More Short Fuses (Four Free Short Stories)

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  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?’

  The officer shook his head. ‘I can’t allow civilians to be involved. Out of the question.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I’m not a civilian,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Home Office? Do you want to be more specific?’

  ‘I think you can put two and two together,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can give you names at the yard who’ll vouch for me.’

  ‘We don’t know Mr McIntyre’s state of mind,’ said the superintendent. ‘Though from what he’s done so far it’s clear that he has issues.’

  ‘Agreed. But those issues aren’t going to be helped by fronting him with men in black carrying assault rifles. And if you’re right and he’s intent on suicide, there’s no way you come out of this smelling of roses.’

  The superintendent rubbed his chin. ‘Let’s see what we get from the negotiating team,’ he said, He looked at his watch. ‘Their ETA was ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I’ve got to be honest, I don’t think a negotiating team is the way to go,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re taught all about negotiation and hostage management. No offence but he’ll run rings around your guys. And the last thing you want is to send your men in. He’s not your run of the mill nutter with a gun. He’ll know exactly how they’ll enter and he’ll be ready. You won’t take him out without casualties.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘I’d already come to that conclusion myself,’ he said.

  ‘If this is a suicide scenario, then he wants to go out with guns blazing. He wants your men to go in.’

  The superintendent rubbed the back of his neck and sighed again

  ‘So I don’t see you talking him out, and I don’t see you forcing him out,’ Shepherd continued. ‘How about we try Plan C. Let me go and talk to him. I can find out what he wants and maybe persuade him to walk out.’ He nodded at Armstrong. ‘Billy here knows him best. Let the two of us go in. We’ll sign any paperwork you need. It’ll be on our heads.’

  The superintendent considered it for a few seconds. ‘I’ll need to run it by my Gold commander,’ he said. Shepherd could practically see the man’s brain working. If Shepherd was involved and it went wrong, the superintendent would have the perfect patsy to blame. Shepherd smiled at the man. It was a gamble he was willing to take.

  ‘Just make sure he knows what the downside is,’ said Shepherd. ‘And if it does go bad, it’ll be on camera.’

  Virtually on cue a helicopter flew overhead. It was a civilian chopper and they could see a television camera protruding from one of the side windows.

  ‘Let me hit the radio, you guys stay here.’ The superintendent walked away.

  ‘Think he’ll go for it?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘I think he might, but it’ll be the Gold commander who makes the call.’

  ‘Do we have a Plan D?’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Storm our way in?’ he said.

  ‘I was thinking abseiling down from a helicopter.’

  ‘I suppose you have tried the obvious?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘The obvious?’

  Shepherd mimed putting a phone to his ear. ‘Calling him?’

  ‘Straight through to voicemail.’

  ‘Give it another go, just in case.’

  Armstrong pulled out his phone, tapped out a number and listened. He shook his head and put his phone away.

  ‘Did Jock say anything about any souvenirs?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It didn’t come up.’

  ‘Most guys have something tucked away.’

  ‘That’s the truth. Hopefully just a short.’

  ‘And there was no clue he was going to kick off when you saw him?’

  ‘He was depressed. And drinking too much. But that’s true of half the ex-Regiment guys. You and me are the exceptions, you know that.’

  ‘What well-balanced, God-fearing members of society?’

  ‘You know what I’m saying. We get more than our fair share of suicides, we’ve got former members of the Regiment living on the streets, in prison, running drugs.’

  Shepherd nodded. He knew that Armstrong was right. Life in the Regiment was as exciting and fulfilling as it got; you devoted yourself to the SAS and in return they took care of you and all your needs. But when it came time to leave, the shock of entering mainstream society again was more than some guys could deal with. Shepherd had been lucky, he had gone straight from the SAS into a police undercover squad, from one tight-knit group to another. Armstrong had also transitioned smoothly into civilian life, albeit in jobs that generally involved him carrying a weapon in war zones. Others weren’t as lucky. Family life also tended to suffer. During their SAS days the men were off on missions most of the time, leaving their wives pretty much on their own to bring up any children. Once they left the Regiment, relations were often put to the test, a challenge at the best of times but more so when many of the men turned to drink or drugs.

