by Leigh Barker
She leaned back, sighed, and poured a glass of the liquid the restaurant called wine. “Tell me about it,” she said disinterestedly. “It helps to bounce ideas off somebody.”
Off somebody who isn’t interested? Doubtful.
“They’re going to use the Queen’s jubilee barge,” he began, and she nodded. “A bit of a flim-flam, but it will make the politicians feel important.” He took the glass of wine she’d poured and swapped it for his empty one. “I took a launch along the whole route from Putney to Tower Bridge today.”
“Clever you,” she said, lifting the bottle of wine-ette to find it was empty. “And what did you find?” She raised her hand. “And I know it’s a river, and that it rained, and that rain makes you wet. So you can just skip that.”
Pity, it would have been so funny. He sighed. “Nothing.” He saw her puzzled look. “Oh, sure, there are positions that offer a perfect shot at the river and anything on it. And that’s the problem, there are hundreds of them.”
“Then,” Laura said, “we have to narrow the parameters.”
Which made a hell of a lot of sense, but best not to mention it.
“Okay,” Harry said, “like how?”
“Easy enough,” she said, taking back her glass of wine. “Eliminate the impossible, the improbable, the unlikely, and the downright silly, and focus on what’s left.”
And that made total sense too, which was seriously worrying for Harry’s male ego and Neanderthal expectations of a woman’s logical thinking.
“Okay,” she said, ignoring his look. “This sniper person—”
“Valentin Tal.”
“Right, Valentin Tal. He’ll want to make a splash.” She raised her hand again and stopped that one. “So he’ll want to shoot them in front of the world’s cameras.” She sipped the wine and quickly put it down. “So, it won’t happen on the stretch between Putney and Waterloo Bridge. There’s nothing there the cameras would be interested in. They’ll want to see the great ones signing and shaking hands and waving to the fans who hate them.”
“Okay, so far so good,” Harry said, quietly impressed. “And the signing is right there at Tower Bridge.” He sat upright. “The shooting’s going to happen at Tower Bridge!”
Laura applauded slowly and quietly. “Give the boy a banana.”
“All I have to do,” he said, missing the implied comparison, “is work out the sightline from the bridge and I’ll be able to select the best perches.” He smiled, as if he’d worked it out himself, which of course he had — at least the last bit. He started to get up in eagerness to get it done.
“Where are you going?” Laura asked, knowing the answer already. “You know it’s dark, don’t you?”
He looked out of the window, and sure enough, it was still dark. He sat down again and poked at the oily meal that was rapidly cooling to a congealed mess on his plate.
“We could go,” Laura said.
He looked up. “But it’s dark,” he said, puzzled.
“Yes,” Laura said, “but there are things we could do in the dark that are more fun than standing on Tower Bridge.” She stood up slowly. “And I’m in court in the morning, so I need to be up early.”
He frowned as he tried to work out if she was saying what he thought she was saying. She raised an eyebrow at him, and her eyes twinkled. And there it was. A beautiful young woman inviting him in, without having to pay, or beat her insensible with a stick. He should stand up, hold her chair, help her on with her coat. And any of those things would have been better than what he was doing, that being sitting with his mouth open like an idiot.
“I’m going back to my place,” she said. “You coming?”
He knocked his chair over in his haste and grinned foolishly at the half-dozen diners, who gave him no more than a passing glance. Idiots are everywhere.
They took a taxi back to her apartment, and all the way there, he was wondering why he hadn’t even thought about sex with her before. She was stunning. He looked her over, and she watched him from the reflection in the taxi window.
He paid the driver and gave him too much tip, but what the hell? He followed her up the steps and into her apartment building. He was glad he’d taken a shower before she’d arrived. How stupid was it to think that at a time like this? He shook off the thought and replaced it with one just as stupid. Would the condoms in his wallet still be okay after all this time? She’d be on the pill, stupid. Yeah, but should he ask? Oh, great, that would go down well. ‘Excuse me, Laura, but have you read the safe sex manual?’ For God’s sake, pull yourself together. What are you, twelve?
