Hot Blood

by Stephen Leather

  Shepherd pushed himself backwards on the mat until his head touched a wall. He rolled over and sat up. His head was aching and his captors had given him only one drink of water since they’d taken him out of the car boot so his throat was dry. He listened but couldn’t hear anyone else in the room. He had no way of knowing if they were keeping him in a basement or upstairs, or what was outside the building. ‘Is anyone there?’ he asked. His voice echoed round the room.

  Shepherd wiggled his fingers. He couldn’t tell what they had used to bind his wrists together but it was way too tight.

  He pushed himself up against the wall and stood, breathing heavily. The floor was hard under his feet. Not wood, concrete maybe. That he no longer had his boots was a worry – a big one.

  He moved sideways, keeping his back to the wall, trying to get a sense of how big a space he was in. His hands were so numb that he couldn’t tell if it was bare plaster or wallpaper that he was touching. He rubbed his right foot along the floor. Through his sock he could feel the rough rasp of concrete. He reached a corner and started along the second wall. After half a dozen sideways steps he found a door. He groped for the handle and found it but couldn’t grip. He clenched and unclenched his hands, but couldn’t even feel if his fingers were moving. Three more paces took him to the next corner. The wall had been about six metres long.

  He started along the next wall, rubbing it with his shoulders as he moved. It was blank and featureless. He reached the next corner in seven sideways paces. About four metres.

  Midway along the fourth wall he found a window. He tapped it with the back of his head and felt the glass rattle. He’d lost all sense of time and the hood was totally lightproof so he had no way of knowing if it was day or night. He doubted they would have left him in a room with a window so he guessed that there was a shutter on it, or bars. He turned to face the window and pressed his forehead against it. Was there a shutter, he wondered, or could he be seen from outside?

  The door crashed open. ‘Down on the floor!’ shouted a man. ‘You stay down!’

  Shepherd dropped to his knees. ‘I need water,’ he said.

  A hand slapped his head and his lip split. ‘You stay down or we will kill you.’ The man grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragged him across the floor, then pushed him down on to the mat. ‘You will stay here,’ said the man. ‘You will not move until you are told to.’ Shepherd felt something hard press against his neck through the hood. ‘You know what this is?’ hissed the man.

  ‘A knife,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yes, a knife. And I can cut your head off as easily as I can kill a chicken. You know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

  The man pressed the knife harder against Shepherd’s neck. ‘I can kill you now.’

  Shepherd said nothing. There was nothing he could say: his life was in the man’s hands. The one thing he clung to as he felt the knife bite into the hood was that there was nothing to be gained from killing him there and then. If they were going to kill him they’d do it on video so the world could see.

  ‘Maybe I will. Maybe I will kill you now,’ hissed the man.

  ‘Inshallah,’ said Shepherd.

  Shepherd felt the knife move away from his throat. ‘What did you say?’ asked the man.

  ‘Inshallah,’ said Shepherd. ‘If Allah wants me dead, then you should do what you have to do.’

  ‘You think I will not kill you?’

  ‘I think if it’s Allah’s will that you kill me, you will kill me.’

  ‘You speak Arabic?’

  ‘No, but I’ve read the Koran.’

  ‘The Koran is in Arabic,’ said the man.

  ‘I read a translation,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was in English.’

  The man stood up and left the room. He returned two minutes later, raised Shepherd’s hood and thrust a plastic bottle of water between his lips. He drank. The man allowed him to finish it, then took it away and pulled the hood down.

  ‘Thank you,’ gasped Shepherd.

  ‘Stay on the floor,’ said the man. ‘If you get up again, I will kill you.’ He left the room and slammed the door.

  Armstrong heard the helicopter before he saw it, a sixty-four-foot-long shark-like Blackhawk, twin turbines screaming as the massive rotors kicked up a flurry of dust from the road. It loomed out of the night sky, its twin searchlights scanning the area, then bumped on the ground and a man jumped out. He was wearing body armour over camouflage fatigues and a Kevlar helmet. In his right hand he held an M16 rifle and in the left a set of industrial bolt-cutters. It was only when he ran towards them that Armstrong realised it was Yokely. The helicopter’s turbines roared and it clattered into the air, then banked to the right and disappeared into the night.

