The Child Taker & Slow Burn (28 page)

Chapter Forty

John Tankersley stepped out of the shower and grabbed a black towel from a heated chrome rail. He wrapped the cotton around his narrow waist and caught his reflection in the mirror tiles. His wet body looked like walnuts stuffed into a silk stocking. Muscles bulging beneath his suntanned skin and thick veins threaded their way down his arms. He rubbed himself dry and walked across the white tiles towards the bedroom.

“All squeaky clean?”

“It’s funny but I haven’t felt clean at all the last few weeks,” he smiled. He sprayed deodorant beneath each armpit and reached into the top drawer of a solid pine chest unit, pulling out a pair of black fitted boxers. He dropped the towel onto the laminate floor and climbed into the shorts, wiggling his muscular buttocks until everything fitted comfortably. “I can’t help but feel like I’ve let the Major down.”

“Hey, you.” Grace sat on the end of the bed in a black towelling robe. Her black skin was still shiny wet from her shower. “We did all that we could for now, and we’re not done yet.” She reached out, slipping her fingers into the waistband of his shorts, and pulled him towards her. She kissed his stomach, feeling the taught muscles beneath the surface. “Let’s see what Tara comes back with: she’s good at what she does.”

“She is,” Tank sighed. He stroked the back of her head, contemplating whether to relieve her of the robe again, when his mobile rang. “Saved by the bell,” he laughed.

“Who said I wanted saving at all?” Grace teased.

He picked up his Blackberry and checked the caller identity. “Tara, talk of the devil.” Tank put the phone on loudspeaker and answered the call. “Hi, Tara.”

“Hi, can you talk?” Tara’s voice seemed loaded with tension. Tension or excitement, he couldn’t decide which.

“Yes, go ahead. What have you got?”

“I don’t know where to start, John, but here’s what I have, follow me and see what you think.”

Grace raised her eyebrows and mouthed his name. “John?” She smiled coyly, teasing him. “She called you, John!” She whispered. Tank gave her a friendly nudge with his elbow.

“Let’s hear it, Tara.”

“Look, most of this is from Interpol, okay,” she began. “Their drugs and people-trafficking information is mainly a consolidation of stuff sent in by customs and police worldwide and there is a ton of relevant data on the Moroccans.”

“Anything recent on Hajj Achmed?”

“Get this – in the last five years the organisations he’s linked with have branched out dramatically. They started out in the late nineties, shipping cannabis in fishing boats from North Africa to the Spanish coast. Now the French Observatory of Drugs estimates that they have increased their trips to Europe by a thousand percent.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on seizures,” Tara replied. “The number of seizures has tripled but the loads they are intercepting are huge in comparison to five years ago. The zodiac speedboats they are using can reach Malaga and back in under an hour.”

“Where does Achmed come into it?”

“Links between the South Americans, especially the Columbians, are solid now. They’ve forged a bridgehead for the import of cocaine and heroin into Europe. Hajj is key to that relationship.”

“What have we got that can help me find him, Tara?”

“Let me finish and then see what you think,” she sounded flustered. “Drugs are coming into Morocco, via Mauritania, through Nigeria, Ghana, Liberia, Gambia and Senegal. The Moroccans are sending cocaine, hashish, weapons and now people, all in mixed shipments. Some recent seizures have contained immigrants and a mixture of drugs.”

“This research is brilliant, Tara, but it’s not helping me,” Tank needed details. He needed a location for Hajj.

“Stay with me,” she insisted. “The drugs coming from North Africa, specifically Morocco, last year were estimated at 480 million dollars street value, most of it shipped through Felixstowe, Southampton and Liverpool. We know this size of exportation couldn’t be achieved without the involvement of the authorities at the source.”

“Tara,” Tank interrupted. “Get to the point.” The muscles in his jaw pulsed. Grace placed a calming hand on his back.

“Look, I’m nearly there.” Tara snapped. “Hajj Achmed can’t stay in the UK any longer, right?”

“Right.”

“He needs to get out of here quickly and he can’t fly with Ryanair, right?”

“Right.” Tank was losing the will to live.

“He has the Moroccan government in his pocket. He needs to get to the continent but he can’t risk being arrested at the ports or airports. He knows the coastguard will be on the lookout for any boats, yachts, or zodiacs heading away from here so I’m guessing he will try to get a lift aboard a legitimate vessel, sailing legally with an inspected cargo that no one will suspect.”

