Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"Like rats down a drainpipe," he observed. "Two of them are running for it."

"Let them run," I said. The cowering man peeked up at me through tears and smeared snot. I nudged him with a boot. "Where's John Telfer?"

In those old Poe books, victims of terror often gave out a keening wail. I'd never heard one for real and couldn't imagine what one sounded like. Until now.

I nudged him harder. "I said, 'Where's Telfer?' I won't ask again."

He must have read something in my face. Maybe my hesitancy to kill in cold blood. Whatever it was, his demeanor suddenly changed. "Go to hell, asshole."

"So now you're the brave guy?" I put the muzzle of my gun to the center of his forehead. "You don't think I'll do it? Try me."

As suddenly, he was wailing again.

"Where's Telfer?" I asked.

"I don't know who you mean. Speak to Petoskey, man. Not us. For God's sake… don't kill me."

I took the gun from his skull. There was a scarlet ring where the hot metal had pressed into his?esh. "Second question, and the rules haven't changed. Where's Petoskey?"

He wanted to resist. Perhaps it was bravado, but more likely it was fear of his boss that held his tongue. Back went the gun.

"Where's Petoskey?"

Fear of a bullet in the skull now or perhaps one later from Petoskey if he survived; I could see the math going around in his head. It was a simple equation.

He nodded upward, eyes on the ceiling above.

"He's upstairs?" I asked.

The man nodded again.

"How many with him?"

"How the hell should I know?" the man spluttered.

"Guess," I said.

"Three, four… I don't know. Could be as many as a dozen for all I know!"

"Armed?"

"What do you think?"

It was a stupid question.

"Yes. It's the end of the line, buddy," I said. Then I slammed the butt of my gun against his temple, sprawling him sideways across the?oor.

"Maybe you should plug him and be done with it," Rink said from behind me.

Was that really my friend speaking?

"Can't do it."

"I know it's not right, but it makes more sense. We don't want to be going up there, leaving one of them behind us. Not when he's armed."

"You're right. But I'm not a murderer."

Rink's gaze sought the man with the new open-vent shoulder.

"He'll survive. Anyway, that was different," I said. "He was trying to kill me. But I won't kill a man in cold blood."

Rink winked at me, his stern face softening. "Just checking, my old friend," he said. "Like I said last night, we don't have a license to kill no more."

"I hear you," I told him. And I meant it. But we still had a job to do, and it was my?rm guess that others would die this night. My only hope was that it wouldn't be either of us.

There he was. The thief. Purloiner of second-favorite knives and sports utility vehicles. He was just as Tubal Cain remembered him, though subtly altered, he had to admit. A handsome enough bloke as thieves go. Aged in his early thirties. He was dressed the way a million other guys were, in nondescript casual clothing with a ball cap down to his ears. The sum of his possessions in a knapsack slung from one shoulder. It was the same knapsack he'd carried when he carjacked Cain yesterday. Mirror-lensed sunglasses concealed his eyes. In essence, the thief was very similar to Cain, Mr. Normal blending in with his surroundings. The thought had occurred already, but now, watching the man who'd signed his name in the hotel's register as David Ambrose, Cain came to a conclusion. "You're hiding your true identity as carefully as I am. Why is that?" One thing was for sure, Ambrose wasn't hiding from Cain. He had no way of knowing that Cain would hunt him down. In his mind, Cain had been nothing but a hopeless freak he'd left out in the middle of nowhere.

"I'll tell you why. It means that you are afraid of someone else."

Cain leaned back in the driver's seat of the Oldsmobile, chewing his lower lip. Now this was an unexpected turn of events.

"Who are you running from, Mr. So-Called-Ambrose?" he whispered as he watched Ambrose approach the SUV. "Who is it that frightens you more than Tubal Cain?"

Ambrose gave off a vibe. An electrostatic buzz of anticipation. Almost as if he were steeling himself for a sniper's bullet between the shoulder blades. It was the subconscious way he moved, trying his damndest to appear nonchalant, yet at the same time with a posture as taut as piano wire. He could pretend not to, but Cain knew that behind the mirrors of his shades, Ambrose glanced around, alert as a mouse in a rattlesnake's den. Turning, the sunlight and dappled shadows of palms played across his glasses. Cain thought of a beetle's eyes.

The insectlike gaze skimmed over the Oldsmobile, pausing for less than a heartbeat before passing on. There was a momentary pinching of the thief's lips as he scanned the car, but the strained expression was gone in the next instant. No, it was merely an unconscious reaction, not recognition. In the shadows of his parking spot, Cain felt protected from the amateur who'd made too many mistakes.

Approaching the SUV, Ambrose dug for keys in a trouser pocket. Unhitching the knapsack from his shoulder, he unlocked the driver's door and slung the bag onto the passenger seat. Another glance around gave Cain the impression of one of those hopeless spies that Napoleon Solo-and that guy with the Russian-sounding name that Cain could never recall, let alone pronounce-used to thwart every week in The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

Cain saw the headlights flick on. The engine coughed to life like a grizzly stirring from hibernation. The SUV barely rolled forward a couple of yards before braking violently. Ambrose had forgotten all about subtlety and blending in, if the way he stomped to the back of the vehicle was anything to go by.

"Gotcha," Cain said.

Ambrose crouched down by the?at tire, running his hands over it as though he could magically restore it by touch alone. Unfortunately, he was no sorcerer. Defeated, he stood up with his hands on his hips, and even heard from across the parking lot his language was choice.

It would be so simple to come up behind Ambrose while he was distracted. Push the point of his scaling knife into the juncture of his neck and clavicle. Dig down for the vital organs in one rapturous moment. End him right there and then. At his leisure, Cain could search the dead man's possessions and regain that which belonged to him.

"Yes, that's as it could be."

That was exactly as his plan had gone. By now it was hours later, his discussion with the dippy receptionist wouldn't be connected to an apparent mugging gone wrong. Cain could go merrily on his way, his sense of justice appeased.

"But, thief, that isn't how it's going to be."

The enigma of Ambrose's true identity, and what it was-who it was-he was hiding from, was enough to give pause to anyone with an inquiring mind. And don't let it be said that Tubal Cain was not a deep thinker. Yes, his needs might be basic, but he thought long on the ways of ful?lling those needs.

His curiosity was more than piqued. It was on turbodrive. He wanted to let this play out a little longer. "Who knows, thief," he decided, "it might make for an interesting conclusion."

Events overtook our plan way too quickly for my liking. Not that I was surprised; isn't that always the way plans go? That's always been the?aw with our tactics. Murphy's Law strikes again. It was no longer a case of a one-two move, but a full headlong charge for the top. The man I'd knocked unconscious didn't give me enough to make a considered judgment. There could be as few as three men with Petoskey or as many as a dozen. Think the worst, and anything else is a bonus. It was a full balls-to-the-wall assault. We headed for the upper?oor with our guns blasting. The intent wasn't to shoot anyone per se, but to cause as much confusion as possible. Petoskey was a rat, and everyone knows what rats do on a sinking ship. I ruled out the?re escape at this corner of the building, guessing that Petoskey would head for the one we'd used to gain access. "I'm going back across, cut off any escape route," I told Rink. "You okay with that?"