Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  ‘There!’ Flynn cried. She was looking in the other direction. Maxwell spun, seeing the retreating train – and a figure clinging to it.

  ‘He’s on the fucking train!’ Stone said in disbelief.

  ‘Back to the car,’ Maxwell barked, breaking into a run. ‘We can beat him to the next station.’

  ‘What if he jumps off before then?’ asked Blake. ‘We can’t search the entire countryside. And we’ve drawn too much attention already.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Stone growled. ‘He’s gone Fox Red – we’ve got to nail him. The road goes right alongside the track. If we catch up with the train, we—’

  ‘I can get him,’ Flynn cut in. Absolute certainty in her voice.

  ‘At this fucking range?’ said Stone.

  Maxwell was less doubtful. ‘You sure?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  They reached the BMW. Flynn ducked into the back seat, reappearing with her AX308 rifle. She dropped to one knee for stability and raised it.

  ‘He’ll be out of sight any second,’ Blake cautioned. The train was over half a kilometre away, approaching a stand of trees.

  Flynn didn’t reply, her expression a stern frown of concentration. She lined up the sights, finding the train. Reeve was hanging on to a handrail above its rear wheels. She tracked him, judging the range, the degree of bullet drop. A tough shot, but the target was moving predictably. She slid the crosshairs slightly above and ahead.

  Her finger curled around the trigger. Breathe out, let her heartbeat steady . . .

  The train rocked. Reeve swung on his precarious perch—

  Pull.

  Reeve’s palm slipped down the handrail as the train swayed over bumpy track. He squeezed tighter, catching himself. A glance back as he reached the trees. His pursuers had returned to their car—

  Something exploded in his raised arm.

  Searing pain overcame his senses. He lost his hold – and fell—

  His other hand had clutched the steps for extra support. It saved his life. His left arm flopped limply as he clung on with his right. A heel caught the ballast, kicking up stones. The jolt almost dragged him loose. Panic surged – then his mind caught up. You’ve been shot! Pull yourself up!

  Reeve flattened himself against the train’s side. He managed to raise his flailing foot. Gripping the steps, he looked at his wounded arm.

  The bullet had gone through his biceps. Torn muscle glistened with running blood.

  He needed to stop the bleeding, but couldn’t let go with his other hand. He strained hard to twist and press his right arm against it. The pain was so intense he almost lost his grip again. Somehow, he held on, refusing to surrender.

  He lifted his head. A burst of blood surrounded a bullet hole at the door’s foot. Had anyone aboard heard the impact?

  If they had, the train wasn’t stopping for it. He looked towards the road. It tracked the railway, intermittently visible through trees and undulating terrain. Vehicles swept along it. None were SC9’s BMW.

  But it would surely be coming after him.

  Muscles burning, he hung from the train, struggling not to pass out.

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘Did you get him?’ Maxwell demanded.

  Flynn lowered the rifle. ‘I definitely hit him. I saw blood.’

  ‘Did he fall off?’

  ‘I didn’t see. He went behind the trees.’

  ‘Then maybe you only scratched him,’ said Stone, accusing. She shot him a dirty look.

  Blake stared after the train. ‘Always confirm the kill. That’s my motto.’

  Maxwell entered the car. ‘Let’s get to the station.’ Glenfinnan was less than three miles away. They could beat the train.

  Reeve peered ahead through pain-clenched eyes as the train rounded a bend. A stone bridge carried the main road over the line. He remembered the landmark; Glenfinnan was not far beyond.

  The train began to slow. The deceleration rocked him, his right arm coming away from the wound. He gasped as his blood-soaked sleeve tugged at the torn skin. Eyes streaming, he clung on and waited.

  He had never been to the station itself. It was set back from the A830 on a side road. But he remembered there was a hotel before it, close to the line. If he jumped off there, he might find another vehicle before SC9 arrived.

  The train rolled under the bridge. Stonework sliced past. Then he was through, passing a cottage and going over another bridge. The station was in sight. Trees rose on both sides of the track. He was out of sight of the road. The train had slowed to twenty miles per hour—

  He threw himself clear.

