by David Archer
A vehicle started somewhere on the road as Denny leaped behind the wheel and hit the button to start the engine. He slammed the car into reverse and backed out just as a Land Rover shot past the end of the driveway.
“Oh, no, you bloody don’t,” Denny said as he slammed the car into drive and floored the accelerator. It fishtailed out of the driveway onto the road, and he held the throttle wide open as he raced after the shooter. The Land Rover’s taillights were visible a quarter mile ahead, but the distance seemed to be growing smaller.
A Land Rover is a marvel of British engineering, but it cannot corner like a Jaguar F type. Every time it came to one of the sharp curves in the road, the brake lights flashed on and the distance grew smaller. The Jaguar hugged the curves as if it were on rails, and Denny was steadily gaining on the bastard who had killed his uncle.
He hit the button to roll down the window and thrust his pistol out into the night air. As soon as the Jaguar came out of the next curve, the Land Rover was straight ahead. Denny had once been trained in the art of shooting from a moving vehicle, and aimed the gun at where he thought the driver’s head would be, then squeezed the trigger twice.
The Land Rover lurched to the left, then straightened up and kept going. Denny followed it for another quarter mile, and then it suddenly began to slow. The driver seemed to have lost interest in fleeing, or even in controlling the vehicle, for it veered to the right and came to an abrupt stop in the midst of a stand of trees.
Denny screeched to a halt behind it and got out with his pistol held ready. He made his way to the car and looked inside, where the driver was leaning back against the headrest. His shots had missed his intended target, but both of them had punctured the back of the seat. The driver was gasping, and the loud, bubbling noise told Denny that he had hit a lung.
He yanked the door open and grabbed the driver’s face. “Who sent you?”
The driver only stared at him, and then he coughed. Blood sprayed out and struck Denny in the face, and then the light in the man’s eyes faded away. Denny slapped him twice, trying to get him to revive enough to answer, but he was already gone.
He stood there for a moment, grief and rage boiling through him, then used every trick he had ever learned to get his emotions under control. He took out his phone and called 999, the emergency services code in the U.K.
“What’s your emergency?”
“Lord Devon Chamberlain has been murdered,” Denny said. “I’ve pursued and shot his killer. Track my GPS and send police, now.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“This is Leftenant Dennis Cortlandt, retired, SAS. Lord Chamberlain was my uncle.”
“Are you certain he was dead, sir? I can send an emergency care team.”
“Yes, do so,” Denny said. “He’s in the garden behind the house, and the front door is open.”
He hung up the phone and stood there, staring down at the man who had shot his uncle. He resisted the temptation to search the fellow, but he was fairly certain he would’ve found no identification in any case. He took the silencer off his pistol while he waited for the police and threw it as far as he could into the woods.
It took almost ten minutes for the local police to arrive, and two cars stopped where he was while two more and an ambulance sped on to the house. The policeman approached him cautiously, and he held out his identification as they drew near. He used his retired military ID, first, then followed it up with his Windlass Security ID.
“You’re the one who called in, are you?” asked one of the officers.
“I am,” he said. “I was visiting with my uncle in his garden when he was shot by this man. I gave pursuit, and fired two shots to try to stop him. My aim was apparently better than I had thought.”
Two of the policeman were looking at the dead shooter. The one who had initially spoken turned back to Danny. “Have you disturbed the body at all, sir?”
“No. I’m a professional investigator, so I knew not to touch anything. He was alive and gasping when I got to him, but he didn’t even speak before expiring.”
“And why were you carrying a weapon, sir?”
“As I said, I’m a professional investigator. I’m also a contract Special Agent with the American Department of Homeland Security. I’m authorized to carry a weapon at all times, and we have reciprocity with the U.K.”
“I need to verify that, of course, sir,” the officer said. “And I shall need your weapon.”
“Yes, I know,” Denny said. He took the pistol out of his waistband and removed the magazine, then cleared it and caught the ejected bullet in the air. He offered all of it to the officer, and then had to wait while the officer procured a plastic bag to put it in. The bag was sealed and Denny was given a receipt for the pistol. Another ambulance arrived, and the paramedics carefully checked the driver of the car before taking him out and strapping his body to a gurney. They loaded him into the ambulance and drove away, while a tow truck appeared to take away the driver’s vehicle.
The officer looked at Denny again after putting the bag into his car. “Are you staying at the Manor?”
“No,” Denny said. “I have a room at the Green Man. Incidentally, my uncle’s butler, Charles, is probably asleep up at the house. You might want to let the police there know, so they don’t accidentally shoot him if he wakes and comes down.”
The officer took out a phone and made a call, and Denny overheard him warning the other policemen about Charles. A moment later, he put the phone away and turned back to Denny.
“The butler was awake when they arrived,” he said. “They found him in the garden, weeping over Lord Chamberlain. I take it they were very close?”
“Charles has been with him for more than forty years,” Denny said. “Do not read any further implications into it than that.”
The policeman blinked. “Of course not, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us for tonight. Is there anyone you need to call?”
Denny shook his head. “Not before morning,” he said. “Then I shall need to speak with Arthur Lansdowne of the CPS.”