  Armstrong opened the back door of the Land Cruiser and moved over so that Yokely could sit next to him. ‘I hope Gannon told you I was coming,’ he said.

  ‘He did,’ said Shortt.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Bosch. She was in the front passenger seat, next to Haschka.

  Yokely reached into his body armour and pulled out a map showing the location of the Land Cruiser and the route to the building where Shepherd had first been taken. He gave it to Bosch. ‘Pull in just round the corner and we’ll go in on foot.’

  Haschka put the 464 in gear and drove off.

  ‘Why the military outfit?’ asked Armstrong. He lit a Marlboro and offered the pack to Yokely.

  Yokely waved it away. ‘Gives me a certain legitimacy,’ he said.

  ‘And camouflage,’ said Bosch. She reached over, took one of Armstrong’s cigarettes and waited while he lit it for her.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Yokely.

  Haschka drove the Land Cruiser through the darkened suburbs. There was no street lighting but the 464’s powerful headlights cut through the night, startling the stray dogs and cats that slept on the streets. There were few people around and those there were hurrying along with their heads down. Two military Humvees came around a corner and headed in their direction. Yokely flashed the driver of the lead vehicle a mock salute and the man waved back. Bosch kept the map on her lap and gave Haschka directions. After half an hour she told him to slow down. ‘Two blocks along,’ she said.

  Yokely took out his mobile phone. He called Slater’s number. ‘Is it clear, Will?’ he asked. He had told the pilot to swing the Predator over the house and check out the area.

  ‘There’s no traffic and we don’t see anyone in the street,’ said Slater. ‘No movement around the house.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Yokely. ‘Keep a watch until we’ve gained entry, then tell Phillip to head on back.’ Yokely put away the phone and pointed at the next intersection. ‘Hang a right there, Joe, and pull in somewhere quiet.’

  Haschka made the turn. Bosch saw an alleyway ahead but before she could say anything Haschka had seen it and was driving down it. He parked and switched off the engine.

  They all climbed out. Yokely took out his phone again and called Slater. ‘Do you see us?’

  ‘We have you on infrared,’ said Slater. ‘No one else on the streets for a hundred yards or so, and that’s two men walking away from you. You’re clear.’

  It was a cloudless night and overhead there were a million stars but no sign of the Predator twenty thousand feet above them. ‘We’re going in,’ said Yokely. He ended the call, then nodded at Haschka and Armstrong. ‘We’re clear to go,’ he said. He took out his Glock. ‘You two, Jimbo and I will go into the house.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Bosch.

  ‘Stay with the vehicle,’ said Yokely.

  ‘You sexist prick,’ said Bosch.

  ‘Carol, it’s nothing to do with your beautiful chestnut hair or your pert breasts, it’s just that you’ve got a shotgun and if that goes bang every man and his dog will come running.’

  ‘I thought the plan was not to shoot anybody,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Yeah, well, plans change,’ said Yokely. He handed the bolt-cutters to
Armstrong. ‘Please don’t argue, Carol. I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity for you to shoot someone down the line.’

  Bosch nodded but didn’t look happy at being told to stay behind. She glared at Yokely and climbed back into the Land Cruiser.

  The four men went back down the alley, keeping close to the wall. A rat at least two feet long from nose to tail tip scurried purposefully along the opposite side.

  They reached the gates and Yokely motioned for Armstrong to use the bolt-cutters on the chain. They made short work of it and Shortt pulled the gate open. Yokely and Armstrong slipped inside. Armstrong placed the bolt-cutters on the ground and pulled out his gun. They moved to the house. It was two storeys high with a flat roof. There were shutters on the windows, all closed, and no lights on inside.

  Yokely motioned for Haschka and Shortt to go around to the rear. Armstrong tried the front door. The wood was rotting and the hinges were rusting, but it was locked. It looked as if it wouldn’t take much to break it down but the men inside had guns so they’d have to go in quietly.

