Read Hot Zone (Major Crimes Unit Book 2) Online
Authors: Iain Rob Wright
Howard took her gun from her and placed it into his belt.
Then he pulled a pair of handcuffs from under his suit jacket and held them
over her wrists, but then he hesitated.
“What are you waiting for?”
He sniffed and put the cuffs away. “As I see it, the only
crime you’re guilty of is shooting a member of the MCU.” He turned to Mattock
who merely shrugged.
“I don’t hold grudges,” he said. “Just buy me a couple beers
and we’ll call it even.”
Sarah chuckled. “How about a dozen?”
“Then it’s decided,” said Howard.
“You’re letting me go?”
“No way. After all this, your arse belongs to me. You want
forgiveness, then you can damn well earn it. You’re joining the MCU —
permanently, this time.”
Sarah didn’t even need to think about it. She knew where she
belonged. “If the MCU can put up with my ugly mug, then there’s no place I’d
rather be.”
Howard surprised her then by grabbing her shoulder and
pulling her in for a hug. “We missed you.”
Mattock made them both laugh by murmuring the word,
“Hippies.”
It was all over, and for the first time in perhaps her
entire life, Sarah felt wanted. She held Howard in the hug long enough for him
to eventually drag himself free. “You’ve changed,” he said with a frown. “You
weren’t really the cuddly type when we first met.”
Sarah smiled. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you
guys. Never let me get kidnapped by a deranged madman ever again, okay?”
“No promises.”
M
attock
took Wilder and re-joined the strike team outside the Houses of Parliament,
while Howard and Sarah met up with Mandy and headed back to MCU headquarters on
the outskirts of High Wycombe. The Earthworm had been half abandoned when Sarah
had first visited it and had been in rubble by the time she left, but Howard
assured her that the place had changed a great deal in the last six months.
MCU’s recent successes had brought an influx of government spending and they
were now close to being fully staffed. Their location was still secret, despite
the MCU now being a household name in UK law enforcement.
Mandy took the Range Rover off the main road and onto a
field where a ten-minute bumpy ride led to a derelict farm. When she saw the
big old barn, Sarah knew she was home. She got out of the car with Howard,
while Mandy stayed inside and parked inside the cover of the old barn.
The secret hatch inside the old shed opened upon Sarah and
Howard’s arrival and she allowed him to lead her down the long staircase into
the earth. At the bottom they reached the first inner hatch and stepped through
into a room she no longer recognised.
The Earthworm’s tail section was alive, unlike the
previously dead and dusty space she had visited. The previously abandoned
space, the size of a football pitch, was now staffed with dozens of young men
and women, all of them typing at computers or chattering into headsets.
Everyone was so busy that not a single one noticed Howard and Sarah’s arrival
and they were free to walk right through the centre of the room.
“Told you things had changed,” said Howard. “We have several
dozen analysts working here now and Mattock has been moved to the senior team
along with Jessica, Palu, and me. We have a new guy coming soon from the D.C.
office to help us coordinate with US operations. I’m afraid Jessica has gone a
little too native to be considered a liaison anymore.”
Sarah chuckled. Her relationship with Dr Jessica Bennett had
been strained to begin with, two independent women rarely got along easily, but
towards the end they had begun to see eye to eye and had even began approaching
the fringes of a friendship. “Is Palu expecting me?” she asked.
“Yes, I called ahead. He was happy to hear we hadn’t lost
you to the other side. Things looked a little hairy, there, for a while. We
thought your father had brainwashed you.”
“He did. I was completely lost, even before my father
kidnapped me, but now I finally know who I am. This is where I want to be.”
Howard nodded. “Good.”
They headed through the Earthworm’s middle section, which
had been a smoking ruin not six months ago, and headed straight for the head
section. There, Howard used his thumbprint to open the hatch and they stepped
through into the MCU command centre. Palu and Jessica sat there, waiting
expectantly. They stood up when they saw her.
“Captain Stone,” said Jessica in an accent far less American
than Sarah remembered. “Glad to have you back with us.”
“I’m glad to be back, and no ‘Captain,’ please. I’m just a
new recruit now.”
Palu smiled. He seemed smaller and wearier than she
remembered, but the glint in his eyes was vibrant and alive. “You’re anything
but a recruit, Sarah. Taking down your father can’t have been easy. Are you
okay?”
