Mirrorman jerked with the sharp pain.
Boomer checked for the exit hole and found none.
Mirrorman already knew: The bullet was still inside.
Boomer placed a pad over the wound and Mirrorman held it in place. Mirrorman said, “Feels real bad, Boomer.”
Topcat held a satphone to his ear. “Cobra to Mongoose. Cobra to Mongoose. Break.”
There was static on the line and then: “…Mongoose… status report.”
“We have the package. Kilo Indigo Alpha Dogtag. Whisky Indigo Alpha Mirrorman. On way to extraction site. Break.”
Static.
Topcat repeated the message three times.
Tinman said, “Jamming comms?”
“Or just interference. I’ll try—”
But the command sergeant didn’t finish his sentence. The truck’s front right wheel hit a landmine, crumpling the cab and throwing the vehicle onto its side. Excruciating pain burned from Topcat’s legs. They were trapped under the side of the truck. “Get this fucker off of me!” he growled. Four pairs of hands pushed at the truck and he dragged himself out.
Boomer said, “You OK, Boss?”
Topcat took a sharp intake of breath and felt below his knees. One leg shattered. The other badly damaged. “Shit!” he said. “Check everyone else.”
“Hey,” Mirrorman shouted. “The prisoner is running.”
Tinman shone the torch into the desert and picked up a figure running. Boomer took off after him.
It didn’t take long for Boomer to close the gap and tackle the man. They sprawled in the dust. Boomer got up and pulled the prisoner to his feet. The tape had come free from his mouth.
“You stupid Americans,” the prisoner said, spitting his words. “You have no idea what is going on.”
As Boomer dragged him back to the truck, the man said, “A landmine. Where do you think that came from? Do you think my people put landmines in our own roads? Ha!”
“Shut up,” Boomer said, pushing him to the floor beside Topcat.
Topcat took out his Glock and pressed it into the prisoner’s side, to make sure the man knew it was there, knew the implication.
“You may as well shoot me,” the prisoner said.
Tinman was talking: “Gopher. Where’s Gopher?”
“Here,” Gopher called from the far side of the vehicle, his voice strained with effort. “I’m OK, just a bit dazed.” He crawled around the back and squatted next to Topcat.
“Fuck!” he said, glancing down. “Can you walk, Boss?”
“Legs are fucked. We’ll have to wait it out. I’ll keep trying command. They’ll be looking for us soon. We can be evac’d from here.”
“We’re still in Saudi,” Tinman said. “So much for Black in, Black out!”
“Lights!” Boomer said. In the distance, from the direction of Iraq, a set of headlights bounced their way.
“Whoo hoo!” Tinman thumped his side. “Didn’t take ’em long.”
The prisoner said to Topcat, “Shoot me, you may as well. They don’t want any of us alive.”
Topcat prodded the man with the Glock. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“That landmine was planted just for you. Who do you think put it there? Who knew you were coming for me?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Tinman said. “You ragheads are full of bullshit.”
The headlights were two hundred yards away, the vehicle not slowing. Tinman stood up and moved around to the truck’s cab. He flashed the torch in the direction of the oncoming vehicle. It flashed back, but still didn’t slow.
“What the—” Tinman started but his final words gurgled in his throat. Automatic fire strafed the truck.
Mirrorman pulled himself up, Boomer beside him. Topcat rolled beside the tailgate. All three returned fire.
The vehicle didn’t stop but continued past them, bullets spraying the air as it went.
Out of range, it stopped. The firing stopped.
“Sound off,” Topcat called. Tinman didn’t respond.
Boomer found Tinman collapsed, dead against the rear axle.
“They’re back!” Mirrorman called, and they dived for cover as bullets fizzed around them.
Gopher shouted something above the noise, maybe that the prisoner was running.
“Leave him!” Topcat said, but Gopher was already up and after him. When the bullets stopped, Boomer found both men spreadeagled in the dirt. The prisoner moved. Gopher would never move himself again.