“That makes sense,” Tank agreed.

“And it has to be quick, right?”

“Right.”

“There’s a Moroccan container ship docked at Bootle,” Tara said. “I checked with the port authorities and their manifest lists that it is leaving tomorrow morning. It’s heading for Casablanca and the ship is registered to a government owned company El Jadida shipping. I’ll put a pound to a penny that Achmed is on that ship.”

“I think it’s a good call, but would he risk transporting anything else?” Tank doubted the Moroccan would keep such high-profile prisoners alive once he knew the police were searching for him. “One container looks very much like another, John, and I haven’t finished yet.”

“Go on.”

The holding company letting the unit where Lesner was found owns a boatyard north of the Bootle cargo port. It’s listed as derelict and under development.”

“You are a superstar,” Tank jumped up from the bed. “Who knows about this?”

“You and me, John.” Tara replied. There was pride and something else in her tone. Grace rolled her eyes and shook her head. She clasped her heart with praying hands and fluttered her eyelashes as she mouthed, “you and me, John.”

“Keep it that way,” Tank said sternly. “Well done, Tara.” He ended the call and turned to Grace. “What do you think?”

“”I think we should take a trip.”

“If we make a mess, we could end by being up to the neck in it,” Tank warned. “We can push the arms side of it only so far.”

“If the twins are there, I don’t care what happens.”

Tank grimaced. “Me too. Let’s go.” 

Chapter Forty-one

The Docks

At first glance from the road, the boatyard looked derelict and unused. To a casual onlooker there was nothing suspicious about it from land or sea. The rotting ribs of a couple of barges and the corroded remains of unidentifiable machinery were the only reminders of the unprofitable business which operated there a decade ago. At this point, the Mersey flowed into the Irish Sea and the waters were green and choppy as the river current mingled with the tide. The sun was coming up and the sound of seagulls squawking echoed off the quayside.

“Look at the perimeter fence,” Grace said, passing the binoculars.

“Prefabricated reinforced concrete panels,” Tank noted. “It’s new and the razor wire on the top looks shiny, no rust.”

A black Mercedes halted short of the gates and the driver shivered as he climbed out and the cold sea air replaced the air-conditioned environment of the car. Rahid fumbled in his black leather jacket, coming out with a bunch of keys. Five minutes later, he’d worked his way through the three padlocks and the gates swung silently open beneath his touch. He returned to the car and drove it into the boatyard. As the Mercedes pulled up near an old boatshed, they heard the electronic reversing warning of a large container lorry. They watched as the lorry reversed into the boatyard. Rahid ran to the gates and closed them to stop passersby glimpsing the activity behind the high concrete walls.

Tank and Grace made their way along the perimeter wall towards the sea. They picked their footing carefully, stepping over discarded railway sleepers and rusty mechanical parts. Brambles threaded their way between the debris, acting like living tripwires. Two rusted shopping trolleys lay upended in the foliage, though the nearest supermarket was three miles away. The adjoining wharf gave them a clear view of the boatyard. The deep rumbling of a diesel engine making its way along the river distracted Grace. She nudged Tank as a cargo barge approached the boatyard.

Hajj Achmed climbed out of the Mercedes and fastened his camel coat tightly, trying to keep the sea breeze off his skin. There were deep circles beneath his eyes and his face looked taut with worry. He signalled to the driver of the lorry, who turned off the engine and jumped down from the cab. From the passenger side another man climbed down, dressed in the uniform of a HM Customs officer. The two men met at the back of the lorry and removed the customs seals from the locks. The back doors swung open to reveal a wall of cardboard boxes stacked to the roof on pallets.

“Moroccan peaches,” Tank smirked. 

“What do you think?” Grace asked.

“I don’t like tinned fruit.”

“Funny.” Grace said. “What do you really think?”

“I think we are about to witness a switch, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” she nodded. “What do you want to do?”

“Wait,” Tank replied, looking through the binoculars. He was silent and moody, in hunting mode. Grace had seen it a hundred times.

