by Matt Hilton
Larry Bolan must have known he was going to die. Even if he finished me, it wouldn't matter what I'd said; Rink or Harvey would drop him. But he wanted to take me with him.
'Trent!' he roared. Then he clamped his arms over my legs to stop me pulling free and ran directly at the burning building like we were in a piggy-back race, intending crashing through the wall of flames and into the heart of the inferno. Neither Rink nor Harvey could shoot him for fear of hitting me. I let go of his hair, forgot all about chopping his neck and I did something so terrible that it would come back to haunt me in nightmares.
As Larry charged towards the flames and I felt the skin on my face begin to roast I reached round and jammed my fingers into the corners of his mouth. Then I hauled backwards, as if I was reining in a mad stallion. Larry's face split like an overripe melon and his system failed him with the shock of what I'd done. His arms flopped wide, and I sprawled on my back, chunks of Larry's lips clenched between my fingers.
Maybe what I did was enough to throw him over the precipice of insanity, maybe he had no desire to live any longer with only half a face, but he kept on running and the last I saw of him was a lumbering shadow flailing within the flames.
Next, hands were at my collar and I was dragged unceremoniously away from the building as it crashed down and sealed Larry's fate.
I lay there in stunned silence. Equally quiet were my friends. In the end, Rink said, 'You shoulda let me shoot him, Joe.'
I looked at the filth in my hands and was sickened. But then I recalled the threat Huffman had made to Kate. That he'd allow Larry to rip her apart. Larry wanted to eviscerate me, too. Well, what goes around comes around.
Together we moved past the burning buildings and turned into the road. The entire ranch was now a magnificent pyre from which smoke billowed into the heavens. Beneath a shawl of smoke I saw the crumpled form of a man lying on the road. I knew without checking that the smashed-up body was that of Rourke. I felt no pity. He'd died after all, but it wasn't me who'd killed him. I'd only helped him along in the right direction.
'Is he the last of them?'
'I got a man round back, plus another out in the field that I took the rifle off,' Harvey said.
'Goddamnit,' Rink said. 'I stuck one with my knife, but all I got to shoot at was freakin' walls.'
Harvey grinned. 'That's the only way we could be sure you wouldn't miss.'
'Course, I got to soften Bolan up for you, Joe.'
'Yeah, but it was me who made a start on his lips for you,' Harvey added.
My friends, like many soldiers stuck in desperate circumstances, were trying to lighten the mood with graveyard humour. I was doing a quick head count. I wasn't sure how many people Huffman had at his disposal, but there was at least one I hadn't come across yet.
'There was a woman. She was with Huffman when we took Kate away from him. Where's she at?'
'I didn't kill any woman,' Harvey said. As it was to me, the very thought of killing a woman – even a mob enforcer like that one – was abhorrent to him.
Rink shrugged expansively. 'Like I said, all I got to do was shoot at walls.'
I experienced slowly creeping dread. 'I've got a horrible idea where she is at.'
Chapter 53
Rink's office was in downtown Tampa. He had a condominium up near Temple Terrace in the wooded area north-east of the city, but he chose to work from the office. He wasn't one for taking his work home with him. Like Rink, there was nothing fancy about the building. It was simply a solid construction, a bit like the man it served. Rink had inherited his Japanese mother Yukiko's love of minimalism. The walls were white, the desk, computer and chairs enough to satisfy any clients walking in through his doors, but all the other excesses of a modern office space were missing.
A door in the back of the office led to an equally stark room where Rink occasionally bedded down if he was working late and couldn't be bothered facing the drive home. Because of his size, he had installed a double bed. He also had a coffee percolator and a microwave oven. A shower stall and toilet completed the living area, providing all mod cons when the alternative was having nowhere to stay.
Kate wasn't complaining. After being a prisoner in Huffman's house, this place felt like a home from home to her. Imogen grumbled about the cramped living arrangements, but Kate only smiled. Her sister had just spent seven days on a luxury cruise liner; it was about time she felt a little of the discomfort that Kate had endured on her behalf. Not that she wanted her sister to suffer, not really. She loved her dearly and wanted only the best for her.
