No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (21 page)

‘Whaddaya mean “come back”? I thought from the way you were talking he’d already been arrested. How’d you know about him otherwise?’

‘I might not be the world’s best detective but I can still ask around,’ I said. ‘This thing with Royce, it’s been going on for more than a decade. Sounds as if it might’ve come to a head a lot sooner if he hadn’t got himself put away in prison for…’ Now it was me doing the old “Oh, I just realised” look. ‘That’s it. It was you that had him put away for fraud, right? Or maybe you were involved in his crimes in another way.’

‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ he growled.

‘Then enlighten me.’

‘Nope. I’ve said all I’m gonna say. Now, get up, walk away, and don’t show your face round here again. Otherwise, I promise you, I will rearrange it.’

‘Quit with the bullshit, will you?’ I demanded. ‘You’ve more to worry about.’

‘Royce Benson? I’m not afraid of him, but you should be.’

‘How come?’

‘You’re the one chased his cousin into traffic. Think he’ll let that go without some sort of payback? I thought he’d already proved what he was capable of…’ Clayton stumbled to a halt, realising the admission he had just made: yes, he knew much more about Royce than he’d previously let on. ‘Right. Enough. Now like I said, get the fuck out or I’m gonna make you.’

We were both simmering for different reasons, both of us prone to blow at any second. I should’ve got up and walked away. But my impetuous nature simply wouldn’t allow it.

‘I shouldn’t let the rest of that coffee go to waste,’ I said.

Clayton swung for me, and I welcomed the move.

Old fighters often seek that one final battle, where they can prove they aren’t over the hill, that they’re still a contender for the crown.
From the first time Clayton bragged about his prowess in the bare-knuckle ring, I suspected he’d been sizing me up, wondering who was the better man, and concluding that – of course – it was he. If I’d to be totally honest, I’d entertained similar thoughts, and knew in my bones that somewhere down the line we’d come to blows. Employing a bodyguard for Cole hadn’t sat well with him; it suggested that he was too weak for the job, and in need of protection too. Hiring another man to protect his child was a personal failure in his mind, and now that there was no longer a requirement to go along with the police’s suggestion, he wanted to prove that I’d been a spare wheel all along. I was also of a similar mind-set, in that I too had something to prove. Not so much to Clayton, but to myself. In my mid-forties now, I wasn’t the soldier I was even five years ago, and goading Clayton into a fistfight was as much a test of my self-worth as stuffing my rucksack with bricks and running until I dropped ever was. Nobody is perfect, and some of us are far from it. There’s darkness in me, I don’t deny it, and it’s prone to express itself in violence. I’m not proud of the aggressive side to my nature, but it’s there and sometimes requires feeding. Thankfully I’m able to control the hunger most of the time, and target my lust for combat on deserving targets, and Andrew Clayton didn’t fit the usual bill. But there were things about the man that had pissed me off, no less his lies, and his reticence to tell the truth sooner when doing so would have saved lives. Then there was the aloofness he’d showed Cole, when all the kid really wanted was a hug. He’d argued that he was a dad, more than a mere genetic father could ever be, but he sure hadn’t shown it. I’d egged him into a fight, because he needed some sense of priority knocked into his fat head.

When he swung for me, a clubbing right hand at the side of my head, I’d seen it coming a mile off. I ducked, and his arm swept by, even as I began to slip off the bench seat. I didn’t expect his next move though, and it told me that Clayton was a more dangerous fighter than his overblown fight record attested to. He grasped the opposite side of the table and heaved up, throwing it against me, and had I not adjusted my feet earlier I’d have been trapped between table and bench and at his mercy. My SIG skidded away on to the lawn, but that was OK, because I’d no need of it. His spectacles went flying too, along with the beer can he’d dumped, but I deliberately knocked aside the coffee jug to avoid a scalding. Under other circumstances the jug would have made a great weapon, but for this fight I’d other ideas.

Clayton was a big man, much heavier than me, but he was anything but slowed by his bulk. He knew how to use it to his advantage. He kept heaving, getting both arms under the table and using it as a battering ram against me, forcing me to get the hell out of the way. The umbrella was an encumbrance, both to my mobility and my vision, and I yanked at it, pulling the pole from the centre of the table. In my hands was an unwieldy lance, but I used it to jab at Clayton’s chest, and he reared back from the dirt-encrusted tip, and he lost his grip on the table. As I gained clearance, I overhanded the parasol end, and Clayton batted it aside with both forearms. When he turned towards me, I was ready for him; both of my hands now up in a recognisable boxer’s guard.

