“I've gotten what I can from his bedroom. I don't want to hang around anymore, we'll have to get another unit to come back and search the place again,” Michael said.
“What's it look like out front?” Richard said.
Simon growled and raised his head off the ground. “I'm going to break every bone in your body, do you hear me?”
Richard grabbed a damp flannel from the washing rack, pulled back Simon's head and forced it into his mouth. Michael turned off the lights before parting the curtains.
The mob of people surrounded another car beneath the street lights. The driver hammered the vehicle's horn, only to stop abruptly, as they prised open the door and dragged him onto the road.
“Mike?”
“They've just stopped somebody in their car,” he said. “Now they're beating him to death. Get operations on the radio and tell them to get us some backup before this gets even uglier.”
Simon was turning red in the face, so Michael yanked the flannel from his mouth. A torrent of verbal abuse met his ears. He listened to the radio chatter. Food riots. No backup available. Richard groaned.
He looked out the curtains again, and another group of people ran down the street to join the mob. Others waved burning torches in the air, as splinter groups broke off to loot nearby homes. They dragged an elderly couple into the front garden and left them lying there while they ransacked the place.
“I think we're going to have to move; some of them are looking at your car. We'll have to take him out the back,” Michael said.
“Take a deep breath, steroid head. This isn't coming out for a while,” Richard said.
“Fuck off.”
Richard forced the flannel back into his mouth. They lifted him up by the arms and pushed him into the hallway, and then through the kitchen towards the back garden. Simon tripped over the door step. He slipped from their grasp, struck the concrete with his chin and let out a muffled cry of pain. A trail of blood ran down the front of his white t-shirt.
Michael took the bolt cutters from his bag and broke the trio of padlocks securing the back gate. “You got him?”
“Yeah, go,” Richard said.
They pushed Simon into the alley, retracing their route back to the street. Five men had gathered around Richard's car with cricket bats and metal poles.
Michael fired off a warning shot, and the group backed away. Others came running towards them.
“Get on the fucking floor,” Michael said.
“Mike, help me out here,” Richard said.
He lowered his gun for an instant as he stepped backwards. They rushed him. He fired the first shot with a single hand on the weapon. The slug caught the man in the shoulder, and he crumpled to ground as though he'd been hit by a bus. He fired again and then another time, hitting the second man centre mass and the third in the clavicle. The others reached him before he could get another slug off.
A punch sent him to the ground. They snatched the shotgun from his hold and turned it on him. Richard let off a burst of fire from his carbine, splattering some of them down the side of his car, and the others went low.
“Come on, get up. There's more coming,” Richard said. He fired off another burst.
Michael picked up his weapon and hurled himself into the passenger seat. Richard dumped the carbine in his lap as he tried to start the engine. The car rumbled twice. Michael leaned out the window and blasted the closest man in the legs.
“Reversing,” Richard said.
The car impacted upon something hard. Michael's seatbelt locked and crushed the air out of his lungs, and he felt Simon's head hit the back of the seat an instant later.
“Shit,” Richard said. “I struck a lamp post. Is he still alive?”
Michael reached into the back and lifted Simon's head up. “Broken nose. He'll live.”
“I've got to go through them.” Richard put his foot down on the accelerator. The rear bumper detached, trailing the car before it fell off completely.
Dozens of men and women came straight at them, armed with sticks, burning torches and looted weapons from the police vehicle. Bullets began to puncture the bonnet, and the windscreen cracked, spider webs forming around the entry holes.
Michael checked the carbine. “I need a magazine.”
“My left pocket.”
He inserted the fresh magazine into the carbine, slapped it into position and yanked back on the charging lever. He opened fire on the mob. Bloody holes opened in their legs, and they fell grimacing in agony.
Molotov cocktails arced through the air. Two went wide, but the last shattered against the car and sent liquid fire trickling across the bonnet.
“I can't see,” Richard said.
“Don't stop. Keep going,” Michael said. He rolled the passenger window up.
The mob swarmed them. They bricked the windows, thrusting bloody hands through the remains, clawing and snatching at him as they felt for the door locks. Others climbed onto the roof and clung onto the back of the car. Some caught fire, but they seemed immune to the pain.
Michael tried to fire the carbine again. Hands snatched it away from him, spraying off the last few bullets into the air. One of the back doors came open and more hands grabbed at their prisoner. Simon kicked them away, only for the mob to catch up with the car again.
Richard slammed the breaks on, and the tires squealed, momentum carrying the people on the roof forward. They shattered the remains of the windscreen and rolled through fire, before finally landing on the road. The survivors flailed about as the fires engulfed them.
They drove forward again, swerving left and right. Richard cracked the headlights on another group, scattering them across the road in a mass of broken limbs. The way forward was clear, and Michael watched the survivors in the wing mirror trailing behind.
One by one they slowed and stopped, heaving for breath in the orange fire light. The street burned, flames spreading from building to building.