  It had been a couple of years since Shepherd had seen McIntyre. He hadn’t been in great shape, he’d been drinking too much and was living in a wretched flat in Reading, to the west of London. Back in the day, McIntyre had been one of the fittest guys in the Regiment, but those days were long gone. Shepherd had given McIntyre a job body-guarding a Russian oligarch but had lost touch shortly afterwards.

  ‘He was in a bit of a state when I saw him, but I thought he’d pulled himself together,’ said Shepherd. ‘You now he was thrown out of the Regiment because of his drinking?’

  Armstrong nodded. ‘Yeah. He told me.’

  ‘The Regiment put him through a detox program but at the end of the day he just wouldn’t give up the booze. He had his pension and that doesn’t go far. Like I said, I thought the body-guarding gig had put him back on the straight and narrow.’

  The superintendent was heading back in their direction and he waved them over. ‘They call you ?
??Spider”, is that right?’

  ‘It’s been known,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Turns out the Gold Commander knows you. Bit of a fan, actually. Chief Superintendent Warner.’

  ‘Richard Warner?’ said Shepherd. ‘He was a superintendent with West Midlands police when I came across him.’

  ‘He’s with the Met now. He’s retiring next year, I think. Anyway, he says I’m to take any assistance you’re prepared to offer.’

  ‘So we can go in?’

  ‘If you’re sure it’ll help, you can. I’ll need you to both sign a waiver and I’m going to need you in vests and radio contact, but soon as you like.’ He lifted the police tape and Shepherd and Armstrong ducked under. ‘We’ve set up an ops room in the estate agents around the corner,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘Any sign of the negotiators?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘On the way, but stuck in traffic,’ said the superintendent. ‘They’re the wrong side of the river.’

  Two young constables in fluorescent jackets were standing either side of the door to the estate agents, Inside were another four uniforms and two Specialist Firearms Officers, dressed in black and checking their Heckler and Kochs. Two paramedics in green jackets, a blond woman and man with a shaved head, were deep in conversation and holding mugs of tea,

  The superintendent waved over a uniformed sergeant, a grey-haired man in his fifties, short and thick-set like a wrestler gone to seed. ‘Bill, I need jackets and helmets for these two, and a radio.’ The sergeant nodded and headed outside to a van.

  Armstrong put his helmet and gloves on a table and stripped off his leathers. Underneath he was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.

  One of the SFOs walked over. ‘Anything we need to know, Guv?’

  ‘All good, John,’ said the superintendent. ‘These two are friends of the man holed up in the house. They’re going in for a chat.’

  The SFO’s eyebrows shot skywards. ‘That’s a protocol I’m not familiar with,’ he said.

  ‘It’s been cleared with Gold,’ said the superintendent. ‘They’re former SAS, with any luck they’ll talk him down.’

  ‘Shots have been fired, Guv. We’ve moved past talking.’

  ‘Duly noted, John. But McIntyre is former SAS which means if shots start flying he’ll be more than capable of holding his own. Let’s give this a go.’

  The SFO nodded. ‘We’ll need to be in position, just in case it kicks off,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  ‘You’ve got it,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘They’re not going to be armed, are they?’ said the SFO, gesturing at Shepherd and Armstrong.

  The superintendent looked over at Shepherd and Shepherd shook his head. ‘No,’ said the superintendent. ‘The negotiating team are stuck in traffic so this is our best option at the moment.’

  ‘And if we hear shots?’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Armstrong. ‘He’s not going to be shooting us.’

  The SFO nodded, called over his colleague, and the two men headed outside.

  The sergeant returned with vests and helmets. Armstrong and Shepherd slipped them on. The sergeant handed Shepherd a radio. ‘It’s tuned to the super’s frequency,’ he said.

  ‘Stay on it because we don’t want Mr McIntyre picking up any of our traffic,’ said the superintendent. ‘Any problems, call for assistance and we’ll move in.’

