Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

‘Unless you’re killed,’ Harvey pointed out, ‘which will kinda fuck things up for us all.’

‘Hopefully that won’t happen. I’ve been thinking about that pretty nurse of yours mopping my brow too…’

I checked my weapons and the spare ammo I’d jammed in my jacket pocket. My old SIG Sauer P226 had been exchanged for one that Harvey kept in a strongbox at the ranch. I had left mine with him for safe keeping. Likely this one would be taken away after the shooting I was about to commit. Harvey had wondered why I chose to carry the SIG when he had a couple of cheaper models lying around. Frankly, I preferred the SIG to other handguns. It had an unusually heavy stock, but instead of it being an impediment, that made for a great bludgeoning weapon when the fighting got so close that a clean shot wasn’t an option. The poundage necessary to depress the trigger on the first shot was always greater than the next — a safeguard against misfiring a round — the resulting snatching action throwing off the aim of those unfamiliar with the gun. But I’d been using a SIG since my training in Point Shooting way back when and knew how to compensate. My other weapon was a standard issue military Ka-bar knife. The knife was in an ankle holster inside my right boot, the gun I carried in a shoulder rig under my left arm. That was unusual for me: usually I carried my adapted gun in my waistband at the small of my back, but this gun still had the sights and safety lever intact so could easily snag in my clothing.

‘Cocked and locked?’

Harvey’s words were cliched, as was my answer. ‘Ready to rock and roll.’

He pulled the Chevrolet into a parking lot alongside a municipal building. The old truck would have stood out against the sedans and minivans favoured by the public servants inside the building but for the fact the Department of Works and Sanitation held offices here, and ours wasn’t the only battered pick-up in the lot. We weren’t interested in this place, but in another building across the road. This was a fleapit cinema showing a season of comedy movies from the black and white heyday, and it appeared that Sigmund Petoskey was a huge fan of Abbott and Costello’s zany antics. He was a regular at the matinee showing — all part of his plan to look like a normal law-abiding citizen. The show was about to end.

And another was about to begin.

We waited in the lot. Harvey powered up his notebook computer and logged in. Harvey was good with many weapons, but none as powerful as the laptop he carried. He rattled off codes and clicked on to a site that would look no different from Google Earth to a casual observer. Of course, this was not a programme in the public domain, and was very much up to the second. I didn’t bother looking, that was his territory. I watched the exit from the cinema. Some people were already beginning to trickle out, blinking as they walked from subdued lighting into the glare of day. It looked like Abbott and Costello didn’t have that many fans keen enough to attend this early showing as there was little more than a handful of people leaving the cinema. That was all the better for me.

Stepping out of the truck, I gave Harvey a wink, then headed across the lot towards the road.

Another small group came out of the cinema. They milled momentarily in place, three men in windcheaters and cargo pants surrounding one other man. Something instantly apparent was that these three weren’t the cauliflower-eared fools who had been Siggy’s protectors the last time we’d met. These men had the cool aloofness and sharp eyes of professionals. I had to be wary of them, but my attention was focused on the other. It was the man in the middle I’d come to see.

Siggy Petoskey was a large man, though not in the way that Rink is large. He was soft-featured, with rounded shoulders and a paunch that came from excess. He was dressed for business in a tailored charcoal suit, cream shirt and red tie, but to stave off the winter nip he had donned an overcoat that reached to his knees. A flat cap covered his bald pate, and he wore leather gloves. On his face was the sour sneer I recalled from last time.

We were on the fringes of the Downtown Convention District here. Traffic was quite busy and there were plenty of pedestrians on the sidewalks and waiting at the nearest crossing. So many eyes that I hoped that it would temper the response of Petoskey’s guards long enough to do what had to be done. I speeded up, saw a gap in the traffic and rushed across the road, receiving the honk of a horn from a motorist who deemed my brash move injudicious. I angled quickly towards Petoskey’s group, who were to my left and no more than twenty yards away. Already I’d caught the attention of one of his guards. Hearing the car horn he’d turned my way, seen how fast I was approaching, and maybe even read the intent in the stern set of my features. His eyes narrowed in recognition.

He moved, and true to form it wasn’t to pull a gun, but to warn his colleagues and to cover his mark. They responded instantly, closing in a box around Petoskey, two of them shielding him from my approach as the third covered him with his arm and side and began ushering him towards a limousine parked near the kerb. I snatched a glance that way, saw a fourth man was out of the car and had the door open to receive their charge. I couldn’t get Petoskey without first shooting one of the two men in front of me. I pulled out my SIG, continued forward, but then lifted the gun to the sky and discharged a round.

All around us, pedestrians reacted to the sound, some shrieking, others racing for cover. Birds broke from their roosts. I yelled something wordless and animalistic, adding to the panic, before firing off another round into the sky. Two rounds down, that was all I was prepared to waste, just in case things went to pot, which was always a possibility.

I was only yards away now and the close protection team had Siggy in the car, one of them throwing himself on top of his boss while the fourth man slammed shut the door. The car began to pull away and I raced forward, causing the three still on the pavement to turn to cut me off. Thankfully they hadn’t yet drawn their weapons. They each grappled me, and my SIG was knocked from my hand and clattered on to the floor. I swore and struggled with the guards, butting my head into a face that came too close.

As the limousine sped away, the guards both sighed with relief that their mark was safe but also steeled themselves to deal with the maniac in their midst. They were, however, conscious of the number of witnesses on the street, and now that I was disarmed they weren’t prepared to shoot me. Thank God.

They did swarm on me, though, grappling my arms. I kicked the legs of one of then from under him, them stamped on his chest to keep him down. Another got a stranglehold around my throat, looping me under his elbow, and he bore me forward while the other tried his hardest to trip me. I thrashed and struggled, bit at the side of the man holding me. My teeth sunk into his windcheater ineffectively, but the man realised what I was doing and shouted in anger. His friend doubled his efforts, lifting my legs by hauling up my knees. The man on the floor rolled out from under me and came to his feet, pushing down on my back so that between them they forced me face down on the pavement. I tried to grab for the SIG, but couldn’t reach it. One of the guards snatched it up, placed it to the nape of my neck.

‘Stop struggling or I’ll shoot,’ he whispered savagely in my ear.

‘All right! All right!’ I shouted. ‘You’ve got me. I give up.’

All three were shouting commands, to me, to each other, but also to another party. I heard the vroom of a racing engine and a vehicle bounced up on to the kerb dangerously close to us.