Dead Men's Harvest (34 page)

I saw the jumble of corpses and my breath caught in my chest. Two of the men I didn’t know. But the third, the one in the black jumpsuit lying face down on the deck with a Bowie knife savagely plunged into the base of his skull, was Ray Hartlaub. He looked dead, but impulse drove me to check. There was no pulse. I drew my fingers away from his cooling flesh and they were smeared with Hartlaub’s blood. I swore: I owed Hartlaub both Imogen’s and my life, but now I’d never be able repay that debt. No, I corrected, I could repay him by killing the man who’d murdered him.

There was a groan. The nearest man was a corpse. His groin had been torn away, as had half of his lower spine. So I looked at the third man and saw him move slightly. The clothing at his abdomen looked black with the copious amount of blood he was losing. The man had no weapons I could see, and he didn’t have the strength to lift one even if he had. Still, I couldn’t take the chance he’d try to kill me in his dying moments, so I approached him slowly, my SIG pointing directly at his face.

‘Where is the woman?’ I demanded. ‘Where’s Jennifer?’

The man rolled pale eyes my way, and I could tell from their unfocused stare that he was moments from death. He probably didn’t even know that I was there. Keeping an eye on the lifeboat above, I nudged him with the barrel of my gun. ‘The woman. Where is she?’

‘
Ona ushla . . .
’ the man said. ‘
Ona umerli
.’

‘Speak English, goddamn you,’ I said.

‘
Ona umerli
. . .
ona umerli
. . .’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘He says that “she is dead”,’ a voice whispered in my ear. ‘Just like you are.’

I spun, aiming an elbow at the skull of the man leaning over me. But the strike never reached its mark. Before I’d even made it halfway round he thrust something against the nape of my neck and I was assaulted by a charge of electricity that simultaneously stiffened my entire body and sent my SIG spinning out of my grip.

He must have pressed the trigger again, because I got another whack of power through me, and I almost bit off the tip of my tongue as I fought against it. Somehow, I ended up on my back, lying against Hartlaub’s corpse, staring at the shadow leaning over me, and he must have released the trigger because I was now shivering only from the residual effect of the charge through my body.

‘You!’

‘Bet you weren’t expecting your old pal, Baron, huh?’

He was just about the last person I ever expected. I’d gained the impression the smarmy prick had set the police on me and Harvey in that hotel in Virginia, then gone to ground under whatever rock he’d originally crawled out from. There was I thinking that if I survived this latest round with Tubal Cain, I’d have a devil of a time finding Baron. His turning up here wasn’t a pleasant surprise.

My SIG was five feet away from me. It lay close to the dying Russian, but the man didn’t seem inclined to come to my rescue. I thought about snatching for my Ka-bar from the sheath in my boot, then remembered I’d left it sticking in the corpse of the first Russian I’d killed on the stairwell.

Baron stooped close to me. He held what I could now see was a Taser in his left hand. His right, he touched to his ribs. ‘I owe you big time, Hunter. You shot me back at Hendrickson’s place. Worse than that! Do you know how much money you have cost me?’

‘Oh, right, I remember now. You were only there for the money, weren’t you?’ I spat at him. ‘What a load of crap. You’re a fucking sadist, Baron. It’s as simple as that.’

Baron’s lips pinched together. Then he nodded as if conceding a point. ‘I suppose I am.’

He jabbed the Taser into my chest and gave me another zap.

I shuddered and thrashed and went part way on my side, my body jammed up against Hartlaub’s.

Baron straightened, stood there with the rain plastering his hair to his pale forehead. ‘You know, Hunter, I could keep this up all day.’

‘No . . . no more!’ I held up my open right palm, warding him off.

‘Actually, there’s plenty more,’ he said, and dipped in for another blast.

