by Andy Remic
You’re a weak man, Callaghan.
A weak, and a very bad man. Shit.
She squeezed his fingers. Her touch was crushed velvet. He imagined those long fingers resting gently against his chest; teasing his inner thighs; caressing his cock.
‘You think we should end this,’ she said. It was not a question but a statement of fact. ‘You think our love is too risky. That we will suffer if Vladimir catches us.’
Cal nodded. ‘I can’t lie, baby. If Vlad finds out what’s going on – I dread to think what he might do to you.’ He shuddered, then. Realisation bit him. ‘And me,’ he said, with more feeling.
‘It’s OK.’ Sophie was smiling, but the smile was just a little bit too wide.
‘No, it isn’t OK.’ Cal’s voice was an octave too high. He forced it to drop. ‘Vlad is an arms dealer, and you said yourself how many people he’s killed. He’s a violent animal and I, for one, am scared. I think –’ he gritted his teeth. He closed his eyes. He forced words past rubber lips. ‘I think this should be our last meeting. I don’t... I don’t think we should do this any more.’
‘But it is OK.’ Sophie’s voice was smooth; wool–soft; as tender as juicy, under–cooked lamb. Cal opened one eye and peered at her. She'd lifted her leather purse and placed it on the table. One hand was inside.
‘What you got there?’ Something cold and dead settled over Callaghan like fallout.
‘Our protection, my love.’
Sophie pulled free a medium–sized black pistol and placed it on the table with a clack. Her purse shielded the view of the weapon from other patrons. Callaghan stared at the gun, blinking rapidly, breath caught like candyfloss in his throat.
He glanced up at Sophie. Really looked at her.
She was smiling.
‘It’s a gun,’ he said soberly; finally.
‘No, it’s a Makarov. Takes 9mm Makarov cartridges. Has a double–action pull and is a lethal bitch in the right hands.’
‘I thought it was your husband who was the arms dealer?’ Cal’s voice was weak. Drained. He could see the identifying serial mark on the side of the flat chamber. It said: KT 26524. He found his sense of humour tumbling away on a premonition of extreme violence.
‘Shall we just say that I have a ready accessibility to guns and ammunition.’
‘What...’ Callaghan coughed, and realised his hand was shaking. His cigarette smoke wavered as it rose into the impurity that was the air. ‘What are you going to do with it?’
Sophie laughed, an almost childlike sound, and put the Makarov back in her purse. ‘Don’t panic, I’m not going to gun Vladimir down in cold blood and go running hand in hand with you to Jamaica.’ Her eyes glistened. ‘Although, now I mention it, that is a thought...’
‘No!’ Cal grinned meekly and allowed a deep sigh to release. He started to relax a little; the shock of seeing the pistol subsided. ‘No, I mean, don’t even think about it, babe.’ And then he realised: realised he had just suggested they split up. He was dumping her. And she had a gun.
People had been shot for less...
He shook his head again, smiling at the crazy notion.
‘Um. You know that thing I just said?’
‘About this being our last meeting?’ Sophie’s eyes locked to his. There was a twinkling of humour there; he felt his heart flutter as emotions raged like nuclear fire inside. Fear and lust. Panic and desire. Dread and need. Her scent drifted across him. He could smell her hair. Her skin. Her lipstick. Her perfume, mixed with a gentle aroma of natural musk.
‘You know I love you, right?’ said Cal.
‘I know that.’ Her hands touched his. Her skin was soft. The touch tender. Those hands could never kill, he thought. And realisation struck him: yeah, she had a gun. But to own one and to use one, now, they were two very different things.
The Makarov. It was her security blanket.
It was her need.
‘I’ve come a long way to see you,’ she said. She reached down and kissed his fingers. Chewed delicately. Intimately. For a moment her languorous tongue rolled across his skin and he groaned, deep down inside; like a beast in a cage.
Callaghan gazed into her eyes. Love sparkled there. Or was it the reflection of his own?
He swallowed.
‘You can’t leave me so... unsatisfied,’ she whispered. Her foot lifted slowly under the table – painfully slow, the shoe kicked free and her stockinged toes moving up Cal’s calf. He shuddered. His mouth was dry. His heart hammered like a war–drum in his chest. He could feel her; remembered, like a dream, moving over him, accepting him, fucking him...
