The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  Bird gestured with the barrel of the AK-47 at the carnage around him. ‘Look what he did, Billy. He brought the helicopters.’

  Winter tried to stand up but the pain in his leg was too much and he fell back.

  ‘Don’t beg, Billy,’ said Hutch. ‘Don’t beg for me.’ He got to his feet. If he was going to die, he didn’t want to die lying on the ground. He looked around for the gun that Carver had given him. It was lying next to the sheet of corrugated iron, well out of reach.

  Bird put the stock of the AK-47 against his shoulder and took aim at Hutch’s chest. Hutch stared coldly at Bird. He realised with a terrible certainty that he wasn’t scared.

  Bird’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  ‘Bird, no!’ screamed Winter.

  The helicopter seemed to come from nowhere, swooping down like a massive bird of prey, its gun rattling. Bird’s upper body jerked as if he’d been electrocuted and blood spurted from a dozen wounds. He remained standing for a full second, then he fell backwards, the AK-47 still at his shoulder.

  AUSTIN PULLED BACK ON the cyclic and the Apache climbed above the smoke. ‘We’re going home,’ he said into his radio mike. ‘There’s nothing more to do here.’

  Warner nodded but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Roger, you okay?’

  Warner nodded again, but still didn’t reply. His finger was still pressing the chain gun trigger, but all the ammunition had been expended.

  ‘CAN YOU SEE HIM?’ asked Chau-ling.

  ‘No,’ said Carver.

  Chau-ling leaned against a tree and slid to the ground. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  Carver said nothing. A section of the bamboo fence fell to the ground in a shower of sparks. There was a rattle of small explosions from inside the compound, the sound of ammunition detonating. Every building was ablaze and even from their hiding place in the jungle Carver could feel the heat of the flames. No one had emerged from the inferno for at least ten minutes, not since the helicopter had flown away. He couldn’t imagine that anyone could be inside and still be alive. His legs began to shake and he fought to keep them steady.

  Something moved inside the compound, just inside the entrance. A figure, staggering from side to side as it dodged burning debris. No, two figures. Two men.

  ‘I see them,’ said Carver.

  IT WAS AN AWKWARD bounce and the boy did well to get the ball under control. He feinted to the right, tapped the ball to the left, and sent a defender completely the wrong way.

  ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ asked Chau-ling.

  The boy splashed through a muddy puddle. The goalkeeper was screaming at his defenders to get back.

  Hutch nodded. The boy looked around but he was on his own; he’d run so quickly that he’d left the rest of his teammates behind. A small group of teenagers in raincoats and long scarves were jumping up and down along the sideline shouting for him to shoot. ‘He’s really good,’ agreed Hutch.

  She slipped her arm through his and shivered. ‘Did you use to play?’

  A defender almost a head taller than the boy rushed for the ball and slid into a fast low tackle, but the boy easily evaded the attack. The spectators began to scream with excitement.

  ‘No,’ said Hutch. ‘I was never really good at team games.’

  She pressed herself against him. She was wrapped up against the cold in a black cashmere overcoat, warm leather boots, a red scarf that she’d wound around her neck several times, and bright red ear-muffs.

  On the pitch the boy slammed the ball into the net. The goalkeeper dropped to his knees as if seeking absolution, while the small boy was engulfed by his teammates. The referee, a portly, balding schoolmaster with pink cheeks, blew hard on his whistle and picked up the mud-stained ball.

  ‘Maybe some time in the future . . .’ she said.

  ‘Maybe,’ he echoed, unenthusiastically. He exhaled and his breath immediately fogged in the cold spring air.

  She tightened her grip on his arm. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean it. When he’s old enough to understand. You can tell him what happened, you can tell him why you had to go away.’

  ‘He thinks I’m dead,’ said Hutch despondently. ‘It might be better if it stays that way.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said tersely. ‘You’re his father. Of course he’d want to know.’

  The schoolboys ran back down the pitch to restart the match.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Hutch, this time with a little more conviction. ‘His mother would go ballistic, though.’

  ‘She needn’t know,’ said Chau-ling. ‘When he’s an adult, it’d be between you and him.’

  The referee blew his whistle again and the ball was kicked sky high with a loud thud.

  ‘He’s a good-looking boy,’ said Chau-ling, resting her head against his shoulder.

  Hutch put his arm around her. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  She looked up at him quizzically. ‘For what?’

  ‘For suggesting that we come here.’ He gave her a small squeeze. ‘For making me come here.’

  ‘It had been a long time since you’d seen him,’ she said, watching the schoolboys’ frantic efforts to get possession of the ball. ‘I thought it was important.’

  Hutch shivered. ‘We should go,’ he said.

  They turned away from the football pitch and walked across the grass to the waiting Mercedes. A driver wearing a peaked cap waited patiently at the wheel with the engine running.

  ‘Aren’t you going to miss Hong Kong?’ he asked.