  This time, he couldn’t cross his arms. He landed hard on his side. A breathless cry as he tumbled helplessly – then he crashed against a bush. Twigs slashed at his face.

  The train rolled on, steel screams fading. Reeve struggled to sit up. He could still use his left arm, but every movement was agonising. He staggered to his feet.

  The rear of a white building was visible through the trees. The hotel. He pressed his right hand to the wound and stumbled across the track. Into the trees—

  Noise from the road, a car’s engine roaring. Reeve instinctively dropped low. It powered past. A skirl of stressed rubber as it braked hard. It was going to the station.

  He picked his way through the undergrowth to find himself behind the hotel. Nobody in sight. He warily moved down the building’s side. The road was just ahead. He stopped at the hotel’s corner. No sign of the speeding car.

  Across the road was a gravel car park, several vehicles in it. A sign confirmed it belonged to the hotel. He regarded the cars. All were too modern to hot-wire easily. There were ways, but he lacked tools – and time.

  One car had a trailer, though . . .

  He scurried across the road. Still nobody in sight. Acting as nonchalantly as a man with a bloodied arm could, he entered the car park. The car with the trailer was a Peugeot estate – with two dogs in the back. They responded to his approach by barking angrily.

  Ignoring them, he reached the trailer. A crumpled tarpaulin part-covered sacks of loam and large earthenware plant pots. A look at the hotel. The barking hadn’t drawn attention – yet. He clambered into the trailer. It rocked under his weight. The dogs’ fury rose as the car jolted. Reeve pulled the tarp over himself. Hand on the wound, he turned on his side to keep it above his heart. That was all he could do to minimise the bleeding.

  He waited, hoping the Peugeot’s driver would return soon – and not check his cargo.

  Blake skidded to a stop at the station. The BMW’s occupants piled out. ‘Careful,’ Maxwell warned, seeing people on the platform. ‘Lots of civvies around.’ East of Glenfinnan was a viaduct that featured prominently in the Harry Potter films. There was a regular steam train service: the Jacobite. Potter fans, trainspotters and connoisseurs of stunning scenery all congregated here.

  The arriving train was a mundane diesel Sprinter. Maxwell strode briskly to the platform, hand close to the gun beneath his jacket. Stone and Flynn had, sensibly, left their rifles in the car. Maxwell headed towards the train’s rear as it pulled up. Flynn came with him, Stone and Blake covering the station’s other end.

  Reeve had been on the Sprinter’s far side. Maxwell waited for it to stop, then crossed the track. His fingers slipped around his gun’s grip. If he was there . . .

  He wasn’t. But there was a faint splash of rain-washed blood on the carriage’s side.

  Reeve couldn’t have entered the train without anyone knowing. The doors were controlled by the driver, and all the windows were intact. So had he jumped, or fallen? Maxwell looked back along the track. Nobody in sight.

  Blake hurried towards him from the platform’s far end. ‘He’s not between the carriages. Or under them.’

  Maxwell pursed his lip
s, then addressed Flynn. ‘Where did you hit him?’

  ‘His arm,’ she replied.

  He regarded the bloodstain again as the door slid shut. A bullet hole was at the heart of the elongated teardrop. The round had gone straight through Reeve’s arm. It hadn’t hit an artery, though; the splatter wasn’t big enough. A flesh wound. Big, painful – but survivable. Unless the initial shock made him fall, Reeve had probably kept his hold.

  The train pulled away with a diesel roar. The passengers filed across the track in its wake. Maxwell, Flynn and Blake remained still, Stone joining them. ‘So he’s not here,’ said the Londoner. ‘Where is he?’

  Maxwell didn’t answer. ‘Go back to the car,’ he ordered instead. ‘There’s a car park opposite the hotel back along the road. Wait for me there.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘To check something. Cover me so the staff don’t see.’ They crossed back to the end of the main platform. The others took up position to obscure him as he jogged down the track.

  He surveyed the line, looking for any signs of a disturbance. Even at low speed, Reeve would have had a hard landing . . .

