Slash and Burn (15 page)

He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, but he had the feeling that the man had already gone. He climbed the stairs to the first landing. He saw Eric Conroy lying dead at the base of the next flight of stairs, a hole the size of a rosebud in his gut. Larry kicked him over and saw the rose had bloomed on his back. He checked but Conroy wasn’t armed. That wasn’t like Conroy, Larry thought. Huffman’s fetch-and-carry boy was never without his Glock 17. Trent’s murderer was amassing quite a gun collection.

He stepped over the dead man and mounted the final flight of stairs. Lights were on above him. He watched for shadows, but there was no movement so he entered the first office and saw the door open to the next room. He listened. He could hear breathing. Someone had taken a knock and was breathing raggedly. Larry was familiar with the sound: he’d knocked enough men unconscious that he recognised it.

Judge Wallace was lying on the floor. The man was sprawled out like a starfish, legs and arms splayed. His head was back and his mouth wide open. He had a bruise on his face and Larry guessed the guy he was after was getting a bit too fond of pistol-whipping folk.

Larry was no more concerned with the judge than he’d been with Jim Aitken. He stepped past him to open the next door, and saw that Huffman’s office was deserted. The chair where Kate had been cuffed was empty.

Larry scowled at the open space.

Huffman had taken off with the woman.

If Huffman had still been here when the man arrived, one or the other would be dead on the floor. There was no sign of blood, no sign that a fight had even taken place.

He turned back to Wallace.

Crouching down beside the judge, Larry slapped the older man’s face a couple of times. His face had an unhealthy pallor, but then again, it always did.

‘Wallace! Wake up, Goddamnit!’ He slapped the judge again, and this time the man stirred. His eyelids flickered repeatedly, eyes attempting to focus. A hand came up and pushed against Larry’s chest. Larry grabbed the hand and swung the judge up and round and sat him in a chair.

Wallace came out of his enforced sleep bewildered. It took him a full half-minute to get his bearings. All the while, Larry stood watching him with his arms folded over his chest.

The judge finally looked up at him and Larry saw his pupils contract.

‘Larry?’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

‘Yeah, it’s me. What happened here, Wallace?’

‘Get me a drink, will you?’

‘First you tell me what the hell happened. Where’s Huffman?’

Wallace worked his tongue in his mouth, building up moisture. He’d been sucking dry air for a while now by the look of him.

‘Huffman’s gone back home.’

‘Dallas?’

‘Yes. He took the woman with him.’ Wallace tentatively pawed at the bruise on his face. ‘He’s dealing with the situation, he said.’

‘More like he’s run off and left us to pick up the shit.’

Wallace nodded. ‘You know he’s not interested in us, Larry. It’s always been that way.’

‘He wouldn’t have got anywhere without us.’ Larry unfolded his arms and made fists at his sides. Blood was seeping through his bandages and blossoming on his shirt. ‘Trent died for him.’

‘We were just a way of making money, Larry. We were just tools to him. Expendable tools. Accept it.’ Wallace leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hanging his head in his cupped palms.

‘My brother was no expendable tool,’ Larry warned. ‘And neither am I.’

Wallace waved away his words.

‘Huffman has a plan. He’s going to get Imogen Ballard. He’s got her sister for bait. When it’s all over, he said he’ll be back.’

‘I take it Kate’s bodyguard was here? Any idea who he is yet?’

‘Called himself Joe Hunter. Could have been a fake name for all I know.’

‘Hunter.’ Larry tested the name on his lips. Didn’t like the taste, so he spat on the carpet. ‘It’ll do.’

‘Huffman spoke to him on the phone. He told Hunter to bring Imogen to him.’

Larry didn’t say anything. He was still thinking about the man he was going to kill.

‘Crazy thing is,’ Wallace said, ‘he warned Hunter about the men he’s bringing in.’

Larry looked at Wallace. He remembered when he’d told Trent about Huffman’s extra firepower. ‘We don’t need help,’ Trent had growled. Larry had agreed with him then. And he still agreed with him now.

‘Joe Hunter is mine.’

Wallace shook his head. ‘Stay out of it, Larry.’

‘He killed my little brother.’

‘Leave it to the professionals,’ Wallace said. ‘You can stay here and help me clear up the mess at this end.’

‘What? All of a sudden I’m a fucking cleaner? And you say that Huffman thinks of us as tools?’

‘Take it easy, Larry. We have to get things sorted here before news leaks out. First we have to control police involvement. We have to find Aitken.’

‘Aitken’s dead.’

‘Dead? Hunter did that?’

Larry neglected to answer. And Wallace wasn’t a judge of men for nothing.

‘You killed him, Larry? Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Because he was an expendable tool. Just like the rest of us.’

Then he reached for Wallace and picked him bodily out of the chair. He swung round, walking towards the front of the office.

Wallace yelled, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Cleaning up,’ Larry said. ‘I’m not having a dirtball like you warning Huffman that I’m on my way to Dallas.’

Larry heaved Wallace above his head, holding him aloft for a long second, then he threw him through the window. Wallace took the glass and part of the frame with him. He dropped with the falling snow, only much, much faster.

Larry heard the dull thud.

He peered down on Wallace’s lifeless form three levels below him. The snow hadn’t done much to cushion the fall.

‘Leave it to the professionals, huh, Wallace?’ Larry said. ‘The hell I will! No one kills Joe Hunter but me.’

Chapter 22

Little Fork airport wasn’t large. It didn’t take international passengers. It was only in the last few years that any kind of passengers had flown there. Before that it was strictly freight. However, the sudden land boom around Little Fork had forced the airport to follow the times. Across the way, through the falling snow, I could make out a large building under construction. It was due to open in the spring of next year, according to messages on some massive billboards. For now, serving as the flight terminal, there was a single-storey building, low and squat and constructed from steel and glass. The only concrete I could see was on the floor. One side of the building was for arrivals, the other for departures. Everyone shared the same checking-in doors, coming or going. Security was pretty non-existent. There were only a handful of people in the departure area, and most of them were too busy watching the overhead announcement board to pay me much attention.

