Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

Beyond Charters, I could see where they’d left Louise lying on the ground. Steam was rising from the ruin of her skull. ‘I believe you.’

‘Good, but just in case, listen…’

From his coat pocket Baron pulled out a digital recorder. He flicked it on and held it close to my ear.

‘Hunter.’ Rink’s unmistakable voice issued from the device. ‘Frog-giggin’ fuckers got the drop on me, man. I’m sorry I got you into this, buddy.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘They say that they’ll hurt me if you don’t do as they ask. Tell ’em to go screw themselves.’

There was a static buzz, the sound of Rink being introduced to a Taser.

Baron flicked the ‘off’ switch.

‘When your buddy said that we’d hurt him, he meant even more than we have already. The only way you can stop that is to give us what we want.’

Petoskey leaned in close. ‘So… do we have your cooperation?’

What choice did I have?

A maxim of counterterrorism: you don’t make bargains with terrorists. You refuse to negotiate. You show the demented bastards that you aren’t prepared to back down. Not ever. Show them a weakness and they will exploit it, exponentially growing the problem.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my words weren’t those of an ex-counterterrorism soldier. They were those of a best friend.

‘What do you want from me?’

Baron took another turn at the envelope. From inside it he drew a second photograph, which he placed on the desk in front of me.

‘Don’t know him,’ I said.

‘You don’t?’ Baron said. ‘Now that is strange. But no problem; I’m going to explain everything about John Telfer that you need to know.’

I took a second look at the photo. It was the same photograph that had been splashed all over the newspapers and TV newscasts when John had been mistakenly identified as the Harvestman.

‘John Telfer?’ I tasted his name on my tongue. ‘Sounds familiar.’

‘It should,’ Baron said. ‘Considering he’s your brother.’

‘Half-brother,’ Petoskey added. ‘If we want to be precise. You were looking for John when you attacked me last time, remember?’

‘You know all about him then?’ I asked. ‘You should also know that he’s dead. He was murdered by a serial killer out in the Mojave Desert last year.’

‘We know the story,’ Baron told me. ‘But that’s all it is. John Telfer survived. As did others.’

‘There were no survivors,’ I said.

‘You survived,’ Baron pointed out, ‘as did Jared Rington.’

Shaking my head, I said, ‘No. You’ve got it all wrong. We weren’t there.’

Of course, they were having none of it, because they had inside information from a man who had been there. It was apparent to all that John had survived; otherwise the impending court case would have no legs to stand on. None of this would have been necessary.

Baron tapped an index finger on the photo. ‘Where is he, Hunter? Tell us and we will let Rington go free.’

I pasted a look of astonishment across my face. ‘You want me to give up my brother? Are you totally insane?’

‘Not insane, Hunter,’ Baron pointed out with a nod towards Louise’s corpse. ‘But we are supremely motivated.’

Petoskey leaned a fist on the desktop. For a second he was within grabbing range, but I didn’t go for it. What would that achieve? Maybe I’d get to snap his neck, but it wouldn’t help me find Rink. Reading something in my face, Baron touched Petoskey’s elbow and he pulled back as though avoiding a lunging viper. It told me something about Petoskey: he was a murderous fuck when it came to innocent girls, but he wasn’t as perceptive a killer as Baron was.

Regaining his composure, Petoskey tried again. ‘John Telfer is a dead man, Hunter, either now or later. At least this way you get to save the life of your best friend.’

My laugh was short and brutal. ‘As Rink so eloquently put it, go fuck yourselves.’

Petoskey’s face darkened. ‘It would serve you well to remember what else your friend said.’

‘Don’t you worry… I haven’t forgotten.’ My words were a threat, and there was nothing subtle about them.

‘Perhaps you require another demonstration of our power?’

‘Harm as much as a hair on his head, and I swear to God I’ll rip your throats out.’

Baron clapped his hands slowly. ‘Very good, Hunter, that’s just the passion and drive we require from you. Maybe you can put it to helping us find your brother.’

If my hatred was a flame it would have scorched him to his very soul, though I doubted the bastard had one. ‘Let me repeat myself. Go fuck yourselves.’

Petoskey smiled at my audacity. ‘John Telfer is going to die. Tell us where he is. I’ll see to it that his death is quick and painless. However, if his death is left to our associate, then I’m afraid I can’t make the same promise.’

‘Your associate?’ I stared pointedly at Baron.

‘As much as I’d like to confirm it, I’m not the one Sigmund is referring to. Like I said, Telfer wasn’t the only one who survived what happened at Jubal’s Hollow.’

I knew where this was going but wasn’t about to admit it.

‘You’re lying.’

‘Am I? Is that a chance you’re prepared to take?’

‘I killed the bastard. I rammed a broken bone through his throat and watched him die.’

‘You saw him die?’ Petoskey laughed. ‘You’re sure of that?’

I concentrated on the picture of my brother. All I could hope was that Walter’s promise to keep John safe was being honoured, because I still had a more urgent task. ‘I want to see Rink,’ I said. ‘I want to see him alive and well, or I don’t tell you a thing.’

The two men shared a knowing smile, like they’d both just won a private bet. Baron drew a syringe from his pocket.

‘Unless that’s Novocaine to fix my slack tooth, you can keep it,’ I hissed at him.

‘Just a little sodium pentathol,’ he told me. ‘You need to be moved and I don’t trust that we’d reach our location intact if I allowed you free rein.’

‘You have my friend hostage. Do you really think I’m going to try something stupid?’

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ Baron quoted. ‘I’d rather not take the chance.’

‘Believe me,’ I said, without any trace of irony, ‘if I was going to do something stupid, I would’ve done it by now.’

My cuffed hands were resting on the table, mere inches from the photographs. Rink was alive but one thing was obvious: if I died now, Rink would follow soon after.

They wanted to see how stupid a desperate man could be?

‘OK, bring it on, Baron,’ I said.

Baron watched me with an unwavering gaze. A single droplet of what’s sometimes referred to as ‘the truth serum’ shivered from the tip of the needle. In one motion he jabbed the needle directly through my clothing and into my shoulder, pushing down the plunger.

‘I don’t care much for your bedside manner,’ I told him.

‘Did it smart a little? I am sorry.’

‘I just fucking bet you are.’

Already the edge of my vision was getting fuzzy. Sodium pentathol was a drug I was familiar with. It’s not the wonder drug portrayed in espionage movies where a person will divulge their deepest secrets, though it does loosen the inhibitions to a point where they are chattier and more open to suggestion than normal. A slightly higher dosage acts the same as any other anaesthetic. I must’ve received the higher dose.

Blackness fell like winter’s dark shade.

Over the years I’ve been subjected to the effects of drugs — a prerequisite for one trained to resist torture — but there wasn’t much I could do to fight the dosage given to me by Baron. The drug took hold of me but its effect was dulled slightly so I didn’t experience the absolute oblivion that comes on a surgeon’s table; at the extremes of my consciousness I was aware of movement. Nothing that I could define, simply hands lifting me into the back of the van, followed by an interminable rumble and shudder as I was driven along uneven roads. At some point I must have been transferred to a helicopter, as even through the fog I recognised the thrum and slice of rotor blades cutting the air.