Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"On you go, John. You've got nothing to worry about."

Telfer shook his head. He set his shoulders, unresigned to the prospect of further violence. Cain nudged him in the small of his back but he resisted the push.

"You don't have to kill anyone."

"No," Cain agreed. "I don't have to."

Telfer still refused to move.

Cain said, "But I might just start here and now if you don't move your ass."

A propane blaze of anger?ushed Telfer's face. Slowly he turned and faced his captor. Cain glared back. The tableau held for half a dozen heartbeats. "You know," Telfer said, "the more you threaten someone, the less those threats mean."

Cain grunted, but this time in humor. "You should know by now that I don't make threats idly, John."

"I'm fully aware of what you're capable of. All I'm saying is that maybe you should take care who you direct those threats at. Sooner or later you're going to have to do something about it."

"Now who's making threats?"

"No. Not a threat. Call it friendly advice."

Cain winked. "Okay, John, I get you. Now do me the honor of getting yourself inside on your own two feet before I have to plug you and drag you in by your ears."

"Another threat?"

Cain shrugged. "Call me Mr. Predictable."

Telfer loped on ahead, and Cain glanced down and saw a pattern of dark splotches on the wood planks. Telfer was bleeding worse than he'd thought. Probably the reason for the bravado. A last-ditch attempt at showing he had a backbone after all. Following the trail, Cain lifted his gaze once more to Telfer's shuf?ing form. Maybe patching him up was a waste of effort; maybe he should just end it now. Dead, he'd no longer be the hindrance he was proving. And he'd be more manageable stuffed in the trunk of the Dodge than up front riding shotgun. But that would mean changing the plans he'd fantasized over these past hours. Killed here with little fuss or later at the designated place with all the pomp and ceremony the occasion demanded? It wasn't too dif?cult a choice. He followed on behind, his mind made up.

Although the house looked uncared for, the tiny yard was a different story. Bougainvillea in terra-cotta troughs made a pleasant border for the?nal approach to the front door. He curled his lip. Kind of spoiled the overall ambience. So, too, did the tinkle of piano music coming from beyond the screen door.

Exhaling at the homeliness of it all, Cain hurried so that he came to the door just as Telfer raised a hand to rap on the door frame. He was about to halt Telfer when the crunch of feet on gravel achieved that for him. Synchronized, they turned and greeted the man rounding the side of the house. Then they both glanced down at the Rottweiler that strained at the leash in his grasp. Telfer's mouth held the ghost of a smirk as he looked at his captor.

"Help you gentlemen?" the man asked from ten feet away. He ap peared to be about sixty years old, sunburned and paunchy. An early retiree on a short break. Cain would bet his right testicle that this man prefers to take his holidays in a mobile home. The massive dog continued to tug at the leash, tongue lolling in anticipation of a couple of tasty morsels.

In another sleight of hand, Cain spirited the gun into his waistband and his hand clapped down tight on Telfer's shoulder to halt any telltale movement. "Hopefully you can, brother," Cain said, stepping past Telfer. "My friend here is injured. I'd appreciate it if you'd call 911 for us."

"Need an ambulance?" the man asked, craning to see past Cain as though attempting to ascertain the severity of Telfer's injuries. Subtly, Cain shifted onto his other foot. The blood on Telfer's shirt was like a?ashing light to the man. Eyes wide he lurched forward, aided by the pull of the heavy dog. "My God," he spluttered. "You're bleeding!"

Cain held up a hand. "Don't worry, brother. It looks worse than it is. But we'd appreciate your help nonetheless."

"Yes, yes," the man said, coming forward at a trot. The dog bounced along at his side, no longer tugging at its leash. Cain gave the dog a nanosecond of perusal. He feigned alarm. Stepped away. The man saw the movement, gave a shake of his head. "Oh, don't be worried about Popeye none. He looks scary, but really he's a big old softie. More likely he'll lick you to death than bite you."

"Phew. That's a relief," Cain said. For Telfer's bene?t he raised an eyebrow, gave a lopsided smile. Telfer gave a short cough, but already Cain was dropping to a knee as if to greet the dog.

As the dog brushed past, Cain swiped his hand under its muzzle. An innocent enough looking pat of its broad chest. It took only two further paces before it collapsed. It didn't even offer a startled yelp before it died. Stunned, the man stared down at his dog. Eyes pools of bewilderment, he looked back at Cain who was rising from his crouch.

"Don't like dogs," Cain said.

The man's gaze traveled the length of Cain's arm,?xed on the ultimate point. The scaling knife was almost devoid of blood, so quick and easy was its entry and exit.

"They're competition," Cain said. "For your bones." "Oh," the man said, his knees buckling at the same time.

The last time I was on a motor launch it was at night and I was being deposited on a deserted beach in the Indian Ocean. I was part of an eight-man team sent to extradite suspected terrorists who'd been holed up there since a predawn attack on a village full of women and children.

On that occasion I didn't take too much notice of my surroundings. It was an in and out, a smash and grab mission that left no time for sightseeing.

Now, standing on the prow of the launch, I took the time to feel the spray of the ocean on my face, to smell the tang of brine in my nostrils and feel the wind in my hair. The Bailey motorboat was riding high on the ocean, lifting majestically with each swell, dipping down with each trough. I stood with my legs braced against the motion, but neglected to reach for the handrail.

"If you close your eyes and hold out your hands it feels like you're?ying," Rink said from behind me.

I snickered at the image. "Start singing like Celine Dion and I'll throw you overboard," I promised him.

Rink grunted, moving up next to me. He leaned forward and rested his meaty forearms on the guardrail. "What makes you think they've headed south?"

"Just a feeling," I said.

"A feeling? What? Like a sixth sense or something?" Rink wasn't kidding. Like most soldiers, he knows there's a force out there that isn't tangible in the proper sense. Many a soldier's life has been saved by an enhanced sense that borders on the supernatural. Something that warned him about the concealed tripwire or sniper lying in ambush. Some argue that it's simply a product of supercharged adrenaline and a keenly trained eye, but I believe there's more to it than that. It's more than the creeping-?esh sensation that unseen eyes are watching you. But the feeling I was referring to had nothing to do with that or any other power. It had simply to do with deduction.

"No, a feeling that if I was in their shoes I'd've headed south, too."

"If they survived."

"There's no doubt about it, Rink. Whoever this guy is that John's with, he knows his stuff. Only someone with training goes onto a yacht full of armed men and ends up blowing it and everyone aboard to shit."

"Unless he's got the other important ingredients: he's as crazy as a bag of weasels, has more balls than sense, and he's the luckiest god-damn son of a bitch on the planet." Rink raised his shaggy brows, inviting disagreement.

I shrugged, moving to join him at the guardrail. Below us, the bow wave split like blistering phosphorus against the deep aqua of the ocean. "Maybe he has both," I said. "The training and the other ingredients. He had a get-out plan. You can bet your life on it."