Slash and burn jh-3

by Matt Hilton

  Wallace came out of his enforced sleep bewildered. It took him a full half-minute to get his bearings. All the while, Larry stood watching him with his arms folded over his chest.

  The judge finally looked up at him and Larry saw his pupils contract.

  'Larry?' His voice was barely above a whisper.

  'Yeah, it's me. What happened here, Wallace?'

  'Get me a drink, will you?'

  'First you tell me what the hell happened. Where's Huffman?'

  Wallace worked his tongue in his mouth, building up moisture. He'd been sucking dry air for a while now by the look of him.

  'Huffman's gone back home.'

  'Dallas?'

  'Yes. He took the woman with him.' Wallace tentatively pawed at the bruise on his face. 'He's dealing with the situation, he said.'

  'More like he's run off and left us to pick up the shit.'

  Wallace nodded. 'You know he's not interested in us, Larry. It's always been that way.'

  'He wouldn't have got anywhere without us.' Larry unfolded his arms and made fists at his sides. Blood was seeping through his bandages and blossoming on his shirt. 'Trent died for him.'

  'We were just a way of making money, Larry. We were just tools to him. Expendable tools. Accept it.' Wallace leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hanging his head in his cupped palms.

  'My brother was no expendable tool,' Larry warned. 'And neither am I.'

  Wallace waved away his words.

  'Huffman has a plan. He's going to get Imogen Ballard. He's got her sister for bait. When it's all over, he said he'll be back.'

  'I take it Kate's bodyguard was here? Any idea who he is yet?'

  'Called himself Joe Hunter. Could have been a fake name for all I know.'

  'Hunter.' Larry tested the name on his lips. Didn't like the taste, so he spat on the carpet. 'It'll do.'

  'Huffman spoke to him on the phone. He told Hunter to bring Imogen to him.'

  Larry didn't say anything. He was still thinking about the man he was going to kill.

  'Crazy thing is,' Wallace said, 'he warned Hunter about the men he's bringing in.'

  Larry looked at Wallace. He remembered when he'd told Trent about Huffman's extra firepower. 'We don't need help,' Trent had growled. Larry had agreed with him then. And he still agreed with him now.

  'Joe Hunter is mine.'

  Wallace shook his head. 'Stay out of it, Larry.'

  'He killed my little brother.'

  'Leave it to the professionals,' Wallace said. 'You can stay here and help me clear up the mess at this end.'

  'What? All of a sudden I'm a fucking cleaner? And you say that Huffman thinks of us as tools?'

  'Take it easy, Larry. We have to get things sorted here before news leaks out. First we have to control police involvement. We have to find Aitken.'

  'Aitken's dead.'

  'Dead? Hunter did that?'

  Larry neglected to answer. And Wallace wasn't a judge of men for nothing.

  'You killed him, Larry? Why, for God's sake?'

  'Because he was an expendable tool. Just like the rest of us.'

  Then he reached for Wallace and picked him bodily out of the chair. He swung round, walking towards the front of the office.

  Wallace yelled, 'What are you doing?'

  'Cleaning up,' Larry said. 'I'm not having a dirtball like you warning Huffman that I'm on my way to Dallas.'

  Larry heaved Wallace above his head, holding him aloft for a long second, then he threw him through the window. Wallace took the glass and part of the frame with him. He dropped with the falling snow, only much, much faster.

  Larry heard the dull thud.

  He peered down on Wallace's lifeless form three levels below him. The snow hadn't done much to cushion the fall.

  'Leave it to the professionals, huh, Wallace?' Larry said. 'The hell I will! No one kills Joe Hunter but me.'

  Chapter 22

  Little Fork airport wasn't large. It didn't take international passengers. It was only in the last few years that any kind of passengers had flown there. Before that it was strictly freight. However, the sudden land boom around Little Fork had forced the airport to follow the times. Across the way, through the falling snow, I could make out a large building under construction. It was due to open in the spring of next year, according to messages on some massive billboards. For now, serving as the flight terminal, there was a single-storey building, low and squat and constructed from steel and glass. The only concrete I could see was on the floor. One side of the building was for arrivals, the other for departures. Everyone shared the same checking-in doors, coming or going. Security was pretty non-existent. There were only a handful of people in the departure area, and most of them were too busy watching the overhead announcement board to pay me much attention.

