The Devil's Anvil (39 page)

43

It isn’t over until it’s over.

Never has a truer word been said. And things with Erick Jaeger certainly weren’t over with. Rink warned that he’d be coming; we both knew that it was inevitable. He’d a brother to avenge, and despite the truth coming out that Billie was his slayer, it wouldn’t mean much. He couldn’t get to her but there was still the next best thing: namely me. But that truism works both ways.

After all the hoo-ha was done with in Washington State, with deals and agreements struck – where not a little weight was added to my bargaining power by the intervention of a high-ranking CIA sub-division director who owed me a debt – we were released under our own recognisance with a promise to return to give evidence at the trials of Wilhelmina Womack, Brandon Cooper and those behind Procrylon Inc.’s illegal activities including Amanda Sheehan who’d been caught trying to flee the country on a false passport. Considering that the foreseeable future would be filled with court appearances, it was not a bad idea to return to Florida and make the most of our time there enjoying some rest and recuperation. Rink was hale and hearty, but me, I had some healing to do. Body, mind and spirit.

While Rink returned to his office in Tampa, primarily to catch up on the general state of play from Velasquez and McTeer and then to organise our coming workload, at his urging I retired to my beach house on the Gulf Coast to rest. The cold spell had passed. Or maybe it was just that the blue skies made the difference, instead of the interminable grey of the misty hills I’d been under for days. Simply the presence of a yellow sun gave a welcome lift to my heart. I shed my winter clothing in favour of board shorts and a T-shirt. I’d have foregone the shirt but for the ugliness of the semi-healed wounds on my body. My injuries had taken a toll, but worse was the state of my mind. Fatigue put me out for eighteen hours straight, and I awoke where I’d fallen asleep on a hammock on my deck with gulls wheeling in the morning sunshine. Their calls sent needles into my brain, but at least they weren’t the red-hot pokers the shrill sounds would have inserted the day before. Still groggy, I stumbled inside and toileted, showered, then prepared breakfast and a much-needed coffee – I drink too much coffee for my sins, but I left the coffee maker dripping into the pot for later. Once the necessaries were seen to, I again wandered on to my deck, looking out across the water. The gulls had gone, and now only a solitary pelican skimmed the sea, appearing like some prehistoric pterosaur against the heat haze. I watched it glide along the coast until it was lost in the thermal waves. Then, barefoot, I went down to the shore and walked, following the pelican’s direction. Step by step I built momentum until I was jogging, and then running.

It’d been a while since I’d last run the beach, but there was no time like the present. The going wasn’t easy: there was lead in my thighs and a faint tremor in my chest, and I’d to ignore the thud of my pulse in my inner ears for fear it would morph into actual pain. But after a while something must have clicked in, as I was running without discomfort, and my mind emptied itself of all the questions and recriminations overwhelming it those past few days. At some point while I was in that Zen-like mindset I must have turned for home because before I was fully conscious of doing so I padded up on to my deck once again, to stand at the rail, hands fisted at my hips, peering out to sea while sweat poured off me and I regulated my breathing. I felt much better than I had. Until I turned around.

Usually I’m security-conscious. But I had to question myself: had I locked the door to my house before starting my run? As I set off I’d been distracted by thoughts of how easily I’d fallen for Billie’s lies, and how long it had taken me to see through them. So perhaps I hadn’t fully closed the door behind me – after all, this followed falling asleep on my hammock for eighteen hours, and wasn’t it a good job that no enemy came upon me then while I was so vulnerable to attack?

The door into the open-plan kitchen stood ajar by a few inches. I might have neglected to drop the latch, and an errant breeze had nudged the door open, but I doubted it. Don’t let it be said that I was a coward, but neither was I stupid. I took a step backwards.

‘That’s far enough, Hunter,’ said a voice from my right. ‘Your hands. Show me them.’

