Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  The men in black were standing now and staring at the phones as if they’d been caught watching nude wrestling.

  Ethan was right-handed, so it was the Colt that got to work first. The ninja at the receptionist desk was holding a sandwich and just staring at him in disbelief when two rounds in the chest stopped him worrying about it.

  Ethan fired the Glock in his left twice almost without looking, the first round blowing out the big window and the second sprawling its occupant across the conference table.

  He ran forward and dropped to his knees behind the reception desk, saw movement to his right and rolled left as the ninja in the first conference room pulled open the door and tried to empty his seventeen-round mag in record time. And all the time swearing loudly and calling Ethan rude names. It was very annoying.

  Ethan crawled to his right a little to where he could look out under the desk and see the ninja’s legs splayed gunfighter style as he blasted away at the nice oak desk. Ethan shot him in the foot just to shut him up. He screamed and fell onto his knees. Next round shut him up for good.

  Three left and they were quiet. Never a good sign. They were waiting for him to do something stupid so they could shoot holes in him. He crawled into the space behind the desk and pushed the ninja’s body out of the way. The cubicle partitions were no use at all to stop a bullet if they started in on him, but they stayed quiet, just waiting.

  “They’re coming,” Andie said calmly.

  “How many?” Ethan whispered.

  “Everybody.”

  Great. He hoped they’d bring beer if there was going to be a party. Right now he needed to get things moving or he was going to be sitting under the desk with his ass in his hands when the full contingent turned up. But the ninjas still didn’t want to play, keeping quiet and waiting for him to make a move. Okay then.

  He eased himself up onto his knees but made sure he was well out of sight behind the four-foot-high green cubicle walls that were as impervious to bullets as wet tissue paper. He moved the chair to the left, braced himself against the wall, and shoved it with the sole of his boot to send it skidding out across the aisle and into the stairwell door.

  One of the ninjas gasped in surprise. Jesus, why didn’t he just say cooee, here I am? Ethan put his Colt above the green wall and fired three fast shots without looking. There was a deep grunt and a crash as the gasper slammed back into the door and lay down.

  Time to move. Ethan dropped back onto his hands and knees and scurried up between two filing cabinets and waited. Something he’d done must have pissed off the last two ninjas because they started firing at the cubicle and just kept going, turning the green wall with its snapshots of little kids and fairground rides into a raggedy wreck. The firing from the far left stopped as the shooter reloaded, and then the other.

  Now.

  Ethan squeezed up between the filing cabinets and saw one of them standing in the open doorway, framed perfectly against the outside window. One second the guy was going to be dead, and the look on his startled face said he knew that too.

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

  Ethan was about to pour fire from both guns, but held off in case it was the old guy with the bucket.

  It wasn’t.

  Men tumbled out of the elevator like it was sale time at Macey’s. Too late to do hero things. He dropped back down out of sight and shifted his position to the really secure spot behind the photocopier, the tin box. Not great, but that was all there was. He was truly up shit creek without a shovel.

  “Hey, Gunny Highway,” one of the newcomers said. “You come on out and we’ll make it quick.”

  Ethan decided not to take him up on his kind offer.

  “We have to flush you out, I’m gonna shoot your nuts off.”

  Now that was just gratuitous. Ethan decided to shoot him first, then work his way through the other…twelve, thirteen. Right, twelve or thirteen. This should be good.

  “Ethan?”

  He tapped his earwig. No point shouting up and telling the nut-shooter where he was at.

  “Good, you’re not dead yet.”

  That was good to know.

  “Hold on for one minute. I’ve got a plan.”

  Even better to hear, though not very likely to do him any good.

  “Say again,” the nut-shooter said. “You want us to do what?” He was silent for a beat. “Right. You want us to do what…sir?”

  Ethan could hear him swearing and kicking furniture. Somebody had pissed him off more than he had. Now that was a neat trick. And a chance to pop up and take him out while he was having a tantrum. He tensed, ready to go. He’d have maybe one second before they made his position; then it’d be the bloody porch scene and he’d be the Wild Bunch. Without the bunch.

