Matt Hilton - Blood and Ashes

There was a knock at the door, bringing me back to the present. I stood up, subconsciously putting my back to the wall and facing the entrance, as though meeting the advance of an enemy. It was too soon for Rink to have arrived, and for a moment I didn’t recognise the man standing on the threshold.

He was clean-cut, with short hair in a side parting, a pristine white shirt and steel-grey tie under a flawlessly tailored dark suit. His shoes were polished to a mirror-perfect sheen, as black and glossy as the attache case he carried. The only thing that spoiled the preppy good looks was the stripes down his cheek where Fluffy the cat had marked him.

‘You going for the DiCaprio look this time?’

‘This is the real me,’ Vince said, stepping inside the room. ‘You don’t think I’m really into that old-time stuff? Jesus, Hunter? Elvis is dead, haven’t you heard?’

‘Not true,’ I said, straight-faced. ‘His death was a cover-up; didn’t you know he was an undercover DEA agent? He had to go into hiding after making some nasty enemies in the Colombian cartels. I know… I’ve met the man.’

Vince stared and I shook my head ruefully.

Vince surprised me by shrugging. ‘Maybe you have a point. The world thinks Carswell Hicks is dead, but really he’s still running around. Those stories about the King flipping burgers at a joint in Seattle might not be as crazy as they sound.’

I’d been suckered by the old double-bluff. The kid was as sharp as his new look. I made a point of keeping that in mind.

Vince was still grinning when he placed the attache case on one of the plastic chairs. He flipped open the lid, pulled out a blue zip-lock bag, and then held it out like an offering.

I wasn’t surprised to find my SIG SAUER P226 and KA-BAR inside. I’d demanded their return as part of my side in sealing the bargain. The stack of money and credit cards raised an eyebrow though.

‘I know that morally you won’t accept payment, but don’t look on the cash that way. Call it expenses if you want, Hunter, because you’re going to need money to see you through.’

No complaint from me. I had military pensions, savings I’d stashed away over the years, my wage from the periodic work I conducted for Rington Investigations, but I didn’t have an infinite pot of disposable cash to fall back on. I jammed the wad of notes into my jeans pocket, before looking over the credit cards. ‘Who the hell comes up with these names?’

‘Sounds English at least,’ Vince said.

I flicked the cards. ‘Danny Fisher was Elvis’s name in King Creole. You aren’t concerned that people won’t put two and two together and get the connection with Vince Everett?’

‘It’s not a problem. You aren’t going to be using the name anywhere near Hicks or the others. They’re just for further expenses when you need them.’

I shoved the cards into the pocket alongside the cash.

Vince looked me up and down.

‘Maybe your first purchase should be some new clothes. You look like a bum.’

I’d long ago got rid of the garbage bag body-warmer, but still wore the denim shirt and jeans I’d been dressed in while fighting in the forest. The use of a sponge in one of the hospital bathrooms had removed a lot of the mud, but my clothing was still stained, and blood-spattered. A few eyebrows had been raised by the hospital staff, plus the civilians who were there, but worse sights were commonplace in an A amp;E waiting room. To all intents and purposes, I could have come directly from the scene of an accident, so nobody commented. When I was offered the use of the antechamber, it wasn’t the look of me that was disturbing the others in the room.

‘I smell like one, too,’ I admitted.

Vince dug a plastic key card from his pocket. ‘Once you’ve got yourself kitted out, I’ve booked you an overnighter in that motel. You can take a shower there.’

I read the hotel’s address off the card. ‘Walking distance?’

‘Got you a car sorted out.’ Vince held up some keys. ‘You’ll find it in the parking lot outside. I know you prefer a stick shift, but..’

The military had taught me to adapt, so an automatic gearbox wasn’t going to be a problem. It was the FBI adaptations I wasn’t too keen on. Doubtless Vince’s words of ‘a car sorted out’ held more meaning. At the very least it would have a transponder fitted so that they could trace my every move. Chances were there’d be hidden microphones and wireless CCTV, so they’d see and hear everything, too.

Playing dumb, I accepted the keys.

‘One more thing,’ Vince said. He tossed a cell phone over. ‘My number’s pre-programmed. Check in with me every four hours.’

‘Night time as well, Vince? Won’t that cramp your style?’

Vince grunted. ‘Night time, I’ll call you.’

‘Not a good idea.’

Vince grimaced at my scruffy appearance. ‘Well, I don’t think I’ll be cramping your style any time soon.’

‘No, but you could compromise the mission.’

Packing the SIG and knife back into the zip-lock bag, I stuffed them under my left arm. Vince shuffled from one foot to the other, waiting while I drained the vending-machine coffee. Ready, I nodded affirmative.

‘Four hours, remember,’ Vince said. ‘I’ll give you a location to meet. Bring you up to speed on what we know.’

‘I’ll bring a friend.’ Before Vince could object I stepped past him and reached for the door handle.

‘Danny!’

I turned with a smile.

‘Just checking,’ Vince grinned.

‘Vince, I was doing this when you were still chasing cheerleaders for your first kiss.’

The agent spread his hands, gave the raffish curl of his lip. ‘What do you mean? I still chase cheerleaders every chance I get.’

I left the hospital, found the car, a plain, three-year-old Ford, and drove away, still smiling about Vince’s parting shot. Despite having got off to a strange start, I had to admit to liking the young agent. There was much in common with the young Joe Hunter who’d joined the Parachute Regiment over twenty years ago. Back then, I was also the devil-may-care type who laughed a lot. It came from the sense of immortality that went with acceptance into one of the toughest military regiments in the world. I learned a valuable lesson when shot by a Provo sniper while touring Northern Ireland. Didn’t laugh so often after that. Being devil-may-care and staying in the red zone were at opposite ends of the spectrum. Thinking of when Special Agent Vincent would learn this life-changing lesson brought a scowl to my face.

I found a strip mall, with a men’s outfitters wedged between a bail bondsman’s office and an estate agency. After surreptitiously signing them, I used the Danny Fisher credit cards to purchase T-shirts, over-shirts, underwear and socks, each in multiple packs. I also selected a couple of pairs of jeans and two jackets, one lightweight, the other more suitable for the northern Pennsylvanian weather, which I pulled on. I dumped the purchases in the car, then wandered along the mall to an AT amp;T store where I purchased a pre-paid mobile phone.

Inside a thrift store I used the pre-paid to call Rink and tell him where to meet.

When I came back out of the store the same white panel van, marked with a local plumber’s merchant motif, which had followed me from the hospital was parked in a lot across the way.

I pulled out the phone given to me by Vince. Pressed the call button.

‘Vince?’

‘I wasn’t expecting your first call for another three hours.’

Ignoring the young agent, I said, ‘Call your bloodhounds off. If Gant or any of his boys are around, they’ll spot the FBI tail as easily as I have.’

I shut the phone down and dropped it in a pocket, giving the men in the white van a little goodbye wave.