I turned to face Erick Jaeger where he’d stepped out from the corner of my house. He held a Glock 17, his gun hand supported by his opposite cupped palm. The gun was aimed at my centre mass, and this time I’d no bulletproof vest to save me. I held my open palms down by my sides. ‘I’m unarmed,’ I said.

His spectacle lenses reflected the sun as Erick eyed my damp shirt and bare feet. ‘Lift your shirt.’

‘You think I went running with a gun stuck down my shorts?’

‘I’m taking no chances. Lift your shirt and turn around.’

I did as commanded. Erick nodded. ‘OK. Now put your hands behind your neck. Lace your fingers together.’

I sniffed. ‘Why? You want me helpless while you execute me?’

‘Just do it.’ Erick took a half step forward, but he wasn’t ready to commit to entering lunging distance just yet. He jabbed the gun at me. ‘Do it now.’

I complied. The position of my arms pulled at my chest wound, but it had sealed by now, and there was little worry it would open up again, discounting the threat of another bullet.

‘Good. Now eyes front. Do not look at me.’ Erick followed his perfunctory commands by moving quickly up and on to the deck. I faced away from him, but could see his reflection in the door as he closed in on me. I considered throwing my weight against him, taking him down, but knew it would be the last thing I ever did. He grabbed my interlaced fingers in his left fist and squeezed, even as he placed the muzzle of his Glock to my spine. ‘Inside,’ he grunted, and shoved to get me moving. I pressed the door open with my thigh, and moved into my kitchen. An archway led into my living room. Another figure waited inside. I didn’t recognise him from the battle at the logistics hub, but didn’t doubt this was another of the PMCs originally hired by Procrylon to protect their premises. It was a black man, tall and slim, his hair beginning to go grey. He’d a lined face, but I thought the wrinkles were down to hard experience rather than advanced years. The hands that clutched a pump-action shotgun looked young and strong as they aimed the gun at my chest. He stared at me, his eyes flat and expressionless.

‘Down on your knees,’ Erick snapped from behind.

‘No,’ I said.

Erick pushed the gun’s muzzle against my nape. ‘I said get on your goddamn knees.’

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘You don’t have an option.’ Erick pushed, but I resisted.

Opposite me the black guy shoved his shotgun forward, as if that added to the already considerable threat.

Bracing myself, I said, ‘I’m not going down on my knees for you or anyone. If you’re going to shoot me, then shoot and get it the fuck over with.’

Erick released my constricted fingers, but only so he could thrust his palm into the back of my skull. I feigned discomfort, moving my hands apart and half turning so I could brace my spine against the kitchen counter. Erick was now to my right, and his friend to my left. They couldn’t get off a good clean shot for fear of possibly hitting one or the other. Erick quickly resolved that issue by shifting so that he again faced me. He didn’t relinquish his aim at any time.

‘You’re a stubborn son of a bitch,’ he said.

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘Even in the face of death?’

‘Especially.’

Erick grunted, and couldn’t help glancing at his companion to share a sneer.

‘No one need die here today,’ I said, relaxing my arms and allowing them to hang at my sides. ‘You do know that we were all played, Erick? We both served people who didn’t deserve our protection.’

‘My brother didn’t deserve to die.’

I thought of how Daniel had cracked me in the skull, fully intending to end my life, but didn’t mention it. ‘I didn’t kill him. Despite what I told you at the time, it was a lie. I was only trying to protect the woman, who by the way it turned out was a murderous bitch.’

‘So I heard.’

‘Then you know I didn’t shoot your brother.’

‘Given the chance you would have. You tried to kill me. You
did
kill a bunch of my men.’

‘They were trying to kill me at the time. Remember, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch when it comes to that kind of stuff.’ I leaned my elbows on the counter, nonchalant enough to seem I was only bearing my weight. I nodded at the black guy, taking him into our circle. ‘We’re all soldiers; we all know the risks of warfare. Usually we don’t take things personally.’