The engine kept going for another street before it cut out. His head was dizzy with the smell of burning plastics and petrol, and the backs of his hands were scarred with burn injuries. They climbed out of the car and dragged their prisoner out the back.
A tire burst with a sudden pop as the fire spread through the rest of the car.
“You okay?” Michael said.
Richard nodded.
He glanced at Simon. “What about you?”
“Piss off.”
“Yeah, same to you.” He felt the ground rumble, as blinding white headlights approached from down the road.
Richard waved the infantry fighting vehicle down with an injured hand. “We could've used you lot ten minutes ago,” he said to the driver, whose head stuck out the open hatch.
The rear door popped open, and four policemen dismounted. Three took up overwatch positions.
“We just extracted ourselves from a bank robbery so we could come and clean this mess up. You should show a little more appreciation,” Corporal Hill said.
Richard pointed to the flaming car wreck. “They nearly cooked us alive.”
Corporal Hill held a hand close to the fire. “Hot enough to grill your marshmallows on. I guess you'll be wanting a new car as well now. Are they still back there?”
“Some. You're going to need more than four guys and a vehicle to clean that place out,” Richard said.
“Luckily for you, we need transport to take our prisoner back for questioning. Somebody else can have the pleasure of clearing this mess up,” Michael said.
“Fine. Stick this lump of meat in the back and we can roll.”
“How are your hands?” Michael said.
Richard raised them to show off the bandages. “Sore. How are yours?”
“Sore.”
The light above them buzzed again as the moth flew into it. Michael checked his watch. “It's getting late. I say we give the guy a once over now, and then if he won't cooperate, we can let him sweat it out in a cell overnight. Nobody knows he's being held
here, so no problems there.”
Richard nodded. “I think we can break him. He's a total amateur, and whoever hired him is a moron.”
The policeman on guard duty stepped aside and unlocked the door for them. “Shout if he gives you any trouble.”
“Gladly,” Richard said.
They went in and sat down opposite Simon at the table. He heard the door lock behind them.
“I've been waiting for this part,” Simon said. A pair of handcuffs kept his hands restrained behind his back. Another set shackled his ankles together.
Richard placed a bottle of water on the table.
“We don't have a file on you at this station, but I can only assume you've been in this position before,” Michael said.
“You lot don't intimidate me at all. I could put both of you on the floor just like that,” Simon said, snapping his fingers together behind his back.
“It's not us you need to be intimidated by, or the guys outside. Sure, maybe they'll give you a few bruises or a broken bone here and there, but those heal. They might water board you for a bit, too, but they won't kill you. What you really need to be concerned about is what happens when you get processed out for your tribunal,” Michael said.
Simon leaned across the table. “You ain't got nothing on me.”
“We found you, didn't we?” Richard said. “Tracking somebody down these days can be very hard, but here we are, sitting in an interrogation room less than a day after you were involved in a murder. That's really quite something, isn't it?”
“You need to start thinking about your tribunal. Corrupt and unethical as it may be, we do have some influence over the process, as they're handled by an offshoot of Assurer. Cooperate with us and we can get them to go easy on you. Otherwise, you're looking at some serious time doing hard labour north of the wall. There's a lot of toxic waste and radioactive materials up north, and that's if you aren't skinned alive and eaten by one of the cannibal gangs. There's not much food to go around in those parts,” Michael said.
He reached into his pocket and placed four leaflets on the table. “I brought these for you to read, just so you know what you're getting yourself into. They're very old now, printed during the war, but the principles are very much the same.”
Simon spat on the leaflets, sneering. “You think I'm a fucking coward? Son, you've got another thing coming if you think you can scare me.”
Michael sighed. “You're really testing my patience. I'm not trying to scare you, I'm trying to appeal to your rational sense of self-preservation. Perhaps you don't have one. Let me try and make this clear: if you are sentenced to punishment north of the wall, you will most likely not be coming back alive. If by some chance you do, there will be serious health issues affecting you for the rest of your life. With no access to medical care, you will die. Look at these leaflets, for God's sake.”
Richard offered Simon the water bottle, but the man shook his head, so he unscrewed the cap and drank most of it himself. He took a deep breath and put the bottle aside.
“Listen to him,” Richard said. “You're on the bottom of the food chain here. Whoever hired you for this hit is laughing right now. You think they appreciate or value your loyalty or silence? They're just exploiting you, letting you take the rap for the hit they ordered. Show some respect for yourself.”
Simon eyed the floor, staring without blinking. “What have you got on me? What's the evidence?”
“One witness. CCTV footage. Forensics is a nightmare; most of the time we never get anything back, and when we do, it's rarely conclusive. If we send it in, then it'll be enough to make you look guilty, which of course you are, and that's if everything else isn't enough to convince the tribunal. There's a fire team cleaning your flat out right now. Anything else there we might want to know about?” Michael said.
“If I talk, I want to go free. No charges, no punishment. I disappear,” Simon said.
“Not happening.” Michael stood up and made for the door. He paused for a moment, turning back to look at the prisoner. “Where you serve your punishment and how you serve it are up for debate, but you aren't walking out of here a free man. Your choice, take it or leave it.”
