James Craig - Then We Die

‘Step away from the body!’ Sid Lieberman edged his way through the door, the Browning Hi-Power that had killed DI David Ronan — now with an outsized suppressor attached to the end of its barrel — pointing at Sol Abramyan’s head.

Carlyle looked over at Dom, who was gripping the table in order to stop himself shaking. The inspector gave him a gentle pat on the arm, and Dom almost jumped out of his skin. ‘Just stay calm,’ Carlyle murmured, ‘and we’ll walk out of this.’

Dom let out a constipated grunt that suggested he wasn’t entirely reassured, in view of the evidence in front of him.

Sol moved away from Lieberman, until he was standing next to Carlyle. ‘You are one fucked-up policeman,’ he hissed, just before a.40 S amp;W round punched straight through his skull and sent him flying backwards.

‘That was neat!’ Sylvia Swain stepped from behind Lieberman and trained a second silenced Browning on Carlyle. She had that glazed expression on her face that suggested she was high on either drink or drugs. ‘Can I do the copper as well?’

‘First things first,’ Lieberman scowled. He turned to Silver. ‘Who are you?’

‘A civilian,’ explained Carlyle quickly.

‘There are no fucking civilians,’ Lieberman snarled. ‘He dies here with you.’

‘Kill him and you get nothing,’ Carlyle said quietly.

‘Give me my man right now,’ Lieberman screamed, ‘or I will fucking kill you both right this second. Then I will go straight to your home and kill your fucking family.’

‘Cool!’ trilled Swain.

Carlyle glanced at Dom, who was staring at a spot somewhere out in the darkness beyond the shattered window. There was something that might have been a smile on his face, and Carlyle realized that he was thinking about his kids and his wife, and all the things that made his life worthwhile. Fighting back a tear, he felt a flood of overwhelming gratitude towards the man who was at his side. If he was going to die, at least he wouldn’t die alone.

‘Where’s Goya?’ Lieberman demanded.

Carlyle gestured at the door in the corner. ‘In the basement.’

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ Swain demanded, pointing the way with her semi-automatic. ‘Let’s get down there.’ Rising from his chair, Carlyle hauled Dom after him. ‘Hurry up,’ Swain shouted. ‘Open it!’

The small wooden door, only about five feet by two feet, looked like it should give access to a cupboard or pantry. Grabbing the handle, Carlyle tried pulling and then pushing. ‘It’s locked.’

‘No problem,’ Swain grinned. ‘Step aside.’

Carlyle barely had time to jump out of the way before she blasted the lock three times. The door disintegrated and they were left looking at a steep set of narrow wooden stairs, leading down into darkness.

‘On you go,’ the military attache said. ‘Both of you.’

Carefully taking one step at a time, Carlyle led the way, followed by Dom. When he reached the bottom, he groped for a light switch. Flicking it on, the space was illuminated by a single bare bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling itself. A couple of large flies buzzed around it before settling for the view from the ceiling. The large, windowless room smelled of damp and decay. The walls were whitewashed brick, and the floor of rough, untreated concrete was covered in plastic sheeting. In the centre, a man sat tied to a chair. Slumped forward, he did not respond in any way to Carlyle’s presence. Naked to the waist and barefoot, the smell coming from his jeans suggested he had been left alone there for a long time. The blood on his head and chest were evidence of multiple beatings, presumably at the hands of the Somalis.

Breathing through his mouth, Carlyle stepped over to the chair and placed a hand on the man’s neck until he found a pulse. What had Lieberman called him? Goya? Carlyle gingerly pulled back the man’s head by the matted hair. Even through the blood, it was easy to recognize the face. He glanced at Dom. ‘That’s the guy who shot Joe.’

‘Result,’ Dom grunted without enthusiasm.

‘Is he alive?’ Swain pushed Dom further into the room and stepped away from the stairs, allowing Lieberman to follow her down.

‘Yes,’ Carlyle nodded, ‘but he’s in a bad way.’

‘Let’s get him upstairs,’ Swain commanded. ‘Quickly.’

Carlyle grabbed the front legs of the chair and signalled for Dom to get hold of the back.

‘When you reach the top,’ Lieberman barked, ‘untie him and put him on the kitchen table.’ Turning, he disappeared back up the stairs.

‘Then the pair of you get yourselves back down here,’ Swain added, ‘and we’ll have some fun.’

Carlyle let Dom take the lead and they shuffled awkwardly towards the stairs. With his front foot on the bottom step, Carlyle thought he heard a noise upstairs. Pushing forward, he knocked Dom off-balance.

‘Hey!’ Dom half-tripped on the stairs but didn’t lose his grip on the chair.

‘Sorry.’

‘Get on with it!’ Swain pushed the muzzle of the Browning’s silencer into the nape of Carlyle’s neck.

‘I’m trying,’ the inspector protested, ‘but he’s heavy.’ With another large grunt, he began the climb.

At the top of the stairs, Carlyle quickly dropped the chair and skipped away from the door, leaving Goya blocking Swain’s view into the kitchen. Stepping round the table, he saw Sid Lieberman lying face down between the two dead Somalis, his hands tied tightly behind his back with plastic cuffs. The size-ten boot of Gideon Spanner was placed firmly in the small of the military attache’s back. Spanner had a SIG Sauer P226 pointed at Lieberman’s head and a bored expression on his face.

Pulling a couple of cans of Stella Artois out of the fridge, Dom handed one to Carlyle and swiftly downed most of the other. ‘What about the bitch in the basement?’ he asked.

‘She’ll be up in a moment,’ said Carlyle, cracking open his can. ‘No need to go and get her.’

Dom looked over at Spanner, who gave the impression of being less than impressed with their drinking on the job but said nothing. Instead, he signalled to another of Dom’s boys loitering in the hallway. Immediately, the man took up position to one side of the stairwell, P226 at the ready.

Dom finished his beer and dived into the fridge for another. ‘She’s got thirty seconds or we just go down and shoot her.’

‘I want all of them alive,’ said Carlyle firmly.

‘No, you bloody don’t.’ Dom defiantly killed the second beer. ‘You let them walk out of here, they get sent on a plane straight home and that’s the end of that. No justice for Joe Szyszkowski’s family.’

Or David Ronan ’ s for that matter . Frowning, Carlyle finished his beer.

‘Anyway, we’re not standing around all night, arguing the toss about it.’ Dom chucked his empty cans into a plastic bag lying by the sink and gestured for Carlyle to do the same. ‘We need to clean up and get going.’ Picking up a dishcloth from the draining board, Dom wiped down the handle of the fridge. ‘I’ve kept to my end of the deal, now we need to vamoose.’

‘I know.’

‘So why don’t we just whack them?’

‘Like you did with Sam Hooper?’

Dom gave him a dirty look. ‘Careful, Johnny boy.’

‘Sid? What’s going on?’ Sylvia Swain’s head popped out through the doorway at the top of the stairs, to be greeted with an unceremonious smack in the face with the P226. There was a half-shriek, followed by the sound of her tumbling back down the stairs.

‘Told you she’d be right up,’ Carlyle grinned.

Dom gestured at his man to go and get her. ‘Can’t we at least just shoot the fucking psycho bitch?’ he pleaded.