Ops Files II--Terror Alert (26 page)

He had no idea whether the emergency lights ahead were due to his adventure in Dover or were unrelated, but he could take no chances.

Abreeq would adapt and improvise.

Quite probably he was overreacting, but he’d survived when countless hadn’t by being paranoid, and the likelihood of some kind of disturbance on the same road he was on was too coincidental for him – a man who didn’t believe in coincidence.

Whatever the case, he was still one step ahead of whoever was after him.

And he would retain that lead no matter what.

His survival depended on it.

Inspector Malcolm Wells stepped from the police car and ducked beneath the crime scene tape draped in a crescent around the mouth of the marine repair shop. The doors were open wide, and several patrolmen stood by the side of the building with dour expressions. He approached the officers and, after a glance inside at the bodies, nodded to them.

“You call an ambulance for that poor bugger?” he asked, indicating the wounded figure lying in his own blood.

“Yes, sir. Not that it’ll do much good. He’s a goner.”

“Did you perform any first aid?”

“Basic stuff. Pressure bandages, the lot. But he took two point-blank in the chest. At least one got his lung. Lost most of his blood by the time we got here.”

Wells nodded. “What do you figure this for?”

“Drug deal gone wrong.”

“Really? What kind of drugs did you find?”

The patrolmen shifted nervously. “Well, we didn’t actually find any…yet.”

“Ah. Right, then. But you think it’s a deal that went south?”

“We’re not inspectors. You are, sir. Doesn’t really matter what we think, now does it?” the short, muscular one said, his tone bitter.

“I’m always interested in what you lads have to say. But time’s a-wasting. I think I’ll take a closer look before the ambulance and the techs get here.”

“Righto. Pretty obvious what happened. Buggers shot each other.”

“Yes. I see.” Wells moved into the shop and studied the two dead men before moving to where Vladimir was struggling for breath. He eyed the Russian’s pallor and shook his head. One thing the fools outside were right about was that this chap wasn’t long for the world. “If you shot them, where’s your gun, eh?” he whispered to himself, looking around the wounded man’s sprawled form. “A criminal falling-out works better if you’re armed, doesn’t it?”

Wells didn’t expect a response. The man was barely clinging to life.

A commotion behind him drew his attention, and he looked up as two stocky emergency medical technicians wheeled a gurney into the shop.

“He’s all yours, lads,” Wells said, and the lead EMT nodded.

“We need to get him to the hospital,” he said.

“Good luck with that.” Wells noted the man’s Russian accent in passing – not uncommon these days, as geographical boundaries blurred with immigration that followed employment prospects.

Wells watched as the pair efficiently transferred the dying man to the gurney, inserted an IV line, and wheeled him off. He stared down at the drying blood, where a perfect impression of the man was captured in his vital fluids on the concrete, and declined to do a chalk outline – there was no need, and he could leave it to the forensics technicians.

He moved to the first dead man and eyed his weapon as he pulled a pencil from his pocket and lifted it by the barrel. Testing its weight, he set it back down, slipped on a pair of the dozen or so latex gloves he kept in his jacket pocket, and checked the weapon. It hadn’t been fired.

He moved to the second gun and repeated the process. Same thing.

Wells’ brow furrowed as he tried to envision what had taken place. The obvious answer was there had been at least one other shooter. Otherwise, where had the bullets in the dying man come from? Not from the two dead gunmen, that was sure.

That also answered the question of where the dying man’s weapon had gone, assuming he’d had one.

The shooter or shooters had taken it.

But why?

The more he tried to imagine the scenario, the fuzzier it got.

The dead men had their guns drawn, which told Wells that whatever had gone down had happened in a matter of seconds, or they would have had a chance to shoot.

His eyes strayed to the garage doors. There were bullet holes in the wood at the base, which he hadn’t seen on entering. He walked over and crouched down, and then swung one closed and examined the exterior. No exit marred the heavy wood, so the slugs were still in the door.