The sisters had to share the bed. There was nowhere else they could relax, unless they went out in the office with McTeer and Velasquez, and though Kate was grateful for the men's presence they weren't exactly riveting company. Both were taciturn individuals who seemed happy only when they were sharing a common silence. Kate wondered if their time on the force had made them so dour; a reason she was considering quitting her career. If she ended up as miserable and cynical as those two she'd sooner get the hell out now while she still retained a spark of life.
Lying next to Imogen reminded Kate of when they were small children. They'd had to share a room with their older brother, Jake. He'd had the single bed while Kate and Imogen had top-to-toed in the double that their parents had installed. Kate was six years old before Jake got his own room and she'd inherited his bed. But, many times after that, she'd still crawled into the double alongside Imogen when a particularly bad dream had disturbed her or when thunder rumbled outside. Even now she couldn't help throwing her arms around her slumbering sister and snuggling up close.
Imogen was in the midst of a dream. She mumbled something incomprehensible and her brow creased as though she was perturbed. It wasn't surprising, considering what she'd gone through. Kate gently stroked her sister's forehead, smoothed her sleep-tousled hair and some of the lines relaxed on her face.
'It's OK, Imogen. Everything's OK,' Kate said very quietly.
The words helped soothe her, but they felt false to Kate's own ears.
She was still worried.
She was thinking about Joe.
Why hadn't he called yet? The only possible reason was that he was still engaged in battle with Huffman and his men. Either that or he'd failed. What if he was injured? What if he was dead? No! She wouldn't even contemplate that possibility. Joe was better than Huffman and all the scum he'd gathered around him. In fact, Kate had never known a man the like of Joe Hunter before.
As an officer with the NYPD she'd worked alongside some pretty tough individuals, some intelligent people too, but Joe embodied something that went beyond the norm. His cool exterior concealed a man of deep and complex emotions. He cared about the well-being of others to a point that he'd forfeit his life to make things better for them. There was nothing that he asked in return – apart from the occasional request that she trust him and do as he asked – there was nothing selfish about him. He'd agreed to help her find Imogen, to lay down his life to achieve that, but had never once enquired about payment. He'd agreed to help because he felt that he owed Kate's family a debt. Jake had been killed while saving the lives of his comrades, but Joe had risked his own life in return, carrying Jake out of the war zone. Joe had already paid his debt in that respect.
As a police officer she should have baulked at the extremes that Joe went to, except she understood him. He was working from a different set of rules than the bureaucracy laid down in the police procedural manuals she followed. He worked according to a different ethos, a somewhat old-fashioned creed that harked back to less complicated days. He was like the old-time marshals who patrolled the Wild West relying on their toughness and their sense of right and wrong to bring calm to the chaos of a lawless nation. Like him, she wanted to make the world a better place. It was why she'd enrolled as a police officer. They'd chosen a different route, that was all. She wished she'd had the nerve to do what Joe did. His methods seemed to get results.
Restless, she s
lid slowly from the bed so that she didn't waken Imogen. She stood by the bedside, pushing her feet into her shoes. She was already fully clothed, had stayed that way since arriving at Rink's office, knowing that they might have to move at a moment's notice. She leaned down to where her purse lay, and pulled out the cell phone that Joe had returned to her. She checked the phone for any messages she might have missed, but the screen was empty. She pushed buttons, finding Joe's number stored in the memory. She hovered over the button, wanting to ring, but knowing she might distract him when he needed that the least. Something else made her pause: what if she dialled him and the phone simply rang and rang and was never answered? How would she feel then?
From the front office she heard the tinkle of a bell as the front door was opened. She heard McTeer greeting someone. She couldn't make out the words, but there was no concern in his voice.
She put the phone back in her purse, took out the Glock 17 that Joe had given her. It wasn't her gun, but one he'd taken from a man at Little Fork. She racked the slide, jacking a bullet into the firing position. She flicked off the safety. Then she went to the door and listened. McTeer said something else, muffled by the intervening door, but then he laughed. Kate almost relaxed her finger on the trigger. Almost, but not quite. She heard a woman laugh in response to McTeer's words.
