Robert Huffman had any number of places he could have waited for Joe Hunter. He owned several buildings spread across the Midwest. There was an office in Dallas that gave him a view of Reunion Tower and was little more than a stone’s throw from the Texas School Book Depository, from where Lee Harvey Oswald purportedly fired the bullets that assassinated John F. Kennedy. His office was perched on the penthouse floor, on a level with the top of the nearby Hyatt, and on the days before the Dallas Stars moved to the American Airlines Center he could hear the cheering of the crowds from the nearby stadium.
But he chose to remain at Quicksilver Ranch because it was the most remote of his properties. Twice now in the past twenty-four hours the sounds of gunfire and exploding vehicles had not raised the interest of the police, and he was counting on the third time being no different. He wanted his war with Hunter to be waged with no outside interference. That wouldn’t be the case if they went at it in downtown Dallas.
He waited for Hunter to come to him.
Some of his men were ranged in a skirmish line protecting the approach to the ranch house. They had been out there for hours now. Larry Bolan was somewhere inside preparing himself for Hunter’s arrival. He’d allowed Bolan this latitude in order to keep the big man from exploding too soon. His need for revenge on Joe Hunter was like a slowly burning fuse of indeterminate length. Huffman didn’t want Bolan’s rage let loose until Hunter was no longer a threat. If he had been out there now, the likelihood was that he’d murder Grade and the others in order to ensure he was the only one to get an opportunity to kill Hunter.
He asked himself why he had allowed Bolan to live. His remark that Bolan had always been his favourite was as false as his jovial demeanour. Bolan meant nothing to him other than as a handy tool when it came to doling out violence. But he had become a defective tool. Bolan had murdered six of Huffman’s people in his attempt to gain revenge on his brother’s killer. He didn’t doubt that Bolan would try to kill him if he was perceived as a threat to completing the mission.
Bolan had agreed to give Huffman the glory of killing Hunter, but Huffman didn’t believe him. Bolan would want his own legend. He’d sworn to his dead brother, Trent, that he would avenge him. Unless he shouted Hunter’s defeat loud and clear, how would Trent hear him all the way from the afterlife?
Bolan would have to die.
There was nothing else for it.
But not yet. Defective tool that he was, Bolan was still useful. Even a blunt hammer could knock a nail into wood. Once Hunter was dead Larry Bolan would follow him. He could personally tell his wall-eyed, crazy brother all the details when he joined him in hell. He could tell Trent that Robert Huffman, Quicksilver, was the top dog, and he could show his slit throat as proof.
Huffman slid out his razor.
He picked a slip of notepaper off his desk and ran the razor against it, cutting a neat line and allowing the severed portion to flutter to the desktop. The edge was incredibly sharp. Then he turned the blade so that it reflected his eyes. He peered into the depths of the steel, as if the eyes staring back at him were those of a metaphysical being locked within. He wondered if the man in the blade was in fact the real Quicksilver, some elemental spirit that had lain dormant for way too long. Or that a portion of his own soul had been imprisoned within the steel and was demanding release. It had been many years since the razor had tasted blood, but since it had stolen the life from Desmond Molloy, Huffman could almost believe that the blade-being demanded more. All fanciful stuff, he had to accept, because he wasn’t one for fantasy. He knew the truth: there was only his own desire for violence. But it did no harm to dream.
‘It’s time,’ he whispered.