False Move
Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Matt Hilton
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Thanks
A Selection of Recent Titles by Matt Hilton
Tess Grey Series
BLOOD TRACKS *
PAINTED SKINS *
RAW WOUNDS *
WORST FEAR *
FALSE MOVE *
Joe Hunter Series
RULES OF HONOUR
RED STRIPES
THE LAWLESS KIND
THE DEVIL’S ANVIL
NO SAFE PLACE
MARKED FOR DEATH
* available from Severn House
FALSE MOVE
Matt Hilton
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2018 by Matt Hilton.
The right of Matt Hilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8865-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-988-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0200-0 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
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ONE
When he was a cop, Aaron Lacey regularly joked that if he knew where he was going to die, he’d damn well steer clear of the place. It was one of those throwaway remarks you made when engaged in a job where death was a possibility at any time, and usually earned him a snort of cynicism from folk who shared a similar outlook on their career choice. Alas, Lacey didn’t possess the power of precognition, no more than any of his colleagues did. Besides, most of the time they didn’t get a say on where their latest call took them, and sometimes the destination turned out to be their last. Mikey, Lacey’s best buddy despite their twenty-year age difference, and senior patrol partner for over seven years, sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen to die in the aisle of a convenience store, lying in a pool of spilled coffee and blood. If Lacey had his way, he sure as shit wasn’t about to perish lying among the weeds and trash of a vacant lot on the Boston side of the Neponset River either. Sadly, the odds for a quiet death in a comfortable bed, surrounded by his loved ones, were severely stacked against him.
He lay on his side, partly concealed by overhanging foliage, surrounded by darkness, and wanted to groan in misery. But he daren’t. His left palm was clapped tightly over the wound in his side, but he couldn’t staunch all the blood one-handed. The wound was a through and through, and bled profusely from both sides directly above his hip: his shirt and trousers were sopping. His right hand clutched a revolver, but it was of little use to him being empty of ammunition. At most it could be used as a blunt instrument, but that wouldn’t save him from those stalking him. They could stand off at a safe distance and riddle him with more bullets.
His best hope for survival was to sit tight and pray that his pursuers moved on: the brief but noisy gunfight would have been reported by now and the cops should be en route. His hunters would clear out. Not that his past service with the NYPD would earn him any special dispensation from prosecution; he’d be deemed as complicit as the others in the gun battle, whether his part was in self-defense or not, and he’d be whisked to lock-up by way – hopefully – of an ER. But better a cell than a grave. At fifty-eight years old, he’d had decent innings, but he wasn’t ready to go yet.
There were three of them. Two men and a woman. It had started with four, but during a frantic exchange of rounds one of his bullets had hit its mark, and while Lacey had staggered away clutching his side, his would-be slayer had fallen, and his silence was damning of his fate. He trusted that one of the living trio was engaged in dragging away their friend’s corpse, but that left two trailing him and it would only take one of them to kill him.
The river whispered to him from nearby, and a breeze rustled the trees along its bank, set the vacant lot’s chain-link fence rattling. The noise masked the sound of those chasing him but hopefully his rasping breaths and subdued groans were equally obscured to them. He was, however, positive he could hear his life ebbing from the holes in his sides. The wound burned like a bitch, as if a hot poker had been rammed through him.
You’re used to pain, he reminded himself. His knees gave him hell most of the time, and his arthritic shoulder made rising from bed difficult and excruciating most mornings. But this pain was something else. It stole his strength. No, fatalism was the thief. And he wasn’t going to give in. He crabbed up his aching knees, and rolled so he was on his butt. The branches hung over him. He peered towards the entrance of the lot, the direction his pursuers would most likely come, and could discern no movement in the darkness. Despite his resolve to stay where he’d crawled to, he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He rose up, shuddering at the fresh blast of agony through his side. If nothing else, the flaring pain took his mind off his complaining knees. He stole away, keeping close to the bushes so he wouldn’t present an i
dentifiable silhouette, and approached the fence at the lot’s rear. Kids had used the lot as a hangout – evidenced by the proliferation of flattened beer cans and broken bottles – and a shortcut, or escape route, onto the Neponset Trail, a hiking path that followed the contours of the river. During the daytime dog walkers and joggers used it, but in the dead of night the trail was the domain of ex-cops being hounded to death by merciless killers. He slipped through a beaten-down portion of chain link and onto a shallow incline of rock-strewn earth onto the track. His feet belonged to somebody else. At a crouch, he moved onto the asphalt path, one ear on the lot behind him. He heard distant sirens.
