Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  Okay, one giant step for mankind. He overdid the next step, too eager to just get this bloody daftness over with and start running again.

  Lucy, the cute physio, caught him as he started to fall backwards. “Not so fast, Harry, give yourself time.”

  Yeah, as if he was ever going to do that.

  He took a breath, ignored the screaming pain in his chest as the gouged rib protested, and set off. Three more steps and he had it. Out into the corridor, down past the bog and shower room, back up the corridor and into his room. Five minutes flat.

  “Okay,” he said a little breathlessly as he sat on the edge of the leather physio couch. “What’s next?”

  Lucy frowned. “Nothing, this is all the next you’re going to get, at least for two more weeks.”

  “Bollocks to that,” Harry said, standing. He steadied himself and then put down his left foot.

  “Harry!” Lucy took his arm. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Soonest started, soonest finished,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “No, no, this isn’t the way.” Lucy pushed and manhandled him back onto the couch. “You idiot! You’re not ready for that. You’ll tear the stitches and be back in theatre.” She actually wagged her finger at him. “Now, you listen to me.”

  He listened, the pain in his thigh telling him she spoke not with forked tongue.

  “First, we get your strength back, while we let nature and medical science heal you. Then you sign up for the marathon. Deal?”

  He nodded. “Deal.” God, he could do with a drink.

  “Very well, one more time.”

  He sighed. This was going to be a hell of a lot harder than fighting the Taliban.

  Amen to that.

  6

  Harvey’s apartment was huge, belying the axiom that crime doesn’t pay — except when other people commit it, that is.

  He sat on the long leather sofa with his feet on the inlaid wooden coffee table and looked out through the window wall at the Thames traffic passing below. He poured himself another coffee from the tray next to his feet and sighed a tired sigh. The doorbell rang, dragging him back from the edge of what was promising to be a nice quiet rest.

  He opened the door, prepared to tell the hawker that he didn’t want one, and there stood Ashley, a sultry brunette of Latino descent. His mouth formed a perfect O. He looked her over. He just couldn’t help himself. She was in her early twenties, with long straight hair over her shoulders and dark eyes that glistened and flashed sensual mischief. She wore a tight, brown vest under a khaki military-style jacket. The vest was short, and her tanned and firm stomach peeked out between it and the top of her beltless blue jeans. Nobody should be that beautiful; she made the rest of the world look drab.

  She smiled a white and beautifully even smile. “Is Rocky in?”

  Harvey blinked, closed his mouth, and blinked again, and then pulled himself together with a shake of his head. “Rocky? I’m sorry, you have the wrong apartment.” Which was a pity.

  “Ashley?”

  Harvey’s son stepped between him and the door, took the girl’s hand, and led her into the living room and immediately towards his room.

  “Rocky?” Harvey said to his departing son.

  “Yeah,” the boy said. “Can’t have a name like Warrington if you’re a serious musician.”

  “I hate to break it to you… Rocky, but you’re tone deaf.” Harvey gave a quick shake of his head. “Do you remember your piano teacher? She was in tears when we came to collect you.”

  Rocky shrugged and followed Ashley into his room. “Don’t worry, Pops, don’t play the piano. Cheers.”

  Harvey watched him go and wondered if he should say something about him going to his room with a stunning young woman. He decided against it, what was he going to say, anyway, that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot or a prude?

  Rocky put his head back round the door. “Hey, what’s this I hear about Mom going on a date?” He nodded approvingly. “Good for her.”

  “Thanks for your support.”

  “Hey, Pops, I was just saying.”

  “And,” Harvey said sternly, “I’m just saying, you call me Pops again, you’ll be looking for somewhere more in keeping with your struggling musician persona.”

  “Gotcha, Pop… Dad. But I’m not going to be struggling for long, we made a demo and sent it to the record companies.” He winked. “Phone’ll be ringing any minute. Want to hear the demo?”

