Slash and Burn (23 page)

There was Huffman and Larry Bolan, a select number of Huffman’s usual men employed at the ranch, and five others. These five added a sense of danger to the meeting as though they could turn on each other at any second. A meeting of narcissistic minds is always a dangerous thing, particularly when each of those minds thinks themselves above the rest assembled round them. These five were not used to working as a team: each of them usually headed a group of their own and felt it was a personal insult that they were not elevated above the others. Huffman didn’t give a damn: he would play on their egos in order to get the most out of them. Each one of the five would want to prove that they were the best and they would do everything in their power to demonstrate that.

Huffman was the only person seated. He was in a large wing-backed chair, a cigar cupped in his palm as his hand rested on his crossed legs. He had disdained the usual suit and tie, electing on this occasion to dress more like the other people here. He was wearing a windcheater jacket and canvas trousers that he’d tucked into laced-up boots. The clothing gave him freedom of movement, and also, being a flat sandy colour, a level of camouflage that his designer suit couldn’t match. On his head was a baseball cap, the same colour as the rest of his clothes. On his hip he had holstered a Beretta PX4 Storm, a ‘full size’ semi-auto with a magazine capacity of seventeen rounds. Unbeknown to all gathered there, he had his cut-throat razor secreted in its pouch on his right wrist.

He was sitting in silence watching the others. One of them, Remmie Souza, was standing with his arms folded over his expansive chest. Souza was a big man, muscles the type you see in prison yards, and his stance showed off the massiveness of his biceps. Huffman wanted to laugh at him; next to Larry Bolan Souza looked like a wimp. More than once Huffman had noticed Souza casting a look Bolan’s way, then frowning in self-admonishment.

‘It is time to put your differences aside,’ Huffman finally said. ‘I have just offered Hunter the incentive to fight even harder to free the woman. He’ll be coming. Unless you work as a team, I guarantee he’ll beat you.’

‘He won’t beat us,’ said a grey-haired man as he fingered the hilt of a knife on his hip. ‘He got lucky with the others, that’s all.’

Charles Grade was the oldest man in the room. He was in his early fifties, but he still had the body of a man twenty years younger. He was as lithe as a cat and his wide green eyes added to the resemblance.

Watching Grade from under heavy brows was the youngest man. ‘He won’t beat me, anyway,’ Desmond Molloy said to Huffman in an accent evocative of Northern Ireland. He nodded his head in Grade’s direction. ‘Can’t vouch for that old man over there.’

Molloy was a hard-faced man, his skin pocked with acne and more than one scar. His father, Patrick, had been an IRA hit man back when the Troubles were on, and Desmond had picked up the mantle after his father was shot dead by an undercover SAS soldier. These days he worked out of Newark and he was generally at odds with Grade who worked for a rival mob out of neighbouring Jersey City.

Grade sneered.

‘This old man could still teach you a lesson, boy.’

‘Bring it on,’ Molloy said.

‘Easy, you guys,’ said Cal Burton. ‘Huffman’s right. You can’t underestimate a man who takes out six armed soldiers with only a handgun. We need to stick together on this.’

‘What’s wrong with you, Tex?’ Molloy demanded. ‘No faith in your abilities? I didn’t think you’d be the type to be afraid of one man: last I heard you claimed to have taken out three US marshals with only your bare hands. Are you telling me that was all bullshit?’

Cal Burton was a native Texan, although he was more likely to be found in Austin than here north of Dallas. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a florid complexion and a shock of hair that looked like a badly stacked sheaf of corn. He was missing two teeth at the front and had the habit of rolling his tongue through the gap. Some people looked at Burton and assumed that he wasn’t firing on all cylinders. They usually only made that mistake once.

He laughed at Molloy. ‘There weren’t three of them, Paddy. There were four. Plus I killed the asshole they were supposed to protect.’

Molloy sneered again, turned to Souza. ‘What about you, Remmie? You afraid of one Englishman?’

‘I ain’t afraid of no one,’ Souza said, but again his glance slid over Larry Bolan.

