Free Dead Men's Harvest by Matt Hilton Page A

impetuous.
    He had no way of knowing how many protectors were inside the cabin. This wasn’t a mission simply to kill with abandon. At any other time he’d relish walking into that cabin, taking the odds as they came, and, if he didn’t happen to kill them all, well, such was the chaotic nature of life. In the here and now, though, there was a precise target and he couldn’t allow his personal desires to get in the way of a successful result. John Telfer had to die. But to get to Telfer, he had first to take out those who would try to stop him.
    Cain was dressed for the occasion. He wore dark clothing and high-top boots, a cap pulled down low over his fair hair. He felt like he was back in the game again. With the tree-lined hillside as cover, he approached the cabin. Using the shadows to his advantage, he moved to the parked SUV. Holstering the Beretta, he pulled the Tanto out of its sheath. A quick jab of the blade split the tyre and the SUV sank at one corner. Not totally disabled. He jabbed the next tyre. Now it would be difficult to drive.
    He quickly slashed the tyres of the sedan, then, happy that the occupants of the cabin would have no means of a quick getaway, he moved towards the porch. Putting away the knife, he drew the Beretta, advancing with a gun in each hand like some fabled Two Gun Tex.
    The planks on the porch looked reasonably sound, but he couldn’t take the chance that they’d creak under his weight, giving away his position. Whether or not the people inside were at a low ebb, hearing furtive movement on the porch would galvanise them into action. Cain didn’t want that. He had to maintain the element of surprise. Get Telfer: that was all that mattered.
    From within the cabin he could hear muffled conversation. Two voices, those of a man and a woman. But were there more?
    He made his way around the side of the cabin. There was a window at that end, too, which like all the others had shutters. Moving up close, he found he could peer through a narrow niche between two slats. The cabin was open plan at this end. The living quarters were kept to a minimum, with a couch, a TV, and table and chairs. There was a kitchen area at the back of the building with a wood-burning stove that doubled as a cooking range. Stairs led up to a mezzanine-type gallery where a bed occupied most of the space. Beneath the gallery were two doors. Likely one was to a bathroom, the other to another bedroom.
    Through the chink in the shutter, Cain watched a slim woman wander across the room. She pushed hands through her cropped hair. She had a gun holstered on her hip. She said something, a low murmur. A man answered her from the bed on the raised gallery. He sat up. He was fully clothed, appeared to have been merely killing time.
    Under the gallery, the door on the left opened and a stocky man with a greying brush cut came out, rubbing his face with a towel. The woman lifted a mug off the range in the kitchen, handing it to the man, before taking her turn in the bathroom.
    Cain frowned. Neither man was John Telfer.
    Swinging off the bed, the man clumped down the stairs, hitching his jeans to a more comfortable position. He had a shoulder rig, but it was empty. Cain glanced around and saw the man’s sidearm lying on the table. Now that the woman was in the bathroom, only the guy with the brush cut was armed. He had an impressive-looking Desert Eagle strapped to his waist.
    Now would be a good time, Cain told himself.
    Prudence, though, prudence.
    First he circled the back of the building. He passed the back door, moved round the corner. The bathroom window was shuttered, but would have given him a look inside through the slats if he had the desire. No distractions, though.
    The final room didn’t have a window.
    The man inside was as much a prisoner as Cain had been at Fort Conchar.
    Happy that Telfer couldn’t make a break for it, he returned to the front. Cat-footed, he stepped up on to the porch. From inside came the clump