  Shepherd clipped the radio to his belt, then checked his vest. “if you do move in, what’s the SP?’

  ‘Simultaneous front and back. Breach the doors. Stun grenades.’

  ‘No snipers?’

  ‘He has the windows all covered, and shooting through glass isn’t on anyway.’

  ‘What about the attics?’

  ‘We’ve checked. There are brick walls between the buildings. We can get through if necessary but there’ll be a lot of noise. To be honest, it couldn’t be any worse. If it was a detached or a semi then we’d have options. But a terraced house is as difficult as it gets. We need you to sort this for us, Mr Shepherd.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘One thing,’ said the superintendent, lowering his voice. ‘I know he’s your friend, but the best thing for everyone concerned is that he comes out and we don’t go in.’

  ‘No question about that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What I’m saying is, just talking might not be enough. And there are two of you.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ said Armstrong. ‘You want us to belt him over the head?’

  The superintendent put his hands up. ‘I’m just asking you to consider all your options while you’re in there,’ he said. ‘He’s got a gun. We can’t let him stay in there for ever. If he doesn’t come out of his own accord, who knows what’ll happen.’

  ‘We hear what you’re saying, Superintendent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Billy’s right. If Jock trusts us to go in there, we can’t betray that trust.’

  ‘Even if it means that he dies, and some of my men die with him?’

  ‘It won’t get to that,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ll talk to him, and whatever his problem is we’ll resolve it.’

  The Superintendent smiled grimly. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I just want this to be over with no one hurt.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Shepherd. He took a deep breath and nodded at Armstrong. ‘Right, let’s get to it.’

  The Superintendent walked them out of the estate agents and along the road. There were two SFOs with Heckler and Kochs behind an ARV, their weapons trained on the front door of McIntyre’s house. The downstairs windows had been covered with sheets of newspaper, so that no one could see inside. The superintendent stopped alongside the SFOs. ‘I’ll leave you here,’ he said. ‘Good luck.’

  Shepherd and Armstrong walked across the road. Both ends of the road were blocked off with cars and it looked as if all the houses in the street had been evacuated. ‘The superintendent has a point,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they start shooting it’s going to get messy.’

  ‘Jock’s a mate, Spider. You don’t fuck over your mates.’

  Shepherd grimaced. He knew that Armstrong was right, but he’d seen armed police in action often enough to know how easily it could all go very wrong. ‘Two of us, one of him, we could bring him out without anyone getting hurt.’

  Armstrong stopped. ‘That’s fucked up and you know it,’ he said. ‘Us going in there, it’s like we waving a white flag. We say we just want to talk. If we pull a stroke like that.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s wrong, Spider. You know it is.’

  ‘I just don’t want Jock to get hurt,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let’s talk to him, see how that goes.’

  Shepherd nodded in agreement and the two men walked over to the house. Shepherd knocked on the door, then stood to the side just in case McIntyre decided to let off a warning shot. ‘Jock, it’s Spider!’ he shouted. ‘I’m here with Billy Armstrong.’

  There was nothing for a few seconds and then the scrape of a foot against a carpeted floor. ‘Spider?’

  ‘Yeah, now will you open the bloody door and let us in.’

  ‘Spider Shepherd?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Jock, how many Spiders do you know. Open the bloody door.’

  He heard something heavy being pushed to the side, then two bolts bing drawn back. The door opened a couple of inches and a single brown eye peeped out, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Fuck me, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ said McIntyre. He opened the door wide and ushered the two men inside before slamming the door shut.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ asked McIntyre, looking at the two men in amazement. He was holding a pistol, a Russian Makarov PM by the look of it. Almost certainly a souvenir from Afghanistan. It normally came with an eight-round magazine but the new models could hold ten or twelve. It was the Soviet Union’s standard military and police handgun until the early Nineties and the one in McIntyre’s hand had probably been pried from the dead hand of a Russian soldier. It was a sm
all gun, just over six inches long and weighing less than two pounds. It was only effective up to about fifty yards but it wasn’t accurate above ten yards.

