Here Be Dragons: A Short Story Read Free Page A

obvious that he is no exception.
    Townsend is floundering, stuck between the options of brazening it out or running the five yards back to the car.
    ‘Don’t,’ Joesbury says. ‘They can’t possibly get back-up here for another ten minutes, not with the traffic we drove through. Beenie can give me his gun. I’ll hold them off while you lot scarper.’
    Rich nods his head slowly up and then down again and Joesbury feels some of the tension leaving him. Then Townsend signs his own death warrant.
    ‘Sarge?’ His eyes are crinkled in the poor light but are fixed on Joesbury. He’s recognized him. This isn’t a problem for Joesbury, Townsend is simply confirming his cover, but he can’t be allowed to go back and report having seen a uniformed sergeant in company with a gang of villains.
    ‘Do it,’ says Rich, so Joesbury does it.
    He reaches out, grabs the Beretta from Beenie, who is too surprised to resist, aims, and pulls the trigger. Unlike most people who wield handguns, Joesbury is an excellent marksman. Townsend is sent teetering back by the force of the blow and on the fourth step, he falls. Blood is spreading over the right side of his chest like a rapidly blooming flower. Joesbury strides across, stands over him for a second with the gun pointing directly at his head, then as the police car shoots backwards, he takes out both front tyres with two clean shots.
    ‘Get out of here. Now!’ He calls this to the men he has left standing, but he walks on towards the police car, taking out the windscreen with his fourth shot. The reversing car hits something and stops. Joesbury runs the last few paces to the car as the BMW pulls alongside.
    The patrol car driver is pressed up against the door. Joesbury can see his heaving shoulders, his thinning hair and his white hands clutching at his head.
    ‘Keep your head down, you moron.’ He lifts the gun. Two shots left and he fires them both into the passenger seat. ‘Count to fifty before you move or I promise you, you’re a dead man.’ He stands upright. In the passenger seat of the BMW, Rich is watching. Joesbury wipes his hand across his face, as though wiping away blood.
    ‘Go.’ He gestures towards the archway. ‘Get out of here.’
    He doesn’t hear what Rich says in response, but the car accelerates forward. He catches a glimpse of Beenie staring at him through the rear mirror as the car disappears.
    Suddenly, Joesbury is drenched in sweat. He is so warm, so wet that for a second he thinks he too is bleeding. He takes deep breaths, tells himself to hold it together. Townsend’s eyes are closed now, and the crimson pool around him is growing bigger.
    Somewhere, not too far away, another siren is getting louder. Joesbury starts to run.

2
     
    ‘IT’S ME.’
    ‘Jesus, Mark, what the fuck went down? Less than an hour on the job and the frigging—’
    DCI Pete Philips, Joesbury’s boss at Scotland Yard, has many qualities. The ability to keep a calm head in a crisis is not one of them.
    Joesbury cups his hand around the phone to keep out the background noise. This is not a conversation to have at volume. ‘How is he?’
    ‘In fucking theatre is how he is.’ Philips, who is known to the team as PP, but only behind his back, sounds as though it is he who has just sprinted several miles through the back streets of south London. ‘Which is where he’s been for over an hour now.’
    ‘Good. If he’s been in theatre that long he’s not dying of blood loss. He may lose some movement in his right arm, but that’s a whole lot better than being dead.’
    ‘They recognized you, you daft prick. There’ll be a warrant out for your arrest before midnight unless I—’
    ‘Even better. Listen to me now, Guv, I don’t have much time. I need you to find out what uniform were doing at that warehouse tonight. Of all the derelict shit-holes on the south bank, why turn up at that one?’
    ‘Call-out, apparently. Some sort of disturbance.’
    ‘Yeah, and I’m