Dead Men's Harvest

Chapter 26

Rink was in good hands. Rene Moulder would return him to full health within a day or two, and we’d made the right decision to get him help. On the other hand, it felt weird heading off on a mission without my friend watching my back. Harvey Lucas was no one’s second best, and I was thankful that I had a soldier of his calibre along with me. But, for all that Harvey was strong, fit and highly capable in a fight, we didn’t share the same symbiosis as I did with Rink. It came from years of working closely together in the field, where we could second-guess each other’s intention without having to verbalise our thoughts. Harvey was one for questions. Me, I was more the type to allow action to speak for itself.

I had to be blunt why I wasn’t calling in CIA assistance from Walter, or any other of the agencies.

‘I don’t intend arresting the bastard, Harve. I’m going to put a bullet in his face.’

‘For what happened to Louise, I’m with you. But do you really think you’re doing the right thing. I mean…’

‘It will make me a murderer? OK, I have to admit, it doesn’t sit well with me. But when I think of the alternative, I’ll accept it. Hendrickson has already tortured Rink, murdered Louise, and is trying to kill my brother. It’s better that I stop the prick than allow him to go through with his plans. If I pass on my responsibility, that makes me a coward.’

Harvey rolled his head at that.

‘I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with it, Harve.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But then that would make me the coward. I’m coming with you, man.’

We were in a suburb of Richmond, Virginia, on the northern shores of the James River, looking at an anomalous structure. In keeping with his love for mansion-style houses, Kurt Hendrickson lived in a Tudor hall originally built in Lancashire, England, in the late fifteenth century, but bought at auction in the early 1920s and transported here and reconstructed by someone with more money than altruism. There were other buildings of this nature in the vicinity, but whereas they’d been given to the state as museum pieces, Hendrickson’s home was strictly a private residence. The onus was on private. The Tudor hall sat at the heart of its own estate, within a walled enclosure. Dotted along the stone walls, alongside plaques relating the history of the house, were signs that warned against trespass, and advised that security guards patrolled the grounds. Good of Hendrickson to forewarn us.

We were in a rental car, parked on a rise just under a mile to the west of the building, using binoculars to study the black and white facade. Nearby the James River rumbled over rapids.

‘Hendrickson’s security is one thing,’ Harvey pointed out. ‘What about the cops?’

Kurt Hendrickson was almost certainly under the scrutiny of the law enforcement community. There would be FBI, ATF, DEA and other agencies all with an interest in what he was up to. His home would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. That could cause more of a problem than any of the hired guns Hendrickson had at his beck and call. The last thing I wanted was for them to hear the gunfire and storm the compound before I was finished.

‘We’ll have to make sure that we aren’t seen or heard.’ For emphasis I tapped the hilt of my Ka-bar knife.

‘Shit,’ Harvey said. ‘I never did take that mail order Ninja course.’

We shared a grim smile.

Many surveillance teams have an ingrained weakness. They’re alert to anything out of the ordinary, and usually expect any nefarious activity to be conducted under the concealment of night. So we would go in now, calm and controlled, while the sun blazed in the heavens.

Hendrickson was home. We’d already made sure of that on an earlier drive-by. We’d been lucky in that we’d been passing the front gate just as his limousine had been sweeping up the drive towards the house. Parking alongside the road, we’d wandered back, as if interested in the signs depicting the hall’s history, and spied Hendrickson getting out of the limo and jogging inside. In the meantime his limousine hadn’t moved again.

Harvey was driving and he sent the rental towards Hendrickson’s estate. We passed other wealthy residences, traversing streets named after English towns and hamlets. Big money area, but I’d expect to find someone like Hendrickson nowhere else. Some of the other houses had gates and walls, like they were the domains of robber barons, but none were as well protected as Hendrickson’s. On reaching the boundary wall it hadn’t shrunk from the eight feet tall it had been first time we drove by. There were ingress points dotted around the estate, but all had been locked tight apart from the front gate. It was electronically controlled and covered by CCTV cameras. Easiest way in, I decided, would be over the wall.

We did a half-circuit of the estate, turned round and headed back again, watching for anything that would indicate a surveillance point. Where the geography allowed for hidden observers we found none. There was always the possibility that remotely controlled cameras had been erected, but that also meant that the response time of those watching would be slower than if they’d been parked nearby and ready to descend on Hendrickson en masse. I had no intention of spending any unnecessary time inside, so thought I could be out again before a response team arrived. I indicated that Harvey park the rental in the mouth of a tree-lined side road.

Harvey would be my spotter, and my guardian. We clipped on the Bluetooth microphone/earpieces and switched on the mobile phones we’d purchased earlier in the day. Harvey readied the sniper rifle he’d used when covering Rink and me in our escape from Baron and his men. I had my SIG primed, but unless it was absolutely necessary I wouldn’t be using it. Like I said, calm and controlled was the order of the day; I had to get in and out again without raising too much fuss.

Making a ladder of his bent knee and cupped palms, Harvey boosted me up and on to the wall. I caught his rifle and placed it on the wall next to me, before reaching for Harvey’s arms and hauling him up and over. He landed cat-footed and I passed down the rifle. In the next instant, I was in the grounds, Harvey had set up behind the base of a tree and I was racing across the sculptured garden towards the house.

We were taking a hell of a chance, but I’d learned that sometimes the best approach was the least expected. A team of Navy Seals or SAS troopers would have approached in a totally different — read cautious — manner, but when an assault was down to only one or two men, fast and fearless was best. Unlike the charade I’d played in Little Rock, there’d be no shooting blanks into the sky this time.