Fuck fatalism! Now he was on the move again, he preferred to trade freedom for the jail cell he’d wished for only minutes ago. He staggered along, feet slapping earth. Behind him he dripped a trail anyone could follow. He looked at his gun. Earlier he’d considered it only as a blunt instrument, but even empty it could be used to threaten: they could have no way of knowing he was out of ammo. He held onto the revolver as tightly as he did his side.
The river curved. On the land that jutted out into the water the trees retained their summer foliage. Under the boughs it was intensely dark. If not for the fact he could be easily tracked, he would have holed up there, tried to staunch his wounds with his shirt, and waited for his pursuers to leave. He continued on the trail, to where the river grew broader and was dotted with a number of low but shrub-crowned islands. Distantly he saw a road bridge spanning the river, delineated against the night by the wash of streetlights. A responding patrol car shot along it and for a moment Lacey experienced a pang of nostalgia for the lights and siren. But he also ducked, averted his face, made his silhouette small. If he hadn’t done so, he might have missed the figure stealing along the path behind him.
Surprisingly spritely when his life was threatened, he bounded up, extending the revolver. ‘Not another fuckin’ step, buddy!’
His bark was as loud as a gunshot in the night and it had the desired response. His stalker drew up short, and opened his arms wide. He didn’t drop the knife. ‘You killed Mathers, Lace.’
‘Yeah, and I’ll kill you too, motherfucker.’ For emphasis, Lacey thumbed back the hammer on his gun.
The man was younger than Lacey, with the stocky build of a wrestler, all neck and arms. In a stand-up brawl, he’d be the bookies’ favourite. But the young man had brought a knife to a gunfight.
‘Drop it, Ethan, or by fuck I’ll put one between your eyes.’
Ethan judged the threat calmly. Weighing his options. Even in the dark he’d make out Lacey’s pained stance, his desperation. A desperate man was more inclined to shoot first and make demands later. ‘You’re outta ammo, Lace.’
‘Wanna try me?’
‘Things didn’t have to come to this, Lace.’ Ethan’s use of Lacey’s nickname was purposeful. To humanize him in Lacey’s eyes, reminding him of their previous comradeship. He’d be less inclined to slay his old pal in cold blood, right? ‘We don’t have to fight. Just gimme what you stole and I’ll let you walk away. You have my word on it.’
‘Your word means shit. If I hadn’t turned just now, you were gonna stick that knife in my back, you punk.’
Ethan graced him with a world-weary smile. ‘Not gonna lie to you, Lace. I’d’a split you open, but it wouldn’t’a given me any pleasure. This ain’t personal, buddy.’
‘So you walk away. If it ain’t personal, what does it matter if you get the memory stick back?’
‘Lace, gettin’ it back’s my job.’ He nodded at a ring prominent on the hand Lacey pressed to his side: it was a gold NYPD shield ring, now smeared with blood. ‘Your job was important to you too, right? You were prepared to lay down your life for it. You prepared to do that now you’ve retired?’
‘Sure I am. But I’ll take your life first.’
Ethan smiled again, this time in remorse. ‘You’d better do it then, Lace, cause I’m comin’ for ya.’
‘Not another fuckin’ step, Ethan! I’m warning you, man!’
Ethan took a step.
‘You want me to kill you?’ Lacey thrust the gun an inch forward, but they both knew it was an empty threat.
Ethan stepped again, building momentum. Then he hurtled forward.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Lacey yanked the gun back over his shoulder, then hammered down as Ethan’s knife speared at his throat.
The butt of the gun landed an instant before the blade found flesh. In the next instant they crashed together, and tumbled off the trail, down the leaf-littered decline to the river. Their brief death struggle thrashed the water to bloody froth.
TWO
Nicolas ‘Po’ Villere gunned the engine of his Mustang, and then let it idle.
‘Sweet,’ he said, satisfied with the throaty grumble. Recently the car had been in the shop for repair after it had been employed as a battering ram, and he’d taken the excuse to modify and upgrade the engine. He gave the muscle car more gas, and the restrained power surged through it making the car rise and dip on its suspension.
Seated in the passenger seat, Tess Grey cast him a sidelong glance, her lips tightening. He returned the glimpse.
‘Hoodlum,’ she said. ‘You going to peel away from the curb next?’
‘Tempted to.’ A smile touched his turquoise eyes. ‘Truth, Tess? You like it when I peel away, don’tcha?’
‘Must I remind you we’re on a stake out? There’s a time and place for juvenile antics, Po. Say, twenty years ago in your case?’
