Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“That’s right,” she said, smiling brightly. “You left the SAS, didn’t you?”

She finished rolling up her shirt-sleeves and wiped her hands on her cotton shorts. She breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling, droplets of sweat dripping down her cleavage. She undid the top button of her shirt and waved the material to and fro, trying to create a breeze that would cool her skin.

“So what was the problem, Mr Cramer?” She put the emphasis on the civilian title. “Couldn’t hack it any more?” She picked up a large pair of scissors and tested the point with her fingertips. Satisfied with their sharpness, she stood by Joker’s side, so close that he could smell her sweat. She grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pushed the blades of the scissors up his arm, catching the material. “Was that it? Couldn’t take the pressure?” She began to cut the shirt, along the top of the sleeve to the neck, taking care not to catch his flesh. The scissors made small tearing sounds like an animal feeding.

The tips of the scissors grazed Joker’s neck and he tried to twist his head away. The movement caused him to lose his balance and his full weight pulled down on the chains which bit into his swollen wrists. Hennessy waited until he’d hauled himself back on to the balls of his feet before continuing to cut away the shirt, this time from the sleeve down to the shirt tail. She reached the bottom of the shirt and it fell loose around Joker’s waist. She walked behind him, stroking his back with the handle of the scissors. Joker’s skin crawled. He wondered if he could kick her hard enough to do damage, but he dismissed the thought. Even if he killed her, the men were still upstairs and he could see no way of freeing himself from the chain around his wrists. “You’re not so fit any more, are you, Mr Cramer?” She cut the opposite side of his shirt away and threw the scraps of material onto the floor. She walked slowly back to the workbench and put down the scissors before turning back and scrutinising the man hanging before her. “I remember last time what a hard body you had, Mr Cramer. Flat stomach, strong thighs, muscular arms. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on you then. Have you taken a look at yourself recently?” She slowly walked up to stand in front of him and placed a soft hand on his stomach.

“Do you have a girlfriend? What does she think about the mark I left on you?” She drew one red-painted nail along the thick scar. “Or are you too embarrassed to show it to anyone?”

She forced down the zipper of his jeans and pulled them down around his knees. She left them there, killing any idea he had of trying to kick her. In one swift movement she yanked down his boxer shorts, leaving him totally exposed. Joker felt his manhood shrink and his scrotum contract, sensing danger and trying to beat a retreat. Hennessy smiled at his reaction. “Can’t talk? Is that it?” She bent down and refilled the tumbler. “Perhaps a drink might help.” She threw the water into his face, hard. This time Joker managed to open his mouth and drink some of the water. He swallowed gratefully.

“So, why were you following Bailey?” she asked.

Joker dragged up what saliva he could and spat at her. He missed, and Hennessy smiled and shook her head sorrowfully. She refilled the tumbler with fresh water and put it on the workbench. “I thought you’d say that,” she said as she ripped open the box of salt. She poured a handful into the tumbler and stirred it with the blades of the scissors. “You know the routine, Mr Cramer. Any time you want me to stop, just start talking.” She picked up one of the kitchen knives and held it up to the light as she scrutinised the stainless-steel blade. She seemed unhappy with her selection and chose another. She walked over to Joker and held the tip of the blade under his nose, close to his left nostril. It was a short-handled knife with a sharp point, the type used to cut vegetables. She flicked the nostril with the blade, but not hard enough to draw blood. Joker stared at the knife. Hennessy rested the point against his left nipple and gently circled it with the blade, the way a lover might tease with her finger. She walked around Joker slowly, her eyes on his, drawing the knife along his skin but not cutting the flesh.

“I’m not alone,” said Joker.

Hennessy licked her lips. “If the cavalry was waiting outside, I rather think they’d be in here by now, don’t you? Face it, Mr Cramer. It’s just you and me. Oh, I forgot to tell you — our nearest neighbours are a mile away and we’re in the basement. The previous owner used it as a playroom for his three young children, so it’s well soundproofed. Feel free to scream your heart out.” She paused to allow her words to sink in. When she spoke again her voice sounded almost friendly. “Why were you following Matthew Bailey?” she asked.

“You,” hissed Joker.

“You were after me?” she said, testing the point of the knife with her thumb. “And when you found me? What then?”

Joker remained silent.

“There was a gun in your car,” she said.

“Not mine,” he croaked.

He bit down on his lip in anticipation of the pain to come. He heard her take a breath, then she pushed the point of her knife against his shoulder and twisted it so that it screwed into his flesh like a drill, gouging into the muscle so deeply that he was sure she’d go through to the bone. Joker screamed and twisted away, trying to escape the blade but his momentum swung him back, driving it even deeper. His scream became a roar, the pain so intense that it swamped the agony of his wrists.

Hennessy took the tumbler of salt water and, with a smile that was almost canine, threw it onto the new wound. Joker screamed and passed out.

Cole Howard was reading through the file on Carlos the Jackal when his phone rang. It was Kelly Armstrong.

“Hiya, Kelly, how’s LA?” he asked.

“Actually, Cole, I’m calling from Dulles Airport. The credit card was a dead end, so Jake Sheldon said I should give you a hand in Washington. That seems to be the focus of the investigation, right?” Howard closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He’d hoped that he’d seen the last of Kelly Armstrong for a while. At least until he’d wrapped up the investigation. “Hasn’t he spoken to you yet?” she asked.

“No, he hasn’t,” said Howard, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Well, never mind,” said Kelly. “He filled me in on the investigation so far and agrees that I’d be of more use working with you. Could you arrange clearance for me at the White House? I should be there within the hour.”

“Okay,” said Howard. “You know that we’ve identified the people in the desert?”

“Sheldon’s already briefed me,” she said, with maddening cheerfulness. “Ilich Ramirez Sanchez and the IRA. It’s a strange combination. How’s the computer simulation going?”

“Slowly,” admitted Howard. “And now we know of the IRA involvement, we’re going to have to widen our search. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“I’m on my way,” she said brightly and hung up, leaving Howard with a dead phone pressed against his ear. Helen came up to his desk and handed him a handwritten note. While he was on the line, Jake Sheldon had phoned and he wanted Howard to return his call. Howard went over to the office coffee machine and poured himself a black coffee. What he wanted more than anything was a real drink.

Joker knew it was a dream, he knew that Mick Newmarch was dead and buried in the graveyard in Hereford, but that didn’t stop the horror of what he saw. He was handcuffed to a radiator, his wrists sore from pulling against them, his arms aching from the wrenching. He was throwing himself from side to side, trying to slip out his bleeding wrists, trying to pull the hot pipe away from the wall, trying anything so that he could help Newmarch and stop the gut-wrenching screams. He kept trying to avert his eyes from what was happening in the centre of the room but the cries and the screams kept pulling him back.