Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

Haschka put the 464 in gear and drove off.

‘Why the military outfit?’ asked Armstrong. He lit a Marlboro and offered the pack to Yokely.

Yokely waved it away. ‘Gives me a certain legitimacy,’ he said.

‘And camouflage,’ said Bosch. She reached over, took one of Armstrong’s cigarettes and waited while he lit it for her.

‘Exactly,’ said Yokely.

Haschka drove the Land Cruiser through the darkened suburbs. There was no street lighting but the 464’s powerful headlights cut through the night, startling the stray dogs and cats that slept on the streets. There were few people around and those there were hurrying along with their heads down. Two military Humvees came around a corner and headed in their direction. Yokely flashed the driver of the lead vehicle a mock salute and the man waved back. Bosch kept the map on her lap and gave Haschka directions. After half an hour she told him to slow down. ‘Two blocks along,’ she said.

Yokely took out his mobile phone. He called Slater’s number. ‘Is it clear, Will?’ he asked. He had told the pilot to swing the Predator over the house and check out the area.

‘There’s no traffic and we don’t see anyone in the street,’ said Slater. ‘No movement around the house.’

‘Thanks,’ said Yokely. ‘Keep a watch until we’ve gained entry, then tell Phillip to head on back.’ Yokely put away the phone and pointed at the next intersection. ‘Hang a right there, Joe, and pull in somewhere quiet.’

Haschka made the turn. Bosch saw an alleyway ahead but before she could say anything Haschka had seen it and was driving down it. He parked and switched off the engine.

They all climbed out. Yokely took out his phone again and called Slater. ‘Do you see us?’

‘We have you on infrared,’ said Slater. ‘No one else on the streets for a hundred yards or so, and that’s two men walking away from you. You’re clear.’

It was a cloudless night and overhead there were a million stars but no sign of the Predator twenty thousand feet above them. ‘We’re going in,’ said Yokely. He ended the call, then nodded at Haschka and Armstrong. ‘We’re clear to go,’ he said. He took out his Glock. ‘You two, Jimbo and I will go into the house.’

‘What about me?’ asked Bosch.

‘Stay with the vehicle,’ said Yokely.

‘You sexist prick,’ said Bosch.

‘Carol, it’s nothing to do with your beautiful chestnut hair or your pert breasts, it’s just that you’ve got a shotgun and if that goes bang every man and his dog will come running.’

‘I thought the plan was not to shoot anybody,’ said Armstrong.

‘Yeah, well, plans change,’ said Yokely. He handed the bolt-cutters to Armstrong. ‘Please don’t argue, Carol. I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity for you to shoot someone down the line.’

Bosch nodded but didn’t look happy at being told to stay behind. She glared at Yokely and climbed back into the Land Cruiser.

The four men went back down the alley, keeping close to the wall. A rat at least two feet long from nose to tail tip scurried purposefully along the opposite side.

They reached the gates and Yokely motioned for Armstrong to use the bolt-cutters on the chain. They made short work of it and Shortt pulled the gate open. Yokely and Armstrong slipped inside. Armstrong placed the bolt-cutters on the ground and pulled out his gun. They moved to the house. It was two storeys high with a flat roof. There were shutters on the windows, all closed, and no lights on inside.

Yokely motioned for Haschka and Shortt to go around to the rear. Armstrong tried the front door. The wood was rotting and the hinges were rusting, but it was locked. It looked as if it wouldn’t take much to break it down but the men inside had guns so they’d have to go in quietly.

They walked around to the left and checked the shuttered windows, which were as badly maintained as the door, but, again, they were all locked. Armstrong pulled at one but it held firm. He looked at Yokely and shook his head. The American pointed to the rear of the house and they kept to the shadows as they crept around the building. Overhead two helicopters flew so close that their rotors were almost touching. The two men stayed still until they had gone, then moved to the back of the building.

Haschka and Shortt had found a loose shutter. They pulled it open and examined the window. The lock looked flimsy so Haschka took out a large hunting knife and worked away at the wood round it. As Yokely and Armstrong walked up, it splintered and Shortt eased open the window. They climbed through one by one and found themselves in a kitchen. There was a stone sink with a single dripping tap and an old refrigerator that was vibrating noisily. Yokely switched on a flashlight, pointed it at Haschka, Shortt and Armstrong, then directed it upstairs. They switched on their own flashlights and headed for the upper floor as the American went through to the sitting room.

Armstrong led the way, his Glock in his right hand. The stairs were stone and led up to a tiled hallway off which were four doors. One was open, revealing a small bathroom.

Armstrong pointed at Haschka, then at the door at the far end. He went to stand outside it. Armstrong pointed at the second door, then at Shortt. He waited until they were all in position, then held up his left hand and counted down from three to one on his fingers. As the final finger went down he twisted the handle, thrust open the door, and walked into the room, his gun arm outstretched. A middle-aged Iraqi lay on a mattress on the floor. Armstrong walked over to him and woke him with a kick to the ribs. He heard shouts from the other rooms as he pointed the gun at the man on the mattress. He had a zigzag scar across the left side of his face. ‘Get up,’ said Armstrong. The man said something in Arabic, then spat at him. Armstrong pistol-whipped him, hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the door.

Shortt and Haschka had the other two men in the hallway. One had a straggly beard and bloodshot eyes, the other was squat with a weightlifter’s forearms. His hair was close-cropped, he had a bushy beard and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Shortt kept his gun pointed at the man’s face and raised an eyebrow, daring him to get physical.

‘Downstairs,’ said Armstrong.

Yokely was in the front room. There was a line of candles on the mantelpiece and he lit them one by one. There were two cheap brown plastic sofas and stained rugs on the floor and paintings of desert scenes on the walls. Two ornate hookahs stood by one of the sofas and the floor was littered with peanut shells. The American was holding a brown envelope containing US dollars. He flicked through the banknotes. ‘There’s about fifteen thousand.’

Armstrong shook the man he was holding. ‘Fifteen thousand dollars?’ he hissed. ‘You sold him for fifteen thousand dollars? You stupid pricks. We’d have paid you ten times that.’

Yokely shoved the envelope into his back pocket. ‘Get them on their knees,’ he said. He lit several more candles by the shuttered window.

Armstrong, Shortt and Haschka forced their captives on to their knees. Yokely gestured with his gun. ‘I want you to ask them if they’re brothers or just fuck-buddies,’ he said.

Shortt frowned. ‘What?’

‘You’re not hard of hearing, are you, Jimbo? Just ask them if they’re related or lovers?’

Shortt translated. The tallest of the three frowned and said something to him. Shortt repeated what he’d said. The three men pointed at Yokely and shouted.

‘Thought that would get them riled,’ said Yokely.

‘They’re brothers,’ said Shortt.

‘Good. We’ll be keeping it in the family, then,’ said the American. He took a bulbous silencer out of a pocket in his body armour and slowly screwed it to the barrel of his Glock. The brothers stared at it, then all three were talking at once.