  Go. He started to move.

  “Hey, Highway.”

  Clint Eastwood played Gunny Highway taking Heartbreak Ridge and didn’t get shot to shit like he was about to. He was way cooler.

  “You hear me, Highway?”

  He should stay still, quiet, keep calm, don’t let the guy needle him.

  “You call me that again, shithead, and I’ll shoot you in the left tit.”

  The talker chuckled. “Yeah, you might just do that too. You made us look pretty fuckin’ foolish.”

  Not hard.

  “But listen.” He gave him a second in case he had to adjust something to listen. “We’ve been told to stand down.”

  Right, and now Ethan was supposed to jump up and shout yippee right up to the point where twelve nine-mils turned his head to mist.

  Fuck them.

  “Thing is,” the talker said, “we’re all going to need to get in the elevators and skedaddle out of here before the boys in blue show up.”

  “Off you trot, then,” Ethan said, without moving from the illusory safety of the photocopier.

  “That’s it though, ain’t it? We’re all waiting patiently in line for the elevator, and up you pop and shoot us in the ass.”

  Ethan frowned. Why the hell would they be standing down? They had him; even if he had an M16, they’d still have him.

  “Okay,” he said, and shook his head in disbelief. “You can go. I promise not to hurt you.”

  “Gee, mister, thanks,” the talker said, and swore under his breath.

  A few seconds later the elevator dinged again.

  “Hey, Highw…Gill.”

  Ethan didn’t answer, he’d already said more than needed saying.

  “You really run up twenty stories?”

  “Yeah.” One more word wouldn’t hurt.

  “Jesus, you do good for an old man. I see you someplace in the world, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “And I’ll kick your ass.”

  The talker laughed and Ethan heard the elevator door slide shut, but stayed where he was. It would be just his luck to stand up and see them all waiting to shout surprise!

  Nothing, not a sound. He popped his head up for an instant. Nobody tried to shoot it off. Looked like they really had gone.

  “They’ve gone,” Andie said.

  “Now you tell me.” Ethan stood. “Question is who yanked their chain?”

  “Err…that’ll be me.”

  If she was waiting for him to break down and swear eternal gratitude, she’d be drawing her pension.

  “I—”

  “Tell me when I get back. I’ve got an appointment with Orpheus.”

  “It’s five to. You’ll have to run.”

  “I’m late, I’ll apologize.”

  Ethan stopped at the door leading to the stairs to the twenty-first floor and looked around the wrecked office. The ninjas had taken their dead with them to give them a hero’s funeral, or to get rid of the evidence. He didn’t care. They’d left and that meant he’d get a chance to grow old and stink of pee. There you go, God really did love him. Just a nutty way of showing it was all.

  He pushed the door open with his foot and let his Colt lead the way onto the stairs. Just be
cause the ninjas had gone didn’t mean there were no bad men lurking.

  This staircase was carpeted and had a wooden handrail, beech. Nothing but the best for the esteemed leader. Who made money out of selling death to the highest bidder. Well, his reign was about to come to an end.

  He followed the same routine at the door to the chief exec’s office and home. He listened as he stood with his back to the brickwork, then tried the handle. The next bit was going to be hairy, but he was tired and more than a bit fed up of playing catch-up. It would’ve been nice to be the one hiding behind the desk and waiting for some dufus to run up twenty floors and fight a hundred ninjas—or thereabout.

  He gave the door a push with his foot and slammed it against its stop as he went in, stepped sharp left and went down on one knee, his Colt up and pointing at the desk by the window. At Orpheus.

  He stayed kneeling because the stupid stunt had cracked his knee and it was screaming at him.

  “You still got that pretty little gun in your underpants?”

  The Colt stayed where it was pointing.

  Hofmann was sitting bolt upright behind his desk, looking way too relaxed and unimpressed. He nodded once and opened his desk drawer.

  “Like they say in the movies,” Ethan said. “Nice and slow.”