‘F’sure, except twenty years ago I didn’t get much opportunity to satisfy my need for speed.’
His comment shamed her. Twenty years ago he’d been incarcerated, only partway through a fourteen-year term behind bars. He’d spent most of his early adulthood in the Louisiana State Penitentiary, known to its inmates as Angola, so didn’t get to do the things other youths did. Who was she to deny him the small pleasures he’d missed out on? But she couldn’t resist taunting him. ‘I’m sure you’re having a mid-life crisis,’ she said. ‘What’s next, Po? You going to buy a motorcycle and take a pilgrimage down Route Sixty-Six?’
‘I’ll reserve that trip for when I’m old and grey.’
Tess laughed. ‘That’s the epitome of irony, right there.’
‘OK, so I meant older and greyer.’
She reached across and teased the short hairs on the back of his head. ‘Don’t worry; the silver makes you more distinguished. Plus, they match your wrinkles.’
‘These ain’t wrinkles, they’re experience lines. Seem to have gained quite a few since we met.’
‘Stick around, Po, you’re about to get another.’
Immediately their good-natured bickering dissolved, and Po’s attention was hawk-like as he checked out the three men leaving the bar across the street. The trio had been drinking, but it was only early evening so not to excess. They nudged and shoved shoulders, sharing jokes as they stepped out into the cool Maine evening.
‘That’s him, the guy on the right,’ said Tess needlessly.
Po had already noted Thomas ‘Moondog’ Becker’s appearance in the photos she’d shown him earlier. Becker was a big, rangy guy, carrying off the double-denim look, with a hairdo, moustache and sideburns as retro as Po’s taste in cars. His 1970s styling fit his role as a lead guitarist in a country rock band. His friends were also members of the band, but didn’t dress for the stage during their afternoons off.
As the trio crossed the street, Po set the Mustang rolling in reverse. Its back bumper came to rest barely a finger’s breadth from the front end of a large silver SUV he’d purposely blocked in. Thinking he was manoeuvring to gain space to pull out, his driving didn’t immediately attract attention until Po turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. On the sidewalk he lit a cigarette, and stood smoking, nonchalant, with all the time in the world to enjoy the nicotine hit.
‘Hey, buddy, how’s about making a bit of space there? We need to get going.’ It was one of Becker’s ban
d mates who’d spoken, his tone amiable enough.
‘Just finishing up my smoke,’ said Po.
‘We’re on the clock, buddy,’ the guy said, offering a friendly shrug. He barely topped Becker’s shoulder, a small bulldog of a man.
‘What’s the rush?’ Po nodded over at the bar they’d left. ‘Seemed no hurry when y’all were havin’ a beer. I know, ’cause I’ve been out here waitin’ all this time.’
‘Whaddaya mean, waitin’?’ The third man was the youngest, so fair his eyelashes were almost white, and his pink cheeks so smooth he probably only shaved once every other week.
‘What does waitin’ imply to you?’ Po drew on his cigarette.
‘You’ve been waiting for us?’ the kid asked dumbly.
Po aimed a finger at Becker. ‘Been waitin’ on Moondog, and it ain’t for his autograph.’
The trio exchanged glances. Becker rolled his neck as Tess got out of the Mustang: he’d guessed her purpose for being there. His next glance was at the proximity of the Mustang to their ride. He rose up on his toes.
Po flicked ash. ‘Don’t try movin’ your car, Moondog. Put a scratch on my ride and you’ll have to extract my boot from your ass, and trust me it’ll be a tight fit.’
Becker chewed his moustache, and for a second he almost exacerbated his flight-risk status by making a single lunge away. Tess barred his escape. She barely stood as tall as his shoulder, and was half as wide, but she wasn’t moving. Becker swayed in place, but his attention was on Po. Po said nothing, he had no need because there was enough warning in his baleful gaze.
‘Aww, c’mon, you guys …’ Becker groaned. ‘I’ve a gig to play tonight.’
‘Sorry, Moondog, but your comeback tour’s cancelled.’ Tess laid an officious hand on his sleeve. ‘You broke the terms of your surety, so you’re coming with us.’
‘Y’all are what?’ It was the kid again: his face glowed red and it wasn’t from the beer he’d imbibed. ‘Some kinda bounty hunters? Don’t y’all need to show us licenses or somethin’?’
‘We don’t need to show you squat,’ Po said, and moved to put himself between Becker and his two pals. There was no legal requirement for a bounty hunter to hold a license in the state of Maine, only that they be affiliated to a licensed bail bonds agency, from which Tess had procured the authorization to arrest on their behalf.