The Last Quarter (A James Bishop short story)

  Copyright © 2014 Jason Dean

  The right of Jason Dean to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2014

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 1304 4

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London

  NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Jason Dean

  About the Book

  Also By

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  Bonus Material – an extract from THE HUNTER’S OATH

  About Jason Dean

  Jason Dean was born in South London in 1966. He spent many years as a graphic designer before turning his talent to writing and deciding to write the kind of American thrillers he’d always loved to read. He lives in Thailand with his wife.

  About the book

  Includes an exclusive extract for the upcoming THE HUNTER’S OATH, out in June

  An exclusive James Bishop digital short story from Jason Dean, author of THE WRONG MAN and BACKTRACK. Like Reacher? You’ll love Bishop.

  Twenty years ago ex-Marine Eric Stepanovich saved a man’s life. Now it’s time to recall the favour.

  Struggling for traction in the recession, Stepanovich and his poker buddies hit on the idea of raiding a drug-den and taking a stash of unmarked cash from the drug dealers inside. After all why should the criminals get richer if those who operate within the law can’t? The raid goes to plan but two months later, two of the four men are dead.

  Fortunately Stepanovich saved the right man – James Bishop. Bishop operates on both sides of the law and is convinced there’s a link between the money and the deaths, despite a lack of evidence and Stepanovich’s refusal to believe he’s in danger.

  Will Bishop discover the truth in time to keep his friend alive or is Stepanovich about to pay the highest price of all?

  Also by Jason Dean and available from Headline

  The Wrong Man

  Backtrack

  One Good Turn

  ONE

  Moving very slowly, the man in the ski mask raised his left hand, wiped a drop of sweat from his brow with his index finger and flicked it away. He’d been in the same prone position for a couple of hours now, watching and waiting. But the waiting was nearly over. By his internal clock, he figured it was now 0400 or thereabouts. Almost time.

  He rolled his neck to get rid of the stiffness and put his eye to the scope again.

  It was a Zeiss reflex sight with magnification adaptor, which fitted snugly along the top-mounted rail of his Heckler & Koch MP7. The derelict office building was forty yards away, but it looked close enough to touch through the sight. There were no street lights in the area, but the man didn’t need them. The moon was nearing the end of its last quarter, yet it still provided enough light for his purposes. He watched as the two armed black guards at the front of the building knocked fists with the two male visitors – one dreadlocked Caucasian and one Latino with a shaved head – who then got into the panel van they’d arrived in. The driver started the engine and a thumping hip-hop beat immediately blasted from the speakers at full volume. The vehicle then slowly pulled away and moved off down the road to the left. The man kept it in his sights until it was gone from view, then aimed the scope at the front of the building again.

  It was a two-storey office building that had clearly been condemned long ago, like most of the properties in this part of the waterfront district. The few ground-floor windows were all boarded up with thick plywood or galvanised-steel sheets. There were no windows on the second floor, only more concrete. Four vehicles were parked directly outside the single door at the front. They all looked new. The man could also hear a muffled drum beat coming from within the building. On either side were vacant lots, with the nearest actual neighbour a darkened warehouse about a hundred yards off to the right.

  The man was watching from the empty lot directly opposite. There was a single chain-link fence around it, with more vacant lots on either side. The ground was made up of dirt and patchy overgrown grass, with a few shrubs dotted around. He was positioned behind one of the largest shrubs, just like he had been for the last four nights.

  That van had been the last of the evening’s deliveries. The man had studied their regular routine and knew that there were only ever four deliveries in a single night. This had been the fourth.

  One of the guards was holding an AK-47, the other had a TEC-9 slung over his shoulder. The first one struck a match and lit a cigarette.

  The man in the ski mask smiled. Dumb, but no less dangerous for all that, he thought. He never forgot that these were professional killers. Nor that there were more of them inside.

  He pressed a button on his wrist mic and whispered, ‘This is Alpha. Bravo, you ready?’

  In his earpiece, he heard a voice whisper back, ‘Bravo, ready.’

  ‘Charlie, ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ came the reply. ‘But look, maybe we should—’

  ‘Sound off,’ he interrupted. ‘Too late for second thoughts. We go as planned, clear?’

  A pause. Then, ‘Clear.’

  ‘Good. Delta, ready?’

  An older voice: ‘Just say when and I’m there. We really doing this?’

  The man known as Alpha whispered, ‘Get ready.’

  He slowed his breathing and watched the guards through the scope. They were both big and well toned and wore the same uniform of dark tracksuits and black sneakers. The smoker said something to the other one and they both chuckled. Then the smoker moved away using that curious limping gangster walk that everybody did these days. Alpha kept the gun on him and took a deep breath as he caressed the trigger with his right index finger. The man’s head never left the centre of the sight. Like it was locked on. Alpha took another deep breath and held it. The smoker stopped, ready to turn back.

