Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

Through his gag, Aitken muttered something unintelligible.

Pulling the gag from his mouth, I allowed him a deep breath. When he'd finished working his jaw, he said, 'Locals. They're just simple folk taking a wage. If they suspect what their employer is involved in, they know enough to keep their noses out of it.'

'What's the likelihood of any of them being inside?'

'By now? Very slim. Even the lights in the kitchen are off.' Aitken indicated narrow windows on the lower level. They were in darkness.

'That's good.'

'You're not thinking of going in there, are you?'

'Who's going to be with Huffman?'

'Don't know for sure. Trent and… uh… I mean Larry Bolan could be there. Maybe a couple of others.'

'What about the hicks who attacked me and Kate on the mountain?'

'They'll be long gone. Probably drinking to their friends' memory, by now.'

My mouth made a tight slash. Aitken lifted his shoulders, but it wasn't an apology.

'You mentioned real men that Huffman has working for him. They here yet?'

'Could be.' The way he licked his lips said otherwise. I reached across and dragged the gag back into place. Pointless talking to him when he was only going to lie.

'Can I trust you to keep quiet a minute or two?'

Aitken nodded.

'Don't suppose I can.'

I struck him on his jaw, just a quick backhander that he didn't see coming. His head rolled on his meaty chest, breath whistling through his nose.

Pulling out Kate's mobile phone, I punched in numbers.

'Kate?'

'It's me, Rink.'

'What're you doing on Kate's phone?'

'Long story,' I said. I told him what had gone on and what I'd discovered since. Then I said, 'I'm going to get Kate back.'

'I'll pack some things an' I'll be there in a couple hours.'

'No, Rink. You concentrate on putting Rupert Heavey away first.'

'Heavey can kiss my ass! I'm coming up there, Hunter.'

'The case could be dropped.'

'If it's dropped, so be it. We can always put Heavey down another time.' His words were laden; no doubt about it.

'We can't do that, Rink. He's a creep, yeah, but he doesn't deserve that.'

'You know there's more than one way to skin a cat, Hunter.'

'I can't wait a couple hours. I have to do this now. They've got Kate.' Beside me, Aitken was stirring from slumber. I could see movement behind his eyelids. 'Hold on a second, Rink.'

I gave Aitken another tap on the jaw and his eyeballs rolled up into his skull.

To Rink, I said, 'Before you hightail it up here I need you to do something for me.'

'Go on.'

'A guy called Robert Huffman's at the head of this. Apparently he has connections to organised crime over in Dallas, Texas. Can you see what you can dig up on him? Also, who he might have at his beck and call?'

'I'll do that. You still want who owned the Dodge Ram?'

'Larry Bolan?'

'You already figured that out, huh? Lawrence Grey Bolan. Bad dude, Hunter. One of twins. Trent Bolan's the brother. Extra bad.'

'Trent's gone.'

'Say what?'

I told Rink about the fight in the workshop.

'Shit, Hunter. Haven't I told you a dozen times-'

'We don't have a licence to kill any more? I know, Rink. Still want to come up here?'

'Are you kidding me? I'll be on the next flight.'

'Give me a call when you get in.'

'Just make sure you're around to answer it, brother,' Rink said.

When Rink calls me brother it holds extra significance. It means that he's worried about me. I didn't want him to be concerned; I just wanted him there with me. If there's anyone I'd trust with my life it's Rink. I have a real brother, John, but I'd be hard pushed to choose which one of them I love the most.

I hung up and put the phone back in my pocket. Along the street the lights in the 7-Eleven went out. An old guy, bent against the drifting snow, locked up and then wandered away into the storm. I watched him go. There was no one else around.

I started the Dodge.

Leaning over, I slapped Aitken out of his dreams.

'Wake up. It's time to get useful.'

Larry Bolan could be mean in drink.

Whisky in particular brought out the animal in him.

He had anger issues when he was sober, let alone when the buzz of liquor was in his head. For that reason he had not touched a drop of alcohol in the last twelve years. Last time he'd downed a pint of JD, he and Trent had gone on a wrecking spree that saw three bars closed for renovation and six guys in hospital. One of the guys had never walked right afterwards and one lived on pureed meals for six months while his jaw went through reconstructive surgery. A cop took medical retirement – and gave up his dreams of fatherhood – when Larry flattened his testicles with a kick. It also got both Larry and Trent an eighteen-month stretch at the State Pen at Eddyville.

Drink had sent him inside. Drink had also killed his daddy. Larry did not drink again.

Until now.

Because the alcohol made him surly, he chose to drink alone. Down in the fancy restaurant he downed two fingers of Scotch in memory of his little brother. Then he drank another two, promising Trent that he'd be avenged. His next two fingers were just for the hell of it. After that he began to lose count.

Two fingers of whisky was nothing to a drinking man, but not many of them had fingers as thick as Larry Bolan's. He looked down at his hands. He wished he'd just throttled the hell out of the Englishman, like he'd started to do. Another squeeze and his head would have popped right off. Trent would still be alive.

'And I'd be fuckin' sober.'

Larry placed his empty glass on the counter. He lifted the bottle of imported Aberlour Scotch whisky and saw that it was empty too. Eighty dollars a bottle – Huffman would just have to dock it from the blood money he'd promised to pay for Trent. Larry looked for another bottle from behind the bar. The bar was fancy. Polished walnut. Stain-free. Not at all like the bars where Larry and Trent hung out when they were younger. He didn't recognise most of the brands of liquor arranged on the shelves. What the hell was wrong with stocking some good ol' Kentucky sour mash? He stooped down, rooting under the walnut instead.

He heard the roar of an engine.

His ears were buzzing with the Aberlour.

But he recognised the sound.

The Grand Taurino.

Raising his head level with the bar top, he squinted towards the front of the restaurant. The specially coated windows made it difficult to see outside. All he could see was a wash of blazing light.

The engine roared louder.

'You have got to be kidding me!'

The windows imploded, and the roaring Dodge followed the cascading glass, throwing aside tables and condiments and flower arrangements. The monster truck wasn't held up by the furniture; it simply smashed it aside or ground it beneath its massive tyres. It came on.

Directly towards Larry.

Slowed by the liquor, he was caught in the awkward position of rising. Left or right, he couldn't make a decision, and instead could only watch transfixed as the Dodge roared at him. The headlights were thrown to full beam and light also blazed from the rack on the cab. His hands came up in reflex, but his strength was no match for a monster truck. It smashed the walnut off its moorings, ramming the board backwards with decapitating tenacity. Larry went down amidst shattering glasses and bottles, experiencing a crushing weight that took away his senses faster than any amount of strong liquor could achieve.

Men had died by my hand this night. I had held two men under a gun, then killed one of them when the situation degenerated out of control. I'd forcibly fought clear of a police attempt at taking me down. Shot at officers of the law. I'd kidnapped and – to all intents and purposes – tortured a sheriff. So, a little criminal damage was the least of my crimes.