My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (26 page)

It must have taken Striker more than half an hour of frantic manoeuvring to finally slip his hands free from the ligature, then another ten minutes to free his legs. The relief was momentarily tangible, and now at least he would have a fighting chance.

He ached all over, so much so that his troubled mind didn’t know which ache was worse: his pounding head, bloodied nose, sore chest or his abraded wrists and ankles. So he just concentrated, ignoring as best he could the stiffness in his legs and the dizziness. Arms outstretched in front of him, he lumbered toward the pile of boxes beside the room’s supporting wall. More crisps. The many silver beer barrels, and the one he’d sampled earlier, had clarified beyond any doubt that he was in a cellar of an establishment that sold alcohol. He felt that in all likelihood it was the temple, as he’d seen a bar area through its windows – what must have been yesterday – when checking the place out with Bardsley.

The lighting was virtually non-existent and he’d felt around for light switches to no avail. He strained his eyes to see more, but was confronted by shifting shapes and shades of blackness. With his hands still outstretched, he edged tentatively forward, feeling the rugged brickwork for the gap between the wall and pillar. The only sounds, as much as he tried to stifle them, were his own footsteps and haphazard breathing, the latter dangerously loud, enhanced somehow by the gloom.

He felt cobwebs brush his face and hastily wiped them away. He heard scurrying in the far corner behind him. A prickle ran down the back of his neck, despite the rats not mattering quite so much now he was mobile. As he edged forward, he was mindful he could do with a makeshift weapon of some kind. Hopefully, something more effective than the cans of coke he’d used the last time he’d been confronted by a handgun in the Bullsmead newsagents years ago. He tried desperately to search for implements to assist an escape bid, anything, but the darkness was his enemy.

Something made contact with his left foot and rattled across the stone floor. He froze, winced. Groping blindly, he searched for the culprit as the noisy object clattered to halt.

A bloody tin lid! Fingers crossed he’d gotten away with it. Gingerly turning right, he finally entered the second section of the cellar behind the supporting wall.

A glimmer of excitement flickered inside him. High in the far left corner, he saw a rectangular beam of light, not too dissimilar to the door where his opponent had entered. The leakage of light, from what he hoped was a door of some kind, illuminated the cellar enough for him to see there was a direct route with no obstacles on this side of the wall.

He picked up the pace until he was standing below the hatch, where he realised the beer barrels came in and out. There was an old wooden sloping fixture in front of him, the hatch ten feet or so above. He saw a ledge beneath the hatch door, where the light was at its brightest and on which appeared to be three plastic crates of bottles. Alas, there didn’t seem to be a handle or knob to open the hatch. A closer inspection was required.

It was then that Striker heard the footsteps.

***

There was no direct evidence, but the warrant application had been flowered up somewhat and the magistrate they’d awakened – with an initial phone call, then in person – had given them the green light. With it being an emergency, Mrs Grafton-Jones authorised it expeditiously, especially when being told about the two missing cops.

Halt had told Brennan, Cunningham and Stockley to continue with the murder enquiries, insisting on attending the strike on the temple himself. He was in the front passenger seat of a plain Mondeo being driven by Bardsley. They’d rustled together a team and conducted an impromptu briefing. In the back of the Mondeo was DS Becky Grant. They were directly behind three armed response vehicles, with another three double-crewed, liveried vans following, in case transportation of prisoners was required. Ambulance control were made aware and put on standby, if necessary.

Bardsley had informed all concerned about the temple’s three potential exits: the obvious double doors to the front and the two separate rear doors.

The risk assessment was obviously high and all officers wore their body armour. No one was expected to be living at the temple, although they couldn’t be sure of this, so had to be on alert for any eventuality. The current owner of the building, a local businessman who was unknown to the police, didn’t hold a firearm’s licence. He was apparently “away on business” and would be spoken to later if need be. Radio silence was to be maintained unless absolutely essential, until the strike commenced.

