No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (29 page)

BOOK: No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11)

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There were five of us sitting on the balcony at the rear of Rink’s condominium, and an observer would have been forgiven for thinking they were looking at a bunch of war-wounded veterans taking the air as part of their recovery.
Of us all Rink was the most severely injured, and the little gathering was to toast his release from hospital after a ten-day stay following emergency surgery to fix his damaged insides. Thankfully the trauma team had saved his life, halting the internal bleeding and patching up the tears in his intestines, and the nick to his liver where the tumbling bullet had finished up. The wound was harsh enough that it would have killed a lesser man, or an unluckier one, and it still surprised me how he’d managed to survive, let alone hang on until Clayton and Cole were safely in the hands of the responding police officers. Then again, it was Rink, and he was one of the toughest most resilient son’s of bitches I’d ever known, so I shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

Bryony VanMeter carried healing scratches on her cheek, forehead and down her neck, courtesy I’d learned of splinters of wood when a stray round fired by Clayton almost ended her days. Dennis Holker, as sour-faced as ever but more affable towards our little company than I’d seen him, wasn’t yet fit for an active role at work, but was planning a return to office duties soon. He walked with a stick, but hopefully it was something he’d be able to cast aside before long. His leg was already on the mend, and his doctor’s anticipated a full recovery. My right arm was in a sling, and I’d stitches in my scalp, an ugly scab on the bridge of my nose, and about a million fading bruises under my clothing, but otherwise was fine.

The only one of us who didn’t look like the walking wounded was Andrew Clayton, but his injuries were hidden deeper than my bruises, and would take longer to fade. He was under no illusion that the actions of his younger self had taken such a toll on the lives around him in later years, and that in part he was responsible for setting Royce Benson’s actions in motion, when first he’d chosen to betray him to the authorities, while later keeping his lips zipped from dropping him in it when it was apparent who was behind the killings. He was a lucky guy, I guessed, not to have been arrested on a conspiracy charge by the detectives who now welcomed him into our gathering. His saving grace was that there was no way to prove he was guilty. After my previous disliking of the guy, I could only feel sorry for him now. Especially after he handed us a drawing done for us by Cole. It featured three muscle-bound superheroes in gaudy costumes and masks, and our names written above each: Joe, Rink and Bryony, with the private message of “Thanks for catching the bad men for me” penned underneath. It must have stung Clayton not to be featured in the little group of crime fighters, considering it was Clayton who’d plucked Cole from the lake when I’d almost gotten him drowned.

There was a collection of beer bottles on the table between us, some empty, but other full ones in reserve. Out of the norm for me, I’d chosen a Budweiser from the pack I’d bought from Harlan that time over the Corona I usually imbibed. I finished it in a slug before hitting my companions with the ending of my shaggy dog tale, from when I’d been led to West Point Bait and Tommy Benson via the kick-off in the junkyard with Emilio’s boys.

‘The goddamn dog ran away with the bat?’ Rink wheezed in incredulity, and slapped a palm down on the table, setting the beer bottles jiggling. ‘You gotta be freakin’ kidding us, brother?’

‘It’s true,’ I said with a self-satisfied nod, which engendered a peel of scornful laughter from my disbelieving friends.

‘Man, I used to try that excuse on the principal when I didn’t deliver my homework assignments on time,’ Holker said. ‘He didn’t buy that lousy defense any more than I do.’

‘Suit yourselves,’ I said, with no real animosity at being called a liar. ‘Believe me. Don’t believe me. It happened, and that’s the story I’m sticking to.’

‘So Emilio the Blimp set you on the right track, huh?’ said Rink.

‘Oh, you know him?’

‘I know him, have come across him on some other cases. He’s even proved helpful to me in the past,’ Rink said with a mischievous nod. ‘You only have to look at him to tell he’s a talented guy.’

‘He is?’ I was doubtful.

‘Sure he is. I heard he can fart the theme-tune from Hawaii Five-O on request.’

We all laughed too hard at the joke, until Holker waved a hand for calm. ‘I’ve got a question for you, Hunter. Why didn’t you just shoot the goddamn mutt?’

‘I like dogs.’ I shrugged. ‘I was tempted to shoot its handlers, if it’s any consolation?’

Holker grinned in good humour. He aimed a finger at me, and his pointy chin dimpled round a drunken smile. ‘You know, Joe, I didn’t give you much credit before. But I’ve been keeping a running tally on the bad guys you encountered and am happy to say you managed not to kill a single one of them this time. OK, there was the Tommy Benson thing, but I’m happy to discount him. Wasn’t you that killed him, but his own stupidity.’

‘Not to mention the fender of a VW van,’ Rink added, with an equally drunken grin and Holker mimicked him.

Hell, I thought, neither of those guys should be drinking while on their meds, but when I figured things out they were only on their second beers. They were drunk on euphoria, rather than alcohol, and to be fair I was feeling a little tipsy in that department myself. Holker was right; I hadn’t shot anyone dead, which to him was a small miracle but cause for approval.

Both Holker and Bryony were the toast of the Tampa PD Major Crimes Bureau, and up for official commendations for their part in catching not one but two home invasion gangs, and for clearing up a murder spree unprecedented in Florida in the past few years. There was even talk of Rink and me being rewarded for our public spirited actions with a civic reception and commendation from the mayor’s office, of which neither of us wanted any part. But we had to admit; the certificates of merit and any accompanying news clippings would look good framed on the wall at Rington Investigations, alongside Cole’s superhero drawing. Maybe there was benefit in not killing
everybody
, I laughed to myself.

‘I still think you’re bad luck to hang around with,’ Holker went on, ‘judging by the look of us.’

