by Matt Hilton
Chapter 12
‘I’m glad I caught you, Harve. Florida’s probably a dead end. There’s been a change of plan. I’m going to come to Little Rock and reacquaint myself with an old friend.’
Hartlaub and Brigham had dropped me back at the airstrip where the small plane that had brought us from Maine awaited my return. I was predictable in that sense, so it was no surprise to find that the plane had been prepped to take me on to another location. The pilot was your typical ‘ask no questions’ type employed by the CIA and our sole interaction was him telling me to strap in, then he took us west towards Arkansas. Hartlaub and Brigham watched us swoop into a sky the colour of ashes; neither man felt the need to wave goodbye.
As soon as we were in the air, I called Harvey on my phone, after first checking that Rink hadn’t left a reply at the voicemail box I’d used earlier.
‘You’re talking about Sigmund Petoskey?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, recalling the last time I’d seen the sanctimonious piece of shit. Sometimes I regretted not putting a bullet through his skull, but I didn’t have the proof that he had anything to do with the danger John was mixed up in until much later. Occasionally I’d thought about a return trip to Little Rock with the intention of righting that wrong, only I’d been busy with other more urgent tasks in the past year or so. I told Harvey about Walter’s suspicion that the Hendrickson organisation was behind Tubal Cain’s escape and, more than likely, Rink’s sudden disappearance. Sigmund Petoskey was Hendrickson’s man out in Arkansas. ‘I think that Siggy is a good starting point.’
‘I’ll get on it and see if I can locate him. His old haunts have been shut down, and now that he has an impending court case he’s playing at being lily-white for the media. Chances are he’s laying low somewhere the cameras can’t see the sweat on his brow.’
‘That suits me fine.’
When I first met Harvey, he’d been reluctant to help. Siggy Petoskey was the local gangster in his neighbourhood and he’d worried that he’d feel the man’s wrath after Rink and I left town. As it happened, something had thrust him directly into the middle of the war we’d waged against the Hendrickson gang. It culminated in Harvey shooting dead a hit man who was chasing my brother John. The fact that the hit man chose to beat up Louise Blake, my brother’s ex, had snapped something in Harvey and he’d forgotten all about his fear. Since then, Harvey had kind of joined my club. I knew that I could rely on him to back me up all the way.
‘How is Louise?’ I asked.
Having saved her life, Harvey had taken it upon himself to look after Louise. She’d welcomed his company, but in the interim I sensed that they’d drifted apart. Harvey hadn’t mentioned her in the last few months. Their relationship, in part, wasn’t so unlike mine and Imogen’s.
‘You think that she could be in danger?’ Harvey asked.
‘With Cain out and Hendrickson behind him, I don’t want to take the chance. They might get the wrong impression that she’s a direct line to John again.’
‘Soon as you hang up I’ll call her, get her somewhere safe.’
‘You two aren’t an item any more?’
‘No, Hunter. It was a short-lived thing. Louise moved on, has herself a new man, a new job and a new home. Not sure how she’ll react when she hears me on the other end of the phone.’
‘There’s only one way to find out. Speak to you later, Harve.’
I hung up, letting him get on with the job.
Then I settled down to catch a nap while we crossed the country. Sleepless nights were a factor in my life, but like many soldiers I’d developed the skill of catching a few minutes at every opportunity. In my game you didn’t know when next you’d eat, sleep or shit, so you did so whenever you could. Only on this occasion the sleep wouldn’t come. Too many things were playing through my mind, a parade of horrors that wouldn’t let me rest.
Bryce Lang’s face appeared, and I conjured the fear he’d been in when he thought that Luke Rickard was after him. It would have been nothing compared to coming face to face with Tubal Cain. That segued into an image of my brother strung from a wall in Cain’s ossuary in the Mojave, the flesh stripped from his back as Cain had tried to whittle the living bones from his ribcage. I watched in detached horror as John turned his face to mine and let out a bleat of terror, except this time it wasn’t John but Rink who was squirming under the maniac’s ministrations. The sight of my best friend chewing his lips in agony forced my eyes open and I blinked around the cabin of the plane. Beyond the windows the clouds pressed close, huge towers of cumulus as steel-grey as the phantom blade that had dug into Rink’s body.
