Exit Wounds

by Aaron Fisher

  Tony was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He swerved round a slow-moving car and had to turn quickly again to avoid missing a motorcyclist. The rain was coming down heavy again and visibility was poor, even with the wipers on full blast. Finally he asked, “You ever gamble, Craig?”

  Craig pulled a face, confused by the sudden change in topic. “I like the odd flutter now and then, but what’s-.”

  “Then let me give you some advice. Never back a horse on its last legs.”

  M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

  Zeddemore watched Colgan leave the building. Partly to show empathy for what the poor man was going to, but also to make sure he actually left. Andrew had handed in his resignation voluntarily, but had he not, he would have realised Zeddemore was there not to offer his sympathies but to relieve him of his command.

  This left Zeddemore with the problematic choice of who to assign Colgan’s duties to. He was giving the orders for now, but as a district director he had more than just M.I.T. to oversee.

  Second in command was Richard Russell. He was a more than competent officer who had demonstrated his ability to lead more than once. But he also had an unpredictable side. A reckless edge that Zeddemore wasn’t sure he could control. This whole rogue undercover operation and recruiting his brother through the back door was a prime example of that.

  Which brought him to his second candidate, Tony Horton. He reminded Zeddemore much of himself. He was young, intelligent and very ambitious.

  Perhaps too ambitious?

  It had been his ambition that had first brought Tony to Zeddemore’s attention. Tony had stumbled across the recruitment of a field agent that hadn’t even officially started work and whose file had personally been overseen by Colgan. Did he go to Colgan with this? Give the man he had looked up to and aspired to be like for years a chance to explain himself? No. He went over his head and told Zeddemore, knowing full well that whilst it would put him in the District Director’s good books it would most certainly spell the end of Colgan’s career and maybe even face him with jail time.

  Zeddemore had to admit he had a respect for that level of ambition. But he also knew that it could be dangerous. With Russell, as reckless and as headstrong as he was, he would always know where he was with him. With Tony, on the other hand, he wondered how long it would be before he felt him climbing over his head to tie a noose for him too?

  As he made his way back to Colgan’s office Zeddemore felt his mobile vibrate against his chest. He quickly retrieved it from inside his jacket and flipped it open. He didn’t recognise the incoming number but accepted the call anyway and answered, “John Zeddemore.”

  “Hello sir, this is Craig Hughes.”

  “Hughes, where the hell are you? I got word you left the prison nearly an hour ago! Why aren’t you back yet?”

  Craig, forever the diplomat, managed to calm the district director enough to actually explain to him that they had met up with Richard Russell, before the mere mention of his name set him off on an angry rant.

  Craig didn’t have time for him to get it out of his system so he quickly interrupted. “They’re going to shoot down the Pope!”

  There was a significant silence before Zeddemore spoke again, “What?”

  Craig quickly explained about the anti-aircraft missile and how they had deducted that Dean Reynolds would be firing on Sheppard One from one of the two tallest buildings in Cardiff. He told Zeddemore that they had split into two teams to cover both buildings but he needed to alert warn the pilot.

  “Hughes, you have to stop that missile! That plane’s going to be passing over any minute. I’ll never get through all the channels to the pilot to get him to change course in time!”

  Craig took a deep breath, “We’ll do our best sir.”

  “I’ll get someone on sending you a photo of this Reynolds for identification, but you are authorised to shoot anyone who tries to attack that plane! Understood?”

  The thought of shooting someone made Craig’s stomach turn in knots but he answered quickly, “Yes sir, understood.”

  Capital Tower, Greyfriars Road

  Tony’s Audi hurtled like a silver arrow past the white stone City Hall and cut into the top of Greyfriars Road. The TT hadn’t even fully stopped as Horton slid out from the driver’s seat and rushed up the steps to the large automatic door at the front of Capital Tower.

  Craig was close on Tony’s heels but stopped at the sight of two dead security guards. One bent over the top of the desk, the other limb in his seat, both with stained red shirts.

  “Guess we’re in the right place then?” Craig’s humour was rooted in anxiety. He had never been in a real fire fight before and had secretly been hoping that the missile was at the other building.

  Tony didn’t hear him anyway. Having discovered the lift had been disabled on the top floor he had already taken to the stairs. He sprinted upwards, striding two or three steps at a time.

  Craig didn’t have as long legs as Tony, and he wasn’t as fit. The air rattled in his chest and after the fifth floor the backs of his legs had already started to stiffen. It was twenty five levels to the top.

  Fifteen floors up, Tony too was feeling the pressure on the backs of his legs and the tightness across his chest. He knew he had it in him to go further.

  Nineteen floors up and Tony could no longer hear Craig behind him. He welcomed his colleague’s absence and pushed himself to move faster, to keep the gap between them.

  Finally, on the last step of the twenty fifth floor Tony drew his sidearm and fell flat against the wall next to the door to the roof. He took several deep breaths and kicked his way out.

