Slash and Burn (18 page)

Still, he needed a gun.

There were others he might have to kill. Things with them weren’t personal, and he didn’t mind putting a couple of rounds through them if it helped speed up the process.

He caught a cab from the airport.

‘Take me to the nearest roadhouse.’

‘You looking for girls?’ The driver was a little fat man with a pink face and nicotine-stained fingers. He watched Larry in the rearview mirror.

‘Yeah, that’s the kind of place I want,’ Larry told him. ‘Hot, dancing girls.’

‘I know just the place.’

Twenty minutes later Larry handed the driver a ten-dollar tip.

He stepped out of the cab and looked across the parking lot at Minnie’s. It was the kind of place that came alive at night. Garish neon signs in the shape of voluptuous women would gyrate and entice the punters. There was a rip-off of the Disney character mouse striking a pose, blowing a suggestive kiss over her shoulder, her skirt lifted to show her bare ass. The other signs were the conventional type you saw at places just like this: XXX in bright red; Girls, Girls, Girls in blue. The country music would be loud. The lot would be full of trucks and jeeps and noisy, drunk men. But right now, Minnie’s was quiet. There were only two vehicles in the lot, an old Pontiac and a classic model Cadillac. The Cadillac was coffee-coloured, like the one in that old Chuck Berry song. The paint had faded in the Texas sun. Somehow, a latte-coloured Cadillac didn’t have the same ring to it.

‘Minnie’s is never shut,’ the cab driver said, leaning an elbow out the window. ‘Just go on round the back, you’ll get in that way.’

The cab pulled away, kicking up dust from the lot.

Larry was still wearing the overcoat. It was warm. But he didn’t take off the coat: he needed both hands free and didn’t want to encumber himself with carrying it. He made do with unbuttoning the jacket and allowing it to hang open. It flared out as he strode towards Minnie’s.

The building was a low oblong of wood planks. The planks had been painted black, but in places the sun had done its work on them and they’d faded to a dull grey. There were no windows at the front. No one inside wanted to shock the sensibilities of less open-minded people passing on the highway. The double doors at the front were shut. A handwritten cardboard sign was tacked to the doors, a bold red arrow pointing to the right. Larry swung that way without breaking stride. His route took him past the two parked cars. He glanced inside both but couldn’t see what he wanted. His eye lingered over the Cadillac: cool car.

Round back he was greeted by a closed door and two minders who looked like tough guys – big men, muscular and tattooed. Larry Bolan dwarfed them, put them to shame. They didn’t block his way. One of them even opened the door for him.

Larry stepped into a room as black as the building looked from outside. The tables were scattered at random, set round a raised stage where the strippers would dance. Across the room he saw a light above a bar. A woman was standing behind the bar, watching TV with the volume turned off. Carrie Underwood was singing her latest hit, lip-synching with the music coming from speakers round the stage. The woman didn’t look at Larry.

He took in the other customers.

There were only a half-dozen guys in the room. One old man sat alone, nursing a drink. The other five were in a booth at the back of the room.

‘Jackpot,’ Larry said to himself.

He ignored the guy sitting alone, he ignored the woman at the bar, and he walked directly to the five men. These were the kind of men Larry had come looking for. They were all relaxed, sprawling in their chairs. Bottles of beer were scattered across the table. They watched his approach with their hard eyes like his presence didn’t bother them. But Larry knew otherwise.

He deliberately stood very close to the table, looking down on them, so that he invaded their personal space.

He looked from each face to the next. They all looked back.

‘Who do I speak with?’

‘That would be me,’ said the man sitting at the centre of the group. Larry guessed that would be the case. The leader of the group had two guards on each side, protected. He was in his late twenties, thickset with short black hair. He looked like there was Native American somewhere in his blood. The men either side of him were younger by a few years, boys playing at being men.

Straight to the point. ‘I want guns.’

‘Are you a cop?’ asked the leader.

‘Do I look like a goddamn cop to you?’

‘What makes you think I have guns?’

Larry just stared.

This guy was the resident ball-breaker. Places like Minnie’s always had them, men who protected the strippers from unwanted advances. Unwanted advances meaning ‘free’. You wanted a private show, you paid this guy.

‘How much are you willing to part with?’

‘Depends on what you’ve got for me.’

The man looked like he was weighing up his decision, but Larry knew it was all show. Larry turned and started walking away. ‘Forget it. I’ll take my money somewhere else.’

‘Hold up.’

Larry heard the table being moved, the legs scraping on the wooden floor. He stopped and turned. The leader was standing, his four minders flanking him. ‘Let’s not be so hasty, huh? You want guns, I’ve got them. Why go anywhere else?’

‘I ain’t messing around. You want to do a deal, we do it quickly.’ Larry patted a bulge in his breast pocket.

The man gestured towards a door next to the bar. ‘Come with me.’

Larry followed the man. The other four crowded him. Larry stopped, looked each of them in the eye. ‘My business is with the man. Back off, boys.’

They were like terriers circling a bear. Alone they were no threat, but together they thought they had what it took to bring him down. They puffed out their chests, readied themselves.

Larry chose the nearest man to him. He was the largest of the group, scar-faced, with a hoop earring hanging from his left lobe and a squint in one eye. He looked like he had lost a few fights in his time. Larry grabbed him by his face and squeezed. He had the man’s jaw in the palm of his hand, fingers and thumb digging into the nerves beneath each ear. The man roared in pain. Larry stiff-armed him away and the man crashed backwards against the table they’d recently vacated.

‘I said back off.’

There was a moment of hesitation. Things could go one of two ways. There would be extreme violence or they’d give in and cower away. Larry didn’t mind the violence. No one moved except for the woman behind the bar: she scurried away to the far end.

