Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  His police uniform had been just as easy to source. Vasin wore a pair of black 5.11 Stryke trousers and a matching short-sleeved shirt with a black police duty vest worn over the top. The trousers and shirt had been purchased online from a generic security shop. The vest, handcuffs and Sepura radio kit were dummy versions bought from a company that specialised in film, stage and TV props. Vasin’s uniform lacked the correct badge, but from a distance he would pass as an officer from the local constabulary.

  The fake delivery van had been phase one of the operation.

  Vasin and his men were the second phase.

  There were four guys crammed into the main passenger cabin behind Vasin, two in the first row of seats and two in the middle row. There was no need for them to wear police uniforms. They were dressed in black work overalls and undershirts, and each operator also wore a clear plastic face mask and a pair of Kevlar slash-resistant gloves. They all carried Hungarian-variant AK-47 assault rifles, along with two spare twenty-round clips apiece of 7.62 x 39mm brass. The same basic weapon system Vasin had used in Afghanistan, with a few minor modifications.

  The Russians had steered into the lay-by twelve minutes earlier, right around the time that the delivery van had pulled up outside the safe house. From their location they could reach the front of the stronghold in less than five minutes.

  Everything depended on the timing, Vasin knew.

  Once they received the signal, the team was on the clock. They would have to bomb out of the lay-by and race down the country road as fast as possible.

  The detailed information they had received from their source had confirmed their initial suspicions. A frontal assault on the house was out of the question. The defenders would see them coming long before they could breach the main entry points. Things would get noisy. The authorities would be alerted. The target might get slotted in the crossfire. Similar incidents had occurred in the past. And Vasin’s orders had been clear.

  No police casualties. No fuck-ups.

  So they had decided on an alternative strategy. Luring the officers out into the open. Then hitting them hard.

  ‘Still nothing?’ one of the guys in the middle row asked.

  Vasin turned to face him. A burly former Spetsnaz operator, arm muscles bulging beneath his dark overalls. One of the new generation. Gymmed-up and brash, full of unearned confidence. They had no idea what men like Vasin had gone through. No idea at all.

  The Afghan glanced down at his phone, shook his head. ‘No word.’

  ‘Taking too fucking long.’

  ‘Patience, Alexei. It won’t be long now. Or maybe you want to sit this one out? Cool off in the cage, eh?’

  Vasin pointed with his head at the steel cage built into a separate compartment aft of the passenger cabin. The cell had, surprisingly, been left intact when the van had been put up for auction. A dispenser for hand sanitiser was fitted to the panel to the left of the cage, another relic of the van’s former life. British criminals had low standards of personal hygiene, clearly.

  The younger guy went quiet.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Vasin said.

  Sometimes it was good to assert your authority over the younger operators. Remind them of who you were.

  Ninety seconds later, his phone trilled.

  New message.

  He tapped on it. The message was from another randomly generated number. Not the delivery driver, but the other contact Vasin had been in touch with. He read the message once, then tapped delete.

  He tucked his phone away. Kickstarted the engine.

  ‘Time to roll,’ he said.

  McKinnon lugged his black nylon holdall downstairs and dumped it beside the front door. Jagielka was on luggage duty, cramming everything into the boots of the two Land Rovers. Bentley was loading the last of the carbines into the steel lock box mounted under the rear seats of one of the wagons. Flowers was doing a final check of the downstairs rooms, looking for any equipment the guys might have forgotten to pack in their hurry to bug out of the safe house. Phone chargers, laptops, textbooks.

  McKinnon stood in the hallway, checked his watch. Twenty-six minutes past two. A grand total of five minutes, from getting off the blower with Stanley to being ready to roll.

  We’ve still got time on our side, he thought. Whatever the enemy was planning, he figured they would need longer than five minutes before they were ready to attack the safe house.

  As long as we leave quickly, we’ll be fine.

  Bentley marched back over to the house, waiting to see if there was any more kit to be loaded into the SUVs. Jagielka flipped the rear seats down over the lock box and followed closely behind. A moment later Flowers emerged from the living room and paced over to his muckers.