She held her apartment door open for him, like a gentleman role reversal, and he went in and closed his eyes for a moment while he got his head together.
He heard the clink of glasses and turned to find her holding out a half a glass of amber liquid and ice. He took the drink and sipped it, the ice clinking loudly in the silent room.
“I’ll go and—”
“Slip into something more comfortable?” he said with a grin.
She gave him a long, long look and walked out of the sitting room without a glance back. Harry looked at the half-open door and shook his head. Something more comfortable? Oh God, take me now. Come on, Jesus! It’s not like you haven’t done it before. Yeah, but so long ago, it was like a black-and-white movie. It’s like falling off a log. Ever tried getting onto a log with a gammy leg? He took another sip of whisky, but it didn’t help, so he put the glass down before it screwed up what was left of his wits. Okay, time’s up. Time to man-up. He needed to get his mind off being so nervous and stupid. He stepped into the bedroom and got exactly what he needed.
Laura was lying on the big bed, wearing nothing but the black judge’s gown and tapping her naked thigh with the extra-wide pink leather spanking riding crop—the one that guaranteed to provide more slap and less sting.
Harry smiled. Which Laura read as approval, but was, in fact, relief. He crossed to the bed, took the spanking riding crop, and tossed it over his shoulder. “We won’t be needing that,” he said and put his finger on her lips before she could say whatever it was she was about to. He slipped the gown off her shoulders and started to toss it to join the whip, but changed his mind and put it carefully on the dresser. It might be the lawyer’s outfit, and he wouldn’t want her to look anything but her best in court.
He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the brow, straightened a little, and smoothed down her hair, then let his hand run down the side of her face to the top of the gown. It fell off her shoulders and back onto the bed. He looked down at her breasts, small but firm and with slightly oversized areola around her long nipples. He felt a kick as a shiver ran down his back and round to his groin.
She reached over and touched his belt, but he moved her hand. “There’ll be plenty of time for that.” He touched the tip of her nose. “You first.”
She didn’t get it. Was he gay?
He walked around the bed and sat down next to her, bent and kissed her lips, sucking her bottom lip and touching her tongue with the tip of his. She closed her eyes. Question answered. He leaned on his elbow and let his eyes run over her body, resting on her breasts for a moment before moving on.
She looked up at him, fully dressed, while she lay naked. It was erotic and felt a little naughty. She closed her eyes and let him look. When his fingertips touched her nipple, she jumped. It was nuts, what was this? Usually it was flip you over, wham-bam, thank you, ma’am, and d’ya fancy a beer? But this…
He kissed her gently on the forehead, swung off the bed, and began stripping off his clothes and dropping them over the arm of the chair next to the dresser, looking for all the world like he was getting ready for bed without any sense of hurry.
She watched him with pleasure as he took off his clothes, but when he pulled off his boxers, she gave a little cry. He looked over his shoulder and followed her eyes to the pinched and puckered bullet wound in his left buttock.
“Souvenir from the T
aliban,” he said with a shrug.
“Does it hurt?” she asked and was immediately aware of what a stupid question that was.
“Nah,” he said. “Except when I do this.” He poked the wound and made a show of staggering.
She sat bolt upright, instinctively reaching for him, only to see him grinning like a kid at her and standing just fine.
“You,” she said with a slow shake of her head, “are a complete prick.”
He looked down at his penis standing out hard and proud and took a little bow. “Well, thank you. We try to please.” He stepped up and knelt on the bed. “Speaking of which.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her, gently at first, but then growing in intensity as his tongue found hers.
It had been a while, a long while, and he could feel the first rapid thrusts begin. No. Not yet.
Okay, you want to shoot a duck on the river at three-hundred yards. What factors do you need to consider?
His mind flooded with the feel and the scent her.
Direction and angle to the target would have to be considered!