‘The gun worries me,’ he forced himself to mumble, leaning closer to her as he fell down a well of seduction. Her scent made him dizzy. Her kiss ensnared him better than any trap.
Her lips were warm, taste sweet, tongue forceful and gentle at the same time. She pulled away, smiling, still holding his hand, foot still moving under the table...
‘I will protect you,’ she said.
‘Shouldn’t I say that to you?’ Her toes teased up his thigh. He coughed as his balls contracted with urgency. He needed it so much it was painful.
‘Well, say it to me then, lover.’
Her toes reached the screaming bulge of his crotch. Gently, she started to massage his cock.
‘Baby, I’ll protect you.’
‘And you’ll love me... forever?’
‘Yeah, babe, forever.’ Cal’s look became more intense and he realised he was weak, so incredibly, incredibly weak and he shook his head a little and smiled and drank his drink because his major malfunction was sex. Mentally, he acknowledged this weakness. Yeah, he thought, and you can deal with it later. Much later. He gazed at her sultry beauty. He coughed. He was just about ready to come in his pants.
Stuff the gun. He could deal with Vladimir much, much later.
‘This is dangerous...’ he said.
‘Only if we’re sloppy.’
‘I think we should get out of here.’ His eyes locked to Sophie’s glittering opal orbs.
‘I agree,’ she said, and after an eternity, withdrew the tenderness of her tease.
Cal stared hard at her. He licked salt lips. He was panting. ‘By God, you’re one hardcore bitch,’ he said.
She smiled sweetly and scrunched up her nose into a perfection of cuteness. ‘I try my best.’
It was a short journey to the outskirts of Stratford and the small cottage they rented. As Cal handed her the spare helmet from the BMW’s pannier, she stared at it with a frown.
‘I kind of assumed you’d be bringing the Porsche.’
‘Don’t be so soft.’
‘I’m not being soft, I’m thinking about this short black dress I wore just for you, my love. After all, I wouldn’t want half of Stratford to see my bare behind now, would I?’
‘But it’s such a pretty behind.’ He slapped her rump. ‘Come on, climb aboard. I have a kind of urgent need to be satisfied. Before I rupture something.’
‘You’re so romantic, my love.’
He grinned. ‘Fuck right off.’
Cal kicked the bike from its stand and Sophie fastened her leather jacket up to the neck, dropped her purse into a side pannier and climbed up behind him.
‘God, you feel that suspension dip?’ he said, voice muffled by his helmet.
Sophie slapped the back of his cosseted head. ‘Don’t be so cheeky. If there’s anybody porky round here, fat boy, it’s you. How long is it since you’ve been to the gym?’
‘Too long,’ he said, grimly.
Pulling away from the kerb, he accelerated the BMW and moved swiftly through traffic. After a couple of miles the town opened into country lanes, and the BM surged along, humming, with the road to itself. Sophie cowered behind Callaghan to escape wind chill.
Despite approaching winter, a low yellow sun burned against the horizon and Cal could smell fields and trees through his half–open visor. Sophie was clinging on tightly – her hands a little lower
than necessary and maintaining his erection with an implied promise.
Life’s definitely improving, he thought.
Just when you thought you were in the shit, something comes along to cheer you right up!
Angel: But I thought you’d come here to dump her? To get rid of her? To say your farewells and fuck her off before her husband hunts you down with 11mm Techrims and blows a fist–sized hole through your spine? Remember, dickhead?
Demon: Yeah, but just look at her! What a beaut! Surely one last rampant slick horny bout of sex couldn’t hurt. Could it? Go on Big Man, give her something to remember you by!
Lost in his reverie, Cal glanced in his mirrors. As he leant to the right to accommodate a bend scattered with damp leaves, he glimpsed a black Mercedes a short distance behind. He wasn’t sure, but for a moment the vehicle appeared to have tinted windows.
Cal frowned. No. Surely not, he thought.
Are the police following me?
Ice tickled his spine.
Or, even worse... Vladimir?
Or, even worse than that... the killer of the woman from Canary Wharf?
