Soft Target (Major Crimes Unit Book 2)

by Wright, Iain Rob

  Sarah felt her knees wobble. “I’m sorry for what you people are going through, but we are here to help you.”

  “Afghanistan does not need your help.”

  Sarah noticed blood dripping on the sand next to her foot.

  “Your face is bleeding,” said the young man. “Let me help you.”

  Sarah staggered backwards and held her SIG steady, aiming it at the man’s face. “No! I need to get back to camp.”

  “You need rest. Tomorrow you think about returning to your camp.” The man took a stride towards her, closing the gap between them to only a few feet. The crowd behind him muttered and mumbled. If Sarah fired on the man, they would be on her in seconds.

  “G-get away from me!” she shouted weakly.

  “Let me help you.” He spoke softly and reached out to her, revealing the image of a dagger on his forearm. “You are bleeding very badly.”

  “No! Step back or I will shoot you.”

  “No, you will not, I think.”

  Sarah almost called his bluff. She felt the trigger twitch beneath her finger, but pulling it all the way required a strength she didn’t have. Her legs folded and she stumbled sideways. She tried to stay on her feet, but her body ached so badly that it was almost a relief when she hit the dirt and sprawled onto her back.

  The young man was on her immediately. He yanked the gun out of her hand and released the magazine. He tossed the pistol aside but kept a hold of the ammo. “Your face is very bad,” he said. “I need to close wound or infection kill you, no?”

  Sarah struggled, but the man straddled her waist and was too heavy to move. “Let me go,” she begged. “Who are you?”

  The young man ejected a bullet from the magazine and caught it in his palm. He held the brass casing in front of her face. “My name is Wazir Hesbani and I am going to help you, English. Close wound, stop infection, no?” He placed the rear end of the bullet between his teeth and clamped down, twisting at the jacket with his fingers and unscrewing the cap.

  Sarah blinked as blood from her face made her vision red. With the man sat on her chest it was hard to breathe.

  Wazir spat the brass cap into the dirt, then stared down at her with soulless brown eyes. “This might hurt little bit.” He upended the bullet casing over her face. Sarah spluttered and moaned as the gunpowder covered her wound, stinging and burning; but the pain was nothing compared to what followed.

  Wazir pulled a lighter from his pocket and ignited the powder on Sarah’s face. The entire left side of her skull crackled, and for a moment all she could see was flashing whites and yellows. The agony was immense, like a thousand push pins shoved into her exposed, scalded flesh.

  Finally, a numbness came and everything faded to grey. Sarah knew she was about to pass out and wished she could fight it, but it was impossible, like trying to fall upwards.

  Wazir levelled his face with hers. “There,” he said. “It is not pretty, but at least bleeding has stopped.” He stood and turned to the crowd. “Take her to Al-Sharir. He will want to talk with her before he hands her over to me.”

  BY STRENGTH AND GUILE

  “You’re sure the man in the video is Wazir Hesbani?” Palu asked.

  Sarah nodded. “Hesbani was Al-Sharir’s right-hand man in Afghanistan.”

  “As part of a terrorist cell?”

  “Yes, Shab Bekheir. Although, this still doesn’t feel like Al-Sharir’s work. Bombing innocent civilians, working with westerners… it’s not who he is.”

  Howard frowned. “You keep saying that, but the man is a terrorist.”

  “He’s also a man of rules and principals.”

  Dr Bennett hissed. “A terrorist has no principals.”

  Sarah expected nothing less from an American. To them, the world was full of good guys and bad guys, just like their movies; but this was real life, where there were points of view other than the white, Christian hero’s. “Most terrorists believe themselves to be warriors,” Sarah said. “Principals are all they have. We may not understand them or agree with them, but they believe their actions are just. To them, we are the terrorists.”

  Dr Bennett smirked patronisingly. Sarah chose to ignore it.

  “What do you know about Hesbani?” Bradley asked Sarah.

  Sarah thought about her dealings with the man and felt sick. “He’s a monster. As much as Al-Sharir has principals, Hesbani has none. His role in Shab Bekhier was to do the things that Al-Sharir would not. Hesbani is not a terrorist, he’s a psychopath.”

