Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

There was a hasp and padlock on the door. They were probably used at night when the front doors were open to the public. Larry threw the hasp and clicked the padlock in place.

Then he turned to Tito.

He'd finally fought free from under his unconscious friend. But he'd only made it up to his knees by the time Larry leaned in and grabbed him round the throat with one big hand.

Tito's face showed that he was terrified by what had just gone down. But he was supposed to be the hard-ass around here. 'Do you know who you are fucking with?' he demanded.

'The hooker was right getting you that present,' Larry grinned at him. 'But she got the words wrong. It should have said Tito is a mug.'

Tito tried tugging at Larry's wrist, but he'd have been as well trying to tear a wolf's jaws from his throat. Then he went for the gun tucked in his trousers. Larry grabbed the wrist of Tito's gun hand and dragged the arm to his side. He was holding Tito in the exact same fashion as he'd held Joe Hunter yesterday. He'd made a mistake that time, and Trent had died. There'd be no mistakes now.

Twisting the gun hand, he heard the bones in Tito's forearm grinding together. The man began to scream through clamped jaws. Agony was in his face. Larry twisted even further and the bones began cracking, making sounds as if the man's arm was going through a wringer. The gun dropped from his deadened fingers. At the same time Larry squeezed his other fingers together. Cartilage popped. Blood flecked Tito's lips with each harsh gasp.

'You ain't as tough as you think you are, Tito,' Larry said. Then he hauled him up, transferring his hand from wrist to crotch so that he had Tito extended above his head as if he was a barbell. He held him there for a long three count while the man squirmed, then Larry threw him down. He barely felt a twinge in the wound in his shoulder – that was the amped-up power of adrenalin for you, he thought.

Tito hit the floor flat on his back, almost as though Larry had slammed him directly through the pavement. He didn't move. But Larry wasn't finished. He lifted a heel and stamped on the man's chest for good measure. Wind whooshed between Tito's teeth, but there was no corresponding intake of breath afterwards. His sightless eyes rolled back in his skull.

Larry leaned down, dug a hand into Tito's pocket and extracted the fifteen hundred dollars. He also picked up Tito's weapon. A girlie Glock 19, but still another worthy back-up weapon. Then he tugged out Tito's keychain and inspected the keys. He smiled.

He drove the Cadillac out of the lot just as the other four men came boiling through the front doors. Larry shouted wordlessly at them, flipping them the middle finger as he shot by. The two with guns lifted them, but didn't shoot. Next second they dropped the guns by their sides and ran round Minnie's to check on their boss. Larry wondered which one of them would be the new resident ball-breaker if he ever passed this way again. Maybe the one with the squint eye, he thought. God help us!

He drove the Cadillac east towards Dallas.

The car was a tank, but it was a reliable old workhorse and it covered the miles easily. Larry thought over what had just gone down. He was well armed now. Other than his cab fare and tip to the driver, he hadn't spent a cent. If Tito hadn't been such a greedy asshole it would have been different. But Larry had known from the second he pulled out his wad of notes that Tito wouldn't be happy until he'd taken it all away. In the end, his greed cost him everything: the guns, the money, the Cadillac, and probably his life.

He sent the Cadillac plodding north, up the 35E, and joined route 77 past Lewisville Lake and Corinth, then headed east at Denton to pick up the road that would take him up to Pilot Point and into Grayson County. He'd been there before, running shotgun with Jim Aitken. That time he'd travelled with Aitken in one of Huffman's private jets, but he wasn't complaining. The Cadillac was a cool set of wheels. He was on his way to Quicksilver Ranch. Exactly the place he expected to run into Joe Hunter.

I've trained in defensive driving. It's standard for any soldier engaged in counterterrorism, but on those occasions I was generally driving a bullet-proof sedan, or a hummer or jeep. In comparison the Saturn was like cheesecloth on wheels. The men firing at me could have been throwing stones and they'd have still put holes in the ten-year-old car.

The men in the Land Rover seemed more intent on putting bullets in me than those in the chopper did. They preferred to use the helicopter to bring me to a halt. The pilot kept dropping the chopper into my line of vision, forcing me – they hoped – to swerve or brake. I just aimed the Saturn directly at them; they weren't going to wait until I crashed into them – they wanted to be paid for killing me and the cash would be no good to them if they were dead too.

Eighty miles an hour turned out to be more than fast enough. Even on a smooth blacktop it's a reckless speed if you're swerving to avoid a 4?4 attempting to ram you. On this road, where there were as many potholes as there were patches of asphalt, it forced me to slow down to sixty just to stop the car flipping and rolling. As it was, the Saturn bounced along the trail, kicking up dust and gravel in its wake.

The rifleman in the 4?4 kept up a steady volley of shots. The back window was history after the first two bullets and there were holes through the passenger seat now. I should have fired back at them, but I hadn't yet.

My SIG was right there on the seat beside me, but for the time being it was prudent to keep both my hands on the steering wheel. I kept moving, heading west, trying to lead my pursuers back to an area where I could defend myself.

South Highway 377, the road from Pilot Point to Collinsville, was somewhere ahead of me, but right then all I had were fields and the occasional stand of trees. Nothing I could use as cover from the chopper or where I could lose the men in the more powerful Land Rover. I needed built-up streets and brick walls. But I had grass and trees and herds of cattle.

Risking taking my hands off the wheel, I jabbed the speed dial on my phone. My words to my friends were straight to the point, 'Guys, I need you back here now!'

'On our way,' Rink said in return, and I heard the sounds of Harvey spinning the Windstar in the road.

'I've two in a Land Rover and the chopper's back and they all have rifles,' I shouted over the roar of the Saturn's tyres on loose dirt.

That was it as far as the report went. Rink and Harvey would be coming after me now. The only problem was there were probably four or five miles between us. Even if I stopped now, it would take them too long to get back to help me. I had to do something to slow the pursuit, while keeping myself alive.

First thing I did was hit the brakes. The Saturn screeched along the road, back end fishtailing, sending up clouds of dirt. The Land Rover roared in, its front grille ramming into the back of my car. The Saturn leaped forwards at the collision, back wheels bouncing and grabbing the earth for traction, and I dropped gear and pressed the throttle to the floor. As I raced on, I searched for the Land Rover in my mirrors and saw that it was concealed in the cloud of dust. That was good, because it meant they couldn't see me. I braked again, pushed forwards immediately after. Another gout of dirt rose up into the air. Immediately I braked, twisting on the steering wheel, sending the Saturn in a sidelong skid. As soon as the car came to a shuddering halt, I snatched up my SIG and leaped out the door.

I was no sooner clear of the Saturn than the Land Rover rocketed out of the cloud of dust. I had a split second of eye contact with the driver before it hit my car. The Saturn was blasted into smithereens, huge chunks of metal erupting as though a grenade had gone off inside. Something hit me on my shoulder, spinning me to the floor. But even as I went down, I was twisting like a cat, bringing round my gun. I saw the Land Rover rise up into the air, the front wheels caught on the wreckage of my car. Then it continued upwards, and began to list to one side. The list became a full roll to the side and the Land Rover went through a complete torque before crashing to the earth. The heavy vehicle didn't stop. It hit the soft verge and rolled again, and kept on rolling. This time it was the 4?4 casting off large chunks of metal. I saw the passenger flung from the wreckage, wheeling his way across the grass, his body a series of disjointed shapes that didn't resemble a human being any longer. I couldn't tell what had become of the driver, but I hoped he'd be as dead as the rifleman.