I took his comment in the good humour it was meant, though Bryony tutted at him.

‘Hey, I’m right,’ he said in a goofy voice, and earned himself another round of tipsy laughter.

‘It wasn’t Hunter who got you all injured though, was it?’

Hearing his sobering tone we all looked at Andrew Clayton, and he stood slowly from the table. ‘I should make my apologies,’ he continued somberly. ‘For getting you all involved in this. But I’d rather make my thanks.’ He’d replaced his spectacles after losing his usual ones in the lake, alongside Ella’s ring. The ring had later been recovered by a police diver, but was currently being held in the evidence repository at Franklin Street for when Royce Benson and his gang came to trial. The broken glasses also dug from the lake bottom had been cast in the trash, so Clayton had fitted himself with some designer brand. They became his focus now, adjusting them so he could surreptitiously wipe at his glassy eyes. ‘If not for you folks, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me or my boy.’

‘You played your part in protecting him,’ I said, by way of commiseration.

‘It was through me he was in danger in the first place,’ Clayton sighed. ‘I know it. So, I also know who to be truly grateful to.’

He was nearest Rink, and he held out a hand to my buddy.

Rink shook with him, then eased his hand away and pressed it gently against the dressing on his abdomen.

Clayton then made his way round the table, first thanking Holker, then Bryony, before ending up at my side.

‘Joe?’ he said, and offered his hand.

I paused, but only so I could shrug my arm from its sling, tentative because of the fractured clavicle I’d sustained. Ironically the break hadn’t been caused by Clayton, the falling oar, or Royce Benson when he’d been pounding on me with his gun butt, but when I’d mashed Royce’s face with such desperate power that some of the kinetic force had flashed back up my straightened arm and found release in the abused collarbone. It’d be a while before it was fully healed, but a handshake was manageable, I thought. Noticing my discomfort, Clayton was careful to only squeeze my hand briefly, and I returned the favour: the gesture was so unlike during our first meeting. ‘Thank-you for everything,’ he said equally as softly, ‘and I mean that from the heart.’

He used the excuse of leaving to go collect Cole from a babysitter, and we allowed him to leave with no further fuss.

Once he was out of earshot, Holker snorted, and was in danger of slipping back into his usual sarcastic mode, but Bryony beat him to the punch. ‘Andrew isn’t responsible for any of this. Only Royce Benson is,’ she announced. ‘But we caught the murderous bastard, all of us, and he’ll serve his dues. All’s well that ends well, right? So let’s not forget that.’ She grabbed her beer bottle off the table. ‘This
is
supposed to be a celebration.’

‘You got that right,’ Rink said, and raised his bottle.

Holker thought for a moment, and his gaze was fixed, but then his chin dimpled again, and he raised his bottle, and Bryony mirrored him. I also tipped my bottle, still using my right arm.

‘To good friends,’ Bryony toasted, and we replied in kind and clinked over the centre of the table. ‘And a speedy return to health,’ she added and smiled at each of us in turn.

‘And here’s to Joe keeping his weapon firmly tucked in his pants in future,’ Holker blurted loudly.

I laughed at his double entendre, but only after I caught a sly smile and unflinching gaze from Bryony. I was happy when she didn’t echo his toast.

Thanks

As ever my gratitude goes to my literary agent Luigi Bonomi, and all at LBA, and to all my family, friends and colleagues whose collective support is unflinching. In my humble opinion, a book is never a book until it is read, so my thanks also go to my readers, without whom I’d simply be making pointless scratchings on paper. Big thanks to Debbie at The Cover Collection for her excellent work on the cover. Also a special thank-you must go to fellow author, Graham Smith, whose wise words delivered at the most opportune time sent this tale down a different track than first I’d been following.

And now for a brief explanation…

Regarding Joe Hunter’s shaggy dog tale: as unbelievable as it sounds, his encounter with the dog matches one I experienced as a police officer, where a bull terrier did indeed snatch a length of wood out of my hands just after I’d liberated it from a man trying to bash in my skull. I had the onerous task of explaining why I was unable to seize the weapon in evidence to an unbelieving desk sergeant on my return to the station with my prisoner. Luckily my previously obnoxious arrestee was as equally amused by the incident that he admitted that it was the truth. As Joe Hunter said: ‘It happened, and that’s the story I’m sticking to.’

About Matt Hilton

Matt Hilton quit his career as a police officer to pursue his love of writing tight, cinematic action thrillers. He is the author of the high-octane Joe Hunter thriller series, including his most recent novel
‘No Safe Place’
– Joe Hunter 11. His first book,
‘Dead Men’s Dust’
, was shortlisted for the International Thriller Writers’ Debut Book of 2009 Award, and was a Sunday Times bestseller, also being named as a ‘thriller of the year 2009’ by The Daily Telegraph.
Dead Men’s Dust
was also a top ten Kindle bestseller in 2013. The Joe Hunter series has been widely published by Hodder and Stoughton in UK territories, and by William Morrow and Company and Down and Out Books in the USA, and have been translated into German, Italian, Romanian and Bulgarian. As well as the Joe Hunter series, Matt has been published in a number of anthologies and collections, and has published novels in the supernatural/horror genre, namely
‘Preternatural’
,
‘Dominion’
,
‘Darkest Hour’
and
‘The Shadows Call’
. Also, he has a brand new thriller series featuring Tess Grey and Nicolas “Po’boy” Villere that debuted in November 2015, with
‘Blood Tracks’,
and the second book
‘Painted Skins’
will be published in August 2016 by Severn House Publishers. He is currently working on the next Joe Hunter novel, as well as a stand-alone thriller novel.