Wells stood and looked thoughtfully at the scene. Whoever had shot the place up had done so between the wounded man and the dead one deepest in the space. The second dead man had a wounded leg, so the shooter had taken out his tibia first and then shot him in the head, firing rapidly; hence the wasted rounds.

But why at that level? Less than thirty centimeters from the floor?

He took in the door, the two dead men, and then snapped his fingers, the sound a dull thwack with the gloves on. “Of course. Because you were shooting at him from under a vehicle.” He slowly stepped to a few feet from where the wounded man had lain, held out his hand as though he had a gun in it, and pivoted as he made shooting sounds, like a child on a playground. “Bam. Bam, bam.”

When he finished, he smiled in satisfaction. That was probably what the ballistics would tell him. Same gun had killed both men, as well as wounded the third. One shooter, standing midway between the pair, had fired and then dropped to the floor and shot the third man below a car or truck, wounding him in the leg and then finishing him when he’d fallen.

Which was incredible shooting. He’d seen enough crime scenes to understand how singular this one was. Somehow the Terminator had arrived in Dover.

Wells did a more thorough study of the interior and stopped at the surveillance system. He’d heard the call on his radio about a van that was to be considered armed and dangerous, and had no doubt he’d find it departing the garage, the shooter driving.

The footage was just ending in the mysterious burst of static at the end when a voice called from the mouth of the shop.

“Hullo. Where is he, then?”

Wells slowly turned, his face a mask, and regarded the ambulance driver. “You picked him up a few minutes ago.”

“Blimey. I hate when they do that to us. Waste of time and money. Buggered it up again.”

“Might want to call in and confirm that he arrived. Should have by now.”

“Will do. Idiots.”

Wells studied the tape again. There was only one explanation for the drop out in the surveillance footage. Someone had deleted their arrival after the van had left.

Which explained the anonymous call that had tipped them off.

But now the question was, who had been there, and what other elements of the crime scene had they fiddled with?

An already complicated double homicide had just gotten far more difficult to fathom. Wells walked slowly back to the shop entry, peeling off his gloves as he took measured steps, and looked up at the forensics van with the technicians that had just arrived. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he took in the scene. Whatever had happened here, it was as far from a drug deal gone wrong as he could imagine.

Which meant a bad night had just gotten far worse.

Maya was startled by the cell phone ringing in her pocket. She pulled it out and eyed the number on the screen. London prefix. Headquarters with her marching orders.

“Hello?”

“Are you still in Dover?”

“Of course. You told me to stay put.”

“It appears that your van has been spotted at an MSA a few kilometers west of Dover.”

“That was fast. How?”

“The local police blocked the main highways leading from the city. A squad car was doing a sweep of the MSA when it saw a van that matched your description. They’ve called in the tactical squad, which should be there any minute.”

“That’s great news.”

“You’re to go to the MSA. We’ve cleared you to speak with the lead man on the tactical squad – he’s connected with MI5, and we can depend on him to be discreet about your involvement.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we aren’t officially involved, but MI5 recognizes that we’ve provided an invaluable service. So they’re willing to share information on a limited basis.”

“What’s this man’s name?”

“Crosby. Sergeant Crosby.”

“And who am I?”

“Jill. As in Jack and Jill. Last names won’t come up.”

She checked her watch. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“I’d put a rush on it.”

“On my way.”

Maya opened her bag and removed a baseball cap. If she was going to be exposed, she could at least limit what anyone saw of her. She removed her hygiene bag and slid a disk of dark base from it, and hastily applied it to her face, instantly converting her light caramel coloring to a heavy olive-skinned complexion. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that it had subtly altered her look, and she finished the quick camouflage with a pair of green plastic-framed glasses with clear lenses – she knew from her training that brightly colored accessories would be remembered far more vividly than her features in a day or two, and anyone asked to describe her would likely recall the odd glasses and cap before they remembered much about her face.

