Matt Hilton: Slash and burn

Flames or smoke or bleeding to death, one of them would most likely finish him, but I'd kept my word. I'd given him a chance at survival, although he wouldn't be raping anyone in future.

In front of me was an open door, and beyond it what looked like a bedroom. Bright light washed the room in total contrast to the rest of the house behind me. Taking a quick glance back over my shoulder, I noticed Rourke was lost to sight. I heard the crash of Rink's Mossberg. Voices were raised in a harsh whisper, but the sound of the disintegrating building made it impossible to hear the actual words. Still, I recognised Larry Bolan's deep baritone and the self-regarding tones of Robert Huffman.

Both my enemies were right there.

I didn't want Larry just yet but Huffman was a necessity.

An M16 rattled and bullets punched into the room. The bullets went high, digging up and into the attic space above. Harvey and Rink had the men cornered at the back of the building just as we'd planned. I moved into the room, lifting my SIG. I had to disable one or other of them immediately: even with my friends watching my back it would be difficult fighting both men.

Then I heard a rumble on the planks, saw through the door a huge shadow hurtle over the balcony. This was followed seconds later by the clatter of shattering glass and I understood that Larry Bolan had jumped for it, throwing himself across the space between the house and the next building and had crashed through a window in an effort to evade capture. The big man was proving more agile than I'd ever have given him credit for.

For now, Larry was out of the picture. Let him run. Rink and Harvey would chase him down between them, but right then I only wanted Huffman. I moved quickly across the room, gauging his position by the sound of muttered curses coming through the open door.

I considered shooting him through the wall. The wood would do no more to stop my bullets than cheesecloth. But that just wasn't satisfying enough. In my present state of mind, I wanted revenge on the punk. I wanted the son of a bitch to know exactly who had killed him.

So slowly, ever so slowly, I edged out of the door and looked down at the man who was on one knee firing at my friends below. I pressed the muzzle of my SIG on the top of his head.

'Drop the gun, asshole.'

Huffman's eyes rolled up at me and he sighed.

'You think this is bad, Huffman? Think again. It's about to get much, much worse.'

A man weighing almost twice the average isn't designed for flight. There was nothing graceful about the way Larry threw himself through space, and within a few feet he was losing altitude and speed. Noticing the window on the building opposite as a means of escape from the burning house he'd trusted to momentum to carry him to freedom. It was a bad calculation. He missed the window completely. However, his weight did come with a guarantee: it was a greater force than the wall of the building could withstand. He slammed the building feet first, smashing directly through the boards. He was lucky that there were no hidden support joists as he'd have likely smashed himself flat against them. Instead he went directly through the wood and fell the remaining body length on to hard-packed dirt inside the building. Above him, his demolition work on the wall caused more wood to fall and the window he'd originally aimed for shattered as its frame gave way.

Coming to his feet, Larry felt blood on his face and he probed a shallow gash on his forehead. His feet had taken most of the brunt of the collision but his head hadn't gone unscathed. He didn't recall knocking his head on the window ledge, but that was what must have occurred. When his blood had settled and the adrenalin surge had subsided, his head would likely feel like a punchbag. But that was a consideration for later. Right now he had to keep moving. Two men with guns were too close by for comfort.

He still had no idea who the two dudes were, other than that they'd come here with Joe Hunter. He was pretty sure they wouldn't stand around while he got his shit together and faced Hunter on more stable ground than the rapidly disintegrating ranch house. Man to man he'd kick both their asses, he was pretty sure of that; even together he still thought he could take them. But not when one had a shotgun and the other a machine-gun. They'd flank him and riddle him full of lead. That would spoil his plan for their illustrious leader.

He still clutched the Desert Eagle.

He fired a couple of shots through the wall, just to make the men hold back for a second or two. He needed that time to decide what the hell he was going to do next.

Then he thought, the crap with this! Got to move, take the fuckers one at a time.

He charged across the building, dodging round some abandoned agricultural equipment. Towards the front of the building the door stood open, but that would take him dangerously close to the guy with the shotgun before he was ready. He aimed instead for a door in the far side. He didn't wait to check if it was unlocked, he just raised one arm and barrelled directly through it, knocking the door off its hinges. He burst out into daylight tinged with smoke from the burning house, turned immediately to his left and raced along a passageway next to the building where Huffman had stored the wreckage of the chopper shot down the day before.

At the end of the passage he slid to a stop. He poked his head round the corner of the building, looking for the black man. There was no sign of him and Larry ran across rocky earth to where he'd parked Tito's appropriated Cadillac. He leaped in without opening the door, thankful that he'd left the soft top down, and jammed the keys into the ignition. In all those horror or thriller movies cars have a habit of refusing to start first time, adding to the tension as someone sneaks up on the good guy. But the Cadillac burst to life first turn.

He wasn't running away. No, this was all about strengthening his position. Huffman was pure ego. He wanted to be the top dog in everyone's eyes.

Well, crap on you, Huffman, he thought. You think you're the toughest dude alive: wait till you get a load of me.

He floored the gas pedal, turning the Cadillac in a wide circle, and headed along a service track that followed a route past the cattle pens. No shots followed his mad flight and he knew that for the moment he'd given the black guy the slip.

Larry swung the Cadillac round the end of the slaughterhouse. The stench of old blood and animal dung displaced the acrid smoke from his nostrils, but he wasn't sure it was a good trade. Then he powered the classic car to the front and stomped on the gas again. Then he'd no time for smells or any other distractions; he had to concentrate on killing the man with the shotgun without him blasting his head from his shoulders.

His size made it difficult to scrunch down in his seat, and he knew that his head still offered a target the size of a basketball, but there was nothing else for it. He powered on, trusting as much to luck as speed to see him through. He whipped by the building containing the chopper. Then he passed the one he'd so recently smashed inside. Next he was passing the gap he'd jumped.

The guy with the shotgun was there, his weapon aimed at the balcony. Larry glanced up and saw Joe Hunter standing with his gun pressed to Huffman's head. Hunter could wait until later. He fired at the Japanese man.

He saw the man spin and go down in the dirt.

Everything had happened too quickly to see how badly he was injured. Maybe he was dead.

Then he was passing the house.

Wind made smoke billow across his vision. Sparks from the fire were like a swarm of burning locusts. The front of the building was already gone. But none of this registered. All that concerned Larry was spinning the wheel and making a return run.