by Matt Hilton
They did swarm on me, though, grappling my arms. I kicked the legs of one of then from under him, them stamped on his chest to keep him down. Another got a stranglehold around my throat, looping me under his elbow, and he bore me forward while the other tried his hardest to trip me. I thrashed and struggled, bit at the side of the man holding me. My teeth sunk into his windcheater ineffectively, but the man realised what I was doing and shouted in anger. His friend doubled his efforts, lifting my legs by hauling up my knees. The man on the floor rolled out from under me and came to his feet, pushing down on my back so that between them they forced me face down on the pavement. I tried to grab for the SIG, but couldn’t reach it. One of the guards snatched it up, placed it to the nape of my neck.
‘Stop struggling or I’ll shoot,’ he whispered savagely in my ear.
‘All right! All right!’ I shouted. ‘You’ve got me. I give up.’
All three were shouting commands, to me, to each other, but also to another party. I heard the vroom of a racing engine and a vehicle bounced up on to the kerb dangerously close to us.
Please don’t be the police, I prayed.
My plea was answered. The van was a plain blue Ford with a side door. The door was hauled open in the same instant that I was snatched off the floor by my three captors and I was thrown face first into the back compartment. Two of those holding me piled on top, and there was another man already inside. They began frisking me and found the Ka-bar and spare ammo almost immediately, plus my cellphone. The final man scrambled inside and the door slammed. The engine raced again and I felt the jolt as the van bumped down off the kerb and roared away at speed.
I wondered about Harvey. I hoped that he had stuck to the plan. I suspected that Rink would’ve come running regardless of what we’d agreed.
But Harvey hadn’t come.
Chapter 15
Twice Cain had hunted and twice he’d followed the wrong trail.
The first time was when he’d launched the attack on Walter Conrad’s cabin only to find that the CIA boss wasn’t among those he’d slaughtered, and now there was a similar situation at the cabin on Jewel Ridge.
After his initial outburst of fury he could see the funny side of things. What was the point in being annoyed? The interlude had given him an opportunity to spend some quality time refining skills that he’d seldom employed while locked in his cell at Fort Conchar. The three US Marshals had died with little fanfare, but here he had someone on whom he could really practise his art.
‘What’s your real name, Jeff?’
Jeffrey Taylor was lying on top of the dining table that Cain had cleared with a sweep of his forearm. Cain had found three pairs of handcuffs among the property belonging to the marshals and had made good use of them. Taylor was chest down, both wrists secured to the legs of the table. With only one other set available, Cain had snapped the rings around the man’s ankles. He was going nowhere.
‘My name is Jeff!’
‘So it’s your second name that is fake?’
‘You know that already.’
Cain studied his knives. Back when he’d been collecting trophies to be used in his ossuary at Jubal’s Hollow he’d favoured a descaling knife. The slightly curved blade with a serration along the back edge had been useful in both slicing and sawing, and could fillet a human being as easily as a fish. Here his choices didn’t hold the same finesse. Tanto or Bowie, both knives were man killers, but not much use for delicate procedures. He decided on the Tanto, the wieldier of the two.
He sank the diamond tip into Jeff’s right calf muscle and the man screamed.
‘I don’t know,’ Cain said, ‘and that little bit of pain is for assuming I’d know anything about you.’
‘Dear God! It’s obvious that I’m not who you’re looking for. You said you were looking for someone called John. That’s not me!’
‘I know that, Jeff. But I still want to know your full name.’
‘Why? Why is it important? I’m not the person you’re after.’
‘Names hold power, Jeff. They’re magical, don’t you know that?’
‘My name isn’t magical . . . it’s . . . it’s nothing but dirt these days.’
Cain smiled, but Jeff couldn’t see his face. Cain wondered what it was about characters like Jeff Taylor and John Telfer and how they could be so frank about their worthlessness. It was something that he found both naive and endearing.
‘If it’s so dirty you shouldn’t mind telling me.’