“Shit!” Boomer said, turning Gopher over and then pulling the prisoner out of the dust.
The man was muttering.
As Boomer brought him back, Topcat grabbed at the Arab and slammed him against the load bed. “Who the hell were they?” he barked. “Al-Qaeda?”
“They’re yours,” the prisoner said. “You really have no idea, do you?”
Topcat peeled off some tape and stuck it over the prisoner’s mouth. “Enough of your crap,” he grunted.
“They’ll be coming back,” Mirrorman said, “circling around.”
Topcat: “Boomer, watch front. I’ll cover the rear. Mirrorman, watch ahead.”
They put on the night goggles.
Topcat picked up the satphone, listened. “Still too much noise.”
After a few minutes of aching silence, Boomer said, “A bandit at five o’clock.”
A few breaths later, Topcat said, “I’ve got two—forty yards out—both crawling, one directly behind. One at nine o’clock. On my mark.” He counted three and both men fired and ducked back as the attackers responded.
“They’re pulling back,” Topcat said after the gunfire ended. He rolled over, ignoring the terrible pain in his legs. We’re sitting ducks here and they’re bound to come round and go for the fuel tank. We need to move. Mirrorman, can you walk?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Boomer, you’ll have to help me. There are rocks—what, fifty yards out? We’ll get to them.”
Boomer took hold of a strip of tarpaulin. There was rope attached for tying it down to the truck sides. He helped Topcat onto the tarpaulin and then took hold of the ropes. Checking it was clear, he nodded to Mirrorman. “Let’s go.”
They were three-quarters of the way there when the gunfire started. The attackers were in the jeep again, heading straight for them as they struggled across the open desert. Dust began to kick-up all around and the soldiers threw themselves onto the ground. The prisoner dashed for the rocks. He screamed and fell just short.
“Keep going,” Boomer said. All three returned fire. Mirrorman didn’t move, but continued to train his fire on the approaching jeep. Topcat howled, his rifle dropped. At the same time, Boomer got to his feet. He cocked his arm and threw a grenade.
Mirrorman lost sight of it in the darkness and dust, but he imagined it sailing the incredible distance—the throw of a pro quarterback.
The jeep lit up and jumped a fraction before Mirrorman heard the explosion. When it landed it exploded again as the fuel ignited. The crash to the ground and double roll created the last noise. Silence flooded in. Then Mirrorman heard Boomer’s moans.
He got up and moved over to his friend, the gun still aimed towards the burning jeep.
He was badly hit. Topcat lay close by, not moving. In the orange glow, Mirrorman could see immediately that the command sergeant was dead.
“I’ve still got it, Mirrorman,” Boomer said, his voice far away.
“Hell of a throw, buddy,” Mirrorman said. He cradled Boomer’s head. Blood stuck his fingers to his friend’s hair. Head wound. Mirrorman could see blood glisten like black gold on his friend’s body. His own pain forgotten, he looked into Boomer’s eyes. “I’ve got you buddy. Stay with me. Stay focused on my eyes.”
Boomer coughed and took a ragged breath.
Mirrorman said, “Boomer, you aren’t here. Remember your red Chevvy. We had great fun in that, didn’t we? Remember those smart girls we met from ULA? You dog, took them both! I spent the night in
that bar on my own. Remember that hike up to Machu Picchu? Think of that view when we finally got there, the beautiful jungle, the amazing temples, the exotic…” His voice snagged in his throat. He held back tears.
Boomer’s eyes had frozen, his jagged breathing stopped.
Danny Guice was dead.
FIFTY-ONE
Present day
Detective Sergeant Littlewood stood outside Kate’s maisonette as the uniformed police forced the door. It was almost 2pm, and she was hungry. She could smell food from a string of takeaways nearby. It didn’t help the rumble in her stomach. In a sense she was hopeful the boss was right and this would be quick—that it was a wild goose chase. Maybe.
“Is there something wrong?” A voice from behind—an elderly lady with a stick.
“Police,” Littlewood said in a monotone.
