Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  “Where are the rifles now?” Shaun said, knowing exactly where.

  Walker looked at him steadily. He didn’t know. But even if he did, he wouldn’t be telling fuckup Brit cops.

  “So, how are you planning to handle it?” Shaun asked.

  “Sooner or later Junior is going to make contact with the buyers, and when he does—” Walker shrugged. “We’ll take them and their rifles.”

  Danny sniffed. “Yeah, from their cold, dead fingers.”

  Walker nodded. “If he’s planning to assassinate the president, then he doesn’t walk away from this.”

  “Agreed,” Shaun said. “You keep up your surveillance on Junior, and we’ll sniff around.”

  Walker looked worried. “No leaks.”

  “No way. We tagged Junior on a drug deal, so we’ll use that to ask around and find out who he’s been talking to.” Now that was a great way to start a new international relationship — lying.

  They left the café and walked back to the car. Shaun pointed over his shoulder with his thumb at the rain-soaked café. “This is a good place to meet up.” He took a card out of his pocket and gave it to Walker. “This is me. Call if you see anything starting to go down.” He squinted. “You forget, and I’ll blow the whistle, and every security man in the country will be looking for the two Yanks stamping all over our playpen. You got that?”

  They got it. Walker took out a card, wrote his cell number on the back, and handed it to Shaun. “Same here, man.”

  A few minutes later, they dropped the CIA men off round the corner from Junior’s place and headed back down the A4 to the office.

  Agents Walker and Rodriguez watched the Brits’ car turn onto the main road in the cold rain. “They don’t know,” Rodriguez said, and Walker shook his head.

  “Fuckups,” he said and spat. “Like their shitty weather.” He turned up the collar of his thin coat and trudged off towards their hire car.

  Danny glanced at Shaun several times, until it felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

  “What?” Shaun said.

  “You know as well as I do that Junior isn’t in that league.”

  Yes, he did. “I don’t get you.”

  “Oh, come on,” Danny said. “You know Junior is small time, he just supplies drugs to dealers and scum. Sniper rifles?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think the trannies have started a rumour with a life of its own.”

  “Okay,” Shaun said. “What I think is that Junior got an offer he couldn’t refuse. To use his sources in the US to get his hands on the rifles. They’re not the kind of thing you can buy on eBay. He was just the personal shopper. The rifles have moved on now.”

  “Then why did Patrick get the trannies to off Junior’s delivery boys?”

  “Dunno, but my guess is he had to make sure it looked like a drug buy. We bought it, didn’t we?”

  Danny nodded. “Still, seems a bit excessive.”

  “It does,” Shaun said. “Let’s go and ask Junior.”

  The car twitched, and Danny steadied it. “What? You can’t be serious? We just agreed with Bonnie and Clyde back there that we’d cooperate.”

  “You don’t think for one second they intend to keep their part of the deal, do you?”

  “Well, no, of course not. Okay, so how are you going to ask Junior?” He nodded back over his shoulder. “The goons outside his place aren’t going to let us in without a warrant.”

  “According to his file, he’s got some storage down on the docks,” Shaun said. “I’m going down there and ring the bell.”

  “Storage?” Danny said. “Cool. Maybe the rifles are still there.” Not likely. “We can wrap this up in time for supper.” Even less likely.

  Shaun shook his head.

  “What?” Danny said, getting that old sinking feeling.

  Shaun looked at him steadily. “Patrick’s got the rifles.”

  35

  “So how did you get away from Spanky the Hell’s Angel?” Harry asked, barely able to suppress the laughter shaking his shoulders.

  “Wasn’t easy, I can tell you,” Rocky said with a long sigh. “Told him I needed to piss, then climbed out of the bog window.” He pointed at the greasy drag lines on his shirt. “Ruined my best gig shirt.”

  “Won’t be needing it now, though,” Frank said, looking up from the big jigsaw on the breakfast table.

  “Didn’t go too well, then?” Harry asked, feeling a lot calmer now the laughter had subsided.