  They walked around to the left and checked the shuttered windows, which were as badly maintained as the door, but, again, they were all locked. Armstrong pulled at one but it held firm. He looked at Yokely and shook his head. The American pointed to the rear of the house and they kept to the shadows as they crept around the building. Overhead two helicopters flew so close that their rotors were almost touching. The two men stayed still until they had gone, then moved to the back of the building.

  Haschka and Shortt had found a loose shutter. They pulled it open and examined the window. The lock looked flimsy so Haschka took out a large hunting knife and worked away at the wood round it. As Yokely and Armstrong walked up, it splintered and Shortt eased open the window. They climbed through one by one and found themselves in a kitchen. There was a stone sink with a single dripping tap and an old refrigerator that was vibrating noisily. Yokely switched on a flashlight, pointed it at Haschka, Shortt and Armstrong, then directed it upstairs. They switched on their own flashlights and headed for the upper floor as the American went through to the sitting room.

  Armstrong led the way, his Glock in his right hand. The stairs were stone and led up to a tiled hallway off which were four doors. One was open, revealing a small bathroom.

  Armstrong pointed at Haschka, then at the door at the far end. He went to stand outside it. Armstrong pointed at the second door, then at Shortt. He waited until they were all in position, then held up his left hand and counted down from three to one on his fingers. As the final finger went down he twisted the handle, thrust open the door, and walked into the room, his gun arm outstretched. A middle-aged Iraqi lay on a mattress on the floor. Armstrong walked over to him and woke him with a kick to the ribs. He heard shouts from the other rooms as he pointed the gun at the man on the mattress. He had a zigzag scar across the left side of his face. ‘Get up,’ said Armstrong. The man said something in Arabic, then spat at him. Armstrong pistol-whipped him, hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the door.

  Shortt and Haschka had the other two men in the hallway. One had a straggly beard and bloodshot eyes, the other was squat with a weightlifter’s forearms. His hair was close-cropped, he had a bushy beard and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Shortt kept his gun pointed at the man’s face and raised an eyebrow, daring him to get physical.

  ‘Downstairs,’ said Armstrong.

  Yokely was in the front room. There was a line of candles on the mantelpiece and he lit them one by one. There were two cheap brown plastic sofas and stained rugs on the floor and paintings of desert scenes on the walls. Two ornate hookahs stood by one of the sofas and the floor was littered with peanut shells. The American was holding a brown envelope containing US dollars. He flicked through the banknotes. ‘There’s about fifteen thousand.’

  Armstrong shook the man he was holding. ‘Fifteen thousand dollars?’ he hissed. ‘You sold him for fifteen thousand dollars? You stupid pricks. We’d have paid you ten times that.’

  Yokely shoved the envelope into his back pocket. ‘Get them on their knees,’ he said. He lit several more candles by the shuttered window.

  Armstrong, Shortt and Haschka forced their captives on to their knees. Yokely gestured with his gun. ‘I want you to ask them if they’re brothers or just fuck-buddies,’ he said.

  Shortt frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not hard of hearing, are you, Jimbo? Just ask them if they’re related or lovers?’

  Shortt translated. The tallest of the three frowned and said something to him. Shortt repeated what he’d said. The three men pointed at Yokely and shouted.

  ‘Thought that would get them riled,’ said Yokely.

  ‘They’re brothers,’ said Shortt.

  ‘Good. We’ll be keeping it in the family, then,’ said the American. He took a bulbous silencer out of a pocket in his body armour and slowly screwed it to the barrel of his Glock. The brothers stared at it, then all three were talking at once.

  ‘Tell them to shut up, Jimbo,’ said Yokely.

  Shortt barked at them in Arabic and they fell silent.

  Yokely pointed at the Timberland boots on the feet of the eldest brother. ‘Ask him where he got the boots,’ he said to Shortt.

  Shortt translated. The Iraqi sneered at Yokely and said something, his lip curled back in a snarl.

  ‘Did he just tell me to go screw myself?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘Words to that effect,’ said Shortt.

  Yokely smiled. He pulled the trigger and shot the man’s left leg. His trousers turned red at the knee and he fell to the floor, screaming.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Haschka.

