Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  “Nah,” the boy said, “doesn’t know you, see.”

  Harry took out his wallet and gave the boy his last fifty — as a penalty for his stupidity. Jesus, I hope nobody hears about this, I’ll never live it down. He walked up the short driveway to the front door, past the cars that said ‘someone home’ as big as a billboard. What a bonehead.

  Bob opened the door as he approached, a big smile on his face. “I saw you with Trevor, so I guess you’re okay.”

  “I was,” Harry said sadly, “but I was richer then.”

  Bob nodded, though he had no idea what he was talking about. “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “Not going to cost me fifty, is it?” Harry asked, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to see a line of panhandlers with their hands out.

  Bob chuckled, getting it. “You met Steve in the Nelson, then?”

  “Yeah,” Harry said, guessing that would be the helpful barman. “And Tony.”

  “Ah,” Bob said, stepping aside for him to enter. “Big lad Tony.”

  “Apparently he hurts people.”

  “Not really,” Bob said and saw Harry’s puzzled look. “They’re usually unconscious way before it starts to hurt.”

  Bob poured them both a tumbler of clear liquid from an unlabelled bottle and handed one to Harry. He took a pull on it and almost burned his throat out.

  “Jesus Christ! What the hell is this stuff?”

  Bob raised his glass in salute and swallowed half of its contents without even a twitch. “It’s like vodka, but I distil it myself from potato and molasses.” He licked his lips. “Good, eh?”

  Harry nodded as a reflex and held up the glass to see if it had a chemical hazard symbol. It didn’t, so he sipped it again, and this time the scorching heat was less, though that might have been because he had no taste buds left. “Smooth,” he croaked.

  “Yeah,” Bob said, taking a seat on the sofa. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Harry Thorne,” Harry said, putting the glass of firewater on the floor beside the armchair he’d collapsed into. For later.

  “Like Harvey Thorne?”

  “Yeah, he’s my dad.”

  “Cool,” Bob said. “I like Harvey.” Then he appeared to consider that, but clearly agreed with himself. “Bit… err… you know?”

  Oh, Harry knew. “Eccentric? Yeah, that’s one word for it.”

  “He really got a bike?”

  Harry nodded. “Yeah, a Kawasaki ZX 10R.”

  “Bloody hell!” Bob said, with a whistle of admiration. “That’ll get you there before you start out.”

  “So,” Harry said, switching back to serious mode, “I’m in need of your particular… talents.”

  Bob waited and sipped his death juice.

  Harry thought about telling him it was a job to catch terrorists and save the world, but decided a lower-key approach would cause less stress. “I need to see what’s in the safe in a gay bar.”

  Bob watched him for a moment to see if he was truly nuts, but decided he wasn’t. “Okay,” he said.

  “Just like that?” Harry said, stunned.

  “You’re Harvey’s boy, right?”

  “Yeah, one of them.”

  Bob shrugged. “There you go, then. Harvey helps me, I help you. Easy.” He drained his glass, stood up, and pointed at it.

  “No, thanks, I’m still working on the last one.”

  Bob chuckled. “It’s an acquired taste.” He poured himself another. “So, when do you want to look in this safe?”

  Harry took a breath. “Tonight?” Yeah, like he’d agree to that. There’d be surveillance and planning and—

  “Okay,” Bob said. “I’ll drive.”

  No, you bloody won’t, Harry thought, looking at the bottle of firewater. “Tell you what, let’s get a taxi, that way nobody can write down any license numbers.”

  Bob thought for a microsecond and nodded, and put down the hundred-proof vodka, for which Harry almost thanked him.

  36

  If Ethan hadn’t read the two reports back to back, he probably would have missed the connection, even with his analytical skills, some things need to be in juxtaposition to be seen as connected. He put down the CIA report that had been routinely routed to him as part of the bullshit inter-agency cooperation forced on everyone by the Nine Eleven fiasco, took out three other reports from his desk, and read the one covering the progress on the search for the Silver Fox drone. The spooks in Afghanistan had heard a whisper that the drone had been shipped out of the country to destinations unknown. The pieces clicked together as he looked across the office and out onto the car park, as the questions popped up and were answered.