  “Nah,” Rocky said, his shoulders sagging. “The rest of the band legged it in the intermission.”

  Harry lost it and laughed both the new and the stored laughter. He clapped his kid brother on the shoulder. “The hell with it… Rocky. That rock ’n’ roll lifestyle is all sex, drugs, and parties. You wouldn’t like it.”

  “I bloody would.”

  “Not something you have to worry about now, is it?” Frank said, fitting a piece into the jigsaw and thumping it with the edge of his hand.

  Rocky tutted and began to slope off to his room for a good, well-earned sulk, but stopped and turned round. “Hey,” he said to Harry, “something to interest you, though.”

  “Yeah?” Harry said, picking up the wrinkled newspaper with its loud headlines telling everyone how the economy was going to boom once the tripartite accord was in place. “What’s that, then?” As if he actually cared.

  “Tweetie Pie told me—”

  “Tweetie Pie?” Harry and Frank said together.

  “Yeah, Tweetie Pie told me his friend had been killed in a drug deal.”

  “Serves him bloody right,” Frank said. “That stuff is poisoning our youth.”

  Harry glanced at him to see if he was kidding. Apparently he wasn’t, which was weird, since he drank enough whisky to keep the Scottish economy going. He brought his attention back to Rocky for a moment before returning to the newspaper. “So what’s that got to do with anything?”

  Rocky sniffed. “Turns out it wasn’t just drugs. They had sniper rifles in cases, with scopes and suppressors, the works.”

  As predicted, that got Harry’s interest.

  “What in God’s name does a bunch of transvestites want with sniper rifles?”

  “Dunno, just thought you’d be interested, that’s all,” Rocky said, resuming his slope off for the sulk over his lost stardom.

  Harry watched him go and stood up, walked to the window, and looked out without seeing the Thames rolling by, as it does. It could be a coincidence, Lupus coming to town with his bioweapon and now these sniper rifles turning up. Yes, it could have been a coincidence, of course, but not in this universe. True. Experience had taught him there is no such thing as coincidence — when bad things could get worse, they usually did. But the significance of the rifles escaped him. If Lupus had the bioweapon, and he certainly did, then why would he want the guns?

  He walked back and forth in front of the window, with Frank watching him quietly — which in itself was a novelty.

  Eventually, he couldn’t help himself. “Something on your mind, son?”

  Harry stopped pacing and looked at Frank, but it took several seconds for him to register. Should he tell him? After all, it was an official secret, life in prison, off with his goolies, etc. “There’s a terrorist coming to Britain — if he isn’t here already.”

  Frank nodded, as if he knew that already. “Is that who you think the rifles are for?”

  “No, this terrorist, Lupus, has something far worse than rifles.” He closed his eyes, as if that might make it easier. “He has an ethnobomb.”

  “Oh,” Frank said and was silent for a moment. “So what’s that, then?”

  “A biological weapon that only targets certain genetic types… ethnic types.”

  “Ah, right,” Frank said. “That’ll be us European types, then?” Proving that just because he was old, didn’t make him slow. “Then why would he need rifles?” There you go.

  “And that, Gramps, is the sixty-four thousand dollar
question.”

  “Maybe there’s another terrorist in town.”

  Harry thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think so. I think Lupus and the guns are connected. I just don’t know how.”

  “Why don’t you go and ask this Treacle Pie bloke?”

  “Tweetie Pie,” Harry corrected absently. “If they’re mixed up in it like Warrington says, then they’re not about to tell me.”

  Frank gave up on the jigsaw and lost interest in the destruction of humanity in favour of the search for the TV remote.

  Harry looked at the scissors on the table next to the jigsaw. No, don’t be nuts.

  “What?” Frank said, catching the look. “Oh, those. They’re for the pieces that don’t fit. It’s a crap picture.”

  Harry stepped up and looked at the jigsaw picture of a sailboat on a stormy sea, almost complete, but do clouds have masts?

  Frank saw the look coming his way and changed the subject. “These trannies, they’re businessmen, right? Weird businessmen, but still businessmen who run a club?”

