Nick Stone 1 - Remote Control.

by Andy McNab

  We walked farther down and came to a bus stop. All I was doing was watching and waiting--much like everybody else--as a small crowd had gathered.

  "Are they all coming for Pat?" Kelly asked.

  I was too busy feeling depressed to answer; the sight of an ambulance arriving had pole axed me. I stroked her head over her coat hood.

  "I'll tell you about it in a minute. Just let me watch what's happening."

  A quarter of an hour went by. Local TV news crews were in sight. I then saw them come out: two guys with a gurney, and on top was a corpse in a body bag. I didn't have to see the face to know who was inside. I only hoped it had been quick for him, but judging by the condition of the Browns I had a terrible feeling that it hadn't.

  I said quietly, "We're going to go now, Kelly. Pat's not there tonight."

  I felt as if my most treasured possession had been stolen from under my nose, and I knew that I'd never get it back. Our friendship had been rekindled after all these years, and this was the price Pat had paid for it. I felt lost and desperate, as if I'd got detached from the rest of my patrol in hostile territory, without a map, or a weapon, and no hint of which way to go.

  He was a true friend. I would miss the man with no ass.

  As Pat was being loaded into the ambulance, I forced myself to cut away from the emotion. I turned and started to walk back down the way we'd come, to avoid the police. One of the cars had now left with its siren going and the ambulance was just about to. I imagined the crime scene people inside the apartment, putting on their coveralls and unpacking their gear. Again I tried to make myself look at the situation logically. Pat was gone; now all I had left was Euan.

  We took the first left to get off the main drag, and I listened as the ambulance siren twice went off to maneuver through traffic.

  We kept going along the road. It wasn't a main thoroughfare;

  it was residential on both sides, large houses with wide stone staircases leading up to the front doors.

  I had Kelly's hand. We were walking without talking.

  Feelings about Pat had no place in my mind at the moment.

  What mattered was what information about us he could have given to whoever had zapped him. PIRA or Luther and Co." who could tell? It had to be one or the other. If it was connected with me, of course. Fuck knows what else he could have been up to. However, I had to work on the basis that whoever killed him wanted to know where we were. All Pat knew was the phone number, and that I was going into the PIRA office. OP SEC operational security might have saved our lives.

  I was thinking so hard that at first the voice didn't really register. Then I thought it was Kelly, so I was going to give her hand a bit of a squeeze and tell her to be quiet and let me think. But then it spoke again, a man's voice, low, resolute, and this time there was no mistaking the words.

  "Freeze. If you move, I'll kill you. Stay exactly where you are. Do not move."

  It wasn't a druggy voice, it wasn't a young nervous voice;

  it was a voice that was in total control.

  I kept my hands where they were.

  Kelly flung her arms around my waist.

  "It's OK, it's all right. They aren't going to hurt you," I lied like a cheap watch.

  His footsteps moved from behind me and to the left. He must have come from the service alley that ran behind the houses we'd just passed.

  He said, "You have two choices. Get smart by keeping still.

  Get dead by moving." The voice was late twenties, early thirties, precise, well drilled.

  It was pointless trying to draw on him. He would kill me the instant I made a move.

  I decided to take choice one.

  More footsteps came from the other side, and somebody was tugging Kelly away. She cried out, "Nick! Nick!" but I couldn't help. Her grip was no match for theirs. She was dragged behind me and out of sight. I still couldn't see anything of the guys who'd caught us. I made myself calm down and accept what was happening.

  The voice started to give me commands in the same no-nonsense, almost pleasant voice. He said, "I want you to raise your hands slowly, and put them on top of your head. Do that now."

  When I'd complied, he said, "Now turn around."

  I turned and saw a short, dark-haired man aiming a pistol at me in a very professional manner. He was standing about ten yards away at the entrance to the alley. He was breathing heavily, probably after running around the streets to find us both. He was wearing a suit, and I saw Velcro. I now knew who had gotten to Pat.

  "Walk toward me. Do it now."

  I couldn't see Kelly. She must have already been taken down the alley. They had got her at last. I pictured Aida's savaged little body as I came toward him.

  "Stop. Turn left." Very low, very calm and confident. As he said it, I heard a car pull up to my right, and out of the corner of my eye I could see it was the blue Caprice from the first motel.

  "Walk."

  I moved into the alley. Still no sign of Kelly.

  I heard, "Get on your knees."

  I knelt down. I'd never been particularly worried about dying; we've all got to check out sometime. When it did happen I just wanted it to be nice and quick. I'd always hoped there was an afterlife, but not as reincarnation back on Earth.

  I'd hate to find myself back here as something low down the food chain. But I wouldn't mind a spiritual thing where you just become aware of everything from the truth about the creation of humankind to the recipe for Coca-Cola. I'd always known I was going to die early, but this was just a bit too early.

