by Matt Hilton
John's face puckered. It can't ever have occurred to him before just who—or what—his big brother really was. He was aware that my work involved hunting terrorists, but I don't think he appreciated what that actually entailed. To him, I was just a soldier killing other soldiers. Now he was probably wondering, Aren't assassins the bad guys?
I don't appreciate the term assassin, but I suppose, at the end of the day, it all comes down to your perspective. Rink and I were either saints or sinners. At that moment, I saw myself as the saint; the man with the gun shoved in an elderly woman's eye socket assured me of that.
"Let her go," I commanded.
The man wasn't interested. My identity seemed to please him in a way I found troubling. His next words went some length to explain his apparent pleasure. "I guess I should be honored. Does that mean I've finally won the notoriety I deserve? Huh? I suppose that means you know who I am now?"
"I don't give a shit who you are, or what insane reason you have for murdering innocent people. All I'm interested in is you dropping your gun before I put a bullet in your head." To assure him of my intentions, I took another half step toward him.
In return, he giggled. Said, "If I'm going to die, I'm taking her with me. Maybe one or two of you, as well."
I drew back again. Inwardly I cursed myself. I'd just made the mistake of showing him that I wasn't in charge of the situation. One up for the real bad guy. He moved the barrel of his gun so it was under the woman's ear now. Once more the woman murmured in fear. Her eyes rolled my way, beseeching. I had to do something.
"John," I snapped. "Get yourself over here."
He staggered over, one arm tight against his chest where his sodden shirt clung to him. I moved a step to my right, giving him clearance to gain the doorway. At my shoulder, John came to a stumbling halt. Something bothered me about the abruptness.
Without thought, I pivoted on my right foot, smacking against the near wall, eyes still on the gunman to my right, but my peripheral vision searching out what had stopped John. I saw the gunman's eyes widen in surprise, saw him flinch, and I knew that there was new danger in the house. Danger to us both. I was caught between two equally vicious enemies, and it was a split second's decision on my response. Even as I swung to my left, I gave a silent prayer that Rink would cover the killer I couldn't keep my eyes on. My gun swept the air, and I fired without pause.
Even as he was stepping into the living room, my first bullet caught Hendrickson's hit man in his right shoulder, spinning from his fingers the gun he'd pointed at John's head. I'd seen this man before— testament to that was the wound on his ear. Even if I'd never had the privilege, I would've recognized him for what he was: a stone-cold killer. Something else: he was an apt stalker in his own right, and he'd used Rink and me to lead him to John. The memory of the speedboat racing toward us after we'd disembarked from the skipper's launch came to mind.
Injured, the Latino dropped low. He grunted, but he was already reaching left-handed for a second weapon concealed in an ankle holster. My gun boomed again, but even as I fired, I snatched the barrel up so that the bullet swished above his head to splinter the door lintel. I'd missed him, but it was a good job I did. It meant I also missed John, who'd chosen that moment to stagger into my line of fire.
Things were rapidly turning to shit.
I ran around John, expecting the killer at my back to put a bullet in my spine.
I cleared John just as the hit man came up from his crouch. His gun fired. Instinctively I'd already twisted, but a searing coldness snapped alongside my ribs. Wind whooshed out of me, but I couldn't allow the thought of the hit to stop me.
Before he could fire again, I struck his gun hand with the barrel of my SIG, knocking his aim wide. His bullet lifted keys from the piano with a tympani of discord. Moving swiftly, as though it were a rapier, I swept my gun under his forearm and snaked my arm up his back.
In close and dirty, we went to town. I ground him against the wall, both our guns momentarily scraping and rasping against wallpaper. His gun went off, further marking the wall. With his free hand, he grabbed at my testicles. I stabbed my fingers into his eyes, tore at his damaged ear, and he forgot all about squeezing my balls. Instead, he punched me in the mouth. The tricky bastard. Right back at you, I thought, as I smashed his nose into a new position on his face.
He was slippery, even shot in three different places—he had a wounded thigh that I was only now vaguely aware of, plus the two I'd given him. His nose was broken and he was bleeding, but the adrenaline-charged flood of endorphins gave him the strength of desperation.
He fought back, tried to head-butt me, but instead found the point of my elbow as I rammed it into his cheekbone. His eyes rolled upward. Before he could recover from the ringing concussion, I pulled his head down, straight into the path of my up-rising knee.
It was like a mallet pounding a watermelon, and the tendons in the backs of both knees failed him.
As he dropped, my gun followed him, and even as he sprawled out, I put two bullets into the rear of his skull.
"That's for Louise Blake," I hissed through my teeth. Then I shot him again between the shoulder blades. Touching my ribs where I could feel the first sting of contact, I added, "And that one's for me."
