Rules of Honour by Matt Hilton

found at home where his wife could be hurt the way Yukiko was when the man had gone for Andrew.
    Dan didn’t get up.
    There was no point in trying to run, not with bad legs that required the support of a walking stick these days. But that wasn’t the reason; he fully accepted that he was about to die and wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of chasing him down like a coward.
    As the man approached he kicked up dust, small zephyrs lifting dust devils in his wake. The man was wearing a black jacket over a plaid shirt, jeans and boots. He had a baseball cap pulled down low, and sunglasses that reflected the burning clouds. He stopped ten feet from Dan and regarded him through the links in the fence. The effect of the sunglasses added to the man’s soulless scrutiny. The image took Dan way back to that basement again, and how he’d struck a similar set of glasses from a man’s face. He wished now he could do likewise, but even with the added reach of his stick the man was out of range.
    Without saying a word his would-be executioner pulled a folding knife from out of his jacket pocket. He was wearing gloves, the latex type favoured by surgeons. The blade also reflected the fiery sky as the man opened it.
    ‘You shot Andrew Rington.’ It wasn’t a question, or recrimination; Dan was simply stating a fact.
    ‘That’s right. I shot Newmark and Tennant as well.’ The man watched the colour drain from Dan’s features. ‘I see the news about your other two buddies hasn’t reached you yet.’
    ‘There aren’t many of us left . . .’
    ‘No. Soon there won’t be any.’
    ‘And what will you do then, when this misguided crusade ends? You’ll go back to your normal life? Have you stopped to think about that? Can it ever be normal again?’
    ‘I doubt it. I’m beginning to enjoy being judge, jury and executioner. There’s still a penance to pay. My life has been hell; maybe I’ll make others suffer the way I have.’
    Dan hung his head. ‘I accept now that what we did was wrong. I’ve made my confession, begged forgiveness from God, but from the fact you’ve shown up here, it seems my prayers went unheard.’
    ‘Don’t expect leniency from me either.’
    ‘I don’t. I accept my punishment. But please . . .’ Dan lifted his head to stare directly at the man. ‘Stop then. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt. There’s been enough killing already.’
    The man shook his head, an almost sad motion at odds with his sneer. ‘It can’t stop here.’
    ‘It can.’
    ‘It can’t and I won’t stop.’ The man held the knife close to his hip. ‘Not while there are three still alive. And I won’t stop while the other ones who concocted those lies breathe either.’
    ‘They weren’t lies,’ Dan said as the man approached him, pushing through a gate in the fence. He pointed an arthritic finger at the murderer. ‘And you know it.’
    The man kept on coming, hopping up on to the first tier. The first sign that Dan’s accusation struck a chord was in the way his jaw tightened. Then there were his words. ‘I chose to bring a knife here because there was a danger a gunshot would be heard, and a knife was a more silent way of killing you. I wasted my time. For what you just said, you’re going to scream, old man.’
    Dan lowered his head. He put aside his walking sticks and clasped his hands in his lap. Perhaps he was praying for strength, the fortitude to deny his killer. But once more God didn’t appear to be listening.

Chapter 9
    Following the murder of Dan Lansdale his killer left South Dakota and returned to San Francisco, arriving late in the evening. The clothing he’d worn – as well as the murder weapon – had been discarded in a Dumpster behind a roadside diner thirty or so miles from the scene of the crime, as he’d made his way to catch his flight. He now wore jeans, over a grey button-down shirt and casual jacket. His only baggage was a carry-on holdall, containing an innocent change