The Chop Shop (13 page)

Richard reached
into his pocket and retrieved a switchblade, and then slid the knife between
the floorboards and lifted one free.

“No nails,”
Michael said.

“Exactly.”

He took the
other board up to reveal a box underneath. A plastic packet lay at the bottom.
Richard held it up to the light. “Shit, just drugs. This stuff looks hardcore,
worth a lot of money.”

Michael looked
out the window. “We're short on time, and Hill's getting antsy out there.
There's people watching them from the other flats.”

Richard pocketed
the drugs and kicked the floorboards in the hole. “Okay, you do the rest of
this floor and I'll take upstairs?”

Michael nodded.
“Fine.”

He moved into
the dining room. Family photographs of a couple and their children and
grandchildren printed onto copier paper filled one set of drawers. Red time
stamps in the corner dated the top lot as twelve years old. Another cabinet
housed decorated china plates and bowls, and others had Japanese geisha painted
onto the sides.

Gang tags were
carved into the dining table with a knife and pissed up the walls, until the
paper had turned yellow and begun to come apart. More photos of the same couple
lined the shelf, some older, some younger, but all unmistakable in resemblance.

Michael crushed
a fallen picture frame beneath his foot. He kicked it aside and moved into the
kitchen, where a bag of weed lay on the table.

He flicked the
light switch, but the lights didn't come on, and his eyes drifted to the
impaled policeman outside. Flies buzzed about the rotting corpse, and its
stench crawled slowly into the room. A spotlight mounted on the underside of
the plate above swept across the garden briefly, and he caught a flash of two
skeletons hidden in the bushes, before the darkness swallowed them up again.

“Mike? Mike, you
need to come and see this. Right now,” Richard shouted.

Michael pulled
out his gun, and he took the stairs two at a time. Smoke filled the bedroom,
escaping from a hole in the wall. Richard put a hand to his forehead and looked
away.

“What happened?”

He kicked the
bedside table over. “I found this safe behind the painting there, but I tripped
a wire or something. Everything inside just got incinerated.”

Michael batted
away the smoke and took a closer look at the safe. The scent of burning filled
his nostrils. He touched the metal with the back of his hand. Fiery pain.
Michael winced and yanked it away. “Shit, that's hot. Not your regular bunch of
thugs, right?”

“Doesn't
surprise me; everybody is always one step ahead of us lately. From rich
corporations to a bunch of fucking thugs running riot in whatever is left of
the country.”

“I'll settle for
getting out of here alive right now. Everything else is secondary.”

Richard's mouth
dropped open. He reached for his gun. “Oh, shit. Look out the window.”

Michael pressed
his face to the glass. “What is it?”

“Down there,
people trying to get in,” Richard said, pointing to a shape rattling the fence,
as it tried to cut through the concertina wire on top.

Two more smashed
a hole through the rotting wood at the base of the fence. Richard fired two
shots through the window, shattering it into a dozen pieces. The men crawled
back through their hole. More figures ran through the alley on the other side
of the fence, and a flame appeared in the darkness.

It grew bigger,
flickering and dancing until Michael could see the glass outline of the
Molotov. The bottle broke apart against the wall and spread fire down the side
of the building.

Dogs began to
bark and howl. Michael and Richard stormed down the stairs with guns in hand. A
kitchen window shattered, and Michael blasted the man twice in the chest as he
tried to climb through. They snatched up the folders and headed for the front
door.

“Hill, Hill. Get
the bloody station on the radio and call for help,” Richard shouted.

“Something is
screwing with the signal. All I can get is our own radio chatter,” Hill said.

They dumped the
evidence in an empty ammunition container and stowed it beneath the seats.

“We're about to
get steam rolled by the entire neighbourhood,” Michael said.

Somebody appeared
in the window of the next house down. He smashed out the glass and emptied a
submachine gun at them. Bullets pinged off the vehicle's armoured plating, and
Ben laughed.

“They're going
to skin you, and then they're going to turn you into dog food,” he said.

Corporal Hill
raised his rifle with one hand, still holding the radio in the other, and fired
off a hail of rounds. The man slumped out of view.

“Put the
prisoners in the back of the vehicle. Sit on them if you have to. We need to
get the hell out of here right now,” Michael said.

“Do it,” Hill
said.

They dragged the
prisoners kicking and wriggling into the back of the infantry fighting vehicle.
Corporal Hill tossed two smoke grenades down the street, and white haze seeped
out into the air. The cloud thickened, growing and growing until the houses
disappeared.

“There's not
enough room for all of us,” Hill said.

A thug rushed
them through the smoke, screaming as he raised the fire axe above his head.
Michael blew his cheek open, and the bloody hole exposed shattered teeth where
the bullet had gone clean through. He went limp, falling and skidding across
the road.