  When they had served together in Afghanistan, McIntyre’s hair had been thick and sandy-coloured. Now it was grey and thinning and his shoulders were flecked with dandruff. His eyes were red and watery and his nose and cheeks were peppered with broken veins. ‘What’s going on, Jock?’ asked Shepherd, taking off his helmet. Armstrong did the same.

  ‘Just a wee contretemps with the boys in blue,’ said McIntyre. ‘It’ll be over soon.’ He locked the door and shoved two bolts across, then waved the two visitors through to the front room.

  That McIntyre had covered the windows with newspapers was clear from the outside. What the cops didn’t know was that he had driven screws into the framed and threaded metal wires from side to side.

  ‘That’s clever,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Just in case they think of coming through the windows,’ said McIntyre. He pointed at the floor below the windows and Shepherd saw several planks of wood into which had been driven six-inch nails. ‘I learned that one in Sarajevo.’

  ‘What you’re doing isn’t fair, you know that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Fair to who?’

  Shepherd gestured at the window. ‘The guys out there.’

  ‘Spider, last time I looked they had Hecklers and there were a lot of them.’ He held up his gun. ‘I’m just here with my Makarov, minding my own business.’

  ‘You phoned 999, Jock. You called it in.’

  McIntyre squinted at Shepherd. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I used to be a cop, you soft bastard. You called it in and then you shot the cop car and sat on your arse and waited for the armed cops to turn up. If you’d wanted to kill yourself, why involve anyone else?’

  ‘Who says I want to kill myself?’

  ‘What’s happening then, Jock? What do you hope to achieve by this?’

  McIntyre shrugged. ‘I thought I’d play it by ear,’ he said.

  ‘You were always a mad bastard, Jock, but this takes the bloody biscuit,’ said Armstrong. ‘You got any beer?’

  ‘Fridge,’ said McIntyre.

  Armstrong headed down the corridor. Shepherd looked around the sitting room. ‘Bit bigger than your place in Reading,’ he said.

  ‘I was sharing it with a guy but they cut off his benefits and he did a runner,’ said McIntyre. ‘Stung me for the rent and left me with the electricity and gas to pay. If I don’t come up with cash, I’m out on the street.’

  Shepherd dropped down onto the sofa. ‘That’s what this is about, is it? Money?’

  McIntyre smiled thinly. ‘You know what your problem is, Spider? You always have to over-think everything. You were never happy just following orders, you always needed to know who, what and why. Sometimes shit just happens and that’s all there is.’

  Armstrong reappeared with three cans of strong lager. He tossed cans to McIntyre and Armstrong and popped the tab on his. ‘I see there’s money for lager,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’d begrudge a man his last drink would you,’ said McIntyre. He put his gun on the coffee table and opened his lager.

  Shepherd shook his head and popped the tab on his can and raised it in salute. ‘Cheers, you mad bastard,’ he said. Shepherd wondered how many shots were left in the clip. A lot depended on whether Jock had reloaded after shooting the police car. And the big question was how much ammunition McIntyre had. Souveniring a gun was one thing, but the Makarov used a specific 9x18mm round and they were hard to get.

  McIntyre stood up and clinked his can against Shepherd’s and Armstrong’s before drinking. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m really glad you two turned up.’

  ‘We’re here to help,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I don’t need your help, Spider. In fact as soon as you’ve finished your beers, you and Billy need to push off.’

  Armstrong waved his can at the wires over the window. ‘That’s nasty, Jock,’ he said.

  ‘Only if they come in through the windows.’

  ‘I’m guessing they’ll be using infra-red as we speak,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’ll know about the wires. In fact they’ll know exactly where you’re sitting right now and will probably have at least one sniper with you in his sights.’

  McIntyre grinned. ‘I’d be shitting myself if there weren’t three warm bodies in here,’ he said. ‘No way they can tell us apart with infra-red.’