  “What’s his motivation?” Dr Bennett asked. “Typical psychopaths lack the ability to plan and calculate. There seems to have been a lot of thought gone into these attacks.”

  “Do you think Al-Sharir may still be pulling Hesbani’s strings?” Palu asked Sarah.

  “I don’t know. Al-Sharir attacks soldiers, not civilians. I can see Hesbani acting alone if he had the chance, though. He and Al-Sharir would often disagree on methods, so perhaps the cell split up. Al-Sharir wanted to nullify the West’s presence in the Middle East. He believes in the rules of war — he wouldn’t attack civilians intentionally — but Hesbani lives for revenge. Hesbani wants to hurt the West and have the Middle East rise up as a consolidated superpower. He sees himself fighting a great war and emerging as the first true Muslim leader since Saladin.”

  “But that doesn’t tally with what he said on the tape,” said Bradley. “He wants the West to withdraw. It sounds like he’s trying to stop the violence.”

  “The only way the Middle East can rise up,” said Howard knowingly, “is if the West relinquishes its hold on the region first.”

  Palu nodded. “So, do we believe that Hesbani’s goal is truly what he speaks of? He wants Western forces to withdraw from the Middle East?”

  “I think so,” said Sarah. “But it wouldn’t end there. Hesbani was raised on hatred for the West. Even if he got what he wanted, he could never live a peaceful life. Without violence, he’s nothing. Killing is all he knows. It’s his philosophy. Sometimes death is the only way to ensure life.”

  “Then how do we stop him?” asked Bradley. “Do we know where he is?”

  “He’s here in the country,” said Sarah.

  “How do you know that?” asked Palu.

  “Bring up the video again. I’ll show you.”

  Palu turned on the television and played the video again.

  “Pause it there,” Sarah said, a few seconds in.

  The video froze. Sarah pointed at the screen. “Look in the background, behind the desk, next to the lamp.”

  Palu shrugged. “What?”

  Bradley tutted loudly, obviously annoyed at himself for not spotting it sooner. “The plug socket. The lamp is plugged into a three-pronged socket.”

  Sarah nodded. The three black holes were a familiar sight in Britain. They were not something you’d find in the Middle East.

  “That narrows it down to several countries,” said Palu, “but I would say it’s likely a safe bet that Hesbani is in the UK. We need to check flight manifests and Interpol records. See if we can find out when he entered the country and under what name.”

  Bradley nodded. “Before I do that, I’ve got some background on Jeffrey Blanchfield.”

  “Let’s see it,” said Palu.

  Bradley zipped his laptop’s display over to the television screen and went through the information with them. “After his wife’s death, Jeffrey was involved in several altercations, including assault of a minor, public affray, and reckless endangerment with a motor vehicle. There are numerous reports of him lashing out, particularly at the youths he blamed for his wife’s death. He and his wife filed numerous reports of anti-social behaviour around their home prior to her death, but the police were able to do very little.”

  Despite his monstrous actions, Sarah felt bad for Jeffrey Blanchfield. Sometimes anger could consume a person until there was no room left for things such as compassion or remorse. Sarah knew.

  Bradley clicked onto a new screen. �
��This is where it gets interesting. Jeffrey was brought before the courts for his consistent offending and was ordered to attend grief counselling.”

  “Why is that interesting?” asked Dr Bennett.

  “Because Caroline Pugh was in court-mandated grief counselling, too.”

  Palu leaned on his elbows and smiled. “Excellent work, Bradley. Do we have anything more on the woman?”

  Bradley nodded. “Caroline Pugh, thirty-eight. She lost her daughter to a drunk driver, picked up a drug habit, and was eventually arrested for making a scene at…a local pub. The Barley Mow, the same one she blew up.”

  Bradley continued. “In a prior incident, the pub’s barman called the police after Caroline Pugh collapsed on the floor during a cocaine bender. When she refused to get up, he apparently kicked her so hard that he broke her ribs. He dragged her outside, in front of the whole pub. He was given a slap on the wrist for his callous behaviour, but Caroline Pugh was forced into grief counselling, to help end her drug addiction. She was sent to the same court-appointed psychiatrist that Jeffrey Blanchfield was.”