“I can see that,” the lady said without any potential sarcasm. “I was just concerned there was a problem. Is Kate all right?”
“You’re a neighbour?”
“I live downstairs—number nine.”
“If you wouldn’t mind…” Littlewood said with a nod towards the lady’s front door. “Once we’ve taken a look around inside, I might come and ask you some questions.”
The elderly lady pulled a concerned face but obliged by walking towards her door. Littlewood went into Kate Blakemore’s apartment where the uniforms were already searching. There wasn’t much to go through on the first floor and, as the men progressed upstairs, Littlewood was about to follow when her phone rang.
Inspector Mather said, “Found anything incriminating?”
“Only just got in, sir. It’s a small place though, so won’t take us too long. Her car is here but there’s no sign of her.”
“I still think it’s a long shot. She ran because she was spooked.”
“Spooked because she was the last person to speak to Ms Harper and we matched her fingerprints to the glass in the victim’s house. She might not be registered for a firearm but she said her ex was US military. If we find any evidence she has had a weapon here, I’d say she’ll look very guilty.”
“I’ll eat my hat.”
There was a noise from upstairs. Littlewood said, “Hang on a minute, sir. Looks like we may have found something.” She looked up the second flight of stairs. One of the policemen was coming down a ladder from an attic. He held a pencil. From the pencil dangled a handgun.
“Sir, time to put some seasoning on your hat—there is a gun here.”
Mather knocked on the window of the patrol car. The policeman at the wheel looked out, saw who it was, and opened the door.
Mather said, “Any sign of Kate Blakemore?”
“None, sir. Yesterday I followed the sister into Reading. When I returned there was the other car—the blue VW Touareg Ms Blakemore was last seen driving.” He pointed to the car parked on the driveway of a house a little further along the street.
“The sister’s car,” Littlewood said as she stepped beside the inspector.
Mather said, “How did it get there?”
The policeman shrugged. “No idea—could have been dropped off or the husband could have collected it from somewhere.”
“And what’s happened today?”
“Mr Roberts left at 06:33 on his own in a grey BMW 530 estate.” Again he quoted the registration plate. “Registered to a lease company. Company car. Mrs Roberts left at 08:21 with the two children. As instructed, I stayed here. Mrs Roberts returned at 17:40 this evening.”
Mather looked at his watch. It was 6:13pm. “OK, Sergeant, let’s go and speak to Mrs Roberts.” He strode with a little more purpose than he felt, reached the front door of the modern detached four-bed. Nice house, nice village. He rang the bell.
A woman, who from her looks was clearly Kate’s sister, answered the door. A young child clung to her leg. It had a snotty nose and had been crying. “Yes?”
“Mrs Darcy Roberts?” Mather asked. When Darcy confirmed who she was, Mather continued, “Police, madam.” He held up his warrant card and introduced them. “Please can we come inside?”
The woman hesitated as though considering her options then stepped aside and opened the door further. She picked the child up and carried her into the kitchen. There she pointed to the aged pine chairs around a similarly styled table. She looked as though she hadn’t slept, and when she said, “What’s this about?” she failed to be convincing.
Mather said, “I think you know what it’s about, Mrs Roberts. It’s about your sister. Is she here?”
“No.”
Littlewood tapped her pocket. “We need to take her in for questioning regarding the murder of Ms Stephanie Harper and the suspicious death of Kate’s friend, Sarah Wishart.”
Colour drained from Darcy’s face. She put the child down. “Go and watch a DVD with India, please, Emmy.” Then, turning back to the detectives, she said, “There’s no way Kate had anything to do with the deaths of those women.”
Mather cocked his head slightly then watched for Darcy’s reaction. “The evidence suggests otherwise. Your sister lied to us about seeing Ms Wishart in Prague shortly before her death. She lied to us about knowing who Ms Harper was then she went to see her. And was again the last person to see her before she was murdered.”
