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with this man before,’ Hartlaub said.
    ‘So it is Tubal Cain? You’re confirming that?’
    ‘I ain’t going to lie to you any longer. Cain was being held at Fort Conchar. There should’ve been no way for him to escape . . .’
    ‘But he did.’
    ‘Yes. Despite all the odds, he murdered one of his guards, used the uniform as a disguise. Once outside he gave his pursuers the slip – we don’t know how he managed that yet.’
    ‘Fort Conchar is a super-max facility, yet he managed to walk out in a fuckin’ guard’s uniform! What about the checks and security points? I’d’ve thought that . . . Oh, wait. I get it. We’re talking about Tubal Cain, aren’t we? He took the body parts he required to get past the security.’
    ‘Fingerprints and retinal scans are no problem to someone like him.’ Hartlaub gave me a gentle shove towards the door where Brigham was waiting. ‘C’mon. We’d best get going.’
    ‘It’d better be to see Walter or we’re parting company right now.’
    ‘Let’s move then.’
    ‘Do you have a phone?’
    ‘I do, but our orders are to maintain silence until we’ve joined Walter.’
    I shook my head. ‘There are other people involved in this. If Tubal Cain is out there, then they could be next on his list.’
    ‘You’re talking about Jared Rington?’
    Rink had been with me when I’d taken Cain down, and was as likely a target of the deranged killer as Walter was. Harvey Lucas, too, though I couldn’t see how Cain would be aware of his involvement.
    ‘Can save you the trouble,’ Brigham interjected. ‘Walter asked for Rington to be brought in. The team sent to find him has come up blank. Rington’s dropped off the face of the earth.’

Chapter 7
    One day earlier . . .
     
    ‘My entire resources are open to you. Money, men, weapons. Choose whatever you want to get the job done.’
    Kurt Hendrickson was a man of power. He was a significant figure in the criminal underworld of the Eastern Seaboard. He controlled the market in drugs, prostitution, pornography, extortion, and up until recently had been a major player in counterfeiting currency that he traded with terror groups intent on bringing down the mighty dollar. He wielded the kind of influence where he need only click his fingers to make people disappear without trace. However there was a specific man whose disappearance had nothing to do with Hendrickson. This man was under the US Federal Marshals’ witness protection programme and, unusually, this was being overseen by agents of the CIA. Tracing him wasn’t the main issue; killing him without being implicated in the murder was. It was bad enough that he was facing judicial trial; he didn’t need the murder of the key witness laid at his door as well. It served his purpose that Tubal Cain had a vendetta against the same man.
    ‘All I need from you is his location,’ Cain said.
    They were standing in a vault that Hendrickson had installed in the wine cellar of his house. The vault contained row upon row of firearms.
    Hendrickson, it appeared, had a fascination with guns.
    Tubal Cain wasn’t that interested; his passion was for knives.
    That stood to reason, considering his name was derived from the Biblical inventor of cutting instruments. But he was not averse to other weapons of destruction when necessary. He had a Heckler and Koch 9 mm in a shoulder rig. A Beretta 92F, a variation of the famous service weapon of the US armed forces, was in a second holster on his hip.
    ‘I have a plan in motion. We will have his location within a couple of days.’ Hendrickson picked up an ancient Colt and held it up to admire under the overhead lights.
    ‘I want to get started now,’ Cain said. ‘I have an idea or two that might put us ahead in the game.’
    Hendrickson nodded distractedly, lost in his fascination with the Colt. ‘I killed my first man with this gun.’
    Cain sniffed. ‘I find guns so impersonal.’
    ‘Maybe, but they get the job done. If you only