  ‘House is clear, mate,’ he said. ‘That’s everything, by the looks of it.’

  McKinnon furrowed his brow. ‘Where’s the Russian?’

  ‘Thought he was in one of the wagons?’ Flowers said, fixing his gaze on Jagielka.

  The Scouse held up his hands. ‘Don’t look at me, fella. I ain’t seen him.’

  ‘Then where the fuck is he?’

  Jagielka shrugged. McKinnon said nothing. His eyes wandered over to the downstairs toilet. The door was still closed, he noticed. He brushed past Flowers, approached the door and tested the antique brass handle.

  Locked.

  McKinnon thumped his fist on the solid oak panel. ‘You still in there, fella?’

  There was a beat of silence. Then a weak voice came from the other side. ‘Give me a minute, okay?’

  Before McKinnon could reply he heard an explosive burst of retching and heaving from inside the toilet. He pictured the Russian former spy hunched over the bowl, emptying the dregs of his stomach.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Flowers muttered. ‘We haven’t got time for this shite.’

  ‘He can’t help it,’ Bentley put in. ‘The guy’s sick, mate.’

  ‘He’ll be even sicker if he doesn’t get a bloody move on.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be protecting the guy, for Christ’s sake.’

  Flowers laughed. ‘All that diversity training has gone to your head, fella. We’re the ones calling the shots here. Not him. I ain’t sitting around here waiting for some bastard to show up because he’s got a dose of the shits.’

  McKinnon banged on the door again. Twice, to emphasise his frustration. The frame trembled with the impact.

  ‘Hurry it up,’ he said, louder. ‘We need to leave. Now.’

  More retching noises echoed from inside the toilet. Flowers fumed through his nostrils, cursing under his breath. McKinnon glanced impatiently at his watch. Twenty seconds passed. Then thirty.

  A whole minute later, the toilet flushed.

  There was a metallic click as the locking bolt retracted. Then the door cracked open and Volkov shuffled out, looking exhausted. His forehead was beaded with sweat.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ Flowers muttered.

  ‘Sorry,’ Volkov groaned. ‘I can’t help it. When it’s bad like that . . .’

  McKinnon bit back on his rage and resisted the temptation to lay into the Russian. They had already pissed away valuable minutes. There was no point wasting more time by tearing strips off the guy.

  If we leave now, we’ll still have the upper hand.

  ‘Forget it. Let’s get moving.’ He turned to Flowers. ‘You and Pete take the lead Discovery. We’ll follow you in the other wagon.’

  ‘My bag,’ Volkov rasped. ‘I left it upstairs. In my wardrobe.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Jagielka said.

  ‘Hurry up,’ McKinnon cut in. ‘We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’

  Jagielka doubled backed down the hallway and hurried upstairs to grab the Russian’s go-bag.

  The other four guys turned and made for the front door. Flowers led the way, with McKinnon close behind. Then Bentley, with Volkov pulling up the rear. Bentley was paying close attention to the Russian, making sure he was okay. McKinnon could hear t
he guy’s voice at his six o’clock.

  ‘It’s all right, pal. There’s water and blankets in the wagon. Just a little further now. You can do it.’

  Christ, thought McKinnon. With that kind of attitude, the kid really isn’t going to last long.

  He reached the entrance in four quick strides. Then he stepped outside.

  The front drive was a patchwork of mud and loose gravel. To the left of the farmhouse, ten metres away, stood the two Land Rovers. They were parked up beside a heap of stones, rocks and firewood. To the right of the drive was a small barn that had been converted into a garage with a separate studio and games room built into it. McKinnon and the rest of the guys had used the fitness equipment in the games room from time to time, whenever they grew bored of sitting around the house.

  Directly in front of the gravel drive stood the track that led directly towards the main country road. The road ran north to south past the safe house. North led deeper into the valley, with its peaks and streams and woodland. South led past the lake, towards the quaint villages and towns hugging the southern fringe of the park. It had rained heavily for most of the morning and the distinct tang of rain on tarmac hung thick in the air. Puddles filled in the potholes along the narrow track. Raindrops hung like diamonds from the leaves of the surrounding ferns.

