No choice, then.
In brawls, sometimes, Lauder would cow his opposition with a roaring battle cry, but this occasion called for something else entirely. Godley and Baxter had the opponents distracted for the moment, giving him a chance to pull a stealth maneuver and come out a hero, if he didn’t muck it up.
Lauder swallowed a humbling dose of fear and broke from cover, sprinting over open pavement toward the south side of Dockland Street.
BOLAN HAD HOPED to see the chase car take a nosedive, but the crew got lucky with a dead man at the wheel. Once they were out and under cover, more or less, it turned into a game of cat and mouse, with both sides trying hard to play the cat.
The odds weren’t bad, at three-to-two, but he was worried about time. Even with the apparently deserted riverfront, it wouldn’t be much longer before early birds began reporting to their jobs, and that would mean a rash of phone calls to the Strathclyde cops who covered Glasgow and eleven other council districts stretching from the west coast to the Southern Uplands. Most of them were too far distant to respond, but several hundred could be scrambled in emergencies.
And any duel with automatic weapons would be rated top priority.
He couldn’t speak for the redhead who’d brought him there, but Bolan didn’t plan on meeting any cops on this night—or any other time, if he could help it. That meant taking out the hunters in a hurry and departing from the scene before the first squad cars rolled in.
He got lucky with the first one. He had begun to shift positions when a lanky shooter with some kind of small machine pistol broke cover, running zigzag over open ground and firing as he came.
Bolan could only guess what motivated him and didn’t really care. His Spectre spit a 5-round burst that dropped the runner on his face. The dead or dying shooter slid for several yards, then came to rest with curly hair butted against a curb.
The odds were even.
Bolan moved on, circled around the garbage bin and kept going, stalking with the broad bulk of a warehouse at his back. Another light machine pistol was spitting rounds toward the place where he’d been crouching when he shot the careless gunman, and he marked the muzzle-flash, refrained from firing until he could close the gap a little more.
It didn’t have to be a perfect shot, of course. He still had thirty-something rounds left in his weapon’s casket magazine, with two spares waiting, but he didn’t like to waste good ammunition. If he got a little closer, just a few more steps…
Off to his right, a blur of movement told him where the redhead was, suddenly exposed, either seeking to improve her cover or obtain a better angle on the fight. He hoped she wouldn’t die before he found out who she was and why she’d helped him, but he couldn’t help her at the moment.
Unless he dropped the shooter who was tracking her.
Across the street, his target opened fire, 9 mm bullets rattling off downrange. Bolan was ready with the Spectre, hammering a burst into the guy before his target had a chance to recognize his fatal error.
Which left one.
But where was he?
There were two ways to go. Hunt the lone survivor down, or head back to the Ka and hope he’d let them go, knowing the odds had turned against him. They’d be easy marks, retreating, and a car was always easier to hit than individuals on foot. Still, if they hung around to root him out, the fourth man could escape and they would never know it, rooting through the shadows until prowl cars had them boxed.
A shadow came to life behind Bolan, growling, and he saw the wan glow of a distant streetlight glimmer on a gun barrel. Turning to face the threat, thinking he might already be too late, Bolan recoiled from the popping of a handgun rapid-firing from his left.
The shadow stalker crumpled, squeezing off a shotgun blast as he went down. The buckshot scored a rattling hit somewhere across the street, on one of the moored riverboats.
“That’s twice I’ve saved you,” the lady said, as she joined him.
“And I still don’t know your name,” Bolan replied.
“It’s Colleen Beacher,” she informed him. “With SO15.”
Chapter 5
She saved the rest until they’d cleared the riverfront, putting the killing ground a mile or so behind them. By that time, she had Bolan’s name—or, rather, “Cooper’s”—but hadn’t pried into the purpose of his Glasgow visit.
Yet.
“SO15 is counterterrorism,” he observed. “But you were watching Frankie Boyle.”
“Or just out for an evening’s drive,” she said, half-smiling.
“Right. A good Samaritan.”
“Maybe my job’s arresting Yanks who show up out of nowhere and start murdering Glaswegians.”
“Am I under arrest?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Okay. Strike two.”
“You’re not a gangster from the States,” she said. “I’d smell it on you. So, you’re government. Is there a point in asking which department?”
“No. Not really,” Bolan said.
“Which leaves us with a bit of a dilemma,” Beacher said.
“I’d say you’re right,” Bolan replied.
“Officially, to keep from getting sacked, I ought to run you in. Of course, you’re armed and clearly dangerous, which means we’d likely have to shoot it out and spoil my Ka’s upholstery.”
The little car had managed to come through their chase and firefight without damage, something of a minor miracle.
“That won’t be necessary,” Bolan said. “I don’t shoot cops.”
“No matter what?”
“That’s right.”
“A man of principle?”
“Something like that.” He didn’t take the bait or make a joke of it.
“All right. Let’s talk, while I decide what happens next. I’m guessing you went after Frankie Boyle for the same reason I’ve been watching him.”
