Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I have a sweet tooth,’ said Chaudhry, defensively.

  ‘Brother, it is a small vice,’ said Bradshaw. He sipped his coffee and smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘You know, brothers, that they used to call coffee the “Muslim Drink”? It was discovered in the ninth century when shepherds in Ethiopia saw their goats dancing after they had eaten coffee beans. From Ethiopia coffee spread to Yemen and Egypt and on to the Middle East and north Africa. From there it was taken by Muslim traders to Italy and then to the rest of Europe.’ He raised his cup. ‘And now the Muslim Drink is the most popular drink in the United States. Half the infidels killing our brothers in Afghanistan and Iraq start the day with the Muslim Drink. I wonder if they know that.’ He sipped his coffee again, then wiped the foam from his upper lip. He looked around to check that they couldn’t be overheard, then put down his cup. ‘We have the funding, brothers. And I’m confident we can get the equipment we need. Now let us prepare for battle. Let us show the infidels what we can do.’

  Shepherd was doing sit-ups by the pool when his mobile rang. ‘What are ya doing?’ asked Mickey Moore.

  ‘Just killing time until the bars open,’ said Shepherd, mopping his face with a towel. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Something we wanna show you,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ll be around in ten minutes.’

  The line went dead. Shepherd wondered what the brothers wanted. They were obviously already on their way because their compound was a good half-hour’s drive from his villa. As he walked around the pool to the french windows that led to the master bedroom, he called Jimmy Sharpe. ‘The brothers are on the way over,’ he said.

  ‘What’s occurring?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘They didn’t say. Need to know.’

  ‘Problem, do you think?’

  Shepherd pulled a grey polo shirt off a hanger. ‘I don’t know. Nothing’s happened that could have spooked them.’

  ‘Nothing you know about.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  ‘Do you want back-up?’

  ‘Just checking in,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they were going to do me harm I don’t think they’d have called me first. What are you doing?’

  ‘Watching some pirate DVDs I bought on the street.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought you were a Johnny Depp fan.’

  ‘Pirate as in counterfeit, you idiot, not Pirates of the Caribbean.’

  ‘You do know that’s against the law, right?’

  ‘Hey, they’re all over the place. When in Rome …’

  ‘Just make sure Charlie doesn’t find out.’

  ‘I won’t tell her if you won’t. Seriously, if you need me, you know where I am.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Lying in your room watching counterfeit videos.’ Shepherd cut the connection, put on his shirt and a pair of black Levi’s and went back to the pool. He heard the horn of Mickey’s Range Rover, slipped on his Reeboks and walked quickly down the path to the main gates. He used his remote control and they grated open. Mickey and Mark were both wearing impenetrable Ray-Bans. Mickey was wearing a Singha beer sweatshirt and Mark had a black T-shirt with ‘NO MONEY, NO HONEY’ written across it in white.

  ‘Get in,’ said Mark.

  Shepherd climbed into the back and slammed the door. ‘What’s up, lads?’

  ‘A magical mystery tour,’ said Mark. He pressed a button on the stereo and a Rolling Stones song pounded out through the speakers, making further conversation impossible. The brothers bobbed their heads back and forth in time with the music as they drove away from Shepherd’s villa. Shepherd settled back in his seat, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The road behind was clear but that didn’t mean anything because there were two of them and one of him, and if there was a problem they probably had guns.

  They drove along a main road and a couple of times Shepherd saw signs for Bangkok but then they turned onto a lane and drove through dusty farmland for about ten minutes. Dogs scratched themselves in the sun, chickens pecked at the ground and old women peered at the car from beneath spreading hats as they swept the areas in front of their wooden houses. They left the paved road and drove along a track. They passed a wooden shack on stilts with a rusty corrugated-iron roof that seemed deserted, then a line of half-completed shop-houses that were little more than concrete and metal skeletons open to the elements. Shepherd took a quick look over his shoulder. There was nothing behind them other than a cloud of dust being kicked up by the Range Rover.

  Three Rolling Stones tracks later they pulled up in front of a metal-sided warehouse surrounded by a chain-link fence. A black Cherokee Jeep was already parked by the entrance and behind it Davie Black’s Suzuki Intruder and Andy Yates’s Harley.

