Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

‘What do you want?’ Jennifer wasn’t the type to fold at the first suggestion of officialdom.

Cain feigned a glance back over his shoulder. ‘I’m here on official business, Ms Telfer. It’s not something I’d care to share with your neighbours.’

Jennifer craned her neck, listening. ‘There’s no one else around.’

‘Ms Telfer,’ Cain said in a hushed voice, ‘I’m here with news about John.’

‘What trouble is he in this time?’ Jennifer’s tone was exasperated, but she couldn’t prevent the sudden widening of her pupils at the mention of John’s name. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

‘Like I said, it’s official…’ Cain glanced around once more. ‘But also very personal. To you.’

Jennifer turned her attention away from him, possibly checking where the children were, or if they were listening. While she was distracted he could have easily kicked the door in, but that wasn’t his purpose. He waited patiently for her to come back to him. When she did, she was frowning, ‘What’s this all about? You’re an American, aren’t you?’

Cain didn’t flinch. ‘I’m an American, yes. I’m a liaison officer, seconded to SOCA to combat international crime that affects both our countries. Look,’ he turned the card over, indicating a telephone number, ‘if you’d like to confirm my identification, you can call this number. They will verify that I’m who I say I am.’

Jennifer took the card from him, studied it for a few seconds, turning it over again to the photo ID and official governmental seal. It was a gamble: if she should deem it necessary to call the number it would only go to a dead line. But it appeared that his bluff worked, because she handed back the card.

‘Thank you, Ms Telfer,’ Cain said.

‘Mrs. John and I were never divorced.’

Cain nodded, accepting her correction, the way an official would under the circumstances. He waited while she closed the door, heard her unlatching the security chain. She opened the door and waved him inside. Cain entered, politely wiping his feet on the welcome mat.

‘Don’t bother,’ Jennifer said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.’

He continued to scrub his feet. The door opened directly into a living room. Jennifer’s words weren’t completely accurate, as the carpet looked freshly vacuumed. Perhaps she was just embarrassed at the shabby appearance of her home. The furniture looked well worn, and possibly handed down from previous families. There were a number of DVDs scattered on the floor in front of the TV, some toys left where they’d fallen. Smoke hung in the air, and an ashtray on a dining table was in need of emptying. Jennifer walked past him, heading for an open packet of cigarettes. She sparked a lighter and held it to the end of a cigarette, inhaled.

‘Well?’

Cain indicated the toys. ‘Your children are home?’

Jennifer pinched her lips around the cigarette. After considering his question, she asked, ‘Why do you need to know where my children are?’

‘I have to arrange transportation for the three of you.’

‘Hold on a minute! What do you mean? We’re going nowhere.’

Jennifer was as tense as an alley cat ready to spring at his throat.

Cain sat down on a couch, defusing the moment. ‘You will no doubt have heard that your husband was involved in a serious incident in America? Since then, he has been under the protection of a federal witness protection scheme, seeing as he is the key witness in the impending trial of a suspected underworld figure. Well, Ms… uh, Mrs Telfer, certain complications have arisen whereby you and your children could be in danger. We don’t wish for that to happen, nor, I suspect, do you. I am here to place you into protective custody while we negate the threat to you and your children.’

There was fear in her face, but not a little resistance. ‘Protective custody? That sounds like prison to me!’

Cain chuckled. ‘Nothing so dramatic, I assure you. I’m just going to transport you to a safe house that is unconnected to you. We have rooms organised in a five-star hotel, Mrs Telfer. See it as a few days’ luxury on the government’s tab.’

Cain stood up, took out the cellphone supplied by Hendrickson’s man and jabbed the hot key. ‘Can I organise a pick-up for four passengers?’

‘Just hold it!’ Jennifer stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything yet.’

Cain ignored her, gave the address of her flat and agreed that twenty minutes would be fine.

‘What are you doing? You can forget it. I’m not going anywhere with you until I’ve checked things out. Give me your ID card again; I want to phone your bosses!’

‘Sure,’ Cain said, closing the phone. He slipped it into his pocket and brought out the SOCA card.

As Jennifer reached for it, he snapped hold of her wrist and pulled her on to his lowered forehead. His skull connected with her jaw and Jennifer folded at the knees.

‘You’ve had things tough these last couple years, Mrs Telfer. For that reason I did try to do this the easy way,’ Cain whispered in her ear. ‘But I’m afraid you’ve left me little option.’

From the wallet he took a small syringe.

He jabbed it into the flesh of Jennifer’s throat.

Then he looked over at the door to the kids’ bedroom.

‘What do we do now?’

‘We get the hell outa here, or we go to prison. Which do you prefer, Harve?’

My ill-directed sarcasm demanded only one answer.

Harvey floored the pedal, aiming the rental at the police cruiser.

Seeing us barrelling towards him, the cop swung the heavier squad car across our path, trying to block us so that his colleagues could arrive and take us down. Harvey didn’t stop. There’s a knack to pushing your way through a roadblock. You drive at no more than fifteen miles per hour, aim for their front wheel hub with the near corner of your vehicle, and shunt the offending vehicle aside. Of course, what’s good in theory isn’t always so in reality. Harvey pushed our car just a little too fast and the fender struck nearer to the front passenger door. The result was that the cop car was pushed along with us, its tyres juddering and bouncing on the asphalt. The noise was horrendous; the whooping of the siren competed with the scream of metal on metal, the repeated bang as the cop car lifted and fell. Finally, Harvey pulled hard right, caught the front end of the cruiser and shoved it aside. We tore round it, taking off the back bumper of our car in the process.

‘There goes my deposit!’ Harvey said.

The exit ramp twisted to the left, following the line of the hotel wall down to street level. At the bottom another police vehicle screeched to a halt. This time Harvey hit it just right, spinning the back end of the cruiser out of our way. Momentum carried us across the highway and into the oncoming lanes. A large furniture removals van howled like a wild beast as the driver hit the brakes. The van skidded, turned sideways in the road, then flipped on to its side. Grit pounded our car as the van tore up the road surface. Harvey just hauled on the steering so we went up on the pavement at the far side, then around the bulky vehicle. As we passed I saw that the driver, his face an open shout of alarm, looked unharmed. Thank God for that.

‘What I said earlier,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean at the expense of innocent lives.’

‘I’ll try not to do anything stupid,’ Harvey replied straight-faced.

He whipped the car off the kerb, through a gap between a tan Land Rover and a green Toyota. Back on the correct side of the road he hit the throttle and sped along the highway. Behind us, other cop cars took up the chase, sirens whooping.