Matt Hilton - Cut and run

'There's only one man going to get hurt round here. Take another step and I'll drop you.'

Imogen crawled round behind the man, placing him between her and Rickard. She came to her knees. 'Shoot him.'

The old man ignored her, steadying his aim on Rickard's chest.

'I'm warning you, mister, I did two tours in 'Nam. It was a long time ago, but I still remember how to fire a gun. Now drop the knife and step out here where I can see you.'

Rickard only sneered at the man. Then his gaze shifted to Imogen.

'We're not finished, bitch. You think you've got a protector, but no one will stop me. Not him. Not Joe Hunter. I'll see you again.'

Then he turned quickly and disappeared back inside the boathouse.

The old man grunted, started after him, but Imogen's warning cry brought him to a halt. 'He has a gun in there.'

The man retreated, took hold of Imogen's arm and heaved her up. Holding her, he moved backwards with his rifle braced against his shoulder, watching the doorway in case Rickard reappeared.

They made it part-way up the trail when the roar of an engine sounded from within the boathouse.

'Damn it, he's going to get away,' the man muttered. 'Where's that fool boy got to with the police?'

Beside him Imogen didn't seem to care. She was sobbing and trembling in relief. Or maybe it was fear, because Rickard's warning had been served with a certainty that was chilling.

We heard the news about Imogen's miraculous escape on the car radio and a tsunami of relief crashed through my senses and left me dizzy. I'm not a praying man, but I said my silent thanks to God.

We'd bypassed Culver by then, but Rink immediately spun the car in the road and headed for the small town. It was taking a big risk because the area would be swarming with cops, but I needed to satisfy myself that Imogen wasn't merely safe but unharmed. I also wanted to speak with her. It was possible that she could tell me who my enemy was.

We were still a couple of miles from Culver when Rink's phone chimed. He put it on speaker so we could all hear. Harvey Lucas was already doing his magic with his computer.

'Law enforcement's trying to track a plane that took off from Trenton without filing a flight plan. They think our boy's on board 'cause the pilot's doing his damndest to avoid radar.'

'Direction?' I asked.

'South.'

'Back towards Florida,' Bryce Lang assumed. 'We came here for nothing, just like I said.'

'Not for nothing,' I told him. 'I came here for Imogen Ballard and I'm not leaving until I'm sure she's out of harm's way. I owe her that: she shouldn't have to suffer for our crimes, Bryce.'

'Everything we did was lawfully sanctioned, Hunter.'

'Lawfully sanctioned, my arse! Even if it was an approved hit, does that make what happened to Jimena and the boy OK with you?'

'That's the way of war. Collateral damage is-'

'The death of innocents,' I finished for him. 'Whichever way the CIA looks at it. And I'm not prepared to let that happen to Imogen.'

'It hasn't happened to Imogen,' Bryce argued. 'She's safe now. We should go after the killer instead of wasting any more time.'

I stared at him until he closed his eyes in defeat. The silence was rather strained. Harvey coughed, maybe to remind us he was still at the other end of the phone. 'What's the latest from Tampa, Harve?' I asked.

'Mixed messages at best. Ballistics have shown that the weapon used to kill the two cops was an M40 sniper rifle. They know now that you couldn't've been the shooter, but your guess that they'd assume you had an accomplice is still the main theory.'

'So they're still looking for me?'

'Big style,' Harvey said. 'Rink, too, seeing as he's harbouring a felon. And because he has marksman training.'

Rink grunted, sounding amused.

It stood to reason that we'd be on the Most Wanted list, but right then I didn't care. If we stopped the real killer everything would be put right. I was thinking about the rifle that the shooter had used to kill Castle and Soames. The M40A1 is a specialist rifle developed for and handmade for Marine Corps snipers by craftsmen at Quantico, Virginia. Based on the Remington 700, it was a heavy barrelled rifle, bolt action and fed by an internal magazine of five 7.62 mm rounds. Not the kind of gun that was readily available on the open market. It made me think again that the shooter came from a military background. Maybe he'd even trained at the Marine Corps Training Unit in Quantico.

I told Harvey my theory.

'I'll look into it and cross-reference names against anyone who has served in Colombia.'

'Thanks, Harvey,' I said. 'Keep us updated with anything on the plane's whereabouts, OK?'

'Will do. What's your plan now? You heading back home?'

'Not yet. I have to see Imogen first.'

'Right,' he said. 'Give her my best, huh? I'll see y'all back in Florida.'

'You're flying over?'

'I am. I'm more use to you there than I am in Little Rock.'

We said our goodbyes while Rink aimed the 4x4 along the last quarter-mile of road to Culver. The town was very small, with the number of cops on scene boosting the population tenfold. Really it was just a collection of houses strung out along the road that hugged the coastline. Most of the police cruisers were parked near to a timber-framed house that looked like the one Norman Bates called home. A narrow track was cordoned off with crime scene tape, leading no doubt to the boathouse where Imogen had made her break for freedom.

'She'll be gone from here by now,' Rink said.

'Nearest hospital?'

'More likely she's been taken to a police station,' Bryce said. 'They'll want to interview her as soon as possible.'

The parked police cars bore the livery of the Hancock County Sheriff Department and also some from the local police. Often the sheriff and police departments shared offices to keep down running costs, so it was no stretch of the imagination to think Imogen had been taken to Ellsworth, the nearest large town.

Rink was cautious passing the throng of police and we barely registered with them as we went past. Then he stomped the throttle and we headed for Ellsworth. On the way I came to a decision.

'No way can I con my way into a police station. Neither could you, Rink. By now our faces will be on every bulletin board in the USA.'

Bryce peered across at me. 'You want me to do it?'

He didn't appear too happy at the idea.

'No, Bryce. I have to do this myself. I have to see Imogen face to face.'

'They'll arrest you.'

'Probably,' I said. But I'd been taken prisoner by worse jailers than the HCSD before now, and no one had managed to hold me long. The only difference here was that on those other occasions I'd hurt people – killed others – and that was unthinkable this time. 'I'm not worried. I can prove I had nothing to do with the shooting of the cops.'

'There's always Jessica and her father. They still think you were responsible for that,' Bryce said.

'That was before the real killer targeted Imogen. Her testimony can clear things up.'

Rink stirred. 'Not necessarily, Hunter. Before he died, Linden Case named you as his attacker and his daughter's murderer. Even if they don't arrest you they'll have to talk to you about it. They'll want to know every detail about how the two cops died in Tampa. Whether you're behind bars or not, you won't see the outside of a police station any time soon.'

His words made sense, but I wanted to reassure myself of Imogen's safety more than I was concerned about my liberty. Also, I was growing tired of running from something I was innocent of and the few hours it would take to clear my name would be time well spent. I'd rather be chasing this man without having to keep one eye over my shoulder in case a well-meaning cop put a bullet in my spine.