The road was miserable, and her ten minutes stretched to twenty before she arrived at the MSA. A dozen police cruisers were gathered in a semicircle at the far end of the massive parking lot, which was swarming even at that hour with vehicles of every description. She pulled up next to an oversized official van, where four uniformed police officers were standing, sipping tea and talking. One of the men, who looked to be maybe twenty-five, approached her.

“Can’t go any further, ma’am.”

“Yes. I see that. I’m looking for a Sergeant Crosby. Tactical squad?”

“They’re a bit busy at the moment, Miss…”

Maya gave him a warm smile. “Jill.”

“Well, Miss Jill, we have a bit of a situation here, so if you can wait until they’re through…”

“And when will that be?”

The cop’s tone changed. “When they are.”

“I see. Of course, I’ll be delighted to wait for him to free up. If you’d let him know Jill is here to see him, though, I’d really appreciate it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He frowned at the Rover like she had arrived riding a unicorn and then strode off to where she could make out a group of a dozen officers encircling the van. After a brief discussion the young man returned, accompanied by an older, hard-looking man in his thirties, lean, with high cheekbones, gray eyes, and a military haircut that was all business.

“Miss…Jill? Sergeant Crosby.”

Maya opened her door and stepped out of the car. Crosby nodded to her and they moved away from the local police, Crosby’s eyes in constant motion as they stepped a dozen paces from her car.

“I’ll make this short. There’s nothing in the van but some smears of blood on the steering wheel, likely from your man’s hands,” he said.

“There’s nothing else? Have you checked the chassis? The gas tank? It could be concealed or integrated into the vehicle.”

Crosby smiled humorlessly. “We’re waiting for a bomb specialist to arrive, but my money says it’s not. If there was anything in it, which we only have your people’s word for, it’s gone now.”

“Then he must still be here,” she said, looking around slowly.

“If he took off on foot, we’re not going to find him in this fog.”

“Have you blocked all vehicle traffic?”

“The locals did, but they admit there was a gap. They were waiting for us to show up.”

She shook her head. “Incredible.”

A voice called to them from near the van. “Sergeant Crosby?”

Crosby turned to her. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He left and didn’t return for ten minutes. When he did, his expression was grim. “There are two dead bodies over by the tree line. A man and a woman. No ID. Mid-forties, near as we can tell. Both with their throats slit.”

“It’s him.”

Crosby nodded. “Appears to be, I’ll grant you that. Probably killed them for their vehicle.”

“What else can you tell me about them?”

“Not much I left out.”

“I want to see them.”

Crosby shook his head. “Not a chance. There’s no way you’ll be allowed anywhere near them. This is now a crime scene – murder investigation. You’re nobody. You don’t exist.”

“Please. Give me something.”

He palmed his cell phone and pushed a button. The screen illuminated and he held it up so she could see it. “This is as far as I can go.”

She looked at the couple, their faces distorted from pain, blood splatter staining her blouse and his football jersey. Maya studied the corpses for ten seconds and then fixed Crosby with a determined stare. “He chose them for a reason. There was no way he’d kill two people unless it was important. We need to figure out why that is.”

“Obviously, he wanted their vehicle. And they were at the far reaches of the facility, near the water outlets and the WCs. So a target of opportunity.”

“This guy doesn’t do anything by accident. He’s a planner. Something about them attracted him to them. Discover that, and the odds increase of our finding him.”

“I appreciate your insights, but I’ve got my hands full now. Scotland Yard has been called in. I need to get back to work.” He appraised her. “Not being rude, but we never met.”

“Of course not. Thanks.”

Maya returned to the Rover and called London. She gave a terse summary of the situation and waited for instructions. After being placed on hold for five minutes, a different voice came on the line – older, more authoritative sounding. The head of station had likely been dragged out of bed and was now in the office.

“Return to Dover. There’s nothing you can do at this point until we have more information.”

“Where in Dover?”

“Unimportant. Get a motel room. No offense, but I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

“He’s out there, you know. With the bomb. On the loose.”

“We don’t know that.”