought a wildcard to the game — the sneaky sons of bitches — and whoever it was they were a good shot: it hadn’t been any of the men standing before him that’d dropped Pam Patrick before she could gun them down.

  His head wound had been the most worrying at first, but it was the one to his shoulder that proved worse after he’d tumbled into the speedboat and tried to get the outboard motor going. Twice he’d fallen on his ass when his grip failed him, and there were minutes of frustration when he thought he’d never get it going. The bullet had struck his muscle a glancing blow only, but the kinetic force had travelled deep, and his arm had gone numb to the tips of his fingers. Thankfully, as a deep haematoma had later blossomed the feeling had returned to his extremities. His shoulder ached like a bitch but the pain was bearable. Besides, the pain in his head and neck kind of diverted his attention from it. By the time he’d guided the boat the mile or two back to his temporary base his jacket was awash with his blood, and he was lightheaded and stumbling. He’d made it inside, and collapsed into a chair, and sat there bleeding some more. Scalp wounds were notorious for bleeding, but the quantity of loss never matched how bad it looked. He fought the temptation to sleep, and instead went in search of medical supplies. He found a kit in the bathroom and staunched his head wound, and tried to make something of the ragged chunk of cartilage hanging from his ear. Adhesive sterile strips patched his Frankenstein monster ear back together, but failed miserably when it came to the cut in his scalp. He applied a cumbersome gauze pad and bandage, but he looked hick-stupid and pulled it off again.

  Having returned to the bathroom again, hours later, he decided he didn’t look as bad as he’d feared. He’d worn his hair in ducktails for so long now they’d become part of his Vince Everett identity, but, after all, he was really Stephen Vincent, and the hair unimportant to him. It was time for a fresh look, he decided, and growing it longer to conceal his scars wasn’t a bad thing: he’d once styled his looks on a young Johnny Depp circa that Cry Baby movie and these days Depp was more into grunge than a man in his mid-fifties normally got away with, and he’d almost two decades on Vince. He teased the longer locks of his pompadour out, trying to conceal the weeping gash on his temple, and smiled sourly. ‘You look like a complete dick, man.’