The cargo barge sauntered into the boatyard and three men expertly tied her up while she was still sailing into the dock. There was a blue container identical to the one on the lorry strapped to the barge deck. The lorry driver and the customs officer stepped onto the barge, removing the seals and locks in seconds. Rahid shouted instructions to the barge crew and they began removing boxes from the barge. Within minutes, they created a corridor between the boxes and a tidal wave of dark-skinned human cargo spilled from the container. Some of them huddled together, whilst others collapsed to their knees, kissing the wharf wall. Rahid spat orders to the crew and they herded the forty or so stowaways like sheep towards the lorry. A box of bottled water was distributed amongst the crowd. Tank watched one of the crew entering the container and carrying packages to the lorry. He made three trips before he was happy that there were no more.

“Twelve packages in total and about forty illegals.” Grace whispered. “I wonder what is in the lorry.” Mentally, she crossed her fingers.

The illegals were forced to help the others unloading boxes from the lorry. They followed the same routine, clearing an area between the cargo; deep into the load. Rahid climbed into the lorry, disappearing for long minutes. Grace held her breath as they waited for him to emerge. He appeared carrying a child. He passed the infant to one of the boat crew and then disappeared once again.

“Is it them?” Grace hissed.

“No.” Tank shook his head. “The girl has dark hair and she’s older than the twins. Whoever else they bring out of that lorry, Grace, will depend on what we do here.”

Grace wasn’t a hundred percent sure what he meant but she was committed anyway. The Moroccan returned to the back of the truck with another child. This time it was a young boy. He was older too, maybe eight or nine, Tank guessed. The boy was walking but his demeanour suggested that he was scared out of his wits. He looked around at a sea of black faces, none of whom were offering to help him get back home to his family. The customs officer grabbed the boy roughly by the arm and pulled him from the tailgate. He followed the crewman towards the barge. It was obvious that the children would replace the Africans in the container, human cargo flowing in both directions.

“Look, John!” Grace gasped. The plight of the first two infants distracted his attention. “Thank God!”

Tank gritted his teeth as he focused the binoculars on the truck. Zak and Sarah were alive. Rahid and the boat crew bundled them out of the container and the Africans began to climb in.

“We wait until the illegals are loaded, then we move, okay?”

“Okay,” Grace agreed. She pulled her Glock and checked her magazines. “What about the police?”

“What will they do?” Tank stared at her blankly. “If they take Achmed and his cronies, they’ll charge them with possession with intent to supply, maybe people trafficking, but they’ll find that hard to prove. We know Howarth took the twins; they’ll never make it stick to Achmed. They sprung Howarth and Lesner within three hours of their arrest.”

“What are you saying?”

“If we let the police take him, he’ll be back in business in months.” His piercing blue eyes burned into her. “Let’s stop this now.”

“Roger that,” Grace frowned. She knew what they had to do. The Glock sat comfortably in her hand.  

“Call the police when I break through the gates.” He stood up and bent low, moving quickly along the perimeter wall towards the dock road. “When I’m in, take out Achmed!” He whispered, almost as an afterthought.

“How are you going to get through the gates?” Grace called after him. It was too late, he was gone. She turned back to the dock and surveyed the scene in detail. If there was to be a fire-fight then details mattered. The pilot of the barge hadn’t moved but the elevated position of the bridge gave him a tactical shooting position. Grace didn’t know if he was armed or not but she couldn’t take the chance. He would be her first priority. Rusty mooring rings, each one measuring a metre across, lined the wall of the narrow dock. Ropes the thickness of a man’s thigh tethered the barge and created a trip hazard near the bow and stern. The Moroccans carried the twins and the other two older children into the container and the first few layers of boxes were stacked to keep them in. That pleased Grace. When the shooting started, she wanted them out of harm’s way. Stray bullets have no sense of justice.

She dialled Tara on her mobile. “Tara, we have located the twins,” Grace spoke quickly and quietly.

“Oh my God, fantastic!” Tara began but Grace cut her celebrations dead.

“Shut up, Tara and listen.” The phone went silent. “You were right about the boatyard. There is a switch happening right now and we need the police and armed response here pronto.”

“Roger that.” Tara switched lines and did as she was told without asking stupid questions.

When Grace looked back at the wharf, the illegals were all aboard the lorry and the custom’s officer was resealing the doors. He was stamping the plastic with an indented clamp, when the archaic gates disintegrated with a deafening clanging noise. The sound of metal on metal reverberated across the wharf and the roar of an engine at full throttle filled the air.

