Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  The only sound in the room was Chloe's purring as she arched her white fluffiness against Roger's irresistible black legs.

  Roger broke the spell. 'I suppose I'd better go.'

  Becky snorted derisively, pulled out her car keys from the tiny sparkley bag, rattled them in front of him, spun on her left high heel and, leaving the sitting room, said over her shoulder, 'Come on then slowcoach.'

  *

  The little Ford Ka seemed to shrink further, hunkering down in sympathy with its occupants, as they ignored the turning towards Teesside Airport's brightly lit terminal and turned, instead, in the other direction, towards the dark hunched forms of the airports outlying buildings and hangars.

  The Teesside Flight Club's sign was illuminated by the Ford's headlights. The sign leaned slightly next to a set of double gates set in the brittle steel fencing surrounding the airfield. One of the gates was half open, looking careless and casual.

  'Let's leave the car here,' said Roger, not sure why, but it seemed like a good idea.

  Becky parked the car a few feet past the gates and turned off the lights. Blackness swooped in on them.

  They got out into the night, under a cloud free sky embedded with a myriad stars. Orion was rising clearly in front of Roger.

  The slam of the doors ran away into the night and Becky must have pressed the key fob lock because the Ford's lights flashed, momentarily lighting up the gates and fencing with their amber brilliance. The looming, skeletal structure quickly sank back into black ink.

  Roger and Becky stood for a moment letting their eyes adjust to the dimness. Becky reached for Roger's hand as the gates became faintly visible, illuminated by lights from the distant terminal. Beyond the gates, splashes of formaldehyde yellow dotted the great arched body of an otherwise dark hangar outlined against the night sky.

  'Lights,' said Roger unnecessarily. 'Must be over there.'

  The pair picked their way cautiously along a rough gravel road towards the hangar. Roger looked around half expecting to see troops of heavily armed SAS men keeping pace with them. The dark sucked away his vision leaving only skirmishing grey dust mites of static.

  'When do they all leap out and shout happy birthday?' asked Roger.

  'You're starting to hurt my hand,' said Becky.

  'Oh, sorry.'

  The gravel road took them along the side of the hangar and around to its front. A vertical stripe of the formaldehyde yellow, about four feet wide, split the face of the hangar from the ground to its roof thirty feet in the air. Roger and Becky stepped into the blunt V of illuminated ground in front of the partially opened doors. They took one last look around. Where the hell was Julia and the cavalry?

  Roger, leading Becky by the hand, stepped into the hangar.

  *

  The hangar accommodated two aircraft, both had been pushed in backwards and faced the hangar doors. A Learjet; sharp nosed and shark tailed; and a smaller, cuddlier Cessna. Both aircraft were shiny cream with red go-faster stripes running along their sides. Teesside Flight Club colours.

  The rear of the hangar was the domain of the mechanics. Embedded in the smell of grease and diesel, Meadhill sat on a plastic and tubular steel chair. Waiting.

  From his vantage point he could see various tools, outlined like bodies at a murder scene, hung on the wall above work benches bearing the scars of numerous engine autopsies. Scraped, blue and red toolboxes skulked under the benches, stacked like the drawers of a morgue.

  Meadhill re-ran those thoughts: 'outlined like corpses – engine autopsies - stacked like the drawers of a morgue?' There will be a killing tonight.

  Movement caught his eye.

  From his vantage point, Meadhill looked straight from the rear of the hangar, between the two aircraft, at the black vertical stripe of the open hangar door. If he chose to turn slightly, he could also see the two standard sized door entrances on either side of the hangar. But it was through the main hangar door, which he had left slightly open, that two figures slowly walked, squinting against the bright lights.

  They stopped, looked around the unfamiliar setting. Meadhill's distant seated figure must have blended into the overall visual cacophony of strange and alien objects because the two figures did not register his presence. Instead they started walking slowly forwards, their attention switching focus between the aircraft either side of them as if something sinister might emerge at any moment.

  This was fun. Meadhill sat invisible in full view. And didn't they look smart. Sexy little nursey had dressed up just for him and even the freak looked dressed to the nines.

  To business.

