Dead Men's Harvest jh-6 Page 9

  ‘Please be seated, Hunter.’

  I sat facing the door, but only because four meaty hands pressed me into the chair.

  Charters hovered by the door, but his friends had to wait outside. Charters loosely aimed the SIG he’d taken from me. Petoskey and the newcomer took up positions so they were both facing me but neither would impede the aim of their guard. I looked from one to the other.

  ‘So let’s get things straight. Who’s the biggest arsehole out of the two of you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m growing tired of your disrespect, punk,’ Charters offered from the back of the room.

  I paid him no mind, searching the faces of my two immediate captors. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll allow you one concession,’ said the little man. ‘Our principal owes someone a final say on your fate, but if it comes to it, I don’t mind killing you and taking the consequences.’

  ‘I guess that means you’re the one that I have to kill first,’ I told him. ‘Then again, I owe Petoskey big time for what he did to Louise. Maybe I’ll save you for later.’

  ‘Such bravado from a man in chains,’ Petoskey laughed. ‘Should I show it to him now, Baron?’

  Baron? That was the name of the little man. Just like his bland face, his name meant nothing to me, other than it was now marked for death.

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Baron picked the envelope off the desk. ‘Let me open this for you.’ He slipped out a black and white photograph and placed it in front of me.

  Despite myself, I flinched.

  The glossy shot was of my best friend.

  Rink was slumped in a chair. He was tethered. His face was a patchwork of cuts and watery blood was spattered down the front of his bared chest. A wound gaped high in the meat of his right shoulder. Only the seething hatred burning from behind his swollen eyelids told me he was still alive.

  ‘Jared Rington is alive,’ Petoskey said. ‘But one more wrong move out of you, Hunter, and believe me, he will die.’

  Baron stepped forward. ‘You do believe that we are capable of Rington’s murder, Hunter?’

  Beyond Charters, I could see where they’d left Louise lying on the ground. Steam was rising from the ruin of her skull. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘Good, but just in case, listen…’

  From his coat pocket Baron pulled out a digital recorder. He flicked it on and held it close to my ear.

  ‘Hunter.’ Rink’s unmistakable voice issued from the device. ‘Frog-giggin’ fuckers got the drop on me, man. I’m sorry I got you into this, buddy.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘They say that they’ll hurt me if you don’t do as they ask. Tell ’em to go screw themselves.’

  There was a static buzz, the sound of Rink being introduced to a Taser.

  Baron flicked the ‘off’ switch.

  ‘When your buddy said that we’d hurt him, he meant even more than we have already. The only way you can stop that is to give us what we want.’

  Petoskey leaned in close. ‘So… do we have your cooperation?’

  What choice did I have?

  A maxim of counterterrorism: you don’t make bargains with terrorists. You refuse to negotiate. You show the demented bastards that you aren’t prepared to back down. Not ever. Show them a weakness and they will exploit it, exponentially growing the problem.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but my words weren’t those of an ex-counterterrorism soldier. They were those of a best friend.

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  Chapter 17

  Baron took another turn at the envelope. From inside it he drew a second photograph, which he placed on the desk in front of me.

  ‘Don’t know him,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t?’ Baron said. ‘Now that is strange. But no problem; I’m going to explain everything about John Telfer that you need to know.’

  I took a second look at the photo. It was the same photograph that had been splashed all over the newspapers and TV newscasts when John had been mistakenly identified as the Harvestman.

  ‘John Telfer?’ I tasted his name on my tongue. ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘It should,’ Baron said. ‘Considering he’s your brother.’

  ‘Half-brother,’ Petoskey added. ‘If we want to be precise. You were looking for John when you attacked me last time, remember?’

  ‘You know all about him then?’ I asked. ‘You should also know that he’s dead. He was murdered by a serial killer out in the Mojave Desert last year.’

  ‘We know the story,’ Baron told me. ‘But that’s all it is. John Telfer survived. As did others.’

  ‘There were no survivors,’ I said.

  ‘You survived,’ Baron pointed out, ‘as did Jared Rington.’

  Shaking my head, I said, ‘No. You’ve got it all wrong. We weren’t there.’