  Harvey almost cricked his neck with the speed of the shake. “No. No. No, thank you.” He could’ve added a few more no’s, but didn’t want to seem too negative.

  “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.” Rocky winked again. A tic perhaps. “Didn’t they do that when you were a kid, back in the olden days?”

  “No,” Harvey said firmly, “we did not. We studied hard and lived clean lives.” Well, there was someone who wasn’t going to heaven.

  Rocky stared at him for several seconds, lost for words, before closing the door quietly.

  Harvey watched the door for a moment, thinking about his youth, and all that, err… rock ’n’ roll. God, was it that long ago?

  Rocky pushed the door closed with the heel of his foot and smiled broadly at Ashley bending over the computer desk in the corner, rummaging in the bottom drawer for nothing in particular. Her blue jeans were stretched tight across buttocks that told of long workouts in the gym. He stepped closer and patted her behind firmly, with the denim creating a muffled slap. She giggled and waggled just a little.

  She continued to rummage in the bottom drawer for something she wasn’t looking for as Rocky reached around her waist and undid the top button of her jeans, then slowly unzipped them. He hooked his fingers into the waist and pulled them down slowly, careful not to move the white lace panties. They were for later.

  Rocky smiled, turned her to face him, and kissed her hard. He unfastened her bra and tossed it onto the bed, stepped back and looked her over very slowly, starting at her feet, working up her legs, lingering for a moment where they met her body, then on up to her small breasts that stood out firm and tanned.

  She shuddered from the tingle the slow look gave her, reached down, and pulled off his T-shirt. Later… had arrived. He stepped out of his jeans and took a step, stopped, and took off his socks.

  Ashley jumped onto the bed, pulled down the pillows and made a pile for his back. She patted them, and her breasts bounced. This wasn’t going to take long. He glanced at the clock. Luckily reinforcements were on the way. And Ashley and Amanda loved each other, so all he’d have to do is watch. Well, at least for a while.

  Harvey glanced at Rocky’s door and shook his head slowly at the loud music. Though, if he wasn’t mistaken, that was Neil Young. So things hadn’t changed that much since he was a kid. He poured himself another coffee, sat back into the big chair, and got ready for a well-deserved rest. The doorbell rang as soon as he put his feet up, and he sighed heavily, a new and increasingly frequent mannerism. He got up heavily, crossed the big room, and opened the door.

  “Evening, son,” Frank said, the scruffy old man standing behind a battered suitcase.

  “Dad!” Harvey said and instinctively looked both ways down the short corridor, as if he expected to see others there. He expected to see the police.

  Frank leaned back and followed his look. “Don’t worry, son,” he said with a cheeky smile, “nobody saw me come in. I used the back door.”

  “No, that wasn’t—”

  “Yes, it was,” Frank said, still smiling, “but that don’t matter. Can’t blame you.”

  Harvey was about to ask how he managed to use the locked back door, but some things are best left unknown.

  Frank picked up his case, walked into the apartment, and looked around appreciatively. “Like what you’ve done to the place.”

  Harvey had his frown again. “It hasn’t changed since the last time you were here.”

  “My point exactly.” Frank’s smile widened.
“Margaret was here then, wasn’t she?”

  Harvey ignored that. “What can I do for you, Dad?” As if he didn’t know.

  “What makes you think you need to do anything? Can’t I just visit?”

  “Yes, yes, of course you can. You’re always welcome, you know that.” And any lingering chance of heaven popped out like a faulty fairy light.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” Frank said with a slow shake of his head. “Just as long as I don’t stay.”

  “No, not at all,” Harvey said hurriedly, slipping his head into the noose. “You can stay as long as you like.”

  Snick.

  “Thank you, son,” Frank said, picking up the battered suitcase. “I’ll take this to my room, then.” He strolled over to the door next to the one used by Rocky and the Latino lovely.