Grace didn’t need to know what had happened. She just needed to do her part of the job. Bending low, she sprinted across the wharf with the Glock trained on the wheelhouse. The pilot made things easier for her by stepping out of the bridge with a Mac-10 in his right hand. Her first shot hit his thigh, buckling his leg as if a sledgehammer wielded by Thor had hit him. Arterial spray splattered the wheelhouse porthole and the pilot dropped his weapon and clutched at the deadly wound, trying desperately to stem the blood. The second bullet hit him above the right ear, exiting the left side of his face below the eye, ripping off a huge chunk of his skull on the way. His body bounced off the wheelhouse before somersaulting into the oily waters of the dock.

Rahid aimed his Tokagypt at the oncoming Shogun but the vehicle weaved across the dock wildly. At first, he thought the driver had lost control but he soon realised that he was aiming for the scattering boat crew. The front wheels of the truck crushed one of them, splitting his skull easily. His brains squirted across the wharf like a balloon full of rice pudding exploding. The truck crushed a second crewmember against the container lorry, ripping his left arm from his torso and bursting his ribcage from the shoulder to the hip. Intestines and viscera dangled from the wing mirror like gooey streamers as the Mitsibushi roared on. The Tokagypt kicked in Rahid’s hand. His bullets were well wide of their mark. They slammed into the back of the remaining crewmember, bursting both lungs before exploding from his sternum. He hit the floor moments before the Shogun bounced over his body, snapping his neck and shattering his pelvis into pieces.   

Rahid’s hands were sweating and his breath came in short shallow gasps as he steadied himself to fire again. Rahid went down onto one knee and rested his elbow on his leg to get a better shot. He lined up the driver, closed one eye and squeezed the trigger. Before the bullet fired, a nine millimetre hit him in the ribs beneath his arm. It bounced around inside his body like a pea in a saltcellar, liquidising lung tissue and tearing his liver and pancreas as if they were gossamer. Grace was over him in a second, her Glock aimed at the point between his eyes. He had a second to wonder if she would fire before a bullet penetrated his skull and split his head in two.

Hajj Achmed didn’t know where to run. He could only watch in fascination as the black woman took down his men in a few blinding seconds filled with gunfire and guts. The Shogun screeched to a halt yards in front of him, blocking his exit to the river. A huge man jumped out of the black vehicle and raised his weapon. Hajj watched the gun kick three times. His eyes followed the aim to the target. The bullets knocked the customs officer off his feet as he ran away. His hat tumbled along the concrete like a wonky wheel, spinning from the wharf into the dock. He twitched for a moment before lying still. Hajj looked for an escape. The gates were too far away to reach and he couldn’t outrun a bullet. His silver Bulldog revolver dangled uselessly from his right hand. He wasn’t stupid enough to raise it. The woman would drop him in the blink of an eye, her gun aimed at him as she approached. The Shogun driver headed towards him and did likewise. “I surrender,” Hajj shrugged. The sound of sirens drifted to him from the distance. The police were on the way. They seemed a long way off though. “There’s only you two?” He frowned. “Who are you?”

“Judge, jury and executioner, all in one,” Tank said. He squeezed the trigger of the automatic as he walked forward. His aim was precise. A bullet to the right wrist shattered the radius and ulna and the Bulldog clattered across the wharf. A second shot, higher up splintered the humerus and ripped the tricep muscle from the back of his arm. Hajj turned through one hundred and eighty degrees before collapsing on his back in agony. “How does that feel?” Tank asked.

“I surrender!” Hajj screamed. “I am not armed!”

“Neither were the kids you transported, arsehole.” Tank fired two more shots as Hajj lay prone. They hit him in the throat, beneath his chin and blew the top of his skull clean away. Grey sludge catapulted across the ancient concrete and a pool of blood spread rapidly around his ruined head. His feet moved as if he was practising a horizontal river dance for a few seconds as the nerves in his body sent their final messages through his dying body.    

The first armed response unit entered the gates at speed, followed quickly by a second and a third. The officers deployed and aimed their guns at Tank and Grace. They looked at each other and placed their weapons on the ground.

“We’re counter-terrorist agents,” Grace shouted. She reached slowly into her flak jacket and pulled out her ID. “I think we’re in the shit,” she murmured.

“Stay where you are!” One officer bellowed as Tank walked away.

“Bollocks,” Tank shouted over his shoulder. “Check her ID, I’m getting the kids.”

The officer studied Grace’s ID, and spoke to his fellow officers. “They are CTU.” He nodded towards Tank. “Is he fucking mad?” He asked angrily. “We could have shot him.”

“He is a bit,” Grace replied.