Brute Force ns-11 Read online

  There was smoke from the chimney but no other immediate signs of life. None of the interior lights were on either, or heavy curtains had been drawn.

  I started to shiver. Time to get moving again. I worked my way around the side of the house, aiming for the rear.

  Cats or foxes had scattered frozen-food packaging and the odd banana skin from the solitary refuse bin. The cartons told me they'd contained meals for one.

  Light spilled from a downstairs window to the right of the back door, and through a gap in the curtains from another to the left. I stood back from the house, in the shadows, and heard a toilet flush on the first floor. There was no sound of a TV or radio. No dog barking.

  A muddy Volvo 4x4 was parked on the cracked tarmac.

  I stayed where I was, just looking and listening, sweeping the area with the binos now and again in case anything or anyone out there was doing the same.

  I moved a step or two in the direction of the uncurtained window, close enough to see that it belonged to the kitchen. I let the binos hang from my neck. I was still in shadow, but there was too much light for them now.

  I sat on the tarmac, my back against the Volvo, and waited. Whoever had just taken a leak upstairs would have to turn the lights off at some stage, or come and make a brew in the morning.

  Twenty freezing minutes later, Lynn appeared at the window, kettle in hand. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown over striped pyjamas. He really was a toff. The little that was left of his greying hair was wet and slicked back.

  His lips weren't moving, and he gave his full attention to the tap. Moments later, he was gone.

  I flicked up the collar of my jacket to give me some protection from the biting wind as I waited for him to return to the kitchen to finish making what I hoped was just the one brew.

  He did, fleetingly, mug in hand, then the crack of light from the curtained window strengthened.

  I packed my binos away in the day sack and crossed the open ground towards it. He was sitting on a packing case, nursing his brew by a big wood-burning stove with glass doors. The room was bare. Not a stick of furniture or a single painting on the wall. Battered tea chests littered the floor.

  I checked my watch as he raised the mug to his lips. Was he waiting for his wife to come home? Not by the look of things. The empty room and the food cartons were telling me a different story.

  I kept watching him through the gap between the curtains, making sure my mouth was far enough away from the glass not to leave any condensation. Maybe his retirement had been a front. Maybe he hadn't left the Firm at all, and was just relocating. Maybe the reason he'd summoned me was to come and help him with his packing.

  I wanted to get moving, take action, do something positive. I went back to the kitchen window. The sink was empty, and there weren't any pictures on the fridge, or happy snaps on the walls. This room, too, had been stripped.

  The light went off in the living room and a hand came through the doorway and hit the kitchen light switch. A dressing-gowned shadow, thrown by the glow of the wood-burning stove, moved towards the stairs.

  I waited for a light to come on above me. Nothing. I edged slowly round to the front of the house. Again, no light at all to help me locate him.

  I'd kept the carrier bags from my shopping trip. I'd wrapped my passport, phone and credit cards in them, and stuffed them inside my jacket. I'd made the decision to take them with me instead of going into the house sterile; Lynn knew who I was, and if I got caught now, I'd be dead.

  I headed back to the rear, took the mini-Maglite from my pocket and, holding two fingers over the lens to minimize the light, shone it through the living-room window. It was a simple latch job on a sash. The frame was old softwood, and its paint was peeling. A spider's web covered a Chubb window lock screwed down tight.

  I moved across to the back door and shone the Maglite into the keyhole. It was an ordinary domestic four-lever. But it's no good attacking a lock if the thing is firmly bolted.

  I pushed gently on the panel beside the lock, then pulled the handle towards me, to see if there was any give. There was about half an inch. I ran my hands down to the bottom of the door and pushed hard and slow. It gave an inch, then moved back into position. I did the same at the top. It also gave way, and I eased it gently back into position. No bolts; only the one lever lock to deal with.

  You could spend hours picking a lock only to find out that the fucking thing was already open, so I always took my time and checked the obvious. Holding my breath, I twisted the handle. No such luck; the door was locked.

  The next move was to check all the most likely hiding places for a spare key. Some people leave theirs dangling on a string the other side of the letter box or on the inside of a cat flap, others under a dustbin or just behind a little pile of stones by the door. I checked the old rusting paint tins by the door, along the top of the door frame and in all the obvious places. Nothing.

  I got down onto my knees and looked through the keyhole. I shone the torch through and had another look. There was a glint of metal.

  What a dickhead.

  He'd left the key in the lock.

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  With the Maglite in my mouth, I opened the screwdriver set and worked one of them into the keyhole. The key obscured most of my vision, but I could see that the teeth were up in the wards of the lock. When it had a firm purchase I started to turn the key clockwise, at the same time pulling the door towards me to release the pressure of the frame on the latch and the deadbolt.

