The Long shot mc-1

by Stephen Leather

  He’d pretty much told her everything she needed to know. He was working alone, recruited by his former masters because they knew he had a personal grudge against her, and because he was in such a bad state health-wise no-one would ever believe that the SAS would use him. He had the perfect cover.

  He’d seen the plane but had no idea what part it, or Patrick Farrell, played in their plan. He hadn’t known about Carlos or the snipers, and he knew nothing of what had happened in Arizona. She’d taken him to such levels of pain that she was certain he wasn’t lying or holding anything back. In agony there was only truth.

  She picked up the pruning shears, the blades crusted with dried blood. Joker’s chin was jammed against his chest, which rose and fell in time with his breathing. Hennessy went behind him and looked up at his bound wrists. The hands were clenched into tight fists, the wrists red raw and the fingers white as if drained of blood. He was a tall man, a little over six feet, and with his arms stretched up above his head his fingers were out of reach. She tapped the shears against her hand, her lower lip jutting forward as she frowned like a little girl. After a few seconds she knelt down in front of her victim like a nun praying for penance before a life-size crucifix. She looked up at him but he was still unconscious, his deep-set eyes like black circles in his ashen face. Slowly, almost sensually, she undid the laces of his training shoes and slipped them, and his socks, off his feet. Joker groaned and coughed, and Hennessy sat back on her heels, watching him. The coughing spasm opened up the wounds on his chest and fresh blood began to flow. Hennessy kept her eyes on his face as she removed his jeans and shorts. She threw them into a dark corner and then squatted down, pushing the blades of the shears around the little toe on his left foot. She pressed the handles together and felt the shears bite into the skin. They met resistance, and she knew she’d reached the bone, but there was no reaction from the man. She released the pressure and took the shears away, watching the blood blossom from the two deep cuts on the toe. She wanted him conscious and able to appreciate the full horror of what she was about to do. She stood in front of him and slapped him, the blows echoing around the basement like pistol shots. His eyelids fluttered open and she saw his eyes focus on her face. She grabbed his hair and yanked back his head. “Wake up, Sass-man,” she hissed. “It’ll soon be over.”

  Joker snorted as if he was trying to laugh. Hennessy walked away. She leant against the workbench and studied the injured man. Joker lifted his head and squinted at her. “What do you want from me now?” he asked, his voice faltering.

  Hennessy smiled and shook her head. “You’ve told me everything I need, Cramer. You know nothing. Nothing that can prevent me from succeeding, anyway.”

  Joker swallowed. “So now you’re going to kill me, right? Why don’t you just get on with it, you bitch?”

  Hennessy threw back her head and laughed as if someone had told a joke at a cocktail party. “Oh no, Cramer, we’re not going to rush this. But I wanted to talk to you first. You and Newmarch were both part of the Government’s shoot-to-kill operation, weren’t you?”

  Joker licked his lips. “Water,” he said.

  Hennessy could see that talking was an effort because his throat was so dry and she wanted him to speak, so she filled the tumbler from the bucket of water. As she walked towards him she saw his left leg tense as if preparing to try to kick her. She stopped and wagged a warning finger at him.

  Joker grimaced. Hennessy kept her distance as she walked around behind him and as she held the beaker to his lips she kept a wary eye on his legs. She let him drink all of the water before taking it away. “After the airliner went down, the British Government initiated a shoot-to-kill operation, Cramer, and you were part of it,” she said, putting the tumbler back in the bucket. It gurgled as if filled with water and sank to the bottom. “Newmarch told me how he was involved, but I never got round to asking you,” she said. “Who did you assassinate, Cramer?” Joker said nothing. “Newmarch told me who he’d killed. But you know that, don’t you, because you were there? He murdered three members of the IRA High Command, remember? My husband was murdered in that shoot-to-kill operation, Cramer. Three men wearing ski-masks surrounded his car as it arrived home one night. They shot his driver first, then they pumped a total of twelve bullets into his body. Two of them were into his head at close range. I heard the shots, and I knew before I even opened the front door what had happened. I held him in my arms, even though he was already dead. There was so much blood, Cramer. So much blood.”

