Spider's Web: A Collection of All-Action Short Stories (3 page)

‘A warning?’ repeated the Scotsman.

‘A warning to other journalists not to write about him.’

‘The pen is supposed to be mightier than the sword,’ said the Scotsman.

‘That may be so, but I can tell you that a Glock is a lot more effective. You can get me a Glock?’

‘Of course.’

The Russian turned back to Shepherd. ‘Enough talking,’ he said. ‘It’s time to gut the pig.’ He drew back the knife.

‘Before you kill me, there’s something you should know,’ said Shepherd quietly.

‘Please, don’t demean yourself by begging for your life,’ said Tankov. ‘As you said, you and I, we are professionals. We live and work as professionals and that is how we must die.’

‘I understand that,’ said Shepherd.

‘Begging achieves nothing, it never does,’ said Tankov. ‘In the entire history of assassination, an assassin has never stopped because of something the target has said.’

‘Really?’

‘That is a fact. An absolute fact.’

‘I bet there is something I could say that would stop you.’ Shepherd gritted his teeth. His shoulders felt as if they were on fire and his wrists were red raw from where the chain had rubbed against the flesh, but he forced himself to ignore the pain, knowing that it would soon be over.

Tankov threw his head back and laughed. The sound echoed off the walls. ‘You are one crazy Englishman.’ He looked over at his companion. ‘The English are all crazy, or is it just this one?’

‘Crazy as a fox,’ said the Scotsman.

Tankov frowned. ‘What do you mean? Crazy as a fox?’

‘He means that I can stop you,’ said Shepherd.

‘You can stop me slicing you open and watching your guts spill out on to the floor?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m being modest,’ said Shepherd. ‘Actually, I’m sure.’

‘You can say something to me that will stop me killing you?’

‘Yes. And better than that.’

Tankov’s frown deepened. ‘Better than that?’

‘I can put you behind bars for the rest of your lrubst of yife.’

Tankov laughed, but this time there was a nervous edge to it. ‘Bullshit,’ he said.

‘Do you want to give it a go?’

The Russian nodded. ‘Why not? You’re bluffing.’

Shepherd looked over at the Scotsman. ‘What do you think? Do you think I’m bluffing?’

The Scotsman smiled. ‘Like I said, crazy like a fox.’

Shepherd looked back at Tankov. He took a deep breath.

‘You’re bluffing,’ said Tankov.

‘I’d suggest a bet, but where you’re going you won’t have any money so that would be pointless. Are you ready?’

‘Ready for what?’

Shepherd nodded at the door. ‘On the other side of that door are half a dozen police officers armed to their teeth. Once they hear the right words they’ll storm in here and if you so much as look at them wrong they’ll fill your head full of lead.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the Russian.

‘And if you’re lucky and they don’t kill you, they now have enough evidence to put you away for life.’

‘Evidence? What evidence?’

‘Your confession. You’ve confessed to killing Stefen Grabosky and planning to kill Ella Mirskiv. And once you’re in custody, who knows what else they’ll be able to pin on you.’

‘Confession?’

‘They’ve heard every word you’ve said in here. Heard it and recorded it.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the Russian. ‘You’re not wired.’

‘That’s right,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he is.’ He gestured with his chin at the Scotsman. ‘Right?’

‘I hope so,’ said the Scotsman. ‘Otherwise this has all been a waste of time.’ He was holding a Glock and pointing it at Tankov’s stomach. He used his left hand to lift up his sweatshirt, revealing a stainless steel box the size of an iPhone taped to his stomach.

‘What?’ said the Russian, staring at the gun.

‘Drop the knife,’ said the Scotsman, letting his sweatshirt fall back into place.

‘Just say the words, Razor,’ said Shepherd.

‘Razor?’ repeated the Russian.

The Scotsman moved away from the door, keeping the gun aimed at Tankov’s chest. ‘Is that the time?’ he said, loudly.

Shepherd closed his eyes and turned his face away from the door. As he did there was a loud bang and the door flew inwards.

‘Armed police, drop your weapon!’ shouted a big man in black overalls, bulletproof vest and a Kevlar helmet. He was holding a G36 carbine with a laser sight, and a red dot danced across Tankov’s chest. ‘Drop the knife!’

Tankov snarled and turned to Razor. ‘You bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You set me up!’

