Stephen Leather: Hot Blood

‘We don’t know them. They might-’

‘They came through for Mickey Burgess,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘It’ll be fine. Pop the boot.’ He climbed out of the Jaguar and adjusted the cuffs of his cashmere overcoat. The boot clicked open and he took out a Manchester United holdall. The two men stood looking at the metal-clad warehouse, with identical buildings, ‘To Let’ signs above the entrances, at either side.

‘If it’s a trap, we’re fucked,’ said Corben.

O’Sullivan smiled easily. ‘It’s a business transaction,’ he said. ‘Pure and simple.’

‘Yeah, but we’re walking in with a bagful of cash and no back-up.’

‘They insisted. Two of us and two of them.’

‘Yeah, well, we should be the ones setting the rules.’

O’Sullivan thrust the bag at Corben. ‘Here, carry this. You’re supposed to be the muscle.’

‘Second-in-command is how I remember the job description.’

‘I don’t recall advertising the position,’ said O’Sullivan. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, we’re late.’

They walked towards the metal doors of the warehouse’s loading bay. O’Sullivan whistled softly. He didn’t want to startle anyone inside. He eased himself through the gap between the doors. Corben followed.

Two men were waiting for them, in bomber jackets and jeans. The older one, a heavy-set man in his fifties, was wearing bright yellow Timberland boots; the younger, slightly taller man had on scruffy training shoes and was holding a paddle-shaped black object in his left hand. O’Sullivan knew their names – Graham May and Paul Lomas – but he didn’t know which was which. He scanned his surroundings. There were no obvious hiding-places. The warehouse was empty, except for three metal tables against one wall. He relaxed a little.

Corben stood behind him, swinging the holdall. O’Sullivan flashed his companion a quick smile.

‘Which one of you is O’Sullivan?’ asked the man in the Timberlands. He had an abrasive Scottish accent.

O’Sullivan raised a hand. ‘That would be me. Conor to my friends.’

‘I’m Paul,’ said the man. He nodded at his younger companion. ‘He’s Graham.’

‘How are you doing?’ said May, although from his tone it was clear that he didn’t care. He gestured at the bag. ‘Is that the cash?’

‘No it’s a Sherman tank,’ sneered Corben.

‘Ian, be nice,’ warned O’Sullivan.

Corben held up the bag. ‘It’s the cash,’ he said. ‘Where are the guns?’

‘Over there,’ said May, gesturing at the tables, on which five metal suitcases were lined up.

O’Sullivan headed towards them.

‘Whoa, hoss,’ said Lomas. ‘First things first.’ He nodded at Corben. ‘Drop the bag, yeah?’

‘What?’ said Corben, frowning.

‘You heard him,’ said May. ‘We need to make a few checks first.’ He gestured at the paddle he was holding. ‘We want to make sure you’re not carrying.’

O’Sullivan realised that the paddle was a metal detector, the sort used to screen passengers at airports. Lomas stood with arms folded, staring stonily at Corben.

May stepped forward and ran the metal detector down O’Sullivan’s coat. It beeped. May raised an eyebrow and O’Sullivan put a hand into his pocket.

‘Slowly,’ warned May.

O’Sullivan’s hand reappeared with a set of car keys. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

‘What do you think?’ snarled Lomas.

O’Sullivan grinned and slipped his keys back into his coat. ‘I think you’re looking for a gun,’ he said. ‘But seeing I’m here to buy guns, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to rip me off,’ said May. He ran the detector over the back of O’Sullivan’s overcoat.

‘Yeah, but rip you off for what?’ asked O’Sullivan. ‘I’ve got the cash. You’ve got the guns. But if I already had a gun, why would I steal one from you? You see what I’m saying?’

‘I see what you’re saying,’ said May.

‘If anyone’s in danger of being ripped off it’s me.’

‘I got it the first time. But this is the way it’s going to be done, so just shut the fuck up.’

‘Plus, this gizmo picks up wires,’ said Lomas.

O’Sullivan pointed a finger at Lomas. ‘You start calling me a grass and I’m out of here,’ he said. ‘I came to do business, not to be slagged off.’

‘Will you two stop bickering?’ said May. He stepped back. ‘You’re clean.’

‘I know I’m clean,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘I didn’t need you to tell me.’

May went to Corben, whose eyes hardened. ‘This is a liberty,’ he said.

‘Let them play their little games, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘It’s a fucking liberty,’ said Corben. ‘We came here to do business, didn’t we? It’s like you said, they’ve got the fucking guns and we’ve got the money. We’re the ones taking the risk here.’

May lowered the metal detector. ‘I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Corben, narrowing his eyes. ‘You and me both.’ He looked across at O’Sullivan. ‘Let’s knock this on the head.’

‘Ian…’

‘I mean it. This is all shit.’

‘Got something to hide, have you?’ said Lomas.

‘Why don’t we run that thing over you two first?’ said Corben. ‘See what you’ve got to hide.’

‘You’re the visitors,’ said Lomas.

‘Fuck you,’ spat Corben.

‘Yeah? Well, fuck you, too.’

Corben stepped towards Lomas, his right hand bunching into a fist. Lomas shuffled backwards, fumbling inside his jacket. He pulled out an automatic and pointed it at Corben’s face.

‘Easy, easy!’ shouted O’Sullivan.

Corben glared at Lomas, his fist pulled back. ‘I knew this was a set-up.’

‘You started it,’ said Lomas.

‘Will you both just fucking relax?’ said May. ‘We’re not in the bloody playground here.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ said Lomas, still staring at Corben. ‘He’s not right.’

‘I’m not right?’ spat Corben. ‘You’re the one who pulled a gun.’

O’Sullivan had his hands up, showing his palms. ‘Can we all calm down here?’ he said.

‘I’m calm,’ said Lomas. ‘I just want to know what he’s got to hide.’

‘Put the gun down, Paul,’ said May.

‘Not until I’m sure he’s kosher,’ said Lomas. ‘Check him. And the bag.’

‘This is bullshit,’ said Corben.

‘Just go with the flow, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

Corben glared at Lomas, took out his mobile phone and car keys, and slowly raised his arms. May ran the metal detector up and down his back and legs, then checked the front of his body. It made no sound.

‘Satisfied?’ asked Corben.

‘No hard feelings?’ said May.

Corben lowered his hands. ‘I’ll decide when there are no hard feelings,’ he said.

‘The bag,’ said Lomas, gesturing with the gun. ‘Check the bag.’

May did as he was told, and again the metal detector made no sound. Lomas put away the gun.

‘I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot,’ said May. He patted O’Sullivan on the back. ‘Situation like this, it’s normal for jitters.’

‘The deal was that we all came unarmed,’ said O’Sullivan, staring pointedly at Lomas.

‘Guns in the cases, guns in a holster, they’re all part of the inventory,’ said May.

‘He pulled a gun on us,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘Like I said, jitters. Come on, let me show you what we’ve got.’

May walked over to the tables with O’Sullivan. Lomas and Corben followed, eyeing each other warily. May opened one of the metal cases. Inside six revolvers nestled in yellow foam rubber. May picked up a short-barrelled weapon and held it out to O’Sullivan, butt first. ‘Spanish-made Astra. 357 Magnum. The foresight has been smoothed down to minimise snagging so it’s a perfect concealed weapon.’