  “No, wait,” Harvey said, with a hint of desperation. “When I said you could stay as long as you like, I meant—”

  Frank looked over his shoulder. “Oh, then you don’t mind me living on the streets?”

  Harvey was confused, which for a barrister was a terminal affliction. “Why would you be living on the streets? What’s happened to your house?”

  “Nothing,” Frank said. “Oh, your mother threw me out.”

  “What?” Harvey sat on the back of the sofa, suddenly feeling the need for support. “What on earth for?”

  “She found out about the barmaid from the Bush.”

  Harvey frowned. “The Bush? You mean that brassy blonde girl with the big—”

  “The very one,” Frank said, his smile back, but bigger.

  “But she’s only about thirty years old!”

  “Twenty-seven, actually,” Frank corrected.

  “That is a very disturbing image.”

  “Depends on your point of view,” Frank said with a wink.

  “Well, no wonder Mom threw you out.”

  “Oh, it was all getting a bit strained anyway, what with the drinking and gambling.”

  Harvey waved him towards the bedroom door, admitting defeat. “The barmaid, gambling and drinking? I’m surprised Mom didn’t just kill you.”

  Frank opened the bedroom door and peered into the immaculate room, a state soon to change. “It wasn’t me with the drinking and gambling.” He pushed the door. “It was your mother.”

  Harvey did a double take as the door started to close behind Frank. He was joking, right?

  The door opened again. “If you still have those blokes in waiter suits bring your meals, get them to bring me a nice rare steak with everything on.” He started to close the door and then stopped. “Oh, and a bottle of single malt.” He pulled a face. “That stuff you drink gives me terrible gas.” He closed the door.

  Harvey looked up. “Thank you, God, that makes my life complete.”

  Harry was walking, if that’s what they call the slow stagger he was using to get out of the hospital. Two weeks of agonizing exercise, punctuated by agonising rest, but he was bloody well determined not to be a victim. Sod the sympathy, that and a buck would buy a coffee. He was out of there.

  “Okay, Harry,” Lucy said, still fussing, “we can’t make you stay, but you have to be careful.” She put a hand on his shoulder, and he stopped. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Harry flashed a smile that lit up his lined face. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I wouldn’t buy a used car from you if that’s the best you can do.”

  Harry chuckled and raised his hand to touch her, but quickly put it back on the elbow crutch that was the main reason he was still upright. “Okay, I promise I will stick with the exercises and the medication, and the ice, and the—”

  “Okay, I believe you,” she said, stepping past him and triggering the electronic door. “But you must continue your rehab and visit the physio I have recommended.”

  He nodded. “Deal,” he said, resuming the slow walk to freedom, and then stopped and looked back. “Hey, thanks, Lucy, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Bloody right you couldn’t!” She smiled and ushered him on. “Now get out of my sight, I have a busy day.”

  He winked and walked back into his life, with no intention whatsoever of visiting any more torturers masquerading as physiotherapists. What he did intend to do, though, was to get the hell out of there, go home, and go to the pub.

  He climbed awkwardly into the taxi, glanced at the crutch for a moment, tossed it onto the neatly trimmed grass, and slammed the door. The taxi started off, stopped, and he leaned out the window to ask a kid on a small scooter to please pass the crutch he’d accidentally dropped.

  7

  Valentin Tal stood quietly in line in front of the immigration desk and watched his fellow travellers shuffling slowly towards the grim-faced officials. He was smiling, but he had plenty to smile about. He was alive for the first time since ’91, before his beloved Soviet Republic had been brought to its knees by lust for Western materialism. It still didn’t seem possible that such an unshakable world power had simply imploded. It was Gorbachev’s blind drive for modernisation that had turned the USSR into a laughing stock, compounded by the oligarchs flashing the obscene fortunes they had made off the backs of the ordinary man.

  Valentin handed his passport to the official.

  But the days of rolling over for the Americans were gone, and a new dawn was rising over the world, a dawn that would dazzle everyone. And he almost believed it.

