Dead Men's Harvest

Chapter 13

Much further to the north-west day hadn’t yet broken. Jewel Ridge was in darkness but there were lights on behind the cabin’s shutters. They were too bright to be a single night light, so it was likely that the occupants were up and about. Maybe the people inside were going through their early-morning ablutions, or perhaps cooking up a calorie-laden breakfast in anticipation of the long day ahead. They’d be moving in slow motion, their bodies not yet revved up to full throttle. It was a good time to surprise them, Cain decided.

Minds that should be sharp and alert would still be foggy from the lingering effect of sleep. These were the least industrious hours on the clock and it didn’t look like anyone had been out the cabin yet. The vehicles parked outside hadn’t been loaded. Morning dew had begun collecting on the windscreens, pine needles blown from the nearby trees had gathered on the hoods.

Cain had parked his own vehicle a mile away. He’d jogged in, arriving at the cabin fully awake, his body energised for what would follow. He paused, studying the cabin, allowing his beating heart to calm. When he went in it would be cool-headed and loose-limbed.

He checked his weapons. Both the H amp;K and the Beretta would be brought into service, but it was the Recon Tanto knife with its epoxy-coated blade he’d prefer to use. Sticking someone with a knife was far more personal — and satisfying — than blowing them away at a distance. Cain enjoyed the proximity of death when delivered with a blade; it allowed him to see his victims’ initial shock, the cold realisation that their life was his to take, the final dimming of their eyes.

But he wasn’t going to be impetuous.

He had no way of knowing how many protectors were inside the cabin. This wasn’t a mission simply to kill with abandon. At any other time he’d relish walking into that cabin, taking the odds as they came, and, if he didn’t happen to kill them all, well, such was the chaotic nature of life. In the here and now, though, there was a precise target and he couldn’t allow his personal desires to get in the way of a successful result. John Telfer had to die. But to get to Telfer, he had first to take out those who would try to stop him.

Cain was dressed for the occasion. He wore dark clothing and high-top boots, a cap pulled down low over his fair hair. He felt like he was back in the game again. With the tree-lined hillside as cover, he approached the cabin. Using the shadows to his advantage, he moved to the parked SUV. Holstering the Beretta, he pulled the Tanto out of its sheath. A quick jab of the blade split the tyre and the SUV sank at one corner. Not totally disabled. He jabbed the next tyre. Now it would be difficult to drive.

He quickly slashed the tyres of the sedan, then, happy that the occupants of the cabin would have no means of a quick getaway, he moved towards the porch. Putting away the knife, he drew the Beretta, advancing with a gun in each hand like some fabled Two Gun Tex.

The planks on the porch looked reasonably sound, but he couldn’t take the chance that they’d creak under his weight, giving away his position. Whether or not the people inside were at a low ebb, hearing furtive movement on the porch would galvanise them into action. Cain didn’t want that. He had to maintain the element of surprise. Get Telfer: that was all that mattered.

From within the cabin he could hear muffled conversation. Two voices, those of a man and a woman. But were there more?

He made his way around the side of the cabin. There was a window at that end, too, which like all the others had shutters. Moving up close, he found he could peer through a narrow niche between two slats. The cabin was open plan at this end. The living quarters were kept to a minimum, with a couch, a TV, and table and chairs. There was a kitchen area at the back of the building with a wood-burning stove that doubled as a cooking range. Stairs led up to a mezzanine-type gallery where a bed occupied most of the space. Beneath the gallery were two doors. Likely one was to a bathroom, the other to another bedroom.

Through the chink in the shutter, Cain watched a slim woman wander across the room. She pushed hands through her cropped hair. She had a gun holstered on her hip. She said something, a low murmur. A man answered her from the bed on the raised gallery. He sat up. He was fully clothed, appeared to have been merely killing time.

Under the gallery, the door on the left opened and a stocky man with a greying brush cut came out, rubbing his face with a towel. The woman lifted a mug off the range in the kitchen, handing it to the man, before taking her turn in the bathroom.

Cain frowned. Neither man was John Telfer.

Swinging off the bed, the man clumped down the stairs, hitching his jeans to a more comfortable position. He had a shoulder rig, but it was empty. Cain glanced around and saw the man’s sidearm lying on the table. Now that the woman was in the bathroom, only the guy with the brush cut was armed. He had an impressive-looking Desert Eagle strapped to his waist.

Now would be a good time, Cain told himself.

Prudence, though, prudence.

First he circled the back of the building. He passed the back door, moved round the corner. The bathroom window was shuttered, but would have given him a look inside through the slats if he had the desire. No distractions, though.

