Matt Hilton: Dead_s men dust

Now the fat guy shook his head.

"Look, mister. I don't want any trouble, okay. I just want to dry my hands and get outta here. Wife and kids are waiting for me in the car. We're going down to see my wife's mother for a day or two is all. So I don't want any trouble with you. Gonna get enough of it off the mother-in-law if I'm more than a minute late."

Funny how people babbled when they were afraid.

"I was being polite to you," Cain said. His smile was mock whimsy. "Even looked after your health and well-being for you. Not many people would've bothered. Quite happily could've let you go and get back in your car with your wife and kids. Could've allowed you to spread all those nasty little germs to them. Take them on down to grandma's house, too, no doubt. But I didn't. I thought I'd be nice and remind you to wash your hands. No big deal?"

"No," the fat guy said. "No big deal."

"So why'd you have to call me an asshole?"

"I didn't-"

"Don't lie to me. Please?"

"I'm not lying. I didn't say a goddamn thing."

"Ingratitude. Lies. Now profanity?"

Sometimes even scared fat people got to a point when enough was enough. "Look, fella. I don't know what your problem is with me, but I'm outta here." He shoved by Cain, heading for the door. His exit was as desperate as his entrance.

From the open door, Cain watched him go. A hot breeze lifted whorls of dust in his wake. The man kept glancing back, his hair waving Medusa-like. Cain waved at him. The man jumped in his station wagon, babbling loudly in distress, hands stabbing for the ignition. His prodigious wife and two equally fat children looked over at Cain. Red-haired, with pie-dish faces, they looked like orangutans in a zoo. He waved at them, too. Then the station wagon was headed for the highway with a little more haste than was sensible.

Too quickly, the show was over. While it lasted, the slight distraction had proved enjoyable. Would've been more satisfying if he'd sliced up the fat guy. But at least the look on the guy's face was a bonus.

"And I got another trophy."

In his palm was a strip of plaid cloth. A patch taken from the man's shirt when he'd patted him on the shoulder. Not just a friendly farewell, it was a well-rehearsed move. It was all part of a game he played. If he could get a slither of clothing and remain undetected he let the target live. Those who felt the tug at their clothes or the slice of the knife against their?esh he had to kill immediately.

"Fatty, you just don't realize it yet. Today is the luckiest day of your life."

Rink's condominium was set in a small community in woodland near Temple Terrace, northeast of Tampa. Set on a limestone outcrop, it was elevated above the?at country all around. Across the way, I could see families in their backyards, reclining on deck chairs with a cool drink at hand, some splashing in private swimming pools. A different world to the one I knew back home. Rink had obviously been pulling in decent work to afford this kind of accommodation.

From the front of the house, I heard an engine growl, Rink announcing his return. Rising up from the chair, I wandered into the living room and met him coming in with his arms full of take-out food.

"Let's eat," he announced.

"You bet."

The food wasn't too fancy, but it was more satisfying than the arti?cial slop the?ight crew offered on the plane. I chewed without really tasting anything other than the liberal quantity of Corona I washed it down with. After we ate, I collapsed in front of Rink's widescreen TV while he put on a?ght DVD and passed me another beer.

Then we got around to business.

"Harvey called," Rink said. "He's gonna come to the meeting with Louise Blake. Then he wants a private meet with us after we're?nished with her."

I took a sip from my beer and said, "Makes sense."

"He's got the location Petoskey does his night shift business from. Says he'll take us there if we need him."

Something was coming that I might not like. I nodded encouragement; might as well get it over with.

"Says he'll take us, but that's his involvement over with. Doesn't want a backlash from Petoskey if things turn sour."

"Fine by me," I said. "Things might turn sour."

It was Rink's turn to nod.

"Thought they might," he said.

"This nonsense about John leaving town because he owes money sounds like a cover story. I want the truth from Petoskey. If that means hitting him hard and fast, so be it."

"I'm with you, man."

"Never doubted you."

"Good."

"Shut up and drink your beer," I said.

And that was that. The planning would come later. When we arrived at Petoskey's front door. When we had a better idea of what we were up against. I hadn't been a secret agent; it wasn't for me to use guile and trickery to root out the bad guys. I was-along with Rink and a select few others-the weapon sent in when the planning was done with and all that was left was the ass kicking. Ass kicking I was good at. It got results.

Ergo, there'd be nothing fancy set up for when we paid Petoskey a visit. Either he'd be cooperative, or we'd make him wish he had been. End of story.

Rink indicated the TV with his beer can.

"I was?gurin' on havin' a go at this extreme?ghting stuff." On the screen, two buffed athletes were pounding the snot out of each other in an octagon-shaped cage. Unlike pro wrestling, this?ghting was for real. The blows were aimed with intent, the strangles to a point where people passed out, the arm- and leglocks occasionally ending in fractures.

"I'm sure you'd do okay, so long as you didn't forget it was only a sport," I said. "Man, it's all in the control," Rink said. "I know when to kill and when not to."

I shook my head. "What about when one of those monsters has you up against the cage and is pounding the life out of you? You telling me you won't gouge out an eye or rip off an ear with your teeth?"

Rink shrugged. "Biting's for the likes of Tyson, man. It was just an idea. Something to keep me?t."

"Go for it, then," I said. "If you're not too old."

"Too old?" Rink looked scandalized.

"Well, you are almost forty."

"I ain't too old. For God's sake, the damn heavyweight champ's in his midforties, and he's still showing these young lions what a real?ghter is all about." I had to agree. The champion was giving a man a foot taller and almost twenty years his junior some serious grief.

I'm a realist. I couldn't compete with the likes of those athletes. Not in their arena. But put them in mine, and I was positive that the man left standing wouldn't be the sportsman. My expertise lay in the battle?eld, and they wouldn't stand a chance. You couldn't go to war, then tap out when an opponent was getting the better of you. Fail in my arena and you were dead.

The same was true for Rink. He'd had the same training as me and was equally dangerous in a?ght. What Rink possessed that I didn't were black belts to prove his expertise. Even before he'd signed up as a Ranger, he'd been an interstate karate champion three years running.

The first time Rink and I worked together, it wasn't during a covert operation. We were off duty, but Rink had taught me a valuable lesson.

I had been aware of the big American, but only as the silent new recruit who only seemed animated when in action. We hadn't bonded yet, and I was as confused as anyone about why the strange-sounding Yank had been drafted onto our team.

Near to our U.K. base at Arrowsake was a small?shing town. The bar next to the harbor was a favorite of our unit when it came to downtime. Rink was standing by the bar. He was cradling a pint of brown ale but didn't seem to be enjoying it. I glanced across the barroom and saw why.

There were three of them, Special Air Service commandos who'd been brought in on a joint training operation. There'd been friction from the start. Even over the murmur of the crowd I heard one of them call Rink a "reject Nip."