Helen Fields - Perfect Kill

‘Don’t do that. As soon as they hear sirens, they’ll scatter. Just divert their attention for a minute,’ Callanach said, ducking low and running towards the far end of the site where pallets had been stacked precariously high near the boundary.

Jean-Paul took a few steps away from the wall, shielding his head with one arm as he bent to pick up the broken pipe, then swung it high in the air and back over the fence from the direction it had come.

There was a cry, followed by a furious yell. As Callanach allowed himself a glance over his shoulder, multiple projectiles appeared over the top of the fence. He hoisted himself up on the nearest pile of pallets hoping they’d been stacked carefully, disliking the wobble as he rose higher. Jean-Paul yelled. Callanach turned to check he was unharmed. His foot slipped, the pallets groaning beneath his weight, and he grabbed at the stack to his side. Splinters slid diagonally into his right palm.

‘Fuck,’ he muttered, seeing Jean-Paul using a stray sheet of corrugated iron as an anti-assault umbrella. He smiled in spite of the pain in his hand and his concern for Jean-Paul. It was such a throwback to years gone by. He and Jean-Paul had travelled the world assisting police forces from other countries to track drug cartels, arms dealers and money launderers, and situations like these had been the days they’d looked forward to. Just enough physical jeopardy to get their pulses racing with the unshakeable belief that a few hours later they’d be sitting in some bar, empty beer bottles spread like trophies, and another credit on their Interpol files. Simpler times.

He hauled himself upwards, the splinters folding beneath his skin as he closed his fist, knowing he was facing a lengthy session with a needle and antiseptic later that night. The top of the fence was too thin to do anything except angle his foot onto its side to give him the boost he needed to jump. He took a literal leap of faith, hoping there wasn’t too much smashed glass or jagged metal on the other side. Landing well initially, he stumbled over a half-buried paving stone, falling sideways to avoid planting his splintered hand in the dirt. He opened his eyes to stare into the empty barrel of a syringe, the needle encrusted with blackened blood and pointing in the direction he needed to be going.

Getting to his feet carefully – avoiding the needle that he could see and what he presumed were several others better hidden – Callanach rounded the edge of the fence and sprinted for the far corner. There he paused, putting his mobile in camera mode and exposing it beyond the edge of the fence, filming as he assessed the situation.

Between eight and twelve young men packed into a tight group were picking up whatever they could find at their feet and lobbing it over the wooden security fence. Two others were standing with eyes pressed up to the gaps in the vertical planks, yelling instructions to the others. Middle Eastern in appearance and speaking rapidly in a language Callanach couldn’t understand, they looked more like bored teenagers than a serious threat, except for one who was keeping his distance, watching the others, making the odd comment. Callanach focused his camera as tightly as he could on the faces, hoping the sound recording wasn’t too muffled, as he decided what to do. These were local boys, that much was clear. It was a fair bet they realised he and Jean-Paul were police officers.

Calling for backup was the only way to ensure controlling the youths until each could be spoken to individually, but it was hard to achieve a completely silent police approach anywhere in Paris with tail-to-tail traffic. He wondered how much longer Jean-Paul could remain unhurt with so many projectiles raining down.

A gunshot stopped his strategising. The boy who’d been keeping out of the fray had apparently grown tired of the situation, aiming directly at the wooden fence and sending shrapnel flying at his mates. They leapt away shouting as the man-boy walked forward, gun out in front, towards the hole he’d created. Callanach knew that Jean-Paul would be calling the situation in and searching for better cover. More of a problem now would be stopping the inevitable move of the gang towards the entrance Jean-Paul and he had used, thereby preventing a safe exit. He and Jean-Paul were both unarmed. Interpol agents rarely took guns out during investigations unless there was a known or specific threat. Today was supposed to be about information gathering, not engaging in an anti-police showdown. Worse than that was the prospect that a stray shot might hit an innocent passerby. There was only one thing left to do.

‘Police!’ Callanach shouted. ‘Put down your weapons. Hands up and get on your knees.’

The shot came in his direction before he saw the young man move, glancing the corner of the fence and pinging away at an angle. Callanach ducked. Feet were pounding concrete but the high rise of flats in a square around them created an echo chamber. There was no way of knowing if the gang was running towards him or away. Callanach bolted for a nearby doorway.

There were shouts from just beyond his line of vision, frantic fury mixed with questions and instructions. Callanach forced his body back further into the recess. Footsteps indicated an approach in his direction, and he readied himself to fight.

Sirens sounded in the distance just as he was about to throw himself out of his hiding place. There was an instantaneous hush – everyone listening, trying to assess the direction from which the emergency services were coming. Then the scatter began. People running in all directions, calling to one another, their panicked voices revealing their immaturity. Less aggression, more uncertainty.

Callanach stuck his head out and watched them go. They ran at extraordinary speed, jumping railings, disappearing across the road, one leaping from a garbage can to grab a second-floor railing and haul himself up onto the exterior corridor of flats. Only one voice remained, calling, listening in silence, calling again.

‘Huznia.’ A pause. ‘Huznia!’

Callanach looked around. The caller was nowhere to be seen and his voice was fading. The sirens were getting closer, closing in from both ends of the road.

‘Huznia!’ The shout was more insistent.

A scraping noise came from behind a pile of bin bags. Callanach crept over to take a look as Jean-Paul appeared from the far end of the building site sporting a large graze across his cheek. He gave a thumbs-up. Callanach responded with a nod and a finger over his lips to keep him quiet.

Covering the final distance to the bin bags quickly, Callanach found a young girl crouched, tears in her eyes, looking absolutely terrified. He smiled at her gently, hands slightly raised in the international signal that no harm was intended. She looked less than convinced.

He spoke in French to her, quietly, slowly and clearly. ‘Everything’s all right. Do you speak French?’

There was a brief pause then, ‘Yes,’ with a sob.

‘Are you Huznia?’

She looked surprised, then relieved – nodding – young enough to believe that anyone who knew her name must be friend rather than foe. Callanach wished life was really so black and white.

He smiled gently. ‘My name is Luc. Don’t be scared. Who are you waiting for?’

‘My brother,’ she said, looking away to the side. Her French was good considering her age – he guessed she was five or six years old – but then desperation was often the most compelling teacher of foreign languages.

‘Who’s your brother?’ Callanach asked.

‘Azzat,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you know him?’

‘I think he’s looking for you. Are you hungry, Huznia?’ Callanach asked, lowering himself to one knee to get closer to her.