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 on-line 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 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 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.’
‘That’s good news,’ said Shepherd. ‘The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I was wondering if I could have one pop along to see you on Friday morning.’
‘That would be fine,’ said Shepherd. There was a burst of automatic fire from the far end of the range.
‘What on earth was that?’ asked Miss Malcolm.
‘Nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just a car backfiring.’ He realised that the major was listening. Gannon mimed firing a burst at him with an MP5 and Shepherd waved him away. ‘Thanks for your call, Miss Malcolm,’ he said and cut the connection. It was only when he put away the phone that he realised she hadn’t told him the girl’s name or