  Meadhill stood knowing his motion would attract their attention.

  'Good evening,' he said, loud enough for his voice to carry the length of the hangar. The pair stopped dead, startled by his sudden appearance.

  Meadhill picked up a square leather computer case standing next to his chair. 'I have something for you, Mister Peerson.' He turned his back on the couple and placed the case flat on the workbench. He unzipped it and popped the lid. The laptop screen fizzed out of standby mode showing a desktop with a picture of Stonehenge on a sunny day. Meadhill turned back towards Roger and Becky. They had not moved.

  Adopting the cajoling tone used to egg on shy children, Meadhill said, 'Come on. It's alright. It won't bite you. Look.' He stood aside so they could see the screen.

  Roger and Becky, hand in hand, walked slowly forward.

  'That's right,' said Meadhill. 'Don't be shy.'

  They stopped ten feet from Meadhill. 'What do you want?' asked Roger. His voice told Meadhill he was scared.

  Meadhill reached under his arm and produced his 45 which he pointed at Roger's forehead.

  'I want you to call off your nasty little software bunnies,' said Meadhill. He turned so the gun pointed at Becky's stomach. 'Or she dies.'

  Becky inhaled quickly. Placed a hand over her mouth. Roger pulled her behind him.

  Meadhill noticed that Roger's eyes were dancing as if trying to focus on some fast moving gnat and wondered if that was the origin of the word 'rattled'.

  Roger swallowed and steadied his eyes. 'I need more than just a computer. It needs to be connected to the Internet.'

  'It is,' said Meadhill. 'It has a wireless connection through a mobile phone card.'

  Roger's eyes shuffled around again, like he was trying to work out some incredibly difficult problem. They stopped and fixed on Meadhill again. 'You will just kill us both anyway,' he said, 'so why should I bother?'

  Meadhill sighed then sucked excess saliva through his teeth as a taste of treacle invaded his mouth. He advanced the ten feet between them in a fraction of a second and cracked Roger across the side of the head with a vicious back hand blow from his gun hand. The barrel gouged a bloody channel from above Roger's right ear to his right eyebrow. Roger hit the concrete hangar floor with a short hiss as his breath was thumped from his lungs.

  Becky froze with the explosion of violence which allowed Meadhill to easily move behind her and clamp her body to him with his free left arm. 'Keep very still,' he said pressing the barrel of the gun against her nose, squashing her right nostril and making her eyes water.

  Meadhill enjoyed the feel of Becky. She felt small and taught pressed against him. The small of her back pressed against his groin and her firm breasts pushed against his inner arm as he held her. Sexy little nursey. We'll have fun later.

  Roger struggled to his feet swaying as he became vertical. He dabbed at the side of his head with his hand and then looked at his bloodied palm. He touched it again as if to confirm the unbelievable. He showed his hands to Meadhill, mouth agape, failing to comprehend, dazed, then registered Becky's predicament with Meadhill's gun pressed against her face.

  'How about we blow your girlfriend's nose off, for starters?' said Meadhill.

  There was no question Roger wasn't going to cooperate.

  'Okay, okay, don't do anything I'll … I'll fix things,' he said. He turned towards the lap
top as Becky brought her right stiletto heel hard down onto Meadhill's injured foot. The reaction was more than she'd hoped for as Meadhill collapsed in agony. She tried her luck again and kicked out at his gun hand. Her foot connected solidly, knocking his automatic skidding across the concrete hangar floor.

  Meadhill hardly noticed Becky's kick and the loss of his gun. The excruciating pain of Becky stamping on the wound originally inflicted by Andy M made vomit rise to the back of his throat. Adrenaline and anger kicked in and Meadhill looked up through the haze of tears just in time to see Roger charging at him like an ancient Norse berserker. Meadhill bared his teeth and hissed, 'You're dead you freak!' as Roger crashed into him.

  *

  Outside, lying hidden by night and tufts of grass, Julia watched the familiar figure of Roger move into the light from the open hangar door. He was holding the hand of some woman in evening dress. The woman who had made Roger into 'us'.

  A large hand came into silhouette blocking her view of Roger and the girl. It made some kind of jerky sign.