  “Yes, so what?” Harry said, giving up on the kaleidoscope that was the jigsaw. “I don’t think they’ll take kindly to me offering them money for their terrorist secrets.”

  “They’ll keep records,” Frank said, finding the sports channel.

  “Yeah, but they’ll be locked away in a safe or something. And the marines don’t do safe cracking, that’s for the spooks.”

  Frank shrugged. “True, but Bob the Burglar cracks safes, or he’s lying about his name.”

  “Bob the what?” Harry asked.

  Frank looked back from the TV. “Burglar. Harvey’s new client. Puccini the mutt saved from a watery grave?” He smiled to himself. “Laura’s case. Might be worth you debriefing her.”

  Harry gave him a double take. Did he mean what he thought he meant? Of course the old bugger did. But hey, she was cute, and he wondered why he’d let the come-hither look sail by — must be all that being blown up and shot.

  “There’s a sight to make your eyes sore,” Laura said as Harry limped into Harvey’s office the next morning.

  “I think the expression is for sore eyes,” Harry said, flopping down into one of the armchairs opposite her desk.

  “I’m a lawyer, remember? I don’t make linguistic errors.” She smiled, and it lit up her face.

  Harry forgave her and looked at the way she filled out her white blouse. Yeah, cute.

  Laura watched him checking her out without a flicker of expression. “Finished?” she said after a few seconds.

  Harry jumped like a schoolboy caught looking out of the window. “Hadn’t noticed how… cute you are before,” he lied with a smile.

  “And that’s supposed to be a compliment, is it?” Laura said, tilting her head to one side.

  “No, yes, I mean,” Harry said eruditely.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Laura said. “Men. Only one thing on your mind.” Which, though not entirely true all the time, was right on the money at that moment.

  “I’m looking for Bob the Burglar,” Harry said quickly.

  “Aren’t we all,” Laura said stiffly.

  Harry’s brow creased in a question. “Why, is he still missing?”

  Laura nodded. “Yes, he’s flown. Taken off. On the lam.”

  Harry guessed Bob was still missing, which justified his expensive education. “So the police haven’t found him?” Scratch the previous justification.

  She watched him for several seconds, waiting for him to join the dots. “He… has… run… away,” she said, leaning forward to emphasise her words.

  Harry went back to checking her out, now the view had changed. She let out her breath in a long, tired sigh and sat upright — just a little slower than she could have.

  “Wasn’t he supposed to be in court?”

  Laura nodded. “We managed to get the court date moved.”

  “That couldn’t have been easy,” Harry said, smiling again. “Well done.” No chance, mate, cheesy compliments will get—

  “Thank you,” Laura said with a smile. “Still, if he doesn’t get back by the end of the month, they’ll hunt him down like a rabid dog.”

  Bit colourful, but Harry got the gist. “Okay,” he said, heaving himself up stiffly out of the low chair. “I’ll find him.”

  “Ah,” Laura said, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Harry half turned. “Wager?”

  She squinted at him for a moment, then put out her hand. “Done.” She shook Harry’s hand. “What’s the bet?”

  Harry pretended to think about it. “Dinner?”

  Laura pretended to think about it. “Okay, I suppose.”

  “Can I borrow his file?”

  Laura thought about saying no, best chance of winning the bet, except winning was the last thing she wanted. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out the file, and dropped it on the desk. “Don’t lose it.”

  Harry grinned and picked it up. “I’ll use Harvey’s office. He’s not using it, is he?”

  Laura shook her head. “In court. Knock yourself out.” She inclined her head again. “But there’s nothing of any use in there.” Which just about said it all.

  Harry sat at Harvey’s desk and played with his letter opener as he went through Bob’s file. He was puzzled as to why Bob had fled, as the evidence, even to him, was tissue thin. He was a burglar who just happened to have Lady Lucinda’s dog on the night she was burgled, but that meant nothing. Yeah, right. He read on, but it was just a history of a burglar with only one conviction, until he got to the last page and thanked Harvey for being such a pedantic documenter. He read an almost verbatim transcript of Bob’s visit, including the comments about the motorbike and a note that he was going to the local at nine thirty to meet friends.

