Blood and Ashes

Chapter 27

‘There’s a guy behind the third cabin along, another two out in the trees,’ I offered to the group of FBI agents tasked with making sense of the war zone. ‘Some others are down at the base of the hill where you turned off the road, and there’s more back at the Reynoldses’ house.’

‘Is that it?’ an agent asked, his face showing that he was actually serious.

‘Isn’t that enough to be getting on with?’ They didn’t know about the men from the Seven-Eleven yet, but it was best to let those two lie for a while. Everyone else I could put down to reaction under duress and argue self-defence. Some might see the first two as murder, albeit I was now thinking of them in terms of a pre-emptive strike. It eased my conscience that way.

‘It’s about twenty too many,’ the agent said.

‘I think you’ll find that’s an exaggeration.’

‘Is it?’ The agent looked me up and down, taking in the scraped knuckles. ‘You seem to have come out of this relatively unharmed. You sure you were the only one responsible for killing them all?’

‘Can’t claim them all,’ I admitted, rubbing at the red mark on my neck. ‘Don Griffiths bagged one of the arseholes. You’ll find him over by that flat-bed.’

The agent was scribbling on a clipboard, mapping the area and making notations with a black cross for where the bodies lay. He handed off the notes to one of his colleagues who ushered the others away to begin a more detailed search. The first agent looked at me again. ‘You said two of them got away.’

‘Sadly, yes. Two pricks who went by the name of Gant and Darley.’

The agent recognised the names, repeating them back to himself. ‘That would be Samuel Gant and Darley Adams.’

I filed both names away for later. ‘Are you going to tell me about them?’

‘No.’ The agent walked away. ‘You haven’t got clearance.’

Shaking my head, I sat on a stoop outside one of the abandoned cabins, away from the buzz of activity. I looked around, taking in the scene, reminded of when I took down the serial killer, Tubal Cain. On that occasion it was as if most of the available government agents in the South-West had turned up at the killer’s hidey-hole in the Mojave. Then, they were there to recover bones, whereas here in the Alleghenies the corpses were much fresher. The number of agents was on a par, though, as was the proliferation of vehicles turning up. A medi-vac chopper had arrived earlier, but with nowhere to land in the hills it had diverted to the wide space on the road below. Don had been rushed away in the rear compartment of a government SUV to meet the chopper, medics working furiously to keep him alive. Millie, Beth and Ryan kept him company down the mountainside. The others required medical assistance too, chilled to the core as they were and were suffering from shock.

I hadn’t been offered the same consideration.

Goes with the territory, I suppose. Some of the FBI personnel still weren’t sure that I should even be at liberty. My weapons had been taken from me, bagged and sealed, but I still caught the occasional suspicious glance as though I was about to go off on another killing spree. Thankfully Special Agent Vincent — or just plain Vince as he’d told me to call him — had a lot of clout and had won me my freedom. Maybe Vince was making up for almost taking my head off with that bloody garrotte.

Could’ve done with getting to a telephone. My first call would be to Rink, the next to Walter Hayes Conrad. On second thoughts, maybe I should call Walter first.

When I worked for Arrowsake I was part of an experimental coalition of Special Forces operatives. Due to their world-ranging scope, Arrowsake had controllers in each Allied country and on this side of the Atlantic Walter Conrad, a sub-division director of the CIA, was my handler. More importantly than that, he was my friend and confidant, sometimes a mentor and father figure. My real father died when I was a child, and though my stepdad, Bob Telfer, was a decent enough man, he just never seemed to gel with me the way he did with his own child, John. As a young soldier, fresh to Arrowsake, I had found the paternal replacement I’d been looking for in Walter.

In the time I’d been in the USA, Walter’s influence had meant that my violent retribution wreaked on a gamut of killers had been looked on favourably by certain high-powered government officials. In layman’s terms, Walter had kept me out of prison by calling in favours. He’d even wangled it so that I, along with Rink and our mutual friend, Harvey Lucas, was back on the government payroll when tracking and taking out Luke Rickard, the contract killer engaged in assassinating past members of Walter’s unit.