“But she never—”
Mather held up his hand. “We know she was in touch with Ms Harper. She called her first and then she was in her house. Her fingerprints were matched to a glass. The next day she returned to the scene—possibly to retrieve the incriminating evidence but she was too late. We were already there. We searched your sister’s apartment in Windsor.” He read Darcy’s reaction and said, “Yes, we had a warrant to search it—and discovered a firearm.”
Darcy stood up, shock, disbelief, indignation perhaps on her face. “No way did she have a gun. No way did she kill anyone.”
Littlewood said, “Sit down, Mrs Roberts.”
Darcy sat, but the expression remained.
“This afternoon, Ballistics confirmed that the gun found was the one used to shoot Miss Harper.”
“Then it must have been planted!” Defiance now.
Mather said, “I haven’t discounted that possibility—that’s why she must come in for questioning. If she is innocent we can help. If she continues to evade us, it only serves to make her look guilty.”
“She is innocent,” Darcy said with total conviction.
“So where is she?”
Darcy said nothing but her face showed she knew.
“Of course, you realize that it is an offence to obstruct the course of justice. If you are harbouring or aiding a suspect you will be prosecuted.”
The kitchen door opened and Tim Roberts stepped into the house. He showed no great surprise at the presence of two detectives in his kitchen. He put a laptop on the work surface and introduced himself.
Mather provided a quick run through of the situation and Mr Roberts looked at him impassively. However, when the detective mentioned Darcy accompanying them to the police station, Tim said, “Can I have a moment to talk to my wife in private?”
Darcy and Tim retreated to the hall and shut the door. A few minutes later Tim returned, closing the door and sitting down.
“Kate is in the States looking for Joe, her ex-boyfriend. You know about him?”
Mather said, “We do.” He looked at the sergeant.
Littlewood said, “She has a friend looking after her cat and he told the old lady downstairs. So we already suspected she was heading for America, we just don’t know where.”
“She flew to Washington this morning on a BA flight from Heathrow.”
“Which airport? What time?” Mather asked, urgency adding a catch to his voice for the first time.
“Dulles. Left at 10:50 and arrived 13:40 local time.”
Mather checked his watch and snatched up his phone, made a call. He passed the information to the person on the other end. Still with the phone to his ear he spoke to Tim. “Was she travell
ing under her name?”
Tim hesitated then said, “No, my wife’s.”
Mather showed no surprise, just relayed the information. He waited, listening. Finally, he said, “All right, alert the authorities. And, Pete… get the description of the Arab guy over to Homeland Security too… yeah the one Ms Blakemore provided.” He ended the call and looked back at Tim. “We were too late to pick her up at the airport. You did the right thing telling us. If she is innocent—”
“Oh, she is.”
“As I said, then it’s best for all that we clear this up and get the real criminal.”
“The Arab.”
Littlewood asked, “Did you or your wife see anyone that could have been this Arab person, the one Ms Blakemore believes broke into her house?”
Tim shook his head. “What about the airline ticket issue?”
Mather said, “Well, that is aiding and abetting a suspect, but for the moment we’ll see how things develop. Let’s hope for your sake that she is found and we can confirm her innocence.”
“She is going to text us to let us know she’s there safely.”
“Is she using the same phone?”
“No. Well, maybe, but she took the SIM card out. It’ll be a different number, if that’s what you mean.”
“Thank you.” Mather reached forward and shook Tim’s hand. “I know this must be very difficult for you. When she gets in touch tell her to contact me.”
“I will.”
Mather let go of Tim’s hand, satisfied. “And if she suspects she is in danger she should hand herself into the police.”
Security Officer Weaver sat at a bank of screens in his command centre in Dulles International Airport. Beside him, Special Agent Michelle Ramirez studied the screen showing the arrivals hall.
“OK, that’s her—that’s Kate Blakemore in arrivals.”
“Early. Must have come straight through,” Weaver said. “Look, only a backpack. No hold luggage.” Then he stated the obvious: “Someone’s here to meet her.”
I Dare You: A gripping thriller that will keep you guessing (A Kate Blakemore Crime Thriller Book 1) Page 19