Cut and run jh-4

by Matt Hilton

  Cut and run

  ( Joe Hunter - 4 )

  Matt Hilton

  Cut and run

  Matt Hilton

  Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to.

  Sophocles

  … The same is true of violence. Our violence in word and deed is but a feeble echo of the surging violence of thought in us.

  Mohandas Gandhi

  Chapter 1

  His first waking thought was that his sins had caught up with him.

  It was a moment of epiphany he'd never have come to without this shocking wake-up call.

  Linden Case had always denied that there was anything wrong in the way he treated the whores. He paid them well, even gave them a bonus if they fully pleased him. By the nature of their trade they invited him to do to them whatever he desired. But he fully grasped his reason for being here in this basement of a building in a less than salubrious district of Tampa, Florida.

  Earlier he'd been driving his Mercedes along 7th Avenue in the historic Ybor district. Although the area was famous as a tourist destination where people came to photograph the colourful buildings, it also had a darker underbelly that appealed to him. Street girls often hung out there, waiting for men like Case to offer them a ride. He was stopped by a red light – ironically under the circumstances – and checked out a woman standing on the sidewalk while waiting for the light to go green. She was Seminole: dusky-skinned with jet-black hair. On green, he decided he'd carry on. He was only interested in blondes. As he'd waited for a stocky woman to clear the crossing, his passenger door opened and a man slipped in beside him. Case was used to women being as bold, but never men.

  'Hey, buddy, I'm not your type, OK?'

  'You're exactly my type, Case.'

  'I don't know you. How do you know my name?'

  The man shoved a handgun into Case's ribs.

  'Shut your mouth and drive.'

  Case wasn't familiar with handguns. This one was big and black, and it was enough to know that it would kill him. He drove.

  The man refused to answer Case's questions. He spoke only to direct him. They left the Ybor district, heading south over Causeway Boulevard. Case noticed a huge depot with trains parked on sidings, but he was unfamiliar with this area of the city; then the man directed him off the highway into a run-down area that was made up of derelict buildings. At a warehouse made from preformed concrete sheets, the man made Case get out the Mercedes. Case had again tried to get the man to answer his questions, but all that earned him was a smack round the head with the butt of the gun.

  When Case came round he was inside the derelict warehouse. His hands and feet had been strapped to a chair using electricians' tape. Case strained against his bindings but he wasn't strong enough to break them.

  'You're wasting your time.'

  Case sat rigid in his chair. The voice had come from in front of him but he couldn't see the man who'd spoken. It was too dark for that.

  'Who are you?'

  'The name's Joe Hunter.'

  'You're a cop?'

  'No. I'm a concerned member of the public.'

  'Why are you doing this to me?'

  'You're a bad man. I'm here to punish you.'

  The only light was a faint strip beneath a door at the far end of the room. Against the light Case saw movement as a figure moved through it.

  'What do you mean? I'm not a bad man!'

  'I've been watching you, Case. I've followed you. I know what you did to the women.'

  'I paid them,' Case shouted. 'They knew what I wanted from them.'

  'You hurt them.' The man's voice had dropped an octave, but the menace in his words had grown exponentially. 'Do you think cash was fair exchange for what you did to them?'

  'Yes. I offered money and they agreed. Every time: it was a done deal!' Case strained at his bindings. It was pointless. The tape stretched, biting into his flesh. He heard footsteps as the man moved towards him. Case readied himself for a blow, but it didn't come. The man walked behind the chair and laid his hands on Case's shoulders.

  'I want you to look at something.'

  Before Case could reply, the man dragged him and the chair round so he was facing in the opposite direction. Case could see nothing but blackness.

  The man moved away, and there was a click as he threw a switch.

  A single bulb had been covered with a strip of muslin. The cloth obscured most of the light, but enough remained to see what was directly below it.

  The woman strapped to the chair was barely out of her teens. She was just the kind of woman that Case usually preferred. She had blond hair and was slim. She used to be pretty. Now her eyes were swollen shut, bruises growing on both her cheeks. Her nose had been broken, split across the bridge and leaking blood. Her lips were mashed and blood-flecked drool hung in a string from her chin.

  'Is this a done deal, Case?'

  Case shuddered at the impotence of his situation.

  The man stood alongside the woman. She moaned, but didn't have the strength to move. All she managed was a glance up at Case that spoke of shame. The look condemned Case more than the man's actions ever could.

  The man balled his fist. 'Is it right that a man beats a woman?'

  'Leave her alone.'

  The man turned and faced Case.

  'So it's OK for you to hurt them, but not for anyone else? Is that what you're saying, Case?' The man took out a fifty-dollar bill and laid it on the woman's thighs. Then he backhanded her across her face. Not hard, but enough so that her head was rocked on her shoulders. 'Does paying her make things right?'

  'Goddamnit!' Case again fought against his bindings. He was shuddering so hard he was almost vibrating. 'Leave her alone, you bastard.'

  The man took a knife from his belt. In the subdued light from the muslin-wrapped bulb, the blade looked tarnished. 'You have used your hands on women before, Case. Have you ever used one of these?'

