The Sword of God - John Milton #5 (John Milton Thrillers) (15 page)

“I think they’ve been getting help. Look at them. They’re idiots. They would’ve been caught weeks ago if they were up here on their own.”

“So we’re careful when we go back down with them, then.”

“Yes. Very careful.”

There was a blackened Dutch oven in the shed, and Milton took that and the tenderloins outside. The fire was burning brightly. Milton spread the logs out and pushed the pot into a pile of glowing embers. He poured in a good lug of vegetable oil and, when it was hot, he dropped the meat inside. It hissed and fizzed and spat. He covered the pot with the lid and went back to the shed to chop the vegetables for the gravy.

AFTER THREE hours the meat was blackened and practically falling apart. Milton had wrapped baked potatoes in tin foil and dropped them into the ashes an hour before and then he had warmed the bread, rubbing it with garlic for extra flavour. All of that, together with the meat and the thick gravy, was enough for a hearty meal. The smell was delicious, wafting over the dark camp, and it grew even stronger the moment he removed the lid from the pot.

He took the plates he had found in the shed, doled out generous portions for Ellie, Mallory, and Arty, and then served himself.

“This is really good,” Ellie said between hungry mouthfuls. “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

“The army.”

“What were you,” Mallory asked, “a chef?”

Milton laughed. He was sitting with his shoulders propped up against a large rock, gazing out over the surface of the lake. He loaded his fork and put it into his mouth, enjoying the smoky flavour of the meat and the rich taste of the gravy. He felt relaxed and contented and, because of that, less reticent than he would usually have been.

“What are you laughing at?”

“I wasn’t a chef.”

“What were you, then?”

He searched for the right words. “A problem solver. The government would find that there was a situation that couldn’t be handled through the normal channels, so me or a colleague of mine would be sent in to try another way.”

“Another way?” Ellie said, teasing. “Mysterious.”

“That’s all you’re getting out of me.”

It was more than he had told anyone for a long time. He felt a shudder of discomfort, for it was only a skip and a jump from that bland little euphemism to what he had done in the Group, and there were no circumstances where he would have been prepared to discuss that, especially not with civilians who couldn’t possibly understand.

And certainly not with civilians of whom he was growing fond.

How did you tell someone you drew a salary for being a killer?

“Is it all right, Arty?” Mallory asked.

“Mmmm,” he said, tearing off a hunk of bread and dragging it through the remnants of his gravy.

The girl turned to Milton. “What about them?” She nodded in the direction of the four men watching them with baleful eyes from down by the shore.

“What about them?”

“You going to give them anything to eat?”

“I made enough for everyone.”

“I wouldn’t,” she said indignantly. “Not after what they’ve done.”

“We need to be practical, Mallory. They’re going to need fuel for tomorrow. It’s going to be a long day. Hard work. If they’re hungry, it’ll take us longer.”

“He’s right,” Ellie said.

Mallory shrugged, reluctant to admit that he was right even though she knew that he was.

THE ROBBERS were unable to feed themselves with their hands tied, so Milton released them, one by one, directed each to help himself to the food from the pot, and then allowed five minutes to chow down. It was almost midnight by the time that Sellar, who was last, had cleared his plate. The pot, too, had been scraped clean.

Milton was covering them with his rifle. Ellie came alongside him.

“What do we do with them now?”

“In the shed.”

“And then?”

“I’ll stay up and keep an eye on them.”

“All night?”

“It’s fine.”

“Don’t be crazy. We’ll split it. You go first; I’ll do second shift. You need sleep as much as the rest of us.”

“I can manage.” He could see from her face that he was wasting his time. “Fine. We’ll split it. But I’ll go first.”

She agreed, heading away to set up the tents with Mallory and Arthur. Milton gestured for the four robbers to get up, and he led them to the hut where they had their bedrolls. They went inside, one after the other, Michael Callow at the rear.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said.

“I doubt it.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. My name is Milton.”

“But you’re not with the FBI.”

“No, I’m just a concerned citizen.”

