Matt Hilton - Blood and Ashes

‘Sounds ridiculous, but not unheard of,’ I said, as disgusted as Vince was. ‘The British government released IRA murderers, and actually settled them on the mainland, under the Good Friday Agreement, gave them new identities so that no one would know who was living in their midst. Talk about pandering to your enemies.’

‘As far as everyone’s concerned, Hicks is dead and no threat to the president or the stability of our country. The reality is that the corpse they displayed was that of a homeless John Doe who bore a passing resemblance to Hicks. The guy had fallen into a river and drowned, so he fit the part. But to further disguise him, the JD was liberally doused in aviation fuel and burned.’

‘Jesus, that’s brutal.’

‘Had to make it look real, Hunter.’

‘OK. So what happened? Hicks took his freedom but that wasn’t enough for him? He has reinitiated his old hate campaign?’

‘Yes. He laid low for a while, but then… Bam!’ Vince waved his arms like the flourish of a magician. ‘Suddenly he’s back and people are beginning to die. We’re concerned that he’s planning something big.’

‘But you’ve no idea where he’s currently hiding, so it’s difficult to check?’

‘It’s why I infiltrated his group, to try to get a lead on his location.’

‘And when you find him he’s going to be taken right back to prison?’

Shaking his head, Vince smiled, and it was like a reflection of the smile I often view in mirrors. ‘Don’t forget, Hunter, he’s already dead. Can’t suddenly dump him back in the system, can we?’

‘Your job is to take him out?’

‘What I sometimes have to do isn’t FBI procedure.’

‘Assassination isn’t even CIA procedure these days,’ I said, though I knew differently. Another thought struck me. ‘The attacks on Don Griffiths and his family have nothing to do with revenge, have they? Don found him first time, and now Hicks is making sure that history doesn’t repeat itself.’

‘It’s worse than that, Hunter. I wasn’t party to everything that was said — unfortunately all our orders came via Gant — but what I understand is that Hicks wants something from Griffiths. And if Griffiths doesn’t hand it over then his family will pay.’

I went very still.

Vince studied me, noting the coldness slip into my face. ‘Your killer eyes are back,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ My voice seeped across to him like a freezing fog. ‘You knew that Gant was going to attack the family, yet you allowed it to happen.’

‘I didn’t have an opportunity to call it in, not with Sonya at my side every second,’ Vince said. But he knew his excuse sounded lame.

‘No. You wanted them to get what they wanted from Griffiths. You fully intended helping them. That way, Gant would trust you and then lead you back to Hicks. It’s why this FBI task force was on hand and in such numbers.’ Fisting my hands, it was a struggle to keep them on the desktop.

To his credit, Vince didn’t attempt to lie. Instead he said, ‘Sometimes small sacrifices have to be made. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’

‘And you call me pithy.’

Vince threw up his arms. The sudden movement startled Fluffy, who instantly reverted to his former self. The tom arched his back and spat and then retreated to crouch between the protective walls made by my forearms. Wary of both the cat and the man, Vince said, ‘Well it’s all fucked, isn’t it? My cover’s blown, there’s no way I can get close to Hicks now.’ He waited a beat before saying, ‘I guess we move to Plan B and send a new man after him.’ Vince grinned. ‘We have, of course, got someone in mind. In fact, Walter Hayes Conrad endorsed the idea and says he knows the ideal person for the job.’

The following morning found me sitting in a plastic chair, again sipping coffee, this time from a waxed-paper cup. The room was as utilitarian as the interior of the command unit vehicle, except this time the smell wasn’t of perspiration mingling with ozone, but the antiseptic odour characteristic of all hospitals. From beyond the closed door came the soft clinks, the hurried footsteps, the low conversations familiar to a medical facility.

I was in a small antechamber off the main waiting area of Hertford City Medical Center, twiddling my thumbs and upping my caffeine quota. I didn’t like sitting around like this.

Earlier, I’d visited Don Griffiths’ sickroom, but the old man was heavily sedated and had given away nothing save for the one answer I’d been seeking.

I’ve never appreciated the term assassin spoken alongside my name, but I wasn’t so blinkered that I’d lost sight of what my military designation had meant. I could dress it up in fancy metaphors, argue that I was simply a soldier doing his duty, but when all came to all I was charged with killing those deemed enemies of the countries under Arrowsake’s protection. However, that was then. Now I was no longer under the Arrowsake sanction, and would argue vehemently against the notion that I’d ever again become the guided missile of the past. Not that it was a serious argument: twice in the past year I’d become just that. Dantalion had been a personal kill, as had those who’d died as a result of hunting Kate Piers and Imogen Ballard, but when taking down Luke Rickard and Tubal Cain, I’d been working to some extent on behalf of the shadowy agency. Arrowsake was no more, but it seemed that its influence resonated to this day.

In previous circumstances where Walter Conrad had shown his hand, I’d convinced myself that my quest was personal, that I’d have taken on the mission without official approval, and that Walter’s help was only a means to achieve my end. Pushed into this latest situation, the same terms could apply.

Looking at the problem objectively, I’d come to Pennsylvania to help an old friend whose family was being terrorised by bad men, and though the dynamics had altered, the problem persisted. The only way that the Griffithses would ever be safe was if their enemies were stopped. Gant and Darley were the patsies of Carswell Hicks, which made Hicks the major factor in the problem. As ever, I preferred going directly for the largest bully in the gang. Without its fountainhead, Hicks’ organisation would rapidly dry up, and any remnants would blow away on the wind or be mopped up as necessary. If the FBI, CIA or any other acronym-headed organisation chose to give me the weapons necessary to get the job done, then so be it.

I’m no killer for hire, and never will be, but I’ll do it for free where need dictates: I often laughed at the absurdity of that.

But now, having looked at the old man, who — even through a heady cloud of anaesthesia — still moaned in agony, I wasn’t laughing.

I’d decided I was going to accept Special Agent Vincent’s offer: help him to take out Carswell Hicks and my slate would be wiped clean.

Under congressional ruling, the CIA was no longer allowed to conduct their activities within the United States, and torture and assassination were strictly forbidden. I knew otherwise. Walter was like a surrogate father to me, but sometimes even the most loving father uses his children for his own selfish ends. I was under no illusion. This was a case of plausible denial: in other words, if I fucked up it would be on my own back. The government would deny all knowledge of or involvement with my actions.

In one sense this was good. It meant that they’d keep the hell out of the way. Red tape and bureaucracy were always a stumbling block to the fulfilment of a mission. I’d use their resources to find Hicks, but once I’d found him, it would be down to me.

Not that I was above accepting help, especially when the offer came from my friend, Jared Rington, who had answered the call to arms without question. The questions would come later, after Rink verbally kicked my butt for getting us into another mess. My big friend liked to think himself the voice of reason, but he was as much up for action as I was. The kick in the backside would be followed by Rink’s toothy grin and the query, ‘So when do we start, brother?’