Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  “I said turn that shit off,” Detroit said quietly.

  Tweetie Pie skipped down the stairs from the upstairs flat. He was dressed almost normally, wearing tight black trousers, a slightly frilly white shirt, and slip-on white pumps. He was feeling happier than he’d felt since Talcum had been killed. Curly and Betty were his friends again, he’d got back his job as barman and customer services manager, and things were finally looking up.

  “What is all that noise?” he scolded.

  Detroit scooped the submachine gun off the bar in a single fluid movement and shot him twice, with no more than a thump from the gun.

  Tweetie sat back onto the stairs, looked down, and tried to touch the holes in his chest, but his fingers wouldn’t do as they were told. That was his favourite blouse, and now it was ruined. Suddenly very tired, he leaned back against the steps and died.

  Curly Sue stood up from among the broken glass and stared in horror at the bodies. He froze, transfixed by the MAC-10, made even bigger by its oversized silencer pointing his way.

  “Now,” Detroit said in the same quiet tone, as if he was a friend over for tea. “Show me where you keep all your data.”

  Curly’s brain wouldn’t cooperate, and he stared open-mouthed at the gunman until the gun rapped on the bar and rattled the glasses. “What?” was all he could manage.

  “Now,” Detroit said, “I can understand how all this… tribulation… can throw you a curve, so I’m going to break a rule and ask you again.” He raised the business end of the gun a fraction to make a point. Point made.

  “Data?” Curly said quickly. “Do you mean the computer?”

  Detroit nodded. “If that’s where you keep all your business records, then yes.”

  Curly pointed at the stairs where Tweetie’s body lay, and Detroit twitched the gun to encourage him to lead the way.

  Despite his appearance, Curly Sue was as tough as a junkyard dog and at least as vicious, and had no intention of walking quietly to his death. He slowed his stride a fraction, as if overcome with grief at the sight of his friend’s body, staggered as though in shock, spun on his heel, and went low and forward, his hand sweeping up and out and connecting with the machine gun. It was a desperate move that worked better than he could have hoped. He had the machine gun in his extended right hand and pulled it back to his body to give the guy a taste of his own medicine. But something was wrong, he felt it even as his left hand came round to grab the gun.

  Something was wrong, fatally wrong. Detroit had simply released the sub-machine gun as soon as Curly touched it. Getting into a wrestling match over the weapon was fool’s play and unnecessary. He shot Curly once in the head with the .22 he’d slid casually from under his left arm. Gun nuts always say a .22 has no stopping power, but in the hands of an expert, it is a gruesome weapon, powerful enough to put a round into the skull, but not enough power to punch through, so it just bounces around in there, tearing everything up.

  He took the gun from Curly’s hand, stepped over his body, and crossed to the stairs. People always did something desperate like that. And it always ended the same way.

  He took a moment to wipe the blood from his shoe on Tweetie’s shirt. A man has to have pride in his appearance.

  55

  Valentin’s cell phone buzzed, and he put it to his ear slowly. Only two people knew his number. “Yes?”

  “Tal, it’s me,” said one of the two. “There’s a sniper team on Tower Bridge looking for your boys.”

  Valentin smiled quickly and then killed it in case it showed in his voice. “Thank you for letting me know. I will not forget.”

  “Make sure you don’t,” the speaker said.

  “Mr Carter, have I not been prompt with your payments?”

  “Yeah,” Carter said in a hushed whisper, “but after this morning, you might forget. Don’t.” The line went dead.

  Valentin allowed the smile to return. Sometimes unexpected developments improve an already detailed plan. He selected a number and pressed the call button.

  56

  The television crews had arrived and had set up across the bridge and on the piers for the big signing. Harry looked carefully downriver, but it was too early for anything dramatic, so he returned to scanning the buildings through the spotter scope. He looked back over his shoulder as Shaun wheezed onto the top step and stopped for a moment to catch his breath before he died from altitude sickness.

