Blood and Ashes (3 page)

I had the feeling that I was going to need it in fully functioning order.

For someone in my line of work, speed of hand is the difference between life and death.

I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant these days.

Don Griffiths’ words had been meant as sarcasm. Right now they elicited the required response: a wry smile. Knight errant? That was just one fancy term that had been levelled at me. I suppose it was better than
vigilante
, which was more often the case. At least the term carried the honourable connotations that I hold dear. Without my sense of decency, I accept that I could very well be labelled alongside those other balaclava-clad hooligans who take the law into their own hands. But then – it’s all a matter of perspective. To some I’d still be seen as a man of questionable morals. Perhaps I was the type of knight who wore tarnished armour.

As I walked a cat kept pace with me.

It was a gnarly old tomcat, and judging by the scars that criss-crossed its body it had fought a number of battles during its lifetime. We had a lot in common. It watched with luminous yellow eyes from the opposite sidewalk, perhaps recognising its human familiar.

Occasionally cats have questionable morals too. Some people judge them as cruel killers, but not all their kills are for fun. Sometimes they have to kill to survive, or to protect their young.

This took me right back to Millie, and to Brook’s children. My friend, Rink, who runs a successful PI outfit down in Tampa, had brought me up to speed on Brook’s death and the family she’d left behind: her husband, Adrian Reynolds, and nine and six year olds, Beth and Ryan. Don was an ex-cop, and, judging by the photograph I’d seen of his son-in-law, Adrian was no stranger to a gymnasium, so they could look after themselves. It was only Millie and the two kids I was worried about.

I was uncomfortable about walking away from them. But I couldn’t believe that there was any truth in Don’s concern. How could a dead man be a threat to him or his family?

Don was hurting; he was stricken with grief and grasping at anything that would make sense of Brook’s seemingly pointless death. In the same circumstances, some people raged at the world, or at their cruel god, while others looked for excuses. Don was clutching at old hatreds in order to add reason to his pain.

But then he wasn’t the only one allowing hatred to shadow his judgement, was he?

Someone must have sent that bloody email.

I stopped walking and looked across at the cat. The old tom mirrored my movement. We stared into each other’s eyes. I was the first to blink. The cat sat down and began licking its old wounds. In my pocket, I again flexed my fist.

The cat stood up and slunk forward, and now I was the one who matched it step for step.

I got the message. The time for licking wounds was done, and I should get back to doing what I did best.

I was near to the Seven-Eleven where I’d left my car. On my right was an open lot full of weeds. Beyond it the forest that encircled Bedford Well swayed under the bitter wind, undulating like a pitch-black sea. Across the way, the cat was all that stood between me and the forest on that side. The cat had come to another standstill, but this time it was staring past the convenience store to where I’d parked the Audi. Its shoulders hunched and its ears flattened on its head; its mouth opened in silent challenge, baring teeth that glinted red under the moon.

Suddenly the cat bolted, heading away into the cover promised by the forest. But I wasn’t going to run.

I continued forward, to meet the two men who were resting their weight on my car. Once again, I flexed my hand, pleased to find that the bubbling warmth flooding my body had anaesthetised the pain.

It was near to four in the morning: too late for revellers and too early even for dayshift workers to show up at the convenience store. Their black SUV was parked a dozen yards away, and yet they chose to sit on the bonnet of my car. They were waiting for me and there was no good reason for it. I didn’t need the cat’s reactions to tell me that these men were dangerous.

‘You mind, guys? The car’s a rental and I have to pay for any damages.’

Both men pushed off the Audi, one of them, stocky with a shaved head, leaning back as though inspecting the paintwork for scratches. The other, a tall man, who looked like he’d been constructed from too many bones and sun-dried leather, lifted his chin, his nostrils flaring.

‘Fee-fi-fo-fum . . .’ he said in a surprisingly melodious voice.

I smell the blood of an Englishman, I finished the thought. I’d heard plenty like it since my move to the States.

The second man finished his inspection of the paintwork, then used his sleeve to buff out an imaginary scratch. Then he turned his attention to me, holding an empty palm towards the car. His smile was wide but colder than the wind gusting round the parking lot. ‘No harm done, buddy.’

‘No harm, no foul,’ the tall one echoed as he picked at a patch of dry skin on his bald head.

Taking the car keys from my pocket, I aimed them at the Audi and disengaged the locks. Nodded amiably at both men, then moved to go round them.

‘A moment if you please.’ The second man was shorter than me, but he was heavier built, and I noticed he had self-inflicted prison tats on his fingers. He stepped in the way, barring me from the car. He raised his ink-mottled hand and touched it to my chest. The contact was little firmer than a caress, but it sent a jolt through my body. Not because he held an electrical device – or any weapon – but because I’d allowed him to do it. The rule I’d always followed was that if an enemy could touch you, then they could kill you. This man was without a shadow of a doubt an enemy.

Subtly I stepped back, knowing that the next time he tried to lay hands on me would be the decisive moment. I watched the man’s eyes and saw the same thought flashing through his mind.

‘Ease up, buddy,’ the man said. ‘I’m only being friendly. You’re not from around here, right? England is it? Just wanted to say hi and ask you a question or two.’

He was obviously lying, but I wasn’t averse to playing that game. ‘Look, fellas, I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve got to get on my way.’

‘On your way already?’ The stocky man shook his head. ‘Why, you just got here. Surely you’ve a minute or two to spare? Especially when we’ve gone to the trouble of turnin’ out to say hello.’

‘Wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee, I bet?’ The tall man leaned close, and his breath, stinking of garlic and something sour, washed over me. ‘Not at this time of night, huh? You shouldn’t be surprised: I never sleep. I’m up before the roosters. Cock-a-doodle-doo!’