“Bullshit.”

“Go to sleep. You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“You here because of Arty, ain’t you? How’d it go down? His kid sister ask you to help her come get him?”

“Get inside,” Milton said, shoving him firmly in the back.

“I knew I should never have allowed that retard out here.”

“So why did you?”

“For the laughs. That boy’s entertaining, the things you can get him to do. Still, I know I fucked up. I should have shot him, been done with it. He ain’t good for nothing else. I should’ve done him like a rabid dog. Maybe that’s what I’ll do, right after I do you.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Callow.”

“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, you know that? You fucked up more than I have. Just remember that. You’ll see I was right.”

Milton let the invective wash over him, ignoring it, and closed the door. There was no lock, but he took out the rest of his rope, looped it around the handle, and then knotted it around a tree to the rear. It was taut, and although it would be possible to force it, it would not be possible to do that without making noise.

Milton went back to the shore. It was a clear night and a little cool, so he built the fire up with the logs and branches that he had seen them bring back into the camp earlier. It wasn’t as dry as he would have liked, and it hissed and spat for a few minutes, but the fire was established enough to cope, and the flames were soon leaping high into the air, a wall of radiant heat washing out.

He went around the fire, on the side next to the shore, and sat with his back against the blackened stump of a tree. He could see the hut and the door from here. He had his rifle laid across his lap. There was no way for them to get out.

Ellie and Mallory had erected both tents. The Stantons had gone into one of them and zipped up the door.

Ellie came over to him.

“Are they okay?” he asked.

“Fine. She’s relieved.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“And he’s pretty oblivious to the fuss.”

“He’s a nice lad.”

Milton got up, took a long branch and stirred up the fire. He sat down again next to her, closer than before.

She looked over to the hut. “What about them?”

“They’re not getting out, if that’s what you mean.”

“Turned out easy, didn’t it?”

“I told you it would be.”

“You did.” She shifted, just a little, so that her shoulder touched his shoulder and her thigh brushed his thigh.

“Was that the dinner you were talking about?” she asked.

“I was thinking of something a little different.”

“I don’t know. That was pretty good. You’re versatile.”

“Don’t know if I’ve been called that before.”

He stretched out his legs, flexing his aching muscles, and then he found himself reaching across to her, brushing the hair away from her forehead. Ellie leaned up close against him, her legs tucked beneath her.

“You’re very mysterious,” she said. “I don’t really know anything about you, do I?”

He let his fingers fall down her face, touching the line of her cheekbone and then her jaw, saying, “There’s not much to tell.”

She said, “I don’t believe you,” touching his cheek with her hand, then kissed him, very gently, and said, laughing, “You taste of venison.”

He felt her fingers brush through his hair and reach around to the back of his head as she kissed him again, a little more firmly, and he had to tell himself to wait. Her lips tasted sweet and her small, slim body felt good against him. He put his arms around her, drawing her even closer, feeling her body in his hands, and she brushed his mouth with hers, saying, “What’s the big secret, John? What happened to you?”

He pulled away a little, reflexively, and she looked at him with concern.

She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Ellie.” He looked for the words, setting aside the reticence that was so practiced it was almost automatic, looking for something more real, more honest. “There are some things in my past that I don’t like to talk about.”

“You don’t—”

“I did some things, after the army, some work for my government. Ten years’ worth of it. I regret all of it, every day I spent working for them. It’s not something I can talk about, for a lot of different reasons. Shame is one of them.”

“John—” she began.

He cut her off gently. “It doesn’t matter.”

“—you have the saddest eyes.”

She took off her jacket and then her sweater, just a bra beneath, and then she took that off, too. Her body was lit by the flicker from the fire, oranges and yellows and reds, and he felt a catch in his throat. She had the most perfect skin, and as he reached across, it felt as smooth as silk. She reached for his jacket, pushing it off, and worked her hands beneath his sweater. They made love on the shore, in the firelight, both of them quiet because they weren’t alone, but neither of them able to stop. She remained silent when they were done, just the in and out of her breathing, until she said “John?” and he asked her what. But she didn’t say anything else, and Milton covered her with his jacket and lay down with her on the grass until she was asleep.