  The bare wooden floor creaked and complained as Harry crossed to the stairs, took one of the take-out coffees from Shaun, and tasted it. “Ah, I wanted sugar,” he said, offering the cup back to Shaun to return for the sweetener.

  Shaun fixed him with his pale blue eyes, which narrowed as he began to visualise slowly strangling him.

  “Second thoughts,” Harry said with a quick smile, “I could do with losing some weight.” He took the coffee back to the window, quickly.

  Shaun put his cup on the shaky old table until the world stopped moving on its own, picked it up again, and took a sip. Not great, but coffee, though the price of delivery had been high. “Anything?” he asked, as much to get his head back to the action as any real expectation that the snipers had shot everyone and gone home.

  “No,” Harry said, glancing at his watch. “One hour ten. So if we’re going to be the heroes, then we’d better do it damn soon.”

  “We’re just going to be standing here with our dicks in our hands when the sky falls in,” Shaun said without the slightest hint that he cared a jot.

  The window in front of them exploded, showering the dusty room with glass. Instinctively Harry swung round the table and put his back against the thick wall, but then stepped out into the open, grabbed Shaun by his shoulder, and dragged him back with him.

  “What the hell?” Shaun said, brushing the glass fragments off his jacket.

  “That,” Harry said, leaning forward and shaking glass from his hair, “is what a CheyTak .408 round sounds like… incoming.”

  “A what?” Shaun looked at the window and at the four-inch hole punched almost all the way through the opposite wall. He looked back at the window, and Harry could almost hear the coin drop. “The sniper is shooting… at us!”

  “Well, there you go,” Harry said. “That’s why you’re a detective, isn’t it?”

  Shaun gave him a dirty look. “Okay, hotshot. Shoot back.”

  Harry sniffed. “Yeah, sure. Point the way.” He waved Shaun towards the window.

  “Tell you what,” Shaun said, not moving. “Let’s wait till he gets fed up or goes for a piss.”

  Harry smiled, which seemed nuts under the circumstances, but that was the contempt folks talk about when they quote familiarity with war zones. “Let’s take a peek out of the other window.” He steered Shaun to the as yet unbroken window to the right. “He won’t think to shoot at us through this one.”

  Shaun cleaned off the dust from the leaded pane and squinted through it, then jumped back. “Are you crazy?”

  Harry laughed and tapped Shaun on the arm with the spotter scope. “Here, try this.”

  He took the scope from Harry, put it against the very edge of the glass and looked out, expecting to see a bullet heading his way. He focused on the high rises, starting again on the top floor windows of the nearest block. He raised the scope a little, tracked it across the roof, and stopped. There was a cardboard box on the roof, which was odd because it was windy, so physics should have had its way, and because it hadn’t been there earlier. “Harry,” he said quietly.

  Harry was checking his rifle to make sure the glass and bits of window lead hadn’t screwed it up. Keeping low, he stepped back up to the wall next to Shaun, took the offered scope, and pointed it at the high rise.

  “Roof, right side.”

  Harry saw the box immediately and adjusted the focus a little. It was a hide, but it could just as easily be a dummy to draw out any counter snipers, like him. He could put a dozen rounds through the box and probably not hit anybody and just give aw
ay his position, except the sniper had already shown he knew where his targets were. He had to find a way to flush him out. He looked at his watch. And there wasn’t much time to be dicking around trying to get a shot. One hour and it would be over, one way or another.

  Shaun was looking over his shoulder and read his mind. “You take a shot and miss,” he said quietly, “the sniper will put a round in your head. He can probably see your receding hairline right now.”

  Harry nodded. “That’s what I’d do.”

  “Then we need to get him to pop his head up,” Shaun said.

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Shaun slapped him gently on the shoulder. “You’re going to be glad you invited me along,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

  Harry lowered the scope, stepped away from the window, and watched with a puzzled expression. Okay, if Shaun was going to pull a rabbit out of his ass, it had better be damn soon.

  “Get ready,” Shaun said, putting the phone to his ear.