  Of course, they were having none of it, because they had inside information from a man who had been there. It was apparent to all that John had survived; otherwise the impending court case would have no legs to stand on. None of this would have been necessary.

  Baron tapped an index finger on the photo. ‘Where is he, Hunter? Tell us and we will let Rington go free.’

  I pasted a look of astonishment across my face. ‘You want me to give up my brother? Are you totally insane?’

  ‘Not insane, Hunter,’ Baron pointed out with a nod towards Louise’s corpse. ‘But we are supremely motivated.’

  Petoskey leaned a fist on the desktop. For a second he was within grabbing range, but I didn’t go for it. What would that achieve? Maybe I’d get to snap his neck, but it wouldn’t help me find Rink. Reading something in my face, Baron touched Petoskey’s elbow and he pulled back as though avoiding a lunging viper. It told me something about Petoskey: he was a murderous fuck when it came to innocent girls, but he wasn’t as perceptive a killer as Baron was.

  Regaining his composure, Petoskey tried again. ‘John Telfer is a dead man, Hunter, either now or later. At least this way you get to save the life of your best friend.’

  My laugh was short and brutal. ‘As Rink so eloquently put it, go fuck yourselves.’

  Petoskey’s face darkened. ‘It would serve you well to remember what else your friend said.’

  ‘Don’t you worry… I haven’t forgotten.’ My words were a threat, and there was nothing subtle about them.

  ‘Perhaps you require another demonstration of our power?’

  ‘Harm as much as a hair on his head, and I swear to God I’ll rip your throats out.’

  Baron clapped his hands slowly. ‘Very good, Hunter, that’s just the passion and drive we require from you. Maybe you can put it to helping us find your brother.’

  If my hatred was a flame it would have scorched him to his very soul, though I doubted the bastard had one. ‘Let me repeat myself. Go fuck yourselves.’

  Petoskey smiled at my audacity. ‘John Telfer is going to die. Tell us where he is. I’ll see to it that his death is quick and painless. However, if his death is left to our associate, then I’m afraid I can’t make the same promise.’

  ‘Your associate?’ I stared pointedly at Baron.

  ‘As much as I’d like to confirm it, I’m not the one Sigmund is referring to. Like I said, Telfer wasn’t the only one who survived what happened at Jubal’s Hollow.’

  I knew where this was going but wasn’t about to admit it.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Am I? Is that a chance you’re prepared to take?’

  ‘I killed the bastard. I rammed a broken bone through his throat and watched him die.’

  ‘You saw him die?’ Petoskey laughed. ‘You’re sure of that?’

  I concentrated on the picture of my brother. All I could hope was that Walter’s promise to keep John safe was being honoured, because I still had a more urgent task. ‘I want to see Rink,’ I said. ‘I want to see him alive and well, or I don’t tell you a thing.’

  The two men shared a knowing smile, like they’d both just won a private bet. Baron drew a syringe from h
is pocket.

  ‘Unless that’s Novocaine to fix my slack tooth, you can keep it,’ I hissed at him.

  ‘Just a little sodium pentathol,’ he told me. ‘You need to be moved and I don’t trust that we’d reach our location intact if I allowed you free rein.’

  ‘You have my friend hostage. Do you really think I’m going to try something stupid?’

  ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ Baron quoted. ‘I’d rather not take the chance.’

  ‘Believe me,’ I said, without any trace of irony, ‘if I was going to do something stupid, I would’ve done it by now.’

  My cuffed hands were resting on the table, mere inches from the photographs. Rink was alive but one thing was obvious: if I died now, Rink would follow soon after.

  They wanted to see how stupid a desperate man could be?

  ‘OK, bring it on, Baron,’ I said.

  Baron watched me with an unwavering gaze. A single droplet of what’s sometimes referred to as ‘the truth serum’ shivered from the tip of the needle. In one motion he jabbed the needle directly through my clothing and into my shoulder, pushing down the plunger.

  ‘I don’t care much for your bedside manner,’ I told him.

  ‘Did it smart a little? I am sorry.’

  ‘I just fucking bet you are.’