  'Nooooo…'

  The man placed the blade against the woman's throat.

  'Please,' Case cried. 'Not her. Please don't hurt my daughter.'

  The man snorted. 'You didn't stop to think about the women you hurt. Why should I care?'

  Then he slashed the blade across the woman's throat. Even in the dimness of the basement, Case saw the gout of blood pour down her chest. He screamed.

  'The women that you hurt were other men's daughters,' the man said. 'An eye for an eye, Case.'

  Case had stopped screaming now. Through his tears he watched the final seconds of his daughter's life ebb away.

  The man moved towards him.

  'Does what I did to your darling Jessica make me a bad man?'

  'You bastard. You sick murderous bastard.'

  'Yes. That answers the question.' The man lifted the blade. 'But it damns you as well, Case.'

  Chapter 2

  Don't look back or you might find the devil hot on your heels.

  It's an idea I like to subscribe to. An analogy fit for one with a past full of terrible events.

  The problem is, by being optimistic and only looking ahead, it can mean that you miss the devil gaining ground. Before you know it, he's right there and has rammed his toasting fork straight through your spine and is dangling you over the flames of hell.

  I've made too many enemies not to cast the occasional glance over my shoulder. The practice has served me well and to date has kept me alive.

  I parked my Audi A6 at an entrance to the grounds of Tampa University and got out the car while I opened up my phone and went through the motions of taking a call. Looking north-west, Kennedy Boulevard spanned the river and beside it on the eastern shore stood the cylindrical Rivergate Tower that's affectionately known to locals as the b
eer can. It reminded me of the leaning tower of Pisa, after Superman's evil alter ego pushed it back in line in that cheesy movie. My eyes merely skimmed over the tower – it was a familiar sight to me – and I watched the traffic approaching over the river bridge.

  I was looking for a nondescript light grey sedan. It had been following me all the way across from Cypress Point Park, where I'd gone for my morning run. It was only a couple of months since Kate Piers died and I still missed her like crazy. I'd intended clearing my head with a burst of physical effort, the only thing that could shift the troubling thought that Kate died because I'd failed to keep her safe, but that wasn't to be. When I'd arrived at the park the sedan was waiting for me, and had tucked itself in behind me all the way here. Only my unscheduled stop had forced it to continue on by.

  Down on the Hillsborough River, birds dived at shoals of fish and I could hear their raucous calls even over the swish of passing traffic. There was a tang of citrus and exhaust fumes on the air, and the sun was hot and still. Sunbeams bounced off the windows of the beer can, sending razors of light back at me. All these things were distractions and, like the memories of Kate Piers, I blocked them out.

  The sedan returned within a minute. I leaned against my Audi, and had a full-on argument with my unheeding phone. As the car swept past I allowed my gaze to skim over it. I had all of a second to identify those within the car, but I'd trained myself to snap-shoot a scene and replay it through my mind at my leisure. The car continued on by and already its driver was looking for somewhere to stop.

  I got back in my car and set off over the bridge, heading into downtown Tampa. Behind me, those in the sedan would be frantically searching for somewhere to turn. I could easily have given them the slip at that point, but I wanted to know who these people were. More than that, I wanted to know what they wanted. I drove slowly, giving them an opportunity to catch up.

  Four blocks on and I saw the grey sedan in my mirror. I turned right on to Florida Avenue, then continued straight ahead until I was stopped by a red light at Whiting Street. The sedan was three cars back behind a Jeep and a Ford and I saw the passenger lean out of the window to get a better look at me. This action was amateurish or it was contrived.

  While I waited for the light to change, I ran the snapshot image I'd shelved through my mind. The driver was a man in his late thirties, muscular build, short dark hair, broken nose. His front-seat passenger was a shade older, stocky build, but his hair was a tad longer and flecked with grey. Despite the heat, they wore sports jackets over formal shirts, ties knotted at their throats.

  Going on green, I followed the road under the Crosstown Expressway as though I was going to head out on to Harbor Island, but at the Garrison Channel I took a left and headed for St Pete Times Forum, a hockey stadium I'd been to a couple of times with my friend Rink. The sedan followed me on to Ice Palace Drive towards the arena with the benefit of only one car between us. I flicked on my indicators to show I was pulling over into a lay-by adjacent to the public park opposite the stadium.

  There was no game today, so the parking lot across the way was almost deserted and nobody was wandering through the park next to the water. It was a good place to get myself killed if the men in the sedan were better than they looked. But I didn't think they were. When weighing up the seclusion against my own needs, it was just the spot I needed to get to the bottom of things.

  The grey sedan drove past. As it did, I played at being interested in the park. From under my shirt I pulled out my SIG Sauer P226 and racked the slide. Normally I'm good to go with one in the chamber, but it wasn't a great idea to be driving round with the gun ready to discharge, particularly when my modified gun comes with no safety.

  Waiting for the road to clear of traffic, I watched the sedan draw to a halt twenty feet in front of me. As soon as it did, I walked quickly up to the driver's window and slammed it with the butt of my gun. Even as glass sprayed over the driver's legs, I pressed my gun against the man's neck.

  'Show me your hands.'

