Dead Men's Harvest (9 page)

Cain was dressed for the occasion. He wore dark clothing and high-top boots, a cap pulled down low over his fair hair. He felt like he was back in the game again. With the tree-lined hillside as cover, he approached the cabin. Using the shadows to his advantage, he moved to the parked SUV. Holstering the Beretta, he pulled the Tanto out of its sheath. A quick jab of the blade split the tyre and the SUV sank at one corner. Not totally disabled. He jabbed the next tyre. Now it would be difficult to drive.

He quickly slashed the tyres of the sedan, then, happy that the occupants of the cabin would have no means of a quick getaway, he moved towards the porch. Putting away the knife, he drew the Beretta, advancing with a gun in each hand like some fabled Two Gun Tex.

The planks on the porch looked reasonably sound, but he couldn’t take the chance that they’d creak under his weight, giving away his position. Whether or not the people inside were at a low ebb, hearing furtive movement on the porch would galvanise them into action. Cain didn’t want that. He had to maintain the element of surprise. Get Telfer: that was all that mattered.

From within the cabin he could hear muffled conversation. Two voices, those of a man and a woman. But were there more?

He made his way around the side of the cabin. There was a window at that end, too, which like all the others had shutters. Moving up close, he found he could peer through a narrow niche between two slats. The cabin was open plan at this end. The living quarters were kept to a minimum, with a couch, a TV, and table and chairs. There was a kitchen area at the back of the building with a wood-burning stove that doubled as a cooking range. Stairs led up to a mezzanine-type gallery where a bed occupied most of the space. Beneath the gallery were two doors. Likely one was to a bathroom, the other to another bedroom.

Through the chink in the shutter, Cain watched a slim woman wander across the room. She pushed hands through her cropped hair. She had a gun holstered on her hip. She said something, a low murmur. A man answered her from the bed on the raised gallery. He sat up. He was fully clothed, appeared to have been merely killing time.

Under the gallery, the door on the left opened and a stocky man with a greying brush cut came out, rubbing his face with a towel. The woman lifted a mug off the range in the kitchen, handing it to the man, before taking her turn in the bathroom.

Cain frowned. Neither man was John Telfer.

Swinging off the bed, the man clumped down the stairs, hitching his jeans to a more comfortable position. He had a shoulder rig, but it was empty. Cain glanced around and saw the man’s sidearm lying on the table. Now that the woman was in the bathroom, only the guy with the brush cut was armed. He had an impressive-looking Desert Eagle strapped to his waist.

Now would be a good time, Cain told himself.

Prudence, though, prudence.

First he circled the back of the building. He passed the back door, moved round the corner. The bathroom window was shuttered, but would have given him a look inside through the slats if he had the desire. No distractions, though.

The final room didn’t have a window.

The man inside was as much a prisoner as Cain had been at Fort Conchar.

Happy that Telfer couldn’t make a break for it, he returned to the front. Cat-footed, he stepped up on to the porch. From inside came the clump of boot heels, enough to cover his own movements as he moved to the door. Elbows braced to his ribs, he held both semi-automatic weapons ready. Then he rocked back, lifting his heel.

The door opened.

There was a split second while Cain stared into the eyes of the older marshal. The man had slipped into a jacket. He was holding a small knapsack in his left hand. Getting ready for the off.

‘Shit!’ the man whispered. He dropped the bag, at the same time slapping his other hand towards the Desert Eagle on his hip.

Cain fired, both his guns pumping rounds through the marshal’s chest. This close they met little resistance. The man barely moved even though significant portions of his lungs and heart were projected across the room.

Cain’s heel was still partly raised. Economy of motion dictated he follow the movement through. He kicked the dead man to the ground, stepping over him and into the room.

Already the second marshal was on the move. He was still two steps from the table when Cain shot him through the neck. The man spun, beads of scarlet making a dervish whirl in the space he vacated. The marshal caromed off the far wall. He turned towards Cain, his mouth opening to shout. Cain shot him again, punching a hole through the balding spot on the man’s forehead.

