Slash and Burn

Chapter 36

‘Sit down.’

‘I need to use the bathroom.’

‘Again?’

‘Can’t help it,’ Kate said to her jailer. ‘You keep giving me water; it has to come out some time.’

‘Wait until Rourke gets back.’

‘Why? Can’t a big tough guy like you handle things on his own?’

Rourke was the man who’d been lewd towards her when Huffman had been in the room. After Huffman had left, Rourke had gone further. He had delighted in ripping off her blouse and bra and it was all that Kate could do to hold on to her jeans. Rourke had enjoyed her humiliation more than any titillation he’d gained from seeing her breasts exposed. She was glad he was out of the room. He’d gone off on an errand, leaving Nixon alone with her.

Nixon, for all he was a hired gun, didn’t appear to be as cruel as Rourke, and it was he who had given her back her clothes after Rourke had attacked her. He was a big guy, with short sandy hair. His cheeks bore freckles and he had watery blue eyes that seemed large behind round spectacles. He had a wedding ring on his finger, which struck Kate as unusual among these kinds of men. She wondered if he had children, if he was a man whose conscience could be played upon.

‘I can handle things pretty well,’ Nixon told her. ‘Now sit down.’

‘I need to pee. Do you expect me to do it right here?’

‘You do that and you’ll damn well clean it up.’

‘Wouldn’t it just be easier if you let me go to the bathroom?’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Nixon stood up from the chair he’d placed by the door to the hallway. Coming over, he pulled out his gun. ‘You go to the bathroom, but you’re in and out, OK? Plus, I go with you.’

Kate nodded. Then she walked towards the bathroom with Nixon hovering behind her. During her incarceration at the ranch things had always been the same. Whenever she’d used the bathroom she’d been observed. Usually Rourke had been her chaperone, the sick bastard getting his kicks from watching her go through her very private moments. She’d gone beyond embarrassment after the second time. She’d realised that when she was up and moving it gave her an opportunity to escape. Plus, when last she’d been in the bathroom, she’d noticed something that neither of her jailers had recognised as a possible weapon. Thoughts of fighting back covered her shame at being ogled by a pervert.

‘Can you undo my cuffs? I need both hands to do this.’ Kate looked down at her buttoned jeans, then across at the toilet. ‘Unless you intend doing it for me?’

A flush crept over Nixon’s face. ‘Lift your hands up.’

Nixon unlocked her cuffs, placing them on a credenza just outside the bathroom door. He nodded at the toilet bowl. ‘Go on. Be quick.’

Kate worked her wrists, promoting the flow of blood into her weakened fingers. She reached for the door, about to push it to.

‘No you don’t.’ Nixon caught the door with the side of his foot. ‘The door stays open.’

Kate sighed, turning for the toilet and unbuttoning her jeans. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘No problem.’

Nixon grunted something. Then, allowing the door to swing partly shut, he said, ‘We’re not all animals like Rourke. I only want to know what you’re up to; I don’t need the full details.’

‘I didn’t think you were a sicko like him. Thanks, Nixon.’

He exhaled sharply, turning his back. Kate watched him slip his gun back into its holster.

She allowed herself a smile.

Now, she thought, to get out of here.

She’d given Joe all the time she was prepared to. If he was going to rescue her, he’d have done it by now. It was down to her to extricate herself from this predicament. She wasn’t some shrinking damsel from a Hollywood movie who would sit around looking pretty until the hero came charging in to save her. She was a NYPD cop, for Christ’s sake! Time she started acting like one.

Kate actually sat down on the toilet. It wasn’t going to be easy. With her decision to make her break for freedom adrenalin had flowed through her body. At first she desperately needed to urinate, but not now. All her bodily functions had shut down as her body readied itself to fight or run. She had to squeeze hard just to add validity to her story. She used tissue off a roll then flushed, pulled up her clothing, and silently lifted the item she’d noticed wedged behind the toilet bowl. Nixon barely glanced over his shoulder. Kate turned to the sink and ran her hands under the water. She towelled her hands dry, stepping back towards Nixon with the towel still in her hands.

‘Thanks, Nixon,’ she said to attract his attention. She deliberately used his name to humanise him, and to humanise her in his eyes. She smiled. ‘You don’t know how badly I needed that.’

‘Just finish drying your hands and then get back out here.’

‘Sure.’ She allowed the towel to drop to the floor. ‘I’m all done.’