  Both men threw their empty hands in the air, stunned by the manner of my arrival.

  'OK. Both of you get out of the car now.'

  They clambered out. I kept my gun close to the driver and made the other walk round towards me. He did so without lowering his hands. There was a car passing the front of the ice stadium but it was going the other way. I glanced at the nearby Marriott Hotel, but we were unobserved. I waved them in the direction of the park with a jerk of the gun barrel. Then I concealed my gun beneath my shirtfront: just in case.

  They went without argument, as if perhaps they were expecting this from me. I quickly glanced about, searching for any other car I might have missed. There was nothing evident.

  Winding gravel paths snaked their way round the park. We followed one until we were at the water. I made them get down on the grass, while I stood over them.

  'Sit on your hands. Anyone makes a move without my say-so and he gets shot. Are we clear?' The men sat on their hands, looking back at me as though nonplussed by the situation. I had expected fear, anger and argument. It made me reappraise them. They weren't the amateurs I'd surmised: this was definitely planned. 'So what's the deal?'

  The older man gave me a weary smile while the other just sat there. I nodded at the older one.

  'We're not your enemies, Hunter,' he said.

  'I'll decide that after you tell me why you were following me.'

  'We're under orders to follow you.'

  'You weren't doing a very good job.'

  'We weren't hiding.' He smiled at me again. 'In fact, back there at the lights, I leaned out the car so you could see me.'

  We could have gone on like that all day. It was a beautiful day, none of it to be wasted.

  'Let's get to the point.'

  'I'm Castle, my friend's called Soames. We're cops,' he said, as if that should explain everything. 'Homicide.'

  I gave him a slow blink. Maybe that revelation was supposed to make me put my gun away. I'm not the type to be intimidated by the presence of cops, though.

  'I already guessed that.'

  'So why the gun and the games?'

  'Not all cops have my best interests at heart.'

  'Not now.' Soames looked at me with hard eyes, challenging me. I could see how he'd probably earned the broken nose.

  Taking his words as a result of my treatment of them, I ignored him and asked Castle, 'What do you want from me?'

  'If you'd let me get off my ass, that'd be a start.'

  'Not yet.'

  'Can I show you my badge so you know we're real cops?'

  Studying their clothing, I said, 'That's already a given. Keep your hands where they are.'

  'We don't want trouble with you, Hunter.'

  'What do you want?'

  'We need you to come in with us and answer a few questions.'

  It wouldn't be the first time I'd been invited to the local precinct house on Franklin, but the manner this time was a first.

  'So why didn't you just approach me instead of following me like this?'

  Castle raised his eyebrows at the barrel of my SIG. 'It was either us, nice and easy like this, or it would've been a SWAT team. Knowing the way Joe Hunter is rumoured to work, our guess was there'd be less blood spilled this way.'

  A worm of unease clawed its way through my guts. SWAT team?

  'You're saying that I'm under arrest?'

  'Prefer it if you came in under your own steam,' Castle said. 'But if you'd rather I Mirandise you and do everything by the book, that's OK by me, too.'

  I put my SIG away. I'm licensed to carry, but that didn't allow me to hold police officers under threat. 'What am I supposed to have done?'

  'Assaulted officers and damaged county property for a start,' Soames muttered. The man didn't like me, but he was here under orders to keep his opinions to himself. Castle seemed much easier with the situation but even he shot Soames a frown of disapproval.

  'We just need to clear up a
couple of things,' he said. 'You satisfy us, we'll kick you loose again in an hour.'

  I'd done many things in the year I'd been living here and wondered which one of them had come back to haunt me. Nothing obvious came to mind: each and every one of them had been extremely violent – but, in my opinion, justified.

  'Is there a parking ticket I've forgotten about?' I moved back, allowing the men to get up. Castle grunted as he helped himself stand with one hand propped on a thigh. Soames swarmed up and he wasn't impressed at my joke.

  'You're a fucking piece of work, Hunter.'

  It looked for the briefest of moments that Soames would go for his piece, but Castle grabbed at his elbow. 'I'm sure it's all a big misunderstanding. One we can clear up with Hunter's help.'

  There was nothing I'd been involved in during the last couple of weeks that would attract the eye of the local police department, so I was sure that he was right.

  'I'll follow you in.'

  'Give me your gun,' Soames said.

  Shaking my head slowly, I said, 'I'll check it in at the station.'

  Soames wavered and I gave him a steady look. Castle cleared his throat, touched his partner on the elbow again. The older detective turned and walked away, but Soames felt he had something to prove.

  'You might have fooled Castle, but I know exactly what you are.'

  I didn't reply. If what he was suggesting was true, then it would have been the Special Response Team – Florida's version of SWAT – who'd come for me, not two detectives on a peacekeeping mission.

  Grunting a curse, Soames moved quickly after his partner.

  And I thought that was that. I'd go along to the station and answer a few questions, put things straight and be back on the street again in an hour. It was too lovely a day to be cooped up for long. Maybe there'd still be time to have the jog round the park at Cypress Point that I'd originally planned.

  I should have known better.

  A volley of bullets took out both cops' brains and they crumpled to the ground.