Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

That isn't going to happen, I promised myself.

I was back at the bottom of the stairs, standing at the entrance to the kitchen. The only sound from the public area now was the tick of the Dodge Ram's cooling engine. Someone – most likely Sheriff Aitken – had turned it off.

For a brief moment I considered going into the restaurant. Two outstanding issues needing resolving in there. First off, I had to decide what to do with Aitken. I couldn't kill the man in cold blood, so I had to leave him as I had Judge Wallace. They would be dealt with by the law of the land. Second, I needed transportation out to the airport. The Dodge was available. But the truck was too visible a target.

With the SIG and Glock 17 pushed down the waistband of my jeans, I moved over to the door I'd come in by. The Magnum I placed on the stainless-steel counter in the kitchen. It was no good to me any more.

It was still snowing.

The deserted streets were tranquil beneath the fall of virgin snow. There was a hush, the blizzard blanketing and deadening all sound. The sidewalk looked pristine; not a footprint in sight. Pulling up my collar, I stepped outside and broke the image. My trail led away from le Coeur de la Ville.

As a rule I love snow.

But occasionally it can be as great an enemy as any other. I could only hope that it hadn't brought the airport to a standstill. Something like that could slow me down more than any number of killers.

Before today Larry Bolan had never been knocked unconscious.

He'd battled all his life and some of those he'd gone up against had occasionally got their licks in. But he'd always brushed off their punches, laughed in their faces, and then smashed them into the ground.

To have it happen to him twice in the same day was bordering on ridiculous. The only good thing about both bouts of senselessness was that he'd actually come out of them alive.

After he wakened in the forest, Trent had been there with him. This time, his first thought was that Trent was gone. The loss of his little brother hit him afresh. But Larry wasn't the crying type; he was the type that raged against grief. The pint of whisky he'd downed didn't help his frame of mind either.

He came up from beneath the wreckage of the bar like an erupting volcano. When the Dodge had slammed into it, he was fortunate that he had been in a crouch. At the last second he'd managed to duck his head, avoiding decapitation, and the truck had knocked the bar over and on top of him. He'd slammed his head on something hard and gone out as if a light switch had been flicked. The bar top had formed a shield between the truck and his collapsed body. The walnut board had been his saviour, but now it was only an encumbrance. He lifted it on his shoulders as he came to his feet, and hurled it aside with a roar of anger.

Then he stood blinking at the carnage.

Le Coeur de la Ville wasn't such a fancy-assed restaurant any more.

The Dodge was further along the wall from him. After it slammed the bar, the vehicle had continued to push forwards, seeking escape, but it had been nudged and bounced and had ended up jammed in a corner of the building. Its hood was angled towards the ceiling, the front wheels balanced on a pile of smashed tables and chairs.

His eyes were a little unfocussed, but Larry saw movement in the cab.

He thought it might be the man who'd killed Trent, but that didn't make sense. What would be the point of ramming the truck into the restaurant and then sitting there doing nothing?

Shards of glass tinkled off him as he pushed through the drift of demolished furniture. There were small slivers in his hair, and he could feel a powdery residue on his face. He stank of spilled liquor. A couple of minor scratches on his hands stung like crazy. The wound in his shoulder was on fire. Otherwise he was unharmed.

But his truck was bashed all to hell.

Whoever the man who killed Trent was, Larry had already sworn to kill him. Now, seeing his beautiful Grand Taurino in a state, he swore that he would do more than kill him; he was going to wipe him and everything he held dear out of existence.

'Who's there?' a voice called from inside the cab.

'Aitken?'

'Larry? Is that you?'

Larry clambered up the pile of shattered tables, his heel skidding in a pool of oily liquid, and then grabbed at the driver's door handle to pull himself upright. Peering in the open window, he saw Sheriff Aitken with a bruise on his jaw and a tiny cut on his forehead. The windscreen was starred from where Aitken's head had slammed against it when the truck rammed through the front of the building.

'What the hell have you done to my truck?'

'I didn't do this, Larry.' Aitken tried to pull his hands away from the steering wheel so that Larry could see the cuffs. 'See?'

'You could have still steered the damn thing.'

'The guy had a goddamn gun to my head.' Aitken began rattling at the cuffs. 'Get me outa here, will ya?'

'He was with you all the way inside?'

'No,' Aitken said. 'He jumped off at the last second. He was going in the back way after Huffman. There was nothing I could do, Larry. Anyway, it's just a truck!'

'Just a truck?'

Larry didn't like Jim Aitken. He was a pussy stooge if ever he'd seen one. And he knew that Aitken didn't like him much either. Plus, Aitken absolutely hated Trent.

'You could've taken your foot off the gas.'

'The guy jammed it down with a goddamn wrench,' Aitken shouted. Then he started pulling at the cuffs in frustration. 'Are you gonna do something, Larry?'

'Yeah, hold still. I'm gonna do something.' Larry reached inside the cab with both his huge hands.

'About time…'

Larry clamped both hands round Aitken's head and twisted violently. The sound of vertebrae snapping was like the discharge of a small bore rifle.

'You should've kicked the goddamn wrench away,' Larry said to the dead sheriff.

Larry negotiated his way through the furniture wreckage so that he was again on steady footing. He wiped his boot heel on the carpet, wondering what the hell he'd stood in. Probably some kind of food dressing with a name he couldn't pronounce. It didn't matter. It was of no more concern to him than the man he'd just murdered.

He took a look at the front of the building. The entire glass front was gone, most of it spread through the interior of the building. The snow was falling fat and heavy. It was a whiteout. Some of the flakes were finding their way inside and drifting on currents of air. In this neck of the Appalachians snow wasn't unknown, but it was a long time since Larry had seen a blizzard of this strength. Further along the passes would stay blocked, for a couple of days at least. The only way out of Little Fork would be by foot or by flight. So he left the Dodge where it was.

He pushed through into the kitchen area. It was in darkness, but there was ambient light nudging in through the service door at the back. That was where Trent's killer had come in. He swung immediately into the stairwell that led to Huffman's offices on the top floor. He listened but couldn't hear a thing.

He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but he had the feeling that the man had already gone. He climbed the stairs to the first landing. He saw Eric Conroy lying dead at the base of the next flight of stairs, a hole the size of a rosebud in his gut. Larry kicked him over and saw the rose had bloomed on his back. He checked but Conroy wasn't armed. That wasn't like Conroy, Larry thought. Huffman's fetch-and-carry boy was never without his Glock 17. Trent's murderer was amassing quite a gun collection.

He stepped over the dead man and mounted the final flight of stairs. Lights were on above him. He watched for shadows, but there was no movement so he entered the first office and saw the door open to the next room. He listened. He could hear breathing. Someone had taken a knock and was breathing raggedly. Larry was familiar with the sound: he'd knocked enough men unconscious that he recognised it.