  Hofmann put the silver gun on the desktop and slid it away from him without taking his eyes off Ethan. “I wasn’t planning on using it.”

  Ethan stood up and tried not to flinch, and failed. “Just as well because you’d have to be close enough to spit in my eye to hit me with that thing.”

  He risked taking a slow step. Okay, not falling down. He crossed to the desk and leaned his thigh against it.

  “You’re still here,” he said, and put his Colt back in its holster. He glanced at the door. “FBI coming soon, are they?”

  Hofmann shrugged. “I decided to wait for you and have a little conversation.”

  “Right, course you did.” Ethan put his fists on the desk and lowered his face until they were eye to eye. “You decided not to take my promise seriously, and just in case I came to make good on it, you hired an army to do me harm.”

  “Not at all.” Hofmann wheeled his chair back a little. “It was simply a precaution. One never knows what to expect.”

  “You expected me,” Ethan said, straightening up.

  “I assumed you didn’t mean it. Just being a little melodramatic. Your demands were so unreasonable.”

  Ethan put on a big thinking frown. “If I recall, I told you to call off your death squads. You didn’t do that, and now one of my friends is dead.” He put his hand on the butt of his Colt. “I haven’t got so many friends I can afford to lose one.”

  Hofmann glanced at the gun and then at the clock. “Are you planning to kill me?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Haven’t decided. Have you told our esteemed president that you’re fuckin’ crazy and the lunatic plan with the Russians is a bust?”

  “Not yet. Though doing so does appeal to me. I can do that right now.” Hofmann reached for the phone on his desk.

  Ethan rapped his fingers. “Give me his number and I’ll call. Phones are funny things—you think you’re talking to somebody and find you’re talking to somebody else.” He gave him a smile.

  “Speed dial one.”

  Ethan wasn’t tech savvy, but even he could do that. He pushed the top button and waited a moment until a voice announced that he was on the President’s private line. He handed the phone to Hofmann, but pulled it back just before he took it. He pointed at his Colt and handed him the phone.

  “Dicky,” Hofmann said, and sounded normal and even cheerful, “I’ve had my people work the numbers on our strategy with the Chinese.” He listened. “Yes, that one.” He glanced up at Ethan as if he was considering something.

  Ethan put the Glock on the desk.

  “Every scenario ends up with Washington and Moscow under a mushroom cloud.” He listened again. “Yes, it would’ve been better if it was Berlin and Beijing, but it isn’t. We have to dial it down and then bury it.” Listening again. “I think it’s a little unreasonable to blame me for its failure. Thinking positively, we are well ahead of our starting position. The Chinese are now willing to talk.” He glanced up at Ethan again as he listened to the raised voice. “I agree, we have no need to meet again. Good day, Mr. President.”

  He put the phone back to bed and looked up as if he expected Ethan to give him a high five.

  Ethan waited.

  Hofmann waited.

  Ethan turned the phone a little so the keypad was facing Orpheus. “You got one of those speed dials for the FBI?”

  Hofmann smiled.

  “Man’s not going to need to call nobody,” a voice said from behind Ethan.

  He turned very slowly, his hands out from his body. He recognized the speaker and nodded once. “Detroit, isn’t it?”

  Detroit returned the nod. “Was last time I looked in the mirror. Which reminds me.” He looked past Ethan at Hofmann. “The mirror you got in your bathroom is on the wrong wall. You never heard of feng shui? Your chi is all over the place. Man, you need to get a new decorator.”

  The Glock on the desk was maybe four inches from his right hand, but it might as well have been on the moon. Ethan had fired a H&K MP5 like the one Detroit was holding loosely in his right hand. Not his weapon of choice, but here and now it was the weapon of choice. What was it they say in the movies? Don’t take a handgun to a machine-gun fight? Something like that.

  He let the Glock lie where it was. He wasn’t dead yet, so there was a chance. Yeah, like jumping off a building and counting the floors on the way down. Everything is fine until you get to one.