  ‘Just bear it in mind for when we’ve left,’ said Shepherd. ‘The guy running the operation out there knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t want his men getting hurt.’

  ‘So he can tell them to pack up and go home.’

  ‘We both know that’s not going to happen.’

  McIntyre waved his can in salute. ‘Looks like we’ve got an impasse, then.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘Jock, are you listening to yourself. You’ve got nothing to bargain with. You’re in here and they’re out there. They’ve evacuated the street. They can just wait you out. How much food have you got?’

  ‘There’s lager,’ said Armstrong, raising his can.

  ‘They’re not going to be sending in pizza,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not as if you have hostages.’

  McIntyre grinned and gestured with his gun. ‘I do now,’ he said.

  Shepherd pointed a finger at McIntyre. ‘Don’t even think about it, Jock. I’ll take that piece of shit off you and shove it so far up your arse that you’ll be coughing bullets.’

  McIntyre laughed and held his hands above his head. ‘I was joking, pal.’

  ‘Yeah, well some jokes aren’t funny,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m in the middle of the something and I’m sure Billy here has better things to be doing.’

  Armstrong grinned. ‘As it happens I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve a job in Colombia next week but other than that I’m pretty much free.’

  Shepherd scowled at Armstrong but Armstrong just grinned. Shepherd sipped his lager. ‘What happened to the body-guarding gig?’ he asked McIntyre. ‘I thought you were sorted.’

  ‘Didn’t work out,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’ve had a couple of gigs since you fixed me up with that Russian, but it’s not my thing. The last job, the client’s wife kept asking me to carry her shopping. I explained that I was security and that if my hands were full of carrier bags I wouldn’t be able to protect her. She told her husband I’d been bad-mouthing her and I got the push. Word got around that I was difficult.’ He forced a smile. ‘Didn’t much like the work anyway. Babysitting gangsters, that’s what it comes down to.’

  ‘So what are you doing these days?’

  ‘Not much,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’ve been trying to get back into static security but the place is awash with Europeans and they work cheap.’

  ‘What about Emma?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her for years. Or the kids. My eldest has just had a kid, I know that much. Makes me a grandfather.’ He grinned. ‘Who’d have thought it, huh? Jock McIntyre, grandpa. I found out through a friend of a friend and I called Emma to see what was going on. She told me if I went near her or the kid she’d call the cops.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Not your fault,’ said McIntyre. ‘I was the arsehole who gave her hell. I’m amazed she put up with me as long as she did. And the kids don’t want anything to do with me so it’s no surprise they don’t want me near their kids.’ He shrugged. ‘I fucked up, Spider. I fucked it all up.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can sort this.’

  ‘How?’ He waved the gun. ‘This alone is going to put me behind bars for five years. Maybe longer. Then what? I’ll be bloody homeless. I’m being moved out of this place as it is. The bloody council’s no use. If I was a bloody Afghan or an Iraqi then they’d give me and my family a mansion in Kensington but when you’re a Brit who gave his life for his country, they don’t want to know.’

  ‘Well, str
ictly speaking you didn’t give your life for your country,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You always were a clever bugger, Spider. But I was in the Paras and the SAS and that should count for something. But it doesn’t, not in this brave new world. They hate the likes of me. White, middle-aged, male, I don’t tick any of the ‘must be helped’ boxes.’

  ‘We’ll help you, Jock,’ said Armstrong. ‘The Regiment will help.’

  ‘The Regiment does fuck all for the likes of me,’ sneered McIntyre. ‘Counselling for post traumatic stress disorder, that’s what they offered me.’

  ‘Did you take it?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Course I didn’t take it,’ snapped McIntyre. ‘I’m not crazy, Spider.’

  One of Shepherd’s mobiles rang and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket. He groaned when he saw who was calling. Charlotte Button. ‘I’m going to have to take this,’ he said, standing up. He walked into the hallway and put the phone to his ear. ‘Charlie, how’s it going?’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve just popped out,’ he said, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘To Brixton?’

