by Matt Hilton
We cut through Pilot Point without stopping, passing a bank infamous for having been robbed by Bonnie and Clyde, so Harvey said, then followed a minor road to our destination: a fishing cabin hidden from the road by a stand of live oak on the bank of Ray Roberts Lake. The cabin was totally utilitarian, a staging area for the continuation of our plan to get Kate back. 'Have either of you any connections here in Texas?' I asked.
Rink shrugged a negative, but Harvey bobbed his head.
What had recently gone down had spoiled my chances of spiriting Kate from under Huffman's nose. He'd be on high alert now. Our next incursion on his land would have to be planned. And it should be soon, before Huffman could marshal his forces against me.
'What're the chances of you getting hold of a couple of rifles, Harvey?'
'Could get my hands on as many rifles as you want,' Harvey said. 'But I guess you're thinking of specific types?'
I told him exactly what I would like.
Harvey shook his head. 'How soon do you want them?'
'How about right now?'
Harvey clicked his fingers like a magician. But then he smiled slowly and said, 'Sorry, Hunter. I'm good, but not that good. Leave it with me, I'll see what I can do.'
'Got a plan?' Rink asked me.
'Yeah, we give Huffman hell.'
Chapter 32
Falling back to a safe position, Larry Bolan took the loop road round the city of Denton, passing the CH Collins Football Stadium, while he considered his next move.
It didn't take much debating: Joe Hunter must die in agony.
Resolute, he blinked at the scenery and realised he was now heading back west on University Drive towards Highway 35.
On his right was a burger joint – as good a place as any to stop. Not that he wanted food: he was looking for a payphone.
Pulling in, he checked out the other vehicles in the lot. There was a mix of cars and vans, but his Cadillac would stand out if left in the open. Sooner or later he would change the plates, but he was in no rush. He doubted anyone back at Minnie's would report the vehicle missing. Hell, they wouldn't even report Tito missing. Still, he parked it at the back, next to some dumpsters. There was a No Parking sign. Like he cared. Then he got out of the Cadillac and stretched expansively.
He was wearing the overcoat he'd brought from Little Fork, but he was still reluctant to shed it. The coat camouflaged the guns in his waistband. He pulled it closer to his body as he walked round the side of the building and into a cool breeze. He saw what he wanted: a booth attached to the outside wall. He searched his pockets for change, fed quarters into the machine.
The telephone rang a dozen times before it was answered.
'Hello?'
'That you, boss?'
'Larry?' Huffman asked. 'Larry Bolan?'
'Yeah. It's me.'
There was a pause. Larry knew that those empty seconds were very important. At the end of them he would know if this was a mistake. Perhaps the biggest mistake of all.
'You survived?' Huffman sounded pleased, but that meant nothing. He always seemed happy and relaxed, whatever murder he was planning. 'I thought Joe Hunter had killed you along with Aitken and Wallace.'
Larry smiled. He was in the clear: Huffman was unaware of the fates of his co-conspirators. Neither had the pilot filled Huffman in before he had brought down the helicopter. Larry wasn't averse to letting Hunter take the crap for all those deaths.
'I was trapped under wreckage when the bastard sent my truck into the restaurant. I was knocked out. When I woke up I was too late to save Aitken or the judge. By the time I got my act together, everyone had already gone. So I did what I thought best: I followed Hunter.'
'You followed him here?'
'Only as far as the airport, but then I got held up by a blizzard. But I guessed he'd be heading your way.'
'You're in Texas, then?'
'Just down the road a piece,' Larry said, not about to divulge his location just yet.
'That's great, Larry. I could do with you here with me. Hunter's around.'
'You know where?'
'No, but he can't be far away. Come in, Larry. Help me. I want a good man at my back.'
'What about those others you were bringing in?'
'Yes, they're all here. I called them back from Little Fork.' Huffman grunted. 'But forget them, Larry. You know you were always my favourite.'
But you didn't care for Trent, did you, you bastard? Larry thought.
'You still want to kill Joe Hunter, right?'
'I'll be there in a couple of hours, boss.'
'That's great, Larry, just great.'
Larry hung up.
Yeah, just great, he thought. But not for you, boss. If you get in the way, I'll kill you too.
