Read Critical Threat for Free Online Page B

quietly let the Dave Anger ‘thing’ drop, there would be an extra pip on the way and a transfer. That latter bit needed to be worked out, as most of the chief inspector roles within force were filled. FB said he couldn’t promise a detective role immediately and left it at that. Still, Henry thought philosophically, two years more on a chief inspector’s wage before retirement; maybe he could hack it anywhere they put him and then do a runner with the enhanced pension and substantial lump sum he would receive.
    Walking past the rear of the training admin building, Henry bumped into an old colleague of his, a guy called Bill Robbins, a PC who was a firearms instructor. Bill had about the same length of service as Henry and they had worked as constables together in the early eighties. Bill was a cool, laid-back sort of bloke who played a mean bass guitar in a rock band in his spare time, a gift Henry envied. He was also a brilliant shot.
    However, today he looked out of sorts.
    After a bit of mutual back-slapping, they both commented on how miserable each other looked – ‘you look like you’ve seen your arse’ being the exact phrase Henry used to describe just how morose Bill was looking.
    â€˜I can’t believe it,’ he moaned. ‘I work here training all the time and now they also want us to go out on bloody shifts, like we don’t have a day job! They wring every last drop out of you these days …’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘You look like you’ve seen my arse, too.’
    â€˜Is it that one with a big black hole in it?’
    They chuckled, then Bill looked slyly at Henry. ‘How do you fancy a bit of a blast, shake some cobwebs off?’
    It was totally against procedure, but what the hell. Henry fancied living dangerously for once.
    He had a pair of ear defenders around his neck, a pair of protective goggles covering his eyes.
    Similarly attired and standing next to him, Bill held up the weapon for Henry to see. He recognized it instantly. ‘Smith and Wesson, .44 Magnum,’ he gasped. ‘Hell.’
    â€˜The very one,’ Bill said. ‘Handed in at the recent firearms amnesty and strangely enough, no criminal history to it.’
    â€˜Aren’t you supposed to destroy stuff that’s handed in?’
    Bill smiled conspiratorially. ‘Always keep the cream of the crop – for educational purposes only, of course … and to play with.’
    He handed the revolver to Henry with the cylinder open and empty. Henry took the heavy beast into a sweaty palm, feeling the weight pull his hand down. All thoughts of FB, Dave Anger and other associated things were suddenly banished from his mind. That is what handling a gun does – purges everything.
    It was a wonderful piece of equipment, substantial, black and dangerous looking.
    â€˜It came with two hundred rounds of Magnum ammunition. I’ve tested it already,’ Bill said. ‘It’s wick.’
    â€˜OK.’
    â€˜Want a go?’
    â€˜Yeah, I could do with the release.’
    Bill gave him two speed loaders, six thick, chunky bullets in each, which looked capable of taking down brick walls.
    They turned to face down the firing range, which was fifty metres long.
    â€˜How about a walk through? Keep it simple, but fun?’
    The range lights dimmed to recreate conditions a firearms officer might have to face in a building in real life. Right at the end of the range, fifty metres away, were four targets turned facing him, the classic combat target of the charging armed man with the rings centring on his body mass. Ten metres in front of him, jutting out of the right-hand edge of the range, was a waist-high mock brick wall made of hardboard; ten metres further, on the opposite side, was another wall; then ten metres further a stack of old car tyres and an old fridge.
    Henry stood ready at the fifty-metre mark, jacket off, ear defenders in place, safety