  He had covered a hundred and fifty metres when he saw it. Scattered ballast, on the other side of the track. Something had hit the ground hard enough to knock stones flying. His gaze went to the vegetation beyond. Churned mud, flattened grass – and a broken bush.

  It had to be where Reeve had jumped off the train. Where had he gone?

  Maxwell examined the ground with a detective’s intensity. No footprints in the dirt beyond the bush, so . . .

  There! Red spots on a sleeper. The rain hadn’t yet washed the blood away. It had been left very recently. Reeve couldn’t have got far.

  His eyes followed the path from the bush to the blood, and beyond. There was a building through the trees. The hotel. Reeve might have found a car already—

  Maxwell ran down the slope. Nobody in the hotel’s rear garden. He hurried for the road.

  ‘All right! I’m coming.’

  Reeve heard a Scottish man approaching the car. He stayed motionless under the tarp. The dogs kept barking. ‘Quiet now,’ the man said as he got in. ‘Quiet!’

  The animals continued their warning, but were ignored as their owner started the car. A lurch, then Reeve was in motion.

  The journey was only a few metres. The Peugeot paused at the exit, waiting for traffic to pass. Gravel crunched as another car pulled into the car park – coming in fast. A shot of fear. Had Maxwell and the others found his trail?

  The Peugeot pulled out, turning east. Reeve listened, expecting the other car to come after him . . .

  It didn’t. If it was SC9, they had stopped.

  Relief, tempered by pain. Each jolt from the road felt like a kick. But he endured it. He would have to, until his ride ended. Wherever that might be.

  But at least he was clear of his last identifiable position – and of his hunters.

  Maxwell ran to the car park. The others emerged from the BMW to meet him. ‘He was here,’ he said. ‘Jumped off the train before it reached the station.’

  ‘So where is he now?’ Stone demanded.

  ‘Either looking for a car, or holing up to treat his wound.’ He was about to say more when he heard a siren. ‘We’ve drawn enough attention. We need to leave.’

  ‘What about Reeve?’ said Stone. ‘For all we know, he might be in that car.’ He pointed after the departed Peugeot. ‘We should check.’

  Blake’s response was scathing. ‘What, stop it at gunpoint on a public road with the police on the way?’

  Stone scowled at him. ‘If we have to. The boss can get us off.’

  ‘The boss can get us off,’ cut in Maxwell, ‘for some things. Breach of Section 19 of the Firearms Act isn’t one of them. You should know that. Beyond a certain point, we’re on our own. Do you want to be sent down before you even officially make Operative?’ The big man’s expression was a mix of anger and abashment. ‘John, help me with the plates.’

  Blake took a pair of number plates from the boot. He clamped one magnetically over the existing rear plate; the registrations were different. Maxwell did the same at the front. SC9’s vehicles had been chosen because they were common and anonymous. With the plates changed, the 5-Series would not be identified by the police – in theory.

  ‘That might be a giveaway,’ Flynn noted, indicating the dented bodywork.

  ‘The cops have bigger things to worry about,’ said Maxwell. They all re-entered the car. ‘We need a new plan of action. Organise a search, check with local police and hospitals for anyone with gunshot wounds. And,’ he added with a heavy sigh, ‘I have to report everything to the boss.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Blake said. He brought the BMW to the exit, halting as a police car tore past. Everyone tensed, but it didn’t stop. If it had a digital plate reader, it had accepted the replacements as real. He pulled out, heading back west.

  Stone was first to break the silence. ‘So,’ he said to Maxwell, ‘I passed, then?’

  CHAPTER 13

  Staying conscious in the trailer was the hardest thing Reeve had ever done. The simplest way to counter his slips towards oblivion was also the worst. He squeezed his wounded arm, pain blasting him awake.

  The journey ended after thirty minutes. The Peugeot stopped, its driver opening the boot. Both dogs howled again. ‘Shut up, you buggers!’ the man complained. He pulled the still-barking animals out and led them away.

  Reeve waited until he heard a house door close, then rose. A new surge of pain from his arm. He let it subside, then pulled away the tarp. Where was he?