Kate cracked the door open an inch, peering round the door frame. She could make out McTeer at Rink's desk, reclining in the seat with his fingers linked behind his head. Velasquez wasn't there. He must have gone off on an errand of his own, leaving McTeer to guard the sleeping women. Standing on the other side of the desk was a slim woman with long blond hair. She was wearing glasses and a flowery dress that reached just below her knees. Over the dress was a cardigan buttoned below her ample breasts. The woman had a large purse hanging over one shoulder, and as Kate watched she saw the woman dip a bejewelled hand into the purse.
'I brought identification with me,' the woman said. 'I've got it right here.'
Kate moved without thought.
She stepped fully into the room, lifting her Glock.
The woman caught Kate's movement in her peripheral vision and she began to withdraw her hand from the purse.
'Shit!' McTeer kicked back to put distance between him and the silenced handgun that the woman lifted. McTeer slapped at the gun in his shoulder rig, but it was no use. Too little too late.
A gun spat flame. But this gun did not come with a silencer and the noise of the discharge compressed the eardrums of all three of them in the room.
Kate was deaf to the second and third shots she fired directly into Ruth Wicker.
Struck side-on, Wicker took the bullets in her right ribcage, and she was pushed over on her buckling left knee. Her reactive shot missed McTeer by inches and drilled a hole in the wall behind him. He stood up, bringing out his gun. Wicker ignored him, bringing her gun round at Kate. Her hand was trembling and she jerked on the trigger. Kate saw the flash of fire spit from Wicker's gun, but she didn't hear its retort. She was stuck in a place where only killing her enemy meant anything.
Kate fired again.
This time her bullet hit Wicker in the head, snatching away strands of the blond wig and a large portion of her skull. Wicker went down on her back, her legs splayed in an unladylike way. Her gun fell from lifeless fingers.
McTeer was standing in stunned fascination, his own gun forgotten for the moment. He looked down at the woman lying dead on the office floor.
'Jesus…' he hissed. 'How'd you know she was one of Huffman's people?'
'I don't know.' Kate wasn't sure if it was a premonition, or pure luck that she'd come out of the room when she did with her gun ready. Maybe it was simply because she'd been expecting something like this. Whatever, she had Joe Hunter to thank for it. If she'd fumbled with the safety, maybe shouted a cop-like warning, then McTeer would be dead. Perhaps Wicker would be standing over Imogen pumping rounds into her body. But Kate had stopped her.
'Christ,' McTeer said running a hand over his face. 'She almost had the drop on me. You saved my life, Kate. Thanks.'
'It was nothing,' Kate said. Now that Wicker was gone, she hugged her arms round her chest. She felt very weak.
'Nothing, my ass! I was supposed to be protecting you.'
'The disguise didn't work on me.' She looked down on Wicker, and even with the wig, the glasses, the feminine clothing, Kate didn't see anything but the vindictive bitch who'd almost shot her at Quicksilver Ranch.
'Goddamnit!' McTeer said, studying the close grouping of the shots in Wicker's side, the wound in her head. 'That was good shooting!'
Kate felt mildly pleased with the acknowledgement. 'It wasn't that good, McTeer,' she said with a sad smile. 'She was too close to miss.'
Behind her, Imogen came out of the bedroom. She was tentative, holding her breath as she crept close to Kate. Imogen touched her on the shoulder and Kate turned and they hugged close. Then Imogen pulled away, lifting Kate's phone up to her. 'It's Joe,' she said.
Thank God! Kate thought, reaching for the phone, there's still time. 'Joe…' she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Then Imogen saw the blood on Kate's breast.
Kate blinked slowly at her sister. She looked down at the wound in her chest. Imogen let out a sob. After all this, after all that they'd been through, they still hadn't escaped Robert Huffman's reach. When Wicker had fired her last shot, it had cut directly through Kate's body. She had been too close to miss.
