Matt Hilton: Dead Men's Harvest

‘We should get out of the storm.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘Better if we talk inside, Mr Hunter.’

He used my name as a tool, couching his words so that they were more than a suggestion. He wanted me to know who was really in charge. It didn’t work that way with me. ‘My girlfriend is inside.’ I left things at that. Let them think what they wanted.

‘She knows all about you?’ The man was wily, and he left the hint about my past unsaid.

‘She knows that I’m not the type to let strangers inside without checking them out first. So… who are you, and what brings you here?’

The men lowered their hands. The younger of the two reached towards his armpit. Left hand, so I didn’t flinch. He pulled out a leather wallet and flicked it open. He showed me an FBI ID badge. I smiled cynically at him. ‘I’ve got one just like that. I bought it off eBay for five bucks. Who supplied yours, Charles W. Brigham? The CIA, I bet.’

Brigham chuckled. His mouth twisted, and the skin on his face puckered all the way up to his damaged eyebrow. Once he’d been very lucky that a knife blade hadn’t taken off his entire face. ‘As you know, CIA agents aren’t in the habit of carrying badges. It’s too much of a giveaway. But that’s my real name. You have the ability to check it out.’

I did, but I wasn’t going to bother. There was no reason for Brigham to lie. ‘And who are you?’ I directed at the older man. ‘Your name will do, forget the Mickey Mouse badge.’

‘Ray Hartlaub.’

‘Brigham and Hartlaub? It sounds like an accountancy firm to me.’ I smiled to show I was only fooling, but also that they held no fear for me.

‘That would be Hartlaub and Brigham,’ the older agent said. ‘Seeing as I’m in charge.’

I’d thought as much. The one in charge never gets out of the car first. Not when there’s an armed man waiting for him. ‘So why are you here?’

‘We were asked to come fetch you.’

I shook my head, more an act of derision than to dislodge the snow off my hair. There was only one person who could be behind this round-up. My old CIA contact from when I was hunting terrorists. ‘Walter Hayes Conrad. What has that old goat got up his sleeve this time?’

‘Nothing,’ Hartlaub said. ‘In fact, you can forget about SDC Conrad upsetting your life ever again.’

‘So old Walt’s finally retired then?’

‘No, Hunter, Walter Conrad is dead. He was murdered a few hours ago.’

Three days earlier…

It was undignified to run like this, but sensible under the circumstances.

Prisoner 1854 could feel the effects of eighteen months’ confinement deep in his muscles and ligaments and it wasn’t a sensation he liked. In his cell he’d exercised regularly, performing numerous repetitions of press-ups and crunches, interspersed with endless callisthenics. His body and mind remained strong, but running in the open, his lungs laboured under the uncommon strain of sucking in air through a constricted throat. It was one thing having the physique of an athlete when his cardiovascular system was severely impeded. But he pushed back the pain and kept running. Freedom was a far more exhilarating prospect to concentrate on.

He knew where he was — his confinement had come with some home comforts, including unofficial access to computers — but Google Earth was only part-way reliable. It was out of date, and it didn’t include accurate topographical features. A two-dimensional satellite image couldn’t prepare him for the undulating ground, the closeness of the trees or the rocks that bruised his feet and threatened to turn an ankle every other step. But he ignored these factors as readily as he did the pain in his limbs and the burning in his chest. Speed was his best bet at present. Speed equalled distance, and distance meant a larger area for his pursuers to cover. Once he had them strung out in a broader circle the gaps between them and the opportunity to slip past them grew in his favour.

The MPs had dogs, but the dogs could only move as quickly as their handlers. He was more concerned with the helicopters buzzing in the sky behind him. They would come equipped with FLIR technology, seeking his heat signature. If they got a hit on his body heat they could direct men to surround and contain him. In his favour was the fact that they hadn’t expected him to cover so much ground in such a short space of time. For now, he must keep his lead, get to some place where there were other people who would confound the heat-seeking technology. The only problem with that scenario was that his hunters would expect him to do just that. They’d have all the approaches to the nearest towns covered. But he wasn’t over concerned with that either. Men were fallible; if he didn’t want them to see him they wouldn’t. And if he chose to show himself, then they’d end up dead.

A gap in the woods lay somewhere ahead. Light was minimal, just a fingernail sliver of moon to offer guidance, but he knew the gap was there. He’d plotted the distance and the time it would take him to reach the glade. He had no watch or any other time-keeping device on him, but he was in tune with the rhythm of his pace and was confident that his first destination was close at hand.

He scrambled down a slope, grabbing at sparse brush to slow him down, his feet churning through loose earth, ankle-deep. He sloshed along a stream in an effort to confuse the dogs, made it about four hundred yards then clambered up out of the stream and on to a wide clay embankment. The clay had once been as viscous as treacle but had dried stone-hard many millennia before. The going was easier there, but he was exposed to the air and would be visible to the chopper pilots even without the aid of technology. He sprinted back into darkness on the far side of the clay bed, heading a few rows deep into the woods. He pushed through the thickets, thorns grabbing at his stolen uniform and at the flesh of his hands. But he let none of the discomfort slow him down. Unerringly he headed up and over the next rise and down into the glade he sought. There he allowed himself a few seconds. He fisted his knuckles into his sides, sucking in air as best he could as he scanned the glade for his marker.

Beyond the far trees rose the unmistakable geometrical shapes of civilisation. There wasn’t much, just a peaked barn and a silo, but he’d singled out these structures when formulating his getaway plan. He didn’t approach them, but turned west and ran another two hundred yards to where a wire fence cut across the glade. It was to dissuade cattle from straying, not to halt a fleeing convict, and he hurdled the fence with little effort. He then used the fence as a guide, following it back into the woods on this side of the glade. From nearby came the unmistakable yapping of excited dogs.

Damn those dogs! His pursuers had got closer than he liked. But it didn’t matter. As long as everything was in place as he’d planned.

The fence ended at a sturdy tree, the wires hammered into the trunk. Bark had begun to grow around the wires, nature sealing the wounds, making of the tree a symbiotic creature of plant and metal. It was a minor detail, but he often noted the mundane and found the minutiae fascinating. He was always spellbound by what lay under the skin of the outer world. Yet he had no time to study this marvel; the dogs were getting close. Worse, he heard the pitch of one of the helicopters change and knew that it was extending the search in this direction.

At the back of the tree he found what he’d been searching for. A tarpaulin was draped over a shapeless form and twigs of brush had been piled over them both. He pulled at the corner of the tarp, smelled the tang of petroleum, and was filled with fierce joy.