  The key turned until it hit the lock; it would need a lot more pressure now to open it and that might make a noise. I took a deep breath. If Lynn suddenly appeared with a shotgun, I'd have to switch to Plan B – which would probably involve running like fuck.

  I gave the key the final twist and the screwdriver snapped in my hand. The cheap metal head was jammed against the key and there was no way to get another one in.

  I went back to the living-room window and took the roll of parcel tape from my day sack. Pulling it off the roll very slowly to eliminate noise, I covered the whole pane with the stuff, then made a handle, something for me to hold while I scored around the edge with the cutter. I punched the pane gently with my fist and it cracked and popped. I pulled back on the tape handle and the glass came away in my hands.

  I lowered the day sack behind the curtain and slid through the gap, immediately feeling the heat from the burner.

  I'd have to clear the house room by room. I had to make sure no one else was here. I'd remain covert for as long as possible, and only go noisy if he did. It wasn't much of a plan, but it would have to do.

  I kept the Maglite close to the floor so I could see my way through the living room. The burner still glowed, but didn't throw out enough light to prevent me from standing on a cat or tripping over a log pile.

  I reached the door that led into the front hall. My ears started to sting now that the warmth was returning to them. I went down on my knees, eased it a little further ajar, listened for a moment and then looked through.

  The first room I had to clear was the kitchen; it was the nearest.

  I held the pistol out in front of me. I hoped that it would buy me at least two seconds of hesitation from whoever I might have to point it at.

  That was where the box-cutter came in. If the shit really hit the fan, it would drop my assailant but not totally fuck him up – and give me enough time to decide if I would have to get a frenzy on and slice him to shreds before he did something similar to me.

  There was nothing in the hallway. I moved forward and pushed the kitchen door fully open. Nothing.

  I went back into the hallway.

  Still nothing.

  I thought about the single mug and the ready-meal cartons. Fuck it, I'd just go straight upstairs and find him.

  Focusing my eyes and the weapon on the top landing, I placed my left foot very carefully on the bottom step, then my right.

  I stopped and listened.

  I lifted
my left foot again and put it down on the second step, easing my weight down gently on the carpet, hoping the board wouldn't creak beneath it.

  I moved slowly but purposefully, eyes wide, weapon up. The glow from the wood-burner threw my shadow against the wall.

  Adrenalin took over. If Lynn was waiting for me, he'd be armed. A shotgun, at least. I was drenched with sweat. My heart was pumping so hard I could feel it hammering against my chest.

  It started to get darker and colder as the glow of the embers faded. All I could hear was the sound of my own breath.

  Moving like this is physically demanding. Every movement has to be so slow and deliberate that every single muscle is tensed; your body needs more oxygen, and your lungs, in turn, need to work harder. And on top of all that, somebody could be waiting to kill you at any moment.

  I reached the landing. There was a smell of polish and mothballs. There was a door to my left. The corridor to my right ran the length of the house. Knees bent, shoulders hunched over, box-cutter now in my left hand and pistol in my right, I started to move along the Afghan runner at its centre. I checked the crack under each of the doors I passed for any signs of life.

  The first was to my left, facing the rear of the house.

  Nothing.

  I turned the handle and went in.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  I moved down to the next door on the right, facing the front of the house.

  I could hear snoring.

  I carried on along the corridor and listened outside the next room. Nothing. And there was no noise from any of the other five.

  I put the box-cutter back in my fleece, fished out the torch and twisted the lens.

  At this point I'd normally have pressed my right thumb down on the weapon's safety catch, checking that it was off and ready to go, before entering the target room. Then I'd have pushed the mag in the pistol grip to make sure that it was engaged.

  No need for any of that with this fucking thing. I just hoped my bluff was going to work.

  I lifted the latch, and none too gently. Once you've decided you're going in, you might as well get it over with. I pushed the door a few inches, brought up the torch and used my body to open the door fully.

  I moved immediately to the right, to avoid silhouetting my body in the doorway. The curtains were still open.

  I closed the door most of the way with my shoulder, and the torch beam hit a pile of clothes draped over a wooden chair, then a watch and a glass of water on a bedside table. There was a body in the bed. It stirred, maybe as a reaction to the change in the air pressure as the door opened, or the fact that light was now shining in its face.

  His head turned and his eyes opened wide. He wouldn't be able to see me, just the torchlight. I tilted it to make sure he caught sight of the pistol.

  I moved quickly and knelt astride him, pinned him to the bed with the duvet taut across his chest.