“And that would be…?”
Beacher was hesitant, but after driving two more blocks she took a chance. “Weapons,” she said. “He deals in anything that sticks, shoots, or explodes. Some of his customers are on my watch list.”
Bolan took his own chance, then. “The TIF, for instance?” he inquired.
“So that’s it. Yankee Doodle can’t sit still, since Mr. Lockhart bit the dust.”
“Call it a motivator,” Bolan said. “Nobody wins when mobsters make a profit arming terrorists.”
“Is Boyle the end of it for you?”
Bolan studied Beacher’s profile, flushed a rosy crimson by the dashboard lights. Another gamble, and he took it.
“I intend to follow where the guns and money lead,” he said.
“And keep on killing folk along the way?”
“Not random folk,” he said. “The guilty. Unless someone locks them up before I find them.”
“We have courts of law in the United Kingdom, Mr. Cooper,” she answered stiffly.
“We have plenty in the States, too,” he replied. “So, how’s that working out for you?”
“I haven’t given up on it,” she said.
“Me, neither. But I recognize that there are special circumstances that require some special handling.”
“Murder,” she replied.
“I’d call it surgical excision. Thinning out the predators.”
“You’re taking quite a risk, telling me this,” she said.
He shrugged. “You’ve seen enough already to convict me. Are you going to arrest me now?”
“Still thinking,” Beacher said.
“The good news is that all you’ve done so far, tonight, is act in self-defense and save my life from one of Boyle’s hit-men. Put on the cuffs, now, and you’ll likel
y have a commendation by the weekend.”
“Not yet. I’m thinking I should take you to a safehouse first and try to sort this out. I may need some advice.”
He frowned at that. “I really can’t—”
“From my superiors.”
“My crystal ball says they won’t sanction us collaborating, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“I still need the advice. With all that’s going on…”
She let that go and drove a while in silence, leaving Bolan to his thoughts. It felt bizarre, him arguing against cooperation with the agent who had saved his life, but she had seen too much to simply let him go and walk away. Conversely, if she took a seat in Bolan’s game, she had to go all-in, or it would simply get her killed.
And Bolan had enough ghosts on his conscience, as it was.
“You want to play it safe,” he said, “the smart thing is to take me in, then ask for the advice you need.”
“Parade you through the station? Set the tongues wagging from Glasgow down to Scotland Yard? I think not.”
“Suit yourself,” Bolan replied. “This could be a career killer. You could wind up in jail, or worse.”
“The safehouse is a mile or so from here,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken.
Bolan thought about it. He didn’t buy the notion that Beacher had saved him from Boyle’s crew to take him somewhere else and put a bullet in his head.
“The safehouse sounds okay,” he said. “But if you aren’t arresting me, I’ve got a car back there with luggage and some things I’d rather not donate to the police.”
“Jaysus.” She thought about it for another quarter mile, then asked, “You’ll follow me, if we go back? We still have things to talk about.”
He nodded in the dark and said, “Why not?”
“MY CLIENT OBVIOUSLY can’t identify the madman who invaded his home and brutally attacked the members of his staff. They’d never met before,” Gordon Forbes said.
“It’s not so obvious to me,” the policeman who had introduced himself as Chief Inspector Malcolm Mair replied. “He’s in the line of trade where these things happen, right? A cost of doing business, as we say.”
“My client, Chief Inspector, is a well-respected businessman,” Forbes said. “If you rely on rumors or refer to ancient history, you’ll find yourself misled.”
“Did you say ancient history?” Mair challenged. “It was just last week we pulled one Angelo Miscallef from the Clyde—or, rather, what was left of him. This businessman’s been fighting the Maltese since last year. He’s not forgetting what they did to Ralphie Mungo and his cousin.”
“We reject that innuendo categorically, and—”
“Damn the two of you,” Boyle injected. “You see me sittin’ here?”
The chief inspector smiled, reminding Boyle of a shark. “I absolutely see you, Mr. Boyle. If you’d prefer to speak yourself, instead of through your barrister…”
“I won’t allow that,” Forbes replied.
“You won’t allow?” Boyle pinned Forbes with a glare that silenced him, then turned back to the chief inspector. “You’re from the CID, I take it?”
“As you say,” Mair granted.
“And I’ve dealt with you before,” Boyle said. “I tell you this—I didn’t see who was shootin’ up me place, ’cause I was busy with a woman when it started, and I kept me head down after.”
“Right. Let’s talk about your own boys for a moment, shall we?” Mair replied.
“And what about ’em?”
“Well, you had a lot of company for someone who was…entertaining a young lady, didn’t you? And all of them were armed, at that.”
“My client is a wealthy man,” Forbes interjected, “and a man of influence. We don’t deny that certain people would be pleased to see him harmed.”
“I didn’t ask—”
The barrister pressed on, saying, “The men you are referring to are lawfully employed with Gael Executive Security Consultants and are registered with your department, Chief Inspector.”