  Why had Lupus used some of his valuable bioweapon to kill those civilians in the village? Well, it caused the navy to send in a Silver Fox sensor drone to pick up any traces of nerve gas or other nasty toxins. And it had disappeared, which got the attention of the top brass, and they sent in the patrol. And that’s where Ethan frowned. Why? What was the point if they had the drone? What could killing a marine patrol add to the mix? He got up and crossed to the window, and as he walked, it came to him. A test? Of course, it was a test.

  He returned quickly to the desk and flicked through the report on the villagers’ deaths. Traces of Sarin had been found in the villagers, but not in the marines, they had died from an unknown and virulent disease. He put down the page. He knew Lupus had used the same biological agent that had killed Lieutenant Commander Jerome Patton and his patrol; it had to be. So, the attack on the village was all about testing the weapon. Lure the marines in and zap.

  And the drone? Why had that triggered an alarm in his head? He picked up one of the documents and read the technical details. A UAV weighing no more than twenty pounds, with detachable wings that meant it could be packed into a modified golf bag, an endurance of two hundred and fifty miles, and a control radius of twenty miles. He nodded gently as the numbers added up. It was the ideal delivery system for a bioweapon. The payload was limited to five pounds, but that would be plenty for a biological weapon. He put down the spec and read the CIA report. They had traced the drone to London. He reached for the phone with one hand while scooping up the papers with the other.

  An hour later he, Leroy Lee and Sam Ford were in an unmarked staff car heading for the airport.

  “Commercial flight, I hope,” Ethan said. “London’s a hell of a long way to hang in the sky in a bone-shaker C130.”

  “No worries, boss. First class all the way,” Leroy reassured him.

  “Yeah, and I’ll dance swan lake for the New York ballet,” Ethan said with a shake of his head.

  Leroy should have just let it go, but that that would have been a first. “Hey, boss, did you pack your tutu?” He grinned. “I think London’s got a pretty good ballet troupe.”

  “I hear they’re looking for some numb-nuts marine to guard the officer’s latrine — in McMurdo.”

  Leroy decided to check the Virginia woodland for insurgents and stared out of the car window intently.

  Later, Ethan reminded him of his words as they squeezed into economy seats. “First class all the way?”

  Leroy shrugged. “Hey, just a latrine guard, here, boss, nothing to do with me.”

  “Nine hours and change,” Sam said with a long sigh as he pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and fell asleep almost instantly, and minutes later the others were asleep too, applying the number one rule for soldiers everywhere: sleep when you can because it could be a long time before the chance comes round again. And a tired soldier pretty soon gets to sleep forever.

  37

  Mohammed Rahman Ali, known only to his enemies as Lupus, didn’t sneak into the country through some ferry port, but flew first class into Heathrow. He was the son of a Saudi prince, and if he couldn’t do something in style, then he didn’t do it, and that included his brand of freedom fighting. Met at the airport by a functionary from the Saudi embassy, he was fast-tracked through immigration and
was in a limo heading for London before most of the geese were off the plane.

  “It is a pleasure to see you, my friend,” said the immaculately dressed Saudi sitting opposite. “Would you like something?” He opened a cabinet to reveal spirits and wine.

  Lupus fixed him with a hard stare, just to be sure the man got the message, and then shook his head. “This place has corrupted you, my friend,” he said, using an address that had little meaning to him, few friends had survived the predators that struck without warning, and this man was not one of them. A petty official, and one who had strayed from the path. Allah would see to his education when the last day came.

  The man squirmed under the intense gaze and sought to change the subject. It had been a stupid error to show this man alcohol, what had he been thinking? He hoped to live to rectify his mistake. “We shall arrive soon,” he said. “Everything is as you requested.”

  “Good,” Lupus said, giving the man a practiced smile. “You have done well.”

