Stephen Leather - Dead Men

He pulled the gun from his belt and screwed in the silencer, then reached through the hole in the glass and flicked open the Yale lock. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. As he stepped into the kitchen his shoe crunched on a small piece of glass that had escaped the plastic. He realised he was holding his breath and forced himself to relax.

He cocked his head to one side, frowning. He could hear sounds from down the hall. A fight. A crowd roaring and the thud-thud-thud of punches. A boxing match. His heart started to pound again. Shepherd should have been in bed with the girl. His finger tightened on the trigger. It didn’t matter. With the silencer on the gun, the girl and the boy wouldn’t hear a thing. He could shoot Shepherd downstairs, then go up and kill his family. Salih had said he should kill Shepherd if he was in the house and his family if he wasn’t, but in killing them all he would show he was committed to what he was doing, that it made no difference if his target was a man,a woman or a child. They were infidels. A human being who did not believe in Allah was not a human being. He was lower than an animal, lower even than the insects that crawled along the ground. He went up on tiptoe and moved silently across the kitchen floor. He paused at the door. The television was in the front room, the sound turned low so that it wouldn’t disturb the sleepers upstairs.

Tariq moved along the hallway. The sitting-room door was open. He raised his gun. There were eleven bullets in the magazine. He’d taken them out in his room, counted and recounted them,wearing gloves as Salih had instructed. They were so small, the bullets. Just an inch long, bright and shiny. It was hard to believe that something so small could kill a man, but Tariq had seen at first hand the damage that bullets could do. As part of his training, at a camp near Malakand on the border with Afghanistan and Pakistan, he’d been taught how to shoot and how to kill, how to make explosives by mixing ammonium nitrate fertiliser and aluminium powder. His instructors had shown him how to strip and fire a Kalashnikov, and many different types of handgun.

Most of his training had been on target ranges, but during their second month three prisoners had been brought in, bloody, battered, begging for their lives, and tied to posts. Tariq and five other British Muslims had been lined up in front of them and told to fire. Tariq had needed no urging. He had been the first to pull the trigger. His shot had hit the prisoner on the left, blowing away a big chunk of his head. His second shot had missed but then he had remembered his training and held the gun with both hands. His next three shots had hit the chest of the man in the middle. Tariq had turned the gun on the third man, even though he was already riddled with bullets, and he had carried on firing until the hammer clicked on empty casings. He had screamed then, as had the others, screamed and yelled and danced, kicking up dust, as the instructors clapped and cheered. Killing was easy, Tariq had learnt that day. It was easy and it was pleasurable. As he’d danced and chanted praise to Allah, he’d realised he had an erection. He’d been turned on by the killings. For a moment he’d been ashamed, but then he’d realised that the erection was a gift from Allah, a reward for what he’d done.

Tariq felt himself harden as he moved towards the open door. His left hand crept involuntarily towards the front of his trousers and his penis twitched in anticipation. He’d kill the man, then the boy – and then he’d rape the girl before he killed her too. He’d rape her in the name of Allah.

He took another step and saw Shepherd in an armchair, watching television, a bottle of beer and an ashtray containing a burning cigarette on the table beside him. As Tariq watched, the man picked up the cigarette, took a long drag on it, then blew smoke at the ceiling. To be sure of a clear shot, Tariq had to take at least two steps into the room.

Shepherd flicked ash, then groaned as the bell sounded for the end of the round. Tariq took a deep breath and readied himself. He wanted to say something to Shepherd before he killed him, to tell him why he was taking his life. He wanted to tell Shepherd that his son was going to be killed and his woman raped, that the last thing his woman would feel was Tariq coming inside her. His penis was rock hard now and his testicles ached. It was going to be the best sex he’d ever had, Tariq knew, sex followed by death. He shivered.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed. Tariq froze. It must be either the woman or the boy. He pressed himself against the wall. It wasn’t a problem. Whoever it was would go back to bed. Tariq heard footsteps coming down the stairs. His heart pounded and for a moment he felt so light-headed that he thought he would pass out. Was it the boy or the woman? Whoever it was, they were half-way down the stairs and were only seconds from reaching the bottom – at which point they would see him. He would have to shoot them first, then turn and shoot Shepherd.

Tariq raised his gun and moved away from the wall. He stepped sideways, both hands on the butt of the gun, swinging it up to aim at the figure on the stairs. He gasped when he saw it was Shepherd. The man was wearing a denim shirt and over it a nylon shoulder holster. As Tariq hesitated, Shepherd ducked, reached for his gun and yelled, ‘Jack!’

Tariq backed away from the stairs. He couldn’t get a clear shot. He heard the man in the sitting room shout, ‘Billy!’ and turned, his finger tightening on the trigger. His mind whirled when he saw that the man in the sitting room was also Shepherd. Two Shepherds? How could that be? He felt as if he was moving through treacle. Was he dreaming? Was it all a nightmare? The Shepherd in the sitting room was reaching for a gun on the coffee-table next to the ashtray, a big automatic with a silencer.

Tariq pulled the trigger and there was a loud popping sound, but his hands were shaking so much that the shot went wide and buried itself in the sofa.

The man in the sitting room rolled on to the floor and Tariq pulled the trigger again. The gun kicked in his hands and there was another loud pop.

Then Tariq felt a thump in his back and gasped. His first thought was that he’d been punched, but a burning pain was spreading between his shoulder-blades. He’d been shot. He turned, his mouth open in surprise. The man on the stairs was holding his gun in both hands, a confident smile on his face. ‘Drop the gun,’ he said.

Tariq tried to breathe but a gurgling sound came from his lungs. His body felt as if all the energy was draining from it, and the slightest movement was an effort.

‘Drop the gun,’ repeated the man on the stairs.

Tariq lifted it. If he was about to die, at least he would take one of the infidels with him. ‘Allahu Akbar ,’ he whispered, and pointed his weapon at the man’s chest.

The man fired twice and Tariq felt two blows to his chest. There was no burning pain this time, just a spreading coldness. The strength went from his legs and he fell to the floor. The last thing he saw was the smile on his killer’s face.

Shepherd’s phone rang. He groped for it as he squinted at the clock on his bedside table. He grunted, ‘Yeah?’

‘Spider, it’s Jack.’

Shepherd sat up, immediately wide awake. It was after two o’clock in the morning and Jack Bradford could only be calling with bad news. ‘What’s happened?’ he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Bradford had called on Shepherd’s personal phone and all the power sockets in the room were switched off so Shepherd knew they weren’t being overheard.

‘Spider, it’s okay. Everyone here’s fine.’

Shepherd exhaled deeply.

‘We had a visitor, an Asian guy. He had a gun and a silencer. Could have been that Salih you were expecting. Anyway, we’ve taken care of it.’