Matt Hilton - Cut and run

'I'm sorry.'

'Yes, Bryce. So am I. But at least you know now whose fucking side I'm on.'

Stalking away from him, I went through into the kitchen to pull out a strongbox I'd concealed behind a panel in one of the kitchen cupboards. Inside I found spare magazines of nine mm ammunition, also a Ka-Bar knife. Out of necessity I didn't want to have to replace my weapons every time I jumped on an airplane, so I had fake documents that showed I was licensed to carry concealed weapons. My docs would pass the scrutiny of Homeland Security if it ever came to that. There was a wad of cash and a number of credit cards. Killing men is cheap, but never an inexpensive vocation.

Secreting my kit round my body I went back into the living room and found Bryce leaning against a wall cradling his head between his hands.

'I never believed you were responsible, Hunter. I was worried about contacting you for another reason: I was afraid that I'd lead the bastards to you, but it looks like you were already under surveillance.'

'Looks that way, doesn't it?' The man on the phone had already implied as much. He'd found Imogen so he could use her as leverage against me. But someone must have pointed him my way first.

Since leaving the Special Forces I've been working under the radar. Only select people – namely my close circle of friends – know where to find me: Rink, Harvey Lucas, Imogen Ballard and Walter Hayes Conrad.

That took me to only one person. Rink and Harvey would die before they gave me up; Imogen was out of the equation. So that left Walter.

Walter and Bryce had connections, too.

When I was with the unit, I worked under a team of commanders based at Arrowsake in the UK, but I had a specific handler in each respective country. My stateside handler was Walter Hayes Conrad IV. Walter was also Bryce Lang's CIA boss. Ultimately it was Walter who'd organised the hit on Abadia.

'Walter gave you the tip-off,' I said.

Bryce nodded.

Walter was first and foremost a CIA Sub-Division Controller, a director of black ops, but he was also my friend and mentor. Why the hell hadn't he warned me?

I took out my phone again.

'You're wasting your time,' Bryce said. 'I've been unable to contact him.'

And he was right. I couldn't raise Walter by any of the normal routes.

Whoever was behind this, they were tied to what had happened in Bogota and they'd gained information pertaining to the hit on Abadia. That would mean that they knew about everyone involved, all the way up to Walter Conrad. The fact that Walter was now incapable of answering my call could mean that they'd got to him too. Or, following his tip-off, he'd gone deliberately incommunicado until the issue was resolved one way or another. Without Walter sanctioning my actions, it would mean I was once again acting outside the law, but I didn't care. These people had chosen to declare war on me: so be it.

I hung up and said to Bryce, 'We're out of here.'

'Where are we going?'

'Maine. Where else?'

'Jesus, Hunter. How did things come to this?'

I don't remember Bryce as being so indecisive. This time I noticed he was plucking at his clothing and shifting from one foot to the other.

'It's just the way it is. Now, if you want to live to see an end to this, we have to get moving.'

Bryce ran a hand over his face. Then he surreptitiously wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers, leaving a dark smear. He was frightened. So was I, to be honest, but I wasn't going to give in to the fear. I was going to use it, the way I always did.

'See me.'

An opportunity to test his theory should never be wasted, Luke Rickard thought.

'See me,' he said again.

Following his telephone conversation with Joe Hunter, he'd sat on the foot of the bed staring into the vanity mirror. Phasing his vision in and out proved ineffective as he peered into the reflective surface, trying to delve beyond his blurred image to what lay beneath. He could feel the serpent coiling in his innards, but he caught no sign of the slithering thing. Only women had the ability to look upon his true essence.

He finally stood up and looked down on the woman lying on the bed. The drug he'd shot into her had ensured that she remained unconscious while he'd bundled her into the FedEx truck and brought her back to her house. Slumped in his arms, he'd carried her here to her bedroom and laid her out on top of the comforter. That was more than two hours ago; by now the drug should have worn off.

'See me, Imogen,' he said.

The day was overcast, precipitation threatening again, so the room was in shadow. Imogen's face was a pale oval beneath her cap of dark hair, her chin tilted on her left shoulder. He could hear her breathing, slow and long exhalations. To all intents and purposes she looked like she was sleeping, but he knew otherwise. Her eyelids were too taut, as though she was holding them closed, and there was no movement beneath them as there would be if she was lost in dreamland.

He leaned in close to her, blowing on her ear. Imogen didn't stir as a sleeping person would have.

'I know you are awake. Open your eyes and look at me.'

Imogen didn't respond, except for the faintest flutter of her lashes.

'I said open your eyes.'

Rickard grasped Imogen's chin in one hand, pinching hard. White blotches surrounded his fingertips but still Imogen didn't respond. Rickard grunted out a laugh.

Releasing her jaw, he trailed his hand down her chest and stomach. She was still in the sweats that she'd worn for her run; damp from the rain. He dipped his hand under the hem of her top and ran his fingers over the warmth of her abdomen. He felt her shudder involuntarily, but to her credit she still feigned unconsciousness. He finger-crawled higher, touching the swell of one breast. She was wearing a plain sports bra, unlike the lace and ribbons and bows that he preferred, but her breasts felt full and firm the way he liked them. Not as full and firm as Alisha's, but in her defence this woman was fifteen years older and silicone-free. He pawed her, then took a breast in his hand and squeezed. He'd have liked to have felt her respond but there was no hardening of the nub beneath his palm.

Maybe the bitch was still under the influence of the tranquilliser.

He slipped his hand from beneath her top, worming his fingers into the waistband of her trousers.

Fucking cotton panties.

He cupped the mound of her pubis. Pushed with his fingers, trying to insert a finger under the elastic.

Imogen came awake like an alley cat.

Shrieking and clawing, she tore at his hand, tore at his face.

Rickard reared away from her, his laughter ringing loud.

'I knew you were awake,' he said.

Imogen tried to bolt from the bed. Rickard grabbed her by an ankle, and she went down chest first on the floor. She kicked and squirmed, and he dragged her back on to the bed, threw her down, her face pushing into the pillows to smother her screams.

Rickard rolled her over, avoiding her nails as they raked at his eyes. He slapped her arms away, then lashed her across the face with his palm. Then he climbed on top of her, bracing his knees either side of her ribs, holding a wrist in each of his hands and forcing them above her head.

'Are you like this when you're with Hunter?'

'Get off me. Get off! Get off!'

'I can see why he likes you, Imogen. Quite the spirited little thing, aren't you?'

Imogen screamed again, words lost in her terror.

Rickard smiled, liking her response. 'I even made myself look like him for you. Though, I must say, I'm more handsome. Don't you agree?'

She screamed again.

Rickard leaned in very close. Imogen thrashed and their foreheads bumped. He forced his head against hers so that she was pressed down against the mattress. They were eye to eye.