The First Daughter, page 17
‘I’m sorry, I Just –’
Her seductress act was well and truly over. The face that was all sweetness and honey moments before, one of scorn now.
Carson’s fingers danced quickly on his phone deleting the image, then he placed it in his pocket.
‘Sheila Cafferty, you’re saying this girl here is Sheila Cafferty,’ He said, loud enough for the phones receiver to pick up.
Sandy didn’t reply, merely making a hand gesture over her shoulder. At that, the meathead with a buzzcut that would pass muster in the Marine Corps made his way over to them.
Carson knew it was always going this way from the moment Sandy approached him. Sandy would be his girl, he would be accused of some fictitious complaint against her and if Carson wanted to leave here in one piece, he’d be shaken down for drinks, or even any cash he had on him.
‘Hank, this man touched me up he did, tried to grab my ass.’
‘I never laid a hand on you,’ Carson laughed at the charade. ‘If anything, your lady friend here did all the touching, Hank.’
‘You calling my Sandy here a liar?’ The meathead said, squaring up his shoulders.
‘That I am Hank, that I am. Word to the wise. Walk away partner, both of ye, just walk away!’ Carson warned, although he was talking to more than just Hank now, subtly letting Brian and Brooke know that he was handling this.
‘I’ll tell you what, you buy me and the boys some drinks, dinner too, maybe I let you walk outta here,’ Hank said without any pretence of anger at the ass grabbing he knew well Carson didn’t do. ‘Otherwise, you going to hospital, then you going to jail for sexually assaulting my Sandy here.’
‘No Hank, I don’t think so,’ Carson smiled. ‘Your pathetic little shake down here isn’t going to work on me. Now step aside, I’m leaving. Beer’s gone sour all of a sudden.’
Carson moved to step by Hank, knowing exactly how he would react.
‘Hey Mr–’ He began, grabbing Carson by the bicep.
With lightning speed, Carson pivoted round, stepping in as he yanked Hanks arm up behind his back and slammed his face down into the bar. Hank was a strong, muscular boy, but it was dumb muscle, and Carson had simply moved with the arm that had been pulling him, before redirecting it and manipulating the elbow joint as he slammed his left elbow into Hank’s shoulder. He then kicked his legs out from under him, and as he dropped, delivered a devastating uppercut, catching Hank squarely on the chin.
Hank dropped to the ground senseless.
Sandy screamed.
Then.
Well.
Things got somewhat lively.
Catching sudden movement behind him in the reflection of the bar, Carson ducked down and spun just as the thick end of a pool cue swung through the air right where his head had just been. His attacker, the blond-haired young man shooting pool as he walked in, had unbalanced himself when his swing failed to connect with anything solid. Carson rose up inside his guard, slamming his forearm into his attacker’s throat, but only catching a glancing blow as he leant away. The man was winded, but still fought like the devil. Dropping the pool cue he grabbed Carson with both hands and heaved him towards one of the tables, sending it and the chairs flying as he crashed into it. Carson recovered quickly, bringing his guard up as the two circled one another.
Without any finesse, his attacker lunged towards him, both arms outstretched. Carson nimbly leapt up into the air as he grabbed him by the shirt, then using his attacker’s own momentum, he dropped onto his back, propelling him overhead with his feet. He crashed behind the bar into the optics headfirst with incredible force, sliding and dropping to the floor in a motionless heap.
Sensing movement, another man was running at him with a pool ball in his hand. Feeling the pool cue by his fingers, Carson swung it up, catching the pool ball as it whistled towards him, the pool ball smashing into the juke box. Carson then arched the cue low, catching his attacker full on in the shins, then jabbed the pointy end up into his attackers’ groin. He dropped down, wailing, the fight completely gone from him.
Carson leapt to his feet, brandishing the cue, but the rest of Hank’s mates clearly didn’t fancy their chances as they bolted, Sandy, girls and all, out onto the street.
The older locals were looking in from the road outside, drinks in hand, smoking their cigarettes as they looked in upon that nights entertainment.
Carson had just taken a deep breath when he heard a rasping Ker-clunk behind him. He slowly turned around to see the barman aiming a pump action shotgun at him.