Nixon turned his body halfway into the room. His mouth was coming open to speak. And that was when Kate raised the canister of insecticide she’d lifted off the bathroom floor. She’d concealed it under the towel until she was close enough, had used the cloth to cover her hands while she pulled off the cap. She gave Nixon a full blast of the spray directly into his eyes and open mouth.

The insecticide was never going to kill Nixon. All it would do was sting his eyes and give him a foul taste in his mouth, but the way he reacted was as if Kate had squirted him with sulphuric acid. He lurched away, crying out, his hands coming up to cover his eyes. His spectacles stopped some of the spray, but he was still momentarily blinded. Kate kept on spraying him, giving her all the time she needed for what she had to do next.

She brought up her bare foot and kicked as hard as she could directly in the juncture between Nixon’s legs. She hurt her instep but her pain was nothing compared to what Nixon experienced. He groaned, his hands now going between his legs. He crumpled forwards as his knees gave way. Kate reached across him, snatching at the metal cuffs on the credenza. Then she tried to push past him, to get clear of the bathroom. Nixon grabbed at her, one hand catching at an ankle. Kate kicked loose and she managed to swing round him and bring up the cuffs at the same time. These cuffs were the rigid type with a solid spacer bar between the two hoops of steel. Kate slammed the cuffs down on Nixon’s head. He yowled, one hand coming up to protect his skull, the other reaching for the gun in its holster. Kate slammed him a second time, cutting a chunk out of his scalp.

Nixon tried to turn towards her, but Kate danced around him, catching hold of the hand he had on top of his head. In the next instant she had the cuff on that wrist and she snapped it in place. The advantage of rigid cuffs was that once one of the hoops was in place a person inferior in strength could control a much larger opponent by way of leverage and pain compliance. Kate twisted the cuffs, straightening Nixon’s arm against his elbow, then she tugged, pulling him down and flat on his face. She quickly knelt against his shoulder to stop him getting up then grabbed at his free hand even as she twisted the cuffed arm round. Nixon howled, tried to resist, but she just twisted the rigid bar and he howled again. Then she managed to jam the other cuff in place.

Nixon’s gun was partly out of its holster. Kate grabbed it.

Nixon was face down, but he could still fight back or shout for help.

Kate only had a second to decide. She brought down the butt of the gun on the nape of his neck. Nixon swore. Kate struck him again and some of the fight went out of him.

‘Damn it,’ she whispered harshly. ‘Just black out will you, Nixon!’

She’d seen Joe knock out that colossal monster, Larry Bolan, by hitting him across the back of the skull. Why wouldn’t Nixon just go to sleep so she didn’t have to keep on hitting him? She didn’t want to crush his skull altogether, but it looked like she was going to have to. Then she changed her grip, caught the gun by its barrel, brought it down like a mallet and this time Nixon did flatten out. He exhaled loudly, then fell into a regular rhythm of shallow breaths.

Kate stood up, her entire body trembling.

She glanced round the room, looking for her boots. They were nowhere in sight. She doubted that they’d even been brought from Little Fork. Barefoot she’d be at a major disadvantage but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She moved quickly to the door to the hallway, checking Nixon’s gun as she went. It was a Glock 17, bigger than the model she was used to.

Expertly she ejected the magazine, checked the load and saw it was full. Reinserting the magazine, she racked the slide placing a round in the firing chamber. She flicked off the safety. She was trained never to carry a gun with the safety mechanism disengaged, but she had learned from Joe that the time you wasted flicking off the safety could mean the difference between life and death.

Thinking of Joe, she paused in her flight. What if he’d been killed?

She fought the idea aside. It wasn’t something she wanted to contemplate. Not now. Not ever. Huffman had tried to force information from her by playing on her feelings for Joe. She’d lied, said they were merely engaged in a business partnership, but Huffman had been nearer to the truth than he could ever have guessed. Kate had indeed fallen for Joe.

Enough, she thought. She wasn’t going to get out of this fortress going all weak-kneed over a man. She had to stand firm and do what must be done. There’d be no warning shouts. No warnings at all. She must shoot to kill whether her enemies were too close to miss or not.

She pulled open the door and spied along the hallway. There were closed doors to her left, a long narrow hall to her right. Double doors opened into some sort of lounge area further along. She listened but could hear nothing of the low murmur that had filtered from that same room earlier in the day. She stepped out into the hall, feeling her bare feet skid on polished planks. She sucked in a breath, lifted the Glock and headed for the lounge.

