Hot Blood (45 page)

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.

‘Tell them to shut up, Jimbo,’ said Yokely.

Shortt barked at them in Arabic and they fell silent.

Yokely pointed at the Timberland boots on the feet of the eldest brother. ‘Ask him where he got the boots,’ he said to Shortt.

Shortt translated. The Iraqi sneered at Yokely and said something, his lip curled back in a snarl.

‘Did he just tell me to go screw myself?’ asked Yokely.

‘Words to that effect,’ said Shortt.

Yokely smiled. He pulled the trigger and shot the man’s left leg. His trousers turned red at the knee and he fell to the floor, screaming.

‘Hey!’ shouted Haschka.

‘Hey what?’ said Yokely.

The man rolled on the floor, holding his injured leg and moaning. Blood was pumping from the wound and pooling on the floorboards where it glistened in the candlelight. His face had gone deathly white – he looked as if he’d bleed out in minutes, Armstrong thought. He undid his belt, pulled it from round his waist, then used it to bind the man’s leg tightly above the knee. ‘I think you hit an artery,’ said Armstrong.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Yokely.

The other two men stared at their injured brother in horror. The youngest was trembling with fear. Yokely walked over to him and pointed the pistol at his face. ‘Tell him I want to know who he gave Spider to. I want their names. All their names.’

‘Yokely, you can’t do this,’ said Shortt.

‘I can do what the hell I want,’ said Yokely. ‘Now tell him.’

Shortt translated. The man seemed unable to speak and his mouth moved soundlessly. Shortt said something and pointed at Yokely.

Yokely waved his gun menacingly. The man flinched and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants. ‘Tell him I’ll count to five and then I’m going to shoot him too. In the balls.’

‘Yokely—’ said Shortt.

‘Tell him I’m a pretty good shot.’

‘This is madness,’ said Shortt. ‘We didn’t come to shoot unarmed men.’

Yokely turned to Shortt. ‘This is my turf,’ he said. ‘This is where I work. I know how the game’s played here and it isn’t by the Queensberry Rules. These three pieces of shit took Spider off the streets at gunpoint, knocked him unconscious, and sold him for fifteen grand to people who will happily hack off his head with a bread-knife. Let’s not start feeling sorry for them. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you, and think they’re doing it with God’s blessing. So, just do as I ask and tell them I want the names of the men they sold Spider to. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you in the legs.’ He flashed Shortt a cold smile. ‘I mean it.’

‘Do it, Jimbo,’ said Armstrong. He didn’t believe that Yokely would shoot Shortt, but he could see they’d have to increase the pressure if they were to get the men to talk. Spider and Geordie’s lives were on the line and if they didn’t find out where they were they would die horribly. He lit a cigarette and watched as Shortt spoke in Arabic. The man began to wail. He put his palms together and banged his hands against his forehead.

‘Five,’ said Yokely. ‘Four. Three.’ He turned to look at Shortt. ‘You did tell him, right?’

Shortt nodded.

‘Right then,’ said Yokely. ‘Two. One.’ He pulled the trigger and shot the wailing man in the groin. He screamed and fell into a foetal ball, his hands clasped between his legs. His screams turned to sobs.

‘What the hell is your problem?’ shouted Shortt.

Yokely ignored him and pointed his gun at the last remaining brother. ‘Right, Jimbo, I want you to translate and I want to hear you do it without any bleating about human rights or unarmed innocents. This scumbag has watched me shoot both his brothers and he knows who he handed Shepherd over to. I want him to start talking or I’ll put a bullet in his head, and then I’ll start working on that bastard’s bad leg. Tell him it’s his choice.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘Oh, and tell him I’ll slaughter a pig and I’ll drench him in its blood before I bury him in the desert with the carcass on top of him. I understand that means he’ll never get into heaven.’

‘You’re a sick fuck,’ said Shortt.

‘Yes, I am, Jimbo, but I get things done. Now, translate.’

Shortt spoke to the man in Arabic. As his brother before him, the man started to wail.

Shortt continued to talk to him. Armstrong stubbed out his cigarette and checked the wound of the man who had been shot in the groin. He was curled up, breathing in short gasps.

Yokely looked bored as he waited for Shortt to finish, then he aimed at the face of the Iraqi and tightened his finger on the trigger. The terrified man started to babble in Arabic. ‘What’s he saying, Jimbo?’ asked Yokely.

‘He’s saying he’ll talk. He’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

‘Excellent,’ said Yokely.

‘Here they are,’ said Jordan. He flashed his headlights at the Land Cruiser heading their way. The 4 × 4’s lights flashed in reply and it parked on the opposite side of the road. Jordan waved at Haschka and Bosch, who waved back. Yokely climbed out of the rear and jogged across the road towards them.

‘What’s he doing in army gear?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Mr Yokely is a law unto himself,’ said the Major.

‘Nice shoes,’ said Jordan. Though Yokely was in military desert camouflage fatigues, body armour and a Kevlar helmet, he was still wearing his brown loafers with tassels.

‘Yeah, he’s fussy about his footwear,’ said the Major. ‘He’s got dropped arches.’

‘He’s got what?’ said O’Brien.

‘Dropped arches. His shoes have to have orthopaedic inserts. It’s supposed to be a secret, so Mum’s the word.’

The Major wound down the window as Yokely jogged up. The American was grinning. ‘Spider’s okay,’ said Yokely. ‘At least, he was when the Three Stooges handed him over.’

‘And is Wafeeq there?’

‘They say no, they haven’t met him but they’ve heard of him. The guys they sold him to are middle men, known to have connections with some hard-line fundamentalists.’

‘How much did they get?’ asked O’Brien, from the back of the Land Cruiser.

‘Fifteen thousand dollars.’

‘Bastards,’ said Muller.

‘They’re not that bright,’ said Yokely.

The Major looked at the second Land Cruiser. ‘Where’s Billy?’ he asked.

‘Looking after the guys in the house. Last I saw he was blowing smoke rings at them.’

‘They’re still alive, then?’ said the Major.

Yokely’s grin widened. ‘Sure. But they won’t be getting any medical attention until this is over.’

‘And you believe they’re not connected to Wafeeq?’

‘They’re criminals, not fundamentalists,’ said Yokely. ‘And they’re not the guys who took Geordie. But the guys they sold Spider to are the guys who moved Geordie on.’

‘So we’re on the right track,’ said Muller.

‘No question,’ said Yokely.

‘What do you think we do now?’ asked the Major.

‘The transmitter’s gone,’ said Yokely. ‘They took his boots. But they didn’t do a full body search on him so he still has the second transmitter.’ He gestured up at the sky. ‘And we still have the Predator. I think we’re well ahead of the game and we can just watch and wait. The new guys have paid fifteen grand for Spider. They won’t want to throw that money away so I reckon they’ll get in touch with Wafeeq and sell him on.’

The Major nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Though I’d be happier if we were closer to where he’s being held.’

‘If we do that we risk showing out,’ said the American. ‘And it’s almost certain they’ll move him. Hopefully to the place they’re keeping Geordie. I’d recommend we wait and see where they take him to next.’

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.’