She pinched his nipples and swung her hips down and right and left.
And shooting down onto the river will reduce the bullet drop.
He cupped her left breast and stroked the nipple with His right hand, and her head kicked back in pleasure.
Then there’s the wind, and wind over water is unpredictable!
“God, yes!” she screamed and rocked her hips as if riding a horse.
Assuming it’s a scope shot, then using the mirage would be the best approach, but heat waves don’t behave the same coming up off water.
He opened his eyes as Laura leaned over him, her hands on either side of his head, and her small breasts inches from his lips, bouncing in counter-time to her long, slow hip thrusts. Her eyes were tight shut, and her breath was ragged and sharp. His hips synched with hers, pushing, gyrating, becoming harder and deeper with each thrust…
Assume the wind is full value, that being right across the bullet’s flight, from 3 o’clock, and fluttering the leaves, so around 10 mph.
Laura reached between her legs and raked his scrotum gently with her fingernails. His eyes snapped open as she sat up, slammed down on him and squeezed her breasts in both hands, screaming to God.
He would have to dope the scope by 10 clicks on the minute of angle scope. Then he could aim… who gives a shit about a duck!
He reached up and took over massaging her breasts as they crashed together. She cried out, almost in pain, and clenched her fists as her body shuddered and shook.
And a minute later she rolled off him and tried to catch her breath. “Jesus!” she gasped. “How did you do that?”
He blew out his breath, long and slow, and pushed himself up onto one elbow. He reached over and drew a slow figure-of-eight over her nipples. “I’m going to take a bit of a break now,” he said with a flashing smile. “So you’re up.” He stroked the inside of her thigh with his fingers. “But try to save some energy. You’re going to need it.”
48
Branislav and Jurgen had taken the train from London to Exeter, where they hired a car to travel out to the northern moors of Dartmoor, designated by the military as a live firing area, which, if you’re going to test fire a couple of sniper rifles, speaks for itself. Sometimes it’s better to hide in plain sight, providing there is nobody around to see you. Which is why the brothers had chosen this piece of real estate, long since fallen into disuse by the army, but kept on the books, just in case. Anyway, who wants civilians tramping around and probably getting themselves blown up? Causes a great deal of bother.
The Vogel brothers weren’t tramping around, Branislav was standing on a windswept hillside in the middle of windswept nothing, and scanning the moor with binoculars for any sign of hikers, bikers, or idiots. After several minutes of meticulous inspection, he was satisfied that they were alone and turned and watched Jurgen trudging off across the peat towards a distant copse. He returned to the Land Rover and pulled one of the rifle cases from the back, taking his time because Jurgen was going to be a while. He pulled out a tarpaulin purchased from a camping shop on route, looked across the moor at the stunning landscape, and wondered why anyone in their right mind would want to spend a night out here in all this icy damp, though he knew a few German tourists who would probably be first into the freezing stream. He shook his head and wished he was American because at least they went to Florida for their vacation.
He crossed to the rocky outcrop they had selected as their base, laid the tarpaulin on the wet ground, and unpacked the rifle, refitted the barrel and the scope, slid the butt out to the required distance for his arm and extended the bipod onto a flat rock. Through the binoculars, he could see Jurgen just in front of the copse, busily erecting the target. A man-sized silhouette of a stag, as a man-sized silhouette of the president might have been a bit of a tell, should anyone see them out here in this bleak noplace.
After a few minutes, he saw Jurgen walk away to the right and stand next to the biggest tree available, this being a bent and crippled oak. A moment later, the phone in Branislav’s pocket vibrated.
He wiped the fine rain from his face, lay on the wet tarpaulin, and felt the icy water creep onto his skin, having found every tiny gap in his waterproofs. On a moor, in the rain, lying on the ground, cold and wet. It was like a school holiday. Next time, they would shoot somebody in the sun.