  A drab residential street. From his travel time, either Fort William or neighbouring Inverlochy. The Peugeot had stopped on a drive leading up to a house. Nobody at the windows. He climbed from the trailer, stiff and aching.

  Blood was still oozing from his arm. He needed to wash and bandage it at the very least. It really required sterilising and stitches, but that was not an option. At a hospital, the staff would by law have to report the gunshot wound. The police would soon get involved – followed by SC9.

  He went to the road, aware of how conspicuous he looked. Luckily, the street was quiet. The rain was keeping people indoors.

  Which way? He turned right at random. Small houses faced him on both sides. A side street led uphill. He was about to pass it when he heard voices.

  Two elderly women were chatting at the gate of the second house up. The apparent owner, holding an umbrella, had come out to meet her passing friend. The front door was open.

  No car outside. She was probably the only person in. Reeve hesitated, a moment of moral distaste at his plan, then continued on.

  He passed the house at the bottom of the street. It was surrounded by a waist-high wooden fence. No one in sight. He climbed over and hurried uphill through the garden. Over another fence, and he was behind the old lady’s home.

  He went to the back door. It wasn’t locked. Another twinge of disgust, then he slipped through.

  The kitchen. The inner door was closed. He dimly heard voices; the owner was still outside. He quickly checked the cupboards. Would she keep medicines and first-aid materials here, or in the bathroom? Crockery, food, food—

  A clutch of dark bottles and packs of cold remedies. But he was more interested in the translucent Tupperware box beside them. A moment to listen. The women were still talking. He opened the container.

  Assorted waterproof plasters, a packet of paracetamol painkillers – and a roll of gauze dressing. He took them all to the sink and ran the hot tap. A gas boiler hissed, steam rising.

  Reeve gritted his teeth, then peeled off his hoodie. The sleeve was stuck to his skin with congealed blood. A choked gasp as it tore free. He dropped the wet garment. The tap was a mixer; he adjusted it to just below scalding.

 
Then he held the wound beneath it.

  The pain was so fierce he almost screamed. He held it in, only a strained groan escaping. Blood sluiced into the sink. He ran more water over his arm. The cloying red mess around the injury slowly dissolved.

  He examined it. The bullet had gone through the short head of his biceps. Despite the pain, he knew he had been lucky. It could have been far worse. He turned off the tap, then listened. The conversation outside had stopped. Was the old lady coming back?

  Move fast. He wrapped the dressing around his upper arm. More daggers drove into the torn muscle. Holding it in place against his chest, he fumbled with the plasters. Four of them, clumsily applied, stuck the bandage down.

  He grabbed his bloodied hoodie and the painkillers, then hurried to the back door. Footsteps; the woman was inside. He darted into the garden and ran to the fence.

  A shrill cry from behind as he vaulted it. She had discovered his break-in. He ducked into the cover of the lower house, putting his ruined top back on. His arm burned as the sleeve tugged at the bandage. But at least now the wound was covered.

  The police would be here in minutes. He had to get clear. A man in blood-soaked clothing would be an instant target for arrest if sighted. He swallowed two pills, then rapidly departed.

  Twenty minutes later, Reeve was on the shore of Loch Linnhe.

  Following a circuitous route into town, he had spotted a sign for a truck park. That was what he needed. He had to travel not merely incognito, but unseen.

  The truck park was near a supermarket. Seven articulated lorries stood in it. Reeve walked by as if heading to the shop. He read the names and logos on the vehicles as he passed. A local haulier was little use to him. Someone returning to a depot beyond the Highlands would be preferable.

  Three vehicles were based in Fort William or nearby. That left four. Two had solid locks on their trailer doors. Only two left. One had a driver in the cab, eating a sandwich. About to leave? His truck was based in Glasgow. A drive of roughly three hours. And a city would give Reeve places to hide.

  Not drawing attention, he looped back around behind the trucks. His target vehicle’s trailer was closed, but not padlocked. Nobody watching him. He opened it and peered inside. Its cargo had apparently been delivered. All it contained were pallets and lengths of torn plastic wrap.