  Ahead of Julia lay, six, black clad, armed men. Each one trained a rifle on the figures at the hangar. The man silently making the signals had introduced himself an hour earlier as Kent. Just what she needed; Superman.

  Kent never questioned the efficacy of the mission but equally left no doubt that he was in charge. Julia was never, under any circumstances whatsoever, to come between himself or his five member crew and the targets.

  The targets. That description made Julia's blood freeze in her veins.

  Her superiors had taken a lot of convincing that Roger Peerson was back and could, once again, be of immense value to the country. He was the finest code-maker and breaker in history and her preliminary evaluation was that he was, once again, completely stable due to the new relationship he had established. Bloody hell, Roger. That had better be true.

  Julia's exterior cool hid a stomach-churning curiosity. Who was this woman? Was she genuine? What normal person could understand Roger, appreciate his talents, forgive his foibles. What did she really want?

  The added danger presented by this seemingly well connected crime syndicate Roger was afraid of, called for an armed response. Julia had been very convincing when she argued her presence would also be essential if Roger were to be brought back into the fold.

  Although Julia thought she carried off the tight black jump suit pretty well, the balaclava was beginning to itch like hell. But not enough to take her mind off the reality of lying in damp grass in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of armed men about to take on a psychotic killer and his organisation. For the tenth time since being forced flat onto the ground thirty minutes earlier, Julia gently cursed the bladder Gods.

  The six men ahead of rose from the grass.

  Roger and his new friend had disappeared into the hangar.

  Kent and his men advanced at a silent run, their rifles levelled at the hangar entrance.

  Julia staggered up and charged after them, stiff from lying still so long and acutely aware of her thunderous girly gate as knees and elbows scythed the air in a farcical facsimile of the soldier's neat, compact and silent dash.

  Kent waved his hand in the air again and six soldiers, acting as one organism, stopped, dropping to one knee just shy of the lit ground at the hangar entrance.

  Julia took several gangly strides to come to a halt, finally bending over, hands on knees, gasping noisily for air.

  After several deep breaths and a round of coughing, Julia looked up to see Kent looking over his shoulder at her.

  'What?' she gasped, her question bouncing off the hangar's metallic sides into the night air. Julia realised she must have sounded like the Flying Scotsman depressurising its boilers after its run from London to Edinburgh. 'Sorry,' she hoarse whispered.

  Kent turned his attention back to the hangar entrance and did some more hand signalling. The six soldiers lined up against the hangar wall while Kent approached the entrance and, using what looked like a small dentist's mirror on a stick, looked inside.

  Julia was starting to sweat into her balaclava so pulled it off and shook out her hair.

  'God,' she whispered to herself, 'I must look a sight.'

  Only a withering look from the soldier next to her prevented her from pulling out her compact and checking her lipstick.

  Julia checked on herself instead: she felt she had somehow metamorphosed into a clumsy, baby-antelope-on-ice, girly creature. Perhaps the stress of running around a field in the middle of the night with six heavily armed men is beginning to show, she thought.

  They stayed like that, hugging the metal hangar wall, for what seemed an age as Kent watched from the safety of his small mirror.

  Julia could bear it no longer. 'What's going on?' she hissed over the heads of five soldiers at Kent. As if to answer her, a shout of a man in pain suddenly burst from between the hangar doors. Was that Roger? She couldn't tell. Oh, my God, have I let him down again?

  Kent tucked away his mirror, punched the air twice and led the charge into the hangar. The five soldiers followed Kent into the light.

  Julia hung back. Flattening herself against the cold corrugated wall. Panting. Her heart threatened to leap from her chest.

  Muffled shots. Shouts. She recognised Kent's voice barking orders. Scuffling. More muffled shots. Then a very loud bang that made Julia flinch.

  Gathering her courage, she looked quickly through the doorway then ducked back.

  Kent's men were placed three on either side ahead of the door, under the wings of aircraft. The woman in the evening dress was sprawled on the floor, on her side with her back to Julia. Roger stood over the fallen woman his hands in the air pleading for the soldiers to stop shooting. Another man, grey hair and dressed in black, ran in a zigzag pattern across the back of the hangar.