‘No,’ I said, and rolled on to my back, the knife so recently spearing Hartlaub’s neck clutched in my left fist. Baron blinked down at me, raindrops shivering on his lashes. Then he lunged at me with the Taser. There was nothing I could do to stop the contacts striking me, or to halt the electric charge shooting through my body, but I swung hard with the hilt of the Bowie and got him directly in the centre of his face. His nose was crushed under the blow and he staggered back. I swarmed up and went after him. Now it was him who was stunned, and as I backhanded the hilt of the knife across his jaw he went down on his arse on the slick deck.

‘You’ve been a little too handy with that fucking thing,’ I said as I stood over him. ‘You should’ve checked the charge, Baron, ’cause it isn’t strong enough to stop an able-bodied man now.’

Baron looked at the Taser. He’d depleted most of the power the first time he’d hit me; second time it was enough to cause me to spasm but that was all, third time, all I experienced was a tingle. Fuck, the anger I felt towards him hurt more. When I’d checked Hartlaub’s throat for a pulse, I’d noted the faint red marks on his skin. At the time I hadn’t recognised them for the localised burns caused by the Taser, but as soon as Baron introduced me to it, I’d known. The piece of shit had used it on Hartlaub before he’d died. Maybe he’d used it on others on the ship, too, the way he had when torturing Rink.

‘You know something, Baron? I promised Rink that I’d save him a piece of your arse.’ I hit him with the blade this time, leaving an inch-deep slash in his skull. ‘But I’m sure he’ll forgive me for keeping you all to myself.’

Baron fell on his side and the Taser clattered away from him. He was concussed at least, perhaps brain damaged, but he still had some life in him. His super-quick draw was pretty feeble though. He inched his hand towards the gun holstered on his hip. I stooped, picked up my SIG and languidly shot him in the skull, once, for Jenny. Then I fired three times into his body – once for Hartlaub, once for Rink, then once for myself. There were others I could have punished him for – not least Louise Blake – but that would have been overkill.

Then I went back to the Russian and kneeled close to his head. His face had taken on the colour and texture of molten wax and his eyes were practically the colour of cataracts. ‘You said that the woman is dead?’

He was almost gone, but he still had enough strength to lift one hand and point towards the rail. He jabbed his finger, and I understood. She’d gone over the side. Then the Russian’s arm flopped and he lay there, just another corpse among the pile of dead men.

No, that wasn’t the entire truth. One of those was a dead friend, and I went to him. I rolled Hartlaub over on to his back, looked down at his relaxed features. In death he looked decades younger. Whatever the man’s motive for being here, he’d given his life to help me. It was another burden I’d have to carry, but I wasn’t about to waste his sacrifice.

I lifted my face to the storm. The rain pelted me and I opened my mouth, letting the water pool on my tongue. Then I spat it out, and raised my voice in competition with the roaring wind.

‘Tubal Cain,’ I screamed. ‘You piece of shit! I’m going to tear your fucking heart out!’

Chapter 46

Even over the tumult of the storm and the crashing of waves against the hull, the ominous moaning and the bangs and clicks of the ship, Cain heard the gunshots.

They came in a single harsh crack, followed by silence, then another trio.

They had brought him to a halt as he’d moved along the starboard side of the ship, retracing his steps towards the stairs to the galley. He turned, listening for more gunfire, but knew that those final rounds, so controlled and spaced, were punctuation marks in a very definite statement. The last was the full stop.

You should have kept a gun, he told himself. But he wouldn’t let the fact that he’d foregone his firearms in favour of his blades trouble him. He had all the weapons he required, plus one very special addition. Actually, he relished meeting Joe Hunter with only the simple tools of his trade. It would be far more satisfying showing Hunter that the last time they’d met had been a fluke. Hunter had brought guns that time, but their fight had still ended blade to blade, and it would be the same here. Someone once claimed you didn’t bring a knife to a gunfight. OK, you didn’t: not unless you were Tubal Cain, the Father of Cutting Instruments.

He heard his name, the shout challenging the level of the rainstorm, and he smiled. It sounded like Joe Hunter had indeed survived his meeting with Baron.