  The grim immigration officer behind the desk asked if the purpose of his visit was business or pleasure.

  “My business is my pleasure,” Valentin replied with a little nod. He could say that sort of thing openly now, nobody would remember him, not after more than twenty years.

  The officer gave him a long, hard look, and just for a moment, Valentin wondered if he’d been too smug, but then the officer handed him his passport and invited him into the UK with a nod.

  Had it been a week later, the grey border agency officer behind the one-way glass would be retired and Valentin would have passed through anonymously. But on such straws of bad luck, whole campaigns have been known to trip. Mike Taft did a double take as Valentin walked past the immigration desk and stepped closer to the glass. Even with the evidence scant feet away, he could barely believe it. Valentin Tal. He was sure he’d died years ago, and probably not from natural causes. He reached for the phone.

  Valentin stepped out into London Heathrow’s polluted air and took a breath. All those years he’d been buried in the counterintelligence division of the former KGB they’d rebranded as the Federal Security Service, but now he had a real mission, and he wasn’t going to screw it up. Soon Russia would be back, and the world would see how she dealt with the gangsters who had made a fool of her.

  And that he did believe.

  8

  Harry stepped out of the lift on Harvey’s floor and waited for his breath to settle down. No point looking all weakly and girlie for the old man. Okay. He steadied himself on the lightweight crutch that was to be his constant companion and set off for the apartment.

  Harvey was out, which was no surprise, it being a working day, but Frank was home and opened the door with a glass of single malt in his hand, and pulled the door all the way open when he saw Harry. “Hey,” he said with a big grin. “You should’ve said they were chucking you out, and I’d have come to get you.”

  Harry clunked into the apartment and sat at the round table still littered with Frank’s breakfast that had been incrementally delivered by several waiters. He breathed a long sigh of relief now the nightmare journey was finally over. Maybe Lucy had been right, maybe it was a bit early. Bollocks, a man could die just lying about in hospital, and in fact, he’d seen some of the wounded do just that. A sobering thought. And speaking of sober…

  “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it, Gramps?” He pointed at the glass in Frank’s hand.

  “I think it’s a bit late, really.”

  It was a joke about his age, Harry had
heard it before, and it still wasn’t funny.

  Frank saw the look, put down the glass, and changed the subject. “So, what’re you going to do now the marines have chucked you out?”

  Sensitive, caring, thoughtful, tactful — all words that didn’t fit what he’d just said.

  “Not chucked out,” Harry said. “Yet.”

  “Right,” Frank said, unconvinced.

  Harry rested his head in his hands, more tired now than he could remember ever being, and on patrol in Helmand he’d been totally shagged most of the time, but that had been different. Being that close to a sniper’s round or an IED does something to a man’s perception of what he can endure.

  “Let me get you something,” Frank said, the smile gone. “You look done in.”

  Harry lifted his head and forced a weak smile. “Nah, I just need to rest.”

  “I think your room is still pretty much as you left it.”

  “Oh, shit. Then it’ll look like a small hurricane hit it.”

  Frank chuckled. “Do you think your mom and your sis would just leave your room in a mess?”

  That was a fine example of a redundant question, and Harry smiled. He started to get up and waved away Frank’s offer to help. “Old bugger like you,” Harry said with a chuckle, “you’ll have us both over.”

  He slept like a dead person, perhaps experiencing what he’d narrowly missed, and didn’t wake up until eight thirty the next day, way past his usual reveille.

  Harvey was already up, sitting at the round table eating a breakfast of toast and boiled eggs and reading a fawning article discussing the dubious benefits of the UK forming an alliance with the United States and Germany — which to some might have seemed ironic — to rape the Arctic of its resources. A treaty to be signed soon. We’re all going to be rich, he thought, with a slow shake of his head. He looked up in surprise when Harry clanked into the room on his crutches.

  “Harry?” he said and put down the toast. “Nobody told me you were coming.”