I didn’t reply to either. One was a liar and the other was crazy. But both were very dangerous. Instead I held the stocky one’s gaze as I manoeuvred the keys round in my grip.

The stocky man nodded in the direction I’d just come from. ‘Who did you visit with in town?’

‘Who says I visited anyone?’

‘Can’t see any other reason for you being in Bedford Well. Not like there’s much to see in the dark.’

‘There’s a nice wishing well on the green.’

‘Yeah, we noticed you at the well. We were going to say hi then, but we didn’t want to spook you.’

‘I saw you too,’ I said. ‘But then you left and I walked back here. Slowly.’

The man smiled at the tit-for-tat lies.

So did I.

Finally I said, ‘Let’s just get this over with, shall we? You’re here to give me some sort of warning. Well, I’ll save you the trouble. I’m leaving and I won’t be back.’

I went to move past the man, and his tattooed hand came up. It wavered inches from my shoulder like he’d read my earlier thoughts. With his other hand he held open his jacket, showing the gun tucked into his belt. ‘Not very satisfying if we just let you drive away, buddy.’

‘No, but it’ll be a lot less painful.’

‘We don’t have to hurt you,’ the stocky man said. ‘Just make sure you head outa here and know what it means if you come back.’

‘Of course, I don’t mind causing a little pain.’ The tall one grinned, showing rotting teeth. ‘If it comes to that.’

I dipped my head. ‘I must have lost you in the translation there, guys. I didn’t mean it was going to be painful for me.’

Both men exchanged glances just as the stocky man dropped his hand to pull the gun from his waistband.

It was what I’d been hoping for. When they both looked back at me with incredulous grins on their faces I was already moving.

I’d been twiddling the car keys for more than the exercise: I’d lined up one of them so that it was protruding from my clenched fist.

The sharp point rammed directly into the side of the stocky man’s neck an inch below the lobe of his ear. On its own it wouldn’t stop him immediately, but the force of my fist behind it also rocked his skull and the man went down in a heap on the ground.

Turning, I lifted my fist and a scattering of blood arched away from the key on the night breeze.

Seeing the leader of the duo dispatched so decisively should have given the tall one pause. But he was even crazier than he looked. Unfazed by the sudden violence he merely let out a laugh and launched himself at me. ‘It looks like
it’s come to that
!’

He appeared ungainly and loose-limbed: in fact he was anything but. He threw a series of punches, and I was hard put to avoid them all. One cracked against my cheek, another in my chest. As I stepped away from the clawing fingers that tried to rake my eyes, I missed the man’s leg coming up and kicking at my groin. Only the angles saved me from a crippling blow, but it was still agony when the man’s boot landed square on the point where I’d been knifed.

Chewing down on the pain, I pivoted and avoided the next kick. I dipped the keys into a pocket, then snaked my hand under the tail of my jacket to grab my gun.

Again the tall man surprised me by pivoting the other way and kicking out with his heel with a classic reverse roundhouse kick from tae kwon do. His foot slammed into my gut and pushed me back against the Audi.

I forgot about the gun. The crazy man was already coming at me, fingers tightened to spear into my exposed throat.

‘Cock-a-doodle-do!’

He should have concentrated on fighting instead of crowing.

Sweeping the attacking hand aside, I drove my opposite elbow directly into his face. There was a wet sound from where the elbow hit and he staggered backwards, spitting out loose teeth. The sour smell washed over me again but this time it held a distinctly coppery tang.

Following him, I drove a kick into his groin. More fragments of rotting teeth were spat on the floor as the man bent over at the waist. I avoided the foul stuff. It wasn’t easy while looping an arm over the man’s skull and under his throat so that the blade of my forearm was jammed tight against his windpipe. Catching hold of my wrist with my opposite hand, I reared back, arching my spine. All the pressure was centred on the man’s trachea, and I felt it collapse.

I kept the pressure on.

At first the man tried to claw at my arms. But when he couldn’t get any oxygen into his lungs instinct took over and all he did then was scrabble at the ground with his feet and flap his elbows. Now he really was like a rooster.

It took him the best part of a minute to die.

Finally, I released him and he flopped down face first.

Looking down on him, I guess my gaze would be best described as dispassionate.

Cock-a-fucking-doodle-to-you, I thought.

The stocky man hadn’t recovered from the stab to his carotid. In fact, judging by the widening pool of blood reflecting the disc of the moon, he never would.

Violence still surged through my veins. The same cold rush I’d experienced earlier in Don Griffiths’ basement when I’d recognised that – however I looked at this – more people were going to die. Releasing a ragged breath, I attempted to calm the rage within me.

Then it was as if sense kicked in.

I’d just killed two men in the middle of a car park without concern for who might have witnessed the brutality. Sloppy work, Hunter, I admonished myself. I checked for anyone watching.

Across the way the cat was back.

It sat looking at me as though nonplussed by the violence. This time the cat blinked first. Then it lifted a back leg and began licking. Maybe that was as near to a nod of approval as I could expect.

Chapter 4

The Seven-Eleven was three hours from opening, but it didn’t mean that no one would happen along much sooner than that. A delivery truck loaded with fresh produce and other perishables could arrive prior to store hours and staff would likely be on hand to unload it. It wouldn’t be a good idea to be near the place by then.

But I couldn’t simply drive away and leave the two men lying out there for anyone to find. Someone had sent them and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine they’d checked in with this person while waiting for my return. When they were found dead, the same person would suspect who was responsible for killing them. The men’s mission had been to ensure that I wouldn’t return to town: well, the police would do the job for them by locking me up. If the men were only missing, at least I could buy a little time before the cops came knocking.