Matt Hilton - Slash and burn

I back-heeled him in his groin. Then I stamped the same foot down his shin, raking the flesh in an effort at tearing it off the bones. But he was a wily son of a bitch. Even as he reacted to the two new points of agony, he struck down with the butt of his gun on my injured shoulder. Pain shrieked throughout my entire body. But it also galvanised me. I butted backwards and my crown smashed against his jaw, knocking him back on his heels. Spinning quickly I thrust my left palm into his face, the heel smacking like a wedge of wood into his philtrum. There are tales that such a blow can kill a man, driving the bones of the nose up and into the brain, though in my opinion it's a fallacy. But I still crushed the cartilage and was showered by a spray of blood.

We pulled apart and there was an instant where we appraised each other.

Then the man spat out a wad of blood and shattered dentures.

You're good, whoever you are, I thought. But you're too old for this game.

Then I powered my foot into his gut. The Kevlar absorbed most of the force, but he couldn't keep his balance. He began to bring up his gun but I was that much faster.

My round hit him in his open mouth and gave him an equally hollow orifice in the back of his skull.

He stood for a second, the spark of shock dim in his eyes. Then it was like some divine puppet master had clipped his strings and he crumpled in a boneless heap.

Testing my face with my fingers, I stared down at him. I'd a nasty welt growing on my left cheek where he'd headbutted me, but was all right otherwise. As for the killers Huffman had brought in against me, another one was now gone.

Our fight had lasted little more than half a minute, but already things had changed dramatically.

Smoke was boiling along the passage. Heat followed it. Either one could kill me as quickly as this man had tried to do.

My attention snapped back to the stairs. I was in a hurry to get up there, but it was more in response to a shout from above.

'Grade! Grade? Did you get him, Grade?'

No, I wanted to shout back, Grade didn't make the grade.

I didn't, though; I just started advancing, taking it quietly. I didn't know who was waiting for me, but the voice had not been that of either Huffman or Bolan.

Gunfire erupted at the back of the house and I remembered that my friends were still out there. They could have been fighting my two worst enemies for all I knew, but there was someone else I wanted first. The asshole that Kate told me about: Rourke. He was in need of a lesson.

Muffling my voice with my forearm, I shouted, 'That you, Rourke?'

'Yeah,' he answered. 'Did you get the bastard?'

'Yeah. Got him.'

And now I'm coming for you.

It was time for Larry to reappraise his priorities.

Top on his list would never change: Joe Hunter must die. No question about it. But things weren't going the way he imagined. He'd been looking for a grand showdown, some sort of cinematic gladiatorial combat. Mano a mano. He certainly hadn't expected to be in the centre of a burning building with no idea if he was going to die of smoke inhalation, roasted like a hog on a spit, or shot dead by any of the anonymous rounds tearing through the rapidly disintegrating building.

He'd agreed to things that had placed him in this awkward position, things that were now getting in the way of his own agenda. What he should have done was told Huffman to go screw himself, shoot the man in the face and then find Joe Hunter himself. Instead Larry was forced to duck and dive for his life with no real assurance that he'd get his shot at the man who'd murdered his brother.

He could hear Trent roaring inside his skull, full of fury that his big brother had lied to him. Trent had always had a big mouth, the bone of contention that made Larry fantasise about killing his sibling. Yet he missed his brother more than he could ever say. And he would do anything to make Trent happy.

'I'm getting to it, Trent,' Larry barked. 'Just give me a chance to get my ass out of here first.'

Trent's admonishments were replaced by the roar of flames as the bedroom wall combusted behind him.

It was a bit weird talking to his dead brother. Trent couldn't hear him, Larry accepted, but speaking the words out loud gave him the surge of resolve to get moving.

He was currently stuck in one of the bedrooms on the upper floor. Larry had been catching a few minutes' sleep. He'd been on the go for the past two days and, despite his desire for action, fatigue had finally caught up with him. The few minutes had slipped into… what, a couple of hours or more?

When the car had crashed into the front of the building, turning the house into an inferno, Larry had awakened. Then bullets had cut through the room, someone on the outside trying to force any living person from this end of the house to the far end. He didn't need the bullets to tell him he had to move; the prospect of being burnt alive did that.

He heard the bang of guns from downstairs, more from outside. He pulled open the bedroom door and looked out into an empty passage. Larry felt for the Desert Eagle strapped to his hip. He pulled out the gun and moved into the hall. A man bolted out of a room ahead and Larry almost shot him. Then he recognised the punk called Rourke. Larry considered shooting anyway. He would die either under Larry's gun or under Hunter's later, so why not just get a chore out of the way? But Larry allowed his gun to drop.

Rourke was a punk but he was still a useful punk.

'Rourke?' Rourke spun about, raising his own gun, before recognising Larry. Larry waved his gun down and the man obeyed. 'Where the hell is Huffman?'

'He's at the back of the house.' Rourke's eyes were wide and his face was as pale as the underbelly of a worm. Larry could see his gun trembling.

'Hunter's at the front. What's he doing back there?'

'The same as we should be doing: getting the hell out of here!'

Larry grabbed the man's shirt-front. 'You're being paid to do a job. Not run the fuck away.'

'Yeah, but I didn't sign up to get slaughtered by a goddamn maniac!'

'Do your fuckin' job,' Larry growled at him, 'Or Hunter won't be the only maniac slaughtering you.'

He propelled Rourke towards the head of the stairs.

'Guard those stairs, asshole.'

'Grade's already at the bottom.'

'Hunter will get by him,' Larry said. No question there.

'And you expect me to kill him?'

No, I expect you to die, Larry thought. But at least you'll slow him down while I get my ass out of here. Back along the passage, smoke rolled out of the room that he'd just vacated. Larry gave Rourke the eyeball. 'I expect you to at least try, you goddamn coward.'

'What about you?'

Larry put a hand to his chest. 'Me? I'm finding another way down. I am going to kill the bastard.'

Then, with Rourke covering his back, Larry charged along the hall towards the furthest rooms. Back there was an exit on to the balcony that ran all the way round the house. As he ran he heard Rourke ask, 'Did you get him, Grade?'

Larry almost stopped. If Grade had indeed got Hunter he'd eat his boots. He heard a reply, but couldn't make it out over the roar of flames. More smoke coiled along the passage hiding Rourke from view. Now he only heard coughing. He continued with his first plan.

'Huffman!' he called as he approached the room at the furthest corner of the house. The door was partially shut and he had no desire to walk in without any announcement. Huffman would probably shoot him out of reaction.

'Boss, it's me, Larry.' He pushed the door open. There were no wildly fired bullets, so he followed the swing of the door and entered the room. He couldn't see the boss man. Caution made him check behind the door. He didn't want the man coming at him from behind: not with that damn razor.