  The man seemed to brighten. “Thank you.”

  “And the package?”

  “It has arrived and is being held by the armourer, as you requested.”

  Lupus nodded. “Good. And no one else knows of this?”

  The man looked surprised. “No, you and I only. Those were your orders, were they not?”

  Once again Lupus nodded. “You have done well. You will be rewarded.”

  The man licked his lips. “I do not seek reward. Only to know that my brother is safe.”

  “Your brother is safe,” Lupus said.

  Safe in the hands of Allah, almighty and glorious is He. He sat back and closed his eyes.

  38

  By the time Harry and Bob arrived at Oscar’s, it was already buzzing, latex and rubber just about everywhere, it was like an audition for Village People - the Movie. A few horrors checked them out, but clearly thought they were a couple, which was a sort of good news, bad news result.

  When they were finally alone in one of the sought-after booths they’d nipped in as it was vacated by two New York police officers — but only if NYPD wear bright blue cut-off latex shirts and rubber pants, which was possible, though unlikely. The cloying fog of God-knows-what perfume stung their eyes, and Bob tried to wave it away, only to attract the attention of a waiter in a full-length latex priest’s cassock, complete with huge silver cross.

  “Jesus!” Harry said in a stage whisper. “Cut out the bloody waving, you’ll have an audience in a minute.”

  Bob wrinkled his nose. “Any chance of a drink? This perfume is gagging me.”

  “No, there isn’t a chance of a drink, for Christ’s sake. What sort of burglar are you? Are you always pissed up on a job?”

  Bob shrugged. “Yeah, mostly. Helps to pass the time.” He smiled. “Can get a bit boring otherwise, mostly waiting about.”

  “Well, wait about sober, right?”

  “You’re the boss,” Bob said, watching an impossibly tall black guy stride past in a dazzling white zoot suit. He shook his head in disbelief. “Man, you couldn’t make this up.” He glanced at Harry, who was failing to respond, and saw him watching him steadily. “What?”

  Harry leaned forward. “The safe, remember?”

  “No hurry,” Bob said. “Let them get used to us being here first.”

  Which kinda made sense, so he sat back and watched the sights getting used to him. His favourite so far had to be the peacock latex marine uniform. Man, he knew a couple of guys who would have loved that, even if they wouldn’t admit it.

  After a few minutes, Bob spoke to him out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re having way too much fun.”

  “Why are you talking like Donald Duck?” Harry said in a normal voice.

  “Being secret.”

  “Well, stop being secret because you look bloody strange, and you’re attracting attention.

  “Ten four,” Bob said with a grin. “That’s what special ops say, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Harry said resignedly. “That and code blue, which I think we might be hearing sometime soon.”

  “Okay,” Bob said, clearly satisfied that they’d established communications, and also that they were fully integrated into this mad house. “We can go now.”

  “About bloody time,” Harry said, sliding out of the booth, but stopped, suddenly realising that he was out of his league on this mission.

  “Just do what I do,” Bob said, seeing his hesitation.

  “No way!” Harry hissed as Bob sashayed over to the bar. “I’ve got a bad leg,” he added in desperation and limped after him.

  Bob ordered two pink drinks and leaned on the bar, smiling. Happy gay people here, folks, nothing to worry about. He nodded almost imperceptibly at the door marked ‘staff only’, and Harry guessed it led to an area off limits to everyone except staff. Proving once again that our military training is second to none.

  This should be good, he thought as he looked casually around at the door in full view of everyone in the busy room. He turned back to ask Bob how the hell he intended to do it, but he was gone. Harry looked quickly back at the door as it swung gently closed and shook his head in admiration. Timing like that isn’t taught, it’s just natural. He glanced around casually, but the clientele had eyes only for each other. Oh, and the single white male standing all forlorn and injured at the bar and clearly in need of tender loving care.

  Bob arrived in the nick of time to save him from a really hairy guy in leather jodhpurs and waistcoat hanging open over his naked bony chest.