Sarah prodded the scars on her face and said, “I have a lot
of demons in my past, but my daddy was the worst of them all. If I dealt with
him, I can deal with anyone. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m actually feeling kind of good,
in a way.”
Howard patted her on the back. “Take a seat, Sarah. We can
do the debriefing now and then get some sleep in the dorms. They’ll be more bad
guys to fight tomorrow.”
Sarah took the seat. “I just hope the next villain I have to
take down is outside of my family.”
“Before we begin,” said Palu. “I need to introduce you and
Howard to our new Intelligence Officer. He arrived an hour ago, having
travelled from MCU’s newly formed D.C. branch. I’ll just give him a buzz and
bring him in.”
Howard took a seat next to Sarah and looked at Jessica. “What’s
the new guy like?”
“Handsome.”
Sarah laughed. “Are you on the market, Dr Bennett?”
Jessica chuckled. “A single lady is always on the market for
the right man.”
One of the room’s side doors opened and a tall man stepped
into the command centre. Everyone stood up to greet him, but Sarah did so more
quickly than the others. In fact, she leapt to her feet in shock.
“Thomas?”
Thomas stepped further into the room and smiled at her.
“Hello, Sarah. I’ve missed you.”
Howard glanced at Sarah. “You know this man?”
She nodded her head slowly. “Yes, he’s my dead husband.”
I
t
had been a long and tiring wait. Heathrow had remained on lockdown for
forty-eight hours, which made the delay in Moscow almost unbearable. But he was
a patient man and had been waiting for far longer than two days for the journey
he was finally undertaking. His imminent plans had been ten years in the making
and a delayed flight was inconsequential as a result.
The Russian envoy stepped out of the airport and stretched
their legs on the pavement, taking in great lungful’s of crisp British air. It
was a glorious day, made even more glorious by their arrival. The city of
London had been cowed, its hubris dismantled, first by Hesbani and then by one
of its own soldiers turned rogue. The United Kingdom no longer trusted in its
safety and there were scant few politicians left alive to provide the public
the succour it needed. The rumours of a great, man-made disease currently being
held at a Porton Down laboratory gave the nation nightmares and even the
confident bluster of Prime Minister Breslow was not enough to give the country
back its spine. The United Kingdom was no longer united. It was crumbling into
dust. And very soon, it would be finished.
Yuri was smiling happily. The Russian diplomat had visited
the UK many times in the past and often spoke of his fondness for it. Peter was
little different and wasted no time in ordering a Cornish pasty from a nearby
vendor. It was disrespectful to love a nation more than one’s own and the two
Russian diplomats were sickening in their display of affection for the country
that was, in many ways, their enemy. It was no secret that Moscow despised the
West as much as any Middle Eastern state, but its seat in the global assembly
was precarious and came with shackles. As much as Moscow needed to play nice on
the world stage, it was only a means to an end. There were more ways to topple
the West than by flying Planes into buildings or battling over isolated oil
reserves.
A sleek black limousine awaited the three men outside the
terminal and Peter and Yuri hurried excitedly towards it, further sickening the
stomach of their silent companion. At least the man who greeted them was a true
Russian. Vladimir Rusev was a portly man with a harsh face that never smiled. Yet,
when he spotted the three men leaving the airport he greeted them warmly.
“Peter,” he said, shaking hands. “Yuri. How are things in Moscow? Glorious I
hope. And you, my good friend, it has been too long.”
Al Al-Sharir smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Indeed it has. But now
that I am here, Vladimir, I expect things to move along very quickly.”
Rusev nodded and winked. “Very quickly indeed, my friend.
Everything you need is in place. We have been waiting for you. Welcome to the
United Kingdom.”
“Thank you,” said Al Al-Sharir. “I came just in time to see
it fall.”
END.
Book
3 Coming Soon
Iain Rob Wright
is one of the
UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the
critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and
the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.
His work is currently being adapted
for graphic novels, audio books, and foreign audiences. He is an active member
of the Horror Writer Association and a massive animal lover.
Check out Iain's official website or
add him on Facebook where he would love to meet you.
FEAR
ON EVERY PAGE
Apocalyptic horror novel where it
never stops snowing and something ancient stalks the earth.
Innocent family man is targeted
by a gang of sadistic youths.
