Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

The Major sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It makes sense.’

Yokely pulled a map from inside his body armour, and an aerial photograph of where Shepherd was being kept. ‘The house is marked on the map,’ said Yokely. ‘Look, if you guys wanted to take a break, now would be a good time. Catch up with some sleep, get a bite to eat. As soon as things start to move, I’ll call you.’

‘We’re staying put until this is over,’ said the Major, emphatically.

‘We’re not going anywhere, right enough,’ said O’Brien.

‘I understand,’ said Yokely. He squinted at his wristwatch. ‘I’m going to talk to my NSA guys,’ he said. ‘I need the airwaves monitoring and I want to run a check on the names of the men who’ve got Spider.’

‘Do you need Joe to drive you anywhere?’ asked Muller.

Yokely grinned. ‘I’ve already arranged my ride,’ he said.

Date palms on the far side of the road bent to the left and a dull, thudding sound filled the air. Twin searchlight beams cut through the night and a Blackhawk helicopter dropped slowly from the sky, kicking up whirlwinds of dust in the road.

‘Got to go,’ said Yokely. ‘Catch you later.’ He ran in a half-crouch to the Blackhawk and climbed aboard.

‘How does he do that?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Friends in high places,’ said the Major.

The Blackhawk’s turbines roared and the helicopter lifted off, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, and leaped into the night sky.

Howell put the Predator into a slow left-hand turn, scanning the readings on the screen in front of him. It was cruising at fifty miles an hour at an altitude of eighteen thousand feet. There was a layer of patchy cloud at nine thousand feet but the sky above the part of the city he was circling was clear. It was early afternoon, and he was eating a cheese and tomato sandwich.

‘A van’s just pulled up in front of the house,’ said Nichols.

Slater leaned over him. ‘See if you can get the registration.’

Nichols twisted the joystick that operated the camera in the belly of the Predator, then tapped on the keyboard. The van’s rear registration plate filled the screen and Nichols wrote it down. ‘I’ll run a check on it,’ he said. He pulled the camera back to get a full view of the car. The driver opened the door, got out and stretched. Nichols pressed a button to get high-resolution snapshots of him. ‘Got you,’ he whispered. He transferred them to the screen in front of Slater. ‘Will, run a check on this guy, too, will you?’

‘Your wish is my command,’ said Slater.

There was a second man in the front passenger seat and when he got out Nichols took several shots of him too. The men banged on the gate and a man in a sweatshirt and baggy trousers came out and let them in. The three walked together into the house.

Shepherd heard the door open and footsteps, then a wooden chair scraping across the ground. There were more footsteps, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up roughly. His feet scraped along the floor as he tried to keep his balance, then he was forced on to a chair. He heard the door close. For a few moments he thought they’d left him alone, but then his hood was pulled off.

There were three men in front of him. Shepherd recognised the one in the middle. Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. His heart raced. The man who was holding Geordie Mitchell hostage was standing in front of him. The man on Wafeeq’s right was in his late sixties and had a withered arm, the wrist emerging stick-like from the sleeve of his sweat-stained flannel shirt. The third man was tall, standing head and shoulders above the two, with a slight stoop as if he lived in constant fear of banging his head.

‘Who are you?’ said Shepherd, playing his role. ‘What do you want?’

‘You are English?’ asked Wafeeq, who was holding his passport and the letter from Muller’s company.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You know Colin Mitchell?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘You work for the same company,’ said Wafeeq.

‘I’m his replacement,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know of him but I never met him.’

Wafeeq stared at him coldly. Then he turned to the old man on his right and said something in Arabic. The man shook his head and Wafeeq said something else, clearly angry now. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at Shepherd, who stared at him unflinchingly. ‘They should have searched you,’ he said.

‘They did,’ said Shepherd. ‘They took my boots, my gun, my wallet and my radio.’ Wafeeq’s two companions grabbed Shepherd’s arms and pulled him up. One undid his belt and pulled his trousers to his knees. ‘Are you going to rape me – is that it?’ said Shepherd. ‘I heard you lot were into men.’

Wafeeq stepped forward and pistol-whipped him. Shepherd saw the blow coming and managed to move his head and avoid most of the blow, but the barrel glanced along his temple. The skin broke and blood flowed. He wanted Wafeeq angry because then he might forget about the strip-search.

‘You think this is funny?’ said Wafeeq. He pointed the gun at Shepherd’s face. ‘I could kill you now.’

‘Go on, then,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t you?’

‘That is up to you.’

‘You’ve shown me your faces, so I can identify you.’

Wafeeq threw back his head and laughed. ‘You think I care if you know what I look like? What are you going to do? Tell the police? Do you think I’m scared of them? Do you know how many policemen I’ve killed? How many soldiers?’ He laughed again, then spoke to the two men in Arabic. The old man took a knife from his pocket and used it to cut the ropes binding Shepherd’s wrists. Wafeeq took several steps back, keeping the gun pointing at his face.

The men ripped at his shirt and several buttons popped. They made him bend over, then pulled it off. One shouted and pointed at his back, and Shepherd knew that he had seen the second transmitter. They turned him around and slammed him up against the wall. The tall man ripped the piece of plaster that kept the transmitter stuck to his skin and handed it to Wafeeq.

‘What is this?’ asked Wafeeq.

Shepherd knew there was no point in lying. Even if Wafeeq didn’t know what it was, it wouldn’t take him long to find out. ‘It’s a transmitter,’ he said. The two men turned him around again so that he was facing Wafeeq, then pushed him back so hard that his head cracked against the wall.

‘Why do you have it?’ asked Wafeeq.

‘The company gave it to us because the other guy was kidnapped. They thought it might help.’

Wafeeq frowned as he studied the electrical circuit. ‘Why did they stick it on your back?’

‘That was my idea,’ said Shepherd.

‘Is it on now?’

‘We switch them on if we get into trouble.’

Wafeeq smiled cruelly. ‘Well, you are in trouble now,’ he said. He dropped the transmitter on to the floor and stamped on it. It shattered into more than a dozen pieces. He said something in Arabic to the two Iraqis and they dragged Shepherd to the chair and pushed him on to it. Wafeeq said something else to the two men, then spat at Shepherd and went out, slamming the door behind him.

‘I don’t speak Arabic,’ said Shepherd. ‘What did he say?’

The man with the withered arm grinned, showing greying teeth. ‘He said we are to torture you to find out what you know.’

The door opened and another man came in, stocky, with a beard and wire-framed glasses. He closed the door and stood there with his arms folded across his chest.

‘I don’t know anything,’ said Shepherd.

‘That does not matter,’ said the old man. ‘He said we are to torture you until you are dead, whether you know anything or not.’