More red dots danced across Tankov’s back as two more armed cops edged into the basement. ‘Drop the knife now or we will shoot!’

‘I’ll kill you!’ shouted Tankov, and he lunged at Razor. Two of th sar. Two e carbines fired at the same time and the Russian stopped in his tracks. The knife fell from his hand and he slumped to his knees, then pitched forward and slammed into the concrete.

The three armed cops hurried over to Tankov. One of them kicked away the knife. ‘You OK, Razor?’ he asked.

‘All good,’ said Razor, slipping the Glock back into the holster in the small of his back.

‘I’m fine, too, thanks for asking,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now will you get me down from here.’

Razor knelt down next to Tankov and went through his pockets. He pulled out a padlock key and went over to Shepherd. He reached up to unlock the padlock but then stopped and took a step back. ‘You know there was nothing else I could do, right?’

‘Get me the hell down, will you?’ said Shepherd.

‘I will do, but we need a chat first.’

‘A chat?’ He arched his back. ‘My arms are killing me.’

Razor Sharpe grinned. ‘I just want to make sure that there’s no ill-feeling.’

‘What?’

‘I just want you to tell me that you’re not bearing any grudges.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘I was in the car with Tankov when his guys grabbed you. That was the first time I knew you were on the case.’

‘I’d been following him for a week, Razor.’

‘Yeah, well, you were clearly doing a crap job or you’d have seen me. And why the hell didn’t MI5 tell us that they were after him?’

‘“Us” being?’

‘Homicide and Serious Crime. I’m on attachment to them, working undercover. My brief was get close to Tankov and identify his target.’

‘I guess your bosses should have been talking to Charlotte Button.’

‘Or vice versa,’ said Razor. ‘He wasn’t an obvious MI5 target, was he?’

‘Just let me down, we can talk it through over a drink.’

One of the cops patted Sharpe on the shoulder with a gloved hand. ‘You want me to cut him down?’

Sharpe shook his head and held up the key. ‘Just give us a minute, will you?’ he said.

The officer nodded and walked away.

‘Let me down, Razor, or so help me I’ll knock you into the middle of next week,’ said Shepherd.

‘I just want to make sure we’re good.’

‘We’re good.’

‘You’re just saying that. I can tell. I had to tell him something. I mean, he already had you, right? So I thought the best thing to do was to tell him you were a cop.’

‘Razor, so help me …’

‘I know, I know. But I couldn’t do anything to tip you off, I had to let it play out. I’d never have let him hurt you, you know that, right?’

‘He cut me. You saw him cut me.’

‘Och, I’ve done more damage with my Bic razor. I couldn’t stop him, not until we’d got what we wanted. You understand that?’

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

‘And with me being wired, it seemed the perfect opportunity to give him enough rope.’

‘It worked a treat. I see that. With me strung up, he got overconfident. No need to explain.’

‘So we’re good?’

‘We’re good.’

‘And the ball-grabbing thing. You’re OK about that?’

‘I’m fine. As right as rain.’

Sharpe took a step towards Shepherd but then stopped. ‘You know, I think I’ll head off,’ he said. He tossed the key to one of the armed cops. ‘Do me a favour and let my friend down,’ he said.

‘Razor, you stay where you are!’ shouted Shepherd,
but Sharpe was already out of the door and running up the stairs.

HIATUS

‘We’re clear on this, right? Nothing physical. No shoving, no pushing, no punching.’ Garry Dobbs looked into the eyes of his protégé. Jack Martin was two years younger than Dobbsy and a hell of a lot less smart but beggars couldn’t be choosers and Dobbsy had to make do with what was available. ‘You understand, Jacko? You absolutely cannot get physical.’

Jacko sighed. ‘How many times are you going to tell me?’ he said. ‘I get it. They’re old. We don’t hurt them.’ He scratched the rash of old acne scars across his cheek. Jacko had the sort of face only a mother could love; a weak chin, a pig-like nose and the blank eyes of a teenager who had spent too may hours on his PlayStation.

‘It’s not about not hurting,’ said Dobbsy. ‘That’s the thing. Most of them are so old you can bruise them just by blowing at them. If they fall over they break a hip, if you grab their wrist you can snap their arm. Most of them are confused, you just have to talk to them like they’re simple and they’ll do as they’re told. If they do turn belligerent, there’s nothing they can do, remember that. They can’t force you to do anything, and if you keep their phone away from them they can’t phone for help. The cops take forever to answer 999 calls anyway these days. And when they do answer it takes them forever to get anyone out.’