  In front of him was the missile launcher. It had been bolted down into the floor and a there was a keypad to the left of it that Tony assumed controlled the missile launch. The missile itself was already loaded and angled upwards just short of ninety degrees.

  Tony fired immediately at the man nearest the keypad before he could react and fire the missile. He still had his back to Tony and fell forwards onto his knees as the bullet pierced through his abdomen.

  Stepping forward without hesitation, Tony turned his attention to a second man who was quickly reaching inside his jacket and under his arm. He put two holes in his face before he could even pull out his gun.

  Suddenly Tony felt a sharp pain tug at his side a split second before the gunshot even registered in his head. He span quickly as he fell, firing off two rounds before he actually had the man in his sights. The third shot struck him in the left side of his chest and he dropped to the ground abruptly.

  Tony slowly began to pick himself off the ground. He moved his left hand, painfully to where he thought the shot had gone through. His fingers came back bloody.

  The following events seemed to happen in slow motion for Tony. He was suddenly aware of someone moving in his peripheral vision. He turned as fast as he could, but the man had already reached the missile launcher. Tony screamed at him to stop as the man reached out. A round shot out of Tony’s gun and passed through the man’s right cheek and back out the other side of his head. His body quickly jerked backward and collapsed on top of the first body.

  Time returned back to its correct speed and Tony actually thought he had stopped the man in time. Then the missile launcher let out a low whine and a burst of pressurised smoke blew out of the bottom of the missile before it flew off into the air.

  Stadium House, Park Street

  Richard and Paul burst out onto the roof of the other building, weapons drawn.

  Richard spun round twice on the spot, before flapping his arms against his side, “There’s nobody here!”

  Suddenly there was a loud noise like a clap of thunder and the Russell brothers looked up to see a long streak of orange flame cut through the black clouded sky into the distance.

  10.31 (Local Time)

  Thirty Seven Years Ago

  Florence. Tuscany. Italy.

  Romano House, D
e Luca

  Fedele Romano watched his son, Cristoforo from a distance. The young boy sat on the wall outside their house watching a group of other children around his age playing in the square. In the past, young Cris would have been out there with them, playing in the sun. But over the course of the last year he had grown increasingly distant. Not just with the kids in the area but to his family as well. He never talked to them now like he used to and his father couldn’t remember the last time he heard his son laugh or even saw him smile.

  Sat on the stone wall under the dark shade of a tree, his legs dangled over the edge, too short to touch the ground. It seemed to his father that Cris was paying particular attention to the girls in the group.

  So that’s what it is? Fedele realised, with a sigh. Lombardi, two doors down had told him a few months ago that he had ‘the talk’ with his son. Fedele had been putting it off. He didn’t know why. It was something that he knew he would have to do. No time like the present.

  Crisoforo seemed to shuffle away a bit when his father joined him on the stone wall. Fedele pretended not to notice and smiled. “What you up to, son?”

  “Playing,” the young boy answered as if on auto-pilot.

  Fedele nodded and looked up at the other children as they ran round in circles playing kiss-chase. “Why aren’t you playing with them?”

  Cris didn’t answer.

  He’s not going to make this easy for me is he, Fedele moaned inside his head. He pushed himself off the wall and nodded his head to one side. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  Their stroll took them out into the fields behind the houses and along the stone track that twisted through the long grass. For the most they walked in silence. Now and again Fedele would make some silly joke and his son would nod politely but never laugh. Eventually the father forced himself to just get on with it and asked his son how he felt about girls.

  The boy just shrugged.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, do you like them? Do you hate them? What?”

  Cris shrugged again, “Depends on the girl I guess.”

  “Do you ever feel like you want to... do stuff with them?”

  The young boy frowned, not understanding, “Stuff?”

  Fedele nodded quickly, struggling. “Yeah. Like kiss them... and stuff?”

  “Stuff?” Cris repeated.

  “You know, when a mummy and daddy love each other very much they show their love to each other by kissing and...” Fedele was really struggling to find the right words.

  “Buy each other stuff?” Cris suggested.

  “Yes,” Fedele nodded slowly. “Yes, sometimes they buy each other presents but sometimes they do other stuff.”

  “Stuff,” Cris nodded, still not understanding.

  Fedele stopped and breathed out heavily, deciding to try another approach. “Where do you think babies come from, Cris?”

  “From mom’s belly.”

  “But how do they get there?”

  Cris considered this for a moment and then shook his head.

  Fedele took his time in explaining what happens when two people fall in love and decide to make a baby. It was hard to find the right words and even harder to fight his own embarrassment and awkwardness with the topic, but he was grateful that his son remained silent throughout and just listened rather than interrupting with any difficult questions.

  Finally, when he had finished his little speech, Fedele noticed that his son had turned a little pale. He had expected him to go red with embarrassment, like he had, but instead he had gone the total opposite.

  “Are you okay?” Fedele asked.

  Cris nodded, his eyes down as he pawed his owns shirt. “So mummys and daddys do this when they love each other?”

  “Yes, and when they decide they want to make a family the mummy will become pregnant and they’ll have a baby.”

