Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Walter had organised us rooms at a hotel in downtown Miami, and the limousine dropped us on the third level of a parking garage. We entered the hotel via a connecting walkway and it was now late enough in the evening that we didn't attract too much attention. We were still in the clothing we'd worn during the battle in Colombia, and mine in particular was a mess. What glances we did get from the patrons and staff were of the raised-eyebrow variety, but there was no fear. Maybe they thought we were business executives returning from a team-building exercise and the dried blood on my clothing was paint-ball splatter. Walter and Bryce in their suits added to the look: the older chief execs pardoned the physical stuff and turning up later for brandy and cigars. All that was missing were the call girls.

Hubbard stayed with the limo, heading off to coordinate the effort between the Hostage Rescue Team and the corresponding Miami-Dade police commander. I was glad that he had gone. Now we could make our own plans without watching our words. We headed for the elevator and up to the uppermost level fifteen floors above. Two of Walter's bodyguards trailed behind, and judging by their cool glances they were a little miffed that their mark felt more comfortable when flanked by me or Rink. They were professional enough not to complain, even when Walter made them wait outside in the hall.

The CIA expenses bill would shoot up by thousands of dollars, judging by the opulence of the rooms. Walter had secured the entire floor and we had our pick of four different rich men's apartments. We went off to separate en-suite bathrooms to clean up while Walter and Bryce settled in the fourth room, organising to meet there when I'd scrubbed the blood and stink from my body. When I came out of the shower, I found new jeans, T-shirt and underwear, a pair of boots and a leather jacket lying on the bed. There was even a clinical waste sack to dump my old clothes in, the sack destined for an incinerator someplace. Putting on the fresh clothes made me feel ten times better.

My hair damp, I went back across the hall, shared a joke with the two bodyguards which helped relax them a little, then went inside Walt's room.

'You fall asleep in the bath, Hunter?'

The stench of death had taken some expunging and shampoo and soap had struggled to shift it, but maybe I had lingered under the shower longer than usual. I'd been trying to wash away the sight of Jimena Grajales screaming in sheer hatred as she'd tried to shoot me. I smiled at Rink's jibe, though.

Rink looked as fresh as the proverbial daisy, his hair almost blue under the overhead lighting. Harvey always looks snappy. They both had a new set of clothing like mine. In comparison it was Walter and Bryce who came across as a little rumpled.

'Food's coming,' Bryce announced. But none of us was interested yet.

I looked at Walter. 'Hubbard's running the show now? I didn't expect him to show up.'

Walter had claimed a huge easy chair but it struggled to contain his bulky body. With his bald pate and fringe of grey hair round his ears, he looked a lot like my grandfather. All that was lacking from the picture was the smouldering pipe, but Walter helped by taking out his cigar that he wedged between his teeth. He didn't light it: he never did. He chewed it as he spoke. 'Nothing I could do about that. My power isn't infinite, you should know that.'

'You normally have more say than a feebie SAC does,' I said.

He sniffed as though my comment came with a nasty smell. 'Orders came direct from the J. Edgar Hoover building this time. All the way from the top, and even I don't tramp those corridors. It's enough that I'm still being given the courtesy of being kept in the loop.'

'How does this affect our arrangement?'

'Things stay the same as far as I'm concerned, son.' He indicated my friends. 'All of you. But I can't promise that anyone else will see things my way.'

I shrugged. 'Doesn't matter.'

Walter laughed, tugging out the cigar to emphasise his point. 'You'll probably do things your way as usual. It doesn't matter if I give you official sanction or not.'

'I've a man looking to kill me. The way I see it is I've a right to protect myself.'

'Self-defence won't be any defence if you go looking for trouble, Hunter,' Bryce chipped in.

'That's why I'm going to let Rickard come to me this time.'

The food arrived but the bodyguards took it from the hotel staff and wheeled it into the room on a trolley. They eyed the coffee pots wistfully, but Walter ushered them out the room again. At my frown, Walter told one of them to order themselves a pot brought up, which elicited me a grateful nod from one of the men. I'd just scored myself some points, which was good: I'd been at the other end of this scenario on so many occasions that sometimes I thought that the mark saw me as an invaluable piece of furniture to be ignored. The occasional small kindness reminded a BG that you were worth taking a bullet for.

The first coffee I gulped barely caressed the sides of my throat and I moved on to my second. I didn't have much of an appetite for the sandwiches Bryce had ordered, but the coffee was damn good, and well received. I felt a spark ignite inside me as the caffeine kicked in. I reached for a third mug. Then I got down to what was important. Luke Rickard would be coming soon – there was no doubt in my mind – and I wanted to be ready for him. My SIG Sauer demanded attention.

Nineteen eighty-two.

That was the year the serpent first wormed its way up from his bowel and coiled a nest in his gut. He remembered it well.

He was hiding in the woodshed, safe among the cobwebs and spiders and the smell of pine resin, listening to the shrieking of his mother and the man he'd been ordered to call Father as they fought drunkenly inside the cabin. The screaming was nothing new. It had gone on almost since the first day that Etienne Pagnon had moved in. Usually eight-year-old Luke would lie low until the arguing stopped and Mother and Etienne disappeared inside her room. Then the other noises would start. But this time it was different. This time the yelling had gone on for much longer.

He heard a crash as though furniture had been thrown over and splintered on the hardwood floor. Then there was no more screaming.

He waited.

At Etienne's drunken stumbling, Mother would usually rant at him for his clumsiness. But Mother was silent.

From his hiding place, Luke crept forwards and placed an eye to a knothole in the shed wall. He blinked slowly, peering through the evening gloom towards the only home he'd known in all of his life. Dull light from the overhead bulb in the living room was blocked by a ragged blanket nailed over the window, but the blanket was threadbare and he could see a swelling shadow moving slowly for the front door. Luke ducked back, fearful of being seen.

He held his breath, listening. He heard the latch lift and the door creak open on rusty hinges and heavy footfall down the steps. There was a thud. Then followed a sound the like of which he'd never heard before, like a wild beast howling at the sky in open-throated fury. Luke huddled back, as though the noise itself was alive and would find him in his hiding place. The howl petered out, became a bark that turned to a series of grunts; Luke realised he was listening to laughter.

As silently as he could, he crept back to the knothole and peered out.

Etienne was on his knees in the yard and he was hauling down on the front of his shirt as he laughed like a madman. There were streaks on his shirt and on his hands. In the evening shadow they looked like dirt, but even the boy's young mind understood what they were.

'Mother?'

He hadn't meant to speak out loud, but he must have, because Etienne's laughter stopped. His head lowered and he looked directly at the woodshed. Luke moved quickly from the hole and hid under a stack of pilings leaning against the opposite wall. At any second he thought that the door would burst open and Etienne would come inside, pulling off the wide leather belt he'd used in the past. But Etienne didn't come.