Two men dead in as many heartbeats.

The woman was still a dangerous adversary. So might John Telfer be. It was highly unlikely that he’d been armed by his protectors, but Cain remembered that Telfer was one sly son of a bitch.

Concluding that the woman – an armed and trained protector – was by far the greater threat, Cain quickly moved towards the bathroom door. He unloaded the entire H&K clip through the door and walls. A bullet punched through the door in an attempt at return fire, but Cain heard the unmistakable grunt of someone mortally wounded.

Shoving the H&K back into his shoulder holster, he drew the Tanto with his left hand.

From inside the bathroom came a crash of breaking glass. The bitch was trying to escape!

He kicked open the door, expecting to see the woman wriggling out the window. Instead he almost lost his face as she fired. Only his super-charged instincts saved him. Wood splinters from the door frame jabbed at his right cheek, but otherwise he went unharmed.

‘Run, Jeff!’ the woman yelled.

Cain studied her in the time it took to swing the Beretta towards her. She was wounded low in her gut – her childbearing days history, if she managed to survive. She had a second bullet wound on the mound of her right forearm. Blood slicked her wrist and made her grip on her weapon tenuous.

Stepping directly into her space, he jammed the Beretta to her forehead. Her lips writhed in a grimace. But that was more to do with the seven inches of steel he’d rammed below her ribcage.

The woman blinked slowly and Cain watched as her pupils dilated. He moved his face very close to hers, his lips trembling a hair’s breadth from hers as he inhaled her final breath. It smelled of peppermint mouthwash and the coppery tang of blood.

As she sagged, Cain supported her on the length of his knife. Lord, but she was pretty, he thought. If only he had more time.

Allowing her to slip off the steel, he backed away. A quick glance to his right told him Telfer hadn’t come out the bedroom. The woman’s final words had gone unheeded, which was good.

Cain tapped on the door with the barrel of his gun.

‘Knock, knock. It’s the big bad wolf. Are you there, little piggy?’

From behind the door he heard the frantic gasps of a terrified man.

‘It’s been a long time, John,’ Cain said. ‘Hope you didn’t forget me while I was gone?’

Inside the room, furniture was being scraped across the floor.

Cain booted the door and went inside.

A bed had been upended, the mattress concealing the cowering figure behind it.

‘Aw, come on, John. Don’t go all shy on me. Come out and say
hello
to your old friend, Cain.’

The mattress quivered, the man hiding there was shaking so hard. ‘Please!’ he yowled. ‘Dear God in heaven, please don’t kill me!’

Cain frowned.

‘Please. Can’t you just let me go? I promise . . . I swear to God I won’t say a thing to anyone. I’ll disappear. Tell Mr Gambetti, I swear I won’t testify against him.’

Mr Gambetti?

Cain leaned in and with the barrel of his gun he forced the mattress to one side.

The man cowering against the wall shivered uncontrollably.

‘You’re Jeffrey Taylor?’ Cain asked.

The man nodded slowly, unsure of what was expected of him.

Cain slow-blinked at him.

He didn’t like swearing or profanity. It was unbecoming to a warrior-poet like Tubal Cain. But under these circumstances he allowed himself a little slip of the tongue.

‘So where the
fuck
is John Telfer?’

Chapter 14

I’d heard much talk of Russian oligarchs: those billionaires who reaped the benefits after glasnost and the fall of the Berlin Wall, who were famous in my country for purchasing soccer teams, amongst other things. Most of those mega-rich men were upstanding and honest, very savvy in business, but then there were a few others. Following the collapse of the USSR the Russian mob had flourished throughout the world, and in particular had targeted the USA as a new home for their schemes. Whenever a Russian name was tied to a mobster, it struck fear in people’s hearts. But Sigmund Petoskey didn’t quite hit it for me. As Rink eloquently put it, Petoskey was a half-assed punk with delusions of grandeur. He wasn’t even a real Russian, his only claim to the Motherland being a great-grandfather who had moved to the States at the turn of the twentieth century. Give him his due, he’d managed to claw himself out of the gutter and become a successful businessman. But he was still white trash whatever way you looked at him. He could have the fanciest of homes, talk in that plummy accent, and move in the same circles as the elite of Arkansas society, but when all came to all, he was still the same piece of crap that had scrabbled in the gutter for scraps. Or, as Rink said, who went frog-gigging for meat for his mother’s stew.

