More Short Fuses

by Stephen Leather

  MORE SHORT FUSES

  By Stephen Leather

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  Published by:

  Stephen Leather at Smashwords

  Copyright (c) 2014 by Stephen Leather

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  More Short Fuses is a collection of four free short stories from bestselling author Stephen Leather. The short stories are followed by sample chapters of some of his bestselling thrillers. If you want to stop reading at the end of the free short stories, that’s just fine. You can find out more about Stephen Leather at www.stephenleather.com or follow him on Twitter at www.twitter/stephenleather If you do enjoy the short stories, please do leave a review. Reviews actually do make a difference and writers are always grateful for them.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  About The Author

  Rules Of Engagement

  The Constituency Meeting

  Ghost Kids

  Massage Therapy

  The Stretch (first chapter)

  The Tunnel Rats (first chapter)

  The Solitary Man (first chapter)

  The Eyewitness (first chapter)

  Hard Landing (first chapter)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers, an eBook and Sunday Times bestseller and author of the critically acclaimed Dan "Spider’ Shepherd series and the Jack Nightingale supernatural detective novels. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mirror, the Glasgow Herald, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. He is one of the country’s most successful eBook authors and his eBooks have topped the Amazon Kindle charts in the UK and the US.. His bestsellers have been translated into fifteen languages. He has also written for television shows such as London’s Burning, The Knock and the BBC’s Murder in Mind series and two of his books, The Stretch and The Bombmaker, were filmed for TV. You can find out more from his website www.stephenleather.com and you can follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/stephenleather

  RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

  Dan Shepherd carried his microwaved Marks and Spencer meal over to the coffee table and sat down. Working undercover meant he was never sure when he’d be able to eat so the fridge was full of ready meals that could be microwaved at short notice. He’d chosen pork sausages in onion gravy with mashed potatoes, and as he sat and ate he had to admit that it wasn’t half bad.

  There were four phones lined up on the coffee table. The Blackberry was his own. The Nokia was a pay-as-you-go and the only number he’d ever called on it belonged to a sailor who at that minute was somewhere out in the English Channel, hopefully heading towards the south coast. The iPhone had three numbers stored in it, all big-time drug dealers based in Spain. The Samsung had two Sim cards in it along with the numbers of the accountant who had served as middleman in a multi-million pound cocaine deal that Shepherd was involved in, the man driving the truck that would collect the drugs, and half a dozen drinking buddies who all thought Shepherd’s name was Micky Lawson.

  If all went to plan the sailor would confirm the arrival of the drugs on the south coast, and a few hours later the driver would confirm delivery to a warehouse in North London. At that point Shepherd would make a call to Charlotte Button and armed cops would move in, seizing the drugs and the members of the gang who had put the deal together. It would bring to an end an operation that had taken the best part of three months to put together. For most of that time Shepherd had been living in a luxury Thames-side apartment with stunning views along the river, playing the part of armed robber turned drug dealer Lawson. He would be glad when it was over – he had pretty much overdosed on steak dinners, Cristal champagne and nightclubs full of young women with a thing for well-heeled gangsters.

  The Blackberry burst into life and he put down his fork and reached for it. The caller was withholding his number but he hit the green button anyway. Most of his friends and colleagues were the secretive type and more often than not Shepherd blocked his own number.

  He put the phone to his ear. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Spider? It’s Billy. Billy Armstrong.’

  ‘Long time, no hear, Billy,’ said Shepherd. It had been three years since he’d last seen the former SAS trooper, and the time before that they’d been in Iraq, trying to rescue Geordie Mitchell. The late Geordie Mitchell. Late as in dead, shot by a Taliban sniper.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the sofa in front of the TV.’

  ‘Don’t be a prick, Spider. This is serious.’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Have you got Sky News?’

  Shepherd picked up the remote and flicked through the channels. ‘What’s going on, Billy?’

  ‘Jock McIntyre’s in trouble.’

  Sky News came onto the screen. A camera had focussed on a terraced house. Parked in front of the house was a police car. The front windscreen was smashed and one of the tyres was flat. Across the bottom of the screen was a headline that said ‘BREAKING NEWS – Gun Siege In Brixton.’ Shepherd frowned as he turned up the volume. ‘What am I looking at?’ he said.

  ‘Jock’s the guy under siege,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Shepherd leaned forward. A woman was talking, hesitantly as if she was making it up as she went along. ‘Police say shots were fired from the house and that after they went to investigate, more shots were fired. The police have now evacuated neighbours and two armed response vehicles are on the scene.’

  ‘They haven’t said it’s Jock,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah, well it is,’ said Armstrong. ‘I was there last year. Had a few beers with him and I had to take him home.’