‘
Usually
being the operative word,’ Erick stated. ‘But my brother was executed like a dog, and I take that very personally. You heard of that old expression “an eye for an eye”? Well, somebody has to pay.’

Why waste my breath arguing that Daniel was about to execute Billie when the tables were turned on him? It wasn’t as if Erick would accept the knocks, make his apologies and leave. Funnily I felt no rancour for Erick though: if someone had murdered my brother then I’d want vengeance. In fact, someone had slain my brother and I’d shot his murderer in the head and watched him fall from a container ship on a storm-tossed sea. Erick wanted similar satisfaction. No, he wanted more. He should have shot me and had done with it, but he wanted me to suffer first. I’d heard how he’d tormented Billie, taking delight in her pain as he’d repeatedly dislocated her fingers. Maybe he planned a similar torture for me before serving the
coup de grâce
.

‘Talking of eyes, maybe you should take off your glasses,’ I said.

My comment came out of left field, and had the desired effect. Erick squinted behind his spectacles. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’d be unfair of me to hit a man wearing specs,’ I went on.

Erick pulled back his head in incredulity. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

‘You think I’ll go quietly?’

Erick raised his Glock, his mouth pulling into a wide sneer, and he exhaled a short grunt of disbelief. ‘No, I expect you to beg for your life first.’

‘Where did you learn such a cheesy line, from a villain in a James Bond movie?’ Perhaps my laughter sounded forced, maybe a tad manic, because Erick glanced at his buddy and they shared a headshake at my madness.

It was what I’d been waiting for. I pivoted, sweeping my right forearm across my body, knocking aside Erick’s gun. The black guy swore, and realigned his shotgun, but couldn’t get off a clean shot for fear of severing Erick’s arm and shoulder. I didn’t stop swinging, before grasping the handle of the coffee pot and yanking it from the hot plate. I backhanded the scalding contents at the black guy, and he reared away, but not before his face, throat and upper chest were liberally splashed. He hollered more in surprise than agony, but that was about to follow. Erick had already recovered his senses, and was attempting to readjust his aim as I slammed the jug against the side of his face. The jug was formed of heat-proof, toughened glass, and didn’t break. The dregs of hot coffee went up the side of Erick’s head and into his hair. He cringed at the burning pain, his eyes screwing up involuntarily as coffee began pouring down his features. Blindly he fired, but I’d already dodged aside and his bullet put a hole in my kitchen wall. I backhanded the jug into the opposite side of his face and Erick went down on one knee. Before he could recover, I rammed my knee into his ribs and knocked him over on his side, even as I vaulted over him and grappled the man with the shotgun.

The black guy was scalded, and in agony, but his pain manifested itself in rage. His strength was almost unnatural as he wrestled with me for the gun. He yanked me bodily off my feet and tossed me across the central counter. I hit the floor rolling on my side and came back to my knees. But I had the shotgun in my grasp and brought it up, firing on instinct. The buckshot tore splinters of wood from the archway above the black man as he ran for his life towards the living room. I let him go, quickly swinging round, and covering Erick as he too came to his knees on the far side of the counter. He had his Glock up, but was blinking wildly, and had no real idea where I was. I pumped the shotgun to give him a clue. ‘Drop the gun, Erick!’

From the living room came the drum of heavy feet, a meaty thud. I ignored what was happening there as I rose up, aiming the shotgun at Erick’s chest. Erick swiped at his face with a forearm and his spectacles were knocked awry. He pulled them off and tossed them aside. His gun wasn’t relinquished once.

‘I said drop your fucking weapon!’ I yelled again.

Erick squinted at me, his face contorting in disappointment. But then he held his Glock out to one side, allowed his fingers to unfold and dropped it with a clatter on the coffee-splattered floor. Maybe if it had only been me holding him under a weapon he’d have gone for broke, but my pals Velasquez and McTeer had rushed in through the open door from the decking, and both of them aimed handguns too.