Retribution - A Dish served Cold

Chapter Thirty

In John's previous life, the waiting game belonged to the new officers who had watched too many Hawaii Five-O programmes on television. Refusing the offer of another cup of coffee meant his bladder did not feel like it was about to explode.

Time dragged, and a thought crossed his mind, had he missed his chance? The relentless rain struck the corrugated iron roof like hailstones on a drum, but it failed to drown out the noise of a large diesel engine.

A sizeable green tractor, pulling a monster of a woodchipper, entered the barn and slowed to a halt. The driver stopped the engine and jumped out of the cab. Apart from the rain, the relative silence appeared unreal.

John altered his position to obtain a clear view. He recognised the tall, broad-shouldered farmer from his previous visit as one of the two men who managed the farm. Sharp pain in the calf muscle of his right leg gave him instant grief. He swore under his breath, lay on his back, and slowly stretched his leg until it became straight. In seconds, blood flowed through his veins, and the pain eased.

He lifted the loaded crossbow and aligned the scope's crosshairs on the target. John shouted, "Hey." Surprised, the man turned. Taking a deep breath, John squeezed the trigger.

The thud of the bolt as it struck the man's chest made John jump. "Shit," he whispered as the man fell against the tractor and slid to the ground in slow motion with both his hands clutching the bolt.

John cocked, reloaded and waited. To pass the time, he counted the number of logs in the far corner until a man's voice came from outside.

"What the fuck are you doing in there? Playing with yourself? If you want to eat, move your arse, or it'll get cold."

John readied his position. He did not have long to wait until the stocky, muscular man arrived at the barn door.

Focused and wary, the man searched for his associate. He turned and ran after seeing the crossbow bolt in his partner's chest.

John fired as the man fled. The bolt struck him in the back of the head, and he tumbled face down on the ground.

Cautious, John waited for over five minutes, but neither man twitched or made a sound. Reloading his crossbow, he left the safety of his hiding place and walked toward his first victim. A quick check of the man's pulse told him he was dead. It did not take more than a second to confirm the demise of the other. With no compassion, he yanked the blood-covered bolts from the corpses. Both he placed to one side.

"Good riddance," he said out loud. "And thanks for bringing the tree shredder. I planned to cremate you two, but now I can eliminate you forever." Removing the bolt from the crossbow, he placed it with the others and stared at the machine. I did wonder where something like this might be.

Top feed and multi-directional. John stooped and read the operating instructions on the side of the shredder. He set the hopper to top fill and directed the discharge spout towards the wall of straw at the rear of the barn.

The tall man John hoisted onto his shoulder and dumped him into the hopper. The other was heavier, but he soon joined his associate. Ready, John pressed the start button, and the roar of the engine and exhaust filled the barn. I'm sure many of David Little's enemies have ended up as pig food.

The spectacle of minced flesh arcing through the air and splattering the bales of hay made him wretch. He wanted to be sick, but the pink stream petered out. He lifted three bags of pig food and dropped them unopened into the hopper. When the food jet stopped, he turned the ignition off and opened the drain cock on the diesel fuel tank.

He felt no remorse as he muttered, "Job done," and lit a cigarette.

From his pannier, he removed one device, placed it on the ground next to the bales of straw and pressed the button on top. He stroked his chin. Thirty minutes should be long enough. Time to find Angela.