  McKinnon led Bentley and Volkov over to the rearmost Land Rover Discovery, ten metres away at his ten o’clock. Meanwhile Flowers headed for the other Land Rover, parked at an angle eight metres further forward.

  Before leaving, McKinnon had plotted out the route to Leeds Central. The station was a hundred and fifty miles away from the safe house. A two-and-a-half-hour drive. They would reach the police station at around five o’clock.

  He mentally ran through the next several hours in his head. RV with DCI O’Keefe. Get the Russian some medical attention. Then a long stretch of waiting until someone at the NCA fixed them up with an alternative safe house. He figured that they wouldn’t want a high-value target like Volkov sitting around in a police station for longer than necessary. A maximum of twenty-four hours, say. A day from now they would be in a new pad, putting their feet up. McKinnon and Jagielka could go back to bingeing on daytime TV. Flowers could catch up on his tree surgery homework. And Bentley could get back to doing whatever he liked best. Acting like Volkov’s best friend, probably.

  He looked ahead. Flowers had already reached the other Discovery, eight metres away. The guy circled round to the driver’s side, digging the keys out of his pocket, wrenching the door open.

  McKinnon stopped beside the rearmost Discovery, glancing over his shoulder. Bentley was four metres behind him, an arm around Volkov’s shoulder, patiently helping him along.

  A moment later they reached the side of the wagon. Bentley opened the rear passenger door, waiting for Volkov to clamber inside. The Russian was bent forward beside the wagon, hands planted on his knees, gasping for breath, like a runner at the end of a marathon. At the same time Jagielka came hurrying forward from the direction of the safe house, clutching the Russian’s bag. McKinnon grabbed the bag, dumped it in the back seat, nodded at Jagielka.

  ‘Get forward. I’ll the set main alarm. As soon as the house is locked we’ll piss off out of here.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ Jagielka grumbled.

  He turned and paced over to the lead Discovery, moving round to the front passenger side. McKinnon spun round to face Bentley, cocked his head at the Russian.

  ‘What’s wrong with him now?’ he asked.

  Volkov was bent forward at the waist, groaning. Palm of his right hand pressed against the side of the wagon.

  ‘Nothing, sarge,’ said Bentley. ‘Just catching his breath. He’ll be all right. Won’t you, mate?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ Volkov managed. ‘Just weak.’

  ‘Wait here,’ McKinnon said, addressing Bentley. ‘I’ll sort the alarm. He’d better be ready to go then. We ain’t fucking about here any longer.’

  He turned to set off in the direction of the safe house. Took a step forwards and then stopped. Because at that moment he heard Jagielka calling out to him.

  He looked round and saw Jagielka standing beside the other Land Rover Discovery, arm thrust out as he pointed towards the main road. McKinnon looked in the direction the Scouse had indicated, squinting in the pale afternoon light.

  Then he saw it.

  A police van, three hundred metres due south.

  Speeding towards them.

  THREE

  The police van motored down the country road at a decent clip. McKinnon watched it draw steadily closer to the safe house. A white Volkswagen Crafter, emergency lights fixed to the roof, POLICE stencilled across the front panelling in stark blue lettering. Neon yellow and blue stripes running down the side.

  Eight metres ahead of McKinnon, Flowers debussed from behind the wheel of the lead Discovery. He stood beside Jagielka, watching the Crafter as it motored along the winding stretch of asphalt leading towards the safe house. The police van was two hundred metres away from the safe house now and closing fast.

  McKinnon took a couple of steps forward, Bentley moving alongside him, his smooth face creased into a frown. ‘Local plod?’

  McKinnon shrugged. ‘Who else?’

  ‘What are they doing here? We didn’t send for them.’ Bentley tipped his head at the officer. ‘Did we?’

  ‘Wasn’t us, mate.’

  ‘Then who called ’em?’

  McKinnon thought for a moment. ‘Must have been someone at Regional HQ. Or some desk jockey over at the NCA.’

  ‘Whoever told them, they got here fucking quick.’

  ‘They’ll have come up from Penrith,’ McKinnon replied, thinking rapidly. ‘That’s the nearest station.’

