Nine Lives (22 page)
The five members of Henry’s crew had been waiting on the tarmac runway for just under ten minutes before they saw two cars approaching in the distance. The road was bumpy, and the headlights of the arriving vehicles bobbed up and down as they neared the airfield.
Each man, save for Henry, was armed. The pilot was still holding the HK CAWS
shotgun, the two enforcers cradling AR 15 Carbines, fresh magazines slotted into each base. Faris had his pistol tucked in the holster on his hip, but he doubted he’d need it. The Albanians were a brother cartel, not an enemy, and the two organisations shared a good working relationship. The guns were there just to make sure everything ran smoothly. The amount of drugs and money about to be exchanged could make even the most honest man behave unpredictably.
Standing behind the four men by the jet, leaning against the steps, Faris was in a dark mood. In the Escalade on the way back here, he’d heard the two grunts bragging, running their mouths. Apparently, Henry had received a tip off that the DEA had surveillance in place at the airfield and had sent the two giants with the rifles to take care of it.
Faris was furious.
Why didn’t he give it to me? I would have handled it properly.
He didn’t like being passed over for that sort of responsibility, especially when any Americans were involved.
He was also wondering where Henry had sent Dominick; he had a million guesses and zero answers.
Slowly but surely he was getting cut out of the group.
And he knew what that meant.
In front of him, one of the big men holding the AR 15s made a cheap joke to his friend. Faris had learned that they’d cornered the two agents across the airfield, catching them completely unaware. Each grunt had given them thirty rounds from the machine guns.
Faris watched the two morons, glaring at their huge backs.
Karma was going to be a cruel, hard bitch.
Up ahead, the two cars arrived pulling onto the dark airfield, their headlight beams momentarily blinding the men by the jet as they swung round. They were vulnerable for a split second, but the lights continued to sweep past as the 4x4’s came to a stop twenty feet away.
Six men stepped out, three from each car. The Albanians. Faris had set up the deal with their lieutenant,
a man called Hicham, the second in command, Faris’s equivalent. It was dark so Faris couldn’t make out any of their features, but he could see their hands. Three of them were holding Uzi nine-millimetre automatic pistols, the other two clutching a Remington twelve-gauge shotgun each.
Only one of the men was unarmed. A gap in the clouds let the moonlight shine through, illuminating his face. It was Hicham.
Holding his hands in front of him in an open gesture, the man walked forward. He shook hands with Henry, who stepped forward to meet him.
‘It’s been a while. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’
Henry nodded. ‘Let’s do this. I’m cold.’
The other man nodded and motioned for him to follow.
He led him towards the back of one of their two cars. Behind them, the two separate groups of men stood in front of each other. No one moved. Both sides had enough firepower to stop a rhinoceros stampede.
By the rear of one of the cars, Hicham pulled the boot open. Faris could see from where he was standing that it was packed with stacks of tightly-bound US dollar bills.
Henry scanned them for a moment. Then he nodded.
‘Now the cargo,’ Hicham asked.
Henry turned to the two enforcers. ‘Get it out of the jet.’
The two guys didn’t move for a split second. It seemed they were having a stare-down with two of the Albanians standing opposite them.
But they turned away and moved up the stairs to the aircraft, the AR 15s still cradled in their hands.
The whole trade took less than ten minutes. The cocaine was packed into the backs of the two 4x4s, the six million US dollars transferred into the jet. As the last brick of powder was stowed, one of their men shut the door. Hicham turned to Henry.
‘We should do this again,’ he said. ‘If the stuff is good, we’ll be in touch.’
Henry didn’t respond. The other man turned on his heel and walked over to one of the cars. His crew followed, climbing inside and firing each engine. The two vehicles turned, exiting the airfield and the Albanian cartel moved off into the distance and disappeared into the night.
Once they were gone, the pilot and the enforcers relaxed. They were happy. They’d just stacked six million dollars into the plane and naturally, assumed they were going to get paid handsomely for their assistance.
Across the tarmac Henry checked his watch then turned to the two giants.
‘Go and stow your weapons then meet me back out here.’
The pair nodded obediently, turning to climb up the stairs of the jet, moving out of sight. A few moments later, they reappeared without the rifles and moved back down the stairs to the runway.
‘Over there,’ Henry said as he jabbed a finger, pointing across the tarmac.
The men looked at each other, confused. But obeying the order, they shuffled over to where he had directed and turned, wondering what was going on.
They were now standing away from the plane, their backs to the countryside, in the middle of the runway.
By the jet, Faris closed his eyes.
Henry approached the pilot and grabbed the shotgun from the guy’s hands. The two enforcers didn’t have time to react. Henry gave each of them four shells to the stomach. The weapon pounded explosion after explosion, the muzzle flashing as each shell erupted out of the shotgun as he worked the trigger. One or two shells would have been enough for anyone, but he wanted each of them to take four. Five hundred pounds of muscle were no match for the power of the weapon, and blood and shreds of flesh sprayed in the air as Henry relentlessly pulled the trigger.