There’s an enigma attached to fighting, where even someone more comfortable with striking will revert to natural instinct when grabbed: they’ll also grab their opponent and grapple when they should be punching. Pro-fighters train out the instinct to needlessly grapple, but it’s still there, and in the throes of battle they can’t resist the urge. The opposite is said for when you lift your fists, their instinct then is to trade blows, and usually on the same plane. I made it look as if I was concerned about a punch to the head, and that of course made Clayton more determined to hit it. He powered a left jab at me that I slipped, and as his right cross to my chin thudded in, I caught his wrist in my left palm and parried it aside. My right fist hooked into his floating rib. Clayton grunted, but my short hook was never going to stop him. He back elbowed at my chin, and though it wasn’t a clean blow his forearm smacked up against my right ear. I was knocked aside, but went with the flow, and gaining room to move I changed my plane of attack, and it was nowhere he was ready for. My heel struck the outer edge of his knee.

A warning to the wise. Never admit to having a weakness to a potential adversary. Early on Clayton told me his fighting career ended when he blew out his anterior cruciate ligament. He’d even helped highlight his weakness with an unconscious tap at his leg. I targeted the same knee with my kick, but only with enough force to wobble him: I could have immediately ended his comeback if I’d powered in the kick. As it was, pain shot through him and he staggered, and when I hooked him this time, it was a full shot to his chest with my bodyweight behind it.

‘Son of a bitch,’ he wheezed.

‘Had enough yet?’

‘I haven’t even gotten started.’

He came at me again, this time mixing up his own planes of attack. A straight left and right punch, turned into a rapid hook/uppercut combination that set me rocking to and fro, and then he swept a knee up at my groin. I sucked back my gut, and his knee only skimmed me – thankfully on my pubis bone and not my testicles – and I dropped the tip of my elbow into the meat of his thigh. His weight was enough to force me backwards. I felt my heels sinking into the soft lawn, and had to settle before swinging a counter flurry of punches. Now Clayton was the one ducking and weaving, but he was timing my punches and dug in with a snappy hook of his own to my ribs. The pain exhibited in the gritting of my teeth and squinting of my eyes, and he knew he’d landed a good dig. It spurred him to capitalise on his advantage, and he got me again, this time with an uppercut that rocked me on my feet.

It was more by accident than design that when he drove in with a solid jab to the chin, that I pivotted to present my back to him, parrying his punch with my shoulder even as I wrapped my bent arm around his forearm. I snapped down on his wrist, hyper-extending his elbow over my shoulder. I thrust my hips backwards, and hauled him over the fulcrum in a cumbersome offside throw. He didn’t somersault onto his back, just kind of staggered forward on one leg, and fought for balance, while I kept hold of his trapped arm stopping him from doing so. In desperation he threw a punch across his body, but missed me by a long way. But then he changed his punch so that it targeted my own bent elbow, and the shot to the nerves sent white fire up my arm to the fingertips. I lost my grip, and he spun, settling himself for another punch at my head.

My right arm was numb, a poor defence, but it was all I had when his fist powered at my chin. I tucked my head low, lifted my shoulder and absorbed the punch that should have knocked my lights out. Clayton was happy that he’d got in another hurtful punch, and grinned at me to show his pleasure. I edged back a few feet, and nodded at him in acceptance.

‘Had enough yet?’ he asked, mimicking my taunt of moments ago. ‘Need a rest, buddy?’

‘Still plenty left in my tank,’ I replied, trying not to wilt under the agony in my right shoulder. ‘If you want a second or two to catch your breath, feel free. I’ll wait. Don’t want to take a liberty with a washed-out old man.’

‘I’m good to go.’

‘Then come on.’ I wiggled the tingling fingers of my right hand at him in what looked like a show of bravado, but was really an attempt to get the blood flowing in my shocked extremity again.

He danced in like a boxer, throwing short jabs to get me moving, trying to force me left so that my weakened right side was open to attack. I denied him his plan, skipping sideways, and chopping out at his pistoning wrist with the edge of my left hand. If I’d punched his exposed ribs with my right, I’d have undone what little feeling I’d regained in my arm, so I chose instead to snap a palm into the side of his head. I felt the contact of skin on skin, heard the sharp slap of my hand on his bald scalp, but I’d hit high and with little effect on him.

‘Shit! You hit like a little girl,’ he taunted.

‘I’ll make you squeal like a girl,’ I promised.

He laughed.

The fucker was enjoying himself.

But then again, in a similar weird throe of masochism, so was I.

Grinning, I beckoned him in again.