  Her cheeks were reddening and she put up a hand to her face as if testing the temperature of her face. “It took the ambulance half an hour to get there, as if they knew that he was dead and they didn’t care. The police didn’t want to know, either. The RUC didn’t even send a forensic team around to survey the area. They just towed away the car and took a statement from me. Case closed. Like they didn’t care, either. Like they expected it. So, Cramer, were you one of the men in ski-masks?”

  “I didn’t kill your husband,” said Joker, his voice little more than a whisper. “And I didn’t kill Sean Morrison, either.”

  At the mention of Morrison’s name, Hennessy’s head jerked up. Her eyes narrowed. “How do you. .?”

  “I read your file,” he said before she could finish.

  “Do you know how they killed him?” she asked quietly.

  Joker shook his head.

  “He died here, in the States. In New York. Sean was found in his bath, with his throat cut. There was a razor blade in his hand and blood everywhere. The New York City Police Department said it was suicide.” She raised her eyebrows. “Sean always used an electric razor. I never saw him with a razor blade. Ever. They killed my husband. And they killed the man I loved. You and your cronies did that, Cramer.” She walked up closer to him, but kept her distance from his legs. “You want to know something, Cramer? Liam and Sean had nothing to do with the bombing of the airliner. They were trying to stop the bombings on the mainland, they were doing all they could to get the IRA to negotiate with the British Government. There was no need to kill them, no need at all.” Her eyes were blazing with anger and her small hands formed tight fists by her side. “You bastards killed them, and if it takes me forever I’ll have my revenge. On you and the rest of your kind.” She picked up the pruning shears and waved them under Joker’s nose. “I’ll make you bleed like they bled, until there’s not a drop left in your body.”

  She knelt by his feet and grabbed at his left ankle, forcing the blades down towards his toe. As the metal touched his skin the door to the basement was flung open and Bailey came down the first few steps, shouting. “Mary! Mary!”

  Hennessy’s head jerked up and the blades of the shears sliced together, narrowly missing Joker’s toe. He pulled his foot back and it slipped from Hennessy’s grasp. She stood up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “The television,” he shouted. “We’re on the bloody box.”

  Hennessy frowned, totally confused. “What do you mean?”

  Bailey leant against the rail and gripped it with both hands. His face was pale and his eyes were wide and manic. “Just come and look. They’re bloody well on to us.” He scrambled back up the stairs and Hennessy followed him.

  Carlos was in the sitting room, sitting the wrong way on a wooden chair, his arms clasped around the back as if he was giving it a bear hug. Rashid was curled up on a green sofa, her legs tucked up under her chin. Both were facing the television screen on which were two colour photographs: Hennessy and Bailey. Underneath their pictures was a 1-800 number.

  Carlos looked up as she came into the room. “We have a problem, Mary.”

  “What did they say?” she asked. “Do they know what we’re planning?”

  Carlos shook his head. “They said the FBI wants you in connection with a drug-smuggling operation in Florida.”

  “What?” Hennessy was stunned. She looked at Bailey, who was equally astonished.

  “Why didn’t that woman
Armstrong tell you about this?” Carlos spat.

  Hennessy ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. She’s only just made contact with the agents in Washington. Maybe they didn’t tell her.”

  “Or maybe they don’t trust her. Maybe she’s blown?”

  “I arranged to meet her tomorrow, I’ll be sure to ask her then,” said Hennessy, her voice loaded with sarcasm.

  Carlos looked as if he was going to argue, but he calmed himself down. He stood up and swung the chair back so that it was against the wall. “Okay, okay, let’s sort out what we do next,” he said. “The FBI obviously don’t want to give the real reason that they’re looking for you. The drugs story doesn’t mean anything. What matters is that they know that you’re in the country and that they’re looking for you.”