  ‘But why? This case has got nothing to do with them.’

  ‘That’s not how they’ll see it.’

  McKinnon had worked his way up from the lowest ranks of a provincial police force to organised crime. He knew the mindset. The new arrivals would want to take charge of the scene. Question McKinnon and the other officers. Put out a description of the delivery van and driver, on the off chance that the guy was still in the area. Make themselves look important. The Lake District wasn’t exactly a crime hotspot. The local police would have the occasional theft of farm equipment to deal with, a few armed robberies, but not much else. This was probably the most exciting call the constabulary had received all year.

  No wonder they’re in such a rush to get here, he thought. They don’t want to miss out on the drama. They probably raced out of the station as soon as they had received the call.

  Bentley grunted. ‘This is the last thing we need,’ he said. ‘We’ll be lucky to make it to Leeds by nightfall at this rate.’

  McKinnon nodded, sharing his frustration.

  We should have been on the road by now, he thought. Instead they would have to waste more time dealing with the local coppers.

  The Crafter slowed to a crawl and turned off the main road. McKinnon watched it arrow down the path leading towards the front drive. The wagon was a hundred metres away from the safe house now. Flowers and Jagielka edged forward, drawing to a halt ten metres ahead of the lead SUV, forming a welcoming party. Bentley and McKinnon were standing fifteen metres further back, cautiously eyeing the police van. McKinnon glanced back and saw Volkov standing beside the rear Discovery, four metres away. The Russian had made a miraculous recovery. Two minutes ago he’d looked desperately sick. Now he stood ramrod straight, eyes locked on the police van.

  McKinnon looked back towards the driveway. At a distance of fifty metres he could just about make out the van driver. A burly policeman in his late forties or early fifties, wearing a standard-issue duty vest over his short-sleeved shirt.

  Jagielka waved at the driver, signalling for him to stop. The Crafter skidded to a halt twenty metres from the officer, at the point where the gravel driveway met the edge of the track.

  ‘Why would they send up a van?’ Ben
tley wondered aloud. ‘They should have just sent up one of their patrol cars, surely?’

  McKinnon sighed and shook his head. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to get this out of the way and get on the road. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’d better go and greet them.’

  He stepped forward with Bentley at his side, the two of them edging away from the rear Discovery. Jagielka and Flowers were fifteen metres ahead of them, ten metres ahead of the lead Discovery, trudging towards the police van.

  The side door on the Crafter sucked open.

  A split second later, McKinnon saw the first figure charging out through the opening.

  Not a cop.

  A gunman.

  And in that instant, he realised they had sleepwalked into an ambush.

  The first gunman out of the Crafter was huge. The biggest guy McKinnon had ever seen. Like the Incredible Hulk bulking up for a weightlifting competition. His shoulders were like a couple of bowling balls on a rack. His legs were as wide as bookcases and he wore a transparent plastic face mask, obscuring his features. The guy was holding an assault rifle in a two-handed grip, McKinnon noticed, an AK-47 assault rifle. An instantly familiar firearm. The gun looked like a child’s toy in his huge hands.

  Three more gunmen quickly piled out of the main passenger cabin in quick succession. All dressed in the same kit as Mr Hulk, only several sizes smaller.

  All of them wielding AK-47s.

  Several things happened very fast.

  Mr Hulk dropped down to the ground and immediately swivelled towards the nearest two targets, Flowers and Jagielka. The second gunman was coming up fast behind his mucker: a thickset, squat guy with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing a tattoo of a spider spinning a web on his left forearm. The two gunmen moved with urgency and controlled aggression, their rifles already raised, Spider shouting at the officers in heavily-accented English.

  ‘Hands up! Don’t fucking move!’

  Jagielka and Flowers stood frozen in shock at the sight of the gunmen swarming towards them. Neither of them reached for their holstered Glock 17s. Time and physics were against them. They would have to go through a whole range of movements in order to bring their weapons to bear: lever their firing hands down to their grips, pull their guns out. Bring the Glocks up to shoulder height. Aim. Fire. Two or three seconds, from start to finish. Whereas the gunmen already had their rifles aimed at the officers’ centre masses.