  Mickey switched off the engine and twisted around in his seat. ‘Someone I want you to meet, Ricky,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not really up for a blind date,’ said Shepherd.

  Mark climbed out and opened the door for him. Shepherd jumped out and stretched, trying to appear casual and unperturbed by what was going on, but his heart was racing.

  Mickey headed for the main door. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said.

  Mark was grinning at Shepherd, waiting to see what he would do. Shepherd smiled back thinly and followed Mickey. He doubted they had brought him to the middle of nowhere to attack him but that didn’t make him any less apprehensive.

  Mickey pushed open the door and held it for Shepherd. The warehouse was empty, except for three stray dogs sitting in a corner scratching themselves. ‘What’s going on?’ asked Shepherd.

  Mickey pointed at an office unit in the far corner of the building. ‘Over there,’ he said.

  The office door opened and Davie Black waved.

  ‘Everything ready?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘All sorted.’

  Mickey put an arm around Shepherd’s shoulders and guided him towards the office. ‘Mickey, this cloak-and-dagger is starting to piss me off,’ said Shepherd. He felt Mickey’s arm tighten around his shoulders.

  Black nodded at Shepherd and stepped to the side. Mickey took his arm off Shepherd’s shoulders and gave him a push. Shepherd stumbled into the office. Yates was standing in the middle of the room. He was holding a large revolver, pressed close to his leg. He smiled at Shepherd. ‘How’s it going, Ricky?’ he asked.

  ‘Been a funny old day so far,’ said Shepherd. Yates didn’t have his finger inside the trigger guide but it was the first time Shepherd had seen a gun around the Moores and it was unsettling.

  The room had once been an office but now it was bare of furniture. There was a single window, which had been boarded up with pieces of a crate. A faded calendar hung on one wall and overhead a single light-bulb on a frayed flex. Yates moved to the side. Directly under the bulb, a man was sitting on a wooden chair, his head and upper body covered with a burlap sack. His ankles were bound to the legs with duct tape. Barry Wilson was standing behind him, checking that the tape was secure. He straightened up and winked.

  ‘What’s going on, guys?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘This is the guy who ran Terry off the road,’ said Mark. ‘The bastard the police let off.’

  The man was shaking and babbling in Thai beneath the sack.

  Black closed the door and stood with his back to it, arms folded. Yates went to stand next to him.

  ‘And?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And now we’re going to teach him a lesson,’ said Mark. He reached under his sweatshirt and pulled out a handgun. A 9mm Beretta 92FS semi-automatic. He chambered a round and handed it to Shepherd.

  Shepherd took it. ‘Mickey? What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re going to deal with this piece of shit,’ said Mickey.

  ‘So why am I the one holding the shooter?’

  ‘Because you’re on our team now,’ said Mark. ‘All for one and one for all.’

  ‘We’re not the three bloody Musketeers.’ He held up the gun. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with this?’

  Mark pointed at the ho
oded man. ‘Him.’

  Shepherd swung round to Mickey. ‘This is madness.’

  ‘Look, Ricky, we know you’re good at what you do, but we need to be sure you’re with us,’ he said.

  ‘You want to test me? Is that it? By killing a man I don’t know? Didn’t I do enough kicking the shit out of that paedo on the beach?’

  Mickey grinned. ‘You don’t have to kill him. Just put a bullet in each leg. I want him in a wheelchair, same as Terry.’

  ‘And tell me again, I’m to do this because …’

  ‘Because we’re a team. Because me and the boys want to see you’ve got what it takes.’

  ‘Think of it as an initiation ceremony,’ said Black.

  ‘Like joining the masons,’ said Yates. ‘But you don’t have to roll up your trouser leg.’

  The room was stiflingly hot, and sweat was pouring down Shepherd’s face. The back of his shirt was soaking and the butt of the Beretta was wet and sticky. He transferred the gun to his left hand and wiped the right on his trousers. ‘I thought you’d seen my CV. I thought your tame copper had already spilled the beans on me, and some.’

  Mickey’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know I had a tame copper?’