‘Drop it!’ The barman ordered him. ‘Or so help me God, I’ll cut you down where you stand, boy!’
‘I was attacked!’ Carson protested, ‘Can’t a man defend himself?’ he asked, his voice losing conviction as realisation dawned upon him.
There was an uncanny resemblance between the barman, and the younger man Carson had just sent sailing over the bar.
Father and son, had to be.
‘I ain’t gonna ask you again, boy.’ The barman said, seeing the recognition dawning in Carson, and acknowledging it with a slow nod of his head. ‘Drop it or die!’
There wasn’t much Carson could do. Carson had left his own weapon in the glovebox of the Humvee. Even if he had it, the barman’s finger was white on the trigger. If he so much as sneezed, Carson knew he would be cut in half. The cue dropped from Carson’s hands.
‘Oh shite!’ He muttered.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Calvary weren’t long in arriving. Carson was pressed face down against the grimy floor, stale beer and pine scented disinfectant assailing his olfactory senses as his hands were cuffed tightly behind his back, a few sly digs and kicks thrown in for good measure.
From his position on the ground to which he was pinned by a knee on the spine, Carson could see in side profile the legs of the punters venturing back into the bar. Heard them giving heavily embellished and fictitious accounts of events to the cops. He had grabbed Sandy’s ass, they all saw. When good ol’ Hank challenged him and asked him to leave, the stranger went crazy and started attacking everyone. That crazy Brit is a rabid dog, he heard one of them say.
Paramedics weren’t long in arriving on the scene, wheeling the barman’s son out on a gurney wearing a neck brace.
In a fit of rage, the barman swung a kick at Carson as he followed the gurney out, getting a couple more in before the cops decided to intervene and shepherd him out to the ambulance with his boy.
‘You son of a bitch, I should have shot you!’ He yelled as he was pulled away.
‘Don’t you worry none Bill, he’ll get his reckoning. Go on now, leave the keys with me, I’ll lock up for you,’ a voice drawled.
‘Tha-Thank you, Sheriff Sanders,’ the barman replied.
A jangle of keys, the ambulance doors closing, the engine revving as it pulled away. Moments later, Carson was hauled to his feet, a deputy on either arm, a third aiming a Glock at him.
‘What’s your name, Mister?’ The sheriff standing in front of him asked.
He was a well-built man. Clearly, he’d been fit once but his grey, starched shirt was stretched over a tubby waistline, his glinting sheriffs badge pinned to his left breast underneath his wide brimmed hat. His Glock sat in its holster on his hip. A bristly red moustache completed the look.
‘What it says on my passport,’ Carson responded, knowing it had been taken from his pocket.
‘Tom, give me your weapon,’ he called to a deputy over his shoulder. A skinny young man walked up and handed the sheriff his shotgun.
‘Hold him,’ the sheriff ordered the deputies, who obediently ratcheted Carson’s arms up, folding him over at the waist.
‘Oh, big man eh – Oomph!’ Carson wheezed out, as the sheriff drove the stock of the weapon into his torso.
‘Listen here, you son-of-a-bitch,’ the sheriff bellowed, leaning down and shouting right into Carson’s ear. ‘I ask a question, you answer me straight and true. You mouth off, and we’re going to have a serious case of resisting arrest on our hands. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah,’ Carson groaned, trying to get his breath back.
‘Good,’ the sheriff said, handing the shotgun back to his deputy. ‘Let’s try this again. Your name?’
‘Andy, Andy Fairley,’ Carson replied, giving the name in his passport.
‘What are you doing in my town, Mr Fairley?’
‘Just passing through.’
The sheriff stepped back, then drove his fist into Carson’s midriff, driving the breath from him once again.
‘See now, Mr Fairley, I don’t believe you. Little birdie told me you been asking after little Miss Sheila Cafferty.’
‘No idea what your –’
This time, the sheriff cracked him in the mouth, drawing a line of blood from Carson’s lip. Carson spat a glob of the blood at the sheriff’s snakeskin leather boots, scoring a bullseye on the left toecap.