  I cut the light and dropped the torch onto the bed. I didn't want him to see my face yet. I wanted to keep him confused.

  He started to react. 'What . . .? Who the . . .?'

  He gave a grunt as I pressed the pistol against his clenched teeth. He tried to resist. I grabbed the back of his balding head with my left hand and forced the weapon down harder. Metal scraped against enamel until he eventually opened up.

  I pushed the muzzle as far into his mouth as it would go.

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  He struggled for a while, not trying to escape, just trying to work out what the fuck was going on, and to breathe. He was flapping, and snorting like a horse. I moved with his chest as it arched up and down. Finally he lay still. No one will really fuck around once they realize they have a pistol in their mouth and it's not coming out.

  I leant towards his left ear. His cheek smelled of coal tar soap. 'You have two choices. Die if you don't help me, live if you do. Nod if you understand.'

  The pistol moved up and down.

  It's always better to take your time at moments like this. If you've got somebody who's flapping and you say, 'OK, what's all this shit about Leptis?', he can't talk because he's got this weapon stuck in his mouth, so he gets all confused about what you expect of him. It's better to do it as a process of elimination. Then, once he got in the swing of things, I could grip him and get him spewing out everything he knew.

  'If there's anyone else in the house, nod slowly.'

  There was no movement of the pistol.

  'Dogs?'

  No movement.

  'Anyone turning up before first light?'

  No movement.

  He gagged and his Adam's apple worked overtime. With his jaw wide open he'd lost his ability to swallow.

  'It's Nick Stone. You remember.'

  The pistol moved up and down, with purpose.

  'That Libyan in Tripoli called you Leptis. Yes?'

  He nodded.

  'The only people who have that information are the Libyan, you and me, right?'

  He nodded again.

  'You put it in a report?'

  His cheeks inflated and his lips bubbled. Saliva oozed from his mouth and down his chin. I could hear all the breathing and slurping, but there was just a touch too much hesitation. He was doing some serious thinking about what to say next.

  'Don't second-guess. You don't know what I want to hear. Just tell the truth. If not, you're no good to me. Understand?'

  The pistol moved up and down. I could feel his chest rising and falling more and more quickly; he was fighting for oxygen and there were too many obstructions.

  He nodded.

  Light sliced through the darkness outside. In the middle distance, towards the coast, two sets of headlamps moved along the road I'd parked beside.

  'You still work for the Firm?'

  Side to side.

  Both vehicles had stopped about two hundred up the road, and both sets of lights cut.

  'How many are coming?'

  I pulled the weapon from his mouth and slammed it down on top of his head. Partly to control him, partly out of anger, I screamed with him. 'I wasn't the only fucker in that car . . .'

  I pulled out the Explorers, turned them on and slung them back round my neck. I jumped off him and grabbed one of his socks and shoved it into his mouth, pulling down on his jaw to force him to take it all. Noise comes from the throat and below, not the mouth; for an effective gag, you have to ram the obstruction down as far as it can go, so that when your prisoner tries to scream, the sound can't amplify in the mouth. I also wanted him to be more worried about choking than raising the alarm.

  I tied his shirtsleeve as tightly as I could around his mouth and at the back of his neck so I could use it as a lead, but kept his nose uncovered because he had to be able to breathe. Moans and groans sounded from the back of his throat as I dragged him onto the floor. I kept my Timberland over the sleeve to keep him down as I checked the darkness outside with the binos.

  Now they'd checked out the Merc, the two cars moved towards the fork in the road, lights off and slow. I lost them for a few seconds behind the farm buildings.

  They split, one down each side of the triangle.

  The driver of the one to the right stuck his head out of the window for a clearer view. His passenger had something with him that gave off a gentle glow. As they passed the house, I pulled Lynn from the bedroom and towards the stairs. I dropped the pistol and grabbed the torch. I wouldn't be able to bluff these guys. I twisted open the lens.

  The front door was the best option, then out into the open and use the outbuildings for cover. Then over fields to wherever, now the car was compromised.

  It didn't matter where I was heading for now; the only thing that did was getting out of the shit and keeping Lynn with me. I hadn't found anything out yet.

  I dragged him down the stairs. Blood glistened on his head and face. He stumbled as he tried to grab the shirt to ease the pressure on his mouth at the same time as following the torch beam.

  We reached level ground.r />
  I focused the light on the front door and pushed him against the wall, kicking him down onto the carpet to control him as I took the box-cutter out of my fleece, turned the torch off and released the Yale.

  No time to be tactical. I wanted to be outside, in the dark and in cover.

  I wrenched him off the floor and dragged him diagonally across the wet grass.

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