The right turn to the country lane was approaching so, as planned, Bardsley flashed his headlights. The ARVs turned into the lane and Bardsley followed, stopping amid the canopy of trees just short of the car park. The rest of the convoy remained behind him until given the all-clear by the armed officers.

The dozen firearms officers were to conduct an armed strike in – Halt checked his watch – two minutes.

“Just hang on here. And silence, remember.”

The only noise for the next few moments was the distant whirring above from the force helicopter. They nearly all still referred to it as “India 99”, but in 2012, like everything it seems, air support was centralised and became NPAS: National Police Air Service. Regardless, Bardsley knew any aerial recordings of the temple strike would assist immensely in a future court case and also that any escapees would struggle to outwit the chopper with its multi-million-pound dexterity, including the priceless heat-source camera facility.

“Go, go, go!” suddenly blasted out of their radios from the armed officers. Repeated bangs and smashing could be heard, along with shouts of “armed police!”

Bardsley exchanged glances with Halt as they waited, hoping.

The atmosphere in the Mondeo was morose. The half-hour wait had been longer than anticipated, but was understandable considering the temple’s size and the amount of rooms to check. Plus, they’d not had time to obtain any plans of the building.

Their radios came to life: “Sergeant Rhodes to Mr Halt.”

“Go ahead, Dave.”

“Sir, the main building has now been checked. We’ve just an outside hatch to force, so we can check the cellar. There are officers on the inside too, but it seems the basement has several rooms. Then we’ll check the spire and the area will be sterile.”

“All received, thanks for the update,” said Halt, his brow creasing. He turned to Bardsley. “Let’s just pray Striker and Collinge are in that cellar.”

Striker headed toward the source of the footsteps, hastily clambering up the wooden beer barrel delivery fixture. However, halfway up he slid back down, his trainers still wet from the bitter. Redoubling his efforts, despite the aches from the beatings, he tried again, this time moving to the edge where he could partially grip the lip at the far right side of the fixture.

He heard muffled voices. The wood splintered in his hand and he stifled the sharp pain. He gripped tighter, pulling harder in order to reach the ledge at the top. There
was
a handle. He looked heavenward briefly before pushing upward on the hatch. It rattled, but didn’t open.

Bastard! It was locked from the outside. He heard the voices, less stifled now as if passing the outside of the hatch, the odd word becoming intelligible. Quickly considering his options, he realised what he must to do.

It was risky, but he began rattling the hatch.

He just hoped his kidnapper didn’t hear.

***

Twenty minutes later, their radios boomed into life. “All clear. All clear. Area safe.”

Bardsley fired up the Mondeo’s engine and sped forward, took a quick left and parked outside the front of the temple, amid the familiar crunch of stones under tyres. They all got out, seeing Sergeant Rhodes from Armed Response exiting the temple, holding his arms out and shrugging.

“Nothing, Dave?” asked Halt.

“No, sir. The cellar’s empty. But there’s still the spire to check.”

“So the all clear was called early, then?”

“Well, the spire’s window is out of view from here, so I thought it would be safe for you to come closer, sir.”

“Okay, I’ll have that.”

Bardsley heard a firearms officer shout up on the radio for Halt. He passed the chief his radio.

“Halt speaking, go ahead.”

“I think you’d best come up here, sir…”

***

After desperately clattering the hatch up and down, Striker soon realised the source of the voices and footsteps were intoxicated people returning home, possibly leaving the establishment itself. Their drunken ramblings faded into the distance.

He heard the key turn in the cellar door and punched the hatch three times in panic, banging it up and down about an inch each time. Then he lay flat, hoping he was out of view, but knowing he’d surely be found by his captor, regardless.

He heard the low repetitive thud of his heart. With his face flush to the narrow ledge beneath the hatch, every intake of breath drew in particles of dust, increasing the dryness of his mouth, dirt sticking to his blood-curdled face.

“What the fuck?” erupted from the shadows of the cellar.