“Yes, sir. Under the circumstances, I must ask you to ride in my car. If you like, I can have my partner bring yours along.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to leave it on the side of the road. Yes, yes, have him bring it along, please.”
They left the side of the road a few moments later, and arrived at the police station after about twenty minutes more. Denny followed the officers inside and took a seat at the desk, where he was told to wait for a few minutes.
The process didn’t take nearly as long as he had expected. An hour later, after giving his statement and having his connection to DHS confirmed by the U.S. Embassy, a CPS clerk arrived. He also took Denny’s statement, although a shorter version, and shook his head.
“Shame,” he said. “Lord Devon was a wonderful man.”
Denny stared at him. “Is that all you’ve bloody got to say? I just sat here and told you that your own chief executive must certainly be the one who tipped off Hickam, who is the only bloody person in the world who could have a motive to kill my uncle, and all you can say is it’s a bloody shame?”
“Now, see here,” the man said. “I admit it looks rather strange, that he should be killed just after making a statement to the chief executive, but you have no evidence whatsoever to connect the two together. Now, this evidence you provided regarding Mr. Hickam, that will have to be reviewed back at CPS. If we find that you are correct, that he was indeed involved in this American shooting, then you can rest assured that we will take action. If that leads us to believe that Mr. Hickam might have been involved in your uncle’s murder, then you can expect us to prosecute him for that, as well.”
“I stand so relieved,” Denny said. “Of course, all of that depends on your abilities to find your own arses, abilities of which I have grave doubts at this moment.”
Denny was told he was free to go. He collected his car keys from the officers and w
alked out, slid behind the wheel, and then took out his phone to call Sam.
“Denny? How did it go with your uncle?”
“They killed him, Sam,” Denny said. “The silly old scunner had dinner with the CPS Chief executive last night, and told him about Hickam. Needless to say, the bloody fool chief made a phone call, and an unknown assailant murdered my uncle right in front of me. I got the bastard, but there’s nothing to connect him to Hickam, and even though CPS admits it’s a bloody strange coincidence, and even after I showed them the evidence you sent me, they won’t so much as pull the bastard in for questions. They say they’ve got to review it to see if there’s enough for a conviction, and whether trying to prosecute Hickam would be in the public interest.”
Denny could hear the sorrow in Sam’s voice. “Denny, I’m so sorry,” he said. “What can we do?”
“We can hang that son of a bitch, that’s what,” Denny said. “I don’t care what we’ve got to do, Sam, I want Hickam to spend the rest of his life in the worst prison the U.S. or the U.K. can find.”
“They won’t even question him?” Sam asked. “Don’t you have any favors you can call in over there?”
“Too right, if I wanted him dead. One bloody phone call, ’s all it would take. Unfortunately, that’s not the way we bloody do things, so we’ve got to keep it all legal. I’ve got to get more evidence, Sam, but it’s nigh certain they know I’ve been in there already. I might bloody well not get another shot.”
“Indie is still going through their computers,” Sam said. “She might come up with something else we can use, something more concrete. For now, what I need you to do is watch your back. If they know you’ve been in the building, they might be out to get rid of you, as well. Get some sleep, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep,” Denny said, “but I’m dead on my feet. I’m going to find someplace to lay low and rest, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“You do that,” Sam said. “I’ll talk to you then.”
23
Denny had gone back to the Green Man, and immediately dug his spare pistol out of the bottom of his bag. This one was a Bersa Thunder .380, a compact pistol designed for concealed carry. He loaded the magazine and worked the slide to chamber a round, then ejected the magazine and inserted another round. They gave him the pistol’s maximum capacity of nine shots: eight in the magazine and one in the chamber.
Since there was no doubt in his mind that the assassin who killed his uncle had been sent by Ben Hickam, then he had to consider it likely that an attempt would be made on his own life. Unlike his uncle, though, Denny was a well trained commando who had been in life-threatening situations before. He didn’t actually have any proof that he was in danger, but he had every intention of minimizing the possibility anyway. Since Hickam had his own private source of information smack in the upper offices of the CPS, Denny was sure it wouldn’t be difficult for Hickam to find out where he was staying. Therefore, it behooved Denny to make sure any assassin would be aiming in the wrong direction.
In the Green Man, each room held three beds. There were two full size beds and a twin, and Denny set to work creating a dummy of himself in each of them. He would not sleep in one of the beds, but stuffing blankets and pillows under the covers on each of them should at least cause an assassin to waste a few rounds trying to hit whichever might hold the real sleeper, while alerting himself to the presence of an intruder.
There was also a closet in the room, and it was reached through a pair of sliding doors. The closet itself was six feet wide by two feet deep, and Denny found that he could lay comfortably in its floor. Even the closet was carpeted, and the Green Man was the kind of hotel that believed in thick padding under the carpet. It cut down on noise complaints from people in rooms below, and was one of those little touches that many visitors considered somewhat luxurious. Getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom didn’t require one to put slippers on, because the carpeted floor was so comfortable to walk on.