Simon rattled his handcuffs. “I want to speak to the station commander. I'll deal with him, not you.”
Richard shrugged.
Michael leaned against the wall. His eyes were shut, but he still sensed some of the light through his eyelids. He drifted briefly in and out of sleep, the light fading each time. A door slammed somewhere nearby. He jerked up straight, looking left and then right, as he reached for his gun.
The policeman on guard duty cast a glance in his direction. He adjusted the fit of his balaclava and went back to watching the cockroach crawling about the floor. Michael checked his watch. The long hand reached quarter past.
Harris stepped out of the interrogation room with a clipboard under his arm. The policeman moved to lock the door, but Harris raised a hand to delay him. “He'll talk to you now.”
“Just like that?”
The major nodded. “Don't take too long to question him. The night shift starts soon, and I need to speak with you before the changeover happens.”
Michael went back inside the interview room. Simon was slumped in his chair with the handcuffs still on, and the muscles in his arms had relaxed, even though they still bulged like inflated balloons.
“I'm ready to answer your questions,” Simon said.
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
He hit the red button on the audio recorder.
“Did you get what you needed?” Harris said.
They were sat in his office, and the air tank of cigarette smoke. It crept down the back of Michael's throat, tickling and itching before it reached his lungs. He coughed hard enough to make his eyes water and his chest throb with pain. He nodded in response.
“The murder victim was an old school friend of Jonas Westfield, Westfield being the most likely candidate to take over from Jim Belton. He had a lot of dirt on Westfield and once he started yapping to those journalists, somebody decided to shut him down.
“The only thing is that the killing obviously leads back to Westfield. He's young, but politically savvy and with extensive connections. If he was going to have somebody killed, he'd do it properly instead of hiring a couple of neighbourhood thugs. Eratech would have done it properly, so that leaves who?”
“Maybe somebody acted without authorisation. Somebody close, they could have panicked.”
“Right, but it's another can of worms to open. I spoke to that journalist again, you know. Westfield's got links with Eratech. It makes sense if they were the ones who put down his predecessor, doesn't it?”
“Sure, but we're going to have trouble pulling this guy in for questioning.”
Michael nodded. “Who has the police contract down in Devon?”
“God knows. I doubt they'll be cooperative; they're pretty much guaranteed to try and profit from the case at our expense. Assurer would do the same thing in their position.”
“At least we got one of them, right? We did get him, and you didn't let him walk. Sir, tell me you didn't let him walk.”
“I didn't let him walk. We came to some other agreement,” Harris said. He glanced at the clock and rubbed his eyes. “There's something else we need to talk about. The air accident that happened this morning, those Assurer fire crews picked something out of the facility ruins. They're investigating it right now.”
“Was Assurer responsible for that crash?”
“No, not directly. They wouldn't risk such an act. I know what you're thinking. Somebody was responsible for it, and I wouldn't be surprised if their aims crossed over with ours somewhere along the line. But that's a matter for somebody else to worry about. Listen, if what I'm hearing is correct and it finds its way into my hands, we're going to move immediately.”
“Move on what?”
“Eratech's hit squad. This goes two ways. If the informatio
n doesn't reach me by tomorrow, then I'm not going to see it, but if it does reach me, are you game?”
Michael looked away for a moment, and he felt a wave of heat flood his face. “This isn't sanctioned by the company, is it? Do they even know what you've been up to? This bounty you keep talking about isn't coming from them.”
“No, and no. They're not going to know, either. Eratech's team are making too much trouble. They're a threat to our policing contract, and they're a threat to everyone under my command. The morgue has been filling up with our lads since this whole thing kicked off. It's ending tomorrow night if I have any say in it.
“If you want to back out, just tell me. I've been leading troops for more than a decade, and I can tell when somebody is having doubts. I need committed people for this; it's not going to work otherwise.”
“I just want to know one thing, sir. What's your angle on this? Somebody is paying for it, but it isn't Assurer. Just give me something. I've been risking my life out there on this case so you can profit from it. You owe me that much.”
Harris slumped back in his chair, and he remained silent for a moment, eyes lowered as he thought. “Somebody has an interest in the case. If I can catch or kill the people responsible for the murder of Jim Belton's family and suicide, a lot of money is going to come my way. I'd split it with you and Richard.
“You've seen my daughter. You stare at her like everyone else. All those burn injuries. She's all I've got left, Ward, and I can't stand seeing her like that. I remember what she was like before the bombings. Surgery can fix her, but the surgery costs money. More money than I'd ever make.
“You can understand that, right? You'd do the same thing in my position.”
Michael grimaced. “If we do this, we have to do it properly. I've seen these guys shoot up an entire street with machine guns, and they don't mess about. You can't just roll in there with a fire team and arrest them. They already wasted one unit. It's going to take surveillance, tanks, IFVs and as many men as you can get.”
“We'll do it with what I can get without tipping my boss off.”
The Chop Shop Page 21