  The flight to Frankfort was delayed.

  So was the one to Louisville and to Lexington and Jackson and Hardinsburg and all the other major airports in the state. It looked like I was in for a long wait.

  I got coffee from a vending machine and a sandwich from another and I sat down in a corner where I could watch the entrance doors. If this was a major airport I'd have been searched, but because it handled only internal flights, I had my SIG in its customary place in the small of my back. The Glock I'd taken from the man on the stairs at le Coeur de la Ville was buried beneath my spare clothes in my backpack. If anyone challenged my right to carry the guns, I had fake documents that said I was a US air marshal and I'd be left alone.

  Back at the hotel where I'd collected my things, I'd phoned in a flight booking. I was warned there might be delays, but the blizzard was forecast to blow itself out within the next hour. That was three hours ago. It was worst-case scenario to me. I had to get moving, and sitting there was doing nothing to change that.

  For another two hours no flights took off from Little Fork. Neither did any planes land. The only good thing about the storm was that it was working both ways. I couldn't get out, but neither could Huffman's hired killers get in.

  I checked for messages on Kate's mobile phone. I was hoping that Imogen had got back to me, but she hadn't. The message I'd sent to Imogen's voicemail had always been a long shot, but I was still hopeful. I put the phone away. Getting up from my chair, I wandered through the terminal. All the flights were still delayed. I purchased more coffee. It was black and strong. I needed it: it had been a long day and wasn't finished yet. Not by a long way.

  Back in my seat, I watched the entrance doors. I was expecting Aitken's crew to arrive at any second. He would have been released from the cuffs by now. He'd be back at the station house and coordinating a search for me. Judge Wallace would have come round as well. He'd have told Aitken my name. They'd have had the flight bookings checked. My real name wouldn't show: I was booked under a false one. But if they had any sense they'd put two and two together. They'd know that my cover was false if they ever got round to thinking about it.

  Something about the no show of the police was beginning to bother me. Made me wonder what the hell was going on. Maybe Aitken and Wallace were just a little slow on the uptake, but surely one of them – or their people – would have thought to check out the airport by now? Maybe Huffman had ordered them to back off. If I was locked in a prison cell it would take away the enjoyment of having me battle his hired guns: I wouldn't be much of a challenge to them then. Plus, my usefulness in finding Imogen Ballard would be nil. Huffman wanted me dead, but he wanted Imogen more.

  I was on my third coffee when the blizzard finally stopped. However it was a full two hours after that before the display boards changed and showed that a flight to Frankfort would be leaving at 09:55 a.m., which was only twenty-five minutes away. Almost eleven hours after I'd sent the Dodge Ram through the front windows of le Coeur de la Ville, it looked like I would finally be on the move.

  When it came time to board the plane, I hung back to the last moment. There were only twelve other passengers. I made unlucky thirteen. I'm
superstitious, a lot of military people are, and on any other occasion I'd have looked around hopefully for any stragglers who would change the number in my favour. But this time I actually wanted to be certain I was the last man aboard. It was my only way to be sure that no one was following me.

  The airplane was a Beechcraft 1900 air taxi, used for commuting between Little Fork and Frankfort, and only had nineteen passenger seats. There was no galley or flight attendant, and it was down to the co-pilot to secure the doors before flight. Ten of my fellow fliers were men, the final two being an old woman and a small boy. No one on board gave me any negative vibes, and I settled into a seat at the back of the craft and closed my eyes.

  Take-off was a little bumpy. But then we climbed up above the remnants of the storm and things became smoother. It was a short hop to Frankfort, and I dozed all the way. I hadn't slept since early yesterday morning, and I needed the nap.