  Shepherd groaned. ‘Bloody hell, Mickey, I’m not retarded. How else would you get a look-see at my PNC? But that’s not the point. The point is that you want me to shoot a guy I don’t know just to show willing. How stupid is that?’ He transferred the gun back to his right hand.

  ‘You calling my brother stupid?’ sneered Mark.

  ‘I said the situation is stupid. I didn’t say Mickey was.’ Shepherd scowled. ‘Maybe you guys are more trouble than you’re worth.’

  ‘If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine,’ said Mickey.

  Shepherd sighed mournfully. ‘No, it’s not fine and we both know it’s not. It’s a matter of trust, and you’re saying you don’t trust me.’

  ‘You were a soldier, you’ve been in wars,’ said Mark.

  Shepherd had fired Berettas before, and the 92FS was a nice weapon. But he’d never shot a man who was bound to a chair and he doubted he ever would. The hooded man had stopped babbling now and was sitting still. Shepherd ran through his options. He either shot the man or he didn’t. If he shot the man, he’d be accepted by the Moores. If he didn’t, they wouldn’t trust him. They’d either let him go and never associate with him again, or they’d do something more final. He looked at Yates, who had the gun over his groin, the barrel still pointing at the ground. He winked at Shepherd and grinned as if he was enjoying watching his predicament. Would they shoot him? thought Shepherd. Would they really shoot him because he wouldn’t cripple the guy in the chair? ‘I’ve never shot a man without a good reason,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve got a reason. He put Terry in hospital and the poor bastard will never walk again,’ said Black.

  Mark pulled the sack off the man’s head and tossed it into the corner of the office. ‘Come on, Ricky, a bullet in each knee and we’re out of here.’ The man struggled and the chair rocked from side to side, but the tape held firm.

  Shepherd stared at the man. He was in his mid-forties with a squarish face and a large mole under his right eye. There was something familiar about him and Shepherd flicked through the images in his memory, trying frantically to place him.

  ‘Shoot the bastard,’ said Mickey. ‘Don’t piss around.’

  Shepherd stared at the man. He hadn’t spoken to him, he was sure of that. And he wasn’t a face in the background. That meant a photograph. He’d seen the man in a picture, but when? His mind raced.

  ‘What’s the problem, Ricky?’ asked Mark. ‘You lost your bottle?’

  ‘Do you wanna do it?’ asked Shepherd, holding the gun out to him. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was all too aware that he had no backup. Charlotte Button was on a different continent, Jimmy Sharpe was in his hotel room or one of the local massage parlours, and there was no armed-police unit outside waiting to charge in and rescue him. Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger as he stared at the Thai man’s legs. He was a good shot. He could probably miss the knee and put a bullet in the fleshy part of the leg. Providing he didn’t hit an artery the wound wouldn’t be life-threatening. But shooting an innocent civilian wasn’t an option, no matter how the scenario played out.

  He looked back at the man’s face, and whatever it was that allowed his near-photographic memory to function clicked into place and he remembered where he’d seen him before. It was in one of Bob Oswald’s surveillance photographs. He had been standing by the pool holding a bottle of beer, watching Davie Black preparing to dive into the water. His mind raced as he tried to put everything into place. The man wasn’t the truck driver who’d run over Norris, he was an associate of the Moores, possibly a friend. That meant it was either a set-up or the man was being punished for something else. Whichever, the equation had changed. If the man was a member of Mickey and Mark’s criminal gang, he wasn’t a civilian and as such was fair game. He sighted down the gun at the man’s right knee and pulled the trigger. The gun jerked in his hand.

  The bang was deafening in the enclosed space and the acrid cordite stung his eyes. For a split second Shepherd thought he’d misread the situation and that he’d actually shot the man. He stared at the knee he’d been aiming at but there was no wound, no blood, no shattered cartilage or bone. He aimed at the other knee and pulled the trigger again, now confident he’d made the right call. The gun kicked in his hand and the man flinched, but there was no scream of pain.

  ‘Steady, mate,’ said Mickey. He held out his hand for the gun. ‘Blanks, Ricky. You’re firing blanks.’

  ‘Why the hell am I firing blanks, Mickey?’

  ‘We just wanted to see how far you’d go, that’s all.’

  Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Like a test, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t get all high and mighty,’ said Mark. ‘You’re the new guy. We’re entitled to test your limits.’

  ‘You’re entitled to get my boot up your arse, that’s what you’re entitled to,’ said Shepherd. He looked back at Mickey. ‘Did you put the blanks in the gun, or did he?’

  ‘I did,’ said Mark.

  ‘And how many did you put in the clip? Seven? Eight? Nine?’

  ‘Seven or eight.’

  Shepherd pointed the gun at Mickey’s left leg and pulled the trigger. Mickey jumped back, cursing. ‘What do you think, Mickey? Do you trust me now?’

  ‘Yeah, you mad bastard, I trust you. Now put the gun down and let’s go have a drink.’

  Shepherd fired again, this time at Mickey’s groin. Mickey flinched. ‘That wasn’t funny!’ he shouted.

  ‘You trust me, but do you trust Mark? Do you really trust your brother? Because it seems to me that he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Are you sure he took out all the live rounds?’ He fired again. His ears were ringing now but he could still hear Mickey’s ragged breathing. ‘Live rounds don’t look all that different from blanks, you know. So, are you sure Mark didn’t put a live round in the clip by mistake?’ He fired again and Mickey jumped back. ‘Come on, Mickey, let’s talk about trust. Do you trust Mark?’ He pulled the trigger again. ‘Do you trust him more than me?’ Shepherd pointed the gun at Mickey’s face. Mickey stared back, breathing through clenched teeth. ‘That’s seven, Mickey. Mark thinks he put seven or eight in the clip. But what if it was seven blanks and there was a live round? Or two live rounds?’

  Shepherd stepped to the side and pointed the gun at Mark’s chest. ‘What do you think, Mark? Do we trust you? Or is there just the slightest doubt that you might have fucked up?’

  ‘Put the gun down, Ricky,’ said Yates. He was holding his gun in both hands, his feet shoulder width apart.

  ‘You can’t shoot me, Chopper,’ said Shepherd, his eyes still on Mark. ‘There’s only blanks in my gun, if Mark did what he was supposed to. What do you think, Mickey? Do you trust him enough to let me pull the trigger?’

  ‘Y
ou’ve proved your point, Ricky,’ said Mickey. ‘You can stop pissing around now.’

  ‘What about you, Mark? Do you trust your judgement?’ Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Mark threw up his hands and turned his head away. ‘Get that bloody thing out of my face!’ he shouted.

  ‘Tell me to pull the trigger!’ shouted Shepherd. ‘Prove to me that there’s not the slightest chance you fucked up, that you didn’t make a mistake.’

  Mark backed up against the wall, his hands in front of his face. ‘Get him off me, Mickey!’

  ‘Yeah, get me off him, Mickey,’ said Shepherd. He grinned at Mark, then ejected the clip, let it clatter to the floor and tossed the gun to Mickey. ‘Next time you pricks decide to test me, I’ll put live rounds in the gun myself and shoot you both in the knees.’ He gestured at the man in the chair. ‘Who is this guy anyway?’

  ‘He works for us,’ said Mickey. ‘We wanted to wind you up. He knew there were blanks in the gun.’ Mickey stuck the pistol into the belt of his jeans and pulled the sweatshirt down over it.

  ‘You’re out of order, Ricky,’ said Mark. ‘You shouldn’t point a gun at someone unless you plan to shoot them.’

  ‘You wanted me to shoot him,’ said Shepherd, gesturing at the man in the chair.

  ‘We were just winding you up,’ said Mark. ‘There was no need for you to start waving the gun around, blanks or no blanks.’

  ‘You weren’t winding me up,’ said Shepherd. ‘You were testing me and that’s what pissed me off. I know who I am. All I know about you guys is what you’ve told me, and for all I know you’re a bunch of wannabes who’re starting to believe their own publicity.’

  ‘We’re not wannabes,’ said Mark.

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I’ll test you and we’ll see how you go,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Guys, okay, enough,’ said Mickey. He bent down, picked up the clip and ejected the two remaining rounds. He examined them carefully and swore under his breath.

  ‘What?’ said Mark.

  Mickey tossed one of them to him. ‘You were lucky.’