Striker flinched.
Think, think, think…

“There’s no way out, Striker!” The voice was muffled, the tone clearly very pissed off. And its owner had a very good point.

He heard the sound of boxes being thrown around. He knew he had seconds to come up with something resembling a plan of action in order to survive. Carefully reaching for two bottles from the crate beside him, he clutched them in either hand, before lying face down again.

Impulsively, he placed one of the bottles of lager in his mouth and started to bite the aluminium top. The metallic grinding caused a shooting pain through his gums. He stopped for a second of respite before persevering, this time angling the bottle to gain more leverage. His head jerked back and lager spewed from the neck with a minimal hiss. He placed a thumb over the top and gave the bottle a rigorous shake until he felt the pressure build up against his thumb.

He sat up, carefully lifting the hatch the inch it would permit. The oozing light, possibly from a streetlamp, teased him. Another quick shake, then he jammed the neck into the inch gap, allowing the lager to spurt outside. He hoped this wasn’t the temple as he prayed for more passers-by.

A circular beam of light flashed erratically on his side of the supporting wall, near the opening he’d used. Shuffling feet, clanging objects and crunching boxes echoed throughout the cellar.

Striker reached for more bottles and managed to get three out of the crate. The fourth one clinked and the torch beam shot across his eyes.

Footsteps approached, the growing voice louder. “There’s a pig in ’ere. I can smell it.”

Striker braced himself, clutched a bottle in either hand. The torch beam flashed around, randomly illuminating the room like a helicopter over a war zone; no doubt the artillery was to follow.

He saw the brief shape of the man as the torch darted round. A dozen feet way, edging closer. Was he carrying a weapon? It was hard to say, though Striker had to assume as much.

He sounded no more than few feet away now, close to the bottom of the wooden fixture. Striker could hear him panting like a wild dog. The torch beam pointed toward Striker, who instantly lowered himself flatter, hands over his head.

Striker cowered, feeling the air whoosh close to his ear.
He’s swinging some kind of weapon.
Glimpsing the man’s position beside the glare of the torch, Striker sat up and launched a bottle.

Surprisingly, it seemed to strike its target on the head.

A low groan was followed by a crash on the wooden fixture below Striker. Something clattered onto the floor.

Striker fleetingly considered rushing him and taking his chances.
Not yet.
He threw a second bottle and it smashed against the supporting wall. He threw a third that hit the shadowy figure as he got up, causing the torch to dance in the air, the bottle fizzing on the floor. The torch was directed for the floor. He was looking for the weapon, meaning he didn’t have the gun.

Now!

A desperate madness gripped Striker as he grabbed bottle after bottle from the crate, blindly lobbing them into the darkness, the odd yelp on impact. He heard footsteps scrambling up the wooden fixture, bringing him to his senses. He jumped up, smashing a bottle onto the man’s head. The judder of impact shot up Striker’s arm and the neck of the bottle remained in his hand. The man crashed backward like a human skittle.

The torch shined directly into Striker’s face and another whoosh zoomed toward him. He felt a vicious pain shoot across his left temple, accompanied by a flash of light in his eyes and suddenly felt nauseous and dizzy.

His attacker clambered back up the fixture. Striker desperately jabbed him in the face with the remains of the bottle, hearing a squelch and shriek. Then he lunged with his right foot and kicked the bastard back down.

Hearing banging from above, Striker was astonished to see the hatch suddenly jerk open, light flooding in, making him squint.

“Jesus Christ, Jack! Come on, mate.”

A welcome hand reached out and Striker clasped onto it, clambering up through the opening and onto the pavement. Totally disorientated, he was pulled to his feet and guided to the open rear door of a car.

He didn’t look behind him as he was bundled into the rear seats lengthways. A thrown object pinged off the car’s bodywork. The car did a wheel spin and sped off.

Striker realised his top was dripping in blood from his head wound and just about managed to summon the energy to say, “Thanks, lads,” before passing out.