  She shrugged inside the overcoat. ‘It’s not the same as it used to be,’ she said. ‘And I can always visit.’

  The driver rushed out of the car and opened the door for them. Chau-ling slid in first. Hutch followed her and the driver closed the door behind him.

  ‘How was the game?’ asked Tim Carver.

  ‘Enthusiastic,’ said Hutch.

  ‘Your boy’s okay?’

  ‘He’s fine.’ Hutch settled back in the plush leather seat and ran his hands through his hair. The driver put the Mercedes in gear and drove off smoothly. It was hot in the car and Hutch took off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat.

  Carver reached inside his jacket and took out two blue passports. He gave one to Hutch and one to Chau-ling. Chau-ling put hers in her coat pocket without looking at it, but Hutch opened his. It was his photograph, but a different name. Another change of identity. Hopefully this would be his last.

  ‘We’ve arranged an apartment for you in Fort Lauderdale,’ he said.

  ‘At least it’ll be warm,’ said Hutch.

  ‘There’s a bank account with half a million dollars in it, and I’ll be pressing for more,’ said Carver. ‘After the way they treated you, I don’t think the DEA is going to object.’

  Chau-ling sniffed huffily. ‘Money isn’t going to be a problem,’ she said, looking out of the window.

  Hutch reached across and held her hand. They drove away from the school in silence.

  THE RED ROLLS-ROYCE CORNICHE glinted in the afternoon sun as it purred down the mountain road. Billy Winter took his cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it at the sea off to his right. ‘Girls, it don’t get much better than this, do it?’

  The girls giggled appreciatively. The one in the front seat was a short, chunky blonde with close-cropped hair and a perpetual pout. She was wearing a low-cut top that showed off an indecent amount of tanned cleavage and she stroked the back of Winter’s neck as he drove.

  The girl sprawled across the back seat was a redhead, eighteen years old with long legs and a skirt that was little more than a bandage around her waist. ‘It’s a dream, Billy,’ she said, raising her arms in the air. She stretched like a sleepy cat and purred with pleasure.

  Winter grinned. Life couldn’t be sweeter. A new country, a new life, a Corniche with the top down and two teenage girls who did it for love – almost. He took a long pull on the cigar and exhaled through his teeth. The smoke was whipped away in the wind. Winter looked out over the sea. �
��What about a boat, girls?’ he said cheerfully. ‘What would you say to a bit of a cruise?’

  ‘Lovely, Billy,’ said the blonde.

  Winter clamped the cigar between his teeth and reached over to caress her thigh. He stroked the soft skin, then slipped a finger inside her shorts. The girl leaned back and opened her legs invitingly. Winter’s grin widened.

  The siren jolted him out of his reverie and he jerked his hand back. He looked in his driving mirror. The motorcycle policeman behind him pointed to the side of the road with a gloved hand. ‘Now what?’ muttered Winter. He didn’t think he’d been speeding, but then he didn’t know what the speed limit was anyway. He braked and brought the Rolls to a gentle halt.

  ‘What’s wrong, Billy? asked the redhead. She twisted around in her seat and looked over the top of her sunglasses. The policeman parked his motorcycle about fifty feet behind the Rolls and dismounted.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ said Winter. He pulled his wallet out of his blazer pocket.

  ‘Fucking cops,’ snarled the blonde.

  ‘Be nice,’ said Winter. He slipped out his driving licence and folded a couple of banknotes around it. ‘We’ll soon be on our way.’

  The policeman shrugged his shoulders and began to walk towards the Rolls. His leather jacket had a fluorescent yellow stripe running across it and there was a matching stripe running down both legs of his leather trousers. He made no move to take off his helmet and left the tinted visor down. There was a holstered gun on a thick belt around the man’s waist and he put his right hand on it like a gunfighter about to draw. Winter was always nervous around armed policemen: they seemed to have less respect than villains when it came to firearms.

  Winter took another banknote and added it to the others. It was probably more than the cop made in a week, but it was better to err on the generous side. He patted the blonde on the thigh.

  The policeman walked up to Winter’s door. Winter smiled and passed him the licence and money. The policeman took them without a word. Winter turned to the blonde and grinned. She blew him a kiss and Winter’s smile widened.

  The smile froze when he turned back to the policeman. The gun was now in the man’s gloved hand. Winter looked up, his mouth open in shock. All he could see was his own reflection in the helmet’s visor.

  ‘This is for Ray Harrigan,’ said the man, his voice muffled by the helmet. Before Winter could protest, the man pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked, but there was no explosion.

  Winter bared his teeth and glared at the man. ‘You stupid Irish wanker,’ he spat. ‘Can’t you Paddys do anything right?’

  The girls began to scream. The blonde scrambled over the back of her seat, trying desperately to get away from the gunman. Winter ignored her. He began to laugh, an ugly disjointed sound, the laugh of a man who knew he was already dead.

  The gunman calmly ejected the dud cartridge, aimed and pulled the trigger again. This time it didn’t misfire.