It was nearly three AM by the time Denny got to lay down, but despite what he had said to Sam, he never had trouble going to sleep. He was quite certain he would mourn his uncle for quite some time to come, but he was able to force it out of his mind for the moment. He needed to get what rest he could, because he was confident the next few days were going to be lively.
He left one of the closet doors open an inch, so that he could see into the room without having to make any noise. He had slept for slightly more than an hour when a barely discernible sound woke him, and he lay perfectly still and watched the gap for any sign of motion.
It came a moment later, as a shadow passed the gap. Part of that shadow, he could tell, was the leg of a man passing by the closet. This man was focused on the lumps on the beds, and Denny waited for the sound of the muffled shots that he was sure were about to come.
He had gone to sleep with his pistol in his hand, the safety on. Denny had personally filed part of the safety switch and smeared it with white lithium grease, so that it could be removed without making a click. He wrapped his left hand around the gun as his right thumb removed the safety, and then carefully aimed between the doors.
Phwtt, phwtt! Phwtt, phwtt! Phwtt, phwtt!
Three double taps. This was a killer who wanted to get the job done, and the sound suppressor was so efficient that Denny barely heard the shots at all. He heard the floors under the carpet creak slightly, as the killer moved to check his handiwork, and then Denny swept one of the doors open and rolled his upper body into the room in a single motion.
The door made just enough noise to catch the killer’s attention, and he spun around to find himself facing the business end of the Bersa. Denny had the drop on him, and he knew that he couldn’t even aim his gun without causing Denny to squeeze the trigger.
“Put the gun behind your head,” Denny said, “then transfer it to the other hand, barrel first. Bring it around in front of you and let it drop to the carpet between us. Do anything else, and I’ll put a bullet through your eye.”
The killer removed his finger from the trigger as he did as he was instructed, grasping the gun by the sound suppressor threaded onto the barrel. He brought it out in front of himself with his left hand, held the tip of the suppressor with two fingers and let it drop.
“Now, hands on your head and back away. Sit down on the furthest bed. You and I, mate, are about to have a little chat.”
The killer backed away slowly, his hands on his head, until the backs of his legs struck the bed. He sat down on it and stared at Denny, who stared back.
Denny kept his eyes on the man as he got to his feet, then kept them there still while he bent down to pick up the silenced pistol. A split second glance told him that it was a Ruger LCP, with an extended barrel that was threaded to receive the sound suppressor. The little Ruger had a magazine capacity of only six rounds, so unless there was a seventh in the chamber, it was empty.
Denny pointed it at the killer, a typical blue-collar type fellow, who suddenly looked frightened. He kept his hands on his head, but his eyes closed and he almost seemed like he was trying to duck away.
“Bloody hell, mate,” Denny said. “You think I’m a pillock? You already emptied the bloody magazine, but did you have one in the chamber before you started?” He pointed the gun at the killer again, and the man flinched once more. “Aye, maybe you did. ’s alright, but I think I’ll keep my own piece in hand, anyway. I mean, I don’t mind waking up the whole bloody hotel. Now, who the bloody blazes are you?”
“Name is Murphy,” the man said. “Giles Murphy.”
“You’re no fool, Murphy,” Denny said. “Took you only a second to figure out that I’ve no need for you if you don’t talk, right? So let’s get on to the real question. Who sent you to kill me?”
“I don’t know,” Murphy said, a touch of a Scottish brogue entering his voice. “I got a call, told me where to find the money, and it was there. I got paid, so I came to do the
job.”
“Sounds like a gobshite way to do business. Suppose it was a copper who called; he’d have a fair cop on you just for going to pick up the money. You been in this game long?”
Murphy shrugged. “Couple years,” he said. “Done some work for some of the gangs, so people know how to find me. And the coppers around here, they’re all on the dole. Not a lot to fear.”
“Had another bloke a bit earlier, shot and killed my old uncle. Thought he was going to get away, but he couldn’t outrun my bullets. He’s probably on the slab next to my uncle right now. Can you tell me why I’m not putting you on the next one?”
Murphy shrugged again and grinned. “You’re not quite ready to wake the hotel yet?”
“Bit more than that,” Denny said. “If I kill you, I’m going to be downtown answering more bloody questions tonight, and I’m in need of my beauty sleep. The question is, what the hell can I do with you while I’m sleeping?”
Murphy just stared at him.
“Ah, you’re right,” Denny said. “If I tie you up, there’s always a chance you might get loose and we have to dance like this again. Or you might even get away, in which case I have to give up hours of my time to track you down. It’ll just be better if I go ahead and kill you now.”
“I might have a suggestion,” Murphy said, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the barrels of the two pistols pointed at him. “If I don’t go back home, whoever hired me will probably suspect I failed. Would it be better for you if he thought I succeeded?”
“It might, but do you think I’m stupid enough to let you go and trust you?”
“I don’t know about that,” Murphy said. “All I know is this: in my line of work, you never, ever go back on your word. If I tell you I won’t come after you, or I won’t let anyone know I didn’t kill you, then you can believe me. If you’re not comfortable with trusting me, though, then you could just come with me. I live alone, my garage is built right into my house, and nobody can see inside, so no one will know you’re there. You come with me, you can rest as much as you want. I’ll watch your back.”