  Already the edge of my vision was getting fuzzy. Sodium pentathol was a drug I was familiar with. It’s not the wonder drug portrayed in espionage movies where a person will divulge their deepest secrets, though it does loosen the inhibitions to a point where they are chattier and more open to suggestion than normal. A slightly higher dosage acts the same as any other anaesthetic. I must’ve received the higher dose.

  Blackness fell like winter’s dark shade.

  Chapter 18

  Over the years I’ve been subjected to the effects of drugs — a prerequisite for one trained to resist torture — but there wasn’t much I could do to fight the dosage given to me by Baron. The drug took hold of me but its effect was dulled slightly so I didn’t experience the absolute oblivion that comes on a surgeon’s table; at the extremes of my consciousness I was aware of movement. Nothing that I could define, simply hands lifting me into the back of the van, followed by an interminable rumble and shudder as I was driven along uneven roads. At some point I must have been transferred to a helicopter, as even through the fog I recognised the thrum and slice of rotor blades cutting the air.

  Baron administered further doses of sodium pentathol throughout the journey and I remained in a hazy state until he jabbed me with another needle. Whatever antidote I was given, the effect was instantaneous.

  I came to, fully awake, feeling strangely invigorated, propped between Charters and the one who’d slammed my head on the floor of the van earlier. The cuffs remained in place. Baron was sitting next to the pilot but Petoskey was nowhere to be seen. Probably he’d crawled back under his rock.

  ‘Where’s Siggy?’ I had to shout to make myself heard over the roar of the rotors. No one answered me, so I changed tack. ‘Where are we?’

  From his place in the co-pilot’s seat, Baron nodded across fields swept by moonlight. Beyond were trees, silvered by the winter moon, and it struck me that I’d been unconscious for most of the day. The trees bordered a river valley. We were looking to the east, and by the mild tang of brine, and the emptiness of the sky beyond the trees, I gathered that we were somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard.

  Baron wasn’t one for hints but that didn’t matter as, by now, I’d put two and two together.

  ‘You’re an ex-spook,’ I said to Baron. Now I knew how Hendrickson had the intelligence available to find Walter’s hidden cabin in the Adirondacks. ‘How did you wind up working for a couple of punks like Hendrickson and Petoskey?’

  He had to lean towards me so I could hear his reply. ‘Money. Simple as that.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was from a sense of duty.’

  ‘Duty doesn’t pay as well as Hendrickson does. Anyway, you’ve got a nerve. You’ve agreed to give up your brother for the sake of a friend. Where’s the duty there?’

  ‘It’s not something I want to think about,’ I told him. ‘Even if I tell you where John is, there’s still the possibility he’ll get away. The way things are Rink has no chance.’

  ‘Even so,’ Baron said, ‘you surprise me.’

  ‘I love my brother. But we’re not that close.’

  ‘How much do you value the life of your best friend?’

  ‘Why do you even bother asking? He’d die for me.’

  The helicopter took us north along a rugged coastline that alternated between dense woodland and open bays dotted with beachfront houses. The sea was as smooth as stretched silk, inviting a skimmed stone to pock the surface with concentric circles. On any other occasion I might have appreciated the beauty. Now my mood was too foul, engaged as it was in contemplating the bloody and violent deaths of my fellow fliers.

  As I’d been deliberately wedged between Charters and the other, my view to the front was limited to snatches through the partially opened partition that led to the crew cabin. Baron had turned away, conversing over a satellite phone, but I had no hope of hearing anything above the thrum of the blades and whistle of wind. To my gruff chaperones, I said, ‘So where are we heading, boys?’

  Charters grunted, touched the lump I’d given him on his forehead. He adjusted himself in his seat, none too careful about where he placed his bony bits. When I didn’t respond, he nudged me again as he jiggled into a more comfortable position.

  Looking him up and down, I asked, ‘Are you always such an arsehole, Charters, or do you feel you need the practice?’

  ‘Practice makes perfect.’ He lifted his elbow and slammed it across my forehead, taking payback in full. My skull felt like a well-whacked pinata, but it was worth it. Before his arm dropped back to his side, I’d slipped a Swiss-army knife I’d dipped from his pocket into my waistband.