  Shepherd closed his eyes and cursed under his breath.

  ‘Are you going to fill me in, Spider?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘How about the truth? What did you think, Spider? Did you think I wouldn’t recognise one of my men walking into a siege situation?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I had to laugh at the way you kept your head turned away from the TV cameras. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so bloody unprofessional.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Shepherd.

  ‘We’re in the middle of an operation that we have been running for the best part of three months, an operation which will shut down a network that has been bringing in fifty million pounds worth of cocaine a year into the UK, a network that has close links with at least two Middle Eastern terror groups.’

  Shepherd said nothing.

  ‘Not a great time to go walkabout, Spider. Seriously.’

  ‘He’s a friend,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was in the Regiment and now he’s in trouble. They’re getting ready to storm the house and that’s not going to end well for anybody.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell me this before you went charging in like the cavalry.’

  Shepherd didn’t reply.

  ‘Because you thought I’d say no.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘That’s what offends me the most,’ said Button. ‘Not that you went rogue during an operation, but the fact that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me first.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, so you said. ‘What state is your friend in?’

  ‘Fragile.’

  ‘Can you get him out of there?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And nothing yet from the boat?’

  ‘It’s not docked yet.’

  ‘If that operation falls apart, don’t bother coming back to the office. You understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good luck with your friend.’ The line went dead. Shepherd cursed under his breath again and put the phone away. He looked around the kitchen. McIntyre had stuck newspaper over the window above the sink and done his trick with screws and wires. He’d jammed a plank of wood under the handle of the door that led to the back garden. It would be difficult – but not impossible – for the cops to force their way in. But McIntyre would hear them coming and would have plenty of time to respond. He opened an old fridge. The icebox was encrusted with ice and there was no food to be seen, just cans of lager. He quickly looked through the kitchen cupboards. There was an almost empty box of cereal, a few slices of bread that had started to go green, and a couple of cans of tuna. McIntyre certainly hadn’t stocked up for a siege.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked McIntyre as Shepherd walked back into the front room.

  ‘Not great, actually,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m in the middle of something and my boss isn’t happy about me being here.’

  ‘Tell him to go screw himself.’

  ‘It’s a her. And she’s right, Jock. I shouldn’t be here. And neither should you.’

  McIntyre waved his gun at the front door. ‘No one’s keeping you here,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not going to let you kill yourself like this,’ said Shepherd. ‘And it’s not fair on the guys outside. If one of them slots you, it becomes a murder enquiry and he’s sent home until it’s over. That could be months. Years, sometimes.’

  ‘They’re armed cops, it’s their job.’

  ‘Yeah, you’d think that. But the way it works, once they’ve shot someone they’re treated exactly the same way as any villain who pulls the trigger. It’s not like the Army, Jock. There’s no free pass to go shooting people.’

  ‘No one forces them to do the job.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just saying, there are better ways of ending all this than death by cop.’

  ‘Like what? Step in front of a train? Swallow a bottle of tablets.’

  ‘How about doing something worthwhile with the rest of your life?’

  McIntyre snorted. ‘It’s a bit late for that, mate. Bit late for a fresh start.’ He gestured at the window with his gun. ‘I have to say, I thought it’d be over by now.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘They have to follow the rules of engagement and everything they do has to comply with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 and the European Convention of Human Rights. They can’t come in with guns blazing. They’re only authorised to shoot if there is an immediate threat to life or if they see you holding a firearm. And they have to issue a clear verbal warning first.’

  ‘Who’d be a cop, huh?’

  ‘It’s not the job it used to be, that’s for sure. But then the SAS isn’t either. It’s the way of the world, Jock.’

  ‘Bet you’re glad to be out of it?’

  ‘The SAS? I miss it, Jock. I miss the action, I miss the professionalism, I miss the way we were allowed just to go in and do what had to be done. But it’s not as clear cut these days. It’s all about politics.’ He nodded at the gun in McIntyre’s hand. ‘A few years ago, a Regiment guy with a gun would have just been given a dressing down by the local cops. Wouldn’t have made the papers, you’d have just been given a bollocking by the Boss. These days, there are cameras on the spot within minutes so the whole world is watching and the cops have to play it by the book, The Army’s heading down the same road.’