‘Shit,’ he said, muffled in his helmet. He increased his speed, accelerating from 40mph to 60.
Keeping an eye on his mirrors, he noted the Merc still with him. It did not increase its speed further, but paced the BMW, maintaining an equal distance.
‘Shit,’ muttered Callaghan, again. He couldn’t say anything to Sophie, he’d forgotten his rider to rider com–link; all he could do was try to lose the black car.
It’s not following you, said his inner self.
You’re being paranoid!
A weak and fearful pussy. As usual!
A lane appeared to his right, a single–track strip of tarmac between high hedgerows. Sweating now, Cal shaved his speed and pulled suddenly right without indicating. High hedges flashed by to either side and he slowed his speed further. In his mirrors, he saw the Merc flash by at the end of the lane, and Cal sighed inside his helmet – and slowed, stopping by the grass verge and turning to Sophie.
‘What’s the matter? Why did you head down here?’
‘I thought we were being followed.’
‘You’re a paranoid ass, Cal. Nobody knows I’m here!’
‘Maybe it’s not you they’re after.’
‘You’re being absurd.’ Her hands moved teasingly, rubbing at the insides of his thighs – but stopping just short. ‘Come on Callaghan, take me back to our nest. I can’t wait much longer; I can’t wait to feel you inside me. This woman needs cock!’
‘Stop it! You’re beginning to sound like a cheap porn novel.’
‘You want cheap porn? I’ll show you what cheap porn is all about, lover.’
‘Actually, why wait? We could always...’
‘Yeah?’ she purred.
Cal was amazed how sexy she sounded, even from the inside of a helmet. And how stunning she looked; even with her head encased in carbon composite.
So much for being chased, stud–muffin! muttered his inner demon. Callaghan was just about to suggest outdoor sex – right here, right now because he could not wait another damned second and was about to explode... when something in the BMW’s mirror caught his eye. Something horrific.
He froze, mid–sentence.
And his erection died.
At the entrance to the narrow lane, the Mercedes CLK had pulled in and rolled to a stop with a crunch of gravel under wide tyres. It sat, exhausts pluming.
Sophie sensed Cal’s tension and she turned. When she spoke, her voice sounded very, very young, and infinitely scared: like a child again. Yeah, he thought, and you’re the one with the bloody boomstick in your purse! What about me?
‘What do you think they want?’ she whispered.
‘I’ve upset a lot of people,’ observed Callaghan.
‘You have?’
‘Oh yes. Hmm. I’m remembering that prostitution ring Jimmy and me busted three months ago. Kidnap. Embezzlement. Illegal immigration. A Nest of Natashas, we called it. Made the front page for three issues. Pissed off the local Mafia no end. And then there was that PLO weapon stash we discovered in Holborn, which led to seven arrests in Birmingham and Manchester...’
‘What an exciting life you lead,’ said Sophie, voice cold.
‘It’s my job.’
‘Yeah, well life’s all about danger.’
Callaghan frowned. It seemed a strange thing to say. The Merc suddenly revved its engine and tyres squealed, smoke billowing from wheel arches. It shot like a bullet towards them and Callaghan yelled ‘Hold on!’ as he opened the BMW’s throttle and they smashed down the narrow lane. Hedges screamed to either side and Cal’s mouth was dry, wind howling in his helmet.
This is real, he thought.
Shit. This is real.
He glanced in his mirrors. The Merc was almost on him!
He gave the bike a massive handful and for a heart–stopping moment the front wheel lifted, engine howling harsh like a Messerschmitt; then it pounded the road as they cannoned down the narrow lane in an insane blur. The narrow single–track twisted and turned, a damp ribbon of tarmac occasionally dissected by dangerous trails of mud from hidden field entrances.
Cal glanced down, teeth gritted in fear and ultimate concentration.
The tachometer danced ragged on 120mph.
The bike’s engine was shuddering beneath him. It had pretty much reached its limits.
‘Bastard!’ he managed to growl inside his helmet. In his mirrors, he could see the Merc closing on him again and he thought, you’re crazy, you’re fucking crazy! as distant cracks echoed and he stared at his mirrors – and realised an arm holding a black gun was poking from the car.
