Stephen Leather - The Long shot

“Maybe he was waiting for back-up,” said Lovell, and Carlos nodded.

“Possible,” agreed Carlos.

“That’s it then,” said Bailey. “It’s over. It’s f-f-finished.”

Carlos’s eyes hardened as he looked at Bailey. “It’s not finished,” he said coldly. “I said I took care of it.” He looked at Mary and she nodded, acknowledging that Bailey was her problem and that she’d handle him.

“You’re missing something,” said Lovell. “Without Rashid. .”

“Without Rashid we can still go ahead,” interrupted Carlos. “I will take her place.”

Lovell and Schoelen looked at each other, astonished. “How?” said Schoelen. “We don’t have time to rehearse again.”

“I have used Dina’s gun before, in the Lebanon. I have a tendency to aim a little high, but other than that I will have no problem using the scope as she has set it. I can compensate for the very slight difference in our eyes.”

“You’ve been a sniper?” asked Lovell.

“I have killed with a rifle,” said Carlos.

Lovell shrugged. “Okay, okay,” he said. “So what do we do now?”

“You and Lou take your room, Mary and Matthew can have this one. I’ll arrange a room for myself. We all meet here tomorrow morning at ten for a final run through.”

If Schoelen and Lovell were surprised at the suggestion that Bailey and Hennessy should share a room, they didn’t show it. They took their bags outside and Carlos closed the door behind them. There were two double beds in the room and Bailey had slumped down onto one, his head in his hands. “I’ll go and fix up a room,” Carlos said to Mary. “Will you be okay?” She nodded. “I’ll leave the rifle here,” he said, picking up his bag. As he left the room he saw Hennessy put a hand on Bailey’s head and ruffle his hair.

Lovell was waiting for him outside. “I don’t like the way Bailey is shaping up,” he said.

“Neither do I,” said Carlos. “But we need him.”

“He’s cracking up already,” said Lovell. “I’ve seen guys like him before, in combat. They talk a good war, but when the bullets fly they shit themselves and hide under the bed. I don’t think he’s going to cut it tomorrow.”

“He’s tougher than he looks,” said Carlos. “They don’t tolerate wimps in the IRA. He’s just on edge because we’ve been waiting so long, that’s all. Mary will straighten him out.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Carlos smiled. “Then I will.”

Cole Howard stood watching the fire fighters coil up their hoses and restack their equipment on the engines. What remained of the wooden house hissed and smoked in the moonlight. There was a surprising amount of the building still standing, but it was clear that what remained would have to be demolished. Much of the rear of the house had fallen in and the roof had collapsed. A stone chimney at the side of the house was still in one piece and smoke was feathering from the top as if a fire was burning in the grate below.

One of the fire engines drove off, the faces of fire fighters inside streaked with soot and sweat. The SWAT team had already departed and Howard was waiting to hear from one of the Fire Department’s investigators who was walking through the wreckage. They’d recovered the second body, a badly burnt man, when they had the fire under control. The corpse was charred and smouldering and Howard would never forget the smell. He’d covered his mouth with his hand as he’d put his head close to the blistered and blackened flesh. He found what he was looking for. Two bullet holes in the chest. Dunning had called Baltimore County Police and arranged for the medical examiner and a crime lab tech team before he’d taken his men and gone back to the city. He seemed to resent the fact that there had been no-one for his SWAT team to take down.

Howard heard shouts of warning and a large blackened beam fell to the ground, not far from where the investigator was standing. He turned and waved, signalling that he was okay. Two of the fire fighters walked over to him, axes in their hands. The investigator, a black guy in his late fifties called George Whitmore, knelt down and touched something on the ground before lifting his gloved fingers to his nose. Whitmore stood up and spoke to the fire fighters with axes. They nodded and began to chop away at something while Whitmore watched. The thwacks of the axes were replaced by the sound of tearing wood and then the three men disappeared. Howard frowned. One minute the fire fighters were standing together, the next they’d vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up. Behind him, another fire engine drove off, its work done.

Howard walked towards the smoking ruins, running his hand across his stubbled chin. The walls around the kitchen, and the floor above it, had been totally destroyed, and all that remained of that side of the house were smoking timbers and blackened appliances. As he got closer he saw that the fire fighters had opened up a stairway leading to a basement. A white helmet appeared, followed by the bulky shoulders of George Whitmore. He pulled a face at the FBI agent. “Another one down there for the ME,” he said. He took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, reaching inside his waterproofs and coming out with a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. “Want one?” he asked Howard, who shook his head. Howard looked around the remains of the kitchen as the investigator lit up. Everything above the kitchen area had been gutted and what remained of the ground floor was covered in a thick layer of ash. Despite the devastation, there were still signs of domesticity — the dishwasher door had popped open and inside were plates and cups, a floor mop stood by the refrigerator, its head melted but its handle surprisingly untouched, and a kettle stood on the stove.

“Can I look?” Howard asked.

“Better if you don’t,” said Whitmore. “There’s still a lot of smoke down there, and the stairs are in a bad way. Wait till the guys have made it safe.” He took a long pull at his cigarette and exhaled deeply, blowing the smoke into the air with a look of contentment on his face.

“Okay,” said Howard. “What can you tell me about the body?”

“Woman, late twenties maybe. Hard to tell ‘cos her face is all mashed up.”

“Shot? Smoke?”

“Not shot, that’s for sure. Smoke? I don’t think so, I think she was dead before the fire, but you’ll have to wait for the ME to take her apart in the chop-shop before we know for sure.” He drew deeply on the cigarette again. “Sure is some weird shit down there, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Knives, a pair of shears, all of them covered in blood. Bits of chain on the floor.”

“You think she was tortured?”

The big man shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a man’s wallet down there. I didn’t touch it, thought the crime lab technicians might want to take a look first.” A timber crashed somewhere at the other side of the house and he put his helmet back on. “You’d better move back, Agent Howard, this isn’t exactly safe right now.”

Howard nodded and walked away from the smouldering wreckage. In the distance he heard an ambulance siren, heading towards the house. He wondered why they were bothering with the siren.

Mary picked Bailey’s glass off the floor and went over to her suitcase. She opened it and took out a bottle of malt whisky, keeping an eye on him as she unscrewed the cap and poured out a double measure. “Here, drink this,” she said, holding out the glass.

Bailey took it and swallowed it in three gulps. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s all right,” she said. “We’re all a little apprehensive.”

“This isn’t Ireland, Mary,” he said. “They electrocute k-k-killers here.” He looked up at her and she saw that his left eyelid was flickering. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”