Captain Fairbairn once wrote that the average armed fight is over in seconds, it is literally a matter of the quick and the dead. I had acted instinctively, relying on speed and the extension of the gun in my hand. Now the hit man was dead. Once again my mentor's ghost spoke volumes. But it wasn't over.
No other guns had barked during the few seconds it took to dispatch Hendrickson's man. The threat of Rink blasting him had likely stayed the Harvestman's hand. Allowing the Latino to lie in his own blood, I shifted again, reaching down and clawing John from the floor even as I swung my gun to find its next target.
Coming up with John clutched beneath one arm, I eyed the man who still grasped the elderly woman as a shield. But he wasn't pressing the gun to her head so forcefully.
"I couldn't have done a better job myself," he said.
"I'm not interested in what you think," I snapped back at him.
"I remain impressed nonetheless. If my hands weren't so full I'd applaud you," he said. "I'm leaving now. I'm taking the woman as insurance. If you stay put, I promise you she'll be released unharmed. If you follow me she will die."
The deal wasn't an option. I knew the only way the woman would be returned to us would be without significant portions of her anatomy. I slowly shook my head. Prodding the dead assassin at my feet I said, "You know what I can do. You've seen it with your own eyes."
"I don't doubt that you're good. But are you really prepared to put this dear old lady at risk?" His smile was that of the Antichrist. "Even if you shoot me now, are you certain that the trauma of a bullet in my skull won't make me jerk this trigger? Are you willing to take that chance?"
Reluctant to give him an edge, I said, "We'll just have to see."
Again the old woman mewled, and a torturous pain shot through me at having to subject her to such terror. Unfortunately, I had no recourse. To allow the Harvestman to take her was out of the question. If she didn't die now, she would certainly die later. And it wouldn't be at the mercy of a quick and painless bullet through her brain.
On the grand scale of things, if this woman were to die, then it would be best if the murderer died along with her. It would be a supreme waste of life, but her sacrifice could mean the difference between life and gruesome death for many others if the psychopath was allowed to live.
Surprisingly, John came to my rescue.
Cradled in my armpit, I felt him shift. Then he clawed at my shirtfront, as if drawing himself upright.
"Let me go with him," John said. His voice was as brittle as monthold crackers.
I shook my head.
"You have to let me go, Joe," he said. "Cain, let the woman go and I'll be your hostage."
The Harvestman's brow furrowed.
&nb
sp; "John?" I said, grabbing at his collar, but my brother pulled himself loose. He took a faltering step toward the murderer, hands wrapped around his torso in an effort to subdue the pain he felt.
"Let the woman go, Cain. Take me instead."
The murderer looked beyond John, staring at me. I didn't move. I hated this guy but had to concede that this arrangement was a way out for him. Complex emotions were churning behind his cool facade.
Taking another step, John said, "We have unfinished business, Cain. We both know that. If you let the woman go, I'll see it to the end. I'll sacrifice myself for her."
"What do you say, Cain?" I asked. "Do we have a deal, or do we start shooting?"
Cain gave me a serpent's grin. "Bring the briefcase, John."
Cain removed the gun from the woman and waved me aside with it. "Back off, Hunter. Go over there next to the window with your friend."
Rink gave me a subtle shake of his head, not for a second taking his aim from Cain. His features were set in bronze. "I think we can take the frog-giggin' son of a bitch," he hissed.
"No, Rink. Stand down," I said. Without lowering my own gun, I crabbed over to the window, blocking Rink's line of fire.
"What you doin'?" Rink whispered harshly. "I can take the punk."
"Just let it go, Rink," I whispered back. "For now."
Behind me, Rink's curses were blasphemous, whatever Good Book you follow.
"Hunter?" he pleaded, but I was already refocused on Cain. John had grasped the briefcase to his chest and was nearing him. As he blocked my view of Cain, the woman was unceremoniously shoved to the ground, then Cain had John by the shoulder and was spinning him around. Without pause, Cain used him as a shield as he moved away. At the door, Cain issued a final warning. "Don't try to follow us too soon. If you do, John dies in more agony than you could ever imagine."
I stayed put. Rink was as itchy as a flea-bitten dog, and without taking my eyes off Cain I whispered, "Just wait."
From behind me I heard the answering response, indicating that Rink understood. "I'm waitin'."
Cain didn't hear the whispered exchange. He was as nutty as squirrel shit, but he was no fool. He paused in his tracks. "I guess this won't be the last time I lay eyes on you?"
"Count on it," I told him.
"Don't worry, I will," Cain said. "I look forward to it. It'll look good to have such a formidable trophy as Joe Hunter on my résumé."
Cain held my gaze a moment longer; then, in an act I should have expected from one of such a depraved mind, he waved good-bye. It wasn't his hand he used. It was the bloodless souvenir taken from the old woman's husband.