Perhaps it would be a good idea to earn special dispensation from Walter this time.

I looked for Vince, my only ally in the entire compound.

Last time I’d seen him, Vince was deep in conversation with the SAC who’d arrived to take charge of the investigation. By the way that SAC Birnbaum — who should have been Vince’s superior — deferred to the young agent, Vince had a little more clout than your average feebie behind him.

An FBI storm trooper strode by, dressed in tactical kit as though Gant and Darley might return for a second show. I waved the man over and he adjusted his Heckler and Koch MP5/10 as though readying to strafe me should I make any unwarranted move. I did my best to ignore the weapon pointing at me. ‘Have you seen Special Agent Vincent lately?’

The trooper sniffed. He regarded me with eyes that rolled like marbles in a storm drain. ‘I’ll tell him you were asking after him.’

‘If you just point out where he is, I’ll go tell him myself.’

‘No, buddy, you get to stay right there.’

The feebie strode away, leaving me with the impression that he’d no intention of finding Vince.

If you want something doing…

I stood up. My leg ached, my hand ached, my entire body ached, but that was what came from sitting on your backside after a burst of sustained activity. Got to get back in training, I promised, as I arched my lower back to loosen the kinks. I stretched and yawned, not even considering the fact that this was my second full day without sleep. As I went through the motions, I scanned the camp for any sign of Vince’s give-away pompadour hairstyle.

I spotted the young agent striding away from a hastily erected white tent near to the back of the camp. Already, now that his cover was no longer an issue, Vince had shed the trappings of his Southern racist persona. Instead of his leather jacket with its Confederate battle flag, he now wore a black windcheater emblazoned with the FBI motif. His hair was under a cap similarly marked.

I took a step in the agent’s direction. Something bumped softly against my shins. Glancing down I saw the old tomcat twining itself about my ankles. The cat’s purr was like an idling bulldozer.

‘So you stuck around, huh?’

The cat blinked at me, sat down and began licking its nether regions.

‘My sentiments exactly,’ I laughed. I reached down and the cat allowed me to pick it up. It sat in the crook of an elbow, eyeing me with its amber stare. I walked quickly to cut off Vince’s route through the compound.

Vince glanced up from under the brim of his cap.

‘Gonna get an executive order passed so I can shoot that damn thing,’ Vince growled.

The cat tensed, hissed at Vince.

‘Easy now, Vince, you’re hurting his feelings.’

‘Good. You’ve seen what that crazy animal did to my face?’ He pulled off the cap so that his scratches were even more vivid. When he felt the drizzle, he quickly jammed the cap back on.

‘He was just reacting to what he perceived as a threat. You aren’t going to hold that against him are you?’ I scrubbed behind the cat’s ears, thinking I’d found a viable metaphor for my own reaction to the two at the Seven-Eleven. Vince continued to scowl at the cat, but it was as much an act as Vince Everett had been. I laughed. ‘He’s not a bad old sort when you get to know him better. The kids named him Fluffy.’

‘Go figure,’ Vince said.

I indicated the white tent. ‘Anyone in there got a flask of coffee? I think we both could do with warming up a little.’

‘This way,’ Vince said, but he headed away from the tent.

We approached a large wagon parked outside the camp. A container on the back bristled with antennae. Mobile command unit, I guessed. What were the chances of the FBI having one of these on hand all the way out here? I shook the thought loose: what did it matter for now?

Vince led the way inside the container through a door at the back. It was a cramped space of desks and computer monitors, alive with electrical static and a background hum of fans. There was also the welcome aroma of strong coffee. Two support staff looked up at us, both unconcerned by my appearance or by the cat in my arms. Vince greeted them, then asked them for a few minutes’ privacy. They took Styrofoam cups with them as they clumped down outside.

Vince poured cups of steaming coffee from a silver thermos. I sat down on one of the vacated office chairs and began pulling at the plastic bag beneath my shirt, releasing a trickle of moisture that darkened the floor. Then I scrubbed rain from my hair. I allowed the cat to slink away and it snuffled at a paper bag on a work desk. It must have found a juicy morsel inside, because it hunkered down and started chewing appreciatively. Hunger pangs dug at my insides, but the coffee was a more welcome prospect. I accepted it gratefully as Vince handed over a cup. I left the cream and sugar on the desk top: it was pure caffeine I was after.