Each man was dead before the third blast. They collapsed backwards on the runway, bits of them scattered around them like confetti. Henry walked forward and used the last two shells to shoot each man in the face, up close. When the shotgun clicked dry he turned and tossed the empty smoking weapon back to the shocked pilot, who was trembling. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen.
‘Get in the cock-pit,’ Henry ordered. ‘We’re leaving.’
The pilot nodded, struggling to tear his eyes from the two corpses, then scrambled up the steps, stumbling on two of them in his haste to do as he was told.
Henry turned to Faris, who was leaning against the steps, unmoved.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Henry said, stepping past him and clambering up the stairs.
Faris looked at the two corpses lying on the runway, looking like two giant starfishes beaten with a giant sledge-hammer.
Karma’s a bitch.
At 11 o'clock the next morning, a man ran as fast as he could down the street in Canary Wharf, south-east London.
He was dressed in a brown delivery uniform, the kind a guy who delivered packages and parcels for companies like DHL and UPS wore. However, he was carrying nothing in his hands. His arms flashed back and forward like pistons as he raced down the street. Sprinting hard, he suddenly turned a sharp left, ducking into Canary Wharf Station, a stop on the London Underground system.
Dodging past bystanders and Underground employees, the man vaulted the ticket barrier, barely slowing. Around him, a few people shouted and remonstrated as they watched the man ignore the ticketing slots.
He hurtled forward, turning back to check behind him and suddenly collided into a woman walking the other way, smashing into her and knocking them both to the ground. Out of breath and winded, the man staggered to his feet, ignoring the stricken woman on the floor beside him and scrambled forward, running onto a long escalator that led all the way down to the platforms and descending the steps two at a time.
By the entrance, two police constables suddenly sprinted into the station. They too jumped the barriers, although this time to no complaint from the people standing there. They raced past the woman on the floor, who now had concerned people around her helping her back up on her feet.
The constables arrived at the escalator. Looking down, they saw the fleeing man near the bottom, pushing past people in his effort to escape.
‘
Police! Stop that man!
’
one of them shouted as they both started to run down the escalator, chasing after him.
As he reached the bottom, the guy took off to the left. A train was waiting, the Jubilee line, bound for the city centre. There was an extra security barrier, a series of glass screens that ran along the platform. They were sliding shut.
He threw his hand forward to try to and wedge a set open so he could pull himself inside but they wouldn’t give. He started hitting and kicking the screen in a frenzy. The train moved off and gathered speed, shocked passengers watching from inside at the crazy man on the platform so desperate to get on the train.
Cursing in frustration, the man saw a train on the other platform was just arriving. He turned to run over the tracks, but was smashed hard in a rugby tackle by one of the policemen.
He didn’t see the policeman coming and was taken off his feet. The other officer appeared just behind his colleague and they pinned the delivery man to the floor as he tried to fight his way free. Flipping him to his belly they held him down, knees in his back, while one of the men pulled a set of a handcuffs, locking them in place firmly.
Having finally restrained the suspect, the second officer turned to his colleague, sucking in deep breaths.
'You sure it's him?' he panted.
The other man tilted his head to look at the delivery man's face, his chest heaving as his lungs took in oxygen.
The suspect was flat against the tiles, his cheek pressed firmly on the ground.
The policeman looked at his profile, and nodded.
'Yeah. It's him.'
Across the city at the ARU HQ, it had been a long night.
The fallout from the shooting in Trafalgar Square had been severe. Once Archer had discovered the explosives hidden under the man’s coat, the police had been forced to clear the area just as the fireworks were taking place which was no small task. Bomb disposal had arrived, the EOD team examining and confirming that the device was armed and ready to be detonated by trigger switch.
They’d set about dismantling and separating the explosives for what was the fourth bomb they had encountered that evening. This time, the weapon used was Semtex, a vicious plastic explosive as well as enough nails to renovate a mansion. There was enough of it strapped to the dead terrorist to, as a bomb disposal expert had put it,
turn the entire Square into a crater you could see from the moon.
Back at the Unit’s Headquarters, Nikki had checked the Met’s emergency logs and had found a report from Hammersmith and Fulham Station. It was concerning a police constable named Eldridge who’d been absent for two days, having gone missing while on duty on Thursday. Two police detectives had reportedly found his body just before midnight, stripped naked. The terrorist had cut his throat and stolen his uniform.
Needless to say, Chalky was man-of-the-hour with the team. Any concerns Archer and Porter had regarding his condition prior to the shooting were immediately forgotten. He’d more than made up for his previous lapse. There was even a rumour circulating that the very grateful Prime Minister wanted to thank him personally. It had certainly been an eventful day’s work for the young police officer.
It turned out he’d been chasing down the first suspect just behind Fox, Mac and Porter, but in that split-second he’d spotted something odd about a police constable nearby that had caught his attention. The officer was standing by himself, away from any other policemen which in itself was odd and seemed to be talking to himself.