They’re shooting at us, he thought in absolute disbelief... and his mind descended into a strange calm. Panic receded. They’re trying to kill us.
The hedgerows flashed by, staccato, stuttering, like some crazy simulation only this wasn’t a simulation it was real life and one tiny slip–up and both he and Sophie would be dead, splattered, shredded, dog–meat. But then: wasn’t that the idea?
‘You bastards!’ he growled. ‘You utter bastards. Leave us alone!’
The lane curved to the right on a hill approach. Cal was aware how tight Sophie was holding on, her fingers like claws digging into his flesh. They leant the bike which screamed along, engine thumping and shaking, and Cal added more speed to the full as the bars under his grip vibrated and threatened to rip off his arms.
The fields and high hedges suddenly ended, scenery moving into dense woodland. Trees flashed by; to make a mistake now would be instantly fatal. Woodland was as unforgiving as a stone wall to the casually flung biker. Tree trunks didn’t flex.
The BMW crunched slippery leaves and rogue, fallen branches. Several times Callaghan felt the bike’s back wheel kick sideways with a loss of traction. Behind, the Mercedes filled the narrow, single–track road completely. More gunshots crackled, like fireworks. In his mirrors, Callaghan saw blossoms of flame from the dark eye of a gun barrel.
Cal’s head lifted, fighting the surge of head–wind...
Eyes blinked. Focused.
Ahead – large and green and filling the world with bulk was a tractor. It was chugging along towing a long, triangular–section trailer filled with felled, rough–sawn logs.
Callaghan blinked fast as an image from nightmare crammed his vision.
Impossible. It cannot be!
Out of instinct he hit the brakes and the BMW slammed through leaves and twigs and instantly went into a skid; ABS kicked in juddering and the bike wobbled, righted itself, then skidded left, then right as Callaghan’s whole world filled with one thing – nine tonnes of agricultural vehicle and its accompanied trailer. Wincing, he slammed past the huge green beast with trees flashing inches away and fighting with the BMWs flapping handlebars, so close to the tractor he thought the machine would knock him and Sophie free and crush them under heavy tyres... and he waited an age with pent–up br
eath for the grinding screech of metal tearing metal tearing metal; tyres slewed in the sloppy grass verge and thick mud and the bike thudded and slammed with jarring impacts across exposed tree roots. The BMW howled like an animal in pain. The whole world was a flickering madness. The tractor was impossibly huge. Roaring, roaring, roaring. And then they were past in a blink and a blur, ABS still yammering as the bike flashed down the road, brake light a bright red eye in the sullen green gloom under woodland canopy...
The bike kicked, slewed around in a wide arc, and finally came to a juddering and shaky –
halt.
The BMW keeled over, suddenly bulky and clumsy, and both Cal and Sophie leapt free as the tractor puttered to a halt behind them. As they watched, a tortured engine pierced the muffled environment of their helmets – as the pursuing Mercedes, unable to stop, slammed the rear of the tractor’s trailer with a scream of tearing, wrenched steel and crushing compacting car panels. Both car and trailer went up in a crushed V of rearing buckling metal, rough sawn logs tossed away from the trailer like kindling and the whole world was filled with bass thunder. The trailer and Mercedes went their separate, crushed ways, and the tractor was shunted forward, pushed almost over but held in a disjointed pinion on two wheels by its buckled, coupled trailer. The Mercedes slammed off to one side, hitting the ground with terrible rending squeals and rolling forward, misshapen and warped, finally limping rhythmically to a halt between the gnarled boles of several towering oaks.
Silence descended like fallout.
Cal tore off his helmet. He glanced at Sophie. ‘You OK?’
‘I’ve felt better,’ she coughed, removing her own protection and dropping it with a thud.
‘Are they Vladimir’s men?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
The farmer who had been driving the tractor climbed shakily down from his teetering, creaking vehicle and stood in the narrow road, scratching at his grey–peppered chin. He turned and looked down the road to where Cal and Sophie stood – limp. He appeared confused, as if struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Cal forced a weak smile to his face but said nothing. Somehow, a strangled ‘Sorry!’ could not vindicate the carnage.