Dead Men's Harvest (18 page)

‘Some plan. Left a hell of a lot to chance, brother.’

‘Worked though, didn’t it?’

He laughed again and this time fought through the pain. ‘Fuckin’ Baron, I think he broke my ribs.’

It was obvious from the multiple bruises on his torso that Rink had been subjected to more than just a stun gun. There were burns, a number of them, but they were outnumbered tenfold by the grazes and haematomas.

‘I’ll save a piece of his arse for you.’

‘No need for saving anything,’ Rink said. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Rink, you’re not in any state for it, man.’

‘Frog-giggin’ motherfuckers won’t be enough to stop me.’

‘Rink,’ I said, trying to make him see reason. ‘You need to rest. You need to get well again. If me and Harvey get ourselves killed, we’re going to need someone who can finish the bastards for us. That isn’t going to happen if you get injured again.’

‘I’m good, Hunter.’

‘Sure you are,’ I agreed, ‘but you need to be better.’

Rink scowled at me, but then he adjusted the duvet round his chin. He touched that white scar. ‘Yeah,’ he rumbled.

We pulled into the front yard outside Rene Moulder’s house. It was quaint, and despite her professional brusqueness, I could see that she’d lavished much care on her home. There was nothing brusque about the paint job that had decorated the house. It reminded me of the house in that Calamity Jane movie, when she tried to get in touch with her feminine side. It should have looked twee with the flowers painted over the door lintels, but it didn’t. It looked, well, homely. In contrast the annexe was a utilitarian building: white, with a shingled roof, large blacked-out window in front and a door on which the venetian blind had been lowered. Rene led us to the latter building while Harvey and I supported Rink between us. Sweat was pouring off him before we could get him laid on top of an examination table.

‘Smells like dogs in here,’ Rink muttered.

‘Then you should feel right at home,’ Rene said. She ushered Harvey and me through a connecting door and into her house. ‘I’ve enough to be getting on with. You know how to boil a kettle, gentlemen?’

‘You want us to bring clean towels?’ Harvey asked.

‘He isn’t pregnant.’ She waved us towards a kitchen. ‘Go make yourselves coffee and something to eat. I’ve enough with one patient, I don’t want you two fainting out of hunger, as well.’

There was no hint of a Mr Moulder in residence. The interior of the house was as girly as the outside. Maybe Rene enjoyed the contrast after working in the stark confines of an examination room all day. Harvey and I moved about the kitchen, taking things easy, feeling like a couple of lunks as we fixed a sandwich and a pot of coffee. Sorted with food and drink, we finally sat on chairs padded with gingham-covered cushions, and tried not to make a mess on the pale lemon tablecloth decorated at the edges with blue forget-me-nots. Talk about a clash: I’d never felt so out of place.

When we’d done eating, we cleaned up and put the dishes away, but I refilled my coffee mug. I stuck my head through the connecting door and checked on Rene’s progress. She had Rink’s jeans and boots off, but there was nothing intimate about the way she ran her hands over his body. It was brisk and professional, checking him for breakages and internal damage. Rink’s eyes were open, but he was staring into middle space and wasn’t even aware I’d popped in. Rene had already dressed the ragged cut on his shoulder and cleaned up many of his other grazes. Empty syringes lay in a kidney dish on a counter; antibiotics, I presumed, that had already been administered.

‘Does that hurt?’ I heard her ask him.

‘It does when you jab me with your knuckles, goddamnit!’

‘Aw, quit complaining. Some soldier you are, whining like a little girl.’

I grinned, crept back out of the room and closed the door silently. Harvey was watching me.

‘Sounds like Rink’s going to be fine.’

‘I’m sure he is. You made the right call, though, Harve. He needed looking after and Rene’s the right person for the job.’

‘She’s a tough one, I’ll give you that. She’ll need to be to keep Rink flat on his back for a day or two.’

‘Rink will thank us once we get back.’