‘My name is Jeffrey Thompson, OK? Is that what the Gambettis wanted, that I come clean about my identity before you killed me?’
‘You mentioned these Gambettis before. They’re the people you are hiding from? They’re obviously not to be feared, because if they were any good they’d have found you by now.’
‘You work for them, don’t you? There’s no reason to torture me like this if you don’t.’
‘I don’t work for them.’
‘Then let me go . . . please!’
‘I’m not finished with you yet.’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because it’s in my nature, Jeff.’ Cain ran his blade up the back of Jeff’s shirt, slitting it all the way to the collar. His flesh was a puckered mass of scar tissue from his right hip up to his shoulder blades. ‘I noticed when I led you from the bedroom that you had trouble straightening up. These scars on your back . . . what caused them?’
‘The Gambettis. They tried to kill me once before.’
‘Like I said, they aren’t to be feared if this is all they achieved. What did they shoot you with? Was it birdshot?’
Jeff didn’t reply. He closed his eyes and Cain knew that he was recalling the day he was wounded. Cain jabbed Jeff’s opposite calf with the Tanto. ‘When I talk, you answer.’
‘Dear God! Whatever I say or don’t say you’re going to kill me. Why don’t you just get it over with?’
‘Because it’s much more fun like this.’
Cain stood close to Jeff’s head, leaning down to whisper in his ear. ‘I mentioned that names are magical. Some names hold power. Do you know my name?’
‘How could I?’
‘My name is Tubal Cain.’
‘Cain? What . . . like in the Bible? The one who murdered his brother?’
Cain snorted. ‘Not that Cain. I am Tubal Cain. Brother of Jubal and the father of cutting instruments. You know me now?’
‘No.’
‘Yet you often call on your dear God for help. How can you expect Him to help you when you haven’t even taken time to read His good book?’ Cain traced the scars with his fingertips. His expert touch detected where the scar tissue was tightest and caused Jeff the most discomfort. ‘Like I was saying, some names are magical. My name is magical. It has the power to alleviate your suffering.’
Cain inserted the Tanto into a bundle of scar tissue and sliced.
‘There! Doesn’t that help to free you up a little?’
Jeff screamed.
‘Dear God,’ Cain mimicked. ‘You sound like you doubt me, Jeff.’
He selected another point on the man’s back and dug deep through the flesh. Jeff screamed even louder and strained against the cuffs holding him spread-eagled over the table.
‘It’s a shame, Jeff, but you don’t seem the type to waste my time on. You’re obviously ungrateful. When I did the very same to John Telfer he barely made a murmur of complaint? And to think I could have confused you with him.’
‘Pleeeaaasssseee . . .’
‘It makes me realise how much I want to reacquaint myself with my old pal, John, and how you’re getting in the way of that. Goodbye, Jeff.’
Cain jammed the blade deep this time, all the way through the ribs and into Jeff’s heart. It was a quick kill and didn’t engender the same visceral thrill he usually experienced when murdering, but every second spent here was another second away from finding John Telfer. Catching and spending time with Ol’ Johnny Boy was what he truly coveted.
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br /> Freeing the knife, he wiped it clean on Jeff’s trousers. He looked down at the trussed man and shook his head.
‘I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you,’ Cain said as the man settled in death. ‘But it wasn’t. That doesn’t mean I won’t recall our time together fondly. In fact, I intend taking something with me so that I never forget you.’
Readying his knife, Cain reached for Jeff’s nearest hand.
Chapter 16
I was in for a rough time.
The back of the van became not only a container but also an entertainment centre for those who were my jailers, particularly for the man I’d headbutted. He relished getting a little payback for the lump I’d put on his forehead. He punched me twice, once in each kidney, while the other three guards held me prone. I had steeled myself for a beating, but it doesn’t matter how ready you are, a dig in the kidneys always hurts like hell.
