The Chop Shop (16 page)

“Something low
key, for now. We need your records on Jeremy Miller. You should have an entry
in your database, as he's known to have been picked up for petty crimes in the
past. None resulted in a prosecution.”

James took a
brown envelope from his satchel and slipped it across the table. “This should
help you identify him properly.”

“You've had
weeks to come to me about this. Why now?” Michael said. He folded up the
envelope and place it into his pocket.

“We didn't need
anything from the police until now,” James said, shrugging his shoulders.

A banging pipe
echoed through the corridor. Michael breathed in through his nose. He watched
Harris skim the rest of the letter, with a cigarette hanging out the corner of
the major's mouth. Harris nodded to himself.

“Come with me.”

They walked down
the corridor and took a left. Harris nodded to the two policemen standing
guard. He unlocked the door and then locked it again behind them both once
inside.

The lights took
few moments to come on, flickering and flashing, sometimes making a clicking
sound that suggested they were about to shatter over their heads.

Four computers
occupied as many desks at one end of the room, built out of different branded
parts with old CRT monitors nearly as big as the desks themselves. Cardboard
boxes filled with paper lined the walls.

“Take a seat.
You haven't seen our records room?” Harris said.

Michael shook
his head. “My old station was a bit more high-tech.”

“We make do with
what we've got.” Harris tapped in a user name and password into the command
prompt. Green text appeared, scrolling upwards faster than Michael could read
it, until the display finally settled on another command prompt.

The major
glanced at the letter and began his search. A line of asterisks stretched
across the command prompt. The line stopped, and a picture and profile flashed
up on the monitor.

“Bingo,” Michael
said. He leaned closer to the monitor. “He's not exactly a crime kingpin. Minor
drug dealing, soliciting and possession of a gun; plenty of bigger targets with
better rewards to plug. Bored patrol?”

Harris leaned
back in his chair. The seat creaked beneath him. “He hasn't been tagged with a
prosecution so he must have walked free.”

“So, the
tribunals have the option of sentencing him in return for a few kickbacks from
the company who runs the facilities, or setting him free for no reason at all.
They'd force an animal to do time in one of those units if they could,” Michael
said.

Harris hit the
print button. “Something dodgy was going on, but it doesn't matter; you've got
what you need. Take my spare key. They'll probably try and pressure you for
more stuff, so use some discretion when dealing with them. I don't need this
coming back to bite me in the arse.”

“Yes, sir,”
Michael said.

The major shut
the door behind him, and Michael waited as the printer whined, shook and then
finally spat out three sheets of paper. He stapled them together in the corner
and used the phone to call James.

“I've got what
you asked for,” Michael said.

A second of
silence. “Give me forty. I'll be down the road from the checkpoint in my car,
okay?”

“I'll see you then.”
He hung up and headed downstairs. Two fire teams pushed him aside as they ran
out of the main entrance, and Michael followed after them. He stopped beside
the pair of guards at the door. “What's happened now?”

“Same old, same
old. They're bringing casualties in.”

“Why aren't they
taking them to hospital?” Michael said.

The policeman
shrugged. “Trouble at the hospital with looters. It's quicker to bring them
back here to the medical unit, but I doubt they'll make it, though. Sounded
like they got shot up pretty bad on the radio.”

“Shit,” Michael
said.

He walked out
into the car park and found the two fire teams waiting with medical supplies
and two medics.

“How many men
down?” Michael said.

The corporal
held up four fingers. “Routine patrol. They called in to report a sighting of
the guy you rolled over this morning. Two minutes later and they're calling for
back up. What a cluster fuck.”

“Did they get
him?”

“No. Like I
said, what a cluster fuck.”

The entrance
barrier lifted to allow a four-by-four and armoured personnel carrier to drive
on through. Bullet holes decorated most of the vehicle's body, and a few shards
of the windscreen remained on the bonnet. The driver motioned to the personnel
carrier with his hand.

Michael stood
back as the carrier dropped its ramp, and the section raced forward to carry
out the wounded with stretchers. One of the casualties lacked his jaw and was
already dead; his eyes remained open, staring up at the platform above.

