Ken Bruen - Ammunition

He waved her off. She knew he was already seeing the next line of coke, waiting in the kitchen, she knew that song, he said:

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, I can handle it.’

At the door she was going to offer for him to call her if he needed her but then she thought:

Screw it.

He was already in pre-coke preparation, said:

‘Mind how you go, darling.’

As she got outside, she wondered if she’d been as fucking stupid her own self in her nose-candied days.

Probably.

Porter was in a real black-dog mood, toying with a tepid cup of tea in the canteen, when Wallace breezed in, full of hearty bonhomie, Porter hadn’t been laid in like… six months… fuck.

He glared at Wallace, asked:

‘What is it exactly you do, besides swanning around, getting loaded, swaggering as if you owned the place?’

Wallace gave what the literary writers call, when they want to slum, a shit-eating grin, asked:

‘You wanna see what I do, get your ass in gear, buddy. I’ll show you.’

Porter thought:

What the hell.

And said:

‘I’m game.’

Wallace gave him a funny look, the one that read… Aren’t gays always, like… ‘game’?

Outside, Wallace had a black BMW idling, and Porter whistled, asked:

‘This your car?’

Wallace got in the driving seat, said:

‘Pimp my ride.’

Try answering that.

Porter didn’t.

Wallace said:

‘We got us a suspect, linked to what appears to be another plot to bomb this fair city of yours.’

Porter asked:

‘Shouldn’t we have backup?’

Wallace was driving fast and with an ease that personified his confidence, the big car purring under his control. He sliced through a traffic snarl up, then pulled back his jacket, revealing what looked like a fucking Magnum in his belt. He said:

‘I got you, buddy, right and this here little baby in my belt.’

Then he looked at Porter, asked:

‘You ain’t gonna punk out on me, bro?’

Before Porter could answer, Wallace said:

‘I had you pegged for a get go kind of guy. Don’t tell me I picked a putz, did I? You not up for this fellah, holler now and I’ll let you out right now, you hear what I’m saying?’

It was hard not to as he was practically bellowing, Porter said:

‘I’ m in.

Wallace gave a chuckle, one that came right up from his belly, said:

‘Sweetest lines a guy can say, yeah?’

Porter wished he were carrying more than his wallet.

Wallace pulled into a street just off Clapham Common, a quiet residential street, and Porter thought:

Isn’t it always so, the crazies find nice peaceful areas to reside.

And, he supposed, when you were wreaking havoc on the world, it was nice to have a decent home to return to after a busy day. You’re blowing the be-Jaysus out of folk, probably good to get back, have a nice cup of tea, watch one of the soaps. He had to catch himself on, he was worse than Brant, already figuring the guy/woman/suspect was guilty.

Wallace said:

‘Yo, earth to Nash, you coming or what?’

Porter asked:

‘You want to fill me in a bit, give me some bloody clue to who we’re… interviewing?

Wallace laughed, said:

‘You Brits, you sure talk funny, our guy is Shamar Olaf, how’s that for a game of fucking soldiers. He was born plain old Joe Donnell but he got turned round, spent some time in Pakistan and the training camps in Libya. He’s a doozy.’

Wallace was already getting out of the car, and Porter went:

‘We do have evidence, I mean we’re not just chancing our arm?’

Wallace closed the car door gently, said:

‘Informant… god bless the treacherous bastards, plus, I got a nose for these things, this guy is the real deal.’

They approached the third house, it had a nice, tended garden, newly painted front, and the curtains were drawn. Wallace said: ‘Follow my lead, you got that?’

He did.

Wallace produced a set of slim tools, and in a few seconds had the door opened and Porter suddenly grabbed Wallace’s arm, whispered:

‘We have a warrant right?’

Wallace said:

‘Don’t ever put a hand on me, and here’s my warrant.’

He took out the Magnum, the gun actually looking quite small in his massive fist, he indicated the stairs and pointed Porter to the two rooms on the bottom floor. Wallace began to glide up the stairs, Porter, his heart in overdrive, opened the first door, expecting to be blasted at any second, wishing he had Brant for backup. It was the kitchen and empty. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and went to the next room, took a deep breath, opened that door, again, empty. It was a living room, wide-screen TV, and lots of books. Before he could let out his breath, he heard an almighty thud and rushed out to see a body come hurtling down the stairs, to land in a heap at the bottom. The man whimpered. He was clad in pyjamas, groaned, and tried to sit up. He looked to be in his late thirties, lean with an average face. Wallace was coming down the stairs, said:

‘Meet Shamar, who has a bit of an attitude problem… that right, buddy?’

Wallace grabbed him by the hair, looked at Porter, asked:

‘There a kitchen?’

Porter nodded and led the way, Wallace dragged the moaning man along, and in the kitchen, lifted him, plopped him in a chair, said:

‘There you go. You had breakfast yet, Sha?’

He looked at Porter, said:

‘The fuck you standing there for, Jesus H. Christ, brew some coffee.’

Porter had a real bad feeling and worse, he noticed that Wallace was wearing those surgical gloves… how’d that happen… and when… and where the fuck were his?

He made the coffee, instant, three mugs and asked the guy, who was coming round:

‘How’d you take it?’

Wallace snorted, said:

‘Any way he fucking gets it.’

And then he added:

‘Black for me, two sugars.’

Porter put a mug in front of the suspect, found a bowl of sugar, some dodgy milk, and laid that alongside. The man looked at Porter for almost a full moment, and Porter didn’t know if it was his imagination or just the whole unreal situation, but the guy’s eyes, they frigging burned… with what?… zeal, idealogy, rage?

In one fluid movement, the guy swept the mug and stuff from the table, the milk slipping across the floor, the mug making a harsh noise against the bare tiles. Wallace didn’t move, almost like he was expecting it, Porter had jumped, no point in denying it, and now the guy smiled, exposing yellow teeth. Wallace made slurping sounds with his caffeine, said:

‘See what you’re dealing with.’

The guy seemed to be gaining confidence by the minute and rounding on Wallace, said:

‘American… the oppressors of the world. Killed any Muslims today?’

Wallace made a show of looking at his watch, a heavy metal tag, said:

‘Ah, it’s early yet, buddy, but we can get started.’

The guy said:

‘I want a lawyer… now.’

Wallace moved right in close, asked:

‘Where are the explosives, and when is the gig going down?’

The guy spit in his face.

Wallace didn’t flinch, let the spittle run down his cheek, then slowly reached in his jacket, took out the Magnum, said:

‘You have three minutes to tell me what I need to know.’

Porter tried to intervene, said:

‘Maybe we should take this down to the station.’

Nobody answered him, and then Wallace shot the guy’s ear off.