Chapter 33
The lake looked eternal, like it was a billion years old, but it had only been created back in the early 1980s. It got its name from the commissioner who'd backed the plan to bring water to the prairie: Ray Roberts himself. I'd never heard of the man, but he got my respect. The lake was beautiful. The water was very still, the surface almost glass-like and reflecting the cerulean heavens. Oak trees hugged the shore and birds called in the treetops. The water made a gentle lapping noise, which was soothing after all the mayhem.
It was a nice place for a couple to take a romantic stroll. I wondered what it would be like with Kate beside me. Except she was enduring hell as Huffman's captive.
I stuffed my hands in my jacket pockets, as I watched a couple of youths in a rowing boat. I could hear their laughter echoing across the water. I wondered if those two boys had the same strength of friendship that I shared with Rink and, increasingly, with Harvey Lucas. If one of them fell overboard, would the other dive in to save him? I decided he would. That's what people did for their friends. I returned to the cabin, determined to get started.
The evening sky had turned to molten brass. Rink had lit a lamp in the room. Plus, Harvey was back. Between them they were lugging a large wooden crate with a pack of supplies balanced on top that they dumped on the bed.
'I couldn't get us Dragunovs,' Harvey said, referring to the cream of sniper rifles, 'but these should suffice.'
He cracked open the lid of the box and I saw two US Army M24 bolt action sniper rifles. I eyed the guns with appreciation. The stocks were a Kevlar and graphite composite, and they were fitted with Leupold-Stewens M3 Ultra telescopic sights with built-in compensators for bullet drop. I was familiar with the US Army issue rifles and knew that they could be relied upon up to a range of approximately one thousand yards. They had an internal magazine that took five.308 Winchester rounds. Good guns in anyone's estimation.
'Suffice, my ass!' Rink lifted one of the M24s from the crate and snuggled the butt against his shoulder. He swung the rifle round and aimed at an imaginary target at the far end of the room. At that distance a steel-jacketed round would punch a hole through the wall and sail off across the lake and probably still kill a man on the far side. 'I prefer these to the Russian rifle, hands down.'
'You are good,' I told Harvey.
'Told you I was,' Harvey said, flashing white teeth. Then, growing more serious, he added, 'I've got these on loan, guys. I promised I'd return them after we're done. Anything happens to me, I need you to get them back to their rightful owner.' He named a sergeant from the Joint Reserve Base at Fort Worth.
'The JRB is a naval air station, isn't it? Why'd they need sniper rifles on a naval base?'
'The SEALS fly out of there sometimes,' Harvey said. That was all the clarification I needed.
Our next assault on Quicksilver Ranch would be like invading a fortified military base. We'd be outnumbered and outgunned. And we didn't have the luxury of a human shield the way Huffman did. So, it wasn't going to be a head-on attack. Stealth – and the long rifles – would be our greatest assets.
But it was looking like an almost impossible task.
Then serendipity struck.
The phone in my pocket v
ibrated.
I studied the screen before answering. It wasn't Imogen.
'That was some show you put on earlier,' Huffman said. 'I only wish I'd been there to see it.'
I flicked the phone on to speaker so that my friends could hear. They stood very still, not giving any hint that Huffman had an audience.
'I wish you'd been there, too,' I said. 'I'd have killed you and got things over with.'
'Ah, but that would've been a let-down, wouldn't it? Where's your sense of the dramatic, Hunter?'
'I'm not the type for dramatics. I just get the job done.'
'So you have Imogen Ballard?'
I didn't need to answer. He knew that I didn't have her.
'You do still want the lovely Kate back, don't you? She's a fine woman, that one. And loyal. Do you know what it took to force her to admit that you had her telephone, and then to give me the number?'
'If you've hurt her…'
Huffman laughed.
His voice growing a shade softer, he said, 'The sooner you bring Imogen to me, the sooner you get Kate back. That minimises the opportunity for Larry Bolan to harm her any more.'
'Larry Bolan?'
'Yes, my big friend is here. He hates you, you know. But that's understandable. After what you did to his little brother, he wants to eat your heart.'
'Trent was a psychopath.'