The flight to Frankfort was delayed.

So was the one to Louisville and to Lexington and Jackson and Hardinsburg and all the other major airports in the state. It looked like I was in for a long wait.

I got coffee from a vending machine and a sandwich from another and I sat down in a corner where I could watch the entrance doors. If this was a major airport I’d have been searched, but because it handled only internal flights, I had my SIG in its customary place in the small of my back. The Glock I’d taken from the man on the stairs at le Cœur de la Ville was buried beneath my spare clothes in my backpack. If anyone challenged my right to carry the guns, I had fake documents that said I was a US air marshal and I’d be left alone.

Back at the hotel where I’d collected my things, I’d phoned in a flight booking. I was warned there might be delays, but the blizzard was forecast to blow itself out within the next hour. That was three hours ago. It was worst-case scenario to me. I had to get moving, and sitting there was doing nothing to change that.

For another two hours no flights took off from Little Fork. Neither did any planes land. The only good thing about the storm was that it was working both ways. I couldn’t get out, but neither could Huffman’s hired killers get in.

I checked for messages on Kate’s mobile phone. I was hoping that Imogen had got back to me, but she hadn’t. The message I’d sent to Imogen’s voicemail had always been a long shot, but I was still hopeful. I put the phone away. Getting up from my chair, I wandered through the terminal. All the flights were still delayed. I purchased more coffee. It was black and strong. I needed it: it had been a long day and wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long way.

Back in my seat, I watched the entrance doors. I was expecting Aitken’s crew to arrive at any second. He would have been released from the cuffs by now. He’d be back at the station house and coordinating a search for me. Judge Wallace would have come round as well. He’d have told Aitken my name. They’d have had the flight bookings checked. My real name wouldn’t show: I was booked under a false one. But if they had any sense they’d put two and two together. They’d know that my cover was false if they ever got round to thinking about it.

Something about the no show of the police was beginning to bother me. Made me wonder what the hell was going on. Maybe Aitken and Wallace were just a little slow on the uptake, but surely one of them – or their people – would have thought to check out the airport by now? Maybe Huffman had ordered them to back off. If I was locked in a prison cell it would take away the enjoyment of having me battle his hired guns: I wouldn’t be much of a challenge to them then. Plus, my usefulness in finding Imogen Ballard would be nil. Huffman wanted me dead, but he wanted Imogen more.

I was on my third coffee when the blizzard finally stopped. However it was a full two hours after that before the display boards changed and showed that a flight to Frankfort would be leaving at 09:55 a.m., which was only twenty-five minutes away. Almost eleven hours after I’d sent the Dodge Ram through the front windows of le Cœur de la Ville, it looked like I would finally be on the move.

When it came time to board the plane, I hung back to the last moment. There were only twelve other passengers. I made unlucky thirteen. I’m superstitious, a lot of military people are, and on any other occasion I’d have looked around hopefully for any stragglers who would change the number in my favour. But this time I actually wanted to be certain I was the last man aboard. It was my only way to be sure that no one was following me.

The airplane was a Beechcraft 1900 air taxi, used for commuting between Little Fork and Frankfort, and only had nineteen passenger seats. There was no galley or flight attendant, and it was down to the co-pilot to secure the doors before flight. Ten of my fellow fliers were men, the final two being an old woman and a small boy. No one on board gave me any negative vibes, and I settled into a seat at the back of the craft and closed my eyes.

Take-off was a little bumpy. But then we climbed up above the remnants of the storm and things became smoother. It was a short hop to Frankfort, and I dozed all the way. I hadn’t slept since early yesterday morning, and I needed the nap.

Frankfort hadn’t been touched by the snow but the skies were heavy and grey. We landed at Capital City Airport to a slight drizzle. I was OK with that. The rain wouldn’t halt my connecting flight to Dallas. Disembarking the plane, I could see Boone National Guard Center across the single runway. There was no activity at the military base. I made my way to the arrivals terminal, tagging along with the old lady and the boy. All the other men were wearing suits and ties and I’d have stood out in their crowd.

Using my fake ID, I purchased tickets for my onward journey; then I had to sit and wait until my plane was ready to go.

Capital City was bigger than Little Fork airport, but not by much. I could see the people queuing to board the Beechcraft 1900 I’d recently departed. None of them looked like professional killers, but you never could tell. Top assassins don’t look like killers, they look like your average next-door neighbour. I doubted Huffman’s team would be travelling the same route as I had. Likely they’d have chartered a flight direct from Fort Worth to Little Fork. I’d probably missed them by the skin of my teeth.

Part of me regretted the fact.

Maybe I should have waited for the bastards at Little Fork and killed every last one of them as they stepped out the airport. It would have changed everything. I wouldn’t feel like I was running, which was never a good feeling.

An hour later I was on a corporate Jetstream 41, heading south-west for Dallas Fort Worth. We flew over Arkansas and into Texas and I exited the plane into a sunny day. It wasn’t hot, just warm, but it was a pleasant change after the blizzard. Not that I could spend too much time enjoying the sun on my face. I’d just entered my enemy’s territory and from now on must be on my guard at all times.

As soon as I’d cleared arrivals, I pulled out Kate’s phone and checked for messages. Still none. I rang Rink.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘DFW.’

‘What took you so long?’

I told him about the snowstorm.

‘Cool.’

‘Where are you?’

‘With Harvey. We’re outside the airport. Do you want us to come and pick you up?’