  Nothing was happening and nothing was said. Then what must have been that Caprice drove into the alley behind me, its headlights illuminating the rears of the houses. Each had facing garages and three or four cars parked along the sides of the alley. I could see my kneeling shadow against the wet asphalt.

  The engine was still running, and I heard the doors being opened. There was radio traffic from a different voice;

  this one had an accent that should have been selling hot dogs in New York. He was giving a location.

  "Affirmative, we're in the service road for Dent and Avon. We are on the south side. You'll see our lights. Affirmative, we have both of them."

  I stayed on my knees with my hands on my head in the rain while we waited for the others to arrive. I heard footsteps coming toward me from the car. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, expecting to be given the good news. They walked slightly past me to my right and stopped.

  I didn't hear the second one come up behind me. I just felt a heavy hand grip my own firmly on my head as the other felt for my weapon. The hand pulled out the Sig, and in front of my face I watched him check the safety catch as he released his grip on my hands and, in the same movement, produced a clear plastic bag. I could smell coffee on his slightly labored breath.

  Nothing happened for a moment or two, apart from the rustling of the bag behind me. Into view on my right came a man who looked a bit like a fashion seeker, dressed in a black suit with a mandarin jacket. Fuck me, it was Mr. Armani. He was maybe late twenties, very clean-cut, and dark and smooth. He probably glided over the ground so his shoes never got wet. He was covering me.

  I heard Kelly crying in the background. She must have been in the car. Fuck knows how she got there, but at least I knew where she was. The man behind me continued with the search and placed my stuff in the bag.

  The hot-dog seller was being quite good with her; he didn't sound too aggressive or rough. Maybe he had kids of his own.

  "It's OK, it's OK," he said.

  "What's your name?"

  I couldn't hear her reply, but I heard him say, "No, little lady, I don't think your name's Josie, I think your name is Kelly."

  Good one, mate, at least you tried!

  Car lights stopped on the main road about 150 yards farther down, at the end of the alley. Then the red lights of a car in reverse were coming toward me.

  By now all my stuff was in the plastic bag and being held by whoever
was behind me. I was still on my knees, hands on head, with Mr. Armani hovering to my right.

  There were noises of more people behind me. Hopefully they were passersby who would report us. But to whom? My hopes collapsed as I heard the driver get out of the Caprice and start to speak.

  "That's OK, folks, everything's under control. There's nothing to see here."

  I was confused. How could they just move people on unless they were law enforcement? Maybe there was a glimmer of hope; maybe I'd be able to talk my way out of this one. I still had the backup disk hidden. Maybe I could bargain with it.

  The reversing car stopped about five yards away and three people got out the driver from the left-hand side, and two out of the back. At first they were in shadow and I couldn't see their faces, but then one walked into the glare of the other car's headlights. And then I knew I was really in for it.

  Luther was looking a little the worse for wear, and he wasn't blowing me kisses. He looked like a pissed-off devil with a large gauze dressing. He was still in a suit, but he wouldn't be wearing a tie for a while. I could tell by the smile on his face that he had a few tricks saved up for me. I guess I'd earned them.

  He walked toward me. I thought he was going to make a point. I closed my eyes and got ready to take the hit, but he walked straight past. That scared me even more.

  Luther started to talk as he got to the car.

  "Hi, Kelly, re member me? My name's Luther."

  There were some mumblings in reply. I was straining to hear the conversation, but only the adult voice was audible.

  "Don't you remember me? I came to pick your daddy up for work a couple of times. You have to come with me now, because I have been sent to look after you."

  I could hear protests from the car.

  "No, he's not dead. He wants me to collect you. Now come on, move it, you little bitch!"

  Kelly screamed, "Nick, help! I don't want to go!" She sounded terrified.

  Luther walked back to his car with her. He had his arm around her tight to stop her from bucking and kicking. It was all over in a few seconds. Once Kelly was secure in the back of the car, all three drove off. I felt as if I'd been taken down by the fire extinguisher again.

  "Get up." My hands were still on my head, and I felt someone's hand grip onto my right triceps and lift me up. I heard the car behind me move.

  I looked to my right. The short guy had hold of me with his left hand; in his right he had the plastic bag with Kev's mobile, my weapon, wallet, passport, ATM card, and loose change. He turned me around to face the car, which had just finished parallel parking in the road, pointing toward the right. Mr. Annani had me covered.

  I'd stayed calm so far. But I had to get out of this shit now. I was going to be killed, it was as easy as that. The engine was running, and I had about ten yards in which to do something.

  Whatever I did, there would have to be a lot of speed, aggression, and surprise. And it must work the first time; if not, I was dead.