'Can't deny that. He was one crazy-eyed son of a bitch. But he was still Larry's little brother. You can't blame him for hurting Kate to get back at you.'
'If you want Imogen, you'll stop him, Huffman.'
'Larry's his own man in that respect, so you'd better just find Imogen.' All the fake joviality had disappeared from his voice now. 'You have until this time tomorrow night. Bring me Imogen, Hunter, or I'll be sending Kate back to you in little pieces.'
'Tomorrow night.'
I hung up. I didn't want to listen to the bastard's voice any more.
Rink and Harvey had remained silent throughout. Now they were all questions. Primarily why I hadn't told Huffman about Larry's part in the earlier gun battle.
'Huffman would've had him killed.'
'That's what we want,' Rink said. 'One less enemy.'
'What's more important to you, Hunter?' Harvey asked. 'Freeing Kate or getting your showdown with Bolan?'
I just looked at him, and he waved the question away.
'I didn't tell Huffman about Larry for a good reason. He was bluffing, Larry isn't hurting her. Don't forget – she's too valuable a hostage: it's Kate who's going to bring Imogen to him.'
'But why stay quiet about Bolan?' Rink asked.
'Huffman made a valid point. He said that Larry is his own man. What he hasn't realised is that Larry will put his own agenda first.' I smiled coldly. 'Whether he knows it or not, Larry's our ally behind enemy lines. All we have to do is figure out how best we can use him.'
'You think he'd bring Kate if you promised him a chance at you?' Harvey asked.
'No. Even supposing we could find a way to contact him, he'd only kill her. That'd guarantee him his chance more than anything.'
'So what good is he to us?'
'When we go to do the exchange of Imogen for Kate, Larry will be there. I'm guessing that Huffman will use his presence to intimidate me. He'll be in charge of Kate, but his mind will be focused on me. I'll play on Larry's anger and draw him out.'
'Giving us an opportunity to steal Kate from him.'
'That's leaving an awful lot to chance,' Harvey said.
'Chance would be a fine thing.' I held up the phone, showing him the flashing envelope symbol on the screensaver.
Chance or coincidence, Imogen had returned my call at the same time as Huffman had decided to call me.
Chapter 34
As roll-calls go, the impromptu gathering of Huffman's men bore no resemblance to the kind you see in military command centres, but that was what it was. They were in the large lounge area on the upper floor of the ranch house, a group of killers who would rather be on the move than standing around waiting for orders.
There was Huffman and Larry Bolan, a select number of Huffman's usual men employed at the ranch, and five others. These five added a sense of danger to the meeting as though they could turn on each other at any second. A meeting of narcissistic minds is always a dangerous thing, particularly when each of those minds thinks themselves above the rest assembled round them. These five were not used to working as a team: each of them usually headed a group of their own and felt it was a personal insult that they were not elevated above the others. Huffman didn't give a damn: he would play on their egos in order to get the most out of them. Each one of the five would want to prove that they were the best and they would do everything in their power to demonstrate that.
Huffman was the only person seated. He was in a large wing-backed chair, a cigar cupped in his palm as his hand rested on his crossed legs. He had disdained the usual suit and tie, electing on this occasion to dress more like the other people here. He was wearing a windcheater jacket and canvas trousers that he'd tucked into laced-up boots. The clothing gave him freedom of movement, and also, being a flat sandy colour, a level of camouflage that his designer suit couldn't match. On his head was a baseball cap, the same colour as the rest of his clothes. On his hip he had holstered a Beretta PX4 Storm, a 'full size' semi-auto with a magazine capacity of seventeen rounds. Unbeknown to all gathered there, he had his cut-throat razor secreted in its pouch on his right wrist.
He was sitting in silence watching the others. One of them, Remmie Souza, was standing with his arms folded over his expansive chest. Souza was a big man, muscles the type you see in prison yards, and his stance showed off the massiveness of his biceps. Huffman wanted to laugh at him; next to Larry Bolan Souza looked like a wimp. More than once Huffman had noticed Souza casting a look Bolan's way, then frowning in self-admonishment.
'It is time to put your differences aside,' Huffman finally said. 'I have just offered Hunter the incentive to fight even harder to free the woman. He'll be coming. Unless you work as a team, I guarantee he'll beat you.'