  “I was born ready,” Harry said, realized how cheesy that was, and turned back to the rifle sitting on its bipod on the old table, and ignored the thought of the massive round probably on its way to his favourite head right now. He took his time rechecking the rifle, to take his mind off… things. Yeah, it was ready, but it wouldn’t hurt to give it another look. He checked the scope again for the distance to the high rise clearly visible through the hole made by the incoming round. It occurred to him that the shooter would just have to repeat the last shot and… yeah, okay, let’s not go into that.

  “Okay,” Shaun said, interrupting the blood and guts movie running in Harry’s head, “two minutes.”

  “For what?” Harry asked, checking his watch again. “And it’s getting damned close.”

  Shaun nodded. “Yeah, and even if by some miracle you manage to hit him, it’s just one of the bastards.”

  Harry gave him a shitty look, but it was wasted on a man for whom shitty looks were the norm.

  Shaun sucked air in through his teeth. “Maybe if you get this one, the other will give up and leg it.”

  Harry looked at the cop with an expression that said it all.

  “Right,” Shaun said. “Professionals don’t run.”

  “Not if they want to work again.” Harry pulled a broken tubular steel chair up to the table behind the rifle, sat and looked at the high-rise roof through the scope. “I don’t know what you’re plotting, but now would be good.”

  “Don’t worry,” Shaun said, cleaning a small patch on the other window. “Here comes the cavalry.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, putting down the scope and resting the rifle stock against his shoulder. “Let’s rock and roll.” He took a long slow breath and wished he’d remembered to bring his Tigger handkerchief. “And,” he said in a voice muffled by the rifle, “if we pull this one off, I’ve got a wild-assed plan.”

  The barge carrying the US president, German chancellor, and the UK prime minister passed under Westminster Bridge and chugged slowly past the Houses of Parliament and on to the London Eye with the teeming mass of tourists. All the bridges were lined with well wishers, ill-wishers, and television crews. And police and security from the three nations — nobody was going to drop anything nasty on the great and the good. The small convoy of barge and police boats passed the Eye without incident, on schedule.

  Valentin was cold and tired, having spent a long and cramped night in the small cabin cruiser tied up a little way downriver from Tower Bridge, near the retired frigate HMS President. An ideal spot, he had decided, and appropriate.

  He stepped back from the dirty window and looked at the long canvas bag occupying most of the available surface space in the small cabin. He unzipped it slowly along its full length and lifted out the FGM-148 Javelin Missile launcher. It was heavy, but just about manageable for one man to handle, which was very thoughtful of its US designers. This was to be the instrument of assassination, while the noisy purchase of the sniper rifles had always been intended to draw intense interest from the security forces… what was it the Westerners called it? Ah yes, a red herring. And what of Branislav and Jurgen? It was sad, but they were expendable. Such is war.

  He picked up his sat-phone and pressed the dial button. It was a risk, but calculated and very small at this late stage. A moment later it was answered in an immaculate English accent.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  There was silence for a moment. “Yes, I am ready. Are you?” Lupus said sharply.

  “We are on schedule. The drone?”

  “Why are you calling me now?” Lupus said, still angry at being questioned by this man.

  “As I have said,” Valentin said, “timing is everything.” He let the man wait for a moment. “You go at eleven thirty exactly.”

  “Yes, yes, I know this. I am at a loss as to know why you feel it necessary to remind me.”

  Valentin smiled, amused at baiting the terrorist. “Everything hinges on you causing maximum disruption.”

  “At precisely eleven thirty, and on schedule, as planned,” Lupus said slowly, “I shall fly the drone over the City of London and the palace, when all the tin soldiers are marching up and down. And then I shall detonate the ethnobomb, and—”

  “Ethnobomb! Nobody told you to use a bioweapon!”

  “Maximum disruption, remember?” Lupus said, now his turn to smile.

  “Are you completely insane?” Valentin said slowly. “You will kill thousands of innocent people.”

  “There are no innocent people here,” Lupus said.

  “That is not your role in this operation,” Valentin said angrily. “You are to create a diversion. That is all.”