‘You piece of shit! I’m going to tear your fucking heart out!’

A poor choice of words from someone who had almost lost his heart to Cain’s blade.

I’ll show him the error of his ways, he thought. It was one thing killing a baron, quite another taking on a prince.

He chose the Tanto for setting up this kill. It had proven itself before and it would serve him well until he elected to show his ace card. Gripping the Tanto’s hilt, he carried the blade braced against his wrist and crept slowly across the deck to the port side.

There was a rumble somewhere to the east. Thunder?

Let the storm build, it would add atmosphere to the drama about to play out. He knew the roar from the heavens was a sign that Chaos favoured his actions and that today would be his.

Kill Hunter.

Take his trophy.

Move on.

He had a more important reckoning to see to, and that was with Hunter’s brother. Big bad Joe was simply a stepping block in the right direction.

He’d lost Jennifer to the sea, but he’d been seconds away from killing her anyway. Once Hunter was out of the way, who’d know that the woman was no longer under his control? He could still draw John Telfer to the prearranged meeting. It would be an even sweeter reunion when Telfer found out he’d come too late to save his wife.

Cain wiped the rain from his eyes. There on the port side, the full fury of the storm was once again in his face. Wind tore at his clothing, as though trying to strip it away, leaving him naked, and in his most natural, feral form. For the briefest moment he even considered helping the wind in its mission: tearing off his clothing to meet Hunter the way nature had designed. But that would be stupid: in this weather hypothermia would kill him as readily as would Hunter’s gun.

He moved slowly, but surely, towards the area where the lifeboat hung on its winches. Though he was still too far away to make anything out, he thought he saw movement through the drifting spray. He batted more rain from his eyes, thankful that he hadn’t discarded his clothes in that moment’s madness, because he needed the sleeve of his jacket to keep his vision clear.

The ship tilted, and he grabbed at the rail for support.

Again came that rumble from the east.

Was it thunder . . . or something else?

He searched the storm-tossed sea but couldn’t detect anything; even so, this time he knew that it wasn’t a product of the storm. That was a goddamn engine revving as a boat fought the waves.

Hunter and his friend must have arrived here by boat. They hadn’t just teleported aboard the frickin’ ship like this was a cheap TV sci-fi show. So, who the hell was out there? Jared Rington, the Jap who’d gone and spoiled everything last time? He hoped so: two birds with one stone, and all that.

Forget what’s out there, he told himself. Concentrate on Hunter.

He continued, steadying himself with one hand on the rail. Through the shifting veil of rain he saw the bulky outline of the lifeboat as it swung on its ropes. It thumped against the wall of the ship with a resounding boom. On the deck directly to the right of it he could see the pile of shattered humanity, all the dead sprawled in various poses, as though positioned by the hand of a deranged choreographer of violence. Standing over the pile of corpses was another figure. Dressed in a black jumpsuit, an equally dark cap pulled over his hair, there was no mistaking him. He looked strange, a stark shadow amid the spray, shoulders hunched, his fists clenched by his sides, swaying with the pitch of the deck as he peered down at his dead friend’s corpse.

Cain moved closer.

The man had his back to him.

Perfect.

Cain allowed the Tanto blade to swing forward and held it primed for a killing rush.

He was ten feet away now, and Cain held his breath. He wanted to leap in, but he recalled Hunter’s catlike reflexes and thought he’d only make it halfway before the man twisted round and shot him dead. He squeezed rain from his eyes.

Another step.

Another.

Then Cain could no longer contain the urge for slaughter, and he launched himself at Hunter’s back. He looped his left arm around the man’s neck, driving the Tanto under his ribs with all the weight of his body behind it. He twisted the blade, seeking the liver, howling a shout of triumph in Hunter’s ear.

He stepped back, pulling out the knife, and readying it for another plunge.

Hunter didn’t fall.

He didn’t even react.

He just swayed with the motion of the ship.

Cain wasn’t one for swearing, but he couldn’t stop himself.