Animals turn on mankind and try
to make humanity extinct.
A deadly virus is unleashed on
board a luxury cruise liner.
A young boy seems to be
possessed. But is he?
Apocalyptic horror that
culminates in a fight for survival at a hilltop amusement park. Say
goodbye to the world.
Apocalyptic sequel to Ravage
where the stakes are even higher at an abandoned pier. Sometimes being
alone is better.
Reality TV turns deadly. 12
competitors but only 1 winner.
Nonstop Thriller where the future
of the United Kingdom is at stake.
Collaboration with J A
Konrath. Some things should stay buried. And guarded forever.
A haunted picture frame that
curses anybody whose photograph is placed inside it.
The 1st Day of Christmas
On the first day of Christmas, I should've been getting up,
thinking about making Christmas Dinner. Maybe even hitting the sherry
early...it's Christmas. Eight in the morning for a first sherry seems perfectly
reasonable. Instead of being drunk in charge of turkey, though, I'm in the bath
thinking about shaving my ankle-moustaches. I've had them for around a year. My
husband's barely home, and when he is, he doesn't look at my ankles. I suppose
I'd worry about my appearance if he did. But he doesn't. So screw him.
Or not. It's been a while. I could give birth to dust
bunnies, it's been so long.
I don't really want ankle-moustaches. It's not a conscious
thing, like wearing knickers that cover my ass since I hit forty. I think I
just got tired, then I got belligerent about it. They're my ankles, right?
Every time I shave my legs, I cut off a knee or an ankle. I have beards on my
knees now, and moustaches on my ankles. I'm forty-five and my husband hasn't
noticed this odd fashion in leg hair. I'd be very surprised if he ever
does...but by New Year's Day, I'm getting laid and I suspect he's not going to
have a damn thing to do with it.
II.
Once I get going, I'm going. It takes me a while, but there
are choices when you're home all day...or your husband thinks you are.
'What did you do today?' he asks, every now and then. I
think he asks mostly to show willing. When he's 'listening', I see his eyes
turn right back into his head while he's thinking about what he's going to say
next. Then he's prattle out some boring shit that happened at work.
The truth is, around ten years ago, he stopped knowing what
I do all day, and I stopped caring in the slightest who got hired, fired, or
spilled their coffee in the playground. He thinks I watch the soaps, and what
do I care if he does?
Would it matter if I did? It would to me.
So, I get up slow, but when I get going, I really get going.
At around nine in the morning, legs freshly shaven (except
the knee-beards and ankle-moustaches) I start stuffing the turkey. Sage and
onion's just fine, but I've got olive, a little tarragon, a ton of sausage (I
wish) meat, all soaked in Amontillado sherry since the night before. There are
other things involved, but I never made up a stuffing before. This one probably
would've turned out just fine, except it was only a little sherry because it
was Christmas Eve, I was alone, and I like getting drunk.
In truth, it was very little sherry in the stuffing. It was
a small bottle and I didn't want to waste it. It was a largely sober kind of
stuffing.
I stick my hand right up the turkey's behind, which
squelches.
'Uh-huh...you like that? Just a little...oh yeah...that's
it...that's the spot...'
I talk dirty to the turkey between large sips of red wine.
Red wine's not really drinking in the morning, as long as you're cooking. Also,
breakfast counts as cooking.
I'm not an alcoholic. It's more of a dalliance. Call it an
affair, if you will, of a woman who thinks marriage should be final.
Or...who thought.
I look at my hand stuffed up the turkey's behind and sigh.
I'm not saying I fancied someone stuffing their hand up my behind. I'm just
saying at this point, this was the closest thing I'd seen to a bit of action
since...Christ...must've been months.
Dust bunnies and tumbleweed blow through the kitchen.
Spitefully, the dust bunnies were giving the tumbleweed a damn good rogering.
Sometimes I hate that I have an imagination.
Potatoes are peeled, resting in salted water. I've got
trimmings...chipoltas wrapped up like dwarf penises in the loving embrace of
tasty bacon. Little nubs of chestnuts nestled in the bosom of Brussels Sprouts.
Red cabbage seeping in red wine vinegar, which is an experimental thing as I
don't really want to waste good alcohol on red cabbage. No one will eat the
cabbage, either way. It's just for a bit of colour, really.