“Just go. We'll
find our own way out,” Michael said.

“Screw it. This
was my idea,” said Hill. He slapped the button to close the vehicle's rear
hatch and shouted into his radio for them to leave.

The IFV
reversed, and then turned and ploughed back through the remains of the
barricade. They ran after it, and footsteps pursued them. Michael stopped
behind the remains of a car and aimed his pistol into the smoke, squinting with
one eye down the green sights. Another man came forward. Michael shot him four
times in the chest.

They ducked into
a side alley, led by Richard. He fumbled ahead in the darkness with one hand
stretched out in front of him, and then caught a bin with his foot and sent it
crashing into the fence. The rattle of metal echoed into the night.

“Faster. They're
following us,” Michael said. “My car can't be far.”

He heard the
voices getting closer. A Molotov exploded behind him and set the rubbish on
fire. The pain of exhaustion stabbed at his insides, and Corporal Hill and
Richard faded into the shadows ahead.

Something
emerged from the dark. Michael tripped on the rusting bicycle, managing to
extend his hands a second before he impacted the concrete. He felt the skin rip
from his palms and grunted. The gang came closer.

Michael stood
again and blocked the alley off with the bike. There was a junction further on,
and he paused for a moment, trying to decide which way to go. He went right,
and another turn brought him out onto an unnamed street. He looked both ways,
but saw no sign of the others.

A stampede of
footsteps came from the alley, closing faster, dozens of them. Michael threw
himself over a front garden wall and lay flat on the ground. He pressed as
close to the old brickwork as he could, clutching his .45 in one bloody hand. A
cold shiver overcame him.

The group ran
out into the street, and he listened to them panting for breath. They muttered
something amongst themselves, and then ran on. Michael continued to lie still,
looking up at the plate above.

The lights above
were like stars on a clear night sky, blocked out now and then by clumps of
thick smog and smoke passing by. Finally he sat up and looked over the wall.
The houses were vacant and devoid of power, and the ruined cars had lain
undisturbed for longer than he cared to imagine, burnt remains slowly
succumbing to the elements.

Michael wiped
his bloody hands on a tissue and ventured back into the alley. He flashed his
pocket torch about, but everybody was gone now, and an uncomfortable silence
hung about, disturbed only by the sound of his breathing and footsteps. The
other alley exit took him into another street, deserted just like the last, but
this one he recognised. He found no sign of the others, as he walked on.

Then he came to
the flaming wreck of his car. It burned a shade of orange, surrounded by the
shattered remains of the windows. The paint job receded into nothing and bared
the metal beneath it. He clutched his hair with both hands, tightening his grip
until he felt like tearing it all out.

Michael saw the
charred remains of his route master travel guide in the passenger seat.
Something in the vehicle popped, and he jumped back in fright.

A single car was
parked alongside the pavement, lurking between him and the Chop Shop's entrance
checkpoint. Michael moved closer, and he caught a glimpse of the driver's face
in the wing mirror, staring back at him. The car looked Chinese, new and with
sleek curves and a blue paint scheme free from scratches.

The driver's
window lowered, and a man leaned out and beckoned for him to come closer. “Mr
Ward, I need to speak with you.”

“I don't know
who you are, but you seem to know me,” Michael said, nearing the vehicle.

He let one hand
brush against the plastic grip of his pistol. A trio of police officers stood
around a burning bin just beyond, oblivious to the world as they listened to
the radio and smoked cigarettes.

The man had a
receding line of red hair, leaving the top of his head bald, and he wore
thick-rimmed glasses. Wrinkles in his skin put him in his early forties, and he
was dressed in a suit, jacket draped over the passenger seat. A slight smile
spread across his lips. “I've been trying to get in contact with you, but
you're a hard man to find.”

“You'd best
explain yourself, before I have those three over there get rid of you.”

His smile
widened. “I'm a journalist.”

“I don't talk to
them,” Michael said.

“Yeah, that's
what a lot of people say. My colleague has been trying to reach you as well,
but she didn't have any luck either. We did bump into your partner, but he
wasn't very helpful.”

Michael leaned a
little closer. The journalist had a laptop beneath the jacket and a radio on
the dashboard. He smelt car freshener. “You're the ones who ran that story
about him?”

“It was my
colleague who wrote that. I fry bigger fish. Besides, it would've been a waste
of time if we didn't get a story out of our troubles.”

“And you wonder
why nobody wants to talk to you. Look, I'm not interested in dealing with you.
Why don't you go and ride the lift back up to the plate and leave us to get on
with things,” he said, turning and walking away.

“Wait, I wanted
to talk to you about Jim Belton. I know you're investigating the murder of his
family and his death, and I know it involves Eratech. We might be able to help
each other out.”

