Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

Given the opportunity, I'd have scoped the place and gained a better understanding of what it was we faced. Rink and I would've devised a plan of approach. But like always, Murphy's Law took precedence here. I could only hope that the chaos rule held us in its favor as it had done innumerable times in the past.

With this in mind, I'd no recourse other than charge the screen door, lift a foot, and crash through, hurtling into whatever hell storm would follow.

Which is exactly what I did.

Snapshot.

On first perusal, it was a nice home.

Reminded me of my grandparents' bungalow.

On deeper re?ection, the memory of their home told me everything I was afraid of.

There was a cancer at this house's core.

To maximize the sunshine, all these beach houses had been built so that their fronts were to the ocean. Therefore, through the door I shattered was a vestibule leading directly to an open-plan living area on one side and a bedroom on the other. Toward the back of the house would be a kitchen and perhaps a utility area, but these were of no interest to me.

Kick-start the world.

I moved.

My entire attention was skewed to the left as I swung into the living area. I say living area; I could already see the corpse of some hulking dog lying alongside its ceiling-staring master. The man was indisputably dead judging by the mess of his throat and the cataract-glaze of his eyes. His mouth hung open in shock, and pink spume clung to his contorted lips. Another thing I took in during that nanosecond of horror; his left hand was missing, shorn off at the wrist. The Harvestman was living up to his name.

Apart from the corpses, the room was as ordinary as any home supported by a modest income. There was the obligatory TV, settee and chairs, trinket-type ornaments, and photographs in frames. The thing that stood out was the large piano that took up most of one side of the room. Then there were the three people standing around it.

Perhaps standing around it isn't the most apt way to describe the scene.

One?gure, an elderly woman, was being helped off the piano stool by the tug of a man's arm around her throat. As she stood in an awkward spasm, her?ngers clawed at the piano keys and a deep-throated note vied for dominance over an equally harsh one. The man pulling her backward stared at me over the woman's shoulder, his lips split in a feral snarl.

My SIG came up. Ordinarily I'd have?red, but the man placed the muzzle of a gun to the side of the woman's face and I stayed my hand. My gaze?icked to the nearer side of the piano. Immediately I saw my brother.

At the time, I can't honestly say if I was pleased to see him. I think, deep down in my soul, I'd secretly hoped that John was dead, that the possibility that he'd become a monster had been removed.

John turned his face to mine, and shock struck his dull expression. Then a bit of hope?ared. That look was all I needed to con?rm that John wasn't a consenting player in this game. Immediately my attention skipped back to the man holding the woman.

"Drop the gun," I shouted.

The man's snarl broadened ever wider and I saw ice behind his pale green eyes. Using the woman as a shield, he pressed the gun under her jaw.

"I think it's you who'd better drop the gun," he said.

My SIG didn't waver. I took a step closer. Finger pressure increased on the trigger. Calmer, I said, "Drop the gun." In answer, he thumbed back the hammer on his own gun. "Think you can drop me before I kill this old bitch?"

"Yes." I stared at him along the barrel of my gun.

He shook his head. "I don't think you're as confident as you're making out. If you could do it, you would've done so by now." "You've got another five seconds to comply," I told him. The man laughed. His captor whimpered in terror. Her arthritic knees threatened to dump her on her backside, and only the dragging arm around her throat held her up. She was no lightweight, but the man didn't seem to be struggling to control her. The arm looped around her throat bulged with lean strength.

"One," I counted.

"Aw, cut the dramatics, will you," he taunted. As he did, he shuffed sideways, putting himself in a corner of the room. It wasn't an attempt to find an exit, but to ensure he couldn't be triangulated. His back to the corner of the room, he took away any opportunity for Rink to get a bead on him. I glanced to my left and saw Rink standing outside the open window, his shotgun trained on the man. My friend gave a subtle shake of his head. No line of fire.

"You're cornered," I told the man. "Let the woman go and you'll live. Harm her and we'll shoot you like a mad dog."

"No. What you are going to do is put down your weapons. I leave with the woman." He glanced over at a briefcase I only now noticed on the lid of the piano. "And that."

"No deal. You're going to let the woman go first." "Uh-uh. Maybe I'll just shoot her face off and take my chances, huh?"

He pressed the barrel of his gun into her left eye socket, eliciting a shriek from the woman. Again my?nger tightened but didn't follow through.

Think of damp ashes, that was the color of John's face as he turned to me. He supported his weight against the piano, body racked with pain. Weak and hurting. "He means it, Hunter. He'll do it."

My gaze jumped between him and the gunman. A smile flickered at the corner of the gunman's mouth, a tensing of his eyes. Did he recognize my name? How could he, I told myself, it's not as if I'm James Bond. To John I said, "Get over here behind me, John."

The gunman grunted. "You two know each other?"

Neither of us answered, but the silence was palpable.

"Wait a minute. Hunter?" The man searched my face. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as though something amusing had struck him. "Not Joe Hunter?"

Unbidden, my face pinched. My teeth ached as my jaw tightened. Some secret I turned out to be. Maybe I should have worked under a code name after all.

"Well for the love of all that's holy! Who'd have thought they'd have put you on my trail?"

Again I didn't answer, and the man turned his attention to John.

"Wait a minute… I see it now. The family resemblance. You're so full of surprises, John. You didn't tell me you were related to such a notorious assassin as Joe Hunter…" He squinted across at Rink, who remained statue solid at the open window. "And don't tell me… not Jared Rington as well?"

John's face puckered. It can't ever have occurred to him before just who-or what-his big brother really was. He was aware that my work involved hunting terrorists, but I don't think he appreciated what that actually entailed. To him, I was just a soldier killing other soldiers. Now he was probably wondering, Aren't assassins the bad guys?

I don't appreciate the term assassin, but I suppose, at the end of the day, it all comes down to your perspective. Rink and I were either saints or sinners. At that moment, I saw myself as the saint; the man with the gun shoved in an elderly woman's eye socket assured me of that.

"Let her go," I commanded.

The man wasn't interested. My identity seemed to please him in a way I found troubling. His next words went some length to explain his apparent pleasure. "I guess I should be honored. Does that mean I've finally won the notoriety I deserve? Huh? I suppose that means you know who I am now?"

"I don't give a shit who you are, or what insane reason you have for murdering innocent people. All I'm interested in is you dropping your gun before I put a bullet in your head." To assure him of my intentions, I took another half step toward him.

In return, he giggled. Said, "If I'm going to die, I'm taking her with me. Maybe one or two of you, as well."

I drew back again. Inwardly I cursed myself. I'd just made the mistake of showing him that I wasn't in charge of the situation. One up for the real bad guy. He moved the barrel of his gun so it was under the woman's ear now. Once more the woman murmured in fear. Her eyes rolled my way, beseeching. I had to do something.