Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"John," I snapped. "Get yourself over here."

He staggered over, one arm tight against his chest where his sodden shirt clung to him. I moved a step to my right, giving him clearance to gain the doorway. At my shoulder, John came to a stumbling halt. Something bothered me about the abruptness.

Without thought, I pivoted on my right foot, smacking against the near wall, eyes still on the gunman to my right, but my peripheral vision searching out what had stopped John. I saw the gunman's eyes widen in surprise, saw him flinch, and I knew that there was new danger in the house. Danger to us both. I was caught between two equally vicious enemies, and it was a split second's decision on my response. Even as I swung to my left, I gave a silent prayer that Rink would cover the killer I couldn't keep my eyes on. My gun swept the air, and I fired without pause.

Even as he was stepping into the living room, my first bullet caught Hendrickson's hit man in his right shoulder, spinning from his?ngers the gun he'd pointed at John's head. I'd seen this man before- testament to that was the wound on his ear. Even if I'd never had the privilege, I would've recognized him for what he was: a stone-cold killer. Something else: he was an apt stalker in his own right, and he'd used Rink and me to lead him to John. The memory of the speedboat racing toward us after we'd disembarked from the skipper's launch came to mind.

Injured, the Latino dropped low. He grunted, but he was already reaching left-handed for a second weapon concealed in an ankle holster. My gun boomed again, but even as I?red, I snatched the barrel up so that the bullet swished above his head to splinter the door lintel. I'd missed him, but it was a good job I did. It meant I also missed John, who'd chosen that moment to stagger into my line of fire.

Things were rapidly turning to shit.

I ran around John, expecting the killer at my back to put a bullet in my spine.

I cleared John just as the hit man came up from his crouch. His gun fired. Instinctively I'd already twisted, but a searing coldness snapped alongside my ribs. Wind whooshed out of me, but I couldn't allow the thought of the hit to stop me.

Before he could?re again, I struck his gun hand with the barrel of my SIG, knocking his aim wide. His bullet lifted keys from the piano with a tympani of discord. Moving swiftly, as though it were a rapier, I swept my gun under his forearm and snaked my arm up his back.

In close and dirty, we went to town. I ground him against the wall, both our guns momentarily scraping and rasping against wallpaper. His gun went off, further marking the wall. With his free hand, he grabbed at my testicles. I stabbed my?ngers into his eyes, tore at his damaged ear, and he forgot all about squeezing my balls. Instead, he punched me in the mouth. The tricky bastard. Right back at you, I thought, as I smashed his nose into a new position on his face.

He was slippery, even shot in three different places-he had a wounded thigh that I was only now vaguely aware of, plus the two I'd given him. His nose was broken and he was bleeding, but the adrenaline-charged?ood of endorphins gave him the strength of desperation.

He fought back, tried to head-butt me, but instead found the point of my elbow as I rammed it into his cheekbone. His eyes rolled upward. Before he could recover from the ringing concussion, I pulled his head down, straight into the path of my up-rising knee.

It was like a mallet pounding a watermelon, and the tendons in the backs of both knees failed him. As he dropped, my gun followed him, and even as he sprawled out, I put two bullets into the rear of his skull.

"That's for Louise Blake," I hissed through my teeth. Then I shot him again between the shoulder blades. Touching my ribs where I could feel the first sting of contact, I added, "And that one's for me."

Captain Fairbairn once wrote that the average armed?ght is over in seconds, it is literally a matter of the quick and the dead. I had acted instinctively, relying on speed and the extension of the gun in my hand. Now the hit man was dead. Once again my mentor's ghost spoke volumes. But it wasn't over.

No other guns had barked during the few seconds it took to dispatch Hendrickson's man. The threat of Rink blasting him had likely stayed the Harvestman's hand. Allowing the Latino to lie in his own blood, I shifted again, reaching down and clawing John from the?oor even as I swung my gun to?nd its next target.

Coming up with John clutched beneath one arm, I eyed the man who still grasped the elderly woman as a shield. But he wasn't pressing the gun to her head so forcefully.

"I couldn't have done a better job myself," he said.

"I'm not interested in what you think," I snapped back at him.

"I remain impressed nonetheless. If my hands weren't so full I'd applaud you," he said. "I'm leaving now. I'm taking the woman as insurance. If you stay put, I promise you she'll be released unharmed. If you follow me she will die."

The deal wasn't an option. I knew the only way the woman would be returned to us would be without signi?cant portions of her anatomy. I slowly shook my head. Prodding the dead assassin at my feet I said, "You know what I can do. You've seen it with your own eyes."

"I don't doubt that you're good. But are you really prepared to put this dear old lady at risk?" His smile was that of the Antichrist. "Even if you shoot me now, are you certain that the trauma of a bullet in my skull won't make me jerk this trigger? Are you willing to take that chance?"

Reluctant to give him an edge, I said, "We'll just have to see."

Again the old woman mewled, and a torturous pain shot through me at having to subject her to such terror. Unfortunately, I had no recourse. To allow the Harvestman to take her was out of the question. If she didn't die now, she would certainly die later. And it wouldn't be at the mercy of a quick and painless bullet through her brain.

On the grand scale of things, if this woman were to die, then it would be best if the murderer died along with her. It would be a supreme waste of life, but her sacri?ce could mean the difference between life and gruesome death for many others if the psychopath was allowed to live.

Surprisingly, John came to my rescue.

Cradled in my armpit, I felt him shift. Then he clawed at my shirtfront, as if drawing himself upright.

"Let me go with him," John said. His voice was as brittle as month-old crackers.

I shook my head.

"You have to let me go, Joe," he said. "Cain, let the woman go and I'll be your hostage."

The Harvestman's brow furrowed.

"John?" I said, grabbing at his collar, but my brother pulled himself loose. He took a faltering step toward the murderer, hands wrapped around his torso in an effort to subdue the pain he felt.

"Let the woman go, Cain. Take me instead."

The murderer looked beyond John, staring at me. I didn't move. I hated this guy but had to concede that this arrangement was a way out for him. Complex emotions were churning behind his cool facade.

Taking another step, John said, "We have un?nished business, Cain. We both know that. If you let the woman go, I'll see it to the end. I'll sacri?ce myself for her."

"What do you say, Cain?" I asked. "Do we have a deal, or do we start shooting?"

Cain gave me a serpent's grin. "Bring the briefcase, John."

Cain removed the gun from the woman and waved me aside with it. "Back off, Hunter. Go over there next to the window with your friend."

Rink gave me a subtle shake of his head, not for a second taking his aim from Cain. His features were set in bronze. "I think we can take the frog-giggin' son of a bitch," he hissed.

"No, Rink. Stand down," I said. Without lowering my own gun, I crabbed over to the window, blocking Rink's line of?re.