  Frankfort hadn't been touched by the snow but the skies were heavy and grey. We landed at Capital City Airport to a slight drizzle. I was OK with that. The rain wouldn't halt my connecting flight to Dallas. Disembarking the plane, I could see Boone National Guard Center across the single runway. There was no activity at the military base. I made my way to the arrivals terminal, tagging along with the old lady and the boy. All the other men were wearing suits and ties and I'd have stood out in their crowd.

  Using my fake ID, I purchased tickets for my onward journey; then I had to sit and wait until my plane was ready to go.

  Capital City was bigger than Little Fork airport, but not by much. I could see the people queuing to board the Beechcraft 1900 I'd recently departed. None of them looked like professional killers, but you never could tell. Top assassins don't look like killers, they look like your average next-door neighbour. I doubted Huffman's team would be travelling the same route as I had. Likely they'd have chartered a flight direct from Fort Worth to Little Fork. I'd probably missed them by the skin of my teeth.

  Part of me regretted the fact.

  Maybe I should have waited for the bastards at Little Fork and killed every last one of them as they stepped out the airport. It would have changed everything. I wouldn't feel like I was running, which was never a good feeling.

  An hour later I was on a corporate Jetstream 41, heading south-west for Dallas Fort Worth. We flew over Arkansas and into Texas and I exited the plane into a sunny day. It wasn't hot, just warm, but it was a pleasant change after the blizzard. Not that I could spend too much time enjoying the sun on my face. I'd just entered my enemy's territory and from now on must be on my guard at all times.

  As soon as I'd cleared arrivals, I pulled out Kate's phone and checked for messages. Still none. I rang Rink.

  'Where are you?' he asked.

  'DFW.'

  'What took you so long?'

  I told him about the snowstorm.

  'Cool.'

  'Where are you?'

  'With Harvey. We're outside the airport. Do you want us to come and pick you up?'

  'No, I'll take a cab. You guys follow and see if you can spot a tail. No one knows about you yet: I want to keep things that way.'

  We arranged to meet at a motel off Route 80 on the outskirts of Arlington once we were sure no one was following me.

  'You ain't going to believe what Harvey dug up on this Huffman character,' Rink said. 'Very interesting.'

  'I can't wait.'

  Chapter 23

  Reunited with his Magnum.357, Larry Bolan stepped out of the rear of le Coeur de la Ville into the blizzard and saw the single set of footprints leading away up the street. The snow was coming down hard, and the prints had almost been obscured, but he could still make out the faint depressions in the snow. Hunter wasn't that far ahead. He didn't bother following him. There was only one place that Hunter would go, so he backtracked to the workshop where he'd left Trent.

  Now that his blood had settled a little, he regretted killing Aitken and Wallace. His anger, and the whisky, had driven him to act irrationally. But he didn't want anyone getting in his way. He wanted revenge. But now he didn't have anyone to look after his little brother while he went after Hunter.

  Trent was where Larry had last seen him. He was lying in the shadows at the back of the workshop. One knee was bent and an arm was crooked up as if he was waving, so he looked like he was in the first aid recovery position. But there was no way Trent was recovering from this. The two holes in his back were large enough to accommodate Larry's fists.

  Larry crouched down and touched his brother's cheek. It was stiff with cold – maybe even rigor – and Larry drew his fingertips away. But then his hand went back to Trent's face and turned it towards him. Trent's pale blue eye was gone.

  He laughed without humour. 'Don't worry, Trent, it's actually an improvement.'

  Larry sighed. He closed the eyelid to hide the mess.

  Standing up, he looked down on his brother.

  'I'm gonna get the son of a bitch that did this to you, bro,' he promised. 'I'll make him hurt before he dies.'

  Then he got in the SUV they'd brought here earlier.

  The stench inside was overpowering. Larry dropped the windows, deciding he'd rather endure the cold than the stink. He backed the SUV out into the loading area, then pulled down the shutter on the workshop and clicked the padlock in place. Trent would be as much at peace here as he would be anywhere. When he was done with Joe Hunter, Larry would see to a proper burial, but for now, the workshop would serve as Trent's tomb.

  He drove to the airport.