  “Sharon,” Harry said to the skinny guy, “this is Bob. Bob, this is Sharon. Say hello.”

  Bob looked from Harry to the jodhpurs-wearing advert for HIV and closed his eyes in dismay. “I leave you for five minutes,” he said with a long sigh. “And what do you do? You hit on some unsuspecting sister without any thought for how it might hurt when the truth comes out. You, Trixie Belle, are a tart, you know that?”

  Harry was having trouble breathing. “I know that,” he said eventually. “But it’s one of the things you love about me, right?”

  Bob smacked his ass, just to add authenticity to the insanity. Take me now, Lord, nothing can top this weirdness.

  “We could do a threesome,” HIV guy said. “I’m not picky.”

  So it could get weirder, then.

  “Love to,” Harry said, “but we’re on duty in an hour, and the sergeant is a real ball-breaker, you know what I mean?”

  HIV guy had no idea what he meant, but he sure as hell knew what a sergeant did. He managed cops, and cops are really bad news. He fled.

  “Come on, Trixie Belle,” Bob said with a chuckle, “let’s get the hell out of here before we catch something.”

  And that wasn’t nice, but Harry unconsciously wiped his hands on his jacket as he followed him from the club.

  Harry’s love life might have taken a change from non-existent to totally bizarre, but Annie was working on a plan to get her mother and father’s love life back on track and made her move while sharing the washing up with her mother. A totally selfless desire to see them reunited because she loved them both, she wanted only the best for them, they deserved happiness, their life together was worth one more try. And Margaret living in her apartment was severely cramping her social life. So, a mix of loving daughter and enlightened self-interest, but hey, that works.

  “You are joking?” Margaret said, when Annie first broached the subject.

  Annie shook her head. “Think about it, Mom, he strayed a little—”

  “With a tart!” Margaret said through clenched teeth.

  As if straying with, say a debutante, would have been just fine.

  Annie pouted for a moment. “He swears it was a prank gone wrong.”

  “I’d say it went wrong. I found out, that’s how it went wrong.”

  Not calmed down much, then. Annie tried a different tack. “Think about it for one moment—”

  “No, thank you,” Margaret said, bristling, “I have high bl
ood pressure.”

  “And it won’t get any lower bottling this up. But think about it. Can you honestly see any woman fancying Dad? I ask you.”

  Margaret glared at her. “What do you mean? Your father was a handsome man, and in many ways, still is.”

  Ah.

  “I suppose,” Annie said, sensing the opening. “You fell for him after all.”

  “Yes,” Margaret said, absently checking a pan for washing-up quality. “He was quite the catch.”

  Annie frowned an exaggerated frown. “How exactly did you find out about Dad and the… tart?”

  Margaret put down the pan and paddled the washing-up water with the mop. “Richard Coleman mentioned it at the conference we were attending.”

  “Mmm… Tricky Dickie,” Annie said.

  Margaret stopped fiddling with the washing-up water. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You tell me,” Annie said. “You’re the lawyer.”

  Margaret looked at her for several seconds. “If you are implying that Richard had some ulterior motive for mentioning it to me, then you are—”

  “He asked you out, didn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, but not for several weeks after your father and I—”

  “I think,” Annie said with a firm nod, “that constitutes motive and opportunity.”

  Margaret closed her eyes and shook her head in mock despair. “You watch too many American police shows.”

  But…

  Margaret licked her lips in a familiar tell. “But now you mention it, it was a shitty thing to do.”

  “Shitty little man,” Annie said and shook her head knowingly. “You have to say Dick to say Dickie.”

  “True.” Margaret wiped her hands on a towel and walked slowly out of the kitchen.

  Annie smiled and followed her, sensing her apartment returning to its rightful owner. “Sounds to me like you were set up so you wouldn’t believe Dad, no matter what his reasons—”

  “Excuses,” Margaret said, but the edge was missing.

  “Whatever, but if the shitty little man hadn’t mentioned it, maybe you would have heard it from Dad, and then been more inclined to believe his explanation.”