Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

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?’

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 blase 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.’

Harvey had an old Chevrolet pick-up truck that he occasionally used when conducting undercover operations. It was white, but was splashed with trail mud, rusted around the wheel arches, and there was a big dent in the front fender. It looked clapped out, but under the hood it was finely tuned. Not unlike my friend, I thought: Harvey had affected a disguise in direct contrast with his usual sharp look. We climbed into the truck and Harvey set it rolling towards Little Rock. It would take a quarter-hour to reach the city, another to get to the building where we’d find Siggy Petoskey. As we headed over, I checked in with the voicemail box but found it still empty. I called Velasquez and McTeer, got them both at their respective home numbers, but they had nothing new for me, apart from further exhortations to find their boss. Hanging up the phone, I said, ‘It looks like we’re still on.’

Harvey sucked in his cheeks. He’d neglected to shave this morning and fine grey bristles winked in the reflection of the sun through the windscreen. ‘I still think it’s a crazy plan.’

‘I always was too impulsive for my own good,’ I retorted. That’s what my stepdad Bob Telfer used to tell me, as did my ex-wife, Diane. More recently Rink had been saying the same. ‘But short of torturing Rink’s location out of Petoskey, I can’t think of a quicker way.’

‘I vote we torture Petoskey.’

‘We could do that, but there’s always the chance he doesn’t actually know where Rink has been taken. This way, at least we get a shoe in Hendrickson’s door.’