Dead Men's Dust

    He pressed the barrel of his gun into her left eye socket, eliciting a shriek from the woman. Again my finger tightened but didn't follow through.

    Think of damp ashes, that was the color of John's face as he turned to me. He supported his weight against the piano, body racked with pain. Weak and hurting. 'He means it, Hunter. He'll do it.'

    My gaze jumped between him and the gunman. A smile flickered at the corner of the gunman's mouth, a tensing of his eyes. Did he recognize my name? How could he, I told myself, it's not as if I'm James Bond. To John I said, 'Get over here behind me, John.'

    The gunman grunted. 'You two know each other?'

    Neither of us answered, but the silence was palpable.

    'Wait a minute. Hunter?' The man searched my face. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as though something amusing had struck him. 'Not Joe Hunter?'

    Unbidden, my face pinched. My teeth ached as my jaw tightened. Some secret I turned out to be. Maybe I should have worked under a code name after all.

    'Well for the love of all that's holy! Who'd have thought they'd have put you on my trail?'

    Again I didn't answer, and the man turned his attention to John.

    'Wait a minute . . . I see it now. The family resemblance. You're so full of surprises, John. You didn't tell me you were related to such a notorious assassin as Joe Hunter . . .' He squinted across at Rink, who remained statue solid at the open window. 'And don't tell me . . . not Jared Rington as well?'

    John's face puckered. It can't ever have occurred to him before just who—or what—his big brother really was. He was aware that my work involved hunting terrorists, but I don't think he appreciated what that actually entailed. To him, I was just a soldier killing other soldiers. Now he was probably wondering, Aren't assassins the bad guys?

    I don't appreciate the term assassin, but I suppose, at the end of the day, it all comes down to your perspective. Rink and I were either saints or sinners. At that moment, I saw myself as the saint; the man with the gun shoved in an elderly woman's eye socket assured me of that.

'Let her go,' I commanded.

    The man wasn't interested. My identity seemed to please him in a way I found troubling. His next words went some length to explain his apparent pleasure. 'I guess I should be honored. Does that mean I've finally won the notoriety I deserve? Huh? I suppose that means you know who I am now?'

    'I don't give a shit who you are, or what insane reason you have for murdering innocent people. All I'm interested in is you dropping your gun before I put a bullet in your head.' To assure him of my intentions, I took another half step toward him.

    In return, he giggled. Said, 'If I'm going to die, I'm taking her with me. Maybe one or two of you, as well.'

    I drew back again. Inwardly I cursed myself. I'd just made the mistake of showing him that I wasn't in charge of the situation. One up for the real bad guy. He moved the barrel of his gun so it was under the woman's ear now. Once more the woman murmured in fear. Her eyes rolled my way, beseeching. I had to do something.

    'John,' I snapped. 'Get yourself over here.'

    He staggered over, one arm tight against his chest where his sodden shirt clung to him. I moved a step to my right, giving him clearance to gain the doorway. At my shoulder, John came to a stumbling halt. Something bothered me about the abruptness.

    Without thought, I pivoted on my right foot, smacking against the near wall, eyes still on the gunman to my right, but my peripheral vision searching out what had stopped John. I saw the gunman's eyes widen in surprise, saw him flinch, and I knew that there was new danger in the house. Danger to us both. I was caught between two equally vicious enemies, and it was a split second's decision on my response. Even as I swung to my left, I gave a silent prayer that Rink would cover the killer I couldn't keep my eyes on. My gun swept the air, and I fired without pause.

    Even as he was stepping into the living room, my first bullet caught Hendrickson's hit man in his right shoulder, spinning from his fingers the gun he'd pointed at John's head. I'd seen this man before— testament to that was the wound on his ear. Even if I'd never had the privilege, I would've recognized him for what he was: a stone-cold killer. Something else: he was an apt stalker in his own right, and he'd used Rink and me to lead him to John. The memory of the speedboat racing toward us after we'd disembarked from the skipper's launch came to mind.

    Injured, the Latino dropped low. He grunted, but he was already reaching left-handed for a second weapon concealed in an ankle holster. My gun boomed again, but even as I fired, I snatched the barrel up so that the bullet swished above his head to splinter the door lintel. I'd missed him, but it was a good job I did. It meant I also missed John, who'd chosen that moment to stagger into my line of fire.

    Things were rapidly turning to shit.

    I ran around John, expecting the killer at my back to put a bullet in my spine.

    I cleared John just as the hit man came up from his crouch. His gun fired. Instinctively I'd already twisted, but a searing coldness snapped alongside my ribs. Wind whooshed out of me, but I couldn't allow the thought of the hit to stop me.

    Before he could fire again, I struck his gun hand with the barrel of my SIG, knocking his aim wide. His bullet lifted keys from the piano with a tympani of discord. Moving swiftly, as though it were a rapier, I swept my gun under his forearm and snaked my arm up his back.

    In close and dirty, we went to town. I ground him against the wall, both our guns momentarily scraping and rasping against wallpaper. His gun went off, further marking the wall. With his free hand, he grabbed at my testicles. I stabbed my fingers into his eyes, tore at his damaged ear, and he forgot all about squeezing my balls. Instead, he punched me in the mouth. The tricky bastard. Right back at you, I thought, as I smashed his nose into a new position on his face.

    He was slippery, even shot in three different places—he had a wounded thigh that I was only now vaguely