  The camera pulled back and Shepherd saw a police armed response vehicle parked across the road. Three men in black coveralls and bullet-proof vests were checking their carbines.

  ‘Did he have a gun?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘He wasn’t waving one around, but he wouldn’t be the first of the lads to be holding onto something for a rainy day. Where in London?’

  ‘Battersea.’

  ‘I’ll see you there, yeah?’

  Shepherd stared at the three mobile phones on the coffee table in front of him.

  ‘Spider? You’re on your way, right?’

  Spider sighed and gathered up the phones as he stood up. ‘Yeah. I’ll be there.’

  * * *

  The black cab slowed at the sight of two police cars that blocked the road ahead of them. Two
cops in fluorescent jackets were standing next to two police cars that had been drawn up nose to nose to block off the road. Two younger uniformed cops were stringing blue and white police tape across the road. ‘There’s a problem up ahead,’ said the driver. ‘I don’t think I can get any closer.’

  ‘This is fine,’ said Shepherd. He got out and thrust a ten pound note through the window.

  ‘Need a receipt?’ asked the driver.

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘No, I won’t be claiming this on expenses. Keep the change.’

  The driver thanked him, flicked on the yellow light, and drove off. ‘Spider!’ Shepherd looked to his left. Billy Armstrong was climbing off a high-powered Kawasaki motorbike, green with black flashings. He was dressed in black leathers and took off a black full-face crash helmet as he walked over to Shepherd. He took off his gloves and the two men shook hands and hugged. ‘Nice bike,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘My pride and joy,’ said Armstrong. He gestured at the two cops. ‘Think you can get us in there?’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I thought you James Bond types had a get-out-of-jail card you can wave,’ said Armstrong.’

  ‘Bond was MI6, I’m MI5, and no, we don’t have a card, just our manly good looks and natural charm.’

  ‘You know James Bond was a fictional character, right?’ laughed Armstrong. He slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Just let me do the talking,’ said Shepherd. They walked over to the cops. One of them was already holding up a hand. ‘The road’s closed, gents,’ he said. ‘You can take any of the roads parallel.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Who’s the silver commander here?’ he asked.

  The older of the two cops frowned. ‘And you are?’

  Shepherd stared stonily at the man. ‘The gent who’s asking who the silver commander is. Is there a reason you can’t tell me?’

  The cop tilted his head on the side as he tried to get the measure of Shepherd. The authority in Shepherd’s voice let him know that he meant business, but he wasn’t wearing a uniform and he hadn’t shown any ID. The cop looked at his colleague but he was equally unsure and he looked away, over Armstrong’s shoulder.

  ‘Superintendent Walker has just arrived.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I need you to tell Superintendent Walker that we are here. We’re former colleagues of the man holed up in that house.’

  ‘You know him, do you?’

  ‘Denis McIntyre? Yeah, we served with him in Afghanistan.’

  ‘And you are?’

  Shepherd’s eyes hardened. ‘We’re under some time pressure here, constable,’ he said. ‘Your Specialist Firearms Officers are getting ready to go in and if that happens a lot of people are going to get hurt. And if it turns out that happened because you kept me and my colleague out of the loop I figure the silver commander is going to be a very unhappy man. Just tell him we’re here, okay? Let him make the decision. That’s why he’s paid the big bucks.’

  The constable took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Shepherd continued to stare at the policeman and eventually the man nodded and walked away.

  ‘Gold, silver, how does that work?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘The Gold Commander is in overall control, but he’s usually sitting in a nice, warn office somewhere,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s almost always a senior cop. The Silver Commander is the guy on the spot, basically managing tactics but reporting to Gold. Silvers are usually at the scene but not always. They’re never sergeants or constables, they’ll be an inspector at the minimum. Something like this, a possible shoot-out, it makes sense for a superintendent to be on the scene. Silver will tell the Bronze Commanders what to do. They’re the guys who’ll get the job done.’

  ‘Sounds like too many chiefs and not enough Indians. More like the Army than the Regiment.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s as much an arse-covering strategy as anything,’ he said. ‘And as always, the shit rolls downhill.’

  The constable returned with a uniformed Superintendent. The officer was barely out of his thirties which meant he was probably a fast-tracked graduate. Shepherd smiled and offered his hand, knowing that it was important to get off on the right foot. It was easy enough to browbeat a constable but that wouldn’t work with a superintendent.

  ‘Dan Shepherd,’ said Shepherd by way of introduction. ‘I served with the man who’s in there. In Afghanistan.’

  The superintendent shook hands. Shepherd could feel the officer weighing him up. There was a sharp intelligence behind the eyes and his grip was strong and firm. ‘Simon Walker,’ he said.