Maybe I’d let out a moan because the pilot was staring at me over his shoulder. I nodded him back to the controls. As verbose as a brick, he offered a grimace then returned to guiding the plane. I closed my eyes again, scrunched down in the seat and tried to get comfortable. That wasn’t going to happen, of course. My heart was hammering in my chest and the distinctive flutter of an adrenalin spike caused my extremities to shiver.
Growing up on the streets of Manchester in the north of England, I recall nothing remarkable about my early days. My father, Joseph, died when I was young, and shortly after that, my mother, Anita, remarried. Bob Telfer wasn’t the man my dad was, and maybe that was why we never seemed to gel. He was a good enough person, but he wasn’t the ambitious type and was happy as long as there was food on the table and a tin of lager in the fridge. He didn’t deem spending time with a boy a worthwhile pursuit. That was OK by me; I just roamed the streets, or immersed myself in comic books or pulp fiction novels, dreaming of being like the heroes on those dog-eared pages. When my little brother was born I was shoved even further away. I wasn’t jealous of John, but it seemed that he could do no wrong in Bob’s eyes. I distanced myself even more, becoming involved in the skinhead scene that was rife at the time; as a result I ended up in scrapes with other groups. Arrested twice for fighting, I almost got myself a criminal record, but there was one cop who took me to one side and put me straight on a thing or two. He was an old-school copper, the type who’d take you down an alley and smack some sense into you, but on this occasion he only gave me some good advice. You think you’re some sort of tough guy, huh? Well, why don’t you prove it? Go join the army, lad. They’re always looking for tough guys.
His words stayed with me, and as soon as I was old enough I enlisted. To prove something to the cop, I tried for the elite Parachute Regiment and made it through the rigorous selection process, and I stayed with 1 PARA until I was drafted into the specialised unit codenamed Arrowsake. It was round about then that I realised I wasn’t as tough as I thought. The training was hellish, but I thrived on it and came through the other end alive and more or less intact. I’d found direction, and a sense of unity that I’d never known with my own family. Walter Hayes Conrad became a surrogate father figure, but my greatest gain was someone who I truly felt was a brother. Jared Rington.
We were an unlikely pairing, I suppose. I was a northern English grunt, he was a half-Japanese, half-Scottish Canadian raised in the Midwest of the USA, but our differences were outweighed by what we had in common. We formed a bond that was unshakeable, and that bond had only strengthened over the years. I could always rely on Rink to be there to watch my back, as I would always be there to watch his.
That was what was bothering me most. When Rink needed me there, I’d been up in Maine with Imogen. OK, so I deserved a life of my own, but I felt that my selfishness had helped place Rink in mortal danger. Christ, Rink would laugh at that. He was no shrinking violet, in fact he was one of the toughest warriors I’d ever known and not the type to need a chaperone. But still, I couldn’t help feeling that this was my problem and it shouldn’t be Rink who was going through hell… again.
From the front my taciturn pilot made a noise I took to mean that we were going down. Then the plane was buffeted and jostled as he banked it through the clouds. It was dawn over the Midwest, and the storms that were hammering the
Eastern Seaboard had been left hundreds of miles behind, so as we broke from the cloud cover the rooftops of Little Rock twinkled back at us under the breaking sun. The Arkansas River snaked through the city, a ribbon of fire, and the pilot followed its course before banking again out towards Adams Field, Little Rock’s airport.
I checked to see if anything looked familiar, tried to pinpoint the area where last I’d assaulted Sigmund Petoskey’s lair, but couldn’t. I didn’t care; he wasn’t going to be in a dilapidated building this time. It wouldn’t matter where, I would find him and make him tell me where Rink was.
Walter had guaranteed John’s safety. It was time for me to look after my other brother.
Chapter 13
Much further to the north-west day hadn’t yet broken. Jewel Ridge was in darkness but there were lights on behind the cabin’s shutters. They were too bright to be a single night light, so it was likely that the occupants were up and about. Maybe the people inside were going through their early-morning ablutions, or perhaps cooking up a calorie-laden breakfast in anticipation of the long day ahead. They’d be moving in slow motion, their bodies not yet revved up to full throttle. It was a good time to surprise them, Cain decided.