'No!' Imogen cried as she reached to support her failing sister. The phone slipped from Kate's fingers, and Joe's warning voice sounded tinny and very distant, and totally overwhelmed by Imogen's grief-stricken scream.
Epilogue
I heard the screaming over the phone and knew that I'd failed my prime directive. I felt Kate's death like a solid wedge of ice had been driven through my heart. Maybe in time I'd have come to love her as deeply as I had once loved my wife, but now she was gone. All I had left were the memories of those few hours we'd spent together. Maybe I should have screamed, too, but I couldn't. I only wept silently.
Rink gripped my shoulder, but he didn't say anything. I wiped my face. You can't be a soldier and fight the kind of battles I have if you're going to collapse under the weight of grief. There'd be no grieving yet. Not while there were still things to be done.
Clean-up was the immediate problem we all had to face, and I stepped up to the challenge. Anything to keep my mind off Kate.
Quicksilver Ranch burned like a nuclear reactor in meltdown, the flames fed by a wind that sprang up, and by the fuel we added to the buildings. The building laced with aviation fuel burned almost white-hot. We carried the dead there and flung them on the flames. I wished that Huffman was still alive when I dumped him in the fire.
After cleaning ourselves up, we appropriated a vehicle belonging to one of Huffman's people and it took us as far as the outskirts of Dallas. On a road bridge we tossed our weapons into the river below. There was no ceremony to the action, just good sense. The vehicle made a fire of its own on a deserted parking lot, and we walked away headed for DFW airport.
Little Fork was a major problem, but I was pretty certain that nothing there could be tied to us. The fact that Imogen's house had been burned down and the corpses of men found inside it was the biggest stumbling block. They would in turn be tied to the deaths of Jim Aitken, Judge Wallace and the guy I'd shot on the stairs at the restaurant. But it now looked like Larry Bolan was going to be held responsible for all three of those deaths. It also looked like he'd shot dead his younger brother, Trent, before heading off on the rampage that destroyed Quicksilver Ranch.
Kate's passing was hard on us all. She'd died a hero, but she could never claim that accolade. Her death was put down to a random drive-by shooting that took an awful lot of setting up, but was managed by a man who'd always been in the business of covering the true nature of death. My old CIA contact, William Hayes Conrad IV, had been a great help in the past and he ca
me through once again. I knew he would. When he helped me resolve the issue with the contract killer, Dantalion, he'd told me he couldn't keep on condoning murder. But nothing of what we'd done was construed as such this time. The way things turned out, Walter made it known that a disagreement between factions of the criminal underworld had erupted into all-out war. Many suspected criminals had died in the process when enforcers from various syndicates started killing each other during a power struggle. The media had a ball with it, but as usual the news was only topical for a few days. We wouldn't be earning any medals of commendation for our actions, but at least we were kept out of prison. Ruth Wicker, the enforcer who'd gone after and ultimately murdered Kate, was the only person who connected us to the war that was waged across Kentucky and Texas. But Walter covered that too. He sent in a clean-up crew that made Wicker disappear completely and her name – like Kate's – was never added to the tally of the dead. Kate's death was handled with more dignity, but it was still something that pained us all deeply. Sadly Kate would only be remembered as a statistic of a violent and senseless world, except in the hearts and minds of those who truly cared for her.
Imogen flew back to Maine to be near the Piers family plot where she could be close to Kate. I had failed to keep Kate safe, and now Imogen felt it was down to her to do that. She was still hurting from her loss, but she was buoyed by the knowledge that those responsible for murdering her lover and her sister were all dead.
With Rink and Harvey, I attended Kate's funeral, standing barely six feet from where I had when we'd buried Jake. It was difficult letting her go, but what else could I do? I wondered what life could have been like if she'd survived. She had her career and I had mine, and it wasn't something that could ever have worked. But I sure wished she was still around. Thanks and Acknowledgements There are many people who help writers to achieve their dreams of writing and publishing a book. I have so many to thank that it is inevitable I will forget to mention someone. You know who you are, so thanks to you all.