“Aye, they are,” Mair said. “I’ve seen some of their registrations—and their records. There’s Puggy Connolly, for instance. Two years for assault. Doon Hemphill is another. I believe they call him Axman, in the Gorbals.”
“’Cause his granddad was a logger,” Boyle suggested.
“That explains it,” Mair replied sarcastically. “And Ian Garden, also known as Trigger. I suppose he was a big-game hunter in another life?”
“I don’t know ’bout that psychic shite,” Boyle said, smiling.
“I’m curious to know how some of these security consultants cleared their licensing review,” Mair said, “considering their charge sheets.”
“You should ask the magistrates who certified them, Chief Inspector,” Forbes said. “Gael Executive Security submits a list of applicants and trusts in the authorities to do their part.”
“And your client holds an interest in this firm, I understand.”
“He’s an investor, yes,” Forbes said.
“In fact, it’s a controlling interest, yes?”
“One of his various legitimate concerns. An open book to your department.”
“And the more I read, the more it seems a horror story.”
“Chief Inspector—”
“Now, you say the firearms found at Mr. Boyle’s home have been duly registered and licensed.”
“As I’m sure your records will confirm,” Forbes said.
“But there’s the matter of an illegal machine pistol—a TEC-9, as it’s called—found on the outer grounds by one of the responding officers.”
“Dropped by the prowler, I assume, as he was fleeing from the scene,” Forbes said.
“Well, isn’t that convenient?” Mair replied.
“Not for me fellas who was drilled with it,” Boyle said. “You seem to be forgettin’ who’s the victim here, and all.”
“I’m not forgetting any of the victims, Mr. Boyle. Nor will I, as we take a closer look at what’s behind this morning’s mayhem.”
“I’m pleased to know you’re on the job. Now, if we’re done with all this shite…?”
“There’s no doubt we’ll need to speak with you again,” Mair said. “I trust you’ll make yourself available at need?”
“Who’s need?” Boyle asked.
“To serve the ends of justice, for your friends.”
“Of course,” Boyle said. “I’m always glad to help the authorities, ain’t I?”
“In which case, you’re at liberty to go. For now.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Constable,” Boyle said, rising. “Let’s do it all again, sometime.”
BOLAN FOLLOWED Beacher’s Ka back across Glasgow, keeping a bit of distance just in case. At last she nosed her Ford into a carport off an alleyway, got out and waved his Camry up into the space beside her. Bolan grabbed his bags, and moments later they were both inside a two-story row house.
“We’re in Langside,” Beacher explained. “South of the Clyde. It wasn’t far from here that Mary, Queen of Scots, fought her last battle with Elizabeth the First.”
“A lot of history,” Bolan said.
“Lots of blood,” Beacher replied.
“Same thing,” he said.
She nodded, said, “If you’re hungry, we keep food here.”
“I could eat,” Bolan admitted.
“I’m not your cook and bottle washer, though,” she said.
“I know my way around a stove,” Bolan assured her, wondering if it would be his last meal in the free world. Or his very last, in fact.
“I need a shower,” Beacher said. “Go on and make yourself at home.”
He
found eggs in the fridge and scrambled them in butter, toasted half a dozen slices of white bread, and had it all plated when Beacher came back from her shower. She was in the same clothes, hair a darker red from being wet, and she appeared to be refreshed.
“Smells good.”
She sat down at the kitchen table. Bolan set a plate in front of her and said, “There’s coffee brewing.”
“I could use some.”
As they dug into the eggs, he said, “I dropped the ball tonight.”
“Oh, yeah? You had some plan in mind besides kicking a hornet’s nest?”
Accepting the critique, he said, “I gave some thought to squeezing Boyle for his connection to the TIF.”
“And then, what? Travel up the food chain?”
“Pretty much.”
“Without the tiresome rules of evidence, indictments and the like.”
Bolan met her level gaze, feeling no need to justify himself. “You make that call while you were in the shower?” he inquired.
“Which call?”
“To your superiors.”
“Still thinking on it,” she replied. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a story for you.”
“I’m all ears,” Bolan said.
“Once upon a time, there was a wealthy Highlander who styled himself a laird—that’s lord, to you—of all that he surveyed. His family had money, land and influence, a kind of fiefdom as it were. Over the years, the march of progress ate away some of the feudal power and the empire started looking down-at-the-heels. Some say the laird became unhinged. Maybe he schemed and dreamed of ways to bring the old days back again. And he found a gang of young bucks he could use to make it happen.”
“Someone propping up the TIF,” Bolan said.
“Keeping it afloat with cash as needed,” Beacher said. “Most likely pissing in their ears about another war of Scottish independence from the Crown, as if the country has a chance to stand alone. We’re twinned with England, for God’s sake. Not Siamese, now…what’s the proper word?”
“Conjoined?”
“That’s it. To get the kind of independence they demand, the TIF would have to sever Scotland from the rest and have it drift away.”
Battle Cry Page 6