Minds that should be sharp and alert would still be foggy from the lingering effect of sleep. These were the least industrious hours on the clock and it didn’t look like anyone had been out the cabin yet. The vehicles parked outside hadn’t been loaded. Morning dew had begun collecting on the windscreens, pine needles blown from the nearby trees had gathered on the hoods.
Cain had parked his own vehicle a mile away. He’d jogged in, arriving at the cabin fully awake, his body energised for what would follow. He paused, studying the cabin, allowing his beating heart to calm. When he went in it would be cool-headed and loose-limbed.
He checked his weapons. Both the H amp;K and the Beretta would be brought into service, but it was the Recon Tanto knife with its epoxy-coated blade he’d prefer to use. Sticking someone with a knife was far more personal — and satisfying — than blowing them away at a distance. Cain enjoyed the proximity of death when delivered with a blade; it allowed him to see his victims’ initial shock, the cold realisation that their life was his to take, the final dimming of their eyes.
But he wasn’t going to be impetuous.
He had no way of knowing how many protectors were inside the cabin. This wasn’t a mission simply to kill with abandon. At any other time he’d relish walking into that cabin, taking the odds as they came, and, if he didn’t happen to kill them all, well, such was the chaotic nature of life. In the here and now, though, there was a precise target and he couldn’t allow his personal desires to get in the way of a successful result. John Telfer had to die. But to get to Telfer, he had first to take out those who would try to stop him.
Cain was dressed for the occasion. He wore dark clothing and high-top boots, a cap pulled down low over his fair hair. He felt like he was back in the game again. With the tree-lined hillside as cover, he approached the cabin. Using the shadows to his advantage, he moved to the parked SUV. Holstering the Beretta, he pulled the Tanto out of its sheath. A quick jab of the blade split the tyre and the SUV sank at one corner. Not totally disabled. He jabbed the next tyre. Now it would be difficult to drive.
He quickly slashed the tyres of the sedan, then, happy that the occupants of the cabin would have no means of a quick getaway, he moved towards the porch. Putting away the knife, he drew the Beretta, advancing with a gun in each hand like some fabled Two Gun Tex.
The planks on the porch looked reasonably sound, but he couldn’t take the chance that they’d creak under his weight, giving away his position. Whether or not the people inside were at a low ebb, hearing furtive movement on the porch would galvanise them into action. Cain didn’t want that. He had to maintain the element of surprise. Get Telfer: that was all that mattered.
From within the cabin he could hear muffled conversation. Two voices, those of a man and a woman. But were there more?
He made his way around the side of the cabin. There was a window at that end, too, which like all the others had shutters. Moving up close, he found he could peer through a narrow niche between two slats. The cabin was open plan at this end. The living quarters were kept to a minimum, with a couch, a TV, and table and chairs. There was a kitchen area at the back of the building with a wood-burning stove that doubled as a cooking range. Stairs led up to a mezzanine-type gallery where a bed occupied most of the space. Beneath the gallery were two doors. Likely one was to a bathroom, the other to another bedroom.
Through the chink in the shutter, Cain watched a slim woman wander across the room. She pushed hands through her cropped hair. She had a gun holstered on her hip. She said something, a low murmur. A man answered her from the bed on the raised gallery. He sat up. He was fully clothed, appeared to have been merely killing time.
Under the gallery, the door on the left opened and a stocky man with a greying brush cut came out, rubbing his face with a towel. The woman lifted a mug off the range in the kitchen, handing it to the man, before taking her turn in the bathroom.
Cain frowned. Neither man was John Telfer.
Swinging off the bed, the man clumped down the stairs, hitching his jeans to a more comfortable position. He had a shoulder rig, but it was empty. Cain glanced around and saw the man’s sidearm lying on the table. Now that the woman was in the bathroom, only the guy with the brush cut was armed. He had an impressive-looking Desert Eagle strapped to his waist.
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 amp;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 amp;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?’