Michael looked
back. “Yeah, how so?”

“I can get
access to stuff that you can't. My colleague and I have a lot of contacts, and
we can get to people who'd run for miles if they saw you coming.”

“What is it you
want in trade?”

His expression
became cold and more business-like. “You provide us with police files and
access to confidential information. There's certain things and people we need
to know about.”

“I thought you
had extensive contacts?”

The journalist
keyed the ignition. “Not in this particular case. You could say I'm developing
them. Here's my card; call me when you can, but the offer's time limited, so
don't wait too long, because I might find somebody else to get what I need.”

He spun the
steering wheel, forcing Michael to step back as he turned the car around and
headed away from the station. Michael stared down at the business card.

Michael came
across a trio of armoured suburban vehicles inside the police compound, watched
over by two private security guards. He stepped close enough to draw the
attention of one of the guards, and the man stared at him with cold eyes that
looked like they'd seen too much.

His face was
marked with burn scars and a thin line that ran from temple to jaw. One finger
rested on his rifle's trigger guard. “Move along.”

Michael nodded,
and he headed into the reception area, where more guards stood about, totting
carbines modified with rail accessories. One stopped him with a hand. “You have
to wait in the waiting area until we're done here.”

A security badge
hung around his neck by its strap, complete with his photo and the Assurer
company logo.

Michael took a
seat in the corner. The television display showed a blank blue screen, and the
only sound was of a radio station playing old songs. He waited for a few
minutes, before a group of footsteps echoed off the bare walls and hard floors.

Three bodyguards
preceded the group, and Michael felt his throat tighten at the sight of company
executives, marching past with briefcases and laptop bags in hand. The oldest
of them, a man with white hair, cast a dismissive glance at him. Then they were
gone, and security filed outside after them and left the reception area empty.

He heard vehicle
doors slamming shut and caught a glimpse of the convoy driving off. Michael
headed for the lifts, nodding a greeting to the policeman behind the armoured
glass. A female voice spoke on the intercom, as he passed by another fire team
on their way down to the armoury.

Michael stopped
just outside the detectives' offices and thought of his old station and
colleagues. Their faces were always blurred in his memory, never seeming quite
right to him. He reached for the door handle, only for somebody to open it from
the other side.

“Jesus, you
scared the hell out of me. Corporal Hill has been cruising the area in a
four-by-four looking for you; we thought you were dead,” Richard said.

He pushed his
way inside the office and sat down at his desk. “I got lucky. What were Assurer
personnel doing here?”

“Oh, them. Yeah,
you missed all the fireworks. What happened to your face?” David said.

“Fireworks?”

“They took over
one of the briefing rooms. Just them, Harris and the senior officers. The major
came out of there looking like they'd just boiled him alive,” Helen said.

Archibald
nodded. “They're getting jumpy. Apparently, there were visits paid to all the
other stations as well. I don't know about the rest of you, but the way things
are going lately leaves me with a very bad feeling.”

Michael leaned
back in his chair. “I thought you four were supposed to be on top of things.
What happened to your little task force?”

The others
exchanged looks with each other.

“That?” Maria
said. “It's still going, but things aren't exactly healthy. The good news that
attacks on police units have dropped back down to normal levels, but the bad
news is that some of these attacks are now being levelled at other targets
linked to Assurer.”

“At least it's
not a problem for us anymore,” Richard said. He stuck his head out into the
corridor for a moment, and then shut the door.

The room
darkened, its walls turning green from the glow of computer monitors. A blue
light flashed on Michael's computer as the drive spun up.

“The targets
they're hitting belong to Assurer subsidiaries. It's a corporate war, Richard,”
Maria said.

Michael sighed.
“Eratech, or Eratech's European branch, anyway. It has to be obvious to
everyone by now.”

“Maybe, but we
need something to pin on them. Without solid evidence, it's just going to be
considered conjecture, and nobody will have to believe a word of it. You know
what the government and MPs are like; they're all in the pockets of somebody or
another, and I'd bet more than a few of them have been sewn up by Eratech and
friends,” Maria said.

“Isn't that your
job? Harris is screwing me around. A few people mess up some paperwork and
book-keeping, the government gets pissy about our performance targets, and
suddenly everybody loses their heads. It's fucking Eratech. It's so obvious.
Nobody in the government gave a rat’s arse until all this started going down,”
Michael said.

Maria shrugged.
“No proof, no case. We're fumbling about in the dark here. As long as nobody
puts a bullet in my head, and I keep getting my monthly pay cheque, I can let
it slide. You should do the same. Gotta run; we're all due back at company
headquarters. They should give me a pay rise for all these meetings.”

Richard slumped
in his chair when the others had gone.