  McIntyre drained his can, tossed it into the corner, then pushed himself out of his armchair. ‘Anyone else want another?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd. He had barely touched his lager.

  ‘I’ll have another, Jock.’

  McIntyre grunted and headed down the hallway to the kitchen. Shepherd looked at the gun, still lying on the coffee table.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Spider,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘It’d mean him getting out of here in one piece,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Straight behind bars, like he said. And he’d blame you for it. He wouldn’t think of it as you helping to keep him alive, he’d see it as a betrayal.’

  ‘See what as a betrayal?’ asked McIntyre. He walked into the room, tossed a can of lager to Armstrong and sat back in the armchair.

  ‘What the SAS did to you,’ lied Armstrong. ‘They should have helped.’

  ‘They bloody well sacked me, Billy. Tossed me out on the scrapheap.’

  ‘Jock, you’re what, forty three? Forty four? You’re hardly on the scrapheap.’

  ‘My life is over, Spider, Done and dusted. I’ve lost my job, I’ve lost my family, I don’t have a penny to my name. I’m fucked.’ He popped the tab on his lager and drank.

  Shepherd looked at Armstrong but Armstrong just shrugged. Neither of them had any idea of what to say to McIntyre. ‘There has to be another way
out,’ was the best he could come up with.

  ‘Name one,’ said McIntyre sourly.

  ‘We can find work for you, Jock,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You say that, but we both know it’s not true. I’m not cut out for personal protection, and Billy wasn’t able to get me anything. You want me to go back to baby-sitting office blocks at night?’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘I’m done with that. I’m done with it all, Spider.’

  ‘You’ve got kids, Jock. They’ll see it on TV. Do you want this to be the last memory they have of you?’

  ‘They don’t give a toss about me. ‘

  ‘They’re you’re kids, Jock. They’ll care.’

  McIntyre wiped his face with his hand. ‘My kids hate me,’ he said. ‘Emma made sure of that.’ He looked up at Shepherd, His eyes were red and he looked close to tears. ‘How’s your boy?’

  ‘Liam? He’s a good kid. He’s at boarding school so I don’t see him as much as I’d like to, but he loves it. Lots of sports and they work them hard.’

  ‘You keep hold of him, Spider. It’s easy to lose them when they’re teenagers.’ McIntyre drained his can and tossed it into the corner by the window. He leaned forward and picked up the gun.

  ‘Jock, think about this,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’ve done nothing else but think since I got the eviction notice,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’m out of options.’

  Armstrong looked over at Shepherd. ‘What’s the story with the cops?’ he asked. ‘Is it fixable?’

  ‘Fixable in what way?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Can we get Jock out without them shooting him? Sure. He just has to throw the gun down and walk out with his hands in the air. Fixable as in making it go away?’ Shepherd sighed. “I don’t know. Really. The Police are all about ticking boxes these days and there’s no box that says forgive and forget.’

  McIntyre stood up. ‘You guys best be going,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you came, it was great to see you, but it’s time to say goodbye.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Jock,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Spider, I appreciate your concern. And I’m grateful for the help you gave me before. But I’m a lost cause.’

  Shepherd and Armstrong stood up. Shepherd’s mind was racing. He could overpower McIntyre, he was sure of that. McIntyre trusted him and wouldn’t be expecting it. But what then? The cops would pile in and McIntyre would be bundled away. Five years in prison? Ten? Shepherd had spent time in prison undercover and he knew how depressing life could be behind bars. And when he was released, if anything he’d be in an even worse position. No one in the security business was going to give a former convict a job. McIntyre had painted himself into a corner and Shepherd couldn’t see any way out of it.

  One of his phones rang and he fished out all four.

  Armstrong laughed. ‘Bloody hell, how many phones have you got?’ he said, but Shepherd motioned for him to be quiet. It was the Nokia pay-as-you-go.