  “We have to call it off,” said Bailey, his voice trembling.

  “No,” said Carlos.

  “Definitely not,” said Hennessy.

  “But they’re onto us. . they know we’re here, they. .”

  “Matthew, they think we’re in Florida. Not Baltimore.” Hennessy could see that the younger man was starting to fall apart. He was physically shaking and his eyes were darting between her and Carlos.

  “Maybe they followed me there, maybe they know where I am now. .”

  Hennessy went over and put her hands on his shoulders. “Listen to me, Matthew, if they knew where we were they wouldn’t be putting our photographs on national television. They don’t know where we are, and they don’t know what we’re doing. There’s nothing they can do to stop us, not now.” She held his gaze, smiling reassuringly and squeezing his shoulders.

  “B-b-but what about the Sass-man?” he said.

  “He knows nothing either,” she said reassuringly. She turned to look over her shoulder at Carlos. “We’re going to have to leave the house,” she said quietly. “The woman who leased it to me might have been watching. And they’re sure to get a line on the credit cards we’ve been using.”

  “I agree,” said Carlos. “We can book into a motel for tonight, there shouldn’t be a problem so long as you stay out of sight.”

  Hennessy turned back to Bailey. “It’s going to be all right,” she said. She could feel him shaking and she stroked the back of his neck.

  “What about Cramer?” asked Carlos.

  Hennessy kept her eyes on Bailey. She didn’t want to leave him alone, he seemed ready to run off in a blind panic. She had to calm him down. “Can you handle it, Ilich?” she asked quietly.

  Carlos understood immediately. “Of course,” he said.

  Rashid unwound herself from the sofa and put a hand on Carlos’ shoulder. “Let me, Ilich,” she said softly. Carlos was about to refuse when he felt her press the full length of her lithe body against his back. “Please,” she whispered into his ear, her breath warm against his neck.

  Ed Mulholland stood with his hands on his hips as he watched the short item on the FBI hunt for Hennessy and Bailey. Within seconds of the 1-800 number appearing at the bottom of the screen, all the lights on Helen’s console began to blink. Mulholland’s producer friend had warned him that he would be overwhelmed by the response. The programme had more than two dozen people answering its own phones, and there were just as many police officers on hand to follow up serious leads. The show had an admirable record: during the five years it had been running they had helped capture more than three hundred perpetrators, including sixty-seven murderers. It had also consistently increased its viewing figures and was now one of the network’s top money-spinners. The jaded American viewer, fed up with a diet of unfunny comedy shows and under-budgeted made-for-TV movies, couldn’t get enough of reality television and its real-life heroes and villains.

  Helen began to work her way efficiently across the console, passing the calls on to the agents with a minimum of fuss. As soon as she dealt with a call and switched it across to one of the desks, its light would begin to flash immediately as another call came through. She was wearing a pair of lightweight headphones with a microphone suspended an inch from her lips. She smiled across at Mulholland, happy at her work. She was an absolute treasure, Mulholland had realised, and he decided that when the operation was over he’d try to persuade her to leave the White House staff and join the FBI in New York.

  He went over to the Baltimore-Washington desk where Hank O’Donnell and Don Clutesi were already taking calls, phones pressed against their ears as they made notes on large pads. Cole Howard looked up. “It’s working, Ed,” he said.

  “There was never any doubt, Cole,” answered Mulholland. “We’ll have them, don’t you worry.”

  The phone in front of Howard rang and he picked it up.

