Matt Hilton - Cut and run

We entered an office at the end of the hall, a utilitarian area with work desks and PCs and laser printers. There were chairs at the desks but nobody sat.

'So what's the deal?'

Walter chuckled to himself. 'There's a lot to go over, Hunter, but first things first. I've got a deal for you.'

'Spit it out, then.'

Hubbard crossed his arms on his chest, not fully at ease with what Walter was about to offer but with no recourse but to go along with the black-ops controller's plan.

'You've been a loose cannon since your arrival in the US. It's time to change that.'

I looked at Walter. 'I'm not standing down. Someone's trying to hurt me and people round me: I'm going to stop them.'

Walter nodded at my words.

'We don't want you to step down.'

Hubbard muttered something under his breath, but I paid him no heed. My attention was fully on Walter.

He smiled. 'I want you to step up. I want you to come back and work for me, Hunter. As a fully sanctioned asset.'

I just knew it.

It was time to check in with a progress report.

It wouldn't be good.

His plan to sate his need for dominance over Imogen Ballard had been ruined by the untimely arrival of that damned old man and his idiot grandson. Plus, he'd had to leave behind incriminating evidence: there'd be fingerprints in Imogen's car which he'd intended destroying by setting the car ablaze. Worse than that, her survival meant that Imogen could describe him and there was no way now that he could continue with the plan to implicate Joe Hunter in his crimes. The surgery he'd undergone – and the time spent recuperating – had been a complete waste of time.

But he wasn't bothered by that.

He was one for more direct action, anyway: crash through their defences, cut them down. He didn't care for this charade where Hunter was set up. He should have just shot the man when he had him in the sights of his rifle, not fooled around playing Hunter the way his employer asked. He could have put a 7.62 mm round through the base of Hunter's spine. Made a paraplegic of him, consigned him to a wheelchair for the rest of his days: supreme torture to a man of constant action. His employer should know that, it had been quoted often enough when the plan was outlined: 'Death is not the greatest of evils; it is worse to want to die, and not be able to.'

He pressed buttons on his phone and it was answered immediately.

'It's Rickard.'

'What happened?'

'You've heard the news, then?'

'The wonders of modern technology…'

'A series of unforeseen circumstances,' Rickard said.

'I expect more from people working for me. You should have made contingencies.'

'I'm alive. Joe Hunter's on the run. What's the problem?'

'A trail that could lead back to me?'

'It won't lead back to you.'

'The woman can identify you. So can the forensics.'

Rickard laughed. 'All the forensics will do is lead them to a dead end. As for the woman, she can only tell them what I look like now. It's a simple matter to change my appearance. It isn't as if I haven't done so before, is it?'

There was a pause on the line.

'Where are you, Rickard?'

'Back in Miami. We had a bumpy and roundabout route, but your pilot was good. I'm confident that we made it here undetected. It was a shame I had to silence him.'

'And Joe Hunter?'

'Don't know.'

'Find out.'

Easier said than done: now Hunter was a fugitive and had gone underground. Rickard had always known that part of the plan would cause problems later. Still, he was confident he could draw him out into the open whenever he chose.

'Hunter will be looking for me,' he said. 'All I need to do is wait for him to show up.'

'Kill him. I see now that I should've let you have your way from the outset. It seems like the woman was an inconsequential part of the plan. We made an error in including her; Hunter was involved with her sister, not Imogen as we first thought.'

'Knowing how Hunter thinks, it wouldn't make any difference.'

'You're right.' Rickard was surprised by his employer's candour; before, mistakes had always been laid at other people's feet. Something about this turn of events was troubling. 'Why didn't you simply kill her when you had the opportunity?'

'You wanted her tortured first, remember? Someone – I suspect it was Hunter – tipped off the police and they arrived before I could get it done.'

'And the boathouse?'

'It wasn't as deserted as your people thought. I was disturbed by the owners and had to get out before the police arrived.'

'You couldn't just kill her before you left?'

Rickard wasn't about to say that Imogen had caught him off-guard and knocked him into the water before tearing free from the rotted beam he'd cuffed her to. In hindsight, both had been supreme errors of judgement. Slips like that would plant more than a seed of doubt into his employer's mind about his ability to finish the job. And that simply wouldn't do.

'Circumstances overtook me,' was all he'd say in reply.

'Then let us ensure that circumstances always bend our way in future.'

The dial tone cut in.

Hung up on again? Rickard jammed his phone into his pocket. He fucking hated that. And he fucking hated his employer. If it wasn't for the huge sum of money he was being paid he would forfeit the work in exchange for putting a bullet in the unctuous bastard's face, after he'd introduced the serpent by way of its ceramic-bladed fangs.

He was in the private parking lot under the tower where he lived with Alisha. Thirteen floors above him, in the converted loft, his beautiful young wife would be waiting for him. She wouldn't be expecting him back yet. Nice surprise coming, Alisha honey.

He locked his Lexus, the tools of his trade secure in a hidden compartment under the back seat, and walked through the silence and faint exhaust fumes of the underground lot. Other cars were parked in their allotted spaces, but it was a work day and many of the tower's residents were out, so much of the lot was empty. His heels tapped the concrete, the echo a faint drum roll in his ears. It was like the build-up to a shocking turn of events.

He wondered again about his employer's words. Where are you?

He stopped and listened.

Checked the shadows.

Nothing.

Don't get paranoid, he told himself.

He called the elevator, taking out his keys that would allow him private access to the uppermost floor. While the elevator descended with a mechanical roar, he placed his back to the doors and spied back into the parking lot. There was no movement, no subtle sounds of a man in hiding. He exhaled. Turned as the doors swept open and he took a step inside.

The man standing in the elevator held something in his right hand. He was in the process of lifting it.

Rickard jerked, and so did the man.

But then the man came forwards with a sheepish grin on his face.

'Jeez! Don't you just hate it when that happens?' he said.

'Gave me the fright of my life,' Rickard laughed.

The man weaved round Rickard, continuing to bring his mobile phone to his ear. Over his shoulder, he said, 'Have a nice day, buddy.'

'You too,' Rickard said, as he pushed his key into the override control and flicked it to the extreme right and jabbed fourteen. Rickard's fingers were trembling as he watched the man walk away to his Mercedes.

His shivering wasn't fear. It was a release of the violence that jolted through his system at the man's appearance. The man had been a split second from having his windpipe collapsed before Rickard had checked himself. He didn't recognise the man as a tenant of the building, but he'd never socialised with any of them before so he could very well be. What he had recognised was that the object in his hand was nothing more dangerous than a mobile phone.