Hot Blood (39 page)

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ said Hubbard. ‘The inquiry cleared him.’

‘That was a whitewash, and you know it. What did you think they’d do? Throw him to the wolves? Have him stand trial in an Iraqi court? That was never going to happen.’

‘He wanted to talk to the parents, you know that?’

‘Yeah. He said.’

‘The brass told him not to go near them. Didn’t want him to admit liability, but all he wanted to do was to tell them he was sorry. He’s got a five-year-old sister. It’s fucked him up and the army’s doing nothing to help him.’

‘Which is why I’m doing his shift,’ said Keizer.

‘Nah, you don’t know how fucked up he is. He’s talking about killing himself.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Damn right,’ said Hubbard.

‘That’s heavy,’ mused Keizer.

‘Jeff!’ yelled Hubbard. The Humvee ahead had braked and was skidding to the right. Keizer stamped hard on his brake and cursed. He twisted the steering-wheel to the right and the vehicle started to skid. He pumped the brake and cursed again.

The Humvee skidded to a halt just feet away from the vehicle in front. A second later Keizer and Hubbard lurched forward as the third Humvee in the convoy thudded into them. Keizer looked in his rear-view mirror. The driver behind was throwing up his hands and swearing.

‘What the hell happened?’ asked Hubbard. He twisted in his seat and shouted up to his machine-gunner, Jack Needham, who was still at his post. ‘You okay, Jack?’

‘Bit bruised, but I saw it coming,’ shouted Needham.

‘What happened? Why did they stop?’ asked Keizer.

‘A pick-up truck shed its load at the intersection,’ Needham yelled back. ‘Boxes everywhere. You know how they overload those things.’

‘Anyone hurt?’

‘Two other cars have rammed the pick-up but our guys are okay. There’s a row going on between the drivers. Road’s blocked.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said Keizer.

‘If it had been an ambush they’d have started shooting by now,’ said Hubbard. ‘Chill, Jeff.’

Keizer used his radio to call up the front Humvee. ‘What’s happening, Sarge?’ he asked.

‘Stay put,’ said the sergeant. ‘We’ll let the locals sort it out. No reason for us to get involved. A cop car’s just arrived so the road will be clear in a minute or two.’

‘Roger that,’ said Keizer.

‘Told you,’ said Hubbard. ‘You worry too much.’

‘It’s not-worrying that gets you killed out here,’ said Keizer.

A small girl in a black headscarf ran towards their Humvee, wailing and waving her hands. ‘What’s her problem?’ said Hubbard. ‘Is she hurt?’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ said Keizer. He picked up the radio microphone again and clicked ‘transmit’. ‘Sarge, are we ready to go?’

‘Hold your horses, Keizer.’ The sergeant’s voice crackled over the radio. ‘The drivers have turned on the cops now.’

‘Do you want our guys out?’

‘Let’s see if the locals can handle it. It’s no big deal, just a fender-bender. If they can’t handle that then we’ve been wasting our time out here.’

‘Lighten up, Jeff,’ said Hubbard.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all,’ said Keizer.

The girl banged on his window and yelled at him in Arabic.

‘What’s wrong?’ Keizer asked her, but she just shook her head.

She pointed at the intersection and said something in Arabic, then wiped her eyes.

‘I can’t understand you,’ he said.

‘Open the window, Jeff,’ said Hubbard.

‘She could be an insurgent,’ said Keizer.

‘She’s a kid, and she doesn’t have a weapon,’ said Hubbard. ‘Scared of a child now, are you?’

‘It’s not about being scared, it’s about following procedure.’

Hubbard grinned and clucked like a chicken.

‘Screw you, Mother,’ said Keizer.

The child put her face close to the window. She was sobbing and now he could make out what she was saying: ‘Please, please, please, please . . .’

She was younger than Keizer had first thought. Twelve, eleven, maybe. ‘Okay, okay,’ said Keizer. He pressed the button to wind down the window. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked her.

The girl took a step back as the window wound down. She was still making sobbing noises but Keizer saw that her cheeks weren’t wet. There were no tears.

