Authors: Matt Hilton
Afterwards we lay side-by-side, our bodies glistening with perspiration, Imogen’s hair in even more disarray. She lay with one hand on my stomach, tracing lazy circles with her fingertips, enjoying for the moment the companionable silence. Perhaps there was more than that to the silence; there were things yet unspoken, but now was not the time or place. Beyond the windows night had fallen, and the sleet had turned to snow. It was like a shroud that blocked out the rest of the world. We were cocooned in our own little bubble and I wished that things could stay that way forever. But I knew they couldn’t.
Some sixth sense in me had been anticipating the thrum of an engine and the squeak of tyres on the new snow. I sat up and looked through the window. The vantage didn’t allow a view down to the parking area outside. Naked, I stood, and then stooped for my abandoned clothes. First thing first, I lifted my Sig Sauer P226 and racked the slide. After that I dragged on my jeans and then padded back to the window.
‘Who is it?’
Without turning, I said, ‘Don’t know yet. You’d best get dressed.’
We weren’t expecting visitors. On a night like this, with the blizzard driving in off the Atlantic, only someone very determined would be out and about. In my world that meant law enforcement officers or enemies. Experience told me neither would be good news.
A vehicle crept into view. It was a dark coloured SUV, the windows tinted so I couldn’t make out who was inside, or how many. The snow didn’t help because it was swirling on the breeze, dancing a dervish jig between me and the vehicle. I watched until it pulled up alongside my Audi. No one got out. Maybe they were running the tags on my car.
I quickly pulled on my T-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt. I shrugged into my leather jacket, still damp from earlier, even as I stepped into my boots. The clothes went on almost as frenetically as they had so recently come off. Behind me, Imogen had pulled on a robe and cinched it round the waist. She joined me as I took another peek out the window.
‘Joe,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Who could they be?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I want you to stay up here until I find out. OK?’
This was Imogen’s home. She shouldn’t have to live in fear within its walls, but she did. Once already it had been invaded by a killer, and a cop had died on the threshold, trying to help her. Luke Rickard wasn’t the one she feared now. I’d killed that piece of shit. But there were others who might still want to harm her. I met Kate after Imogen had gone missing, running for her life to avoid the wrath of a Texan mobster and his sadistic enforcers, the Bolan twins. I had found Imogen and then took the war back to its source, but that was when Kate had died. Imogen didn’t have to worry about Robert Huffman or the twins: I’d killed them too. But the mob was far-ranging and had a long memory and she waited for the day they’d seek retribution. She didn’t argue with my request for her to stay hidden.
I went down the stairs and threw on the spotlights I’d fitted round the eaves. The light would momentarily blind those in the SUV. While they were blinking, I stepped out of the front door, the SIG hidden alongside my thigh. Enemies would do one of two things: reverse the car out of there, or come out with their guns blazing. I readied myself for either eventuality. Instead, the passenger door opened and a single figure stepped out. He held his hands over his head, showing me that they were empty.
‘Step away from the car.’ I allowed the SIG to be seen, so he knew I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
He nodded and took two exaggerated steps to the side. I left him standing there in the snow, his hands reaching for the heavens, while I angled for a look into the SUV. There was a driver, but no one I could see in the back. ‘You as well, pal. Out of the car and show me your hands.’
These weren’t men lost on the road and seeking directions, neither were they enemies. Their approach told me that quite eloquently. They showed they meant no harm by lifting their hands, without raising a fuss about their treatment. I waved the driver round the front of the car, ushering them both together. It was easier to keep an eye on them like that.
Both were alike the way men of military bearing are; strong and lithe, with short haircuts and hard eyes. They were dressed similarly in thick windcheaters, dark jeans and rubber-soled boots. Bulges under their left armpits told me they were packing, both of them right hand draws. The only thing that differentiated them was that one was missing a chunk of eyebrow, and the other, slightly heavier, had ten years on his friend.
‘You’re not cops,’ I said. ‘So I’m guessing you’re with the government.’
The older man was the designated driver, which made me guess that the first man to get out the car was the one who’d come to speak. I wasn’t wrong.
‘We should get out of the storm.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘Better if we talk inside, Mister Hunter.’
He used my name as a tool, couching his words so that they were more than a suggestion. He wanted me to know who was really in charge. It didn’t work that way with me. ‘My girlfriend is inside.’ I left things at that. Let them think what they wanted.
‘She knows all about you?’ The man was wily, and he left the hint about my past unsaid.
‘She knows that I’m not the type to let strangers inside without checking them out first. So . . . who are you, and what brings you here?’
The men lowered their hands. The younger of the two reached towards his armpit. Left hand, so I didn’t flinch. He pulled out a leather wallet and flicked it open. He showed me an FBI ID badge. I smiled cynically at him. ‘I’ve got one just like that. I bought it off eBay for five bucks. Who supplied yours, Charles W. Brigham? The CIA, I bet.’
Brigham chuckled. His mouth twisted, and the skin on his face puckered all the way up to his damaged eyebrow. Once he’d been very lucky that a knife blade hadn’t taken off his entire face. ‘As you know, CIA agents aren’t in the habit of carrying badges. It’s too much of a giveaway. But that’s my real name. You have the ability to check it out.’
I did, but I wasn’t going to bother. There was no reason for Brigham to lie. ‘And who are you?’ I directed at the older man. ‘Your name will do, forget the Mickey Mouse badge.’
‘Ray Hartlaub.’
‘Brigham and Hartlaub? It sounds like an accountancy firm to me.’ I smiled to show I was only fooling, but also that they held no fear for me.
‘That would be Hartlaub and Brigham,’ the older agent said. ‘Seeing as I’m in charge.’
I’d thought as much. The one in charge never gets out of the car first. Not when there’s an armed man waiting for him. ‘So why are you here?’
‘We were asked to come fetch you.’
I shook my head, more an act of derision than to dislodge the snow off my hair. There was only one person who could be behind this round-up. My old CIA contact from when I was hunting terrorists. ‘Walter Hayes Conrad. What has that old goat got up his sleeve this time?’
‘Nothing,’ Hartlaub said. ‘In fact, you can forget about SDC Conrad upsetting your life ever again.’
‘So old Walt’s finally retired then?’
‘No, Hunter, Walter Conrad is dead. He was murdered a few hours ago.’