  Lupus laughed. “You are a bigger fool than even I took you for.” He let the Russian think about it for a moment. “You don’t get it, do you? I am not the diversion. You are.” The line was silent for a moment, while Lupus let it sink in. “While you are running around thinking you are striking a blow against Western decadence, your masters have entrusted me with the real mission. If you think killing these puppets will make any difference, then you truly are a fool. Yes, there will be a show of hand-wringing and crocodile tears, but in the end, they are just politicians and easily replaced. But when I turn the finance capital of the world into a graveyard, then you will see the West fall to its knees.” He waited for a moment again. “But you will not see this, old man, you will be dead.”

  The terrorist ended the call.

  Valentin’s mouth was open, he could feel it, but his brain was recoiling from the horror of what he’d just heard. He closed his eyes and tried to think above the noise of a helicopter clattering downriver and over Tower Bridge.

  Harry saw the police helicopter out of the corner of his eye, but kept his focus on the rooftop and the hide. The helicopter came in low across the roof, scattering the cardboard cover like confetti in a storm, and there lay Jurgen, his rifle resting on its bipod. All Harry could see through the scope was the top of Jurgen’s head, and that was an impossible shot at over a mile. He needed more. And he got it.

  Jurgen looked up and saw Sam in the helicopter, bringing his M14 into action. As the chopper flared and turned for another pass, he stood up and swung the sniper rifle up and round, sighted at near point-blank, and died with the message to fire already on its way to his trigger finger.

  Harry’s massive .338 round smashed into Jurgen’s chest low and to the left, vaporised his organs, and blew out a hole on the other side the size of a fist. Jurgen’s dead finger squeezed the trigger, but the rifle was already falling, and the bullet screamed out harmlessly across the city.

  Valentin was on the launch’s tiny deck and saw the helicopter suddenly change direction to the east and knew what it meant. They had found Jurgen. He hadn’t really expected Jurgen to be able to take the snipers in the bridge, but it had been worth a try. It gave the authorities someone to play with. And part of his mind finished the thought. It fitted into his plan. He squash
ed the thought quickly, as to admit that would mean he had sacrificed one of his oldest friends—and not for the first time. And he would not be the last this day. He looked up at the pale sky and thought about the drone and its lethal cargo. He would be a casualty, and so would many others. The noble plans for a new Soviet Union had come to this. He was ashamed.

  Shaun lowered the spotter scope, whistled, and slapped Harry on the shoulder. “Okay, you win a coconut. Now, time for your wild-assed plan.”

  “Can you ride a bike?” Harry said, abandoning the rifle and heading for the stairs.

  “What, a cycle?” Shaun said, incredulous.

  “No, you dickhead,” Harry said, taking the stairs two at a time. “A motorbike.”

  “Yeah,” Shaun said, bounding after him. “Wait up.”

  The barge approached Waterloo Bridge with a little over one and a half miles to go, and the trio of dignitaries waved at the crowds watching the big event, it being a quiet day with nothing much else to do. Smiling and waving done, the politicians returned to rubbishing the French for refusing to join the new entente.

  Harry waited at the bottom of the spiral stairs for Shaun to recover enough to speak and then led the way through the main doors and onto the crowded bridge. Shaun told the spook guarding the entrance that the rifle was still upstairs and took off after Harry before he was lost in the crowds lining the rails and roadway.

  Finding a bike was no problem, the police had dozens of them at the end of the bridge and in the hotel car parks. The owner of the one Shaun selected was a little reluctant to give up his wheels, until he saw Shaun’s warrant card and stepped away from the machine, albeit still reluctantly.

  They didn’t waste time requisitioning crash helmets, and Harry climbed on the pillion behind Shaun, the siren blaring as they bullied their way through the crowd and crossed the bridge. Harry hung on as Shaun opened up the BMW R1200RT and weaved in and out of the traffic like a madman, which was so close to the truth, an onlooker wouldn’t be able to squeeze a credit card into the difference.