Stephen Leather - The Long shot

Mary sighed and slammed the door shut. The sound echoed around the car park like a scaffold’s trapdoor. The mother smacked the back of the child’s legs and pulled him into the motel room. Mary took a deep breath and began to walk across the concrete to the two-storey block of bedrooms. Room number 27, her contact had said. It was on the ground floor, and the curtains were drawn. A maid was pushing a trolley full of towels and cleaning equipment along the upper level, its wheels squealing as if in pain. Mary stood in front of the door. She looked left and right, then opened her bag and slipped her hand inside. The cold metal was comforting. She knocked on the door, and realised that it was open. She pushed it with the flat of her hand. “Hello?” she said. There was no reply but she could hear the sound of running water. She reached her hand inside, feeling for a light switch. She found it, but when she flicked it up nothing happened. Either the bulb was broken or it had been removed.

She peered into the gloom. Her hand tightened around the gun and she stepped inside. The bathroom door was closed but she could see a strip of light at the bottom and the shower was on full blast. Mary moved into the room and carefully closed the door behind her.

“Take your hand out of the bag,” said a woman’s voice. “And if it comes out with a gun, I’ll shoot.”

The voice was calm and assured, and Mary slowly obeyed, raising her hands above her head.

“Turn around and put your hands against the wall,” said the voice. Mary did as she was told, mentally cursing herself for her stupidity. She shouldn’t have come alone, she shouldn’t have entered the darkened room, she shouldn’t have fallen for the oldest trick in the book. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as a hand patted her down expertly, running down her sides and the small of her back. She felt the hand slide into her bag and pull out the gun and then heard it being thrown onto the bed. The hand went back into the bag and Mary shifted her weight off her arms. Before she could move, the barrel of a gun pressed into the small of her back.

“Don’t even think about it,” said the voice calmly.

Mary opened her eyes and looked down. She saw a hand with red-painted fingernails take her wallet out of the bag and then the barrel was removed from her back. The woman stepped away and Mary realised she was going through the credit cards and identification.

“These are good,” said the woman. “Very good.”

Mary felt her mouth go dry and she swallowed. “You’re Kelly Armstrong?” she said.

“Uh-huh,” said Kelly. “And despite what these say, you’re Mary Hennessy. I’ve been looking for you for some time.”

Mary frowned. If she’d been caught in some sort of FBI sting the room should have been full of armed agents by now, and if it was an SAS trap then she’d be dead on the floor. It didn’t make any sense. She heard the woman walk away to the other side of the room. Mary turned her head quickly and saw Kelly peering through a gap in the curtains. She had the striking looks of a television anchorwoman, with backswept hair and a sharp profile. She was wearing a black jacket and a skirt which showed off her long, tanned legs and she held a large automatic in her right hand. In her left she held Mary’s wallet. Mary’s frown deepened. Kelly turned to look at her and Mary faced the wall again.

“You came alone?” Kelly asked.

“That’s what you wanted,” replied Mary, her eyes on the wall.

“You can turn around now,” said Kelly. She put Mary’s wallet on a bedside table and clicked on a small lamp.

Mary pushed herself away from the wall and turned to face the younger woman. “What’s this all about?” she asked. “I was told you wanted to see me, that you had information for me. Why all this cloak and dagger charade?”

Kelly smiled. “You’re a very dangerous woman, Mary. I had to make sure that you didn’t come in with guns blazing.”

“What is it you want? Have you come to take me in, is that it?”

Kelly laughed softly. She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a small leather wallet. She threw it onto the bed, close to the gun. Mary reached out her hand, and for a brief second considered grabbing the gun. She looked up and saw that Kelly was watching her closely. Mary picked up the wallet and opened it. Her heart sank as she saw the FBI credentials. “I know about the assassination,” said Kelly quietly.

Mary’s mouth dropped. She looked at the door, expecting it to burst open to admit a dozen gun-toting FBI agents, but it remained firmly closed. “I don’t know what game it is you’re playing, but let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I thought you wanted to talk.”

Kelly placed her gun on the bedside table. “Oh I do, Mary,” she said softly. “And I want to help.” She walked over to an easy-chair and sat down, crossing her long legs like a secretary preparing to take dictation.

Mary looked at the gun on the bed, and then back at Kelly. “Who are you?” she asked.

Kelly raised an eyebrow archly. “Kelly Armstrong, special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“And?” said Mary, sensing that there was more to come.

“And Colm O’Malley was my father.”

The revelation hit Mary like a blow to the stomach. “Colm O’Malley?” she repeated.

“Didn’t they tell you? Didn’t they tell you that Fergus is my uncle?”

Mary shook her head. “No, they didn’t.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “But you’re American,” she said.

“I am now,” she said. “My parents divorced when I was a kid.” Mary looked up sharply. “I know, I know, Catholics don’t get divorced,” she said. “My mother was American, she went back to the States and divorced him there. I hardly saw him when I was growing up, but later, when I was in my teens, I used to go to stay with him. Things were never right between him and my mother, she wouldn’t even let him come to my wedding.” She grimaced as if in pain. “She couldn’t stop me going to his funeral, though.” She reached up as if to casually slip a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear but she brushed her cheek with the back of her hand and Mary could see that she was close to tears.

“My husband died, too,” said Mary quietly.

Kelly looked at her fiercely. “I know,” she said. “You think if I didn’t know I’d be sitting here talking to you like this?” Her anger subsided as quickly as it had flared. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Mary said nothing and the two women sat in silence for a while, united by unspoken memories.

“How could they do it?” Kelly asked eventually. “How could they murder them like that?”

“The SAS have a saying,” said Mary. “‘Big Boys’ Games, Big Boys’ Rules’.”

“That doesn’t excuse what they did,” said Kelly. “It doesn’t even explain it. They gunned my father down like an animal.”

“I know,” said Mary.

“Like an animal,” Kelly repeated. She looked up sharply. “I want to help, Mary.” There was a new brittle — ness in her voice, like splintered glass.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” said Mary. “You don’t know what we’re planning.”

Kelly snorted softly. “You’d be surprised,” she said. “I know you’re planning an assassination using three snipers, and that one of the snipers will be more than a mile from the target. I know that two of the snipers are former Navy SEALs, Rich Lovell and Lou Schoelen, and that you organised a full rehearsal in Arizona to calibrate your weapons. And I know that the assassination is set for sometime within the next two weeks.” Mary sat in stunned silence as Kelly ticked off the points on her fingers. Kelly smiled smugly. “The only thing I don’t know is who you’re planning to kill.”