Harvey rumbled out a laugh. ‘You good to go?’

‘I think it’s best that we leave while Rink’s otherwise engaged, huh?’

We slipped out of the front door, and rather than take Rene’s pick-up, we jogged back to where we’d left the Jetranger.

Dawn was breaking.

We took off with the first rays of daylight refracted on the windshield, turned north for Virginia and headed for our date with Kurt Hendrickson.

Chapter 25

Tubal Cain was also high in the sky.

The Challenger 604 jet had taken him as far as Newark, New Jersey, where, posing as a crew member, he’d boarded a second airplane for the international flight over the Atlantic. For the last twenty minutes or so, the plane had been in descent, huge billowing clouds obscuring the approach to Manchester International Airport in the north of England. In his previous life as a member of the US Secret Service Cain had had occasion to visit the British Isles, but this was his first time this far north. The plane circled for its final descent. When the aircraft touched down, Cain was waiting by the cargo hold doors until the baggage handlers arrived to offload the passengers’ suitcases, then blended with them as they transported the bags to the waiting carousels. With that done, it was a simple task for Cain to make himself scarce. Within twenty-five minutes of touching down, he was in the back of a car driven by one of Hendrickson’s UK contacts.

It had always been a possibility that he’d be approached by security, and although his papers would have passed scrutiny, his weapons would not. Therefore, he opened the case on the back seat of the car and studied its contents. The replacement weapons were exactly as he’d requested.

There were three knives – the main tools of his trade.

Each was a different size and weight. The first was similar to a box-cutter but with a fixed blade. The next was a Recon Tanto like the one he’d employed against the marshal’s back in Montana when his wild goose chase had led him to Jeffrey Taylor. The final one, the most unwieldy, but terror-invoking, was a Bowie knife with a blade more than a foot long and as broad as his palm.

He smiled in satisfaction, then turned his attention to the gun. It was a Walther P99, with polymer frame and steel slide, and internal striker as opposed to a hammer. The gun was the modified model designed to take a box magazine of 15 × .40 Smith and Wesson rounds. There were four magazines in total. Sixty bullets: enough to start a small war if need be. He slapped one of the magazines into the gun, racked the slide, noted the
chamber loaded
indicator on the side registering that the gun was good to go. As was he.

The driver knew enough to keep his eyes forward, happy to have as little to do with Cain as possible. Cain only conversed with the man enough to get to where he wanted to go; everything else he needed was in a folding leather wallet he found beneath the spare ammunition. While he’d been flying over the Atlantic, Hendrickson’s people had been busy gathering the necessary information. He could have done it himself, but anything that speeded up the process was good by him.

The driver took the car out along the M60 northern ring road, past the Trafford Centre shopping mall, before picking up the M602 through the Greater Manchester city limits, past Eccles and Salford and into the town centre. Joining the A6, the driver passed through the district of Ardwick towards Longsight. Taking a left, he nosed into a housing estate, a mix of council houses and private rented flats. At the end of the road was waste ground and beyond that the main railway line into Piccadilly Station.

The driver brought the car to a halt. ‘There’s a left turn up there, takes you back into the estate. You want me to drive in, mate?’

‘Here will do nicely, driver,’ Cain said, distributing his newly acquired weapons about his body. He checked the wallet, saw some sterling cash inside, but didn’t deem it appropriate to tip the man. He shoved the wallet into an inside pocket of his jacket.

‘Take this.’ The driver handed back a mobile phone. ‘It’s pre-programmed. Give me a call when you need to arrange collection.’

Cain dropped the phone in an outer pocket.

‘Take it easy,’ said the driver. ‘Rough neighbourhood, this.’

Cain didn’t know if the man was being sarcastic or not. English wit was lost on him sometimes. He got out of the car and closed the door behind him. He stood on the pavement – it wasn’t called a sidewalk over here – and watched as the driver spun the car in the road and headed off. Cain wore a waterproof jacket and pulled on a cap: not so much as a disguise, but more against the damp chill that swept down the street. He couldn’t remember being in the UK when it wasn’t damp and chilly.

