Soft Target (18 page)

'Soon?' Liam's eyes were half closed and Shepherd could see he was struggling to stay awake.

'Soon,' said Shepherd.

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

'Okay.' Liam's eyelids fluttered and closed.

Shepherd stroked his cheek. 'Sweet dreams, kid,' he said.

Shepherd woke up and tried to work out where he was. He relaxed when he remembered he was in Moira and Tom's house, in the double bed he had shared with Sue whenever they had stayed over. He looked at his watch. It was seven 140 thirty. He could hear Moira downstairs in the kitchen, getting breakfast ready.

He slid out of bed, shaved, showered and changed into a clean shirt and jeans. Liam was sitting at the kitchen table,

spooning porridge into his mouth. 'Hiya, kid, what time do we have to leave for school?'

'Half past eight,' Liam replied.

'Liam, not with your mouth full,' admonished Moira. 'Egg and bacon, Daniel?'

'Lovely,' said Shepherd. His mother-in-law was a first-class cook and served a great fry-up. 'Egg and bacon' was her shorthand for eggs, bacon, sausage, fried bread, tomato and baked beans. He helped himself to coffee. 'Where's Tom?'

he asked, sitting next to Liam.

'Tom leaves at seven on the dot,' said Moira, ladling beans on to his plate. 'He likes to be first in. Makes a point of it.

He hasn't had a day off sick in twenty-seven years. What about you? What are you doing today?'

'It's Secret Squirrel, Gran,' said Liam. He took a couple of gulps from a tall glass of orange juice.

'Just training,' said Shepherd. 'Nothing exciting.' He didn't want to tell his son or Moira that he was going to spend all morning firing handguns to get his accuracy up to the level expected by SO 19.

He tucked into his fry-up, and Liam went upstairs to get ready for school.

'Shall I pick him up this afternoon?' asked Moira, and poured herself a cup of tea.

'What time does he finish?'

'Half past three.'

"Thing is, I'm not sure what time I'm going back to London.'

'But you'll be here this evening?'

'I hope so, but it's not up to me. The Regiment's handling transport.'

'This coming and going doesn't do Liam any good at all,'

said Moira. She sighed. 'I'm sorry, I don't mean to nag.'

'I'll phone you when I'm done,' said Shepherd, 'and, whatever happens, I'll be back at the weekend.'

Liam reappeared with his schoolbag. Shepherd wolfed down the last of his breakfast, picked up his overnight bag and took his son to the car. Liam gave him directions, and Shepherd realised he'd never even seen the school his son went to. He had no idea who his teacher was. He started to ask questions about it, but Liam was monosyllabic. 'It's not my school, Dad,' he said eventually. 'My school's in London.'

'I know,' said Shepherd.

'London's where my friends are.'

'I know.'

'So don't keep asking me about it. I won't be here long.'

'Okay.'

'Will I?'

'I hope not.'

Shepherd pulled up and Liam undipped his seatbelt. 'I'll see you tonight, yeah?'

Shepherd nodded.

'You will be here, won't you?' asked Liam.

'I'll do my best, kid,' said Shepherd.

'Promise?'

'Cross my heart.'

Liam beamed, slung his bag over his shoulder and ran to the gate. Shepherd knew he'd been playing with words and was suddenly ashamed. He had promised he'd try to be there,

but that was not how Liam had understood it. So far as Liam was concerned, Shepherd had promised to be there, and that was a promise he couldn't make. Telling people what they wanted to hear was part of working undercover, but it was no way for a father to talk to his son.

Larry Hendrickson was sitting with his feet on the desk and sipping his second cup of coffee when his intercom buzzed.

It was his secretary telling him that Norman Baston was outside and wanted a word. Hendrickson told her to send him in. Baston was the firm's IT team leader, a nerdish computer geek with slicked-back hair and two PhDs. He rarely left the computer room so Hendrickson realised it had to be important. Either something was wrong with the system or he had received another job offer and wanted his salary bumped up again. He was already earning six figures, but was worth every penny. The problem was, he knew it.

'How's it going, Norm?' asked Hendrickson, swinging his feet off the desk.

'Have you heard from Roger?' asked Baston. He had few social graces and never made small-talk. He was far more comfortable with his computers than he was with people.