Except for when she’d been brought here and bundled up the stairs gagged and blindfolded, Kate had spent all her time in that one bedroom under constant guard. She had no idea of the layout of the building or of the number of people here. She knew that she was on the upper floor of a large house but she hadn’t realised just how big the place was. It was by definition a ranch, but was more akin to the plantation houses of the Deep South. When she came into the lounge she saw wide French doors leading on to some sort of balcony. Beyond the doors a prairie spread to the horizon, tall grass burnt yellow by the sun and wind. It was heading for late afternoon and the sky had paled, turning a light shade of grey along the skyline.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she looked for another way out. The stairs, she guessed, must be further along the hall. For all she knew they’d take her directly into the midst of Huffman and his men. Her gun would give her a fighting chance, but she wasn’t deluded; she knew exactly what the odds against fighting her way through a group of killers were.

She moved through the lounge, skirting a tall wing-backed chair, her feet squeaking faintly on the boards. Then she came to a halt. A stain marred the floor. A dark fan like a crow’s wings, only this crow must have been massive. She identified the stain without having to study it in any great detail. Blood had seeped into the grain of the wood. Someone had died here, and that death had been very recent judging by the coppery scent hanging in the air.

She wondered if the blood belonged to Joe or Imogen. Had Huffman caught either one of them and ended their lives right there in the centre of his living room?

She closed her eyes, forcing back the images invading her mind. If the blood had been Joe’s or Imogen’s, why would Huffman have allowed her to live this long? He wouldn’t; he’d have killed her or given her to Rourke or to Larry Bolan to kill for him.

Convincing herself that the blood must belong to someone else, she went towards the doors, skirting the stain in the floor. She heard a creak behind her and realised that it was someone walking along the hall. Probably Rourke on his way back to the room where she’d been imprisoned. She’d hoped that she would’ve been allowed a little more time to make her escape, but it looked like she was going to be found out in seconds.

She contemplated waiting for Rourke to pass the doorway and putting a bullet in his heart. That’s what the sick-headed scumbag deserved. But the sound of gunfire would bring the others running. Better that she get onto the balcony where her options for escape might be higher. At least out there she would get an idea of her surroundings and might be able to find somewhere she could hide.

Grabbing the doors, she pulled one open and went on to the balcony. It spanned the entire length of the building. She hurried to the left. Placing her back against the wall she peered round the door frame back into the room she’d just vacated.

Someone passed the doorway without stopping. She was pretty sure that it was Rourke, but he’d changed his clothing since last she’d seen him. He was now in some sort of paramilitary get-up with a hat pulled down over his hair.

Kate counted the seconds.

When Rourke’s shout came she made her move, fleeing along the balcony to the far end. Just round the corner of the building steps led down to the lower level, where there was a second raised porch surrounded by a low railing. She moved down the stairs, watching behind her in case Rourke came charging after her. At the bottom she dropped to a crouch, using the stairs as cover while she surveyed the land to her left. She could see outbuildings. Beyond them was a huge tin shed. She could smell something unpleasant.

In her bare feet she felt vulnerable. More than the fact that her blouse was ripped, revealing a large expanse of her chest, her bare feet made her feel exposed. It was one thing walking on a sandy beach, feeling the sand between your toes, quite another if you had to run over stony ground. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She quickly slid over the railing, dropping the couple of feet to the floor. She paused, listening for the pursuit that was sure to come. Distantly she heard Rourke’s voice raised in anger. Then the thump of feet as people began to respond.

Kate headed for the sheds, jogging gingerly to avoid lacerating her feet, but still coming down on sharp-edged rocks. By the time she reached the first outbuilding she’d already bruised her soles, but at least she wasn’t bleeding. Block the pain, she told herself. It’s nothing. Keep going.

A bullet struck the wall of the shed, barely missing her. Kate cringed, but turned, lifting her gun. Rourke was on the upper balcony, aiming at her again. He pulled the trigger and the gun barked. Kate jerked to one side. Her return shot made Rourke lunge backwards but otherwise did him no harm.

‘She’s out here!’ he yelled. ‘She’s heading for the sheds.’

Kate ran. It was her only chance. Put distance between her and her pursuers. She charged along the side of the building, avoiding a third shot from Rourke. Then at the corner she had to throw herself bodily over a wooden fence. She landed heavily on her back, dust rising all around her. Dazed, she peered back the way she’d come. She saw a knot of men boil out of the front of the house. They were indistinct beyond the billow of dust, but she could tell they were rushing her way.