DAWN BROKE at a little before five. Milton had carried Ellie to the empty tent and laid her gently inside. She hadn’t come to relieve him and, when he took a slow tour of the camp to reassure himself that all was well, he saw that she was still inside, breathing deeply and with a peaceful expression on her face. Mallory and her brother were sound asleep in the other tent. The four men were sleeping too, the sound of their snoring audible over the crackle of the fire. Milton had been the only one left awake. He could have woken Ellie, but he didn’t have the heart. He knew he would be fine to make the walk back into Truth without sleep and, besides, he would be able to catch up back at the hotel.

It had been a beautiful, peaceful night. He had heard the sound of trout splashing in the lake, a beaver’s tail slapping against the water, and owls hooting in the trees. The stars were spread out above him in a breathtakingly beautiful celestial display that had reminded him of his walk into Texas across the Mexican border, not so long ago. He sat back against the stump with his rifle laid out across his knees, taking it all in. He let his thoughts wander, thinking on all of the big skies he had slept beneath since he had fled from London, the corrupt members of Group Fifteen hard on his tail. That situation had been resolved now, but he had no desire to return. He wanted to see more skies like this one.

He thought of Ellie.

Milton went to the camp store, collected breakfast, and set about making it. They had bacon, tins of beans and a jar of coffee, so he built up the fire again and started to work. When he returned to the fire, she was standing there.

“Morning,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“Morning.”

“I didn’t wake up.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“You should’ve woken me.”

“No,” he said. “It was quiet. And I thought you needed the sleep more than I did.”

There were spare baked potatoes from last night, and Milton turned those into hash browns.

“About last night,” she said.

He stopped what he was doing and looked at her, aware that he cared very much about what she was about to say.

Mallory and Arty emerged from their tent.

He felt his stomach turn over.

“It was good,” she said, rubbing her hand up and down his arm.

He dished up a plate of bacon and beans and gave it to Ellie. He smiled at her.

The Stantons approached before he could say anything. Arty was a big man, a good deal taller than him and significantly heavier, too. Mallory, never far from his side, was a wispy little thing in comparison. Yet, where he had an expression of peaceful simplicity in his large eyes, hers burned with sharp intelligence. She might have been triumphant to have been proved right, and Milton wouldn’t have begrudged her that, but it appeared that she was more concerned to make sure her brother was content.

“You hungry?” he asked her.

“Yes,” Mallory said. “Arty?”

“Very,” he said.

“Like beans and bacon?”

“Sure I do.”

“Hash browns?”

He nodded, hungrily.

“Sit down, then. I’ll bring it over.”

There came a banging against the side of the log cabin. It started with one man, and then the others joined in.

Arthur shrank back against Mallory.

“It’s all right,” Milton said. “They’re locked up tight.”

He dished out two generous portions and handed over the plates. They wandered down to the shore, sat down and started to eat.

Ellie brought her empty plate over to him. “You think we can get the men back into town?” she asked quietly when she was sure that the Stantons couldn’t hear.

Milton looked over at the cabin. The banging was louder and angrier now. He picked up his rifle. “We can.”

“You’ve got more confidence than I do.”

“It won’t be a problem.”

He splashed through the water to the cabin and unknotted the rope, letting the span fall loose. He stepped back and raised the rifle, aiming at the door. “Out you come,” he called. “One at a time.”

The four of them came out in single file, the morning sun bright in their eyes after ten hours in the gloom of the windowless cabin. Their hands were still trussed up, and any thoughts of escaping into the tree line would have been squashed by the sight of the rifle, aimed dead ahead, close range, a shot that would be impossible to miss. That was before they looked into the face of the man wielding the rifle, saw his implacable blue eyes, and realised that he wouldn’t hesitate to take the shot. Even Callow, who came out last, swallowed down the abuse that he was ready to deliver.