Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

The thief sniffed again. "You're assuming the police are after me. I'm not on the run from the cops."

"You will be if I tell them you kidnapped me."

The thief watched him and Cain smiled.

"Impasse," Cain said.

"No," the thief replied. "Stalemate."

"Look," Cain said, "we could go on like this all evening. We've both wronged each other. I'll admit that. If you're prepared to let bygones be bygones, so am I."

"I can't trust you," the thief said.

"But can I trust you?"

Now it was the thief's turn to smile. Honest John's Quality Used Cars had a new head salesclerk.

Cain closed his eyes. "If I tell you something, then you're going to have to trust me. I don't want the police involved any more than you do."

The thief shook his head. "I don't want to know anything about you."

Cain opened his eyes slowly. "You did earlier."

"That was then. That was when I thought you were one of Hendrickson's men."

"And you believe now that I'm not? Well, that's a start."

"Something's bothering me, though," the thief said. "You're not here on some stupid quest to recover a stolen knife. What's the real reason?"

"I was telling you the truth," Cain said. "I do want my knife back."

"What the hell for?"

"Sentimental value," Cain explained.

"You follow me hundreds of miles, sneak into my room like some psycho from a cheap horror movie, just to get a knife back?"

"Yes."

"That's it?"

"Well," Cain said, "if you want the full truth, I did intend to make you pay for putting me to the trouble." Glancing down at the discarded scaling knife, the thief laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"But now you want to help me?"

"Yes," Cain said. "Believe it or not, I like you. You're a man after my own heart." "You like me? You're so full of crap I can't believe it," the thief said. "Of course, if I'm going to help you, there are conditions attached." "I give you back your knives so you can stick them in me?rst chance you get?" "Exactly," Cain agreed with his most disarming grin. "And one other thing. If I keep your secret, you do the same for me."

"You don't know my secret."

"But that's part of the bargain. It's the only way we can work together. You tell me why you're on the run, and I'll do the same. Call it leverage against one another. We have to work together to keep both our secrets. That way we can't afford to betray each other."

"No, I'm not having any part of it," the thief said. "This is all just a trick so that you can escape. You'll drop me in it?rst chance you get."

"Not if I tell you my secret?rst," Cain offered.

"So what's the big secret you're hiding?" he demanded.

"We have to make a deal?rst," Cain said.

"Uh-uh, not until I know what the hell you're talking about," the thief said.

"Okay. But?rst, you have to show a little faith. Put the gun down."

"No."

"At least point it at the?oor, then. I don't want it going off by accident."

"Don't worry, there's nothing you could tell me that'll surprise me that much."

"Want to bet?" Cain asked.

The thief shrugged another time, but there was something in Cain's face that made him lower the gun.

"Come on, then," he said. "Tell me."

"Okay," Cain said. "Drumroll please."

"Just get on with it."

"Fine, but it is a little dramatic. You could at least allow me my big moment."

And then the thief made the mistake. He sighed, glanced up at the ceiling as if in search of spiritual guidance. It was the moment Cain had been waiting for. He erupted from the bed in a blur of motion. He grabbed the thief's gun hand before he could bring it back up. Then Cain's other hand was at the thief's throat as he snaked a leg around the back of his ankles. In the next instant Cain was standing over him as he sprawled on the?oor. And now pointing the gun at his chest.

"My big secret," Cain said with a look of triumph, "is that I'm a killer, and unlike you, I'm prepared to prove it."

Once, I was pursued through a rainstorm that did lit tle to dampen the fires raging through Grozny. Rebel Chechen soldiers were nipping at my heels. It was unfortunate; I wasn't their enemy. Trouble was that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, on a mission to take out a rogue Russian Spetsnaz-special forces-soldier who was just a little too fond of prepubescent girls. To infiltrate his position, I'd gone disguised in Russian uniform, and now the Chechens were after my blood. Ironic, you might say. I was there to kill their worst kind of enemy, yet here I was being hunted like a rabid dog.

I had no intention of returning fire, so I chose to run. They were persistent. To elude my pursuers, I lay up beneath the corpse of a steer. The poor thing had avoided slaughter to feed the invading Russian troops by haphazardly wandering into a pasture sown with land mines. The steer's folly was my salvation. Even so, it was about the most miserable twenty-eight hours of my life. The stench was bad enough, but the crawling infestation of maggots made it almost unendurable. Believe me; I came close to surrender.

Yes, I've slept in some pretty grim places in my time. But even a steer's belly can be comfortable when compared to an office chair.

I slept?tfully, waking at dawn with a stiff neck and the feeling of an intense hangover.

Harvey had invited us back to his split-level ranch out beyond the suburbs, but we'd declined, wanting an early start and knowing that the tranquility of a remote farmhouse and a soft bed wasn't conducive to an early rise. Struggling out of the chair, I cracked my lower back and blinked around the small of?ce. Rink was gone. Probably a good thing. I wasn't a pretty sight. I rubbed my eyes with both hands and yawned.

I pushed into the washroom, yawning again. Rink was standing by one of the two small sinks, his upper torso bared. The tattoo on his left shoulder was stark even against his tawny?esh. I have an identical tattoo on my shoulder, a testament to our time in the joint Special Forces unit we'd both been part of for all those years. It was a tattoo sported by only a handful of living men, and not one we ever wore when we were active in the field.

Midstroke with his razor Rink paused, glancing at me in the mirror. "Boy, you look like shit this morning."

"Gee, thanks," I said. "I feel like shit, too, if it's any consolation."

"There's a spare razor if you want to use it."

I ambled over to the sink and picked up the disposable razor. "Courtesy of Harvey?"

"Yup," Rink said, taking another stroke at his chin. "Keeps a stock of them for shaving his head."

I grimaced at the blade, checking for short bristles caught between the twin blades. "He hasn't used it already?"

Rink laughed. Didn't answer. I shrugged, ran the blade under the tap. Rink tossed me a can of shaving foam. I nodded my thanks at him, then stopped.

"Problem?" Rink asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"You've shaved off your mustache?"

"Can't hide anything from you, can I?"

I grunted. "That's what makes me a damn good detective."

Rink slapped me on my shoulder as he brushed past, heading back to the office. I washed and shaved, dried off. When I returned to the of?ce, Rink was on the telephone to Harvey.

"Harvey's over at Louise Blake's place. He wants us over there," Rink said. "He just watched a couple of guys go inside. Didn't look like they were selling home insurance."

"How slick did they look?"

"Like eels in a bucket of sump oil."

25 john telfer sat on his hotel recliner and stared at a blank canvas no more than a couple of centimeters past the end of his nose. Light from the overhead bulb?ltered through the cloth, and if he stared closely enough he could make out the minute nuances of texture and pattern in the cotton weave. It was all he'd had to visually focus on for the best part of?ve hours. His other senses hadn't been given many stimuli, either, not since the man had forced the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back with an electric cord torn from a desk lamp.