His eyes were half-open, not alert and scanning the crowd as they should have been.
Chalky could also see he was holding something.
But when he stopped and scanned the man, he caught a glimpse of something else.
A wire, running into the man’s coat. Looking at the man’s face under the helmet he’d realised in an instant who he was and the rest was history.
At around 3am, the task force had finally returned to the Unit and stowed their weapons. They’d been ordered to stay on call all night, so most of them found chairs in the Briefing Room and dozed off while they had the chance.
But two men who’d had zero sleep were Director Cobb and Special Agent Crawford. Neither of them had got so much as a wink. Crawford had pulled Cobb aside just after they’d figured out the situation at the Square. Apparently, the two DEA agents at the airfield weren’t responding to his calls and Dominick Farha had been reported as separating from Henry’s crew having been sent on an errand somewhere according to his sixth DEA agent. Crawford mentioned that he had another man in place but he was unable to pursue Farha at this current time.
Neither man could believe it. Right before their eyes, both of their cases were falling apart. Crawford didn’t know if he’d got the deal with Henry on camera and Cobb was wondering how they’d let the leader of the terrorist cell slip away when they’d had him in the palm of their hand.
Needless to say, their working relationship was under severe strain.
But things were about to get a whole lot worse.
In the tech area, Nikki hung up on a telephone call and quickly removed her headset, walking swiftly over to Cobb’s office. The Director was standing by the coffee machine inside, pouring himself a drink and rubbing his eyes wearily. Nikki knocked on the door and moved into the office in the same instant.
Cobb turned as she entered, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and stress.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘I just spoke to Limehouse Police Station. They have Number Four in custody.’
Cobb looked at her, the information registering in his tired brain.
‘Great. That’s good news,’ he said.
‘Not quite, sir. There’s a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘A big one,’ she said.
Across the level in the Briefing Room, Archer stirred awake. He blinked, yawning, gathering his thoughts. He was slumped in a chair beside the noticeboards, his back stiff from the angle he’d been sleeping in.
He sat upright and stretched, yawning again, then saw Chalky sitting in the chair beside him. Archer noticed that in a complete contrast to yesterday, today his friend looked surprisingly fresh and rested. And not hungover.
‘What are you so happy about?’ Archer asked, rubbing his face.
‘Got a good night’s sleep. Crashed out in one of the holding cells,’ Chalky responded, with a wink.
Archer rolled his eyes as his friend passed him a cup of tea.
‘Thanks. What time is it?’ he asked, yawning again.
’11:30,’ said Fox, who was sat nearby. He was reading a newspaper.
Archer glanced at the Sports headline on the back of the broadsheet.
Chelsea-Manchester United fixture to go ahead, despite tragedy at Emirates.
‘I thought the PM cancelled the game?’ Archer asked, sipping the cup of tea and leaning back in his chair.
Fox shook his head. ‘No. He gave a speech earlier demanding that the match continue in tribute to those killed. They’re carrying out a ceremony before the game and holding a minute’s silence.’
Archer nodded.
‘What time’s kick off?’
‘1:30’ he replied. ‘All we need now is for Farha and the last terrorist to turn themselves in before lunch. Then I can watch the game.’
‘Forget the game, I could sleep for a week,’ mumbled Deakins’ voice from nearby. He was lying back in his chair, his arms folded, his eyes closed.
Archer didn’t reply. He was looking at Shapira across the room as she leaned against the wall, overhearing their conversation.
She was smiling.
‘You a football fan?’ he asked her.
She looked down at him. ‘I am today.’
At that moment, Cobb entered the room, Mac striding in behind him, both of them moving quickly and purposefully. Most of the room was already up and awake and anyone who’d dozed off was given a quick prod or kick. Mac shut the door as Cobb got right down to it, wasting no time.
‘Morning, lads,’ he said. ‘First of all, fantastic work last night. The whole operation was the perfect example of what we stand for as a Unit. You found the target and you took him down.’
He turned to Chalky.
‘I spoke to Downing Street earlier. The Prime Minister wants to meet you after this is over and give you a commendation. Well done. You saved a lot of lives last night.’
There was a small cheer; someone wolf-whistled. But the room quietened immediately.
They could see from the look on his face that Cobb wasn’t finished.
‘I have some more news,’ he continued. ‘Two constables arrested Number Four about half an hour ago. They picked him up at Canary Wharf and he’s over at Limehouse right now getting prepped for an interrogation.’
He paused.
‘The officers who made the arrest saw the suspect coming out of a building. He was disguised as a delivery man, but they’d seen the news and recognised him. Good work on their part. The guard on the front desk said the man entered the building with a large brown package under his arm.’
‘What was it?’ Deakins asked.
‘We don’t know. He left without it.’
Silence.
‘Which building, sir?’ asked Porter, standing to the left by the noticeboards.
Cobb looked at him.
‘One Canada Square.’
The moment he said it, Archer’s blood froze.
Oh shit
.
Oh shit shit shit.