It's only dinner for three this year. Mum and Dad and
little old pissed me. This year it's just me and the oldies. My husband's not
coming. I don't think he ever planned to.
I take a sip (kind of a big sip, but it's a small glass.
Smallish.) of the red wine and wonder if I'll still be standing by the time
they get here.
III.
When the doorbell rings I look at the clock on the wall,
which is unnecessarily large. It's one in the afternoon. I can smell burning,
I've got dribble all the way from chin to cleavage, and I'm on the sofa.
I don't have the foggiest how I got on the sofa, or what's
happening with the dinner. Everyone likes crispy turkey, right?
'Fuck!' I say, and realise I haven't got dressed, done
anything much with dinner, I've got a kind of purple dribble down myself and no
doubt a purple tongue, and Mum and Dad will be tapping their feet on the red
flagstones on our stupid porch with its stupid white plaster columns, like some
footballer's mansion.
I'm a bit wobbly, a bit drunk, so the first excuse I think
of when I open the door in my nightdress and dressing gown isn't the best.
'Sorry, Mum...had the shits.'
Mum's not an idiot, though. We're both from the East End of
London, and we weren't born yesterday.
'Purple shits, was it, Love?'
'Come in,' I sigh.
'He didn't come home, did he?'
'Nope,' I say. Not even for a good stuffing, I think. She's
probably thinking the same, too. Mum's mind's a dirty one. She grew up in pubs,
worked in pubs, 'til she married dad. Dad's used to be a copper. Between the
two of them they could turn the air blue at a Christening.
'Come on,' says mum while dad just grins, like he always
does. He says more than mum even when his mouth's shut. 'I'll give you a hand.
And we'll see if there's any wine left, too, eh?'
I groan. I like a good drink, but mum's basically a pub on
legs.
'Thanks,' I say, though, because when your husband doesn't
even bother to come home for Christmas, a mum and dad are pretty welcome house
guests.
IV.
Three places laid, dad sits at the head of the table. It's
where my husband would sit, I guess, if he were the man of the house. He's not,
though...turns out I am. I'm turning into the man I wanted to marry. Getting
better at having sex by myself, too.
We're not poor. I've got the right tools for the job. I
haven't had to shag the washing machine yet. It's an expensive washing machine,
though. Barely shimmies. Not that I've butted up against it or anything. Out of
curiosity. Maybe once, I might have leant on it to reach up for a glass or
something.
Mum and I bring in the stuff, the turkey, which looks like
it just got back from Marbella.
Dad nods his approval as we serve him up the biggest
portion. Turkey, pigs-in-blankets, stuffing, sprouts, roast potatoes, about a
litre of gravy and put a healthy dollop of horseradish out, too, because
cranberries give him the runs.
When we're all sitting, eating or watching or drinking, mum
starts in with the talk I know she's been dying to have. Probably since I
married the man who stood me up for Christmas...and plenty of other meals
besides.
'Honey,' she says. She says 'honey' when she's going to
give me a lecture, calls me 'love' when she's being sweet. It's always been one
or the other.
Dad gives her a hint of a look, like they spoke about this
before. They probably did. It's been going on for the last ten years. Half of
our marriage, maybe.
'Don't you think it's time you did something about
this...situation?'
'Mum...he's my husband. I'm in for life. I take my vows
seriously...'
She puts on that soft look. She's had that look there since
my first boyfriend. I was thirteen, he was fifteen. She put that soft look on
then, when we had one of several talks. We'd had the talk before my first shag.
We had a different one after.
I know what she's going to say.
'But if he doesn't take his vows seriously?'
'Mum, he's working. Working to keep food on the table...'
'That he doesn't eat.'
'It's not like he's off shagging younger birds, mum. He's
just...busy.'
'Too busy for you? You're his wife, aren't you?'
I sigh. I'm sticking up for a husband I don't believe in,
even though I know it's pointless, like trying to argue dragons are real. She
knows exactly what I'm thinking, but I won't say it.
I'm not going to stop her, though.
'You should've married a good man, love,' says mum.
'He's a good man.' Even as I say it, I feel dirty like a
liar.
'No, he isn't,' says mum, and dad punctuates that with a
hearty nod. 'I mean a good man. Like your father. I know I moan about him. I
nag him, too. But that's all right. He was a man who could screw like a
racehorse.'