The lawn was springy underfoot, and I could smell the loamy aroma of turned earth. Something else too: diesel fumes. From some distant side of the grounds came the competing put-put-put and high-pitched whine of a sit-on-and-ride mower. I’d been hoping for this, because when there were groundskeepers on site the likelihood that anyone was paying attention to any of the security measures was lessened. In keeping with the Tudor hall, the grounds had been designed to evoke a formal English garden. I utilised each tree, bush and flowered arch as I came nearer to the house. Behind me, Harvey too would be moving closer, keeping me in sight.

Besides the ‘murder’ question, there was another moral conflict to contend with here. I’d read files on Kurt Hendrickson, knew he was a piece of shit that I’d no qualms about killing, but what of others inside that house? He had no family listed, but there would be staff members innocent of his criminal dealings. Maids, cleaners, cooks, gardeners: I could come across any of them at any time, and whereas I wouldn’t pause to take out anyone with a weapon who even looked at me cockeyed, I’d have to be careful. I didn’t want to hurt any of them, but neither could I allow them to raise the alarm.

I made it to the western corner of the house. There I paused, pressing my back to the wall, hidden from the view of anyone coming out the front door by the black beams that interspersed the whitewashed panels. I freed my Ka-bar and readied myself. Then I sneaked a look through one of the windows. I could see a dining room. Chandeliers, wooden floor, large round table like something King Arthur would preside at. No Hendrickson, though. I moved on. The dining room was large enough to encompass this entire wing of the house, so I didn’t bother peering inside again. I went round the side of the building, passing a small fleet of vehicles arranged on a space laid to gravel.

At the back of the house I found that another gravel path snaked away into the gardens, while a right-angle spur led unerringly to a back porch. The sound of the lawn mower was much louder here. Crouching below the window ledges, I headed for the porch. Above the sound of the mowing machine I detected another buzz; this one made by two men engaged in chatter. Cigarette smoke puffed from the porch. Some of Hendrickson’s guards had sneaked off for a quick drag while he was engaged elsewhere in the house. At least I hoped that they were guards, considering what I planned to do.

‘I’ve lost you, Hunter.’ Harvey’s voice was a whisper through the Bluetooth set.

‘Hold your position. I’m going in.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

I continued towards the porch, taking it slowly. Another torpedo of blue smoke shot into the air, followed a moment later by the butt-end of a cigarette that arched towards the garden.

‘Better not leave that there. The boss is particular. He sees that and you’ll be wearing your balls in a sling.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ a second voice moaned. ‘It’s not like I’ve emptied a goddamn trashcan on the lawn.’

I no sooner heard the exchange than a man followed the direction of the cigarette butt. I flattened myself to the wall, watching as he retrieved the stub. He searched around for some loose earth, dug a hole with his fingertip and then inserted the tab into its grave. He scuffed earth over the evidence with the sole of his boot. There was a click and a thump as the second man made his way back inside. I glanced around: no one else in sight. I stepped out from my hiding place.

The smoker had his back to me. He was tall and square shouldered, dressed in a polyester suit and scuffed rubber-soled shoes. Didn’t look like either a maid or cook to me. He wasn’t finished concealing the cigarette. I saw him duck down and brush more dirt over the incriminating hole, probably stalling before returning to his duties. As he crouched, his jacket rode up on his hip. There was a gun clipped to his belt. That made up my mind.

As the man stood, brushing soil from his fingertips, I moved on him. I slipped my Ka-bar into my belt so both hands were free. Moving low so that he didn’t catch me in his peripheral vision, I raced towards him. I caught him just as he was turning back to the house, looped one hand under his jaw and grabbed at his opposite shoulder. My other hand I latched on to his hair, yanking him backwards as I stamped into the soft flesh at the back of his right knee. Twisting him as he fell, I jammed him face first into the lawn, stifling his shout of alarm. Then dropping to my knees, straddling his lower back, I hauled up and back and heard the resulting crack of his spine. I allowed him to flop down, inert. His nose was inches from where he’d concealed the cigarette butt in the earth, and I wondered if his final living sensation would to be to smell the tobacco he’d planted.

Rolling the man on his back, I saw his face for the first time, and was surprised to find that I knew him. He was one of the men who’d survived the breakout when I’d liberated Rink from the house in North Carolina. He’d stood alongside Baron, ineffectively aiming a gun at us as we’d taken off in the Bell UH-1N helicopter. If he was here, then it stood to reason that Baron might be here too. Better and better: the opportunity to finish two of my enemies at the same time.

Of course, the stakes had just risen tenfold. Despite downplaying Baron’s abilities earlier, I knew he wasn’t going to be easy to kill. Indeed, he might take me out first. His presence made me wonder about Imogen. Had she made it safely to Machias as I’d hoped, and had Hartlaub and Brigham successfully picked her up? Surely Baron couldn’t have got to Maine, snatched her and then travelled back here in the time we’d been over at Rene Moulder’s place? No, I decided, it wasn’t possible. I tried to put Imogen out of my head, but it wasn’t easy. Since rescuing Rink I’d been pretty single-minded, but now that she’d intruded on my thoughts, Imogen wasn’t going away.

I gave myself a mental shake. I remembered thinking once that I couldn’t allow a pretty face to distract me from my mission. On that occasion the face had belonged to Imogen’s sister, Kate. The reminder was equally valid now. I bent and grabbed the dead man’s ankles, dragged him across the lawn and shoved him between two large bushes. Then I set to my main agenda. Kill Hendrickson and Baron. Then kill Cain. Otherwise no one I cared for was ever going to be safe.