  Julia looked into the hangar again just in time to see a far door slam shut and take hits from several shots. That must have been the grey haired man. He must have got away.

  Roger was kneeling, his clothes covered in dust, bent over the fallen woman.

  Julia ran into the hangar and up to Roger.

  'Roger!' she called. 'Are you all right?' Julia felt a bee-sting of regret at her own feelings. She wasn't asking, are you alright physically? She meant; are you alright mentally? Is the loss of this woman going to damage you so as to cause me undue embarrassment? A moment of self-loathing at her own selfishness brought a stab of indigestion.

  Roger ignored her, obviously distraught.

  'Becky, Becky,' he whimpered over and over. 'Becky, Becky, Becky … '

  *

  When Becky stamped her stiletto heel into his damaged foot, Meadhill's scream of pain had snapped Roger's attention back from the laptop computer he was walking towards. The tumble drier in Roger's head had been turned on again and thoughts and images flapped and sailed around his mind. The laptop was a point of focus, something to cling to.

  Like garments at the tumble drier window, recognisable thoughts flashed into view to immediately disappear again under an avalanche of confusion. Becky, Meadhill, gun, laptop, Trojans, danger … Meadhill's scream. Becky!

  She had got free! She had hurt Meadhill! Roger A watched numbly as Becky kicked Meadhill's gun from his hand. Becky you star! Whoop, whoop!

  Roger C shook his internal head disapprovingly. Bad move, bad move. Too dangerous. Roger B screamed, GET HIM GET HIM GET HIM! And a hot madness rose in Roger. From his feet, it charged up through his legs, scorching his stomach and chest and threatened to burst from the top of his skull rippling the air with its heat. How dare you point a gun at my Becky, you bastard!

  Roger ran at Meadhill, willing the soles of his shoes to grip the concrete floor so he could accelerate more quickly, urging his legs to pump faster, feeling he was fighting through syrup.

  When Roger careered into Meadhill, he was an unfeeling whirlwind of anger and hate and as effective as a child wielding a feather pillow.

  Meadhill took the force of Roger's cha
rge, allowed it to overwhelm him momentarily, then spun and added to it with a deft kick and shove causing Roger to hit and roll across the hangar floor for a good fifteen feet.

  The manoeuvre was completely instinctive with Meadhill's real concern turning to the black figures rushing through the hangar door. Two of them had already taken up shooting positions and were aiming low at his legs as he raised himself. He leapt and rolled sideways across his shoulders as parts of the concrete floor burst in small eruptions around him. He came to his feet with his gun back in his hand and Roger staggering to his feet between him and the shooters.

  Roger stood, dazed and confused. What was that noise? Automatic gun fire! Like in the tunnel under Admiralty arch. Meadhill had his gun again! Roger's mind screamed at him to get to Meadhill who turned and ran away from Roger towards, and past, Becky. Roger gave chase. More gun fire. From behind him. Someone shouted, 'Get out of the way! Get down, now!' Meadhill had turned and was running backwards, his gun raised, pointed at Becky who had turned to face him. No! The shot from Meadhill's un-silenced 45 made Roger duck involuntarily. The noise left his ears ringing. Meadhill, had turned and was running for a side entrance to Roger's right. Tools on the wall behind Meadhill danced as they were hit by fire from behind Roger. Becky stood stock still. He'd missed! Roger ran a few steps past Becky but sanity prevailed and he stopped. No way. Don't do that. He'll kill you for sure. Shots were still being fired.

  Roger turned. Becky's chest was red with blood. That dress will be ruined. She collapsed. There were men in black pointing guns at him. Pointing past him. At Meadhill. Stop. Stop. Stop. Becky. Becky! No.

  *

  Kent instructed one of his team, the designated medic, to tend to Becky, and another to cover them. He told an un-listening Julia and Roger to stay put until he returned then set off with his other three soldiers after Meadhill.

  The medic crouched down taking off his pack which was filled with field dressings. He gently rolled Becky onto her back to get a better look at her wound.

  Roger's hands made motions to help but didn't actually touch her. Julia held Roger's shoulders from behind.