  Walker shook hands with Armstrong. ‘Billy Armstrong,’ said Armstrong.

  The superintendent looked at Shepherd. ‘Served, you said. In what capacity?’

  ‘We were all in the SAS.’

  The superintendent’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s not good news,’ he said.

  ‘No one told you?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We knew he was a former soldier, an SAS background obviously takes it to another level. What can you tell me about Mr McIntyre’s state of mind?’

  The question was addressed to Shepherd but it was Armstrong who answered. ‘He was pretty depressed last time I saw him. And he was drinking.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘A few months ago.’

  ‘And he was depressed about what?’

  ‘He was finding it difficult to get work. And his family life is a mess.’

  ‘You know he has a history of domestic violence?’ asked the superintendent.

  Armstrong grimaced. ‘He was always sorry afterwards.’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m not making excuses, I told him he was wrong and he knew it.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Did you know he had a gun?’

  It was a leading question and Shepherd stepped in before Armstrong could say something incriminating. ‘Has anyone been hurt?’

  The superintendent turned to look at Shepherd. If he was annoyed about the interruption, he didn’t show it. ‘Shots have been fired but there are no casualties,’ he said. ‘So you are former SAS, right??’

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘And what do you do now?’

  ‘I was with SOCA for a few years, but now I’m with the Home Office.’

  The superintendent pursed his lips and nodded slowly. ‘Home Office? Okay,’ He turned to look at Armstrong. ‘And you, Mr Armstrong?’

  ‘Private security,’ said Armstrong. ‘Overseas, mainly.’

  ‘We know that Mr McIntyre has a handgun, but are you aware of him having any other weapons?’

  Armstrong shook his head. ‘He didn’t mention it. He’s been out of the SAS for more than three years and he’s been unemployed for the past twelve months. I don’t see that he’d have access to weapons.’

  ‘He was overseas? Afghanistan? Iraq?’

  ‘Afghanistan,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the only one of your lot to bring back a souvenir or two,’ said the superintendent. ‘I just hope we’re not dealing with grenades and an AK-47.’

  ‘I don’t think he had anything like that,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Guesses aren’t going to do me much good,’ said the superintendent tersely.

  ‘What’s the strategy?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Containment until the negotiating team gets here,’ said the superintendent. ‘We’ve cleared the neighbouring houses and we’ve got entrances front and back covered. Until we establish communication there’s not much else we can do.’

  ‘There’s no indication of what set him off?’ asked Shepherd. ‘No arguments with neighbours?’

  The superintendent shook his head. ‘Someone called 999 and reported hearing shots. A patrol car was sent to the area and he shot out the windows and tyres.’

  ‘That’s a good sign,’ said Shepherd.

  The superintendent frowned. ‘In what way?’

  ‘He was a good shot. If he
’d wanted to hit them he would have.’

  The superintendent’s frown deepened. ‘Which begs the question, what did he hope to achieve by shooting up a car.’

  ‘Do you know who made the call?’

  ‘It was a pay-as-you-go mobile. We’re assuming it was a neighbour.’

  ‘The phone’s off now?’

  The superintendent’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because you said you assumed it was a neighbour. I’m assuming you would have called the number for intel and if the call had gone through you’d have known for sure who had made the call.’

  The superintendent flashed Shepherd a cold smile. ‘Can’t fault your logic,’ he said. ‘You’re right. The phone’s off.’ Realisation dawned and his eyes widened. You’re thinking that McIntyre made the call?’

  Shepherd nodded. Fast-track graduate or not, the superintendent had his head screwed on right. ‘If the only damage is the car, then it would make sense.’

  The superintendent sighed. ‘So we’re looking at suicide by cop, that’s what you’re saying. Terrific.’ He looked over at Armstrong. ‘We’d like to talk to Mrs McIntyre. Do you have any idea where she is?’

  ‘Exeter, I think. Jock said she’d gone off with a used car salesman.’

  ‘Jock?’

  ‘That’s his nickname,’ said Armstrong. ‘No one calls him Denis.’

  ‘Any other family you know about? Parents?’

  ‘He was a Barnardo’s boy,’ said Armstrong. ‘Joined the Army at eighteen. ‘

  ‘And he’s unemployed, you said?’

  Armstrong nodded. ‘He was a contractor out in Afghanistan for a few years after he left the SAS, but that work had dried up. He was asking me if I could find him something…’ He shrugged. ‘I told him he’d have to sort the drinking out first. The days of having a drink on the job are long gone.’

  ‘Okay, well thanks for that, guys,’ said the superintendent. He turned to go.

  ‘Superintendent, how about you let us go in and talk to him?’