Here Be Dragons: A Short Story Read Free

station following an investigation into fraud.
    ‘Nothing ever proved about that.’
    There is just the shadow of a smile on Rich’s face now. ‘I’ve heard you’re on a final warning with the force.’
    Joesbury says nothing. This, too, is part of his cover story that has to be believed.
    ‘Just been through a divorce. Wife cleaned you out.’
    Joesbury is divorced, has been for several years, but Carrie, his ex-wife, was characteristically reasonable about the settlement. ‘What’s it to you?’
    Rich holds his hand out. As if waiting for the cue, one of the men hands him a cheap sports bag. Rich unzips it. Inside is cash.
    ‘Ten grand,’ he says. ‘Call it a down-payment. Forty more when the job’s done.’
    ‘Nobody pays ten grand for a fishing trip. Never mind fifty. What’s this about?’
    Joesbury is conscious of Beenie holding his breath. Maybe he is doing it too.
    ‘You can walk away now. But if you take that, consider yourself in my employment.’
    ‘What do I have to do?’
    ‘Keep Beenie informed of your shifts at Catford. Don’t make any plans you can’t change at a moment’s notice.’
    ‘Till when? Putting my life on hold for a month for ten grand feels like nice work. Six months is a different story.’
    ‘You can book your flight to Benidorm in September. That do you?’
    Progress, already. They have a time frame. Joesbury starts to nod his agreement, just as the grumbling roar of south London traffic is interrupted by a new note: the harsh sound of a siren, regular and increasing in volume, close by, getting closer. Joesbury can see blue lights bouncing off broken window panes in the buildings opposite and he turns, a second later than the others, to see the police car drive in through the archway.
    ‘What the fuck?’ someone mutters.
    There are two occupants in the police car. Both male, Joesbury thinks, white, young. The car stops and that alone tells him they are way out of their depth. They’ve driven themselves into a bottleneck and positioned the car so that they can’t even reverse straight back.
    The passenger door opens and a short-cropped head of brown hair appears. The driver is speaking into the radio.
    Joesbury knows the officer who’s just left the car. Not well, thank God – he doesn’t see instant recognition on the lad’s face, but any second now. He worked out of Catford for two weeks after Joesbury transferred there, before being moved himself. Townsend is his name, Nick or Nigel or something.
    ‘We can’t be taken in, boys, not with what we’ve got in the boot,’ Rich says.
    ‘Can you all step away from the vehicle?’ Townsend sounds more sure of himself than he should. He has yet to experience a situation going rapidly and directly to hell.
    Nobody moves. Joesbury can hear Beenie breathing heavily. He is too young and inexperienced to deal with something like this.
    ‘Waste ’em.’ Rich is speaking softly, even Joesbury at his side can barely hear him, and for a split second his words don’t register. But then Assaf moves aside his jacket and there is what looks like a Glock pistol strapped to his side. Haddad draws a similar looking gun and holds it with both hands, like a character in an old episode of
The Sweeney
. Beenie, too, has brought out his gun and is holding it with a shaking hand, not two feet from Joesbury.
    Beenie is in the best position, has the cleanest shot. Rich is looking expectantly at him, but the kid looks terrified, will lose it any second now.
    Handguns are notoriously inaccurate at distances. Most people who carry them have them for show, to intimidate. When they do use them it’s at point-blank range because, except in the hand of a marksman, they are simply incapable of firing with any sort of accuracy. If Beenie pulls the trigger now he could either miss Townsend completely or blow his brains out. Most people who wield handguns have no idea how to use them properly and from the way Beenie’s whole arm is shaking, it is