Read Online Cold Kill by Stephen Leather - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Leather
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pleasure in killing children – he took no pleasure in killing anyone, but there was no alternative. The Israelis had killed thousands of innocent Palestinians. The Americans had killed tens of thousands of men, women and children in Iraq with bombs and bullets. The Saudi saw no difference between what the Israelis and the Americans did and the actions of the shahid . Death was death, whether it was carried out by soldiers or martyrs.
The jihad was continuing in Iraq, with Allied soldiers dying almost every day. But it was only when civilian contractors were kidnapped and beheaded that the world took notice and governments acted. The death of a civilian was worth the death of a hundred paid soldiers. It was simple economics.
The father handed over the money for the didgeridoo and picked up his daughter. She squealed, threw her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek. The Saudi walked away towards the harbour. He had never married and had no children. What he was doing was too important to jeopardise with a family. Families were a weakness for soldiers of the jihad .
Superintendent Hargrove arrived at the hospital with two of his agents playing ordinary detectives. They flashed their warrant cards at the uniformed officer and told him they would be taking Corke to Newcastle police station and that they would be accompanied by his solicitor. Hargrove said nothing, playing the part of a solicitor who was about to break bad news to his client.
The men with him were wearing dark raincoats over shabby suits and the world-weary look of policemen who had been in the job long enough not to be surprised by anything. Shepherd knew one of them – Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year veteran of the Strathclyde Police. As soon as the uniform had left the room Sharpe winked and unlocked Shepherd’s chain. ‘Always the hero, Spider,’ he said, in a heavy Glaswegian accent.
‘Why is it they always call on you when I need a taxi service?’ said Shepherd, slipping his legs over the side of the bed.
Sharpe grinned and nodded at his companion. ‘Spider, this is DC Paul Joyce. Joycie, this is DC Dan Shepherd, Spider to his friends. Spider is ex-SAS so we use him whenever we need someone to jump out of a plane or a burning building or throw themselves into the North Sea in the middle of the night. Personally, I think he does it just to make the rest of us look bad.’
Joyce handed Shepherd a kitbag, containing the clothes he had been wearing when he had been dragged out of the water: a blue denim shirt, cheap jeans, boxer shorts and socks. They had been cleaned and pressed. His work boots had been stuffed with newspapers and dried out.
‘I brought you a denim jacket and a pullover,’ said the superintendent. ‘I gather it’s what the best-dressed human trafficker’s wearing this season.’
Shepherd stood up. Sharpe and Joyce chuckled at his surgical gown. ‘Maybe we should take him to the factory as he is,’ said Joyce.
‘Careful, Joycie,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spider’s trained to kill.’
Shepherd flashed Hargrove a pained look. ‘Did you have to bring Cannon and Ball with you?’
Hargrove smiled. ‘Manpower shortage.’
The three men turned their backs while Shepherd changed.
‘We’re going to have to cuff you,’ said Hargrove, once Shepherd was tying his bootlaces. ‘It’s got to look right.’
Shepherd held out his arm. Joyce cuffed the wrist and fastened the other end to himself. Then the four men walked along the corridor and out into the car park. They took Shepherd to a black Vauxhall Vectra. Sharpe sat in the driver’s seat next to Hargrove, while Shepherd and Joyce climbed into the back.
Joyce waited until Sharpe had driven away from the hospital, then removed the handcuffs. Hargrove opened the glove compartment and passed Shepherd a flask and a carrier-bag containing two plastic-wrapped sandwiches.
Shepherd unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it. Ham and mustard. He poured himself some coffee and
The jihad was continuing in Iraq, with Allied soldiers dying almost every day. But it was only when civilian contractors were kidnapped and beheaded that the world took notice and governments acted. The death of a civilian was worth the death of a hundred paid soldiers. It was simple economics.
The father handed over the money for the didgeridoo and picked up his daughter. She squealed, threw her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek. The Saudi walked away towards the harbour. He had never married and had no children. What he was doing was too important to jeopardise with a family. Families were a weakness for soldiers of the jihad .
Superintendent Hargrove arrived at the hospital with two of his agents playing ordinary detectives. They flashed their warrant cards at the uniformed officer and told him they would be taking Corke to Newcastle police station and that they would be accompanied by his solicitor. Hargrove said nothing, playing the part of a solicitor who was about to break bad news to his client.
The men with him were wearing dark raincoats over shabby suits and the world-weary look of policemen who had been in the job long enough not to be surprised by anything. Shepherd knew one of them – Jimmy ‘Razor’ Sharpe, a twenty-year veteran of the Strathclyde Police. As soon as the uniform had left the room Sharpe winked and unlocked Shepherd’s chain. ‘Always the hero, Spider,’ he said, in a heavy Glaswegian accent.
‘Why is it they always call on you when I need a taxi service?’ said Shepherd, slipping his legs over the side of the bed.
Sharpe grinned and nodded at his companion. ‘Spider, this is DC Paul Joyce. Joycie, this is DC Dan Shepherd, Spider to his friends. Spider is ex-SAS so we use him whenever we need someone to jump out of a plane or a burning building or throw themselves into the North Sea in the middle of the night. Personally, I think he does it just to make the rest of us look bad.’
Joyce handed Shepherd a kitbag, containing the clothes he had been wearing when he had been dragged out of the water: a blue denim shirt, cheap jeans, boxer shorts and socks. They had been cleaned and pressed. His work boots had been stuffed with newspapers and dried out.
‘I brought you a denim jacket and a pullover,’ said the superintendent. ‘I gather it’s what the best-dressed human trafficker’s wearing this season.’
Shepherd stood up. Sharpe and Joyce chuckled at his surgical gown. ‘Maybe we should take him to the factory as he is,’ said Joyce.
‘Careful, Joycie,’ said Sharpe. ‘Spider’s trained to kill.’
Shepherd flashed Hargrove a pained look. ‘Did you have to bring Cannon and Ball with you?’
Hargrove smiled. ‘Manpower shortage.’
The three men turned their backs while Shepherd changed.
‘We’re going to have to cuff you,’ said Hargrove, once Shepherd was tying his bootlaces. ‘It’s got to look right.’
Shepherd held out his arm. Joyce cuffed the wrist and fastened the other end to himself. Then the four men walked along the corridor and out into the car park. They took Shepherd to a black Vauxhall Vectra. Sharpe sat in the driver’s seat next to Hargrove, while Shepherd and Joyce climbed into the back.
Joyce waited until Sharpe had driven away from the hospital, then removed the handcuffs. Hargrove opened the glove compartment and passed Shepherd a flask and a carrier-bag containing two plastic-wrapped sandwiches.
Shepherd unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it. Ham and mustard. He poured himself some coffee and
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