Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"What you doin'?" Rink whispered harshly. "I can take the punk."

"Just let it go, Rink," I whispered back. "For now."

Behind me, Rink's curses were blasphemous, whatever Good Book you follow.

"Hunter?" he pleaded, but I was already refocused on Cain. John had grasped the briefcase to his chest and was nearing him. As he blocked my view of Cain, the woman was unceremoniously shoved to the ground, then Cain had John by the shoulder and was spinning him around. Without pause, Cain used him as a shield as he moved away. At the door, Cain issued a?nal warning. "Don't try to follow us too soon. If you do, John dies in more agony than you could ever imagine."

I stayed put. Rink was as itchy as a?ea-bitten dog, and without taking my eyes off Cain I whispered, "Just wait."

From behind me I heard the answering response, indicating that Rink understood. "I'm waitin'."

Cain didn't hear the whispered exchange. He was as nutty as squirrel shit, but he was no fool. He paused in his tracks. "I guess this won't be the last time I lay eyes on you?"

"Count on it," I told him.

"Don't worry, I will," Cain said. "I look forward to it. It'll look good to have such a formidable trophy as Joe Hunter on my resume."

Cain held my gaze a moment longer; then, in an act I should have expected from one of such a depraved mind, he waved good-bye. It wasn't his hand he used. It was the bloodless souvenir taken from the old woman's husband.

Then Cain and John were gone.

Before I could move, the old woman wailed and began scurrying across the?oor on her hands and knees to the still form of her husband. She folded over the top of him and her sobs were pitiful.

Grief is a savage torment, especially when so raw as this. It can leave a person insensible to what is happening around them, and totally unaware of consoling hands. My soft words were probably gobbledygook to her.

While she wailed, I gave her the quick once-over. Her injuries were minimal, a little bruising on the throat, a bumped elbow. Searching for any broken bones, I traced the folds of her blouse with my?ngertips. Bodily she was intact, but there was a narrow rent in the fabric. I studied the slashed cloth, noting that a patch about the size of two?ngers was missing, stripped away, wondering how in hell that had happened.

I shook off the thought as Rink charged into the living room. "They've taken the old lady's car."

I nodded at him.

"So what're we doin' standin' around? Let's go after the son of a bitch," Rink said. "There's no rush," I told him. Rink inclined his head. "What's goin' on?" "Like I said, we only have to wait." Rink wasn't aware that John was laying down a trail for us. "When John was holding on to me," I explained, "he took my cell phone out of my shirt pocket." "I can't see him gettin' the opportunity to call in his location,"

Rink said. "Doesn't need to," I said. "No. Of course. We can have the phone signal triangulated. It'll lead us straight to him." "I trust you have someone in telecommunications that can do it for us?" I asked. "I might know a woman who does." "Cheryl Barker? It's okay, Rink, I've just had another thought." The sirens came. It was only minutes before Rink and I were kneeling with our hands behind our heads as we were frisked for concealed weapons. "Get me Walter Conrad," I told a stern special agent from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. "He's a sub-division director with the CIA." On re?ection, I was in no position to make demands, but if anyone had the ability to trace the phone John was carrying it was Walter. To my surprise, he said, "Don't worry, Mr. Hunter. Your boss is already on his way."

Your boss is already on his way.

It's not often that Walter Hayes Conrad IV gets into the?eld these days. As a handler of undercover agents, most of them up to their elbows in wet work, he has to maintain a degree of anonymity and distance himself from the dirty deeds used by his government in the name of national security. On this occasion, however, it was necessary for him to?y out to this place marginally north of Long Beach. Everyone's orders were to contain what was rapidly escalating into a massive embarrassment for both him and the security community at large.

He walked into the bedroom where I'd been con?ned for the last twenty minutes. All that was missing was a fanfare blast of trumpets to announce his arrival.

Walter greeted me with a tight-lipped smile, an unlit cigar clamped between his?ngers. Without preamble, he dismissed the two Hostage Rescue Team troopers who'd been my uneasy jailers. Funnily enough, the FBI agents immediately deferred to his authority.

"Walter," I acknowledged with a nod. I stood up from the bed, smoothing out the rumpled comforter with a tug.

Walter's cigar went from one hand to the other. Gripping it as though it were a lifeline, he offered his other damp palm. I shook hands with him, regarding him solemnly. He didn't say anything.

"You must have hotfooted it out here, Walter," I said, "seeing as it's less than half an hour since the call went in." Walter bunched his prodigious cheeks in what was supposed to be a smile. "Got my very own Lear."

"You're telling me," I said. But he didn't get the joke. When he didn't respond, I added, "Even a jet couldn't have got you all the way across country in that time."

"It's a very fast jet," Walter said, and now the smile was genuine. "Nah, I've been in L.A. since early this morning."

"Can I ask the reason why?"

"Of course not," he said.

It was a game. His game; one that Walter loved to play.

I offered my deduction, to see what lies he came up with.

"When we talked on the phone I piqued your interest. Got you thinking, huh?" "Pure speculation." "So tell me, Walter, who is the Harvestman?" "What makes you think I know that?" "Don't play with me, Walter. You haven't?own all the way across the country for nothing. You're here because you know who he is. You're on a containment mission."

Walter jammed the unlit cigar between his teeth. "I gave up smoking eight months ago," he said. "Still carry a cigar around for moments just like this."

"So it's not for celebrations?"

"No, I'm talking about a reminder of how much I've fucked up in the past." For the?rst time I honestly believed him. "There's a lot of truth in that concept, Hunter. That your past always catches up with you in the end."

"Yeah," I agreed. His words echoed my own feelings precisely. He sat down on the bed I'd recently vacated,?sts on his ample thighs.

"The Harvestman knew me," I told him. "He also knew Rink. Makes me think he has to be a member of the security community."

Walter nodded but didn't volunteer anything.

"Is he one of yours, Walter?"

Walter shook his head. "Not CIA."

"Secret Service?"

He wagged a fat?nger, pleased with his top student.

"So how is it you're involved?" I asked. "Last I heard the CIA and Secret Service were separate entities."

"Like you said, Hunter. Your call got me thinking, made me tie a few loose strings together. It's a joint agency decision that I step in as SAC."

"Special agent in charge? You pulled rank?"

"Of course." He smiled.

"Figures," I said. "So what happened? What makes a bodyguard turn into a killer?"

"Is there a difference, Hunter? Isn't the purpose of a bodyguard to kill or be killed? We're talking brass tacks here, none of that ethical bullshit you see in the movies."

"There's a huge difference, Walter," I reminded him. "Bodyguards protect the sanctity of life; they don't take trophies to display on their dining room wall."

"Not in the classic sense," he demurred. "But they take trophies nonetheless. You just gotta speak to any long-serving agent and they wear their trophies on their sleeves. Metaphorically speaking."