  The cross hair was still centred on the guard’s forehead when the man known as Alpha squeezed the trigger. The gun made a soft burping sound and the guard immediately slumped to the ground like a sack of coal. Alpha adjusted his aim until the second man filled his sights. He was frowning at his compatriot with a half-smile on his lips, unwilling to believe what his eyes were telling him. The suppressor had masked the sound of the shot. Alpha squeezed the trigger again. Another burp. The second man went down too.

  Alpha got quickly to his feet, slung the MP7 over his shoulder and began running for the chain-link fence. A hundred feet to his left, in the next lot, he saw another figure rise from the ground and begin moving for the buildi
ng. To his right, a third man did the same. Alpha climbed the fence quickly, landed on the other side and reached the building first. Seconds later, the other two joined him. They were also wearing black clothes and ski masks like his. The one called Bravo had a Remington pump slung over his shoulder, while Charlie gripped a Micro Uzi.

  ‘Nice shooting,’ Bravo said, reaching down and taking the arms of the first guard. He began dragging him to the side of the building, while Alpha went over and grabbed the second body, lugging him back and placing him next to his dead partner.

  Alpha then nodded to Bravo, who nodded back and ran across the lot towards the rear of the building to take care of the third guard. Alpha said into his mike, ‘Okay, Delta, we’re going in now.’

  ‘On my way,’ a voice said in his earpiece.

  Alpha jogged back to the front door, where Charlie was waiting for him. The door was an old oak thing with graffiti all over it. He unslung the MP7 from his shoulder and with his other hand tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He pulled it open and the muffled bass-heavy beats from before immediately became more pronounced. Even though it was coming from a room much further in, the dance music was still ear-splittingly loud. The room beyond the door was just an empty space with a single fluorescent light in the ceiling and another open doorway at the rear. The concrete walls were crumbling in places and the floor was covered in debris and general crap. But the working light meant there had to be a couple of generators inside, since the electricity for this place would have been cut off long ago.

  Alpha looked at his partner. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Charlie said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  With his MP7 leading the way, Alpha entered the building, Charlie following close behind. He walked over to the other doorway and saw a bigger room beyond, just as spare and decrepit and lit by two dim ceiling lights. There was a stairwell on the right, but it was totally blocked off by three large steel plates of varying sizes. Directly ahead was a short hallway that opened on to an even larger room. Alpha could see that that was where all the action was. He could hear laughter and raised voices, both male and female, and the lighting was much brighter. The air was already thick with the sickly-sweet smell of marijuana.

  He trotted over to the hallway entrance. The music, if that was what it was, could barely be heard over the heavy beat, which vibrated throughout Alpha’s body. All he could see of the larger room was one bare-chested black guy sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a pile of automatic weapons, snorting coke from a small mirror. A skinny naked Latino girl was on her knees at his side, eyes closed as her body writhed to the music.

  Alpha entered the short hallway and stopped at the end. He peered into the room, counting eight more. Five males and three girls. One couple were having sex on the floor. The others were either sitting and smoking or dancing to the sounds coming from the large music system standing against the wall. There was a massive TV screen next to it, showing a porn movie. Three low tables in the centre of the room were full of bottles, takeaway food cartons and white powder. Everybody looked either wasted or close to it.

  He saw several open doorways on the other side of the room. All were dark. Then he spotted a glimpse of movement from the middle one. In his earpiece he heard Bravo say, ‘I’m here. One more guard taken care of. Can you see me?’

  Alpha looked at the middle doorway and raised a thumb. It was time. He flicked the selector switch on his MP7 to fully automatic and stepped into the room. Raising the gun, he took careful aim at the entertainment system and fired off a half-dozen shots. The system exploded into a thousand pieces and the TV screen went black; the room instantly became silent.

  ‘Nobody move,’ Alpha yelled, waving the gun. ‘This is a raid.’

  One of the girls screamed. A man’s voice drawled, ‘You gotta be shittin’ me.’

  Out the corner of his eye, Alpha saw the man who’d been snorting coke dive for his weapons. Before he could bring his own gun round, Charlie sprayed the man with his Uzi. The man’s chest and face exploded from the bullets, and the girl next to him raised both hands to her head and screamed.

  Everything went to hell after that.

  Alpha saw two other men, one black, one white, reach for their weapons. Charlie let off another burst from his Uzi and spurts of blood erupted from their midsections. Both men went down.