They tried to
stem the flow of blood from another's chest wound. Gore spilled across pale
skin, and the harder they pressed down on the entry wound, the more it bled,
and then his eyes rolled back into his skull as he died.

Michael shook
his head, and he walked away, trying not to listen to the groans of the other
wounded and the frantic shouts of the medics. The policeman in the checkpoint
booth removed his helmet and balaclava. Sweat glued strands of hair to his
forehead.

“We're dropping
like flies out there. There isn't going to be anyone left to guard this place
the way things are going,” he said.

“I hear you,”
Michael said.

The policeman
removed a beaten packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket. “Want a smoke?”

Michael
declined. The policeman lit up in his security booth, tilted his head back and
blew smoke into the air. “We get another food riot or unemployment protest and
fuck, I don't know what's going to happen.”

Michael stepped
around the barrier.

“Don't wander
too far, mate. I think there's people out there who've got us marked. It's real
easy to hide in one of those old houses; they can sit up in the loft or watch
us through the windows, and we'd never know without seeing them through a
thermal sight.”

“I'll be fine,”
he said, and walked on. He found himself a seat on a front garden wall. The hands
ticked on his watch; a longer wait than he wished for, but he needed fresh air,
or whatever passed for fresh air these days. Fifteen minutes later, and an
infantry fighting vehicle rolled out of the compound, followed by a car.

Richard slowed,
rolling down the driver's window. “You had any luck?”

“Maybe, I'm
waiting to meet the guy again. You see the mess back there?”

“Yeah, sucks for
those guys. I got a real honest to god murder call out; I'm going to
investigate. Maybe I'll get a bounty for it, if those motherfuckers in the IFV
don't try and hog the glory.”

“People get
murdered here every day. Nobody gives a shit,” Michael said.

Richard shrugged
behind the wheel. “People are upset enough about this one that we have to go
and check it out. I'm telling you, it's going to be one of those days. See you.
Don't get yourself plugged.”

Richard drove
off after the infantry fighting vehicle. James turned up ten minutes early and
pulled over by the curb. He exited the vehicle and approached in his plastic
rain jacket. “Okay, let's see what you've got.”

Michael handed
him the papers. He skimmed the text, nodded and then gave him an envelope.
“Good enough. Take this. I hope your breaking and entering skills aren't too
rusty.”

“What is it?”

“Open it and
see. I'll be in touch.”

“What did you
say to Harris?” Richard said.

“I didn't say
anything to him. Keep your voice down.”

Michael pushed
his way through the bushes. A street light glowed a hundred meters away, and
concertina wire topped the seven foot wall surrounding the house. CCTV watched
from beyond the iron gate. He moved to the wall, huddling low, and Richard
trailed after him.

“Looks clear. He
should be at work,” Michael said.

“Have you ever
broken into somebody's house before?” Richard whispered.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Nobody from
Assurer is going to intervene; it's private security we need to worry about.”
He popped open the bag he'd brought and took out the wire cutters. Richard
linked his fingers together and gave Michael a boost, grunting with exertion.

“A little more,”
Michael said.

Richard lifted
higher, and Michael gripped the top of the wall. He felt the rough edges of the
brickwork cutting into his fingers, as he clipped away the first wire, and then
the second and a third.

“Hurry it up; my
arms are hurting,” Richard said, with a grimace.

Michael clipped
the last one. “Got it.” He dropped backed down. “You good?”

“Give me a
minute. What are we looking for in there?” Richard said.

Four Rotweilers
trotted along past the bushes. Their owner followed behind with their leashes
in hand. Michael pressed a finger to his lips, as they waited for the group to
pass by.

“Documents.”

“That journalist
is going to sell us down the fucking drain.”

“Harris wants
this guy.”

“Yeah, Harris
and nobody else. Sod it. Come on, let's get it over with.”

Michael grabbed
the bag. He pushed off Richard's hands again and clung onto the top of the
wall, lifting each leg over in turn. He reached down then and began to pull
Richard up. His vision drifted to the other side of the wall, and then he let
Richard drop. He heard a thump and a curse.