  Palu hit the desk with his fist. “That’s our link! What’s the doctor’s name? They have to be connected.”

  Bradley looked over his notes and brought a medical license up onscreen. “Wesley Cartwright, MD, Ph.D. He works out of Oxford — I have an address — but conducts court-appointed grief clinics up and down the country. His file is squeaky clean; he lives a quiet life alone. No misdemeanours, no points of interest.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Howard. “Why would a psychiatrist be involved with terrorists?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t realise he is,” said Sarah. “We can’t assume anything yet.”

  “It may just be a coincidence,” said Dr Bennett. “The link may be that both suspects were angry, and in trouble with the law.”

  “Perhaps,” said Howard. “But somebody got Jeffrey Blanchfield and Caroline Pugh involved in this. Somebody is bringing these people together and brainwashing them into blowing themselves up. Who’s behind it all?”

  Sarah looked down at her chipped fingernails. “I think the United Kingdom is,” she said. “Terrorists didn’t make Caroline Pugh and Jeffrey Blanchfield broken and angry. We did that; society did that. Terrorists are just taking advantage of what was allowed to happen to these people.”

  Dr Bennett scoffed. “Nobody did anything to these people. Life is life. We all have the same hardships to deal with. If we all went and blew ourselves up, there’d be none of us left.”

  “Pain can make people do bad things,” said Sarah. “And contrary to popular belief, some people have it worse than others.”

  “I don’t believe that. These people are just insane.”

  Palu waved his hand. “Stop bickering. It doesn’t matter why these people have done what they’ve done. Our only focus right now is making sure nothing else happens.” He turned to Howard. “I need you to track down this Dr Cartwright at his office. So far he’s our only solid lead.”

  “I’m going, too,” said Sarah.

  Palu probably wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Maybe it was the look on his face that told her not to. “Fine. You and Bradley can provide support if Howard needs it, but you’re to stand down until then.”

  Sarah snapped off a mock salute. “Aye, Cappin.”

  Everybody stood. Palu rubbed his hands together and put them against his face pensively. “Dr Bennett and I will work intel while you’re gone,” he said as the others left. “Stay on the wire.”

  Howard nodded and headed out of the room, Bradley and Sarah close behind him. He slipped out his mob-sat and made a call. “Mandy. Get us a couple of road warriors, ready to go in five.”

  Sarah caught up to Howard and looked at him quizzically. “Road warriors? Do you have a fleet of tanks here that I missed?”

  Howard smirked at her. “Didn’t anybody tell you? The Earthworm has arms.”

  Howard and Bradley led Sarah into the Earthworm’s middle section and then into a side corridor. “Follow me,” said Howard, making his way up a steep staircase.

  The size of the place still shocked her. It must have been built for a thousand employees, maybe more. A person could die inside the Earthworm and never be found with the way things currently were.

  The long staircase wound back and forth on itself like a coiled python. By the time Sarah reached the top, she was sweating. Howard and Bradley were waiting for her there, two minutes ahead, subtle grins on their faces and their hands on their hips.

  “You get used to it,” said Bradley. “There was supposed to be a lift built, but then…”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Sarah. “Funding. How is this place not falling apart? It’s huge.”

  “Sergeant Mattock’s strike team comes and goes, but we feel he’s better placed out in the field,” Bradley said.

  “There used to be more of us,” said Howard. He held open a door and daylight bled in with a warm almost-summer breeze. Sarah smiled as she felt the warmth tickle her face. It felt good to get out of the pit and back out into the open air.

  They emerged from inside a rickety shed onto a derelict farm. Sarah glanced around at the various outbuildings and empty livestock pens. A rusty tractor sat parked up against an old farmhouse which was missing both its roof and one wall. Rocks and weeds jutted out of the ground where there may once have been crops.

  “It’s our disguise,” said Bradley proudly.

  Sarah nodded. “It’s a good one. I wouldn’t want to go snooping around this place. It looks like Old MacDonald haunts it.”

  “It’s more high-tech than it looks,” said Howard. “There are cameras hidden in a dozen places.” He pointed to the tractor and Sarah saw the glint of a lens hidden inside the exhaust pipe.