  The two women still standing dived to the floor, both screaming their heads off, while one of the Latino guys grabbed a shotgun from the table and began to raise it. Alpha fired a half-dozen shots from the MP7 straight into his chest and the man went down without a sound. He heard two shotgun blasts coming from the middle doorway and saw another man fall to the floor.

  The naked black guy who’d been screwing got up from his position and stared around with wild eyes. He had blood all over his chest. He also had a large machete in his right hand and a 9mm automatic in his right. He was on his knees shouting, ‘Goddamn pussies. I’m gonna cut your dicks . . .’ when Alpha put two in his throat. The man fell back to the floor and flopped around like a fish for a few moments before he was still.

  The skinny naked girl was still wide-eyed and her shrill screaming echoed throughout the room. Charlie ran over to her and clubbed her with the butt of the Uzi, and she fell to the floor, unconscious. Alpha looked around and saw the two other girls on the floor with their arms around each other, both crying. They didn’t seem to be wounded. But the fourth girl was lying dead near one of the tables. Crazy Machete Man had slit her throat from ear to ear for whatever reason. Probably no reason at all.

  He went over to the two cowering girls, raised the butt of his rifle and knocked them both unconscious with a harsh tap to the head. They weren’t here to kill unarmed women, pros or not. But he didn’t want to have to watch over them either.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Charlie said. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alpha raised his wrist and said into his mike, ‘Delta?’

  ‘I’m waiting out front,’ the voice said. ‘How’s it going in there? Have you found it?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Alpha looked up at Bravo and Charlie. ‘We’ve got three minutes. Let’s get started.’

  TWO

  James Bishop rolled himself out from under the BMW, stood up and walked over to the workbench, wiping his hands with an old rag. He could hear the dripping sounds from under the vehicle as the transmission drained itself of fluid. Another five minutes and he’d remove the pan and stick the new filter in, after which he’d pour some fresh fluid into the engine and see how the car liked it. The automatic transmission had been jerking and shifting erratically recently and he was hoping this would solve the problem. If not, things were going to start getting expensive. Either way, he’d know soon enough.

  Bishop didn’t stay at his house on Staten Island that often, but when he did, he preferred to spend his time as constructively as possible. And he’d been meaning to work on the old Beamer for a while. The ten-year-old vehicle had put in a lot of miles over the past year or so and it was starting to show it in small ways.

  Dropping the rag, he picked up his mug and took a sip of his now cold tea as he looked out through the open garage door to Katan Avenue beyond. He watched a guy in a tracksuit walking his German shepherd on the other side of the street. Although the sky was still overcast, the morning was warming up a little, better than average for mid April.

  Listening to the calming sound of a distant plane passing by overhead, Bishop was considering making himself another cup when he heard a car approaching along the street. It came into view: a Ford something-or-other. It was moving very slowly until it came to a stop directly outside his house. The driver switched off the engine and he could hear the muffler ticking away as the engine cooled. After a few moments a woman got out, shut the door and stared up at the house until she spotted the open garage door.

  As she walked up the drive, Bishop moved around the BMW to meet her at the entrance. He guessed her to be in her mid thirties, and she was wear
ing a simple brown suede jacket over black jeans. She was a little heavy round the hips, but she was still very attractive, with auburn hair down to her shoulders, large brown eyes and very little make-up. He also noted the gold wedding band on the third finger of her left hand.

  She stopped a few feet from him and said, ‘Hello. I’m looking for James Bishop.’

  ‘You’ve found him. Something I can help you with?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She gave a tentative smile that almost reached her eyes. ‘At least, I hope so.’ She glanced at the car behind him, then at his oily hands. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’

  ‘Depends. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Cassandra.’

  ‘Uh huh. I really hope you’re not here to sell me something, Cassandra.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘So what, then? Are you in some kind of trouble?’

  She frowned. ‘Why would you ask that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just a feeling.’

  ‘Well, as it happens, I’m not in any trouble, but I think my husband might be.’

  Bishop rubbed his chin with his forearm as another vehicle sped by out front, heading towards the Richmond Avenue intersection. ‘And since I don’t know you, I must know your husband. Correct?’

  Cassandra nodded. ‘Unless I’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘What’s your surname, Cassandra?’

  ‘Stepanovich.’

  Bishop smiled. He hadn’t heard the name in a long, long time. At least nineteen years. Maybe longer. ‘You’re married to Eric,’ he said.

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Step this way,’ he said, turning back to the garage interior. ‘We can talk inside.’

  THREE

  Cassandra Stepanovich, sitting at the small dining room table, thanked Bishop as he handed her a mug of hot coffee. She took a sip and looked around at the bare walls as Bishop sat down opposite, holding his own newly replenished mug.

  ‘You live alone?’ she asked.