  “Watched you coming on up,” Detroit said, and nodded back towards the apartment door. “Duke here’s got his own private spy setup back there.” He shook his head. “Stunt on the banister was slick. Not sure I would’ve thought of that. I’m more of a shoot the fucker and see what happens kinda guy.”

  “Are you going to chat or earn your fee?” Hofmann said, and stood up.

  Detroit glanced at the crappy clock as the laser approached twelve. “Contract says noon.” He shrugged. “Ain’t noon yet.”

  “What are you talking about? I gave you no such—”

  The MP5 barely bucked as it coughed a half dozen times.

  Ethan flinched and waited for the crashing pain. Nothing. He opened his eyes. And saw Orpheus slumped back in his white chair that was now crimson and splattered with brain matter.

  Detroit looked at the clock. “Noon.”

  “You’re not here for me?” Ethan said.

  Detroit smiled. “Get over yourself. It’s not always about you, man.”

  Ethen looked at what was left of Hofmann’s head and couldn’t help but admire the hit man’s work. “You were here for him?”

  “Was here for you, you’d be dead.”

  There was no disputing that.

  “Who the hell wanted him dead?” Ethan said, and right off knew the answer.

  “Just about everybody, from what I can see,” Detroit said, turned and picked up his gun bag. He glanced back over his shoulder. “We’re cool here, right?”

  Ethan stepped away from the desk and the Glock, but kept his Colt. “By my reckoning, you just did the world a good turn.”

  “Didn’t do my bank any harm neither.” He zipped up the bag. “This is Merv’s last outing.”

  Ethan didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

  “We’re rocking on down to Hawaii to drink mojitos, or whatever the fuck they drink down there. And put our feet up.”

  “You know you’re talking about your gun like it was your friend.”

  Detroit stood up and raised the gun bag to look at it. “Merv’s been more of a friend than anybody I’ve ever met. Saved my life a bunch of times and never asked for anything in return.”

  “You’re getting out at the top, man,” Ethan said. “This business is for young whizz-kids with Harvard degrees.”


  “I hear that.” Detroit started towards the door but stopped. “We’re cool?”

  Ethan nodded. “Enjoy your retirement.”

  Detroit closed the door behind him.

  Ethan climbed into the hippie wagon and flopped back into the seat with his eyes closed. “I am getting too old for this shit.”

  “Getting,” Andie said, crunching the stick into gear, “implies that you’re not there already.”

  Ethan opened one eye, then flinched as she stripped another gear. “How did you get the ninjas to stand down?”

  She pulled out into traffic while she was looking for the indicator lever. Other drivers welcomed her into their lane.

  “I didn’t.” She flinched as her nail caught in the fur steering wheel.

  Ethan opened both eyes. He wasn’t going to sleep in case he missed their traffic accident. “If it wasn’t you?”

  “Their colonel.” She changed lanes unintentionally and received a chorus of abuse.

  “For Christ’s sake, pull over,” Ethan said, and sat up straight.

  She saw a space big enough for an eighteen-wheeler, but let it go past until she could find one she could get into. She put the VW half on the sidewalk and half in the hundred-foot parking space. And smiled. “Not too bad.”

  “Outstanding,” Ethan said, and walked around to the driver’s side, while Andie scooted over to his seat.

  He bounced the wagon off the curb, waited for a gap in the traffic, and moved off with barely a lurch as he changed gear.

  “The colonel called off his men?” he said when they were safe from imminent death.

  “He did.”

  Ethan waited.

  “I’d been looking at Parallax’s data and got nothing, but when I peeked at the NSA archives, I found the recordings of Orpheus and Bin Laden’s little agreement.”

  “They had them?” He frowned at her. “And didn’t say anything?”

  “Unless you know about nine-eleven, it doesn’t really sound like anything other than a bit of insider dealing.”

  “Okay. And?”

  She shrugged. “And I sent them to the colonel with the bank records. The rest, as they say, is history. And you’re still around to annoy the crap out of everybody.”