“There was a
journalist waiting for me when I got to the station,” Michael said.

“There wasn't
anybody there when I headed through the checkpoint. A car?”

“Yeah, blue,
post-war. Chinese made. He was a smug as hell.”

“Aren't they
all?”

“He said he and
his colleague had been trying to get in contact with me. I believe they would
be the ones responsible for your picture in the newspaper.”

Richard
grimaced. “Bellend. I hope you told him to shove his head up his fat, hairy
arse.”

“No, sorry to
disappoint you. He gave me his card, said he could help us out with our
investigation into Jim Belton and the shootings. The fucker was already trying
to use it as leverage for access to police databases and information.”

“Sounds dodgy as
hell. Don't give him the time of day. We're not even working the case anymore.
There's more important things to be done, like busting white trash in the slums
because it looks good in the papers, and the government can claim they're
getting things done. Which, I might add, is okay with me, as long things stop
going pear-shaped.”

“Don't get your
hopes up. Harris isn't done with this. He's got too much riding on it. Think of
how much it must have cost to get me to America to meet those guys. It's
probably not even his money he spent on it. He needs results.”

Richard gave a
dismissive wave of the hand. “Are you going to risk your job by raiding police
files for this dick? Come on, think about it. These are the people who come
into work in the morning and ask themselves which cop they want to fuck over
today. They're all the same. They use you, and then they discard you when they
get the story they want. Maybe they're even trying to set you up for a nice big
fat story on corruption.”

“There are
plenty of better stories they could run if they cared about corruption. Tell
you what; since you offered, you can write up the reports for our excursion
into that dump, while I go and talk to Harris.”

“I don't think
he'll appreciate that right now.”

Lunch leftovers
rested on Harris's desk. He scribbled on a report with a deft hand and black
pen, never looking up. “Glad to hear they didn't eat you alive out there.”

“Me too,”
Michael said. “Looks like a lot has been going on while I've been away. Assurer
company managers? Never seen them come down to the stations before. They always
shuttle people to the offices in Basingstoke.”

“Some of them
are about ready to soil themselves; they're middle-managers, high enough on the
ladder to order people about and shout at them, low enough that they're still
easy pickings for the corporate vultures above. They know some of them will
lose their jobs sooner or later, with the way things are going.”

Michael checked
his watch and frowned. “I think it's pretty obvious Eratech is behind most of
the trouble. It's obvious, and it gets even more obvious every time something
else happens.”

Major Harris
signed the document and slid it into a card folder. He took out another letter,
looked it over and then signed it. Still he didn't look up. “Assurer are aware
of the link. You need to stay focused here. The killer of Jim Belton's family
is your priority. Is there crossover between events? Probably, but let Assurer
sweat the strategic picture.”

“So what do you
want to do about it? The fire teams have a better grip on low level crime than
we'll ever have, and we've been busting a nut on this Belton case so much that
we haven't even had time to put anything else on the table for the units on the
street.”

Harris finally
looked up. He put the documents in a tray. “The trouble with our targets is
serious, and there's no getting away from it. We need the government to get off
our back so we can have some breathing room.”

He pushed a
cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a gold-plated lighter, blowing smoke
through his nostrils. Michael coughed, but the major didn't even blink. “We
need to talk about America. What did you find out?”

Michael spent
thirty minutes telling him and handed over the memory stick, but the major said
nothing, expression cold and neutral, as though none of it troubled him as he
listened.

“Something like
this was always going to happen sooner or later. We've been heading towards it
since the turn of the century,” Harris finally said. “Don't tell anybody else
about this.”

The major took a
puff of his third cigarette.

“There's
something else. I got accosted by a journalist coming in here. He claims to
have information on the Belton case and access to people that I don't.”

“What's your
feelings on him?”

“Shark. He wants
access to police files and information. I don't know why.”

Harris gave him
a grim smile. He tapped his cigarette on the side of a glass ashtray until the
end fell away. “He knows enough about you to find where you work. Could be
dangerous. Do you know his name?”

Michael shook
his head and stifled a cough. “No. I know, maybe it's Eratech trying to screw
us again, but he seemed honest. Well, as honest as his sort get. I've got
nothing else to go on, and unless you want to do me the favour of junking this
case for good, so we can move onto something else, it's our only option.”

“Do it, but you
run everything, and I mean everything, by me first. Don't get played.
Understood?”

“Understood. One
more thing. I need a new car; gang bangers torched my ride with a petrol bomb.”

Harris's
expression hardened. He leaned forward and blew smoke in his face. “I'm not
giving you a company car because you were fucking incompetent. Get out.”

Michael stepped
into the corridor.

“Fill out a
requisition form, and I'll see what I can do,” Harris said, before he could
shut the door.