'Not since last week,' said Hendrickson.

'Any idea where he is?'

'What's the problem?'

'Maybe nothing, but he logged on yesterday and went through the accounts system. I just wondered if something was wrong.'

Hendrickson fought to stay calm. 'If there was a problem,

I'm sure he'd mention it to me.' m 'When's he coming in?'

'Like I said, I haven't spoken to him since before the weekend, but he didn't say he was going anywhere.'

'We had a meeting fixed up today. Thursday, ten fifteen.

His secretary says he hasn't been in all week.'

'You know what Roger's like.'

'He hasn't even spoken to Barbara.'

'It's only Thursday, and it's not as if the ship will sink if he's not at the helm, is it? Have you tried his mobile?'

'Goes straight through to voicemail.'

Hendrickson's mind was whirling from the ramifications of what Baston had said. Sewell couldn't have logged on because he was in a shallow grave in the New Forest. So who had got hold of his User ID and password? The only person that came to mind was Tony Nelson. Had he decided to make some extra money by stealing from the company?

He might have tortured Sewell before he killed him, forced him to hand over details of the company bank accounts.

Hendrickson tried to appear calm. As far as anyone in the company was concerned, Sewell had gone AWOL for a few days. It wasn't unusual, and it was far too early for Hendrickson to show signs of concern. 'Email?' he suggested.

Til send one now. I just thought maybe he'd said something to you.'

Hendrickson shook his head. Tm sure it's not worth worrying about.'

Baston put his left thumb to his mouth and began to gnaw at the nail. He ambled out of the office.

Hendrickson stood up and began to pace. Everything had been going exactly as planned. Sewell was dead and buried.

Hendrickson had yet to call in the police, but when he did they'd find the house empty. They'd check the hospitals,

maybe the ports and airports, run a check on Sewell's credit cards. It would become a mystery that they'd never solve.

Hendrickson knew Sewell liked to meet women through online dating agencies and chatrooms: at some point he'd suggest that maybe he had met someone online and either run off with them or been murdered. After a respectable amount of time he'd tighten his control over the company, sack Sewell's people and bring in his own. There'd be no need to sell the company, not when he was in sole control. That was the plan - but now Nelson was threatening to ruin everything. He wanted to scream with frustration and hurl his coffee mug at the wall, but he fought to stay calm. Now was not the time 144 to lose his temper. He had to stay in control. He'd hired one killer. Now all he had to do was find another and get him to take care of Nelson. It was just a question of money, and Hendrickson had more than enough of that.

He walked down the corridor to Sewell's office, where Barbara was busy on her word-processor. He tapped on the door. She looked up and smiled when she saw him. 'Larry,

how can I help you?' She was an attractive brunette in her late forties.

'Any sign of Roger?'

She shook her head. 'He's not answering his phone either.'

'He didn't say where he was going, did he?'

'I was expecting him on Monday.'

'He mentioned going to Florida. Did he say anything to you?'

'He didn't ask me to get him tickets.'

'And there've been no emails from him?'

'Not this week.'

'No contact at all?'

'Do you think something's wrong, Larry?'

Hendrickson tried to look relaxed. It was too soon to start raising red flags, but it was only natural to be concerned if his partner had gone missing. 'No - you know what he's like.

He'll probably turn up tomorrow with a sore head. Anything ¦ urgent I can take care of for him?'

'He's right up to date. He worked late last Thursday to clear his desk.'

Hendrickson frowned. That wasn't like Sewell. He was ¦ forever behind with his paperwork. In fact, he left much of the day-to-day administration to Hendrickson. 'I'm the ideas man,' he'd always say. 'You're the bread-and-butter guy,

Larry.' Hendrickson had to chase him to sign contracts and cheques.

'Thursday night?'

'He was still here when I left. That's why I wasn't worried when he didn't come in on Friday. I assumed he had a long weekend planned. I'm sure he's fine.'

'You're probably right,' said Hendrickson. 'If he does phone in, ask him to give me a call, will you?'

Hendrickson headed back to his own office. He didn't think for a minute that Sewell would call. Not unless they had phones in hell. But he needed to know who'd been using Sewell's ID and password to log on to the company system.

