A Safe House

11

Senator Wallace Slade sat in the rear of the elderly Rolls-Royce, which had become his rolling office, with Harley Quince seated beside him. “Aaron,” he said to his chauffeur, “stretch your legs, buddy.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, then left the car.

“That didn’t go well yesterday,” the senator said to Quince.

“We couldn’t predict them four police cars,” Harley said. “ ’Less you want a whole lot more folks dead.”

“Just one,” Wallace said. “No, make that two.”

“Are they colocated?” Harley asked.

“They are.”

“Whaddaya have against this fella Barrington?”

“He’s fucking my wife.”

“He didn’t even know your wife until a couple of days ago. And she ain’t your wife no more.”

“Harley,” Slade said, “I like you better when you’re your strong, silent self.”

“All right, I’ll shut up.”

“At least we’ve found the house,” Slade said.

Harley said nothing.

“We know how long it takes to drive down there, too.”

Silence from Harley.

“You got any ideas?” Slade asked.

“You speakin’ to me?”

“All right, Harley. I apologize. Now, give me some ideas.”

“Well, I’d prefer going in there at night, when they’re asleep or, in the case of your wife, fucking, and kill everybody we can find. Oh, then get outta there and go home. I’m getting tired of hearing these folks talk.”

“What makes you think it would be that easy?”

“Well, this ain’t Waco,” Harley pointed out. “They don’t carry in this country, not even the cops.”

“I’ve seen policemen who carry,” Slade said. “And if you take a stroll around Buckingham Palace, you’ll see some carrying automatic weapons.”

“Waaall...”

“These people like to shoot game, too. That means they’ve got a pair of shotguns in a closet that cost more than you made last year, and maybe a deer rifle or two.”

“Do they sleep with ’em?” Harley asked.

“Probably not.”

“Then what’s wrong with my plan?”

“It may come to that,” Slade said. “What I can’t figure out is why there were four police cars in front of the house when we got there. How would they know we were coming?”

“Maybe they had a burglar?”

“Four police cars for a burglar is damned fine police service,” Slade said.

“I won’t argue with that,” Harley said. “But I doubt they’re there every night.”

“Well, if we go down there every night this week, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Well, I could go in there by myself,” Harley said, “but I’d rather have me some backup.”

“Tell you what. I’ll find you some backup, Harley. But if you get caught in that house, you might as well just put your gun to your head because I’m going to be in another country real fast.”

“Chickenshit bastard,” Harley muttered under his breath.

“I heard that. Watch your mouth.”

“I’m going to need three more guys,” Harley said.

“Why so many?”

“Because we don’t know what we’re up against, and we ain’t got time to research the project. And we’re probably going to have to kill more than two people.”

“All right, get three more men, but tell them to bring their own weapons.”

“And what are you going to be doing while we’re killing those folks?”

“I’m your getaway driver.”

“In a fucking Rolls-Royce? How hard is that going to be to find? And have you ever driven that thing on the wrong side of the road?”

“All right, tell me what you want, Harley. I can get what you need.”

“I want every man to be English, not American, and have a sawed-off shotgun and a pocketful of buckshot shells and packin’ a handgun — .45s would be nice. Two extra mags per gun.”

“What transportation?”

“Two fast cars: Jags, Beemers. Quick, but not obvious. Black is good.”

“You should wear masks.”

“Get us some of them surgical things at the drugstore. We’ll need black shirts and pants and black knit caps, too. And I want gloves on everybody before they ever touch a weapon.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow night. We’re gonna just walk the grounds for a night before we go in.”

“I like the way you think, Harley.”

“It’s what you’re payin’ for.”