They were all swearing, at me, at each other, their professionalism slipping now that we were out from under the disapproving gaze of the public. One of them grabbed my hair and forced my face hard against the ribbed floor of the van. Someone punched me between my shoulders, causing a flash of pain that went all the way to the tip of my coccyx and back again. Then my arms were twisted round and another of them cinched my wrists with plastic ties. When that was done, I was hauled over so that I could see them as they threw punches down at my guts. Their faces were twisted with glee and hatred.
Considering that a minute or two before they believed I was a nut job intent on killing them and their mark, I could understand why they would want to hurt me. I was pleased in a way that they were using their fists, because if one of them thought to use a gun I might never see daylight again. Another thing that pleased me: while they were punching the shit out of me, they’d forgotten about continuing a more thorough search than the one that had already turned up my weapons. To motivate them to further fury, I spat a gob of saliva at them. My spit hit one of the men flush in his face, and he paused only to wipe it away before slamming his saliva-smeared palm down into my forehead. I suffered a double whammy. His palm rammed my head down on one of the ribbed spars of the floor. I almost blacked out. It didn’t stop them hitting me again.
Finally the beating subsided, though it wasn’t because my captors were any less furious or tired of hitting me. The driver was shouting at them through an open hatch. My blood was pounding in my ears, and there was too much bumping and banging as they shifted about to hear clearly, but I got the gist. The man in the front was shouting that the boss wanted me unharmed. Thank God for small mercies.
‘Think this is your lucky day, asshole? Well, guess again. We aren’t going to kill you. Not yet, but I don’t fancy your chances once the boss is finished with you.’
I squinted up at the voice to find the man I’d headbutted leaning over me. He was a guy in his mid-thirties, fit and strong-looking. Nothing distinctive about him apart from the raised welt I’d put on his forehead.
‘You can’t kill me,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘There were witnesses. They saw you snatch me off the street. The cops will be looking for me. What do you think will happen to you if I turn up dead?’
The men all laughed at my naivety. My tormentor pressed a knuckle into my breastbone, digging at a nerve bundle. ‘The cops will turn a blind eye. Mr Petoskey owns the cops here . . . didn’t you know that?’
One of them lifted a gun and I recognised it as the one I’d come armed with. He pointed it at my face. My tormentor said, ‘See, this is the way things will happen. Once the boss is finished with you, you’ll be gut shot and left lying in the road. We’ve plenty witnesses here who’ll swear we were delivering you to the police when you made a break for it, snatched one of our guns, and we had to shoot you in self-defence. We can do anything we want to you.’
‘No one would believe that . . .’
‘They would if they were told to.’ The man held out his hand and his friend slapped the SIG into his palm. The man carefully slipped the safety on. Then off again. It was all for show. He checked there was a round in the chamber. Then he jammed the gun under my chin. ‘In fact, there are enough of us here now, that if we told the boss that you got your hands on a gun and we had to kill you, well, he’d believe us too.’
I screwed my eyes shut, made a whimpering sound.
The man laughed and the others joined in like the pack of hyenas they resembled.
‘I thought you were supposed to be some sort of tough guy?’
‘You don’t know me,’ I said.
‘Oh, but I do.’ He tapped the gun on my forehead. ‘We heard that you might make a try on the boss. How’d you think we were ready for you coming? Did you think we just happened to have a van sitting around on the slightest off-chance that some random lunatic had a go at the boss? My problem is this . . . I don’t know what anyone was fucking worrying about. You’re a goddamn pussy who can’t even shoot straight.’
Again a round of laughter.
‘Joe Hunter. We’ve heard all about you. Fuckin’ Brit coming over here, thinking he’s the hardest fuck in town. Well, I got news for you . . . you ain’t fuckin’ nothin’. You just made the biggest mistake of your life, buddy. You just came up against someone who isn’t afraid of your type.’
‘Jesus,’ I sighed.
‘You a praying man, Hunter? Well, get praying, ’cause you’re gonna need all the help you can get.’ The man lifted the SIG. Like I’ve already said, the stock is heavier than on most other handguns, so when he brought it down hard against my skull it put me right out of the picture.
