James Carol: The Quiet Man

‘I’m going to call this in. We need back-up.’

Winter nodded. ‘No arguments here. We still need to get in there, though. And fast. We have the element of surprise, but if we wait for the cavalry we’ll lose that advantage. At the moment Gifford will be familiarising himself with his surroundings. We don’t want him getting too comfortable. That would be bad for Delaney.’

‘Agreed.’

Anderton took out her cell phone and called Freeman. While she did that, Winter texted Pascoe to let him know what was going down. Anderton kept things brief. By the time she was hanging up, Winter was hitting send.

‘You ready to do this?’ he asked.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

They got out of the Mercedes and crossed the street. The hedges, trees and fences hid their progress along the sidewalk. The shadows hid their progress up the driveway. There were no lights on in the front of the house. The window panes in the door were dark and empty. Winter took out his lock picks and went to work. Slowly, slowly. Feeling. Teasing. The final pin succumbed and he pushed the door open an inch so it wouldn’t lock again.

He put his picks away and drew his gun. Anderton already had hers out. He pushed the door open a little further. No squeaks, no creaks, just the gentle movement of a door opening on well-lubricated hinges. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The details of the hallway slowly made themselves known. The angles of the bannister, the shadows of the pictures, the shape of a table. Sounds came to them out of the silence. Voices. Winter listened more closely. Not voices plural, a single voice. Gifford’s. He caught Anderton’s eye and motioned for her to follow.

The voice led them away from the stairs and down a corridor. Light snuck out from around the closed door straight ahead, a dim glow that went all the way around the frame. They edged nearer and stopped in front of it. Winter could hear Gifford on the other side. He was talking in a professional voice, the one he no doubt used to put his clients at ease. It projected confidence and suggested that everything would be okay. It was also a liar’s voice. Based on what Winter was hearing, things were not going to be okay. At least, not for Delaney.

‘You know,’ Gifford was saying, ‘you really shouldn’t have made her cry.’ He paused as though he was waiting for a reply. ‘Cathy and me, we might have had our problems, but that happens in relationships. You’re not always going to see eye to eye. That doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to her, though. When you love someone, you love them forever. That’s the way it works.’

Anderton put her hand on the handle and counted down from three on her fingers. She hit zero and pushed the door open. Winter burst past her, his gun leading the way, eyes taking in everything. Anderton was a step behind, covering him. Delaney was bound to a chair with silver duct tape, eyes wide and terrified. The strip of tape across her mouth stopped her screams getting out. She saw them and started struggling to break free, the chair rocking back and forward, legs banging out an uneven rhythm.

Gifford was four feet away, next to the kitchen table. His face was completely expressionless. No joy, no sorrow, and nothing in between. Winter was struck by how normal and unthreatening he looked. This wasn’t some big tough guy. Not even close. Under ordinary circumstances you wouldn’t give him a second glance. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and tan chinos. His jacket was laid neatly on the table next to his bag. The girdle wrapped around his midriff had two bombs sewn into it, one on each side of his stomach. This time he’d used a full pipe. Instead of the blast being directed inwards it would go out in all directions, spreading white hot shrapnel throughout the kill zone.

‘Drop your guns,’ Gifford said.

The professional reassurance was still there in his voice. He locked eyes with Winter. His face was serious but there was the hint of something that might have been a smile. Winter didn’t move. Nor did Anderton. They were standing there with their Glocks aimed at Gifford’s head. Gifford was standing with his feet slightly apart, looking relaxed. His right hand was curled around the bomb trigger on his belt.

‘I will detonate this bomb,’ he said. ‘Don’t think for a second that I won’t.’

‘Nobody needs to do anything rash,’ Anderton said quietly. ‘We can find a way to work through this.’

‘Okay, let me tell you how this works. The only way it works. You’re going to lower your weapons and you’re going to do that right now.’

‘Nobody needs to die.’

Anderton was still speaking quietly, but Winter barely heard her. All his attention was fixed on Gifford and the bomb. That was all that mattered. Everything else was secondary. Gifford was acting like this sort of thing happened every day, like he was completely in control of the situation. The fact that there were two guns aimed at his head didn’t seem to faze him. Winter had seen this before. The absolute self-possession that some psychopaths displayed was disconcerting. Their backs could be all the way against the wall and they’d still think they were in charge.

‘You have three seconds to comply,’ Gifford said calmly.

Winter looked at the bomb vest, just for a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to see everything he needed to. The wires trailing from the bombs met in the centre of Gifford’s stomach and travelled down to his waist. His hand was wrapped around the trigger attached to his belt. Winter’s brain was working fast, going through the possibilities.

Was he using a dead man’s trigger?

No. That wouldn’t be practical. It wouldn’t be the pragmatic solution. He used the bomb vest to coerce his victims. ‘Do what I say or I’ll push the trigger.’ It was all bluster and hot air. He didn’t actually want to use it. He wasn’t suicidal, he just wanted his victims to think he was. Like he’d done with Cathy when he cut his arm open.

Could the threat be neutralised without shooting Gifford in the head?

Yes.

Gifford had already got to ‘two’. His voice sounded as distant as Anderton’s. Winter shifted his aim and fired. The first bullet hit the top of Gifford’s right arm. His hand flew away from the trigger and he let out a howl of pain. The second bullet blew out his left kneecap. It had to be the left. If he collapsed to the right he might accidentally trigger the bomb. It was like felling a tree. Gifford crashed to the floor, falling to the left, away from the trigger. His face was white. He was huffing and puffing and trying to bite back the pain.

‘Don’t move,’ Winter yelled.

Gifford froze, and then something in his expression changed. This was the face of someone who’d opted for suicide by cop. Winter had seen this before. He thought about all the people who’d been murdered, all those lives that had been ruined, and it was so tempting. Gifford’s left hand started moving toward the trigger, but Winter was faster. He covered the distance between them in two strides and stamped on Gifford’s wrist. Then he shot him in the hand. This time there was a scream. It was loud and harrowing and seemed to go on forever. Winter raised the Glock and aimed at Gifford’s head.

‘Stop!’ Anderton yelled. ‘Don’t kill him!’

The gunshots were still ringing inside Winter’s head, affecting his hearing. Her voice sounded muffled. He stood there for a second longer, staring along the barrel, the adrenaline making him itchy. Gifford was making little mewling noises and squirming in agony. He was desperate to get away from the pain, but there was nowhere to go. His breathing was shallow, his face pale. His blood was staining the floor tiles. The bullets had missed his arteries and internal organs. The bones in his hand had been shattered, and he’d be walking with a limp for the rest of his days, but he’d live.