James Carol: The Quiet Man

Winter lowered his gun and tucked it into his waistband. Then he hunkered down next to Gifford to get a closer look at the bomb. As far as he could tell the only way to detonate it was by pressing the trigger. No booby traps, no surprises. He started to remove the trigger from Gifford’s belt and Anderton took a sharp intake of breath.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s not going to go off.’

‘And you’re sure of that?’

‘Ninety-nine per cent sure. Gifford isn’t suicidal.’ Winter glanced at Gifford. His eyelids were fluttering as he struggled to stay conscious. He was totally out of it. ‘He’s designed this bomb to be reused. It’s more robust than it looks. He doesn’t want it going off accidentally. This is what he would have used to coerce Myra. He probably used it on the other victims too. Remember, he’s pathologically pragmatic. If something’s working, why fix it?’

‘Even so.’

‘Okay, what do you suggest? We just leave the crazy guy with a live bomb attached to him?’

Before Anderton could say anything else, Winter finished removing the trigger and stood up. There was a nine-volt battery fitted into the back of it. It was a brand-name item that had cost no more than a couple of dollars. In a different context it would be no big deal. It could be used to power a toy or a clock or a smoke detector. In this context it was the difference between life and death. He unclipped it carefully. For a brief moment all he saw was a bright white flash of light, but it was only his imagination.

‘All done,’ he said.

‘So, I can breathe again?’

‘Yeah, you can breathe.’

A sudden clattering sound made them both turn. Delaney was glaring at them from the kitchen chair, issuing demands with her eyes. She rattled the chair legs against the floor again. The message was clear: free me now.

‘We could leave her like that until the police get here,’ Winter suggested.

‘Don’t tempt me.’

Anderton went to find some scissors and Winter took another look at Gifford. He had stopped squirming and was drifting in and out of consciousness. The blood from his wounds was spreading slowly across the floor. The girdle had a row of hooks and eyes down the front. Winter unfastened them one at a time, working from top to bottom. Then he rolled Gifford off the girdle, each jerky movement eliciting sharp gasps and groans. Winter carried the girdle to the table and laid it down gently. Even though it was disarmed it still gave off a bad vibe. Send nine volts of electricity into the detonators and it would be capable of killing every person in the room.

The first thing he saw when he unzipped Gifford’s bag was a second bomb. It was just lying there, inert but potentially deadly. The device was encased in a plastic sleeve, and only half a metal tube had been used. Myra Hooper had been killed by a similar bomb. And Lian Hammond. And Alicia Kirchner. And Isabella Sobek. There was a spool of wire in the bag and a reed switch. There were more batteries, too, all the same make as the one he’d removed from the trigger. The bag contained everything Gifford needed to ensure Delaney met the same fate as Isabella and the others. The difference was that Delaney was a minor celebrity. Unpleasant though she was, her death would have sparked a wave of public sympathy. Gifford would have had more grief than he’d have known what to do with.

Winter looked over at the chair. Anderton had managed to free Delaney. She’d also removed the tape from her mouth. Delaney was weeping freely and acting like Anderton was her new best friend. Her words were coming out in a torrent, one long endless rush of relief. Tomorrow she would no doubt start to wonder about how they’d managed to get here so quickly, but for now all she cared about was the fact that she was still alive.

Winter suddenly became aware of someone else in the room. He hadn’t heard them come in because his ears were still ringing. He turned around expecting to see Pascoe and his buddy. They would have heard the gunshots. Hell, the whole neighbourhood would have heard them. It wasn’t Pascoe, though.

Sobek was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Gifford. There was a Glock 17 in his hand and he was wearing a Kevlar vest. He looked every bit as relaxed as Gifford had done earlier, every bit as in control. There was even the ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his lips. This was the moment that he’d been waiting for, the one he’d been dreaming about all these years. Sobek strode across the room and pointed the gun at Gifford’s head. His left hand was curled around the right to support and steady it. Not that he needed to. There was no way he’d miss from this range. And if by some miracle he did, there were another sixteen bullets in the clip. Winter drew his gun and aimed at Sobek’s head.

‘Put the gun down.’

Sobek’s full attention was still on Gifford. His gun hand was steady, his finger on the trigger. A little more pressure and Gifford would be a dead man. Anderton came up alongside Winter. Her gun was trained on Sobek, too.

‘The police are on their way,’ she said. ‘If you kill him, you’ll be the one who ends up in prison. He’s not worth it, Sobek.’

‘Who said anything about killing him? All I want to do is talk.’

Winter didn’t trust a word he was hearing. Sobek’s voice was too quiet and too even. He had means and motive, and now he had the opportunity. ‘Put the gun down and step back.’

‘Or what? You’re going to shoot me?’ Sobek shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

He knelt down and ran the tip of the Glock along Gifford’s upper arm. He stopped when he got to the bullet wound, paused for a second, then dug the end of the gun into it. Gifford screamed and his eyes sprang open. Both Winter and Anderton started moving. Winter was aiming his gun at the back of Sobek’s head, just above his ponytail.

‘Take another step and I will kill him,’ Sobek said quietly.

They stopped moving.

‘All I want is to talk,’ he added. ‘After everything he’s done, I don’t think that’s too much to ask.’

‘In which case, drop the gun,’ Winter said. ‘You don’t need a gun to talk.’

Sobek ignored him and pushed the barrel of his gun into Gifford’s wounded arm again, harder this time. Gifford let out another scream.

‘Have I got your attention?’ Sobek asked pleasantly.

Gifford nodded.

‘And you know who I am?’

Another weak nod.

‘Do you believe that I’m capable of killing you?’

Another nod.

‘Do you know why I’m letting you live?’

Gifford shook his head.

‘Because I want you to remember this face. I want it to be the last thing you see before you go to sleep, and the first thing you see when you wake up. I want you to understand that the reason you’re wasting your life away in a prison cell is because I let you live. I want you to suffer through each and every one of your remaining days. When you take your final breath, I want you to remember me.’

Sobek dug the gun barrel into Gifford’s arm once more. This time he didn’t stop when the screaming started. He just kept going, piling on the pain. Winter covered the distance between them in five strides and pushed his Glock into the back of Sobek’s head.

‘Drop the gun! Now!’

Sobek ignored him and carried on digging with the gun barrel. Gifford was thrashing weakly, trying to get away. His screams had turned into sobs that were getting quieter with each passing second. Winter flipped the Glock over then smashed the butt into the side of Sobek’s head. There was a dull thud as it connected and Sobek dropped to the ground. Anderton walked over and looked down at the two bodies.

‘Did you have to hit him so hard?’ she asked.