Our tussle had taken us down the slope towards the pond. The lawn was spongier than ever, the water table having risen from the recent storm. My boots were waterproofed but I could still feel the added weight of cloying mud on the soles. I snapped a kick towards Clayton and watched a divot of muddy grass strike his belly. He frowned, slapped at the mucky stain on his shirt.

‘Was there any need?’ he demanded.

I wiggled my eyebrows, and it spurred him to attack. He yelled as he came, and I waited, allowing him to go for the grapple round my waist. As he snugged in, began squeezing, and lifting, I clubbed both forearms down on the back of his neck at the same time as I drove one knee into his chest. The double battering loosened his grip, but I made the mistake of returning his grapple. I looped an arm round his head, grabbed at the waistband of his jeans with my other hand. As he lifted me with an enormous grunt of effort, we both skidded off our feet. Because he was upslope, my back was towards the pond, and I’d further to fall. However, I kept a good grip on the levers I’d snatched and as I hit dirt, I rolled him over the top of me, kicking out with my legs at the last moment. This time he did somersault, but he didn’t relinquish his hard won hold, and we continued the tumble I’d initiated. The tall reeds at pondside thrashed us. About a billion insects filled the scene, and we were both dotted with writhing bugs. One or two of the little devils were in my ears, and more in my nostrils and mouth. Clayton was no better off. We both kicked and pushed, as much to get away from the wriggling swarm as each other. On the way we landed a couple of sly digs apiece. Clayton was filthy, and I guessed I was equally as mud smeared. He smacked at my head with an open hand. I backhanded him. Then we were both on our knees, and we went for a grip on each other’s heads. I had hair that Clayton got a grab on but his dome was shiny so my hold was on an ear: mine was the better and more painful grip, and I won the head control battle. I twisted him sideways, forcing him down and I fell over him, chest to chest, and my bodyweight helped press him further into the soggy reeds. Water pumped up through the spongy lattice of roots and flooded over his face. He cried out in panic and thrashed a hand at the muddy water to clear it from his mouth, nostrils and eyes. It was a battle he’d no hope of winning, because he only forced up more pond water that now invaded every orifice.

I could tell there was something decidedly wrong, and I relaxed my hold on his ear. He craned up, gasping for life, spitting the filthy water from his mouth. I poised to get in a good crack to his face, but held back. Clayton bucked and kicked and made a wordless roar. His eyes were startled, and his mouth wide in abject horror.

I sat up, then backed off him.

He struggled, but he couldn’t get a hand under him that didn’t sink deeper into the mud. He again cried out, and I knew I had to do something before he disappeared fully into the pond. I grabbed the font of his shirt, hauled him up. He windmilled his arms. Dirt and broken reeds clung to him, and his emphasis again went to clearing his face. While he was wiping away mud, I wrenched backwards and pulled him clear of the sucking mud, and allowed him to drop on the lowest edge of the lawn. He lay there gasping.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I said in bemusement. ‘You can’t swim?’

He coughed and spluttered, and it was enough of an answer to assume I was correct. It also explained why there’d never been a swimming pool added to his expansive property.

‘You sell boats for a living and you can’t even swim?’ I asked again.

‘Don’t…need to swim…’ he gasped, ‘when you’ve a…good boat beneath you…’ He again went into a coughing fit. I was sitting alongside him, equally covered in filth. Something alive and furious squirmed under the collar of my shirt. I swiped it out, saw something black and sinuous and dashed it away in disgust. Next I dug mud from my ears.

Clearing my ear canals made my hearing that much sharper and I heard the slow clap of someone upslope from us.

Craning round I spotted a figure limned by the sun, and instantly recognised her lithe and curvy shape.

‘Hey, Bryony!’ I greeted her.

‘Well done boys,’ she answered. ‘Finished with our little mud wrassle are we?’

‘If you’re going to wrestle a swine, you have to do it in mud,’ I commented. My words actually gained me a grunt of mirth from Clayton, who was now free of the panic his near drowning had brought on.

‘Talk about a dirty fighter,’ he put in, wiping mud from his face, and now I grinned at the lame joke. He sideswiped me with the back of his arm, and we both struggled up. It was as slippery as hell. In the end we held on to each other and made it to our feet. We stood there like two naughty schoolboys caught in a prank, both of us flicking muck from our fingertips. We shared a conspiratorial smile.

‘What is this anyway?’ Bryony asked. ‘Some kind of homo-erotic male bonding session?’

‘Let’s not go too far,’ I told her.

‘Boys. You never grow up.’

‘Nothing wrong with staying young at heart,’ Clayton pointed out. ‘Eh, Hunter?’