Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel

by Mark Bredenbeck

  Chapter Nineteen

  Martin stood stock still, his breathing was normal, his heart wasn’t beating that fast, well not as fast as he would have thought, standing in the middle of the road with a load of Pigs pointing guns at him. He knew he had control of the situation though, he had watched enough films to know what cops did if you pointed a gun at them. It would be his decision, he would choose when, he had already chosen how.

  He had seen that Pig though, the one that did all the talking on the loud speaker. He had answered his fucking phone, casually, standing there talking to someone, like he did not matter. Like that fucking cops life was more important than what was going on. Martin was surprised at how much that hurt him inside, it started to bring back those feelings again. No one cared about him; he was not even a threat to take seriously. Anger bubbled in the pit of his stomach. He had thought that he was not going to pull the trigger, but what the fuck, it did not matter either way.

  He took a deep breath. Not today, he thought, I will not let them take this from me.

  Today he felt free, of the shitty baggage he had been carrying around most of his life. He felt free of his unfounded fear of the bullies and thugs that ruled his part of the world, and of Tama, not that he did not love him in a brotherly way, but because Tama was the anchor that had kept him trapped below the surface. It would not get any better than today. He looked up at the bright blue sky, today was a good day to die.

  Looking back at the police dressed in black, guns pointing directly at him, he waited for his life to flash before his eyes. He knew it was supposed to happen, everybody says it does, but nothing came. He closed his eyes as he tried to remember his life, just something to take with him when he went, a happy memory maybe, but still nothing came.

  Maybe its best, he thought sadly, make a clean break, I do not want it to follow me into the afterlife as well.

  The sound of a siren broke into his consciousness, quiet at first but getting louder. This sound was oddly comforting to Martin, echoing his life in a way he could not articulate himself. It was the sound of safety, but it was still too far a way to do any good, always out of reach. He could always see it but could not quite get there.

  It’s time, his mind told him.

  The siren got louder, and then it stopped.

  There was definitely a small movement, it was almost lost in the cacophony of siren noise that had encroached on the scene from over on the left, but Gary Stone had seen it. He had deliberately left his eyes on the target and not strayed to the police car that had driven through the cordon and stopped, tyres squealing, a short distance away. He already knew who it would be in the vehicle and did not feel the need to check.

  The movement he had seen though made him hold his breath in anticipation. He had watched Martin tense up, and from his experience, he knew that he must have made his decision. The same decision many men before him had made, for many different reasons. Martin would raise the gun, point it in their direction, and then they would shoot him. It was the inevitable outcome. Bridger would be too late.

  He saw the shotgun begin to move upwards slightly, time slowed down, things were running in slow motion, any second now… he became aware that nothing had happened, no shot had come from his sniper. He did not even have time to think about why Martin was still standing, when his answer came with an angry outburst from Ken Moore.

  “What the fuck is this…?” He heard him yell, the adrenalin running through his system muffled the frustration and anger in Ken’s voice.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure moving into their line of fire. He was wearing a crumpled white shirt with damp sweaty patches under the arms and un-pressed dark trousers. He knew Ken would not take a shot with a second person in the firing line unless necessary; he was too professional for that. He also knew that he would still have Martin in his crosshairs, one eye on the target and the other on the approaching figure, a difficult position for him.

  The figure had his arms outstretched and Gary could see that his focus was on Martin as he moved closer. It looked like Martin had not noticed this interloper yet and had raised his shotgun almost to shoulder height. He watched Martin close his eyes, when they opened a few seconds later he had a confused look on his face as if he to expected that someone would have shot him by now.

  Everything was still moving slowly though as if time had slowed down, muffled sounds were all around him. The scene unfolding before him was almost surreal. The figure had moved right in front of Martin now and was standing facing him, the shotgun pointing at his chest. It was Bridger.

  “What the fuck is Bridger doing? He’s going to get himself killed.” He heard Ken’s voice through the fog in his head. “Get the fuck out of it Bridger.”

  The outburst bought Gary back to reality. “I’m not sure what he’s up to Ken… Have you still got a shot?”