Jacko rolled his eyes. ‘Dobbsy, I’m not stupid. I’ve robbed houses before.’

‘This isn’t robbing,’ said Dobbsy. ‘This is conning.’ He leaned over, popped the glovebox open, and pulled out two laminated ID cars on blue lanyards. He gave one to Jacko and put the other around his neck. ‘This says we work for the council and we’re police-approved. I made them myself and they look the dog’s bollocks but most of them are almost blind anyway. But if they look worried you just smile and show them the ID and tell them we work for the council.’

‘And they believe it? It’s as easy as that?’

‘They’re old, mate. This guy is over eighty. He’s one step away from being in a home. The trick is just to keep smiling and tell them not to worry.’

Jacko nodded. ‘Got it.’

They were sitting in Dobbsy’s black Golf GTI in a road lined with shabby terraced houses. There were three sorts of households – the elderly, families on benefits and recently arrived immigrants. The house that Dobbsy was intereste fowd in was Number 27. There was only one occupant, a man in his eighties by the name of Duns. Duns rarely left the house. Twice a week he would walk slowly down the road to the Tesco Express store between a bookmaker’s and a charity shop, and would return half an hour later with a carrier bag full of food. He never went near an ATM, and so Dobbsy assumed there was cash in the house. Old people didn’t trust banks and preferred cash wherever possible. They tended to have jewellery, too. In one house he’d found a dozen sovereigns in a red velvet pouch tucked away in a sock drawer.

Dobbsy had just turned twenty years old. As a teenager he’d been a prolific burglar and over a six-year career had broken into more than a thousand houses. Two or three a week, on average. He’d been caught several times but only as a juvenile, and always got off with a caution.

It was when he turned twenty that Dobbsy had an epiphany. Instead of breaking into houses at random, usually chosen because a window had been left open or a door unlocked, he decided to choose his targets more carefully. And instead of breaking in, he began to simply walk in through the front door. The idea had come to him when his mother had called in a locksmith to fit a peephole viewer and a security chain. Dobbsy had watched, fascinated, as the man had worked, and had asked a few questions. Later, as he lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling, he realised that old folk would probably jump at the chance of having the extra security fitted. The next day he’d gone around to a hardware store, bought himself a toolbox, drill and a selection of viewers and chains, and had started knocking on doors.

His original idea had been to charge the old folk a tenner for a peephole and a tenner for a chain, but it soon became obvious that it was going to be a struggle getting them to part with their money. But what he realised was that a simple knock on the door got him into the house. That was when he’d had his second brainwave. If he could find a partner and the two of them could get into the house, one of them could distract the occupant while the other could move through the house looking for cash and valuables.

He’d teamed up with an old school friend, Gordo, and together they’d honed the technique that had netted them thousands of pounds in just a few months. Dobbsy would do the talking, and give them the spiel about the council giving them free peepholes and security chains, then Gordo would take the owner of the house into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Dobbsy would then check the bedrooms and the sitting room, stealing whatever he could, then when he was done he would make some excuse about not having the right tools and they would leave. It was clean and no one got hurt and it was practically risk free. Most of the old folk they dealt with were so forgetful he figured that most of them would never know that they had been ripped off.

Cash was the best thing to find, obviously, and old people always seemed to have cash in their homes. Dobbsy didn’t know whether it was because they didn’t trust banks or because they didn’t know how to use credit cards, but either way they always had something tucked away, more often than not in their bedrooms. There was usually jewellery, too. The women often had necklaces and rings hidden away, but so too did the men, probably left over from the days when they had wives. Dobbsy had also started taking an interest in antiques. Old people generally had old things in their homes, and while a lot of it was crap he did sometimes come across a Royal Doulton figurine or a Wedgwood pot that he could sell down the Portobello Road. He’d started reading up on antiques on the internet and always made a point of taking a closer look at what was on the mantelpiece and sideboard.

All had gone swimmingly until Gordo had got into an argument with a drunken Polish builder in a pub and received a pint glass in his face for his trouble. He wasn’t able to leave his house and if he did Dobbsy reckoned he’d scare the pants off anyone who opened their door, so he needed a replacement.