Coming to her feet, she unloaded three rounds at the group. The gun bucked in her hand, more recoil than she was used to and she knew her aim had been too high. It scattered the group, but none of them went down. Ideally she should control her breathing, hold steady, shoot the bastards as they came at her. Instinct made her turn and run again. Guns popped behind her and she felt the tug of one projectile as it skimmed the air next to her left ear. She was passing the open door of the shed. Hulking machinery clustered in the shadows within. She considered putting the machines between her and the men chasing her, but she knew that would only give her momentary respite. They’d simply storm the shed, their greater firepower overwhelming her in seconds.

‘Stop running, Kate.’ She recognised the voice. Even raised in command, it held a humorous edge.

‘Go to hell, Huffman!’

She continued to run.

A second fence barred her way, but she vaulted this one a tad more gracefully than the first. She landed sure-footed, but something sharp jabbed into her sole and this time there was no avoiding the split in her flesh. She grimaced, but kept running.

Another shed presented itself. Beyond it were animal pens and the big tin building. Kate swung to her left, rushing along the front of the building, hidden for the time being from those following. She saw the hulk of an abandoned truck, an old Chevrolet that had been left to rot under the Texan sun. Chickens had colonised the cab at some point. No way that the vehicle was an escape route, but she ducked behind it. Watched and saw movement at the corner of the building. She fired, then glanced over her shoulder. She had to keep moving otherwise the men would split up and some would come at her from behind, bottling her in.

Again she fired at the men at the front of the building, then as they slunk back behind cover she ran and caught the ledge of a window in the shed wall. She pulled herself up and inside the shed within seconds. Instantly her senses were overwhelmed by the stench of scorched metal and aviation fuel. In the darkness she could make out what looked to be parts of an aircraft and two mangled vehicles. They looked like they’d been hidden here very recently as there was still fluid dripping from the wreckage of the helicopter.

She didn’t stop to ponder what had caused this devastation, except to conclude that Joe had made an attempt at getting her away after all. The thought gave her comfort. But it was cold comfort at best. Where the hell was he now when she could do with the back-up?

The doors at the front of the shed were shut, so she followed a similar route to the one she’d used to get inside the building. She found a window at the far side. This one was closed. Security wasn’t at a maximum though, just a catch that she had to flip open, then she was clambering out into a space full of mud and cow shit. Her feet plunged ankle deep into the filth. She slipped and went down on one knee. Then it was a struggle to gain her footing without giving up her gun. Determined, she pushed through the muck, angling away from the front end of the building where Huffman and the others would inevitably head to.

From within the building she skirted came metallic noises, as if machinery was in motion. A gun cracked behind her and struck the wall of the shed. She thought that the gunman had aimed deliberately high: they wanted to take her alive. That gave her an advantage over her pursuers. She turned, seeking targets, and fired. She hit a man and he went down on his back. She hoped it was Huffman but couldn’t be sure because all the men were dressed alike.

Words dashed her hopes.

‘This is your last chance, Kate,’ Huffman shouted. ‘Stop running now or I’ll kill you.’

Kate merely ran, went over another fence and then spun round the corner of the big shed.

And ran pell-mell into another figure emerging from a door.

They rebounded, and Kate went down on her back.

Blinking up at the person standing over her, she braced herself for a bullet. But the shot didn’t come.

It wasn’t one of Huffman’s men, but a small dark woman. She was dressed in a blazer and jeans and a white blouse.

She looked like a cop.

Then the reality struck Kate. The woman’s white blouse was spattered with blood. So were her hands. She couldn’t know it, but Ruth Wicker had been tasked with the job of getting rid of Desmond Molloy and she’d jumped at the opportunity. Wicker was more of a sadist than most of Huffman’s hired killers.

Both women realised they were in danger at the exact same second. Kate began to squeeze the trigger of her gun, but she wasn’t as keyed in as the small woman. Wicker ducked to the left, then swung her leg, catching Kate’s gun hand, knocking the shot astray. Then Wicker leaned down, grabbed her gun and wrenched it away. She backhanded Kate across the face with a blow like a wedge of steel. Black flashes invaded her vision and she fell backwards.

Wicker reversed the gun in her grip, aimed it between Kate’s eyes.

‘You’re the whore that Joe Hunter wants back,’ Wicker said. ‘Shame you’re going back to him with a hole in your skull, isn’t it?’

Kate heard the words with a trickle of relief. Joe was still alive.

Wicker began to exert pressure on the trigger.

‘Hold it, Wicker,’ Huffman said from behind Kate.

Wicker sighed, lowered the Glock.

Kate craned round to look up at Huffman. He stood over her, a phone to his ear. He was smiling whimsically.

‘OK, Hunter,’ she heard him say. ‘We meet in one hour.’