“For Christ's
sake, what was that for?” Richard said.

“There's a bed
of punji stakes along the wall.”

“No joke?”

“Give me a
minute to remove them.”

He pushed off
the wall with as much strength as he could muster and hit the concrete hard,
landing a few centimetres beyond the stakes.

“You okay?”
Richard said.

“Fine. Keep it
down, there might be others about.”

Michael yanked
each stake out of the earth and tossed them to the side. A rusted ladder lay against
the side of the building, which he took and propped up against the wall to help
Richard over.

“Are those
cameras working?” Richard said.

“Probably. We'll
have to get the drives from inside. Let's go.”

They jogged
around the back of the house to the garden patio, and Richard pointed to the
burglar alarm box partway up the building. “Let's be quick, okay? That one
looks like it's actually wired up.”

Michael picked
up a lump of gravel from the patio and hurled it through the kitchen window.
The glass shattered with a noise that pierced the afternoon quiet like a death
scream. He took the hammer from his bag and smashed out the remains still
clinging to the window frame.

The burglar
alarm began to shriek.

“Shit,” Richard
said.

Michael climbed
into the kitchen. Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls, and everything was
built large, as though to accommodate two or three families. He stared at his
reflection momentarily, as Richard climbed in after him.

“Strange to have
a place like this beneath the plate,” Richard said.

“Maybe we'll
find out why. I'll search upstairs, you take down here. We're looking for
business documents and memory sticks. Got it?” Michael said.

“Just make sure
you get the camera drives.”

He jogged up the
stairs, inspecting each room until he came to an office with a door of wood and
frosted glass. He tried the handle. Locked. Michael smashed the glass with the
hammer, cleared the door frame and climbed through.

A computer with
a flat screen monitor sat on the desk, and two laptops rested on top of a
cabinet in the corner. None were plugged in. He put the laptops in his bag and
moved onto the filing cabinets. Two minutes later and he'd added a set of ring
binders to the haul, and the bag sagged with the weight of its contents, strap
cutting deep into his shoulder.

Richard came up
the stairs. “There's nothing of interest down there. Did you find the camera
drives?”

“Not yet. This
machine isn't even on.” Michael yanked the wire out of the computer and lifted
the machine onto the desk. He took a screwdriver from the bag, removed the
screws and then slid away the case's cover to reveal the internals.

“They've got to
be somewhere. The walls? I've seen it before. I'm going to go and have a look.
Don't take too long,” Richard said.

Michael ripped
out the wires plugged into the hard drive. Another set of screws held the drive
in place, and he removed them as well. The drive came free with a tug. He
placed it in his bag and hurried out into the hallway to find Richard banging
on each wall with a clenched fist.

“Anything?”

“Too hard to
say. Just tell me you got what you needed.”

“I got it, don't
worry.”

Richard moved
on, only to stop partway between two doors. He banged on the same spot again.
“Does that sound hollow to you or what? Give me the hammer.”

He reached out.
A car engine rumbled from the street outside. Richard snatched the hammer from
him.

“Go see who it
is,” Richard said.

Michael jogged
to the room at the end of the hallway, parting the blue curtains enough to look
out with one eye. Four men climbed out of their armoured transport. Richard
hammered a hole in the wall, and Michael flinched at the noise as chunks of
plaster crumbled across the carpet.

“Keep it down,
it's private security; four of them. Two are at the front gate. The others are
going around the side. I don't think they have the keys,” Michael said.

Richard hit the
wall again. “Damn it, the drives are inside a safe. I can see wires going in
through the bottom, but I need a number and a key to open it. I've got neither
of them.”

He rapped his
knuckles on the metal. “Explosives would do the job.”

“Forget it. It's
not enough to identify us. We've got a bigger problem downstairs.”

Michael stepped
past Richard and into one of the other rooms. He prised the blinds open and saw
the pair of security personnel inspecting the hole in the concertina wire. One
lifted the other up to look over the wall before he dropped back down again.

“They've found
our entry point. One of them is calling it on the radio. I think they're
waiting for back up.”