Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Howard watched the circles and lines slowly pivot around the building. Only once per revolution did one of the small yellow dots intersect with a building, and when it did the two others were suspended in space. “Andy, this is terrific,” said Howard. “Really terrific.” He leant forward and studied the screen. It would work, he realised. It would actually work. “How long did it take you to input the buildings?”

Andy took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes while Bonnie stood behind him and gently massaged his shoulders. “That’s the sticking point,” he said. “It took me twenty-four hours of solid programming.” He saw Howard’s face fall and held up his hands. “I know, I know, we don’t have the time. I’m working on a way to speed it up, using a scanner, so that the computer can take in the maps and floor plans itself and reduce them to scale.”

“What about getting them directly from the city’s Zoning and Planning Department? Won’t they have their own records computerised?”

Andy slapped his forehead. “Of course!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that?” He looked at his watch. “I’ll get onto it right now.”

“Use my name, and if there are any problems tell them to check with Jake Sheldon’s office in Phoenix,” said Howard.

“Wait a minute,” said Bonnie, “which cities do we concentrate on?”

“Good point,” said Howard. “Washington is obviously the place to start. I’ll get in touch with the Secret Service and see if I can get some sort of itinerary.”

Bonnie stroked the back of Andy’s neck. “But first you must go home and sleep,” she said.

He shook her off. “No, this is too important. I’ve got work to do. I’ll sleep tonight, once I’ve spoken to City Hall.”

Matthew Bailey put his feet up on the chair opposite his own and sipped at his Budweiser as he watched a boat disgorge a group of scuba divers onto the quay. The divers were a mixed group: half a dozen young men with military haircuts, a handful of Oriental tourists with underwater video cameras, a middle-aged couple with matching wetsuits, two pot-bellied balding guys who seemed to be instructors, and a stunning blonde girl who wore a bikini several sizes too small and who was not exactly oblivious to the lustful looks she was attracting.

“Prick-teaser,” he whispered to himself, though his thoughts were on Mary Hennessy and not the blonde on the boat. He put his glass down on the white circular table and ran his finger slowly around the rim. On the quay below, the divers were washing their gear in a large black plastic tank of water. As the blonde bent over, her breasts almost sprang free of her bikini top. “Bitch,” murmured Bailey. He ran the back of his arm over his forehead and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was in the low nineties and his white skin didn’t take kindly to the sun. He hadn’t wanted to leave Mary Hennessy but she had been insistent and Bailey found it difficult to oppose her in anything. He’d done as she’d said and headed for Orlando, even visited Disneyworld, but had soon grown bored.

He’d hired a car using another of the licences supplied through the IRA’s New York contacts and headed south, driving through Miami to the Florida Keys, the line of tiny islands hanging from the tip of Florida like a string of pearls. He’d booked into the Marina del Mar Hotel in Key Largo, the largest of the islands and the one closest to the mainland, and spent his days at Gilligan’s Bar, drinking and brooding. There had been something different about Mary when they’d met at the airport, something in the way she’d smiled at him and touched his hand. Bailey had lusted after her for months, but she’d always kept the relationship on a purely business level. However, in the cafeteria he’d felt for the first time that there was the possibility of something sexual between them. Bailey felt himself grow harder under the table and he closed his eyes and squeezed his thighs together as he remembered the way she’d swung her hips as she’d left his table. God, she had the greatest figure: long, shapely legs, tight buttocks, a trim waist and breasts that he ached to touch. He opened his eyes again and saw the blonde leaning over to pick up a weight belt and dip it into the water tank. Her breasts swayed forward and from his vantage point on the balcony Bailey could see her nipples. The girl looked up suddenly and saw Bailey watching her. She smiled, and leant forward further to give him an even better view. Bailey grinned and raised his glass to her. “Prick-teaser,” he mouthed, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to read his lips from down on the quay. She averted her eyes, pulled the weight belt clear of the water and began to pick up the rest of her gear. One of the instructors rushed to help her.

The blonde must have been about half Mary’s age, but she didn’t come close to her in desirability, Bailey realised. All the girl had in her favour was a young body whereas Mary had experience, confidence, and a natural sexuality that turned heads wherever she went. The instructor placed a proprietary hand on the blonde’s shoulder and her laughter wafted up to the balcony. Bailey drained his glass and a waitress in white shorts and halter top appeared at his shoulder and asked if he wanted another. Bailey shook his head. Three of the weak American beers were more than enough.

Bailey walked back to his room, feeling rivulets of sweat trickle down his back under his cotton shirt. When he opened the door to his room, cold air billowed out and chilled his perspiration. He’d left the air-conditioner switched on, knowing that if he didn’t it would be like returning to an oven. He closed the door behind him and drew the blinds. He put his sunglasses on top of the television set and stood at the end of the double bed, closing his eyes as he breathed in the chilled air. Images of Mary Hennessy filled his head: her soft brown eyes which glistened when she laughed, her tanned, muscular legs, her fine, shining hair, now dyed blonde, her pert nose and perfect white teeth. And her firm, inviting breasts. Bailey arched his back and ran his hands down the front of his shorts. He could feel how hard he’d become and he gripped himself. He shuddered and dropped down onto the bed, pulling down his zipper as he whispered Mary’s name to himself, over and over again.

Cole Howard read the book Kratzer had given him on the flight back to Phoenix. The lack of emotion when the sniper described the kills was chilling. Howard had never had to draw his FBI weapon in anger, and despite all his training he knew that when the time came for him to fire his gun his mind would be in turmoil. He’d seen the damage bullets could do to human flesh, and the emotional problems suffered by agents who’d had to pull the trigger. Howard knew that he didn’t have what it took to be a sniper, he cared about people too much. A sniper had to be cold and mechanical. A killing machine.

The cab dropped Howard in front of the nondescript brick building which housed the FBI’s offices. There was no indication from the outside that the building housed the bureau and other federal agencies. Howard paid the fare and got out of the cab. He looked up at the tinted-glass windows. Reflections of clouds scudded across the dark glass. An unshaven man in a stained T-shirt was sitting on the porch of one of the ramshackle wooden houses opposite. He scratched his expanding stomach and drank beer from a bottle before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Howard’s throat was dry and he massaged his neck.

When he got back to his office there was a message on his desk asking him to go up and see Jake Sheldon. He found Kelly Armstrong already in with the director, her legs neatly crossed showing shapely calves and expensive high heels. She flashed him a condescending smile and then turned back to Sheldon.