Ammunition

20

Wallace pulled into a street just off Clapham Common, a quiet residential street, and Porter thought:

Isn’t it always so, the crazies find nice peaceful areas to reside.

And, he supposed, when you were wreaking havoc on the world, it was nice to have a decent home to return to after a busy day. You’re blowing the be-Jaysus out of folk, probably good to get back, have a nice cup of tea, watch one of the soaps. He had to catch himself on, he was worse than Brant, already figuring the guy/woman/suspect was guilty.

Wallace said:

‘Yo, earth to Nash, you coming or what?’

Porter asked:

‘You want to fill me in a bit, give me some bloody clue to who we’re… interviewing?

Wallace laughed, said:

‘You Brits, you sure talk funny, our guy is Shamar Olaf, how’s that for a game of fucking soldiers. He was born plain old Joe Donnell but he got turned round, spent some time in Pakistan and the training camps in Libya. He’s a doozy.’

Wallace was already getting out of the car, and Porter went:

‘We do have evidence, I mean we’re not just chancing our arm?’

Wallace closed the car door gently, said:

‘Informant… god bless the treacherous bastards, plus, I got a nose for these things, this guy is the real deal.’

They approached the third house, it had a nice, tended garden, newly painted front, and the curtains were drawn. Wallace said: ‘Follow my lead, you got that?’

He did.

Wallace produced a set of slim tools, and in a few seconds had the door opened and Porter suddenly grabbed Wallace’s arm, whispered:

‘We have a warrant right?’

Wallace said:

‘Don’t ever put a hand on me, and here’s my warrant.’

He took out the Magnum, the gun actually looking quite small in his massive fist, he indicated the stairs and pointed Porter to the two rooms on the bottom floor. Wallace began to glide up the stairs, Porter, his heart in overdrive, opened the first door, expecting to be blasted at any second, wishing he had Brant for backup. It was the kitchen and empty. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and went to the next room, took a deep breath, opened that door, again, empty. It was a living room, wide-screen TV, and lots of books. Before he could let out his breath, he heard an almighty thud and rushed out to see a body come hurtling down the stairs, to land in a heap at the bottom. The man whimpered. He was clad in pyjamas, groaned, and tried to sit up. He looked to be in his late thirties, lean with an average face. Wallace was coming down the stairs, said:

‘Meet Shamar, who has a bit of an attitude problem… that right, buddy?’

Wallace grabbed him by the hair, looked at Porter, asked:

‘There a kitchen?’

Porter nodded and led the way, Wallace dragged the moaning man along, and in the kitchen, lifted him, plopped him in a chair, said:

‘There you go. You had breakfast yet, Sha?’

He looked at Porter, said:

‘The fuck you standing there for, Jesus H. Christ, brew some coffee.’

Porter had a real bad feeling and worse, he noticed that Wallace was wearing those surgical gloves… how’d that happen… and when… and where the fuck were his?

He made the coffee, instant, three mugs and asked the guy, who was coming round:

‘How’d you take it?’

Wallace snorted, said:

‘Any way he fucking gets it.’

And then he added:

‘Black for me, two sugars.’

Porter put a mug in front of the suspect, found a bowl of sugar, some dodgy milk, and laid that alongside. The man looked at Porter for almost a full moment, and Porter didn’t know if it was his imagination or just the whole unreal situation, but the guy’s eyes, they frigging burned… with what?… zeal, idealogy, rage?

In one fluid movement, the guy swept the mug and stuff from the table, the milk slipping across the floor, the mug making a harsh noise against the bare tiles. Wallace didn’t move, almost like he was expecting it, Porter had jumped, no point in denying it, and now the guy smiled, exposing yellow teeth. Wallace made slurping sounds with his caffeine, said:

‘See what you’re dealing with.’

The guy seemed to be gaining confidence by the minute and rounding on Wallace, said:

‘American… the oppressors of the world. Killed any Muslims today?’

Wallace made a show of looking at his watch, a heavy metal tag, said:

‘Ah, it’s early yet, buddy, but we can get started.’

The guy said:

‘I want a lawyer… now.’

Wallace moved right in close, asked:

‘Where are the explosives, and when is the gig going down?’

The guy spit in his face.

Wallace didn’t flinch, let the spittle run down his cheek, then slowly reached in his jacket, took out the Magnum, said:

‘You have three minutes to tell me what I need to know.’

Porter tried to intervene, said:

‘Maybe we should take this down to the station.’

Nobody answered him, and then Wallace shot the guy’s ear off.

The explosion was deafening in the room, the guy howled in pain, grabbed at his ruined head, blood pouring down his neck, Wallace asked:

‘You hear any better now?’

Porter cried:

‘For the love of God, what are you doing… Jesus… come on?’

The guy managed to raise his head, pain etched in his face, and with a mighty effort he said:

‘Go fuck yourself, you Yankee piece of shit.’

Wallace shot him in the face.