The final room didn’t have a window.

The man inside was as much a prisoner as Cain had been at Fort Conchar.

Happy that Telfer couldn’t make a break for it, he returned to the front. Cat-footed, he stepped up on to the porch. From inside came the clump of boot heels, enough to cover his own movements as he moved to the door. Elbows braced to his ribs, he held both semi-automatic weapons ready. Then he rocked back, lifting his heel.

The door opened.

There was a split second while Cain stared into the eyes of the older marshal. The man had slipped into a jacket. He was holding a small knapsack in his left hand. Getting ready for the off.

‘Shit!’ the man whispered. He dropped the bag, at the same time slapping his other hand towards the Desert Eagle on his hip.

Cain fired, both his guns pumping rounds through the marshal’s chest. This close they met little resistance. The man barely moved even though significant portions of his lungs and heart were projected across the room.

Cain’s heel was still partly raised. Economy of motion dictated he follow the movement through. He kicked the dead man to the ground, stepping over him and into the room.

Already the second marshal was on the move. He was still two steps from the table when Cain shot him through the neck. The man spun, beads of scarlet making a dervish whirl in the space he vacated. The marshal caromed off the far wall. He turned towards Cain, his mouth opening to shout. Cain shot him again, punching a hole through the balding spot on the man’s forehead.

Two men dead in as many heartbeats.

The woman was still a dangerous adversary. So might John Telfer be. It was highly unlikely that he’d been armed by his protectors, but Cain remembered that Telfer was one sly son of a bitch.

Concluding that the woman — an armed and trained protector — was by far the greater threat, Cain quickly moved towards the bathroom door. He unloaded the entire H amp;K clip through the door and walls. A bullet punched through the door in an attempt at return fire, but Cain heard the unmistakable grunt of someone mortally wounded.

Shoving the H amp;K back into his shoulder holster, he drew the Tanto with his left hand.

From inside the bathroom came a crash of breaking glass. The bitch was trying to escape!

He kicked open the door, expecting to see the woman wriggling out the window. Instead he almost lost his face as she fired. Only his super-charged instincts saved him. Wood splinters from the door frame jabbed at his right cheek, but otherwise he went unharmed.

‘Run, Jeff!’ the woman yelled.

Cain studied her in the time it took to swing the Beretta towards her. She was wounded low in her gut — her childbearing days history, if she managed to survive. She had a second bullet wound on the mound of her right forearm. Blood slicked her wrist and made her grip on her weapon tenuous.

Stepping directly into her space, he jammed the Beretta to her forehead. Her lips writhed in a grimace. But that was more to do with the seven inches of steel he’d rammed below her ribcage.

The woman blinked slowly and Cain watched as her pupils dilated. He moved his face very close to hers, his lips trembling a hair’s breadth from hers as he inhaled her final breath. It smelled of peppermint mouthwash and the coppery tang of blood.

As she sagged, Cain supported her on the length of his knife. Lord, but she was pretty, he thought. If only he had more time.

Allowing her to slip off the steel, he backed away. A quick glance to his right told him Telfer hadn’t come out the bedroom. The woman’s final words had gone unheeded, which was good.

Cain tapped on the door with the barrel of his gun.

‘Knock, knock. It’s the big bad wolf. Are you there, little piggy?’

From behind the door he heard the frantic gasps of a terrified man.

‘It’s been a long time, John,’ Cain said. ‘Hope you didn’t forget me while I was gone?’

Inside the room, furniture was being scraped across the floor.

Cain booted the door and went inside.

A bed had been upended, the mattress concealing the cowering figure behind it.

‘Aw, come on, John. Don’t go all shy on me. Come out and say hello to your old friend, Cain.’

The mattress quivered, the man hiding there was shaking so hard. ‘Please!’ he yowled. ‘Dear God in heaven, please don’t kill me!’

Cain frowned.

‘Please. Can’t you just let me go? I promise… I swear to God I won’t say a thing to anyone. I’ll disappear. Tell Mr Gambetti, I swear I won’t testify against him.’

Mr Gambetti?

Cain leaned in and with the barrel of his gun he forced the mattress to one side.

The man cowering against the wall shivered uncontrollably.

‘You’re Jeffrey Taylor?’ Cain asked.

The man nodded slowly, unsure of what was expected of him.

Cain slow-blinked at him.

He didn’t like swearing or profanity. It was unbecoming to a warrior-poet like Tubal Cain. But under these circumstances he allowed himself a little slip of the tongue.

‘So where the fuck is John Telfer?’