'He won't beat us,' said a grey-haired man as he fingered the hilt of a knife on his hip. 'He got lucky with the others, that's all.'
Charles Grade was the oldest man in the room. He was in his early fifties, but he still had the body of a man twenty years younger. He was as lithe as a cat and his wide green eyes added to the resemblance.
Watching Grade from under heavy brows was the youngest man. 'He won't beat me, anyway,' Desmond Molloy said to Huffman in an accent evocative of Northern Ireland. He nodded his head in Grade's direction. 'Can't vouch for that old man over there.'
Molloy was a hard-faced man, his skin pocked with acne and more than one scar. His father, Patrick, had been an IRA hit man back when the Troubles were on, and Desmond had picked up the mantle after his father was shot dead by an undercover SAS soldier. These days he worked out of Newark and he was generally at odds with Grade who worked for a rival mob out of neighbouring Jersey City.
Grade sneered.
'This old man could still teach you a lesson, boy.'
'Bring it on,' Molloy said.
'Easy, you guys,' said Cal Burton. 'Huffman's right. You can't underestimate a man who takes out six armed soldiers with only a handgun. We need to stick together on this.'
'What's wrong with you, Tex?' Molloy demanded. 'No faith in your abilities? I didn't think you'd be the type to be afraid of one man: last I heard you claimed to have taken out three US marshals with only your bare hands. Are you telling me that was all bullshit?'
Cal Burton was a native Texan, although he was more likely to be found in Austin than here north of Dallas. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a florid complexion and a shock of hair that looked like a badly stacked sheaf of corn. He was missing two teeth at the front and had the habit of rolling his tongue through the gap. Some people looked at Burton and assumed that he wasn't firing on all cylinders. They usually only made that mistake once.<
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He laughed at Molloy. 'There weren't three of them, Paddy. There were four. Plus I killed the asshole they were supposed to protect.'
Molloy sneered again, turned to Souza. 'What about you, Remmie? You afraid of one Englishman?'
'I ain't afraid of no one,' Souza said, but again his glance slid over Larry Bolan.
The last person of this unusual gathering was the most anomalous of all. It was against the norm for a woman to be an enforcer, but Ruth Wicker had proven her ability time and time again. Once she'd been a DEA agent, but she'd found working for the other side far more lucrative than working for the government. In blazer and trousers she still looked like she was on the government payroll. She was slight in build, with a face that would never be called pretty. Never had she used her feminine ways to build her career; she relied solely on her ability to deliver pain with a viciousness most men could not match.
'You should learn to keep your mouth shut, Molloy.'
'Who asked you, bitch?' Molloy snapped at her. 'You shouldn't even be here. Why'd you bring in a frigid woman if you wanted us to work together, Huffman?'
Wicker shook her head slowly and her hand crept towards the gun on her hip.
'Go on, Wicker, draw your gun. I'll shove it someplace you've never had something shoved before.' Molloy leered at the other men in the room, but no one seemed impressed by his lewd talk. He threw up his hands. 'Ah, to hell with the lot of you. I work better on my own anyway. Just keep the feck out of my way.' Turning to Wicker, he pointed a finger at her. 'Especially you, Wicker, you feckin' dog.'
'What's wrong, Molloy?' Wicker asked. 'Upset because I turned you down? Shit, it must be frustrating when you can't even score with an ugly bitch like me.'
'Feck off.'
The other men in the room laughed this time. Molloy's face reddened, and he finally fell silent. He crossed his arms the way Souza did, and glowered between Wicker and Grade, unsure which of the two he hated the most.
'Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way,' Huffman said, 'we can get down to business. You were all asked here because your employers owe me. You were chosen to represent your respective syndicates because you're the best at what you do. But, gentlemen – and lady – I do not expect you to work for free. As promised you'll all be paid handsomely, if you kill Joe Hunter. Your best bet is to do that as a team.' He looked once at Larry Bolan before continuing. 'I don't care which one of you actually finishes him, as long as he dies. But there is one thing that you must not do.' He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering for a little longer on Molloy. 'No one hurts either of the women.'