  ‘I’ve got to take this guys, it’s the job I’m on. Keep quiet, yeah?’

  He walked into the hallway and took the call. ‘Micky, it’s Dave.’

  ‘Yeah, Dave. How’s it going?’

  ‘We’re coming in to port now. I’ll send you the co-ordinates. Text me back to let me know you get them, okay?’

  ‘Will do. No problems?’ Shepherd walked into the kitchen as he talked. He looked around.

  ‘Good as gold. Just make sure the truck’s ready and waiting, we don’t want to hang about.’

  Shepherd ended the call. Several seconds later the phone beeped to let him know he’d received a message. It was the co-ordinates identifying the location of the drop off. Shepherd sent a text back to say that he’d received it. The deal was that the guys on land wouldn’t be told until the last minute where the drugs were being delivered. He held the Nokia in his left hand and called Ricky Reece on the Samsung. Ricky was parked in a lay-by outside Brighton. Shepherd told him the boat was on its way and that he’d send the co-ordinates. He ended the call and then copied the coordinates onto the Samsung and sent the SMS to Reece. He sent the same SMS to Charlie Button and then phoned her. ‘It’s on,’ he said. ‘The boat should be docked within half an hour and the truck’s on its way. What’s the plan?’

  ‘As soon as the gear’s on the truck we’ll move in,’ said Button. ‘Interpol are liaising with the Spanish and we’ll be picking the Costa guys up at the same time as we’re rounding up our targets in London. Nice work, Spider. Job well done.’

  ‘Let’s not go counting chickens,’ said Shepherd. ‘The cops could still screw it up. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Speaking of which, how’s it going there?’

  ‘Not good,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I hope you’re not there in any sort of official capacity,’ she said.

  ‘They know I served with him, they’re happy to use me for intel,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Do they know you’re with Five?’

  Shepherd closed his eyes and cursed silently. He couldn’t lie to her because if he did and she found out, she’d never trust him again. ‘I mentioned it, but only to the Silver Commander. Gold is the guy I worked with in the West Midlands a while back. Chief Superintendent Warner. He’s cleared it.’

  ‘Not with me he didn’t,’ said Button tersely. ‘Just make sure this doesn’t blow up in your face.’

  ‘I’m doing my best,’ said Shepherd.

  She ended the call and he put the phones away. He unclipped the radio, then gently pushed the kitchen door closed. He held the radio to his mouth and pressed the transmit button. ‘Shepherd here. Over.’ He released the transmit button, waited a few seconds and then tried again.

  ‘Silver here,’ said the superintendent. ‘How is it in there? Over.’

  Shepherd gave the superintendent a quick rundown of the situation, including the wires on the windows and the nailed planks.

  ‘What weaponry does he have? Over.’

  ‘A Makarov. I think eight in the clip and I don’t see any spare ammunition,’ said Shepherd. ‘He might only have a few rounds left. I’ll try to find out for sure. It’s not an accurate firearm and he’s lost any edge he once had. Just keep your distance for a while longer. I can handle this. Over and out.’

  He clipped the radio back on his belt, opened the kitchen door and went back to rejoin McIntyre and Armstrong.

  ‘Problems?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘All good,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You need to be going,’ said McIntyre.

  ‘Come with us,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ll go with you. We’ll speak for you in court. I’m sure I can get a doctor to plead PTSD, if necessary we can go to the papers.’

  McIntyre shook his head. ‘You can’t save everyone, Spider. Haven’t you learned that? Sometimes you just have to cut your losses.’ He waved the gun at the door. ‘I’m glad you came, really. But it’s time to go now.’

  ‘I can probably get you work, Jock,’ said Armstrong. ‘Not with one of the big companies, but I’ve got pals in Central Africa who need a hand. You’d have to kick the booze.’

  ‘When I come out of prison, you mean?’

  ‘It might not come to that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked McIntyre.

  ‘I’ve got a plan,’ said Shepherd.