Then the leader barked at his friends, ‘What the hell you doing? There’s a guy here with good money to spend. Get the hell out of his way, will ya?’

He waved Larry after him as though nothing had happened. Larry went through the door and shut it behind him. He thought that when he opened it again, those guys, plus the two from the door, would probably be waiting.

He was in a storage area. There were crates of bottled beer and liquor, cleaning fluids and mops. Other things Larry merely skimmed over. The leader went through another door and flicked on a light. They were in a small cubicle not much larger than the prison cell Larry had once called home. A window at the back of the room was boarded over. It was furnished with a table and two chairs, cheap plastic with metal legs. On the table was a stained coffee mug. There was also a steel cabinet. The man dug in the pocket of his trousers for a chain, came out with a bunch of keys, then opened the cabinet.

‘You called Tito?’

The man froze, then looked at Larry with that wary look of someone waiting for what might be coming next.

Larry indicated the coffee mug. On it were printed the words
Tito’s Mug
.

Tito laughed. ‘Yeah. One of the girls gave me it as a present. Grateful for my services, if you get my meaning?’

Larry was nonplussed by the sentiment.

Tito turned back to the cabinet and pulled out a wooden box, using another key from his chain to unlock it.

Larry studied the guns inside.

‘The Taurus is no good to me.’ It was a five-shot Saturday Night Special, too small for his hand. ‘I’ll take the other two.’

Tito pulled out the two semi-automatic handguns. The first was a Dan Wesson from the Pointman series in the 1911 style, seven shot, .45 calibre. It was blued steel with a rosewood grip. It was still small compared to Larry’s hand, but big enough to kill so would do as a back-up weapon. But he was more interested in the second gun. It was a Desert Eagle Mark XIX. It took nine .357 Magnum bullets and had a ten-inch barrel, almost twice the size and weight of the Dan Wesson. His kind of gun.

‘You have ammo?’

Tito pulled out two boxes and placed them next to the guns.

‘How much for them both?’

‘Two thousand bucks. I’ll throw in the ammo for free.’

‘I could buy them new for that.’

‘You could. But then you’d have to register. Then – assuming there’s no reason you can’t have them – you’d have to wait while your application was cleared. You don’t strike me as the type of man who’s willing to wait.’

Larry growled, then tugged out his billfold.

‘Fifteen hundred. Final offer.’

Tito shook his head slowly, like he was aggrieved. But Larry recognized the greed in his eyes when he zoned in on Larry’s cash. Larry peeled off fifteen hundred dollars and placed them on the table. They made a considerable stack of notes.

While Tito counted the money, Larry fed rounds into the Desert Eagle. He pushed the Dan Wesson into his coat pocket, the spare ammo into the opposite one.

‘Are your boys going to be waiting on me on the other side of that door, Tito?’

Tito pushed the roll of notes into his trouser pocket.

‘Not my style.’

‘Shame,’ Larry told him with a smile. ‘I’ll just have to wait and try the guns out later.’

Chapter 27

I was alone in a rental car: a discreet light blue Saturn SL1, the model affectionately known as the ‘gas saver’. Rink and Harvey had their own rental and were staying clear of me. They were the ace in my sleeve, and we wanted to keep things that way as long as possible.

We’d travelled north from Dallas, up toward Ray Roberts Lake, then swung east at a small town called Pilot Point. Then we’d struck out on minor roads into farm land that stretched away toward the Oklahoma state line. My car came with a GPS location finder, but it was pretty useless out here in a landscape where there were only fields and small wooded areas. The synthesised voice kept exhorting me to turn round and go back the way I’d come. In the end I switched it off. Robert Huffman’s personal abode wasn’t the easiest place to find.

I kept in touch with my friends via cell phone. They were on average a mile behind me. If anything happened, it could take them time to reach me. However, in most places out here on the flatlands, you could see all the way to the horizon. At any second I could be in the sights of Huffman or any of his people. One car passing through might not seem suspicious, but two in close convoy would attract attention.

Back at the motel outside Arlington, Harvey had done some digging on his laptop. From the registered business address for Huffman’s property development company, he was able to track down the list of properties owned by Huffman. There were many, but one in particular stood out from the list: Quicksilver Ranch. Guessing that Huffman was the narcissistic type, it didn’t take much concluding that the ranch would be a good place to start our hunt for him. The ranch was very remote. If I was holding someone prisoner, I would have chosen a place just like it. No one would hear the screams. Plus, it was easily defended. No one could approach within a mile without giving themselves away.

Harvey had Googled the location. I memorised the directions. It should have been easy: according to the map, there was only one way in and one way out. The trouble was finding that actual road. This area didn’t get that many tourists. There didn’t appear to be a need for road signs. The only hint that any dwellings were hidden over the horizon was the occasional mailbox fixed to a post at the entrance to a trail. Many of the trails were nothing but two lines of flattened grass. And there were sometimes miles between each.

I kept on driving.

Fields were spread out on each side of the road. The grass was turning brown now that winter was on its way. Herds of cattle grazed in the distance. The cows had long horns, unlike the breeds I was familiar with back in England. Their horns reminded me of the set that had been fixed to Larry Bolan’s Dodge Ram. I wondered what had become of the big man. But thinking of him also made me recall the way I’d killed Trent. I couldn’t blame Larry Bolan for hating me; if he’d killed a brother of mine I’d want him dead too. That was something I’d have to deal with later. I didn’t want him haunting me for the rest of my days.

For now I had to concentrate on getting Kate away from Huffman. The only way I could do that would be to find where he was holding her.

I stopped the Saturn.

Jabbed buttons on my phone.

‘You’d better hold back,’ I told Rink.

‘What’s up, Hunter?’

‘Just stopped to get my bearings.’ I stared off across the fields on my left. I knew Quicksilver Ranch was over there somewhere.