I didn’t fear Siggy Petoskey, and I sure as hell didn’t respect him.

Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Healthy respect for an enemy is a prerequisite to the successful outcome of any mission. Underestimating an enemy can lead to your own undoing. With that in mind it was important that I approach him with a clear head and correct intent. It had been a busy night and I could feel the burr of fatigue at the edges of my consciousness. I needed to sleep, to recoup my senses, to take Siggy Petoskey with all cylinders firing.

The problem with that tactic was that Rink would have to endure further hours at the hands – and
ministrations
– of his captors. If he was still alive. I refused to accept that he was dead. If Rink had been killed, then we’d have found him in the same state that Bryce Lang and Walter’s bodyguards had been discovered in. He’d have been displayed as a warning, not hidden away somewhere. Rink had been taken for one reason: to control me. While I was seeking Rink, I would be too distracted to thwart Tubal Cain’s plans for my younger brother. I was being manipulated, but that was OK. I was determined to find Rink whoever pushed and prodded me along.

Instead of sleep, I made do with that shower I’d put off last night. In a stall at Harvey’s ranch-style home I practically scalded myself under the blasting water, before turning the nozzle to freezing to rinse off and reinvigorate myself. After shaving and brushing my teeth, I changed into the spare set of clothing from my bag. The black T-shirt and black jeans were wrinkled and carried a faint smell of must. My black leather jacket and boots finished off my funereal attire. My fashion sense didn’t generally extend to bright and cheerful, but I’d been dressed in more lugubrious attire than this when conducting night-time assaults on enemy territory.

Harvey served up a heart-attack-inducing breakfast of eggs and crispy bacon with rounds of toast dripping in butter. He’d also had the presence of mind to brew a two-litre jug of strong coffee that I put a massive dent in. These days I didn’t smoke, rarely imbibed strong alcohol and tried to eat healthily – Harvey’s breakfast notwithstanding – so caffeine was my only guilty pleasure. When I was done, I carried my dishes over and Harvey placed them in his dishwasher. He looked efficient in his handling of the machine. He had the bachelor thing down to a tee.

‘So, there’s no woman in your life right now, Harvey?’

‘Nothing serious,’ he said. ‘Couple of ladies I see now and then, but none that I’d want to set up shop with. I haven’t found the right one, yet, Hunter. I’m not as lucky as you.’

I pinched my lips round an answer, offered only a nod. I hadn’t told him of my decision regarding Imogen, but maybe he’d read something in me. Perhaps this was his way of telling me I was a fool for letting her go.

Harvey reached into his trouser pocket to pull out an item smaller than the last joint of his pinkie finger. Handing it over, he said, ‘Keep that safe.’

I tucked the item into a hidden change pocket under the waistband of my jeans.

‘I’m not happy with the plan, Hunter. Just so you know, man.’

I shrugged. ‘What’s the worst that can go wrong?’

Death would be the least of it, for certain.

Harvey said, ‘You and Rink. Sometimes I can’t believe either of you. How can you be so blasé about dying?’

‘We all die, Harve. Sooner or later.’

‘I’d rather it was later, thanks. I see myself in my nineties, tucked up in bed with a pretty nurse mopping my brow.’

‘What are the chances, huh?’

‘For you? About the same as a jelly doughnut making it to the final of America’s Biggest Loser.’

I laughed, then glanced at my watch. ‘C’mon. It’s time to get moving.’