Read Online The Unlucky Man by H T G Hedges - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: H T G Hedges
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least, the evidence of Corg’s bootlegging.
Under the overriding airless odor I gradually came to detect another more camphoraceous element; a machine smell, like oil or grease perhaps, and something else as well. Wax?
It was coming from the main resident of the room, hidden beneath a large irregular shaped tarpaulin that dominated the centre of the garage.
"I think I know what’s under there," I whispered flatly.
In the half darkness I couldn’t really see him, but I’m pretty sure Corg was grinning as, with a magician like flourish, he swept back the oilcloth to reveal the old hearse concealed beneath.
Tah-dah, I thought.
"Get the door," Corg muttered.
"Time to go?"
"Hell yeah," Corg replied, popping open the driver’s door, face illuminated like a pointed devil’s in the sudden amber glow.
"We’re bustin’ outta here!"
Quinn was back on the radio.
"Positive ID on the second target," the voice reported through a growing sea of electronic crackle. Quinn listened intently to the report, unease growing in tune with the hiss and pop.
"Hesker?" he repeated at last.
"Affirmative," came the disembodied metallic reply.
"Jon Hesker is dead," Quinn said. "It was a part of the briefing, shot and killed on Central Station yesterday morning. That’s why we’re here, now. Cleaning up. Confirm?"
This whole business, he thought, was starting to turn sour. The mission was heading south and he didn’t want to be the one left holding the compass trying to turn it back around. He waited, listening to the white noise on the line for a long time. Long enough, in fact that he started to wonder if the connection had flat lined.
When at last the voice came back on in his ear, there was a note of confusion to it. "That has been confirmed. But, well, we also have evidence that Jon Hesker walked out of Lucia General Hospital earlier today. We’re looking into it."
"Evidence?"
"Look," the voice said candidly, "This comes direct from downstairs. Direct from Control, so no questions. Just get it finished."
Quinn considered this for a moment, watching his team move from door to door in a vain attempt to trace their missing targets, shining torch beams down the entrances to alleys and checking locked doors with mounting frustration.
"What do we do about him?"
There was a pause and some muffled words spoken on the other end of the line between his contact and another unknown factor. Quinn wondered who it could be, someone who knew more about what was going on than he did for certain. Rift's scarred face floated unnervingly before his mind's eye as the voice came back clearly.
"Find him. Find both of them. Bring them in. Get it done." Once again the line clicked into jarring, empty silence.
And, at the same moment, Quinn’s close range radio squawked into life.
"Sir!" came the distorted voice of one of his squad – even his close range equipment was losing clarity – the message sounding horse in his ear. "We’ve found an open depot."
"Where?" Quinn started to run.
The engine purred into life. All around the oddly familiar - the smell of the interior, the soft glow of a dashboard I’d seen thousands of times, the small sounds you take for granted on a daily basis – warred with the outlandish nature of unfurling events. It was an unsettling, detached moment that pinpricked down my spine.
Then Corg fired down the pedal and, roaring like a banshee, the hearse leaped from cover. For a second dark silhouetted figures were picked out, blinded in the twin beam of the headlights, and then we were powering past them, tires spinning on the drowned road.
Quinn was almost at the open depot when the hulking mass of the hearse screamed to life from the gaping black pit of the garage and into the grey night. In one fluid movement, he dropped into a shooter’s stance on the wet road, ripping his pistol from its holster, and managed to squeeze off a handful of rounds.
But the action was hurried, the rain thick, the
Under the overriding airless odor I gradually came to detect another more camphoraceous element; a machine smell, like oil or grease perhaps, and something else as well. Wax?
It was coming from the main resident of the room, hidden beneath a large irregular shaped tarpaulin that dominated the centre of the garage.
"I think I know what’s under there," I whispered flatly.
In the half darkness I couldn’t really see him, but I’m pretty sure Corg was grinning as, with a magician like flourish, he swept back the oilcloth to reveal the old hearse concealed beneath.
Tah-dah, I thought.
"Get the door," Corg muttered.
"Time to go?"
"Hell yeah," Corg replied, popping open the driver’s door, face illuminated like a pointed devil’s in the sudden amber glow.
"We’re bustin’ outta here!"
Quinn was back on the radio.
"Positive ID on the second target," the voice reported through a growing sea of electronic crackle. Quinn listened intently to the report, unease growing in tune with the hiss and pop.
"Hesker?" he repeated at last.
"Affirmative," came the disembodied metallic reply.
"Jon Hesker is dead," Quinn said. "It was a part of the briefing, shot and killed on Central Station yesterday morning. That’s why we’re here, now. Cleaning up. Confirm?"
This whole business, he thought, was starting to turn sour. The mission was heading south and he didn’t want to be the one left holding the compass trying to turn it back around. He waited, listening to the white noise on the line for a long time. Long enough, in fact that he started to wonder if the connection had flat lined.
When at last the voice came back on in his ear, there was a note of confusion to it. "That has been confirmed. But, well, we also have evidence that Jon Hesker walked out of Lucia General Hospital earlier today. We’re looking into it."
"Evidence?"
"Look," the voice said candidly, "This comes direct from downstairs. Direct from Control, so no questions. Just get it finished."
Quinn considered this for a moment, watching his team move from door to door in a vain attempt to trace their missing targets, shining torch beams down the entrances to alleys and checking locked doors with mounting frustration.
"What do we do about him?"
There was a pause and some muffled words spoken on the other end of the line between his contact and another unknown factor. Quinn wondered who it could be, someone who knew more about what was going on than he did for certain. Rift's scarred face floated unnervingly before his mind's eye as the voice came back clearly.
"Find him. Find both of them. Bring them in. Get it done." Once again the line clicked into jarring, empty silence.
And, at the same moment, Quinn’s close range radio squawked into life.
"Sir!" came the distorted voice of one of his squad – even his close range equipment was losing clarity – the message sounding horse in his ear. "We’ve found an open depot."
"Where?" Quinn started to run.
The engine purred into life. All around the oddly familiar - the smell of the interior, the soft glow of a dashboard I’d seen thousands of times, the small sounds you take for granted on a daily basis – warred with the outlandish nature of unfurling events. It was an unsettling, detached moment that pinpricked down my spine.
Then Corg fired down the pedal and, roaring like a banshee, the hearse leaped from cover. For a second dark silhouetted figures were picked out, blinded in the twin beam of the headlights, and then we were powering past them, tires spinning on the drowned road.
Quinn was almost at the open depot when the hulking mass of the hearse screamed to life from the gaping black pit of the garage and into the grey night. In one fluid movement, he dropped into a shooter’s stance on the wet road, ripping his pistol from its holster, and managed to squeeze off a handful of rounds.
But the action was hurried, the rain thick, the
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