Rough Justice by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online

in Hong Kong last year, picked some up while I was there.’ He gestured at the men sitting around the table. ‘Don’t worry about these guys. They’re off to Afghanistan next week.’
    ‘Are you going with them?’ asked the waitress.
    ‘We wouldn’t go without the captain,’ Massey put in. ‘We’ve got it written into our contracts.’
    ‘Is that true?’ asked the waitress.
    ‘No,’ laughed Gannon. ‘But they can’t even put on their boots without me, so I’ve got to go with them. What’s your name?’
    ‘May,’ said the waitress.
    ‘Well, I tell you what, May, as soon as I get back I’ll pop in and you can teach me more Cantonese, okay?’
    She grinned. ‘Okay.’
    He held out his hand. ‘Tommy Gannon,’ he said. The waitress shook it timidly.
    ‘Captain Tommy Gannon,’ said Massey. ‘Killer of the Taliban and breaker of hearts.’
    Gannon’s men cheered and the waitress hurried back to the kitchen, blushing.
    The door to the street opened and two men in ski-masks and long dark coats walked in. Gannon’s jaw dropped and a prawn slipped from between his chopsticks. His first thought was that the restaurant was about to be robbed, but then both men swung Kalashnikov assault rifles from under their coats. He looked around for a weapon but there was nothing, just the chopsticks, plates and bottles. He started to get to his feet. ‘Get down!’ he screamed to his men, as he grabbed the beer bottle nearest to him.
    The gunmen stood with their feet shoulder-width apart, the stocks of the Kalashnikovs tucked into their hips, braced for the recoil to come.
    Gannon drew back his hand but before he could throw the bottle the guns burst into life. He felt two thumps in the chest and saw Massey’s head explode, blood splattering across the tablecloth. Bullets thudded over the table, shattering bottles and kicking food into the air. Gannon saw Broadbent fall backwards with a gaping wound in his neck.
    The gunfire was deafening in the confined space and the cordite stung his eyes. The bottle fell from his hand as he felt another thud, this time in his guts, and bent forward. His shirt and trousers were drenched with blood.
    Still the guns kept firing, a non-stop rat-tat-tat of burning lead that ripped through the men at the table. Portner was on his hands and knees, crawling towards the kitchen, until half a dozen bullets thudded into his back and he went down, his hands clawing at the carpet.
    Gannon put his hands to his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood, but he knew it was a waste of time. He couldn’t feel anything – the body’s natural painkillers had flooded into his system, dulling the pain and making him almost sleepy. His last thought before his eyes closed and he slumped to the floor was that sometimes life was so bloody unfair.
    The two men jumped into the back of the Toyota and the driver stamped on the accelerator as they slammed the door. Both were breathing heavily. The bigger of the two grabbed his companion’s knee. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Fecking perfect.’
    ‘How many do you think we got?’
    ‘Four. Five. Six, maybe,’ said the Big Man. ‘Did you see the look of surprise on their faces, the stupid Brit bastards? Didn’t have a clue what was happening.’ The man pulled off his ski-mask. ‘We bloody well showed them, Sean. We bloody well showed them that the fight’s not over.’
    Sean pulled off his ski-mask and twisted around in his seat. The road was clear behind them. He turned back and cradled the Kalashnikov.
    The driver took a hard left and the tyres squealed in protest. ‘Easy there, Joe,’ said the Big Man. ‘Nice and easy now.’
    ‘The shit’s going to hit the fan, right enough,’ said the driver.
    ‘And that’s how it should be,’ said the Big Man. Now he removed his own mask. He was in his late forties with pale blue eyes and skin the texture of old leather, reddened and roughened from years out in the sun. ‘The shit should be flying left, right