Running Stupid: (Mystery Series) (21 page)

“Yes,” came the reply. “But be careful. If they’re still alive, they’ll be waiting for us.”

Jester raised his eyebrows at the remark
they?
He quizzed himself. He shot an involuntary look at the stairs leading down to the basement and cursed under his breath.

The man with the big blue eyes was now slowly making his way through the cabin, an assault rifle cradled in his arms.

Jester looked across at the other man who was moving outside of the cabin. “I’ll check around the back,” he shouted across to his friend. “Maybe the bastards have tried to do a runner.”

The blue eyed man nodded in acknowledgement and his friend left the snowy confines of the cabin for the brash bitterness of the cold pouring rain.

The blue eyed assassin’s movements were methodical and silent. He tiptoed through the cabin, carefully dodging obstacles and trying to stay alert, his finger hovering over the trigger. Jester smiled as the methodical man moved parallel to the cupboard, ten feet in front of it.

Moving to the side of the door and pinning himself up against the wall, Jester grabbed the door handle and slammed the cupboard shut. The noise exploded inside the cabin, just as a crack of thunder opened up the skies outside.

The assassin, startled by both noises, dragged his gun across to the cupboard and emptied a magazine into the door.  Jester cowered to his knees and dropped his head inside them. Next to him the door was torn to shreds, bullets attacked the wood like thousands of miniature manic lumberjacks.

The bullets penetrated into the room. Boxes and bags filled with clothes broke into animation. Rancid blood leaked from a bullet hole that had torn its way through the bag of animal intestines. The stench became unbearable but played second to the thumping audio of the assault rifle.

The trigger slammed on empty. The assassin, once silent and deadly, looked at the door, now nothing but splinters and sawdust. He was breathing heavily, sweat beads had forced their way onto his temple, his cheeks red with exertion and apprehension. “Fuck,” he said, frowning when he noticed that there was no one behind the door.

He lowered the gun and looked outside instinctively, his mind on the thunder clap. He laughed, a soft, harsh sound that mocked his own instincts. “Fucking weather,” he spat.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” Jester emerged from the cupboard, his gun aimed at the assassin.

The blue eyed hit man quickly lifted the assault rifle and steadied his aim.

“What do you plan on doing with that?” Jester asked, nodding towards the machine gun.

The assassin smiled and pulled back on the trigger. It slammed hard against an empty chamber, the subtle noise echoed throughout the room, followed by Jester’s words, “You have a really short memory.”

The semiautomatic in Matthew’s hands fired three shots. The first two shots sunk into the assassin’s chest, he hit the floor clutching the wounds, the rifle falling clumsily by his side. The third shot popped a clean hole in the centre of his head, right between his blue eyes.

“Execution,” the words came from the doorway. Jester turned quickly to see the second assassin walking back into the cabin, aiming his rifle directly at Jester. “I like it,” he looked down at the dead assassin, a faithful colleague of three years but no emotions crossed his face. “Takes guts to do that.”

“Pulling a trigger doesn’t take guts,” Jester said.

The assassin smiled and moved closer to him. Jester backed off slightly, making the gap between him and the hit man as big as possible.

“It does when they’re on their knees, pleading for their lives.”

“He wasn’t pleading for his life.”

“He was ... you saw that look in his eye,” the assassin pushed. “They all have that look.” He looked down at his colleague again, spat in his direction, the saliva landing on his blood-stained suit. “Everyone, no matter how ruthless in life, turns into a fucking sissy when they’re facing their own demise.”

Matthew Jester stopped. He had retreated enough. Both of the men were training their guns on each other, none of them willing to pull the trigger.

“I could kill you right now,” the assassin threatened. “Maybe I’ll shoot your kneecaps off first, and then work my way up.”

“You can’t kill me.”

“Would you bet your life on that?”

“Nope, but I’d bet yours.”

“What?” the assassin asked, bemused.

“If you pull that trigger and kill me, what do you think will happen?” Matthew challenged.

The hit man had stopped in his tracks. He was in the centre of the room, the door to the cupboard south-east of him, the fallen body of his partner in crime lying behind him. “You’ll die,” he said blankly.

“As soon as you hit me, I’ll pull back on the trigger. As soon as my body feels the pain of a bullet, it’ll pull back on the trigger. Even if you hit me square between the fucking eyes, my body will still pull back on the trigger. Hell, technically, I can be dead and still kill you.”

The hit man looked confused. He had heard what Jester said and understood it, but what struck him as odd was the demeanour of the man in front of him. For someone with a gun pointed at their face he looked incredibly easy-going. Something in his eyes suggested he didn’t care anymore, and that worried the assassin.

“Put the gun down,” the assassin ordered.

“No,” Jester said plainly.

“Put it down.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Put it down or I’ll shoot.”

“I have a fucking gun too, I can shoot as well.”

The two men locked stares, none of them willing to drop their weapons.

“Where’s your friend?” the assassin asked, breaking an intimidation-filled silence.

“I don’t have any friends.”

“The driver, where is he?”

“What driver?” Jester said.

“Don’t fuck with me,” the hit man warned. “Where’s the driver, Charles Edinburgh. Tell me where he is and I’ll let you go.”

“Who sent you?” Matthew asked, refusing to comment.

“No one sent me.”

“You came here of your own accord? Just fancied a rainy holiday in a bullet-ridden cabin, did you?”

“Where is the driver?” the assassin shouted, losing patience.

“He isn’t here.”

“If you tell me where he is, I’ll let you go free.”

“Bollocks.”

“I will, just tell me where he is.”

Jester seemed to ponder on this for a moment. “Okay,” he said slowly. “So if I tell you where he is, you’ll promise to let me go?”

