Matt Hilton - Cut and run

Luke struck out on his own. Taking his original father's surname, he'd offered his services to the highest bidders. For eighteen years he'd been in the trade. He'd earned his house overlooking the ocean, riches that a mountain boy could never have imagined, and a wife who was his very own slave. Until that bitch had betrayed him and he'd been forced to leave his dream behind.

Jimena Grajales, just like his mother, was another bitch who'd cared only for her selfish needs and thought that he could be slapped aside, but he'd shown her who she was messing with. No stinking whore used and then abandoned him.

Especially not his wife.

'Sleep well?'

'Yes.'

Rink eyed me with his mouth downturned. 'Sure doesn't look like it.'

In truth, my sleep had been disturbed by dreams of Jimena Grajales and her boy dying in the street. When I tried to help them, Jimena sat up and riddled me full of bullets. I'd woken lathered in sweat with the sheets twisted between my fists.

'I only got my head down for a couple hours,' I admitted.

'Here.' He passed me a waxed-paper cup the size of a bucket. 'Just the way you like it: sump oil with an extra shot of espresso.'

I accepted the take-out coffee gratefully, taking a sip. It was scalding hot and tasted as bad as it looked, but it was just what I needed.

'That stuff's gonna kill you.'

'Beats a bullet in the skull,' I told him, thinking again of my nightmare.

We were in a nondescript government car. It wouldn't fool any criminal worth his salt, or Luke Rickard, but it didn't matter. The car was only a means to an end. Rink drove to allow me both hands to control my super-sized caffeine fix.

The Cedars Medical Center, part of the University of Miami Hospital, is situated in the heart of the city, a full service facility providing acute care to over five hundred patients. Alisha had been rushed there after Rickard shot her, but she'd been moved since. There was no way on earth that the FBI Hostage Rescue Team could protect the building or its occupants from an attack by a determined and resourceful killer like Rickard. There were far too many variables to contend with. Many people would die, thousands of dollars' worth of damage would ensue, and possibly millions in lawsuits would follow. Instead, the seriously injured woman had been taken to a private medical centre on the outskirts of Florida City, and a stone's throw away from the Everglades National Park. Smaller location, smaller numbers, easier to defend, that was the thinking behind it all.

We took the South Dixie highway out of the city all the way down past Homestead to Florida City and on to Palm Drive. I missed the twists and turns after that as I concentrated on the last dregs of coffee. Once one base need was seen to, I attended to another. While cooped up in the gilded prison of my hotel room I'd been busy rebuilding my SIG from parts gleaned from other weapons. It would probably have made sense to ditch my old gun and familiarise myself with a new one, but I'd used the modified P226 for so long that it had become an extension of my hand. My palm was familiar with the contours of the grip and anything else would have felt a little alien. While Rink negotiated the roads leading out into the wilderness, I dismantled the gun and put it back together again, checked the slide and the progression of the trigger. I unloaded and then reloaded the magazine, chambered a round. The gun had survived being shot and blown up by a grenade: we had a lot in common. It seemed the injury to my hand had been superficial and I'd held the swelling under control by way of an ice pack. There was some residual pain, but I could live with it.

We followed a road that wound through groves of live oak and bald cypress trees, Spanish moss hanging like old men's beards from the branches. It was daytime, but even then the spidery growths lent a Gothic air to the scene. It reminded me of stories I'd read of haunted swamps and witch-women mumbling curses over animal bones. Myth says that a beautiful bride-to-be was killed by Cherokee warriors, and as a warning to other interlopers on their land her hair was hacked off and thrown in a tree. As time passed, her hair grew grey and withered and spread from tree to tree. The story said that if you tried to remove the hair it would leap away and defend itself with hordes of beetles. Fanciful stuff, but like a lot of soldiers I'm superstitious and felt a trickle of unease at the thought of being eaten alive by a swarm of insects. Of course, there was only one roach I was concerned about.

'You're sure he's coming, huh?'

'No doubt about it, Rink. When Jimena told him that Alisha survived… I don't know… it was like I could feel the anger radiating from him.'

'What's his goddamn problem, anyway? I'd've thought he'd lie low for a while, maybe set himself up a new identity. Who's gonna hire an asshole like him when he can't be trusted any more?'

'The way I see things, he's a complete maniac. He isn't acting rationally; he's being led by more than the lure of money. Always has been, probably.'

'Imogen said the punk would've raped her given the chance. You think he's a sex beast?'

'Yeah, and the contract killing is just a sideline. My guess is that the money has never been that important, it's always been about him fulfilling his sick fantasies.'

'Dirty motherfucker.'

'I'm with you there, buddy.'

'Doesn't explain why he's so proficient with weapons.'

'Never did get to the bottom of that,' I agreed. 'But it doesn't mean a thing now. I know Harvey, though: he won't stop looking until he finds out. Personally, I don't think we'll ever know.'

'Not unless we make him tell us.'

'He won't have the opportunity. First chance I get, I'm putting him down.'

'Not if I beat you to him.' Rink grinned at me. Then he nodded ahead and I saw the outlines of a white building through the trees.

'That the hospital?'

Rink looked at a printed page folded on the dashboard of the car. It was a map of the area that Harvey had supplied us with. 'Outer administration buildings, the hospital's a bit further back. Maybe a little over a mile into the swamp.'

'OK. This is as far as we go.'

Rink pulled the vehicle off the road and down a beaten track. The Spanish moss scraped along the roof of the car. No beetles attacked, but there were plenty of tiny gnats knocked from the branches scuttling down the windscreen. Rink hit the wipers and tiny streaks of blood made rainbows on the glass. 'Hope you fetched plenty of Deet,' I said.

'I don't think you need to worry about that, Hunter. The mosquitoes drink your blood, they'll probably be struck dead by all the caffeine.'

'Either that or they'll be hooked and head off to a Starbucks for their next hit. Both are OK by me.'

'Amen to that,' Rink laughed.

We were engaged in nonsense. It was usually the way we prepared for impending violence. Pretty soon, it would be time for silence. Rink would grow fidgety, I'd go sullen, and then we'd both slide into the calmness more befitting the task ahead.

Anhinga Key Medical Center was a heavy slog through the swamp away from us. Would have been easier by the road, but Hubbard's men would be watching the main approach, and probably many of the lesser trails. We would have to move in via a route unlikely even for someone intent on murder. The plan was to go in, set up a lying-up point and then wait for the inevitable arrival of Luke Rickard. Then we'd kill him. Or at least try to.

His arrival at the remote AKMC was inevitable for two reasons: he wouldn't stop coming until he'd killed Alisha and we had Harvey on the case ensuring that he'd be sent directly to her. I'm not known for placing women in the way of harm, but this was different. Rickard was hell-bent on killing his wife, so it made sense to use her as bait. Harvey was currently hacking into the records at The Cedars so that a simple check would send the killer our way.