  Harry put the file back on Laura’s desk as he passed and smiled, but all he got back was a frown. Until he’d walked away.

  Bob’s local was easy to find, it being local, and just up the street from his house. Harry leaned on the bar and took the head off his beer as he watched the four men around the pool table, taking it in turns to lose money to the barman, who seemed to know the pool table’s angles and faults — odd that.

  The barman put the black away with a flourish, picked up the notes, said thanks, and went back behind the bar. Harry nodded at him, and he strolled over.

  “Same again?” he asked, looking at Harry’s almost full glass.

  “Yeah, and one for yourself,” Harry said, taking a long pull on the beer. He waited until the barman put another in front of him, took his money, and kept the change, a whole lot of change. “You know Bob Doyle?”

  The barman eyed him suspiciously, picked up a cloth, and began polishing a glass. “Who wants to know?”

  Which was a good question, and one Harry wished he’d thought through. He could make something up, long lost friend from — yeah, that’s the trouble when all you have is the facts from a crime sheet. Okay, what the hell. “I need somebody to get into a safe for me, and I hear Bob’s the man to talk to.”

  The barman glanced around the bar, presently occupied by the three lads who now had less cash than when they came in, but it’s always quiet at ten thirty in the morning. Also odd. “Never heard of him,” he said helpfully.

  Harry put a fifty on the bar — he’d seen the movies and knew how this worked.

  The barman eyed the note for a moment. “That for me?”

  Harry nodded and gave him a wink.

  The barman took the fifty and put it in his pocket before returning to his polishing.

  Harry waited a moment, but nothing happened. “So,” he said in an unnecessary whisper, “where do I find Bob?”

  The barman shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  Harry blinked a few times to try and straighten things out, but that didn’t work. “Give me back my fifty,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or—”

  “This here’s Tony,” the barman said, waving the towel at a point behi
nd Harry.

  Harry turned and looked up… at Tony.

  “Tony hurts people,” the barman explained. “I think he likes it.”

  “Hi, Tony,” Harry said, slipping off the barstool and stepping back far enough to see all of the giant. “Hurt anybody today?”

  Tony should have said, “Day ain’t over yet,” but that was way too many words, so he just grunted, and Harry took the hint and body swerved round the man-mountain. He passed the three failed pool players as he tried to reach the door without taking his eyes off Tony the Mangler.

  “Hey,” one of the three said.

  Harry was otherwise engaged, mostly in running away. He could’ve taken the man, course he could, easy, bit of jujitsu, bit of karate maybe. Yeah, easy. But sometimes you just have to be kind, especially to those poor souls who don’t know any better. So, okay, this time he’d just let it go. Walk away, as it were. No point—

  “You looking for Bob Doyle?” the pool player said.

  Harry stopped. “Yes,” he said, switching between watching the man who liked to hurt people and the speaker, as he decided between fleeing the scene and engaging the pool player. He took a chance and stepped up to the pool table. “You know where I can find him?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I work for his lawyer,” Harry said in a rare moment of brilliance. “I’ve come to tell him he’s a free man.”

  “Cool,” the pool player said and put down the cue. “I’ll take you to him. Cost you fifty, though.”

  Harry sighed. “Does everything cost fifty in this place?” He picked up the pace now that he could see the Mangler had made up his mind and was lurching in his direction. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Money first.”

  Harry took the man’s arm and pulled him out of the bar. “The only way you’ll get money off me before I see Bob is if we hang around here and Tony catches me, then you can take it off my broken body.”

  The pool player clearly understood that and led the way down the busy street, left and then right into a residential area, stopping at a house on the right. “Here we go,” the boy said, his hand out. “Fifty, wasn’t it?”

  Harry looked at the house, then back at the boy. “Hey, I’ve already been here earlier, and there’s nobody home.”