  She put her hands on her hips. “So, do you plan on walking to Oxford, because I didn’t wear the right shoes.”

  Howard trudged through the mud toward a listing feed shed. Its entrance was currently fitted with a collection of padlocks, but all of them had been popped open. Howard pulled open the sheet-metal doors to reveal Mandy standing inside. The big guy nodded at Howard and Bradley as they entered, but gave Sarah only a cursory glance.

  “Good to see you again, too,” she grunted.

  Inside the feed shed, a group of powerful superbikes sat beside a couple of sleek saloons. Near the front, two jet-black Range Rover Westminsters idled. The two 4x4s immediately made Sarah think of the Snatch Land Rovers used in Afghanistan. She shuddered.

  “You okay, Captain?” Bradley asked her.

  “Fine. So these are our rides, huh? Not the latest models, but pretty swanky. Way things were downstairs, I was expecting a couple of Mini Metros.”

  Howard rolled his eyes. “We do the best we can with what we have. Didn’t they teach you that in the Army?”

  “No,” said Sarah in a put-on dopey voice. “They just taught me which end of the rifle to point at the bad guys, herp-derp.”

  Howard opened the passenger door of one of the two Ranges and glanced over at the other one. “Bradley, you take second, follow me and Mandy.”

  Bradley hopped up into the other vehicle, silent and shaky. He looked like he was about to take a big test. He isn’t good in the field at all, is he? Sarah noted.

  Mandy gunned the engine and took off in the first Range Rover. Bradley waited for Sarah to get into the passenger seat, but she went around to the driver’s side and elbowed him. “Shove over. I’m driving.”

  “But… Howard told me to —”

  “Just move over,” Sarah said. Bradley hopped across to the passenger seat, and Sarah shifted into first gear. The engine grumbled immediately as she brought up the clutch. She revved the engine and took off after the other Range. It was already a quarter-mile ahead, so she stepped on it, flinging poor Bradley about in his seat. Within a couple of minutes, she was side-by-side with Howard’s vehicle and doing almost a ton. It was a hell of a rush.

  Bradley directed Sarah to a gate at the edg
e of the field. She slowed the Range down abruptly, skidding to a halt.

  Mandy parked the other Range beside her. Howard jumped out furiously. “Do you think we’re messing around here?” he demanded as he stormed toward Sarah. “We’re trying to catch the people responsible for four terrorist attacks and you’re racing around like you’re on Top Gear. I told Bradley to drive.”

  “He said he couldn’t concentrate with me sitting next to him. He wanted me to take the wheel so he was free to touch himself.”

  Bradley went bright red.

  Howard sighed. “Look, I understand the whole attitude thing. It comes with the scar, I get it. But can I rely on you?”

  The question made Sarah angry. “I can handle my shit. You just handle yours.”

  Howard nodded, apparently satisfied. “I’m taking lead. Follow me and keep the Mario Kart bullshit to a minimum.”

  Sarah snapped off another mock salute. “Roger that.”

  They got moving again and drove out of the gate, stopping briefly while Bradley closed it behind them.

  “What’s Howard’s deal?” Sarah asked Bradley after they had driven for a while in silence.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why’s Howard got such a stick up his arse?”

  Bradley shrugged. “Just the way he is.”

  “Bad childhood?”

  “Nope. Howard was an Assistant-Lecturer at Nottingham. He was teaching Terrorism and Security studies, when he was headhunted by MCU. When he was younger he almost made it as a professional tennis player, but chose University. His father was a carpenter and his mother stayed home. He probably has the least baggage out of everybody at MCU.”

  “What, all five of you?”

  “There are more of us than that. Like I said earlier, we have a field team as well. Sergeant Mattock leads it. He’s ex SAS.”

  Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Mattock was SAS, which meant he’d know her father. All SAS knew Major Stone. “Another thug with a beige beret, right?” she said. “Shoot first, ask questions later. I’ve met the type before.”

  Bradley looked out his window. “You’ll be glad to have him if you need him. He’s the only reason Howard didn’t die when I froze. It might be MCU’s job to protect the country, but Mattock’s job is to protect us.”