It was a school day, he was sure, but there were still a couple of kids hanging about on old bicycles, dressed in a uniform of tracksuit bottoms and hooded sweatshirts. They couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven years old, yet they stared at him with eyes as hard as those of the patrons of Fort Conchar. They’d made him as a stranger within seconds. Cain didn’t bother about that: as long as the local police weren’t as perceptive.

Ignoring the young hoods, he strode along the street and took the left Hendrickson’s man had indicated. Here he found old-style tenement flats. Alleyways ran between the buildings. He checked numbers on plaques on the walls; saw the building he was looking for. Good enough, he thought, and angled over to an alleyway on the opposite side. This one dead-ended at a corrugated sheet metal wall to dissuade pedestrians from crossing the rail tracks. It was the home of discarded junk, broken bottles and human waste judging by the smell. Standing in the mouth of the alley, he surveyed the tenement opposite him, allowed his gaze to climb a couple of storeys and saw a window with the drapes closed. Didn’t look like anyone was home. Good enough again. He would come back later, as he’d always planned.

Chapter 26

Rink was in good hands. Rene Moulder would return him to full health within a day or two, and we’d made the right decision to get him help. On the other hand, it felt weird heading off on a mission without my friend watching my back. Harvey Lucas was no one’s second best, and I was thankful that I had a soldier of his calibre along with me. But, for all that Harvey was strong, fit and highly capable in a fight, we didn’t share the same symbiosis as I did with Rink. It came from years of working closely together in the field, where we could second-guess each other’s intention without having to verbalise our thoughts. Harvey was one for questions. Me, I was more the type to allow action to speak for itself.

I had to be blunt why I wasn’t calling in CIA assistance from Walter, or any other of the agencies.

‘I don’t intend arresting the bastard, Harve. I’m going to put a bullet in his face.’

‘For what happened to Louise, I’m with you. But do you really think you’re doing the right thing. I mean . . .’

‘It will make me a murderer? OK, I have to admit, it doesn’t sit well with me. But when I think of the alternative, I’ll accept it. Hendrickson has already tortured Rink, murdered Louise, and is trying to kill my brother. It’s better that I stop the prick than allow him to go through with his plans. If I pass on my responsibility, that makes me a coward.’

Harvey rolled his head at that.

‘I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with it, Harve.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But then that would make
me
the coward. I’m coming with you, man.’

We were in a suburb of Richmond, Virginia, on the northern shores of the James River, looking at an anomalous structure. In keeping with his love for mansion-style houses, Kurt Hendrickson lived in a Tudor hall originally built in Lancashire, England, in the late fifteenth century, but bought at auction in the early 1920s and transported here and reconstructed by someone with more money than altruism. There were other buildings of this nature in the vicinity, but whereas they’d been given to the state as museum pieces, Hendrickson’s home was strictly a private residence. The onus was on
private
. The Tudor hall sat at the heart of its own estate, within a walled enclosure. Dotted along the stone walls, alongside plaques relating the history of the house, were signs that warned against trespass, and advised that security guards patrolled the grounds. Good of Hendrickson to forewarn us.

We were in a rental car, parked on a rise just under a mile to the west of the building, using binoculars to study the black and white façade. Nearby the James River rumbled over rapids.

‘Hendrickson’s security is one thing,’ Harvey pointed out. ‘What about the cops?’

Kurt Hendrickson was almost certainly under the scrutiny of the law enforcement community. There would be FBI, ATF, DEA and other agencies all with an interest in what he was up to. His home would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. That could cause more of a problem than any of the hired guns Hendrickson had at his beck and call. The last thing I wanted was for them to hear the gunfire and storm the compound before I was finished.

‘We’ll have to make sure that we aren’t seen or heard.’ For emphasis I tapped the hilt of my Ka-bar knife.