The last person of this unusual gathering was the most anomalous of all. It was against the norm for a woman to be an enforcer, but Ruth Wicker had proven her ability time and time again. Once she’d been a DEA agent, but she’d found working for the other side far more lucrative than working for the government. In blazer and trousers she still looked like she was on the government payroll. She was slight in build, with a face that would never be called pretty. Never had she used her feminine ways to build her career; she relied solely on her ability to deliver pain with a viciousness most men could not match.

‘You should learn to keep your mouth shut, Molloy.’

‘Who asked you, bitch?’ Molloy snapped at her. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. Why’d you bring in a frigid woman if you wanted us to work together, Huffman?’

Wicker shook her head slowly and her hand crept towards the gun on her hip.

‘Go on, Wicker, draw your gun. I’ll shove it someplace you’ve never had something shoved before.’ Molloy leered at the other men in the room, but no one seemed impressed by his lewd talk. He threw up his hands. ‘Ah, to hell with the lot of you. I work better on my own anyway. Just keep the feck out of my way.’ Turning to Wicker, he pointed a finger at her. ‘Especially you, Wicker, you feckin’ dog.’

‘What’s wrong, Molloy?’ Wicker asked. ‘Upset because I turned you down? Shit, it must be frustrating when you can’t even score with an ugly bitch like me.’

‘Feck off.’

The other men in the room laughed this time. Molloy’s face reddened, and he finally fell silent. He crossed his arms the way Souza did, and glowered between Wicker and Grade, unsure which of the two he hated the most.

‘Now that we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way,’ Huffman said, ‘we can get down to business. You were all asked here because your employers owe me. You were chosen to represent your respective syndicates because you’re the best at what you do. But, gentlemen – and lady – I do not expect you to work for free. As promised you’ll all be paid handsomely, if you kill Joe Hunter. Your best bet is to do that as a team.’ He looked once at Larry Bolan before continuing. ‘I don’t care which one of you actually finishes him, as long as he dies. But there is one thing that you must not do.’ He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering for a little longer on Molloy. ‘No one hurts either of the women.’

‘I thought you wanted this Ballard woman dead, boss,’ Cal Burton said.

‘I do, but only after I’ve had a long talk with her. She has evidence against me that I need to get back. If she’s dead she can’t hand it over.’

‘You think Hunter will actually deliver her to you?’ Wicker shook her head slowly. ‘The way he’s fighting for Kate Piers, it’s unlikely he’ll be the type to hand another woman over to you.’

‘Ballard is a stranger. She means nothing to him. But I believe that Kate is another story altogether.’

‘They’re sisters, aren’t they?’

Huffman looked over at Souza. It was the first time the man had shown any interest other than in matching Larry for bicep size.

Souza unfolded his arms. ‘He’s hardly going to hand over the sister of the woman he’s protecting. Something like that isn’t going to endear him to his girlfriend, is it?’

‘Can I ask a question, boss?’

Huffman looked at Cal Burton. The man did that infuriating roll of his tongue, saliva cracking as a bubble popped. Cal ran a hand through his scruffy hair.

‘What would you like to know?’

‘If it’s so important that you get Imogen Ballard alive, why’d you want us to kill the man who’s best placed to bring her to you?’

‘He’s far too dangerous to be allowed to live. If he handed over Imogen in exchange for her sister, how long would it be before we were back to square one? He’d come after Imogen with as much determination as he’s already shown.’

‘You said a minute ago that he didn’t know or care about Imogen,’ Wicker pointed out. ‘Why would he come after her?’

‘Because Kate would ask him to.’

‘So why let Kate live?’ Molloy asked. ‘Why not gut the bitch and show this Hunter what’ll happen to him if he doesn’t hand Imogen over? Give her to me: I’ll do it for you.’

Wicker turned angry eyes on Molloy.

‘You’re a pig, Molloy. I’d call you a misogynist but you probably wouldn’t understand what I was talking about.’

‘I like women just fine,’ Molloy told her. ‘So long as they
keep their feckin’ mouths shut
!’

‘You know something, Molloy,’ Wicker said. ‘If every man was like you I would become a lesbian.’

‘Shit, I thought you already were.’