The bullet smacked into the centre of his forehead. The back of his skull exploded, splattering blood and brain matter over Hubbard. Hubbard screamed and scrambled for the window control. Keizer slumped forward, what was left of his head smacking into the steering-wheel. The girl held on to her headscarf and ran down the road, away from the convoy, her bare feet slapping against the Tarmac.

It was almost midnight. Shepherd and Bosch were alone in the main room at the guesthouse. Yokely had left an hour earlier and the Major had gone to the kitchen with O’Brien for a late-night snack. Armstrong, Shortt and the other South Africans had turned in. The plan was that they would head out just after dawn but Shepherd didn’t feel sleepy and Bosch seemed disinclined to go to her room.

She was drinking a Corona lager from the bottle with a piece of lime pushed down the neck. It was her sixth or seventh, Shepherd hadn’t been counting, but they didn’t seem to have had any effect on her. He was drinking Jameson’s with ice and soda and wasn’t trying to keep up. They were sitting together on a black sofa and had propped their feet on the low table in front of them.

‘You’re taking one hell of a risk,’ said Bosch. ‘If anything goes wrong, you’ll both be dead. And the way those bastards kill isn’t pretty.’

‘I owe it to him to try,’ said Shepherd.

‘All for one and one for all, the Three Musketeers crap?’

Shepherd took a swig of whiskey. ‘There’s more to it than that.’

‘He’s your gay lover?’

‘You’re a funny girl, Carol.’

‘Just trying to lighten the moment, you being about to ride into the valley of death and all.’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘Geordie saved my life in Afghanistan ten years ago. Another century.’

‘Threw himself in front of a bullet for you?’

‘Dug one out of my shoulder and patched me up, then carried me to a helicopter. He was the medic in my brick.’

‘Brick?’

‘That’s what we call our four-man units. He was the medic. A captain had just been hit by a sniper and I was holding him while he died. Big mistake on my part, I should have been looking for cover but I stayed with the captain and got hit in the shoulder probably by the same sniper.’

‘Can I see the scar?’

‘What?’

‘Come on, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’

‘I don’t want to see yours.’

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘If it’ll shut you up.’ He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it back to reveal the scar just below his right shoulder. ‘Satisfied?’

Bosch moved closer and ran a fingertip along it. ‘Nice,’ she said. She put her hand on his shoulder and turned him so that she could see his back. ‘No exit wound,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘It hit the bone and went downwards. Just missed an artery. Geordie got it out and stopped the bleeding.’

‘Tampon?’

‘What?’

‘Best thing to plug a bullet hole. Can’t beat them.’

‘I’m pretty sure he used a regular field dressing. If he’d used a tampon he’d have told me. And I’d have got stuck with a new nickname.’

Bosch ran her finger across the scar again. ‘I’m guessing a 5.45mm round?’

‘Good guess,’ said Shepherd, admiringly.

‘AK-74?’

‘And you know your assault rifles. Most people assume it was an AK-47.’

‘I’m a big fan of the AK-74,’ said Bosch, ‘but you don’t want to go firing one out here. The Yanks hear it, they’ll assume you’re with the bad guys.’

Shepherd buttoned his shirt. ‘If it wasn’t for Geordie, I’d have died in the desert. Like I said, I owe him big-time.’

The Major came out of the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’ he said.

‘Spider was just showing me his war wound,’ said Bosch.

‘He does that with all the girls,’ said the Major. ‘I don’t want to sound like anyone’s father but it’s getting late and we’re up at five tomorrow. I’m heading up.’

‘I was about to turn in too,’ said Shepherd, standing up.

Bosch raised her bottle. ‘I’ll finish this first. Sleep well, Spider.’

‘You too.’

Bosch blew him a kiss. Shepherd and the Major walked together to the stairs. ‘You okay?’ the Major asked.

‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be happier once we’re under way, that’s for sure.’ They went up the stairs together.

‘You’ve got a good team behind you,’ said the Major. ‘The best.’

‘I know. It’ll be fine.’

‘I’m supposed to be the one giving the pep talk.’

‘I don’t need one,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know what the risks are, and I know what I have to do. We just roll the dice and see what happens.’

They arrived at Shepherd’s room. The Major held out his right hand, clenched into a fist. Shepherd banged his own against it. ‘See you tomorrow,’ said the Major.