  Joker clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to get the circulation flowing. His arms felt as if they would pop out of their sockets at any moment and he stood up on the tips of his toes in an attempt to ease the pain. The movement reopened the wounds on his chest and back and he felt warm blood ooze from under the fresh scabs. He knew that his time was limited, that Mary Hennessy was preparing to end it. He had watched her toy with Mick Newmarch for several agonising hours before ending his life with a savage castration. Joker was determined that he wouldn’t go the same way. If she came close enough he was prepared to lash out with his feet, and even if he wasn’t lucky enough to land a killing blow he might be able to disable her for a while. He flexed his legs one at a time as he looked around the basement. The pipe he was chained to was as thick as his thigh, and sturdy. There were brackets holding it to the concrete ceiling every six feet or so. Just beyond one of the brackets was a bend in the pipe, and just before the bend was a joint, where a straight section had been connected to a piece which curved through ninety degrees, off to the left. Joker wondered if the joint might be a weak point. If he could get up to the pipe and crawl along it, maybe his weight would be enough to pull the sections apart. He leant his head back and looked up. His hands were about twelve inches away from the pipe and he wouldn’t be able to get enough leverage to jump up. If he could swing himself up, he might be able to grasp the pipe with his feet, but he’d been hanging for so long he doubted that he’d have enough strength in his stomach muscles. He began lifting his legs one at a time, drawing his knees up to his stomach. He could do it, just, but the pain was almost more than he could bear. And he could only imagine what effect it would have on his injured wrists when it came to lifting both legs off the ground.

  He had no way of knowing how long Hennessy would be away. Something had clearly spooked Bailey. Perhaps he’d be better trying to break the pipe before she came back. He breathed slowly and deeply, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come. His preparations were interrupted when the door to the basement opened and he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up like a schoolboy with a naughty secret, expecting to see Mary Hennessy. He was surprised to see a young woman, skinny with long, dark hair. She stopped halfway down the steps and he heard the click-clack of a round being chambered in a handgun. As she got closer he saw her eyes were narrow, almost Oriental, and her face was thin and pointed. She wasn’t conventionally pretty but she had an animal presence which was both attractive and disturbing. She was wearing tight black leather jeans and a purple T-shirt, cut low at the arms so he could see that she didn’t shave her armpits. In her right hand was a matt black handgun. At first glance it looked like the P228 which he’d taken from the men in New York, but without the silencer. As she got closer he saw that it was a Smith amp; Wesson model 411. It was a lightweight handgun with a four-inch barrel but it was more than capable of blowing a sizeable hole in his body.

  “Hello, Mr Cramer,” she said, her voice heavily accented. “We haven’t been introduced. My name’s Dina.” Joker said nothing as she looked him up and down, her gaze concentrating on his groin. She smiled coyly. “You don’t seem very pleased to see me.” She transferred the gun to her left hand, then reached out to touch his stomach with her free hand. She ran her hand down to his groin and stroked
his pubic hair, a sly grin on her face. “I bet I could make you glad to see me,” she said. Her fingers tightened around him and she squeezed. Joker brought his knee up, hard, powering it into her groin. All the breath went from her lungs and she pitched forward, her legs buckling. Bolts of pain shot through his wrists and Joker yelped involuntarily. The woman staggered forward, her head banging into his chest, his blood smearing against her face. The gun clattered to the floor at his feet and her hands went to her groin as her breath came back in small, puppy-like, gasps. Joker leant back, taking more of his weight on the chain, and slammed his knee up into her chin, snapping her head back with an audible crack. Her eyes rolled up and she made a wheezing sound, then she slumped to the ground, stunned rather than unconscious. She fell face down and she tried to pull herself away from Joker, her fingernails scrabbling along the concrete floor. Joker looked down. His right ankle was next to her neck and he lifted it and placed his foot against the back of her head, trying to hold her still. She pushed up against him and tried to get to her knees and he thrust down harder. Her breathing was steadier and he knew she was getting her strength back — he wouldn’t be able to hold her down for much longer. He raised his leg and before she could react he drove down with all his might, slamming his heel into her temple so hard that he heard bone and cartilage splinter. He felt something warm and sticky gush over his foot. He lifted his knee and brought his heel down again, smashing into the same place and feeling the skull break. Her feet beat a rapid tattoo on the floor and he knew she was dead, it was just that her body hadn’t realised it yet.