‘OK, that’s enough!’ Huffman stood up and placed the cigar between his lips. Around the cigar, he said, ‘Fighting each other, you’re making it easier for Hunter.’

‘Get Wicker the hell out of here then,’ Molloy said. Turning to Charles Grade, he added, ‘And you’d be better getting shot of that old man. He’s only going to slow the rest of us down.’

‘I’ve a better idea.’

The Irishman began to turn towards Huffman’s voice, just as Huffman whipped his right hand across his throat. A silver flash at the end of his fingers seemed to caress Molloy’s skin. Molloy’s eyes went wide, then the flesh in his throat gaped and a flood of blood was pouring down his neck. The gash widened further and Huffman had to step away to avoid the squirt of blood from a severed artery.

Molloy realised he was dying.

He grabbed at his throat with both hands. It was pointless. He stumbled to his knees. He tried to scream at those standing immobile around him, but the razor had sliced through his larynx and all that came out was a gurgle. Blood squirted again, in time with each faltering beat of his heart. He collapsed face down.

Huffman eyed each of the others in turn. ‘I’ve had enough insolence out of that asshole. Anyone else here who thinks they can talk to me like
that
?’

Burton rolled his shoulders in a shrug. Wicker stared down on her tormentor with a look of smug satisfaction. Only Souza looked perturbed, but not from any love of the Irishman. Grade was actually smiling.

Grade said, ‘That Hunter is one bad bastard. Poor Paddy there didn’t stand a chance. I’ll make sure his people know he died a hero, boss.’

‘Thanks,’ Huffman said with a cold smile. ‘Appreciate it, Grade. Anybody else see anything differently, now’s the time to say so.’

Three of them seemed pleased with the outcome. Only Souza stirred, but just to cross his arms again.

‘Problem?’ The razor was still a pale blur in Huffman’s cupped palm.

‘No, boss, of course not. Molloy was a liability,’ he said. ‘He would’ve sacrificed the rest of us to get his own way.’

‘Yeah,’ Larry Bolan rumbled from behind him. It was the first time Larry had entered the conversation. No one else caught the meaning in that single word, but Huffman looked across at the big man.

‘Do we all think we can work together now?’ Huffman asked. No one declined. ‘Good. Let’s get started then.’

Huffman crouched down and wiped the cut-throat razor clean on Molloy’s trousers. He slipped the blade up his sleeve and into its holder before standing up. Throughout the meeting his hired hands had stood silently at the outside of the ring of killers. He indicated two of his men over. ‘Take this piece of shit out of here.’

‘What will you do with him, boss?’ Wicker asked, watching with an unhealthy interest as the two men lifted Molloy from the floor.

‘He’ll go where the others went. To the slaughterhouse.’

Chapter 35

You can disappear for a week without really trying. As long as you don’t make contact with anyone, and you don’t lay down a paper or electronic trail, then you can skim along below the radar. Imogen Ballard had done just that without any great effort.

For the past seven days she’d been an anonymous passenger on a cruise ship that had taken in the Caribbean Islands, visiting Puerto Rico, St Thomas and St Maarten. She had stayed on board on an all-inclusive basis, avoiding disembarkation where she would have to show her passport or where a record of her boarding card would be kept. An imprint of her credit card had been taken when she had originally boarded the cruise ship at Miami, but until it was time to leave she’d used only an on-board charge card. No record of her transactions had entered her banking system until she was back on dry land, and even then it would possibly take days before the record was updated. The original booking had been made and paid for in cash. Only someone with access – and the time – to enter all tour operator systems would have been able to uncover her whereabouts. It was something that Huffman had not thought of.

Neither had I.

I met Imogen at Dallas Fort Worth International. When she walked out of the arrivals lounge at terminal C, I immediately recognised her. She had changed her hair since the photograph on Kate’s phone was taken. She’d cut it short and coloured it darker and she was tanned from sub-tropical sunshine. Sunglasses concealed her eyes. But I knew her. She was the double of Kate. Slightly shorter, slightly heavier of build, but she would have passed as Kate’s twin rather than her older sibling.