Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

'The fuck's his problem?' Trent enquired, then he leaned out the window and yelled at the man. Larry closed his eyes, flinching with every word rocketing around inside his skull. When he blinked open his eyes the man had stepped up on to the kerb. Larry drove into the alley.

'Should have run the fucker over,' Trent said. 'Inconsiderate bastard!'

'Trent…'

Trent blinked across at him. 'What's up, bro?'

Larry could only shake his head.

Arriving at their lock-up, Trent clambered out and set to the padlock. As Trent cursed loudly, Larry reached for his Magnum. But it wasn't there. Good job, because this time he really would have put a round through his brother's skull.

When Trent opened the door, Larry drove the SUV into the workshop. He didn't turn off the headlights until Trent found the light switch and bathed the shop with stark light. Larry climbed out of the vehicle, trailing a string of viscous gunk that clung to the sleeve of his jacket. Gross! he thought, wiping the congealed blood on the hood of the SUV.

'Jesus Christ, Larry,' Trent moaned. 'You don't have to make things worse than they already are!'

'Shut the fuck up, will ya?' Larry walked over to a tool bench arranged along the far wall. He was pretty sure he had a stash of morphine somewhere. His head was pounding, and his nose was full of the stink of Tom and Richie's brains. God knows what the hell he had sticking to his clothes. 'How could things get any worse?'

'Maybe I can answer that.'

At the sound of my voice the two men turned to stare at me. They were the biggest human beings I'd ever seen, and between them they almost blocked out my view of the far wall. I'd thought that Rink was big, but next to these men he'd have looked slight. It made me feel like a child in comparison.

The difference between us was really measured by the fact that I was armed and they weren't. The SIG made me the top dog in the room.

Both men looked at me, then down at the gun.

'Either of you fancy your chances?' I brought up the SIG so that it was aimed directly at the face of the man with the odd eyes. He was the most vocal and likely to be the most irrational.

'You're the asshole who was blocking our way,' he said, pointing a hand at me. He rolled the hand into a fist the size of a Sunday roast. 'You want to fuck with me because I bawled you out?'

The other man turned fractionally. 'Trent? It's the goddamn man from the woods.'

Nodding in confirmation, I moved further into what I now could see was a mechanical workshop. There were tools arranged on the wall, a pit under the parked SUV. Perished oil made dark patches on the floor and had made its way on to the walls and furniture too.

'I recognise your voice,' said the man I'd pistol-whipped. 'What are you? English?'

I didn't bother answering. Instead, I asked, 'Why are you after Imogen Ballard?'

Both men exchanged glances. I saw something in their faces that I hadn't noticed before. It wasn't obvious face-on, but when they turned in profile I saw that they had the same shaped features. Kind of Neanderthal.

'You're brothers, right?' I said, advancing a step. 'So who's the youngest out of you?'

'We're twins,' said the man with the odd eyes. Trent, the other had called him.

'So you're the youngest then?' It was the way he'd answered, as though in defence of his pride, that told me. I turned my attention to the eldest brother. 'OK, it's like this: you tell me everything or I shoot your little brother. How does that sound?'

A strange look passed over the man's face, but it wasn't fear of my threat. 'He's big enough to look after himself. Why'd I care if you shot him?'

Trent scowled at his brother, but it was as if he saw the humour in the words and he started huffing out a laugh.

'Fair enough,' I said.

Then I shot the youngest brother.

His left knee buckled where my bullet punched through it, and as big and strong as he appeared, he still went down on the ground screaming.

'Motherfucker!' His brother lurched towards me. I brought up the SIG so he had a good look directly down the barrel.

'See,' I said. 'I knew you were bluffing.'

The older brother had come to a halt again. His face was painted with rage. 'I'm gonna rip your fucking head off for that.'

'No, big man, what you're going to do is start talking.' I moved the SIG so it was once more pointing at his brother. 'Otherwise I'll show you what a hollow-point can do to a face already that ugly.'

Some people have decried the effectiveness of the P228 over its predecessor the P226. With the nine mm parabellum ammo having less stopping power than.45 ball, some military and law enforcement officers prefer other sidearms. However, I didn't see the problem. When loaded with hollow-point ammunition, the P228 has enough power to stop a charging rhinoceros. It would easily blow the man's face apart, however huge his head was.

Taking another step, I held out my gun with both arms at full stretch in what's known as a stressfire isosceles stance. It's one of the stances favoured by Israeli Special Forces, designed for point shooting under extreme duress. It's also damn intimidating as the stance suggests that you are aiming directly at a specific target and about to discharge your weapon.

The older brother's hands came up. 'OK, OK, easy now. I do care about my goddamn brother. What is it you want to know?'

'Start with your names,' I told him.

'Larry. That's Trent.'

'Second names.'

'Don't fucking tell him,' Trent groaned from the floor. Some of the shock of having been crippled had dissipated, but none of the agony. I guessed these men were used to pain. So I shot him in the other knee.

'Aw,' was all Larry said as he looked down at his screaming brother.

'Let's keep this conversation strictly between us from now on,' I told him.

'Bolan,' Larry yelled. 'It's fucking Bolan, OK?'

'Got it. Now you tell me who you work for.'

There was a little reticence in Larry's posture, so I fired again. This time into the wall behind his head. He must have felt the heat of the bullet passing his ear, it was so close.

'Robert Huffman.'

'Is he from here? Little Fork?'

'Dallas, Texas. He has offices there.'

'But he also has offices here?'

'Yeah.'

I fired another round the other side of his head.

'Let's speed this up a little, shall we? Give me the address.'

There was murder in Larry Bolan's eyes but he told me the address. Some office block in the affluent central district. Above a restaurant, he said.

'Why does he want the woman?'

Larry Bolan must have known the consequences of lying because he told me enough to make a considered guess. I shook my head in disgust: people dying for greed was nothing new.

When he was done, I saw Larry glance down at Trent and there was tenderness in his gaze not normally associated with hard-asses.

'You going to let us live?' Larry asked me.

'Would you let me live if the circumstances were reversed?'

'Sure, I would.' A smile crept over his face, and fleetingly I wondered if he'd seen something I was unaware of. Maybe a confederate sneaking up behind me.

But it wasn't that at all.

It was resignation.

'I'd keep you alive while I ripped your arms out of your sockets. I'd gut you and make you watch as I stamped your guts all over the floor.'

'Sounds entertaining.'

I knew it was coming before he even moved. I could see the tightening of his hands, the creases appearing next to his eyes, the slight dip of his body. He was coiling for the attack. Larry had realised he was going to die, but he wasn't about to give in without a fight.

Squaring my SIG on his chest, I prepared for the tell-tale widening of the eyelids.