  ‘Hey what?’ said Yokely.

  The man rolled on the floor, holding his injured leg and moaning. Blood was pumping from the wound and pooling on the floorboards where it glistened in the candlelight. His face had gone deathly white – he looked as if he’d bleed out in minutes, Armstrong thought. He undid his belt, pulled it from round his waist, then used it to bind the man’s leg tightly above the knee. ‘I think you hit an artery,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Yokely.

  The other two men stared at their injured brother in horror. The youngest was trembling with fear. Yokely walked over to him and pointed the pistol at his face. ‘Tell him I want to know who he gave Spider to. I want their names. All their names.’

  ‘Yokely, you can’t do this,’ said Shortt.

  ‘I can do what the hell I want,’ said Yokely. ‘Now tell him.’

  Shortt translated. The man seemed unable to speak and his mouth moved soundlessly. Shortt said something and pointed at Yokely.

  Yokely waved his gun menacingly. The man flinched and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants. ‘Tell him I’ll count to five and then I’m going to shoot him too. In the balls.’

  ‘Yokely—’ said Shortt.

  ‘Tell him I’m a pretty good shot.’

  ‘This is madness,’ said Shortt. ‘We didn’t come to shoot unarmed men.’

  Yokely turned to Shortt. ‘This is my turf,’ he said. ‘This is where I work. I know how the game’s played here and it isn’t by the Queensberry Rules. These three pieces of shit took Spider off the streets at gunpoint, knocked him unconscious, and sold him for fifteen grand to people who will happily hack off his head with a bread-knife. Let’s not start feeling sorry for them. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you, and think they’re doing it with God’s blessing. So, just do as I ask and tell them I want the names of the men they sold Spider to. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you in the legs.’ He flashed Shortt a cold smile. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Do it, Jimbo,’ said Armstrong. He didn’t believe that Yokely would shoot Shortt, but he could see they’d have to increase the pressure if they were to get the men to talk. Spider and Geordie’s lives were on the line and if they didn’t find out where they were they would die horribly. He lit a cigarette and watched as Shortt spoke in Arabic. The man bega
n to wail. He put his palms together and banged his hands against his forehead.

  ‘Five,’ said Yokely. ‘Four. Three.’ He turned to look at Shortt. ‘You did tell him, right?’

  Shortt nodded.

  ‘Right then,’ said Yokely. ‘Two. One.’ He pulled the trigger and shot the wailing man in the groin. He screamed and fell into a foetal ball, his hands clasped between his legs. His screams turned to sobs.

  ‘What the hell is your problem?’ shouted Shortt.

  Yokely ignored him and pointed his gun at the last remaining brother. ‘Right, Jimbo, I want you to translate and I want to hear you do it without any bleating about human rights or unarmed innocents. This scumbag has watched me shoot both his brothers and he knows who he handed Shepherd over to. I want him to start talking or I’ll put a bullet in his head, and then I’ll start working on that bastard’s bad leg. Tell him it’s his choice.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘Oh, and tell him I’ll slaughter a pig and I’ll drench him in its blood before I bury him in the desert with the carcass on top of him. I understand that means he’ll never get into heaven.’

  ‘You’re a sick fuck,’ said Shortt.

  ‘Yes, I am, Jimbo, but I get things done. Now, translate.’

  Shortt spoke to the man in Arabic. As his brother before him, the man started to wail.

  Shortt continued to talk to him. Armstrong stubbed out his cigarette and checked the wound of the man who had been shot in the groin. He was curled up, breathing in short gasps.

  Yokely looked bored as he waited for Shortt to finish, then he aimed at the face of the Iraqi and tightened his finger on the trigger. The terrified man started to babble in Arabic. ‘What’s he saying, Jimbo?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘He’s saying he’ll talk. He’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Here they are,’ said Jordan. He flashed his headlights at the Land Cruiser heading their way. The 4 × 4’s lights flashed in reply and it parked on the opposite side of the road. Jordan waved at Haschka and Bosch, who waved back. Yokely climbed out of the rear and jogged across the road towards them.