‘You know, you punch like a fanny!’ Carson grinned savagely up at the sheriff.
The sheriff drew back his fist, his face scarlet and contorted with rage. But he stopped short, a slow, humourless smile spreading across his features.
‘We’ll finish this conversation back at the station. Nice and cosy, like,’ he slowly drawled. ‘Take this piece of shit away, boys. And don’t process him just yet. I’ll do that myself.’
‘CHRIST, I thought he only went in for a beer!’ Brian murmured, surveying the diner.
He looked on, gritting his teeth as the sheriff smashed the butt of the shotgun into Carson’s gut.
Brian had parked the Humvee in a 7/11 car park off the main drag amongst a small group of pickup trucks. Brooke had clocked a red pick-up for sale on the 7/11’s instore local ad’s notice which had just happened to be in the 7/11’s lot, and paid fifteen hundred dollars cash provided by Brian when the owner turned up minutes later.
Brian didn’t mind parting with the money. It had been spoils of war, taken from Texan Segal’s warehouse.
Less than ten minutes later, they had transferred the weapons and gear in two large kit bags to the pickup, dumped them on the rear passenger seat and drove out of the lot, turning right onto the main road, then left into the industrial lot.
They were huddled in an alleyway between two single-storey units, peering through the narrow gap between the dumpster and a wall at the front entrance of the diner, roughly a hundred metres away.
Brian had quickly relayed the name of Sheila Cafferty to Trevor, and within minutes they had a reply. Sheila Cafferty was a twenty-year-old woman who lived on a cattle ranch a few kilometres to the northwest of the town, just south of the Las Vegas Wash. The girl had no picture of herself on her Facebook profile, the profile picture being that of the head of a Chestnut horse. But it hadn’t taken them long to find her picture on her school records.
There was an uncanny resemblance between Sheila and the first daughter. They could near enough be mistaken for identical twins.
‘You know our Matthew, makes friends wherever he goes that one,’ a voice said from behind them, the accent through and through Scouse.
Brooke whipped around, bringing her Glock up but before she could level it, she received a blow to the side of her wrist and involuntary released the weapon. The intruder snatched the weapon from the air and nimbly danced a quick step back out of striking range, aiming her own weapon right back at her.
‘Alright, easy there swee–’
‘Adam, no, just, don’t say what you’re about to say mate!’ Brian said, his hands held up in warning. ‘She’s a real bee in her bonnet about such, affectations shall we say.’
‘Fair enough,’ Adam replied. He deftly flipped the weapon over one handed and offered it back to Brooke, pistol grip first.
Still glaring at him, she placed the weapon back in her holster.
‘Who are you?’ She demanded. Brian had already returned his attention to the diner.
‘Names Adam. What’s yours?’
‘Special Agent Brooke,’ she replied curtly. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Why do you think I’m here, Special Agent Brooke?’ He asked acerbically. ‘I’m here on behalf of Her Majesty’s government, to save you fool yanks from yourselves, yet again, and hopefully, prevent world war bloody 3 from happening.’
‘How very chivalrous of you,’ she replied sardonically.
Adam bowed theatrically.
‘New intel,’ he said rising up. ‘The good old sheriff out there is third cousin to Sidney Dawson, a close advisor to none other than the President of these United States.’
‘You gotta be kidding?’ Brooke asked in astonishment.
‘Nope,’ Adam replied, shaking his head. ‘Turns out, we’ve been keeping an eye on him for a while now, as the clever buggers in SIS do with people that raise certain flags. His great granddaddy owned the mining works that kicked this town off, he’s old money. When you lot started heading out this way, some clever bugger made the link and put him under the microscope. On the surface at least, he’s a religious nutjob, a full-on Jehovah who would turn America into a theocracy in the blink of an eye, given his way. From what the boffins have uncovered, it appears he actually wants world war three to happen, bring on the rapture all these lunatics are so desperate for.’
‘Even taking the first daughter, he’d need to do more than get the president making accusations against Russia to pull that off,’ Brooke said.
‘True enough,’ Adam replied. ‘And, that’s exactly what he’s done. He’s got in bed with some Russian’s who also want to initiate a global conflict, albeit for different reasons. They believe they would win such a conflict, and that Russia would become the dominant global superpower. The Fourth Reich, in their eyes.’