How long I was unconscious I couldn’t say, because when next I gathered my senses the van had stopped moving. The side door was open and only two of my captors remained inside. The others were standing outside the van, their figures indistinct against a gloomy backdrop. They were talking hurriedly, but I couldn’t make out was being said. I lay there, gathering my wits as I started to assess my injuries. My entire body felt like one large bruise, but I couldn’t detect any breakages. It took me a moment to realise that my hands were now in front of me. The plastic ties had been removed and rigid-cuffs snapped on instead. My feet were free, and in kicking range of the two men keeping guard. They had guns out, so I didn’t fancy my chances. Anyway, I’d come to see Sigmund Petoskey, so I wasn’t about to spoil my prospects by attempting an audacious escape.
One of the guards outside moved towards the van. When he leaned inside I could make out the welt on his forehead. ‘Bring him. And if he tries anything shoot him in the knees.’
The two men grabbed me and pulled me to a sitting position. I recognised the one on my right as the recipient of my saliva earlier. He said, ‘You heard the man, try anything and I’ll kneecap you. We have to keep you alive for now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t put you through hell.’
There was nothing gentle about the way I was hauled from the van and dumped on my feet. Blood rushed to my head and I was a second or so away from blacking out again. Only the flash of agony from where the SIG had torn my scalp kept me galvanised. The two men hooked an elbow around my arms and then propelled me forward, following the other two. To make things more difficult I could have dragged my feet, but we were heading in the right direction. Stumbling along, I just kept my mouth shut.
We were inside an empty warehouse, a large open space bordered on either side by huge stacks of pallets laden with sacks and boxes of all shapes and sizes. The floor was smooth concrete, swept clean, with yellow markers indicating pathways for forklift trucks. Other yellow chevrons alongside the paths marked out danger zones, possibly where it was unsafe to turn the trucks due to the proximity of the stacked goods. It was dimly lit, only the occasional overhead strip light penetrating the gloom. We passed through pools of contrasting shade and light as we moved towards the back of the building. As we neared the far end, I could detect a sour tang and guessed that the warehouse was one of many next to the banks of the Arkansas River. With a building this
large and well stocked, I was surprised that there weren’t more people around. Maybe they’d all been given the rest of the day off while their boss conducted his more nefarious brand of business.
There was an office at the left corner of the building, next to a roller door that was currently closed. Just inside the roller shutter was parked the limousine that had spirited Sigmund Petoskey away from the cinema. As we approached, a man clambered out the front, came round and opened the door for Siggy. Petoskey climbed out languidly, tightening his gloves over his fists like some gangster from a noir movie. He sneered at me, said, ‘I wondered when we would meet again. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’
Me too, if only he knew it.
One thing that was apparent: away from the ears of his business associates, Siggy Petoskey had lost the ridiculous accent that made him sound like Dr Watson from an old Sherlock Holmes flick. But he was still the same supercilious fucker I remembered with distaste.
Here, where the surroundings were better illuminated, I got a look at the product names on the boxes. I had to smile. Petoskey had gone from organising dog fights to shipping pet supplies. Another attempt, I guessed, at cleaning up his blackened image. He misconstrued my smile.
‘You have nothing to be happy about, Hunter. In fact, I think this is about to become the worst day of your life.’
‘I knew that the second I missed killing you earlier,’ I said.
The man with the welt on his forehead spun quickly, backhanded me across my mouth. ‘You need to show a little respect when speaking to the man in charge of your destiny.’
I stared directly into the man’s eyes, as I allowed a trickle of blood to seep from between my lips. ‘Respect for him? Sigmund Petoskey’s so full of shit he gives sewers a bad name.’
The self-elected disciplinarian lifted his hand again, but he was halted by the opening of the office door. A slight, unremarkable-looking man stood etched against the glare of a bright lamp. ‘Enough, Charters.’ He directed his words at the man with the welt, then turned an insipid stare on Petoskey. ‘We have no time for pissing competitions, Sigmund. Let’s show Hunter we mean real business.’