And what they wanted.

The major walked with Shepherd across the grass to the outdoor shooting range. Four troopers in fatigues were firing three-round bursts of their MP5S at metal cut-out figures of terrorists, the sound of gunfire echoing off the nearby barracks buildings.

'The Trojan units favour the Glock,' said the major. 'You used the SIG-Sauer, right?'

A sergeant was loading ammunition into magazines at a wooden bench and he nodded at Shepherd. His fingers were slipping rounds into the magazine quickly and efficiently,

working purely by feel.

'Started with the Browning Hi-Power but, yeah, the fifteen round magazine gives the P226 the edge every time,' said Shepherd.

'The cops use the Glock with a ten-round magazine. The pros put eight in the mag so that the spring doesn't get overstrained.

Two point five kilogram trigger pull. Not my favourite short, but you're stuck with it.' Gannon picked up one of the pistols on the bench and handed it to Shepherd.

'They say it never jams, right?' said Shepherd.

Gannon pulled a face. 'No guns jam,' he said. 'Ammunition jams. Put a crap round in a Glock and it'll jam. If you want jam-free, stick with revolvers, and live with having only six 146 shots. The cops don't bother putting tracer rounds at the bottom of the mag. We do, because in situations where we need constant firepower it lets us know when to change mags. Cops make every shot count so they should always know how many they've got left. That's the theory. Now, let's see what you do at ten metres.'

Shepherd picked up one of the magazines and slotted it into the butt of the Glock. Gannon stood slightly behind him as he adopted the classic firing stance. Left foot slightly ahead of the right, right hand around the butt, left hand around the right. The targets were simple ringed bullseyes,

about two feet in diameter. He fired eight shots in four groups of two at one of the targets, then lowered the gun.

All eight shots had gone through the centre of the target; the holes could have been covered by a fifty-pence piece.

¦ 'Show-off,' said the major, grinning.

'Like riding a bike,' said Shepherd. He ejected the empty mag and slotted in a fresh one.

He walked with the major to stand in front of the second target. This one was twenty-five metres away. Shepherd fired four groups of two in quick succession. His accuracy at the longer distance was virtually unchanged.

The major nodded approvingly and walked with Shepherd to the third target. This one was fifty metres away, the upper limit for a handgun. Beyond fifty metres, hitting a target with any degree of accuracy was down to luck more than training.

He took a few seconds to get comfortable, forced himself to relax, then fired eight shots. All were within the centre three rings and could have been covered by a saucer. Eight killing shots at fifty metres was good shooting by anyone's standards.

He ejected the mag, opened the breech to check that it was clear, locked the top slide in place and handed the gun to Gannon.

'Your accuracy's spot on, Spider, can't fault you on that,'

said the major. 'Technique-wise, the double tap is fine for the range, but it's single shots when you're on the street.

Remember, with the boys in blue every shot counts and has to be accounted for. The big difference between us and the cops is that we shoot until the target goes down. Cops shoot when only absolutely necessary to neutralise the threat.'

'Got it.'

'I bloody hope so, Spider, because if you revert to your Sass training and empty a magazine into a bad guy, you go to jail and don't pass go. Cops can only fire if life is in imminent danger. As soon as the bad guys drop their weapons,

you stop firing.'

'Okay.'

'What we're going to do now is to take you back into the Killing House and run you through a series of drills, using blanks. We'll throw dozens of civilian situations at you.

Teenager with an airgun, angry husband holding wife hostage,

armed bank robbers, the works. We'll be testing two things - your marksmanship and, more importantly, your judgement calls. You can't afford to make a mistake.'

Just then his mobile phone rang. Shepherd grimaced.

'Sorry,' he said to the major. 'I've got to keep it on in case the job needs me.'

'Go ahead,' said Gannon.

Shepherd walked away and took the call. It was Miss Malcolm from the au pair agency. 'I haven't caught you at a bad time, have I, Mr Shepherd?' she asked.

Shepherd wondered what she'd say if he told her that he was about to go into the SAS Killing House to practise hostage-rescue techniques. 'No, it's fine, Miss Malcolm.'

'I've had four girls arrive in London at short notice and I thought I might show you the pick of the litter, so to speak.'