  “All I can see is the small of Bridger’s back, if Martin starts shooting there’s not much I can do about it”

  Gary opened his radio microphone again, “Alpha one to all members, be advised the sniper has not got a clear line of site. Any member with a shot is clear to engage if needed.”

  There was no positive response from the squad members surrounding the address.

  “Shit… why do you have to be so bloody impulsive?” Gary said aloud

  “I should just shoot the bastard in the backside to teach him a lesson.” Ken spat out.

  Gary glanced down at Ken; his finger was still inside the trigger guard, the knuckle white. Bloody hell Bridger I hope you know what you are doing, he thought.

  He looked back up; Bridger and Martin were still face-to-face, he could not see the gun but he knew Bridger would probably have a good view of it.

  Martin raised the gun, subconsciously bracing himself for the pain, but also welcoming the end. When the siren had stopped, he knew it was time. He closed his eyes in anticipation but nothing happened. This wasn’t what happened in the movies, he wanted a hail of bullets, every gun in the street to open him up and spill his secrets onto the ground, he wanted out. Nothing happened.

  Then a man came out of nowhere and stood directly in front of him. He watched as the man reached out and touched his shoulder. He saw the man’s mouth moving, he was saying something but his mind could not hear it. He looked down at the gun in his hands; it was pressing up against this man’s chest. He could just pull the trigger and then they would have to shoot him.

  Pull the trigger…, pull the trigger..., pull the trigger you pathetic useless coward. His mind was screaming at him but he could not do it. He saw the man’s mouth moving, he saw the man had something to say, he knew he should listen… He knew deep down that he could not pull the trigger even if he wanted to, he would always be afraid… He relaxed the finger he had on the trigger slightly, his heart slowing.

  Snippets of sound were invading the quiet in his head, he heard the word ‘father’ and ‘prison’, he became confused, this man didn’t want to shoot him, he wanted to help. Martin took a deep breath, accepting the fact that he probably would not die today. He lowered the gun to his waist, pointing it at the ground, and then the world came rushing back in.

  “Thank you Martin, it’s not a nice thing having a gun in your chest. You have done the right thing... My name is Mike Bridger.”

  Martin could hear him clearly now, he looked at the man in front of him with the sweat patches under his arms. It was warm, but not that warm. “What do you want?” he asked, tears of frightened anger prickling at the corner of his eyes.

  “I want to make sure you don’t get hurt and that you don’t do anything stupid with that gun. I want to help you.”

  Martin took a deep breath trying to calm down. “Are you a cop?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t look like a cop” Martin took in the sweaty bedraggled man in front of him, he had a crazy look in his eyes, no cop he had ever seen had looked at him like that. “I didn’t kill him.” Even if he was not a cop, h
e wanted this man to know he was not a killer, it was important.

  “You didn’t kill who?”

  Martin looked behind him at the house “My step father… He shot himself… with this,” he said, indicating the gun hanging by his side.

  “What are you going to do with that?” The man called Bridger asked him.

  “What do you care, I’m supposed to be dead already, but you fucked that up by just being here”

  “I promised your father I would not let you get hurt…; I need you to hand me the gun Martin”

  Martin looked Bridger in the eye, confusion running through his mind. Was this some kind of joke? “What the fuck do you know about my father…,” This was not how it was supposed to happen, Martins mind started reeling, he had forgotten until now, the phone call from that man in prison, was this what he had meant. “I’ve never met my father.” Martin did not know what kind of game this man was playing but he was trying to mess with his mind. He said he was a cop and cops did not care about what happened to him, just as they did not care about Tama. He got what he deserved- according to them.

  The man just looked back at him with a look now bordering on fear; he could not quite work out whether he was afraid of him or something else. Either way, he only cared for himself that much was obvious, so he actually looked just like any other copper Martin decided. He was probably just full of lies to try to get him to hand over the gun.

  “You’re a fucking liar,” he shouted. Martin had made his decision. He shoved Bridger hard in the chest catching him off guard. He watched him stumble backwards slightly, it gave him all the room he needed. Raising the shotgun up to shoulder height, he waved it back and forth and then pointed it directly at the cop who had called himself Bridger.

  “Fuck you…”

  A single shot rang out breaking the lazy silence in the still air.