Then Cain and John were gone.
Before I could move, the old woman wailed and began scurrying across the floor on her hands and knees to the still form of her husband. She folded over the top of him and her sobs were pitiful.
Grief is a savage torment, especially when so raw as this. It can leave a person insensible to what is happening around them, and totally unaware of consoling hands. My soft words were probably gobbledygook to her.
While she wailed, I gave her the quick once-over. Her injuries were minimal, a little bruising on the throat, a bumped elbow. Searching for any broken bones, I traced the folds of her blouse with my fingertips. Bodily she was intact, but there was a narrow rent in the fabric. I studied the slashed cloth, noting that a patch about the size of two fingers was missing, stripped away, wondering how in hell that had happened.
I shook off the thought as Rink charged into the living room. "They've taken the old lady's car."
I nodded at him.
"So what're we doin' standin' around? Let's go after the son of a bitch," Rink said.
"There's no rush," I told him.
Rink inclined his head. "What's goin' on?"
"Like I said, we only have to wait."
Rink wasn't aware that John was laying down a trail for us.
"When John was holding on to me," I explained, "he took my cell phone out of my shirt pocket."
"I can't see him gettin' the opportunity to call in his location," Rink said.
"Doesn't need to," I said.
"No. Of course. We can have the phone signal triangulated. It'll lead us straight to him."
"I trust you have someone in telecommunications that can do it for us?" I asked.
"I might know a woman who does."
"Cheryl Barker? It's okay, Rink, I've just had another thought."
The sirens came.
It was only minutes before Rink and I were kneeling with our hands behind our heads as we were frisked for concealed weapons.
"Get me Walter Conrad," I told a stern special agent from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. "He's a sub-division director with the CIA."
On reflection, I was in no position to make demands, but if anyone had the ability to trace the phone John was carrying it was Walter.
To my surprise, he said, "Don't worry, Mr. Hunter. Your boss is already on his way."
35
your boss is already on his way.
It's not often that Walter Hayes Conrad IV gets into the field these days. As a handler of undercover agents, most of them up to their elbows in wet work, he has to maintain a degree of anonymity and distance himself from the dirty deeds used by his government in the name of national security. On this occasion, however, it was necessary for him to fly out to this place marginally north of Long Beach. Everyone's orders were to contain what was rapidly escalating into a massive embarrassment for both him and the security community at large.
He walked into the bedroom where I'd been confined for the last twenty minutes. All that was missing was a fanfare blast of trumpets to announce his arrival.
Walter greeted me with a tight-lipped smile, an unlit cigar clamped between his fingers. Without preamble, he dismissed the two Hostage Rescue Team troopers who'd been my uneasy jailers. Funnily enough, the FBI agents immediately deferred to his authority.
"Walter," I acknowledged with a nod. I stood up from the bed, smoothing out the rumpled comforter with a tug.
Walter's cigar went from one hand to the other. Gripping it as though it were a lifeline, he offered his other damp palm. I shook hands with him, regarding him solemnly. He didn't say anything.
"You must have hotfooted it out here, Walter," I said, "seeing as it's less than half an hour since the call went in."
Walter bunched his prodigious cheeks in what was supposed to be a smile. "Got my very own Lear."
"You're telling me," I said. But he didn't get the joke. When he didn't respond, I added, "Even a jet couldn't have got you all the way across country in that time."
"It's a very fast jet," Walter said, and now the smile was genuine. "Nah, I've been in L.A. since early this morning."
"Can I ask the reason why?"
"Of course not," he said.
It was a game. His game; one that Walter loved to play.
I offered my deduction, to see what lies he came up with.
"When we talked on the phone I piqued your interest. Got you thinking, huh?"
"Pure speculation."
"So tell me, Walter, who is the Harvestman?"
"What makes you think I know that?"
"Don't play with me, Walter. You haven't flown all the way across the country for nothing. You're here because you know who he is. You're on a containment mission."
Walter jammed the unlit cigar between his teeth. "I gave up smoking eight months ago," he said. "Still carry a cigar around for moments just like this."
"So it's not for celebrations?"
"No, I'm talking about a reminder of how much I've fucked up in the past." For the first time I honestly believed him. "There's a lot of truth in that concept, Hunter. That your past always catches up with you in the end."
"Yeah," I agreed. His words echoed my own feelings precisely. He sat down on the bed I'd recently vacated, fists on his ample thighs.
"The Harvestman knew me," I told him. "He also knew Rink. Makes me
think he has to be a member of the security community."
Walter nodded but didn't volunteer anything.
"Is he one of yours, Walter?"
Walter shook his head. "Not CIA."
"Secret Service?"
He wagged a fat finger, pleased with his top student.
"So how is it you're involved?" I asked. "Last I heard the CIA and Secret Service were separate entities."