The hit man nodded hurriedly.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“We didn’t come here for you.” The assassin’s words were quick. As soon as he said them, he began to regret it. He quickly coughed the remark away. “Just tell me where he is.”

“Okay,” Jester said. “If I tell you where he is, what are you going to do to him?”

“I just want to have a word.”

Jester hummed and hared. “Okay,” he nodded in acknowledgment. “He’s behind you.”

“What?” The assassin turned, something flashed across his eye-line but things were moving too rapidly for him to intervene. Pain exploded from the back of his legs as something sharp sliced across his calves.

He screamed out in agony, throwing himself to his knees. The gun skidded across the floor, resting next to a pillow filled with holes and bleeding feathers. Charles emerged from the back of the assassin. In his right hand, he held a Swiss army knife currently worked onto a three inch blade that dripped with fresh blood.

The hit man watched as Edinburgh rounded him and then stood beside Jester. He was shouting curses and obscenities at such a pace that even he wasn’t so sure what he was saying. The pain inside his body controlled his voice, the pain dictating his actions and his emotions.

He looked Jester directly in the eyes. “You,” he stuttered. He seemed to be laughing, or at least trying to. “You,” he repeated. “You’re fucked.” He looked Jester directly in the eyes. “
Fucked
,” he repeated, the word carried on a saliva train.

“Don’t worry,” Jester said calmly, aiming the semiautomatic pistol at the assassin’s head. “I know,” he pulled the trigger and watched the figure slump.

Jester slowly walked to the far wall and sat down. He put the Beretta to one side and stretched out his legs, his foot lolled near Charles who was looking down at him.

“Did you have to kill him?” Charles asked.

Jester peered upwards, craning his neck to see. “What else could I have done?”

“You’re the good guy in all of this, remember? You’re the innocent fugitive … innocent people don’t kill.”

“Self-defence.”

“You executed him, and from what I heard when this guy was talking ...” He kicked the dead body of the second assassin. “You executed the other one as well.”

Matthew Jester shrugged his shoulders calmly. “Okay,” he began. “The first one was self-defence, maybe the second as well … I admit,” he said leisurely. “After that,” he drew an invisible line with his hand, swiping it across his view, “I stopped caring.”

He dug his hand into his pocket, retrieved a couple of pills and popped them in his mouth.

“You’re popping pills now?” Charles accused.

Matthew Jester laughed, his mood was defeated, his body exhausted. “Give me a break, would you?” he said softly. He allowed the conversation to trail off and then said, “They were here for you.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Matthew looked down at the dead assassin. “And you heard
him
,” he added. “They were here for you, Charlie. Why?”

Charles Edinburgh paced up and down the floor, Jester’s eyes on him all the way. He passed the body of the second assassin six times – back and forth – before he spoke. “Maybe Chambers didn’t trust me, maybe he thought …” He lost touch again and the sentence trailed off. He continued to pace back and forth.

“Your father-in-law doesn’t trust you.” Jester said, slumping to one side.

“The bastard!” Charles spat. He stood rooted to the spot, his forefinger resting on his lips. Suddenly his expression changed and he looked to Jester with fear in his eyes. “The kids!” he said. “If he’s sending hit men after me … what about my family?”

“He
is
your family, you fucking prick,” Jester said lightly. “He isn’t going to touch your kids. Now sit down and stop worrying, you’re giving me a headache.” His words were slow and sedated.

“You’re right,” Charles shifted uneasily. He looked around for a place to sit, realising the furniture was now toothpicks. “You’re right,” he repeated, settling down. “He wouldn’t hurt them, I should calm down.”

“When I met you,” Jester remembered, “you were the calmest fucker I’d ever seen. And the way you handled that guy in the pub, amazing.” He turned his head to Charles who had taken up a position beside him, leaning on the wall. “I guess fear changes everyone, huh?”

Charles’s expression changed to acknowledge the comment but his worries rapidly returned. “What are we going to do now?”

“You came here to help me,” Matthew said. “You tell me.”

“I came here to
warn
you,” Charles corrected. “I came here to tell you what was going on.”

“And you brought friends,” Jester said dryly.

“I didn’t know Chambers would betray me.” Charles looked at the assassins. He pushed himself off the wall, dug around in the dead man’s pocket and found a mobile phone. He jabbed away at the device, electronic beeps and musical tones followed each jab.

“What are you doing?” Jester wanted to know. “You gonna phone his wife and tell her not to bother putting the tea on?”

Charles took his eyes away from the phone and looked sternly at Matthew. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” he said, quoting a saying passed down by every mother and grandmother.

“Why not?” Jester questioned. “What’s he going to do? He couldn’t kill me when he was alive. You reckon he stands a chance now he’s dead?”

“It’s just respectful,” Charles asserted. “It’s the done thing.”

“But shooting at people
isn’t
the done thing.”

“Of course not.”

“And he shot at me.”

“What’s your point?”

“He had no respect for me in life so I’ll show the fucker no respect in death.”

Charles looked blankly at Jester and then nodded a simple, confused nod. “MC,” he said aloud, momentarily taking his finger away from the buttons. “There’s a number in here marked MC. That’s got to be Chambers.”

“Probably, why does it matter?”

“I just need to know that it was him behind all of this. I need clarification.”

“Fair enough,” Jester agreed with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. “Do you recognise the number?”

“No,” Charles said quickly. He had already typed something in on the phone and was now raising it to his ear. “He uses too many phones for me to keep track of any numbers.” He pressed the phone to his ear, waited, and then quickly pulled it away.

“Well?” Jester offered.