  He didn't go inside the departure building.

  He parked the SUV in a position where he could see inside. He could look through the glass front, but anyone inside would see only their own reflection. The snow was coming down heavy, swirling in the draughts round the building, but he could still see the doors. If anyone came out, he'd spot them. He sat with his Magnum in his hand. Trent's Mossberg Persuader was on the seat beside him. He didn't want to use the guns, though. When he killed Hunter it would be with his hands. He'd only shoot him if he tried to run. Wing him in the leg, or something. Then he'd pull his head off his shoulders and crap down his neck.

  Through the snow, he could see Hunter sitting in a far corner of the building, nursing a paper cup. The man had changed his clothes since their last encounter. But he would have had to: his other clothes were splashed with Trent's blood.

  A hundred times he almost got out the SUV. He could walk inside the airport and corner the bastard. But a hundred times he held back. His head was still full of liquor fumes. He wanted to be clear-headed when he killed Hunter. Crystal clear.

  Before leaving the restaurant, he'd pulled on a heavy overcoat. But he was cold. The wind was blowing through the SUV, carrying snow with it. He tasted flakes on his tongue. But he didn't close the windows. The stink of brains was sour in his nostrils and he could smell the whisky coming out of his pores. The cold was helping clear his mind for what was to come.

  The snow stopped.

  There was a bustle of activity on the runway as a plough and a truck with a heater mounted on its back set to clearing away the snow. Except for visits to a vending machine, Hunter didn't move. Neither did Larry.

  Larry was shivering by the time he watched Hunter stand up and pull a rucksack on to his shoulder. Hunter disappeared through the departures door. Finally, Larry stepped out of the SUV. He left the Mossberg where it was, but slipped the Magnum inside a coat pocket.

  He went up to the booking desk.

  'When's the next flight to Frankfort?'

  'There's a flight preparing to leave, sir,' said the airport rep. He didn't meet Larry's eyes. Larry was sure the man could smell him and was turning away to avoid the stink. The guy tapped buttons on a computer. 'There are seats free. I can book you on it if you wish?'

  'How long until the next flight outa here?'

  'Two hours.' He glanced up at Larry. Then his eyes quickly flicked down again.

  'Give me a ticket for that on
e,' Larry said.

  He paid cash from his billfold, took his tickets then went off to the public restroom. Inside he studied himself in a mirror. No wonder the guy had been giving him funny looks: he was still covered in dust and slivers of glass. He washed his hair and face. Then he leaned both hands on the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror for a long time. His eyes began to go out of focus, and for the briefest of seconds he saw someone else's eyes staring back at him. One brown, one pale blue.

  Trent was along for the ride. He wanted to be there when Larry ripped Hunter's heart out of his chest.

  Chapter 24

  I was in my room at the motel outside Arlington when a knock came at the door.

  I'd been sitting on the bed with my SIG on my lap. Standing up, I held the gun close to my hip as I walked across the room. I'd pulled the blinds shut on arrival, so had to peel one of the slats aside to take a look outside.

  If I'd never seen the Bolan twins, I'd have thought the two guys standing outside were huge. Rink stands about six three and Harvey is a shade taller. Rink is built like Mr Universe, while Harvey looks more lithe and rangy, like a young Muhammad Ali. They were an odd-looking combination. Rink's part Japanese and has the blue-black hair and hooded eyes of his mother. His muscular build is down to his Scottish ancestry on his father's side. Harvey on the other hand was blue-black all over, from his bald head down. Rink had on a denim jacket and jeans over a white T-shirt. Harvey looked as slick as ever I'd seen him in a silver-grey suit with matching shirt and tie. Harvey had a laptop bag with him, which he'd hung from one shoulder. He was fixing his cuffs as I peeked out at them.

  They were my best friends in the entire world and I was pleased to see them both.

  I let them in. Harvey came in first, while Rink took a last look behind them. Harvey put out his hand and I shook with him. Then Rink followed and grabbed me in a bear hug. He squeezed me and I was reminded of the kicking that Larry Bolan had lain on my ribs.