  Cris shifted his weight from either foot and looked up at his dad and then quickly back at the floor. “Can I get pregnant?”

  Fedele laughed suddenly. He shook his head and smiled, “No, of course not, son. You’re a boy.”

  Cris tugged down at his shirt, as if itchy. “Then... then why does Father Boccanegra do to me... what you do to mom?”

  296

  15.24 BST (British Summer Time)

  Present Day

  Cardiff. Wales. Great Britain.

  M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

  Unconfirmed stories of the Pope’s death were already being broadcast when Richard, Craig and Paul arrived back at M.I.T.. The entire city had seen the golden blaze streak across the dark sky. The news reports claimed the plane had hit down somewhere near Barry. The pilot had no doubt tried to emergency land at Cardiff International Airport but just couldn’t control the spiralling dive.

  Within seconds of laying foot inside the building security officers had intercepted the three of them and demanded that Richard and Paul followed them to the holding cells. Richard protested and one of the officers assured him it was just to debrief them as soon as possible but Paul knew by the look in his brother’s eye that this wasn’t going to end well for them.

  The Security officer informed Craig that Zeddemore requested he return to his workstation to be debriefed later and to not contact Tony, who had been taken to hospital, until after their individual statements had been taken.

  Richard had been waiting for almost an hour alone in his holding cell before an officer arrived to debrief him. Richard didn’t recognise her and she had a visitors’ clearance card hanging round his neck. When asked, she flashed his identification so quickly that all Richard could catch was that her last name was Unsworth and that she was attached to the J.I.C..

  One of Zeddemore’s suits.

  Unsworth smoothly slid her briefcase onto the table between them and began setting up her equipment. She was perhaps a few years older than Richard, with thin, gaunt features and her hair was dull blonde tied up in a French plat. From the way she peered over the top of her briefcase at him with her small brown eyes, Richard immediately knew she wasn’t going to be his new best friend.

  . . . .

  Paul’s debriefing officer was a man. He was built like a brick shit-house and wore a suit at least two sizes too small for him. He moved round the room with the grace of a one-legged kangaroo and struggled to find what leads went where with his equipment. When he had finished, he looked up and smiled unkindly at Paul.

  Paul smiled back, “How you doing?”

  “Very well, thank you,” the Brick Shit-house said, speaking for the first time since he entered the room. “How are you today?”

  Paul took a moment to let the question sink in, before he looked down at himself. He was still wearing the security uniform he had used to break into H.M. Cardiff. Only now one of the sleeves was torn off from when he had used it as a bandage on Gary, and it carried the stench of blood, sweat rain and all the delights of almost drowning in the river Taff.

  Paul pushed his hands out across the table and leant forward until he pivoted on his elbows. “Well in truth, mate, I kinda feel like a dog’s chew toy.”

  Brick Shit-house seemed taken aback by Paul’s answer, he fiddled with his biro as he spoke, “If you like I could have someone see if they could fetch you a fresh set of clothes to change into?”

  “That’d be nice.”

  The Brick Shit-house pushed himself away from the table and went to the door. He whispered in the ear of the guard stationed outside.

  “Oh and a double scotch wouldn’t go amiss either,” Paul added. The Brick Shit-house opened his mouth to make some excuse but Paul interrupted quickly. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  . . . .

  Unsworth had positioned a video camera on a short tripod directly in front of Richard’s face and had a cable running from it into one of two laptops on the table. The one attached to the cable was facing her and Richard could only guess what else was on the screen b
esides the live feed from the camera. The second was facing Richard and Unsworth cycled through a series of photographs for him to identify. It was only as they went through them one by one that the extent of the day’s body count began to dawn on Richard.

  Richard shook his head once they had gone through the shots of the bodies from the fire fight on the roof. “No, none of those men are Dean Reynolds. Which one was the man who fired the missile?”

  Unsworth paused before cycling back three images. “This is the body that was found nearest to the control pad. I’d have to await confirmation from Anthony Horton’s statement but we believe it was this man.”

  “Yeah, like I said, that’s Thomas. I didn’t get a second name. But he was affiliated with Stuart Campbell. That’s how we set up the meet with Giacometti.”

  Unsworth toyed with the tip of her pen, “Tell me again, why is it that you recruited your brother into this operation?”

  Paul did his best to muffle his sigh. “As I said before, Thomas had contacted Campbell with a request to find a high level computer hacker. When we apprehended Campbell, he had already set up the meeting and told Thomas the men he would be sending were identical twins.”

  “The Gillespie brothers?”

  Richard nodded, “Correct.”

  “Only you couldn’t send them to the meet, wired, as per normal procedure because you had already killed one of them.” Unsworth examined Richard over the top of her glasses. She raised an eyebrow when Richard didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry, was that a question?” he asked.

  “Well, do you agree that is an accurate account of the events?”

  “One of the brothers was shot in a fire fight that broke out when they attacked us. There are no identical twins in the department. The only option was to recruit my brother and pose as the Gillespie brothers ourselves.”