He pushed the seven-round mag into the weapon, used the mil dot reticle on the scope to determine the range. The stag target was exactly two metres high. He multiplied this by a thousand and divided that by the mil dot indicator. One thousand eight hundred metres. He adjusted the scope gently, took a long slow breath, let it out, squeezed the trigger and, without looking at the result, stood and walked back to the Land Rover. He opened the tailgate and returned with the gear they would actually use on the day. The rock he’d chosen was ideal for the laser range-finder binoculars and the ballistic computer, which he plugged together before kneeling down to focus the laser on the stag’s body. There would be no head shot on this mission, at this range that was just too risky, and unnecessary, as a hit anywhere on the target’s body would produce a massive and fatal shock to the organs, as well as the loss of a huge chunk of flesh. When he was happy the target was set in the centre, he returned to the computer and read the elevation and windage results, which he used to make tiny adjustments to his manual settings. He lay down again on the wet tarpaulin, took slow breaths, and fired. The sound of the high velocity round was cushioned and swallowed by the sea of peat that covered the landscape from horizon to horizon. There would be no need for a suppressor on this mission, two shots were all that was required.
A moment later his phone vibrated, and this time he answered it. Jurgen had come out from the shelter of the oak, which could have been seen as a bit of an insult, it being ten metres from the target, but with a round one and half times bigger than the famous Dirty Harry .357 Magnum and travelling at supersonic speed, there wouldn’t have been a second chance to say “oops”.
Forty minutes later and twenty rounds fired, Branislav trudged out across the moor in the rain and worsening wind and passed his brother more or less halfway. “You know we have to do this again,” he said, with a sad shake of his head, but Jurgen knew. There was no guarantee, even in this rain-soaked country, that the weather would be like this, so they would need to repeat the exercise on a dry, calm day. Great, but at least that meant it wouldn’t be as grim.
By lunchtime, both rifles were fine-tuned and the values stored in the ballistic computer. With great relief, they packed the rifles away in the Land Rover, along with the range finder, scope, and the targets with closely grouped holes, and bounced away from that desolate place.
Branislav tuned the radio to the weather, and they listened to the promise that things were going to be dry and warmer tomorrow. He glanced at his brother, who was trying to pick the least rutted route off the moor, and received a nod.
So they would be staying locally to repeat the exercise the next day. Then they would be ready for the main event. In a few days, they would be lying on a beach in South America, if things went well. If not, they would be lying on something a whole lot colder.
49
The courtroom was quiet and dignified, as courtrooms were supposed to be, and the judge was old, which was pretty much ditto. He rapped his gavel to silence the court that was already silent, and the case of the Crown versus Robert Doyle was underway.
Margaret was first up, being the prosecution, and gave Harvey and Laura a pitying look as befits the defenders of the indefensible. She looked over at Bob standing in the dock and looking smart and presentable in his new suit, purchased by Laura before the trial. She cut straight to the chase.
“Mr Doyle, did you break into number 23 Harlington Street Belgravia on the night of the nineteenth of July?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then can you tell the court what you were doing in Saint James’ Park, less than five hundred yards from the home of Lady Druce-Wright on the evening in question?
Harvey stood up. “Objection, M’Lud. Five hundred yards is a long way from anywhere.”
The judge shook his head. “Overruled. The defendant will answer the question.”
Bob shrugged. “He’s right, though, Your Majesty, five hundred yards will get you anywhere in London.”
The judge tried to smother a smile and failed. “It is not necessary to address me as Your Majesty.”
“Sorry, guv,” Bob said.
“Or guv,” the judge said, losing his smile. “You may address me as Your Honour. Now please answer the question.”
“Okay, guv… Your Honour. I was in the park, true. I was rescuing a dog.”
“Ah, the dog,” Margaret said, raising her voice for dramatic effect. “If it pleases the court, I should like to present Crown Exhibit A, Lady Druce-Wright’s dog.”
“Objection, m’lud,” Harvey said, standing up quickly. “Is my client charged with stealing a pet dog?”