Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

Baron administered further doses of sodium pentathol throughout the journey and I remained in a hazy state until he jabbed me with another needle. Whatever antidote I was given, the effect was instantaneous.

I came to, fully awake, feeling strangely invigorated, propped between Charters and the one who’d slammed my head on the floor of the van earlier. The cuffs remained in place. Baron was sitting next to the pilot but Petoskey was nowhere to be seen. Probably he’d crawled back under his rock.

‘Where’s Siggy?’ I had to shout to make myself heard over the roar of the rotors. No one answered me, so I changed tack. ‘Where are we?’

From his place in the co-pilot’s seat, Baron nodded across fields swept by moonlight. Beyond were trees, silvered by the winter moon, and it struck me that I’d been unconscious for most of the day. The trees bordered a river valley. We were looking to the east, and by the mild tang of brine, and the emptiness of the sky beyond the trees, I gathered that we were somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard.

Baron wasn’t one for hints but that didn’t matter as, by now, I’d put two and two together.

‘You’re an ex-spook,’ I said to Baron. Now I knew how Hendrickson had the intelligence available to find Walter’s hidden cabin in the Adirondacks. ‘How did you wind up working for a couple of punks like Hendrickson and Petoskey?’

He had to lean towards me so I could hear his reply. ‘Money. Simple as that.’

‘I didn’t think it was from a sense of duty.’

‘Duty doesn’t pay as well as Hendrickson does. Anyway, you’ve got a nerve. You’ve agreed to give up your brother for the sake of a friend. Where’s the duty there?’

‘It’s not something I want to think about,’ I told him. ‘Even if I tell you where John is, there’s still the possibility he’ll get away. The way things are Rink has no chance.’

‘Even so,’ Baron said, ‘you surprise me.’

‘I love my brother. But we’re not that close.’

‘How much do you value the life of your best friend?’

‘Why do you even bother asking? He’d die for me.’

The helicopter took us north along a rugged coastline that alternated between dense woodland and open bays dotted with beachfront houses. The sea was as smooth as stretched silk, inviting a skimmed stone to pock the surface with concentric circles. On any other occasion I might have appreciated the beauty. Now my mood was too foul, engaged as it was in contemplating the bloody and violent deaths of my fellow fliers.

As I’d been deliberately wedged between Charters and the other, my view to the front was limited to snatches through the partially opened partition that led to the crew cabin. Baron had turned away, conversing over a satellite phone, but I had no hope of hearing anything above the thrum of the blades and whistle of wind. To my gruff chaperones, I said, ‘So where are we heading, boys?’

Charters grunted, touched the lump I’d given him on his forehead. He adjusted himself in his seat, none too careful about where he placed his bony bits. When I didn’t respond, he nudged me again as he jiggled into a more comfortable position.

Looking him up and down, I asked, ‘Are you always such an arsehole, Charters, or do you feel you need the practice?’

‘Practice makes perfect.’ He lifted his elbow and slammed it across my forehead, taking payback in full. My skull felt like a well-whacked pinata, but it was worth it. Before his arm dropped back to his side, I’d slipped a Swiss-army knife I’d dipped from his pocket into my waistband.

Having no need to goad him now, I lapsed into silence. My guardsmen took my silence as a sign of being chastised and Charters in particular looked pleased with the result. Let him gloat, while he had the opportunity.

The helicopter banked to the right, throwing the three of us together. Charters now experienced a little of the discomfort that I’d had to put up with. As the helicopter levelled out he pushed me away none too gently, with another dig in the ribs for good measure.

‘I think you’ve had all the practice you need.’

My words won me a grunt of laughter. The concept of one man’s misfortune being another man’s pleasure was often a by-product of the mercenary lifestyle these men followed. Someone like Charters was only happy when making another person’s life a misery. I’d met many of his type throughout my lifetime. The years I’d spent as a soldier ensured I made the acquaintance of such beasts. Except then I usually ended up killing the miserable bastards.

Baron twisted round and called back to us, ‘We’re going down. You might want to grab a hold of your seats.’

No sooner had he said it than the helicopter banked to the left. We appeared to be in a nose dive, rushing towards the unforgiving earth. At the last possible second the pilot adjusted the controls and the nose went up and the skids touched ground with hardly a bump.

Charters opened the door to show a wide expanse of verdant lawn. He climbed out, then lifting a handgun for emphasis, he said, ‘Out, Hunter.’

I clambered out, my feet sinking into the spongy lawn. Over my head swooped the whirling rotor blades. Behind me came the thud of the second guard stepping out the helicopter. He pressed a hand to my shoulder, ushering me before him. Baron brought up the rear. His mobile phone was ringing but he ignored it.

Charters was in the way, but he wasn’t big enough to block my view of the house we approached. It was a huge colonial edifice, the kind of house that often serves as a backdrop to glossy adverts for luxury cars, though you wouldn’t expect to see the trimmings on this house in GQ magazine.

On the balustrade at the top of the building’s facade there were men with guns, also searchlights and CCTV cameras. Behind bullet- and blast-proof windows guards stood as stoic as sentries at Buckingham Palace. Other men with machine guns patrolled the grounds. I wondered how likely it was that the lawn and perimeter walls were sown with heat- and motion-sensing devices. If they were, then nothing larger than a mouse would get inside the compound uninvited.

Sigmund Petoskey waited for us at the front door. He must have travelled via a different craft. He held a mobile phone in a loose grip, and I guessed it was him who’d been ringing Baron a moment ago, eager for our arrival.

‘Glad you could make it, Siggy. It’ll save me another trip to Little Rock to kill you.’

Charters’ slap to the back of my head sent flashes of silver across my vision. Giving him the evil eye, I made him a silent promise. He curled a lip.

Turning to Baron, I said, ‘I hate what you’re forcing me to do, but I’m gonna tell you where John is as soon as I know Rink’s safe.’ Then squaring my shoulders before Charters, I said, ‘But I swear to God, if this piece of shit lays one more hand on me, I’ll fucking break his arm.’

Charters laughed but behind his hard gaze I noted a worm of trepidation, like he’d just figured out that perhaps I wasn’t joking. He glanced at his superiors for direction. An insidious smile flicked at the corners of Baron’s mouth as if the threat was something he’d like to see enacted.

Maybe it was a sense of duty, maybe it was false bravado, or that Charters felt my challenge made him lose face before his superiors. Whatever motivated him, he said, ‘I don’t like your tone of voice, asshole.’ He prepared to backhand me across the face.

‘I’m warning you,’ I growled.

But he wouldn’t be told.

His curled fist whipped towards me.

My response wasn’t to take the blow stoically. Neither did I step back to avoid it. I came forward, pivoting so that both my palms accepted the blow. Fingers curling over his forearm, I pulled it with me as I pivoted a second time, taking his outstretched arm under my armpit. Pulling up on his wrist, and forcing down with my body, it was my entire weight versus the fragile make up of his elbow. I heard the twang of rupturing tendons. Not that the matter could end there. I’d promised I’d break his arm. Retaining his wrist, I rammed a knee hard against his hyper-extended elbow. It was like snapping a green stick. Not bad for a man in handcuffs.