Free Slash and Burn by Matt Hilton

fractionally. ‘Trent? It’s the goddamn man from the woods.’
    Nodding in confirmation, I moved further into what I now could see was a mechanical workshop. There were tools arranged on the wall, a pit under the parked SUV. Perished oil made dark patches on the floor and had made its way on to the walls and furniture too.
    ‘I recognise your voice,’ said the man I’d pistol-whipped. ‘What are you? English?’
    I didn’t bother answering. Instead, I asked, ‘Why are you after Imogen Ballard?’
    Both men exchanged glances. I saw something in their faces that I hadn’t noticed before. It wasn’t obvious face-on, but when they turned in profile I saw that they had the same shaped features. Kind of Neanderthal.
    ‘You’re brothers, right?’ I said, advancing a step. ‘So who’s the youngest out of you?’
    ‘We’re twins,’ said the man with the odd eyes. Trent, the other had called him.
    ‘So you’re the youngest then?’ It was the way he’d answered, as though in defence of his pride, that told me. I turned my attention to the eldest brother. ‘OK, it’s like this: you tell me everything or I shoot your little brother. How does that sound?’
    A strange look passed over the man’s face, but it wasn’t fear of my threat. ‘He’s big enough to look after himself. Why’d I care if you shot him?’
    Trent scowled at his brother, but it was as if he saw the humour in the words and he started huffing out a laugh.
    ‘Fair enough,’ I said.
    Then I shot the youngest brother.
    His left knee buckled where my bullet punched through it, and as big and strong as he appeared, he still went down on the ground screaming.
    ‘Motherfucker!’ His brother lurched towards me. I brought up the SIG so he had a good look directly down the barrel.
    ‘See,’ I said. ‘I knew you were bluffing.’
    The older brother had come to a halt again. His face was painted with rage. ‘I’m gonna rip your fucking head off for that.’
    ‘No, big man, what you’re going to do is start talking.’ I moved the SIG so it was once more pointing at his brother. ‘Otherwise I’ll show you what a hollow-point can do to a face already that ugly.’
    Some people have decried the effectiveness of the P228 over its predecessor the P226. With the nine mm parabellum ammo having less stopping power than .45 ball, some military and law enforcement officers prefer other sidearms. However, I didn’t see the problem. When loaded with hollow-point ammunition, the P228 has enough power to stop a charging rhinoceros. It would easily blow the man’s face apart, however huge his head was.
    Taking another step, I held out my gun with both arms at full stretch in what’s known as a stressfire isosceles stance. It’s one of the stances favoured by Israeli Special Forces, designed for point shooting under extreme duress. It’s also damn intimidating as the stance suggests that you are aiming directly at a specific target and about to discharge your weapon.
    The older brother’s hands came up. ‘OK, OK, easy now. I do care about my goddamn brother. What is it you want to know?’
    ‘Start with your names,’ I told him.
    ‘Larry. That’s Trent.’
    ‘Second names.’
    ‘Don’t fucking tell him,’ Trent groaned from the floor. Some of the shock of having been crippled had dissipated, but none of the agony. I guessed these men were used to pain. So I shot him in the other knee.
    ‘Aw,’ was all Larry said as he looked down at his screaming brother.
    ‘Let’s keep this conversation strictly between us from now on,’ I told him.
    ‘Bolan,’ Larry yelled. ‘It’s fucking Bolan , OK?’
    ‘Got it. Now you tell me who you work for.’
    There was a little reticence in Larry’s posture, so I fired again. This time into the wall behind his head. He must have felt the heat of the bullet passing his ear, it was so close.
    ‘Robert Huffman.’
    ‘Is he from here? Little Fork?’
    ‘Dallas, Texas. He has offices there.’
    ‘But he