‘This group of said Russian’s, far right nutters with favourable views of Nazi Germany I take it?’ Brian asked.
‘You could say that – hang about, something’s happening,’ Adam said, who had found his own aperture to peer through.
Carson was being led out from the diner and deposited none to gently into the back of a highway patrol cruiser for the short journey to the station. Brian watched on, taking note as a skinny, spotty faced deputy deliberately pranged Carson’s head off the roof of the car. They watched as the cruisers peeled around and made their way back to the station. The sheriff came out moments later, turning off the lights, and locking the front door behind him, before climbing into his ostentatious Suburban and following his men.
‘Right, I think it’s about time we gate crashed their little party,’ Brian growled.
‘Not just yet,’ Adam replied, shaking his head. He was rummaging about in a backpack and pulling out some kind of electrical, expensive looking telecommunications equipment.
‘What do you mean, not just yet?’ Brian objected. ‘Those fuckers are going to be kicking ten bells out of Matthew. I ain’t having that son, make no mistake!’
‘I’m aware of your relationship with Matthew, Brian,’ Adam began. ‘But the bigger picture is more important.’
‘Fuck the bigger picture,’ Brian snarled.
‘Brian,’ Adam sighed. ‘Put yourself in my shoes, think of what’s at stake here. We need to listen in on their comms, get some solid evidence of what’s going down here so that the American authorities can go after Sidney, and his lackeys in the Secret Service. Also, we need to get onto the Cafferty ranch. Your man Bradley is in overwatch over the Cafferty farm as we speak, and it’s crawling with tango’s. If we want to get a foot in the door without getting shot at and compromising the first daughter’s safety, I suggest we convince Sander’s that it’s in his best interests to give us a hand.’
‘He’s right, Brian,’ Brooke said, looking sincerely at him.
Brian sighed.
‘I know. Bugger it, I know,’ he said, exasperated.
Adam handed Brooke a recent model iPhone with an earpiece. He got her set up so that she was patched into the same comms network.
‘Miss Brooke, welcome aboard,’ Trevor’s voice spoke into her earpiece.
‘To whom am I speaking?’ She demanded.
‘You may refer to me as Trevor. Contact has been established between the relevant agencies, and it has been agreed that until the First Daughter has been secured, I am in overall command, as any involvement on the part of U.S. agencies risks compromise due to the senior level of rouge elements with the U.S. administration. For the duration of this operation, you have been seconded to my unit.’
‘Who are?’ Brooke asked.
‘Nobody. We don’t exist, officially. Inspector Carson, in fact, is the only person on the ground who does officially exist, so nominally you report to him. Speaking of whom, I suggest you all pull the finger out and extract Carson from Sheriff Sanders tender cares as soon as possible. Trevor out.’
‘What kind of an outfit is this? I mean seriously, you–’
‘Quiet!’ Adam cut in over Brooke. ‘Sander’s is on the phone.’
‘Sanders, I thought I told you–’
‘We got him Sid. We got that Brit you were concerned would turn up looking for Jenny–’
‘No names, you fool!’
‘Relax, this is a secure line.’
‘There’s no such thing you fucking imbecile!’ The voice boomed. ‘You told me he was dead, Buck?! Where do you have him?’
‘In custody. Pretty young thing and her buddies tried to hustle him for drinks and money by saying he grabbed her ass, always pulling that shit with gullible tourists who stray by. He refused to play along, they laid hands on him. Now I got two in the hospital, one of them hurt real bad. People gonna be fixing to lynch–’
‘No! You gotta make this go away, you hear? Find out what he knows, who he’s working with, if there’s anybody else. Then you make him disappear, you hear?’
‘Disappear, as in–’
‘Yes, damnit, kill the son of a bitch. I know you’ve been actively involved in distributing drugs and guns throughout the southwest, so this shouldn’t be any trouble. Its why, against my better judgement, I had to fix it so it looked like you had benefited from a generous inheritance, living beyond your means as you were. Now, it’s time to pay the fucking piper!’
