Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

'So what good is he to us?'

'When we go to do the exchange of Imogen for Kate, Larry will be there. I'm guessing that Huffman will use his presence to intimidate me. He'll be in charge of Kate, but his mind will be focused on me. I'll play on Larry's anger and draw him out.'

'Giving us an opportunity to steal Kate from him.'

'That's leaving an awful lot to chance,' Harvey said.

'Chance would be a fine thing.' I held up the phone, showing him the flashing envelope symbol on the screensaver.

Chance or coincidence, Imogen had returned my call at the same time as Huffman had decided to call me.

As roll-calls go, the impromptu gathering of Huffman's men bore no resemblance to the kind you see in military command centres, but that was what it was. They were in the large lounge area on the upper floor of the ranch house, a group of killers who would rather be on the move than standing around waiting for orders.

There was Huffman and Larry Bolan, a select number of Huffman's usual men employed at the ranch, and five others. These five added a sense of danger to the meeting as though they could turn on each other at any second. A meeting of narcissistic minds is always a dangerous thing, particularly when each of those minds thinks themselves above the rest assembled round them. These five were not used to working as a team: each of them usually headed a group of their own and felt it was a personal insult that they were not elevated above the others. Huffman didn't give a damn: he would play on their egos in order to get the most out of them. Each one of the five would want to prove that they were the best and they would do everything in their power to demonstrate that.

Huffman was the only person seated. He was in a large wing-backed chair, a cigar cupped in his palm as his hand rested on his crossed legs. He had disdained the usual suit and tie, electing on this occasion to dress more like the other people here. He was wearing a windcheater jacket and canvas trousers that he'd tucked into laced-up boots. The clothing gave him freedom of movement, and also, being a flat sandy colour, a level of camouflage that his designer suit couldn't match. On his head was a baseball cap, the same colour as the rest of his clothes. On his hip he had holstered a Beretta PX4 Storm, a 'full size' semi-auto with a magazine capacity of seventeen rounds. Unbeknown to all gathered there, he had his cut-throat razor secreted in its pouch on his right wrist.

He was sitting in silence watching the others. One of them, Remmie Souza, was standing with his arms folded over his expansive chest. Souza was a big man, muscles the type you see in prison yards, and his stance showed off the massiveness of his biceps. Huffman wanted to laugh at him; next to Larry Bolan Souza looked like a wimp. More than once Huffman had noticed Souza casting a look Bolan's way, then frowning in self-admonishment.

'It is time to put your differences aside,' Huffman finally said. 'I have just offered Hunter the incentive to fight even harder to free the woman. He'll be coming. Unless you work as a team, I guarantee he'll beat you.'

'He won't beat us,' said a grey-haired man as he fingered the hilt of a knife on his hip. 'He got lucky with the others, that's all.'

Charles Grade was the oldest man in the room. He was in his early fifties, but he still had the body of a man twenty years younger. He was as lithe as a cat and his wide green eyes added to the resemblance.

Watching Grade from under heavy brows was the youngest man. 'He won't beat me, anyway,' Desmond Molloy said to Huffman in an accent evocative of Northern Ireland. He nodded his head in Grade's direction. 'Can't vouch for that old man over there.'

Molloy was a hard-faced man, his skin pocked with acne and more than one scar. His father, Patrick, had been an IRA hit man back when the Troubles were on, and Desmond had picked up the mantle after his father was shot dead by an undercover SAS soldier. These days he worked out of Newark and he was generally at odds with Grade who worked for a rival mob out of neighbouring Jersey City.

Grade sneered.

'This old man could still teach you a lesson, boy.'

'Bring it on,' Molloy said.

'Easy, you guys,' said Cal Burton. 'Huffman's right. You can't underestimate a man who takes out six armed soldiers with only a handgun. We need to stick together on this.'

'What's wrong with you, Tex?' Molloy demanded. 'No faith in your abilities? I didn't think you'd be the type to be afraid of one man: last I heard you claimed to have taken out three US marshals with only your bare hands. Are you telling me that was all bullshit?'

Cal Burton was a native Texan, although he was more likely to be found in Austin than here north of Dallas. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a florid complexion and a shock of hair that looked like a badly stacked sheaf of corn. He was missing two teeth at the front and had the habit of rolling his tongue through the gap. Some people looked at Burton and assumed that he wasn't firing on all cylinders. They usually only made that mistake once.

He laughed at Molloy. 'There weren't three of them, Paddy. There were four. Plus I killed the asshole they were supposed to protect.'

Molloy sneered again, turned to Souza. 'What about you, Remmie? You afraid of one Englishman?'

'I ain't afraid of no one,' Souza said, but again his glance slid over Larry Bolan.

The last person of this unusual gathering was the most anomalous of all. It was against the norm for a woman to be an enforcer, but Ruth Wicker had proven her ability time and time again. Once she'd been a DEA agent, but she'd found working for the other side far more lucrative than working for the government. In blazer and trousers she still looked like she was on the government payroll. She was slight in build, with a face that would never be called pretty. Never had she used her feminine ways to build her career; she relied solely on her ability to deliver pain with a viciousness most men could not match.

'You should learn to keep your mouth shut, Molloy.'

'Who asked you, bitch?' Molloy snapped at her. 'You shouldn't even be here. Why'd you bring in a frigid woman if you wanted us to work together, Huffman?'

Wicker shook her head slowly and her hand crept towards the gun on her hip.

'Go on, Wicker, draw your gun. I'll shove it someplace you've never had something shoved before.' Molloy leered at the other men in the room, but no one seemed impressed by his lewd talk. He threw up his hands. 'Ah, to hell with the lot of you. I work better on my own anyway. Just keep the feck out of my way.' Turning to Wicker, he pointed a finger at her. 'Especially you, Wicker, you feckin' dog.'

'What's wrong, Molloy?' Wicker asked. 'Upset because I turned you down? Shit, it must be frustrating when you can't even score with an ugly bitch like me.'

'Feck off.'

The other men in the room laughed this time. Molloy's face reddened, and he finally fell silent. He crossed his arms the way Souza did, and glowered between Wicker and Grade, unsure which of the two he hated the most.

'Now that we've got the pleasantries out of the way,' Huffman said, 'we can get down to business. You were all asked here because your employers owe me. You were chosen to represent your respective syndicates because you're the best at what you do. But, gentlemen – and lady – I do not expect you to work for free. As promised you'll all be paid handsomely, if you kill Joe Hunter. Your best bet is to do that as a team.' He looked once at Larry Bolan before continuing. 'I don't care which one of you actually finishes him, as long as he dies. But there is one thing that you must not do.' He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering for a little longer on Molloy. 'No one hurts either of the women.'