Shepherd went into his room. He had just finished showering when there was a knock at the door. He assumed it was the Major and frowned as he wrapped a towel round his waist. He opened the door.

It was Carol Bosch, with the bottle of Jameson’s. ‘I thought I’d come and show you my scars,’ she said.

‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Really.’

She ran her hand down her left thigh. ‘I’ve got a really interesting knife wound here that I think you’d find fascinating.’

‘Carol . . .’

Bosch pushed the door open and slipped inside. ‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.

Shepherd closed the door. ‘You’re impossible,’ he said.

‘Here they are,’ she said picking two glasses off the bedside table. She poured two slugs of whiskey and handed one to him. ‘Nice towel,’ she said, and clinked her glass against his. ‘To being shot,’ she said, ‘and surviving.’

Shepherd sighed, but drank to her toast.

Bosch put her glass down on the bedside table and began to undo her dress.

‘What is this? A condemned man’s last request?’ asked Shepherd.

‘This isn’t about you,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a half-decent man out here?’

‘Surprisingly enough, no,’ he said.

She stepped forward, slipped her right hand behind his neck and kissed him. For a second Shepherd resisted, but her tongue probed between his teeth and he felt himself grow hard. She ran her other hand down the towel and between his legs.

Shepherd broke away. ‘Carol—’

‘What?’

‘There’s something you should know.’

‘Well, we’ve already decided you’re not gay. And you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

‘I work undercover,’ said Shepherd. ‘Undercover cops don’t wear wedding rings.’

‘If you’re married, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m not asking for lifelong commitment. I just want to have sex with you.’

‘She died,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three years ago.’

Suddenly Bosch looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I loved her.’

‘Okay. I loved my husband, too, right up to the point I found him in bed with our maid. But this isn’t about my ex-husband or your wife, this is about you and me.’ She grabbed him and kissed him again. This time Shepherd kissed her back. Bosch pushed him towards the bed.

Shepherd put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Carol, wait—’

‘Now what?’

‘I haven’t had sex for a while.’

‘Shame,’ she said. ‘How long?’

‘A while.’

‘A month?’

Shepherd shook his head.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘A year?’

‘A bit longer.’

‘How much longer?’

Shepherd swallowed. ‘Since Sue died.’

‘Three years?’

‘Thereabouts.’

Bosch’s jaw dropped. ‘Wow,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘Three
years
?’ she repeated. ‘Thirty-six months?’

‘Or thereabouts.’

‘You must really have loved her.’

‘I did. I do. I always will. Just because she died doesn’t mean I stopped loving her.’

Bosch looked into his eyes, her hand still between his legs. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she said. ‘This isn’t about love. It’s lust. That’s all.’

‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.

‘And you’re okay?’

Despite himself, Shepherd laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’

Bosch kissed him, then pushed him back on to the bed, holding the towel. She tossed it aside and took off her dress. ‘Three years,’ she said, in wonder. ‘Fasten your seat-belt. This is going to be one hell of a ride.’

Mitchell lifted up his shirt and examined his damaged ribs. It hurt if he took a deep breath but he was sure that they weren’t broken. He thought a couple were cracked, but other than that he hadn’t been badly hurt. He had urinated into the plastic bucket and there had been no sign of blood so at least his kidneys were unscathed.

He sat down slowly, then lay back. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to do a sit-up. The muscles in his side burned but he forced himself up.

He didn’t care about the pain. It meant nothing. For the first time since he’d been snatched he didn’t feel alone. Somewhere out there his friends were on the case. Mitchell was sure that Spider Shepherd would have been behind the kidnapping, probably with Billy Armstrong, Martin O’Brien and Jimbo Shortt. And, if he’d been able to get himself away from the Increment, Major Gannon would be running the show. Mitchell grunted and lowered his shoulders back to the floor. It hurt a lot more going down than it did coming up. It had been worth the beating for Mitchell to discover that his friends were fighting to free him and, from what Kamil had said, they were fighting dirty. They had kidnapped the brother of a man who was holding him hostage. That meant they knew the identity of at least one of his captors. And if they knew one they might be able to identify the rest and there was a chance they would locate the basement. It was an outside chance, but it was a chance. He took a deep breath and did a second sit-up, faster this time. It still hurt, but not as much.