‘Probably tastes like dirty water,’ Vince said.

Under the circumstances, it was just about the best cup of coffee I’d tasted in a long time. The steaming brew went down in two gulps. ‘I wouldn’t say no to another.’

Vince set about pouring again.

While he busied himself I studied the command unit. There was nothing in the makeshift office that gave a clue about what the bigger picture was, and the support staff had had the presence of mind to turn off their monitors before leaving. I caught my reflection in one of the darkened screens. Jesus, what a mess. My two-day-old beard was dark on my chin, hair plastered to my head from where I’d wiped the rain away. Streaks of mud and a spray of blood marked my shirt. No wonder I was getting suspicious looks from the FBI agents.

Vince delivered a second coffee and I savoured this one, cupping it between both palms and allowing the steam to trickle over my face. In the warmth of the command unit my clothing began to steam as well.

‘I thought all you Brits drank tea?’

‘I’ve been Americanised,’ I said, smiling whimsically. ‘I’m thinking of buying shares in Starbucks, I spend so much time there.’

It was small talk as a way into the weightier issues. I took a sip of the hot brew, then launched directly into what was bothering me. ‘There are a couple of things I don’t quite understand about you, Vince. I was wondering if you were going to enlighten me.’

‘Could say the same about you.’

‘You’ve already had me checked out,’ I said.

Vince shrugged. ‘Standard operating procedure. The problem is we kept on hitting brick walls. Most of your files are sealed.’

‘You needn’t worry. Like you said to your buddies, I’m one of the good guys.’

‘The way you went through Samuel Gant and his goons, I’m inclined to challenge you on that.’

‘I just did what anyone in the same position would’ve done.’

Vince laughed without humour. ‘No, Hunter. Most people would have bent down, put their heads between their legs and kissed their butts goodbye.’

‘I’m not the type to lie down and die, Vince.’

‘SAC Birnbaum did a little checking of his own. His opposite number over in Maine speaks highly of you.’

‘Hubbard,’ I confirmed. It surprised me, because SAC Hubbard hadn’t been my biggest fan when first we met. It didn’t help that I was a suspected cop killer at the time, but clearing up the Luke Rickard mess must have endeared me to the FBI man.

‘He told Birnbaum to give you his best regards… and to cut you some slack.’

‘Nice of him.’

‘He said you’ve proven helpful to the FBI on more than one occasion.’

Could have told him about Tubal Cain, but my involvement there was buried even from the FBI, courtesy of Walter Conrad. I guessed that Vince was referring to Jean-Paul St Pierre, the contract killer who went by the name of a fallen angel. Dantalion had murdered a handful of FBI agents including Kaufman, an SAC from the Miami field office, before I finally stopped him. ‘I’m not a FBI groupie, if that’s what you’re thinking?’

‘So what exactly are you?’

‘I’m just someone who cares. I’m not going to stand around while children are being terrorised.’

‘Donovan Griffiths hired you?’

‘I didn’t come for the money. I just wanted to help. Nobody else seemed to be doing much.’

‘I was on the case.’

‘I couldn’t sit around waiting for the cavalry to come to their rescue, Vince. What do you think I should’ve done?’

‘The FBI doesn’t look favourably on vigilantes.’

‘Vigilantes take the law into their own hands, Vince. Off the record? There aren’t too many laws that govern what I sometimes have to do.’

‘Sounds like you’ve practised that speech, Hunter.’

I grinned. ‘It’s good guy one-o-one.’

Vince regarded me over the top of his coffee, while I stared right back. ‘I suppose you have a point; what I sometimes have to do isn’t FBI procedure either.’

‘The old quid pro quo game, huh?’

‘I guess I owe you an explanation, seeing as I almost strangled you to death.’

I touched my throat. It was still hot from where Vince’s garrotte had sunk into the flesh. ‘Explain away.’