Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

I allowed the door to swing open under its own weight, and found a kitchen area beyond. From a side room sounded a soft clink of pots and pans. I moved quickly, swerved around a food preparation counter, and approached the annexe room. Standing with her back to me was an elderly woman in a dull grey uniform of skirt and jacket, black stockings and black shoes. She sported a pudding basin haircut. As long as it wasn’t Rosa Klebb I didn’t deem her a threat, so silently closed the door behind her and bolted it to keep her out of harm’s way. I went back across the kitchen, by-passing the large island in the middle, and approached a different door from the one I’d entered by. It was shut, but from beyond it came the voices I’d been following, too indistinct to make out words. I eased the door open.

There’s an old saying: don’t take a knife to a gunfight. Good advice. I pulled out my SIG and transferred the Ka-bar to my belt. Taking one last glance at the door I’d recently shut, checking that Rosa Klebb wasn’t standing behind me ready to reveal a stiletto blade in the toe of her shoe, I was happy that I was unobserved. This was about the most foolhardy thing I’d done in a long time. Even crazier than the risk I’d taken to release Rink from his captors. I was about to descend into a basement below a house full of armed men. For all I knew the space beneath could become my tomb. But I didn’t let that put me off.

Maybe when the Tudor hall was reconstructed here it had been erected upon the foundations of an older structure, because I found myself descending into what once might have been a root cellar. The Galil was cumbersome, so I propped it against the wall so that it didn’t knock on the stone and give me away. The stones that supported the floors above were age-worn, grimy with smoke from old kerosene lamps and candles. Still, the steps had been replaced with new ones of preformed concrete, smooth underfoot. I went down them with barely a whisper of my soles on the treads. At the bottom was a sturdy door, more like something you’d find in a bank vault than in an ordinary cellar. Luckily it had already been unlocked. The door stood ajar, little more than a hand’s span, but it was enough for me now to hear three distinct voices. The one I assumed belonged to Hendrickson had calmed since earlier, but it still held a dominating edge.

‘The point,’ Hendrickson said, ‘is that you came highly recommended. I’m paying you a fortune, but you’re still no further ahead than you were three fucking days ago!’

There was the scuff of a shoe, someone moving uncomfortably as they jostled to reinstate their importance. I heard Baron’s insipid drawl. ‘We were too late in Maine. Hunter must have figured out that we were going to make a try at his girlfriend. When the team I sent for her arrived, they were ambushed. Two of them were killed and Imogen was whisked away in an airplane. I hardly think that it’s a failing on my part if she gave us the slip.’

A wash of relief went through me. It sounded like Hartlaub and Brigham had come through for me, and for Imogen. The relief was only momentary, replaced by cold fury as I realised how close to danger Imogen had been placed again. It made me more determined to end things.

I wasn’t the only one who was furious. Hendrickson shouted. ‘A fucking failing on your part? Considering he’d no way of knowing you were going after her, I can’t see how Hunter could have guessed. You must have fucked up. Simple as that!’

‘Sir, with due respect, I hardly think that Baron’s to blame.’ The third voice struck me. A tiny part of me had hoped that it would be Tubal Cain himself. To take them all out in one swirl of violence would have suited me. Yet, another part — one I can only describe as fear — warned that if Cain was inside that room, then I’d taken on more than I could handle. I was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of Charters, the arsehole whose arm I’d broken.

‘Did I ask for your opinion? No. So shut the fuck up!’ Hendrickson turned his ire back on Baron. ‘You made a fucking mess of everything, Baron. Sigmund’s death is going to cause me real problems in the days ahead. I’m beginning to think that I should’ve left everything well alone, trusted in the courts to sort things as usual. My attorneys would have ripped Telfer to shreds and I’d have walked free. With Sigmund’s sudden disappearance, though, my fall-back plan will fail.’

Reading between the lines, he meant he’d have ensured that Petoskey carried all the shit for him. In real terms, John had worked for Petoskey, not Hendrickson, so I didn’t doubt he’d already made plans to disassociate himself from any connections to my brother. He had been behind the hit men who had chased John, but I made myself a silent wager that Petoskey would have carried the can for that too.

Baron said, ‘It was a totally unforeseen incident. Who could’ve guessed that Hunter would’ve achieved what he did?’

‘Broke my fucking arm…’ Charters began, but his words petered out and I assumed he’d received a filthy look from his bosses.

‘You deserve more than a broken arm,’ Hendrickson spat. ‘From what I hear, it was your knife that Hunter got his hands on. Maybe I’m blaming the wrong person for the entire fuck-up?’

‘No, sir,’ Baron interjected on Charters’ behalf. ‘I accept responsibility for that. And, yes, as you’ve pointed out, you are paying me a fortune for a thoroughly professional service. I’m sorry for what has gone before, but I promise you: I will not fail again.’

I pictured Hendrickson’s face, dark with anger. Metaphorically, he would be like a pot simmering on a stove, but the flames had just been turned down. I heard him exhale loudly, then there was a metallic clunk. ‘See that you don’t.’

It was as good a point as any to pour more water on him.

I pushed into the room, lifting my SIG.

‘The first man to move dies.’

My face was the last any of them expected. They stood there, dumbstruck. My command had been designed to achieve this. The last thing I wanted was for them to start shouting and bring reinforcements running from above.

Hendrickson was a bigger man than I had imagined. He had strong features, pale blue eyes, and skin dark by heredity rather than holidays in the sun. His chest, shoulders and biceps stretched his suit jacket, and in his day he would have been quite a scrapper. Right now it looked like any fight had gone out of him. Charters shot me a look to curdle milk, while Baron appraised me with that supercilious smile he’d used when last we met. All three men were standing at the far end of the room, Hendrickson facing the other two. Between us were rack upon rack of guns; a good ol’ boy’s dream world, and a potential nightmare for me. I didn’t doubt that any of them were armed already, but just the sight of upward of a hundred weapons gave me pause. It must have shown in my stance because Hendrickson straightened a little.

‘Face me,’ I said. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

They all turned, hands out by their sides. I made a quick scan of the room. None of the rifles or machine guns appeared to be loaded, nor any of the semi-auto handguns, but I couldn’t tell with the revolvers.

Ideally I would have liked for them to drop their weapons, but while they were at it one of them could try to be a hero. I was sure that I could drop any of them first, but the sound of my gun would bring reinforcements and I’d be penned inside this room. Something crossed Baron’s face: realisation that I required silence to get the job done. He opened his mouth to shout, then realised that even if I did get boxed inside, I wouldn’t be the only man to die. I arched an eyebrow at him as he got the point.

‘We’ve a stalemate going on,’ he said.