  The guy who was holding me was right-handed or he wouldn't be dragging me along with his left, and therefore, if I started fucking around, he would have to drop the bag and draw his pistol. If I was wrong about that, I would soon be dying. But I was dead anyway, so fuck it why not

  go for it?

  There were about three yards left between me and the car. By now Mr. Armani had glided to the rear door to open it and, as his eyes glanced down for the door handle, I knew it was time.

  YAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

  Screaming at the top of my lungs, I brought my right hand down hard, half-turned my hips, and hit his left shoulder as hard as I could.

  I had surprise on my side. All three now had to take in what was going on and make an assessment. It would take them little more than a second to turn that assessment into reaction.

  As I hit him, I started to push in an attempt to spin him to his left so that his right side would come toward me. We were both screaming now. He'd already made his assessment. He dropped the bag and was going for his weapon.

  I knew that for him also it was happening in slow motion. I could see the saliva spray out of his mouth as he shouted a warning to the others. There was nothing to worry about with the other two at the moment; if they were quicker than me, knowing about it wouldn't make it any better.

  Looking down on his belt, I could see the pistol moving slowly toward me as he spun around. Nothing else mattered. I kept my eyes on it. I heard the other two screaming. We were all at it.

  The Colt .45 is a single-action weapon, which means that all the trigger does is release the hammer. To cock the hammer in the first place and chamber the first round, you must first rack back the top slide by pinching in with the fingers and thumb of the left hand against its serrations, pulling it back firmly to the rear, and releasing. The pistol can be carried "cocked and locked" hammer back and safety on, with a round in the breech. The Colt has both a manual safety and a grip safety. Even if the manual safety is off, your hand must be firm enough on the grip to keep the grip safety depressed or the weapon won't fire.

  I grabbed the pistol with my left hand, I didn't care where.

  At the same time I brought my right hand down, with four fingers together and my thumb stretched out to present a big re cess for the weapon. I pushed onto it with the web of my hand, taking the manual safety catch off with my thumb and using the web of my hand to release the grip safety by holding the weapon correctly. I couldn't see if the hammer was back.

  And I had no way of knowing if the weapon had a round in the chamber. With my left hand, I racked the top slide back to cock it. It had already been cocked. A brass round spun out of the ejection port, glinting as it tumbled in the street lights. It didn't matter losing one round; at least I wouldn't get a dead man's click.

  I knew the first threat was Mr. Armani. He had a weapon in his hand.

  I kept turning in the direction the shoulder hit had taken me, and as I did I came up into the aim, firing low because these fuckers wore armor. Armani went down. I didn't know if he was dead.

  I kept on spinning and dropped the short guy, moved for ward, and looked at the driver. He was still in his seat, but in a crouched position, screaming and writhing.

  I ran to his side of the car, pointing the pistol.

  "Move over!

  Move over! Move over!"

  I pulled the door open and, keeping the pistol on him, kicked him with my right foot. I wasn't going to start dragging him out; it would take too long. I just wanted to get in the car and go. I shoved the muzzle into his cheek and pulled out his weapon, kept it, and threw mine out--I didn't know how many rounds were left.

  The injury was to his upper right arm. There was a small entry hole in the material, but not much blood around the site.

  He must have taken one of the rounds aimed at Armani as I spun around. His hand, however, was red and dripping from where blood was coursing down his arm. The .45 round is big and heavy and doesn't fuck about. The massive exit wound would have blown away most of the underside of his arm. I would be having no problems from this guy.

  As I drove off I screamed at him, "Where are they going?

  Where are they going?"

  His answer was half a cry, half a shout.

  "Fuck you! Fuck you!" His dark-gray suit was turning brown with blood.

  I jabbed his leg hard with the pistol.

  "Where are they going?"

  We were on a narrow residential road. I tore off both side mirrors in the process of turning to question him. He told me to fuck off again, so I fired. I could feel the air pressure change as the gases left the barrel, and then the smell of cordite filled the air. There was an explosion of material and flesh as the round plowed a twelve-inch furrow along and down into his leg. He howled like a stuck pig.

  I didn't know where I was heading. The driver's screams quickly subsided, but he kept thrashing about. His convulsions left him on his knees in the foot well with his head on the seat. He was starting to go into shock. He was
probably wishing he did sell hot dogs in New York.

  "Where are they going?" I demanded again. I didn't want him to pass out before I got the information.

  "They're heading south," he moaned.

  "Route ninety-five south."

  We were speeding on the elevated section of the highway that led to the interstate.

  I looked across.

  "Who are you?"

  His face screwed up in pain as he fought for breath. He didn't reply. I hit him on the temple with the pistol. He gave a low moan and moved his fingers sluggishly from his leg to his head. We passed the Pentagon, then I saw the sign for the Calypso Hotel. It seemed like a bad dream.