Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

Something about the no show of the police was beginning to bother me. Made me wonder what the hell was going on. Maybe Aitken and Wallace were just a little slow on the uptake, but surely one of them – or their people – would have thought to check out the airport by now? Maybe Huffman had ordered them to back off. If I was locked in a prison cell it would take away the enjoyment of having me battle his hired guns: I wouldn't be much of a challenge to them then. Plus, my usefulness in finding Imogen Ballard would be nil. Huffman wanted me dead, but he wanted Imogen more.

I was on my third coffee when the blizzard finally stopped. However it was a full two hours after that before the display boards changed and showed that a flight to Frankfort would be leaving at 09:55 a.m., which was only twenty-five minutes away. Almost eleven hours after I'd sent the Dodge Ram through the front windows of le Coeur de la Ville, it looked like I would finally be on the move.

When it came time to board the plane, I hung back to the last moment. There were only twelve other passengers. I made unlucky thirteen. I'm superstitious, a lot of military people are, and on any other occasion I'd have looked around hopefully for any stragglers who would change the number in my favour. But this time I actually wanted to be certain I was the last man aboard. It was my only way to be sure that no one was following me.

The airplane was a Beechcraft 1900 air taxi, used for commuting between Little Fork and Frankfort, and only had nineteen passenger seats. There was no galley or flight attendant, and it was down to the co-pilot to secure the doors before flight. Ten of my fellow fliers were men, the final two being an old woman and a small boy. No one on board gave me any negative vibes, and I settled into a seat at the back of the craft and closed my eyes.

Take-off was a little bumpy. But then we climbed up above the remnants of the storm and things became smoother. It was a short hop to Frankfort, and I dozed all the way. I hadn't slept since early yesterday morning, and I needed the nap.

Frankfort hadn't been touched by the snow but the skies were heavy and grey. We landed at Capital City Airport to a slight drizzle. I was OK with that. The rain wouldn't halt my connecting flight to Dallas. Disembarking the plane, I could see Boone National Guard Center across the single runway. There was no activity at the military base. I made my way to the arrivals terminal, tagging along with the old lady and the boy. All the other men were wearing suits and ties and I'd have stood out in their crowd.

Using my fake ID, I purchased tickets for my onward journey; then I had to sit and wait until my plane was ready to go.

Capital City was bigger than Little Fork airport, but not by much. I could see the people queuing to board the Beechcraft 1900 I'd recently departed. None of them looked like professional killers, but you never could tell. Top assassins don't look like killers, they look like your average next-door neighbour. I doubted Huffman's team would be travelling the same route as I had. Likely they'd have chartered a flight direct from Fort Worth to Little Fork. I'd probably missed them by the skin of my teeth.

Part of me regretted the fact.

Maybe I should have waited for the bastards at Little Fork and killed every last one of them as they stepped out the airport. It would have changed everything. I wouldn't feel like I was running, which was never a good feeling.

An hour later I was on a corporate Jetstream 41, heading south-west for Dallas Fort Worth. We flew over Arkansas and into Texas and I exited the plane into a sunny day. It wasn't hot, just warm, but it was a pleasant change after the blizzard. Not that I could spend too much time enjoying the sun on my face. I'd just entered my enemy's territory and from now on must be on my guard at all times.

As soon as I'd cleared arrivals, I pulled out Kate's phone and checked for messages. Still none. I rang Rink.

'Where are you?' he asked.

'DFW.'

'What took you so long?'

I told him about the snowstorm.

'Cool.'

'Where are you?'

'With Harvey. We're outside the airport. Do you want us to come and pick you up?'

'No, I'll take a cab. You guys follow and see if you can spot a tail. No one knows about you yet: I want to keep things that way.'

We arranged to meet at a motel off Route 80 on the outskirts of Arlington once we were sure no one was following me.

'You ain't going to believe what Harvey dug up on this Huffman character,' Rink said. 'Very interesting.'

'I can't wait.'

Reunited with his Magnum.357, Larry Bolan stepped out of the rear of le Coeur de la Ville into the blizzard and saw the single set of footprints leading away up the street. The snow was coming down hard, and the prints had almost been obscured, but he could still make out the faint depressions in the snow. Hunter wasn't that far ahead. He didn't bother following him. There was only one place that Hunter would go, so he backtracked to the workshop where he'd left Trent.

Now that his blood had settled a little, he regretted killing Aitken and Wallace. His anger, and the whisky, had driven him to act irrationally. But he didn't want anyone getting in his way. He wanted revenge. But now he didn't have anyone to look after his little brother while he went after Hunter.

Trent was where Larry had last seen him. He was lying in the shadows at the back of the workshop. One knee was bent and an arm was crooked up as if he was waving, so he looked like he was in the first aid recovery position. But there was no way Trent was recovering from this. The two holes in his back were large enough to accommodate Larry's fists.

Larry crouched down and touched his brother's cheek. It was stiff with cold – maybe even rigor – and Larry drew his fingertips away. But then his hand went back to Trent's face and turned it towards him. Trent's pale blue eye was gone.

He laughed without humour. 'Don't worry, Trent, it's actually an improvement.'

Larry sighed. He closed the eyelid to hide the mess.

Standing up, he looked down on his brother.

'I'm gonna get the son of a bitch that did this to you, bro,' he promised. 'I'll make him hurt before he dies.'

Then he got in the SUV they'd brought here earlier.

The stench inside was overpowering. Larry dropped the windows, deciding he'd rather endure the cold than the stink. He backed the SUV out into the loading area, then pulled down the shutter on the workshop and clicked the padlock in place. Trent would be as much at peace here as he would be anywhere. When he was done with Joe Hunter, Larry would see to a proper burial, but for now, the workshop would serve as Trent's tomb.

He drove to the airport.

He didn't go inside the departure building.

He parked the SUV in a position where he could see inside. He could look through the glass front, but anyone inside would see only their own reflection. The snow was coming down heavy, swirling in the draughts round the building, but he could still see the doors. If anyone came out, he'd spot them. He sat with his Magnum in his hand. Trent's Mossberg Persuader was on the seat beside him. He didn't want to use the guns, though. When he killed Hunter it would be with his hands. He'd only shoot him if he tried to run. Wing him in the leg, or something. Then he'd pull his head off his shoulders and crap down his neck.

Through the snow, he could see Hunter sitting in a far corner of the building, nursing a paper cup. The man had changed his clothes since their last encounter. But he would have had to: his other clothes were splashed with Trent's blood.

A hundred times he almost got out the SUV. He could walk inside the airport and corner the bastard. But a hundred times he held back. His head was still full of liquor fumes. He wanted to be clear-headed when he killed Hunter. Crystal clear.