Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

'But he won't know if you're still working with me or not. If I play the demented vigilante bent on revenge, I think I can hold their attention long enough to make them forget all about you.'

'What's your idea?'

I told them.

Both of my friends shook their heads at the absurdity of my plan.

'Who do you think you are, goddamn Rooster Cogburn?' Rink asked.

Conjuring a picture of John Wayne with his horse's reins between his teeth and a gun in each hand, I grinned. If it was good enough for the Duke, it would be good enough for me.

Fill your hand, Huffman, I thought, you son of a bitch!

Robert Huffman had any number of places he could have waited for Joe Hunter. He owned several buildings spread across the Midwest. There was an office in Dallas that gave him a view of Reunion Tower and was little more than a stone's throw from the Texas School Book Depository, from where Lee Harvey Oswald purportedly fired the bullets that assassinated John F. Kennedy. His office was perched on the penthouse floor, on a level with the top of the nearby Hyatt, and on the days before the Dallas Stars moved to the American Airlines Center he could hear the cheering of the crowds from the nearby stadium.

But he chose to remain at Quicksilver Ranch because it was the most remote of his properties. Twice now in the past twenty-four hours the sounds of gunfire and exploding vehicles had not raised the interest of the police, and he was counting on the third time being no different. He wanted his war with Hunter to be waged with no outside interference. That wouldn't be the case if they went at it in downtown Dallas.

He waited for Hunter to come to him.

Some of his men were ranged in a skirmish line protecting the approach to the ranch house. They had been out there for hours now. Larry Bolan was somewhere inside preparing himself for Hunter's arrival. He'd allowed Bolan this latitude in order to keep the big man from exploding too soon. His need for revenge on Joe Hunter was like a slowly burning fuse of indeterminate length. Huffman didn't want Bolan's rage let loose until Hunter was no longer a threat. If he had been out there now, the likelihood was that he'd murder Grade and the others in order to ensure he was the only one to get an opportunity to kill Hunter.

He asked himself why he had allowed Bolan to live. His remark that Bolan had always been his favourite was as false as his jovial demeanour. Bolan meant nothing to him other than as a handy tool when it came to doling out violence. But he had become a defective tool. Bolan had murdered six of Huffman's people in his attempt to gain revenge on his brother's killer. He didn't doubt that Bolan would try to kill him if he was perceived as a threat to completing the mission.

Bolan had agreed to give Huffman the glory of killing Hunter, but Huffman didn't believe him. Bolan would want his own legend. He'd sworn to his dead brother, Trent, that he would avenge him. Unless he shouted Hunter's defeat loud and clear, how would Trent hear him all the way from the afterlife?

Bolan would have to die.

There was nothing else for it.

But not yet. Defective tool that he was, Bolan was still useful. Even a blunt hammer could knock a nail into wood. Once Hunter was dead Larry Bolan would follow him. He could personally tell his wall-eyed, crazy brother all the details when he joined him in hell. He could tell Trent that Robert Huffman, Quicksilver, was the top dog, and he could show his slit throat as proof.

Huffman slid out his razor.

He picked a slip of notepaper off his desk and ran the razor against it, cutting a neat line and allowing the severed portion to flutter to the desktop. The edge was incredibly sharp. Then he turned the blade so that it reflected his eyes. He peered into the depths of the steel, as if the eyes staring back at him were those of a metaphysical being locked within. He wondered if the man in the blade was in fact the real Quicksilver, some elemental spirit that had lain dormant for way too long. Or that a portion of his own soul had been imprisoned within the steel and was demanding release. It had been many years since the razor had tasted blood, but since it had stolen the life from Desmond Molloy, Huffman could almost believe that the blade-being demanded more. All fanciful stuff, he had to accept, because he wasn't one for fantasy. He knew the truth: there was only his own desire for violence. But it did no harm to dream.

'It's time,' he whispered.

The sun was a full hand's breadth above the horizon when I drove the Windstar through the gate and on to Quicksilver Ranch. The hire vehicle had been a dependable ally over the last twenty-four hours but it was almost time to say goodbye. Not that I was going to grow all sentimental over it. It was an inanimate object, given the illusion of life by electricity and the combustion of gas. It was simply a tool.

I checked the gas and saw that it was hovering near the empty mark. Maybe I should have put a little more juice in the tank when I'd filled the drum riding on the back seat: I'd look an idiot if the car ran out of fuel before I reached my destination. But I only had a mile to go, and the fuel in the reserve tank would be enough.

Pressing on, I kept steady pressure on the gas pedal. Momentum was my best ally right now. The assault was on. No turning back.

The thought that innocent people might be at the ranch had been a worry, but I didn't think there were any innocents where Robert Huffman was concerned. He knew I was coming; he wanted impartial witnesses on site as little as I did. If there were any staff employed at the ranch who weren't party to his criminal dealings, they'd have been shunted off by now. I hoped. Because what I planned did not differentiate bad guys from good. It wouldn't be selective. Anyone who got in my way was going to die.

In some respects my tactics weren't the type I'd normally use. Not with any conscience. I'd fought my entire professional career against men who employed these kinds of extremes. Suicide bombers, they're called. In my opinion, driving a moving bomb into a packed marketplace is both crude and cowardly, but it got the job done. In the eyes of the fanatics, these bombers are heroes. I'd always thought of them as the worst kind of scum. And now I'd joined their likes. Nothing would validate my actions except the knowledge that my plan was to save innocent lives. Then there was the fact that I didn't plan on suicide. I was a kamikaze pilot with an ejector seat.

The Windstar roared along the road, picking up speed. I passed the place where I'd rescued Kate. Then I continued, going over the swell in the land and seeing for the first time the lair of my enemy. The house was pale under the wash of the morning sun. It looked archaic in this modern world, and it made me wonder if Huffman was the type to long for past times. But the thought was only fleeting. I saw a man rise up from the side of the road and lift something to his mouth. Radio, I realised, announcing my arrival. Another man materialised from the long grass on the other side of the road and aimed an M16 assault rifle at me. I hadn't seen this bespectacled man before, but Kate had told me about someone called Nixon whom she'd knocked cold when she'd tried to make her own run for freedom. She'd said he was about the most human out of all of Huffman's hired guns.

'Bad judge of character, Kate,' I said.

I gunned the engine, just as the man with the rifle let loose a stream of bullets at the Windstar. Metal tore through the vehicle, sparks and deafening bangs marking their progress, even as I pushed down on the door handle. I felt the tug of a bullet against my jacket, the heat of another passing my nose. Then I jumped for my life. I rolled across the road surface, came to my feet and fired at the man with the radio. My bullet hit him in his throat, cutting off any further words, and he fell over backwards, the radio thrown from his hand when he hit the dirt.