  Having no need to goad him now, I lapsed into silence. My guardsmen took my silence as a sign of being chastised and Charters in particular looked pleased with the result. Let him gloat, while he had the opportunity.

  The helicopter banked to the right, throwing the three of us together. Charters now experienced a little of the discomfort that I’d had to put up with. As the helicopter levelled out he pushed me away none too gently, with another dig in the ribs for good measure.

  ‘I think you’ve had all the practice you need.’

  My words won me a grunt of laughter. The concept of one man’s misfortune being another man’s pleasure was often a by-product of the mercenary lifestyle these men followed. Someone like Charters was only happy when making another person’s life a misery. I’d met many of his type throughout my lifetime. The years I’d spent as a soldier ensured I made the acquaintance of such beasts. Except then I usually ended up killing the miserable bastards.

  Baron twisted round and called back to us, ‘We’re going down. You might want to grab a hold of your seats.’

  No sooner had he said it than the helicopter banked to the left. We appeared to be in a nose dive, rushing towards the unforgiving earth. At the last possible second the pilot adjusted the controls and the nose went up and the skids touched ground with hardly a bump.

  Charters opened the door to show a wide expanse of verdant lawn. He climbed out, then lifting a handgun for emphasis, he said, ‘Out, Hunter.’

  I clambered out, my feet sinking into the spongy lawn. Over my head swooped the whirling rotor blades. Behind me came the thud of the second guard stepping out the helicopter. He pressed a hand to my shoulder, ushering me before him. Baron brought up the rear. His mobile phone was ringing but he ignored it.

  Charters was in the way, but he wasn’t big enough to block my view of the house we approached. It was a huge colonial edifice, the kind of house that often serves as a backdrop to glossy adverts for luxury cars, though you wouldn’t expect to see the trimmings on this house in GQ magazine.

&n
bsp; On the balustrade at the top of the building’s facade there were men with guns, also searchlights and CCTV cameras. Behind bullet- and blast-proof windows guards stood as stoic as sentries at Buckingham Palace. Other men with machine guns patrolled the grounds. I wondered how likely it was that the lawn and perimeter walls were sown with heat- and motion-sensing devices. If they were, then nothing larger than a mouse would get inside the compound uninvited.

  Sigmund Petoskey waited for us at the front door. He must have travelled via a different craft. He held a mobile phone in a loose grip, and I guessed it was him who’d been ringing Baron a moment ago, eager for our arrival.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Siggy. It’ll save me another trip to Little Rock to kill you.’

  Charters’ slap to the back of my head sent flashes of silver across my vision. Giving him the evil eye, I made him a silent promise. He curled a lip.

  Turning to Baron, I said, ‘I hate what you’re forcing me to do, but I’m gonna tell you where John is as soon as I know Rink’s safe.’ Then squaring my shoulders before Charters, I said, ‘But I swear to God, if this piece of shit lays one more hand on me, I’ll fucking break his arm.’

  Charters laughed but behind his hard gaze I noted a worm of trepidation, like he’d just figured out that perhaps I wasn’t joking. He glanced at his superiors for direction. An insidious smile flicked at the corners of Baron’s mouth as if the threat was something he’d like to see enacted.

  Maybe it was a sense of duty, maybe it was false bravado, or that Charters felt my challenge made him lose face before his superiors. Whatever motivated him, he said, ‘I don’t like your tone of voice, asshole.’ He prepared to backhand me across the face.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ I growled.

  But he wouldn’t be told.

  His curled fist whipped towards me.

  My response wasn’t to take the blow stoically. Neither did I step back to avoid it. I came forward, pivoting so that both my palms accepted the blow. Fingers curling over his forearm, I pulled it with me as I pivoted a second time, taking his outstretched arm under my armpit. Pulling up on his wrist, and forcing down with my body, it was my entire weight versus the fragile make up of his elbow. I heard the twang of rupturing tendons. Not that the matter could end there. I’d promised I’d break his arm. Retaining his wrist, I rammed a knee hard against his hyper-extended elbow. It was like snapping a green stick. Not bad for a man in handcuffs.