'Mum!'
'Believe me,' she says, 'that man could pound nails with
his...'
'Mum!'
Dad's grinning through all this. She can see him, I can see
him, and we lay a place for him every meal, but of course he's not there. He's
been dead five years. Dead, but he still hangs around. It's kind of nice. He
doesn't eat much, though.
Dad winks at me. Mum pretends to be all innocent.
'What?' she says.
'Mum, seriously...if dad was still alive, he'd be blushing
or something...'
'But he's not, honey. If he was, he'd been home for
Christmas dinner. And a good fucking Christmas night, too.'
'Mum!'
'Oh, grow up, honey. And you know I'm right. Anyway,
enough. Let's eat. Then we'll get pissed.'
'Spare room?' I ask with a sigh.
She smiles and nods. 'Got any more of this wine? Good,
innit?'
V.
I can hear mum snoring in the room next to mine.
Mine.
Was it ever 'ours'?
I can't remember. That makes me sad. I know mum's right,
too. I should've married a good man.
I go to sleep, thinking about that.
A good man.
In my dreams, sometimes dad's there, sometimes he can talk.
'Hold on, darling,' he says. I'm falling off a giant wheel,
big wheel, I think they're called, or Ferris wheel in the U.S., maybe. I'm
shouting for my husband. He's on a mobile phone, in the carriage or cab or
whatever. He can't see me falling.
Dad's there, though. But he doesn't catch me. I fall, and
fall. In a dream, I don't think you can die. Falling wakes you up in a dream.
But I don't hit the ground. A turkey flies down from the sky, and it's got a
long string of sausages trailing from its beak.
The sausages are there, right in front of me, like a
lifeline. I grab them.
VI.
On the second day of Christmas, I wake up with a hell of a
hangover, a muzzy head and the phone ringing. I drag myself down the stairs to
the house phone. When I answer it, and try to speak, it feels like a cat stole
my tongue and put his there in its place.
'Hello?'
'Baby...it's me. I'm coming home. Meet me at Heathrow? My
flight's in at three.'
He gives me his flight number. No apology.
I can hear mum snoring even all the way down our expensive
wood stairs that freeze the feet.
I rest the cool plastic of the phone against my aching
head.
'Thank you,' I say, to no one in particular.
I.
On the second day of Christmas, most people would be eating
leftovers, tidying up the wrapping paper or swearing about the bins not going
out.
Me, I'm in the men's toilet in a Heathrow bar with a
mouthful of nuts. They're far too salty, and a little bit sweaty, like old nuts
tend to get when they've been tucked away too long; the ones you thought about
having in September and prudently waited for Christmas instead.
You probably think the opening paragraph is some kind of
pun, like I'm eating KP salted peanuts in the men's toilets. Why would I be
doing that?
Nope. I have a man's balls in my mouth. The fact that he
has a peg-leg is almost, but not quite, just the icing on the cake.
When I said I wanted to get some action...this really
wasn't it.
II.
I'd expected my husband back on Christmas Eve, then on
Christmas Day, but in that kind of tentative, hopeful,
not-really-expecting-anything-way. He's abroad, or he's supposed to be, at
least. Where, what country, doing what, I have no idea. He probably said, and I
probably didn't listen.
His flight's due in at three. British Airways, first class,
of course. We're not poor people. Not stinking rich, but we have a wine cellar,
rather than a wine rack.
I'm working my way through it that morning, after seeing
mum off in a taxi. When I tell her my husband's coming home, she gives me a
look.
'Shut up,' I say, and bundle her into her taxi.
'Uh-huh,' is her reply, but thankfully she leaves it there.
We're pretty clear where she stands on the issue of my absent spouse.
Dad shrugs his shoulders in the seat beside her. That's his
only contribution, but for a ghost, it's pretty expressive.
Normally, I don't start drinking until later in the day
(around 11, most mornings, I suppose...seems civilised enough), but by the time
the taxi arrives to take me to Heathrow I'm a fair way drunk. I like it better
that way.
III.
'You alright, love?'
The taxi driver makes me jump when he speaks, and I realise
I've been staring out the window most of the ride. Probably gawping like an
idiot, a couple of glasses of wine away from licking the windows and hurling
into my handbag.