And then it happened. The flowers were an illusion to hide the fact she was holding a gun. The stumble to distract him from the man coming in the other direction who reached to his hip. The woman’s partner threw himself sideways off the path. Her gun came up, and Croft dropped sideways, throwing himself behind the tree. In the emptiness of the cemetery, the noise of her gun was deafening, and he heard several rounds impact the oak. Then he was on his knee, gun up, aiming at the man who he was not shielded from, saw the gun pulled free, coming up, aiming.
Croft put three in the guy’s chest right over the heart, saw the guy’s arm jerk up and fire off wildly. As he fell, Croft put another towards the legs and saw it enter just above the right knee. Even with chest armour, the pain from that leg wound would give Croft time, especially as the man lost the grip on his gun as he fell to the floor. He heard the other two moving. They would try and flank him, coming at him from both sides of the tree, so he moved. He fired another shot at the fallen man, heard the impact and the cry and stepped out from behind the tree towards the other threat, gun up, firing as he went … 11 shots left, 10. He felt a round hit his right ear, ignored it, found his targets, centred on the first. One was running, panicking; the other, the woman, was the one firing at him, a look of surprise and shock in her eyes. They hadn’t expected things to go down like this; they hadn’t expected him to come out shooting. They had underestimated him. Her stance was off, she didn’t have control, her shots not accurate. Croft was the trained one, the professional, the man who had killed before and who would kill again. He was the man who could outshoot any of the men who had served under him, who had faced enemy fire and who knew what to expect when the bullets started flying. So barring the miraculous, there was really only one outcome from all this. And so, without a moment’s hesitation, he put one round straight into the woman’s forehead. The impact sent her backwards, the front of the skull cratering from the impact, the back of the head exploding as the round exited, taking much of her brain with it. She was dead almost instantly, and he moved forward as he aimed at the last attacker.
“Stop, don’t make me shoot you in the back,” Croft shouted, looking left, seeing the lone man moaning, gun out of arm’s reach behind him on the path. The remaining man stopped and turned, fear riddled across his face. “Hands on your head, palms up.” The man did what he was told, visibly shaking with fear. “Interlock your fingers.” Croft walked around the man so that he could see all three without turning his head, then came up behind the guy and kicked out his legs, sending him painfully to the floor. This was definitely no professional hit. These guys were amateurs. What the hell was this? Nobody got mugged at gunpoint in a cemetery at ten in the morning.
“What have you done?” the man cried. “How could you do this?”
“What have I done? I defended myself, you wanker.” With that, he holstered his weapon and took the man from behind in a rear naked choke, his strong arm constricting the carotid arteries. Ten seconds of struggling and the man was out cold. A quick pat down revealed no weapons and no ID. Why would only two of them be armed?
Croft stood up and looked around. He heard nothing moving – the noise of the fire fight would have scared off most of the wildlife. How many people even heard the commotion? This time, he did turn on his Bluetooth as he walked over to the shot man.
“Call Control,” he said to the Bluetooth. There was a beep and the phone rang for two cycles.
“Control here.”
“Control, this is Croft, voice recognition, please.”
“Voice recognition accepted. Verification code required.”
“Alpha, Gamma, Foxtrot, 154783, Lima, Echo.”
“Thank you, Major Croft,” said the unseen female. “What do you need?”
“GPS on my location. Get GCHQ on the line; I need video feed surveillance checked for the last hour around Brookwood Cemetery and railway station. I have been targeted by armed attackers and have had to use lethal force. I have three suspects down, one certainly dead.” Croft gave the woman a description of the three people and knelt down by the first man. Knee shot, groin shot and a hell of a lot of blood. The bullet had probably ripped open the femoral artery. He patted the man down, noticed the chest Kevlar. Again there was no ID. Amateurs with body armour? That made even less sense.
“Please hold.”
One dead, one dying, one unconscious. This one would likely bleed out before the emergency services got here, and Croft decided not to do anything to alter that fact. He was not a forgiving sort at the best of times. Taking out his phone, he switched it to the camera feature and held the man’s head as he took two close ups. Running a final check for weapons, he stood up and retrieved the discarded gun and walked over to the woman. Checking her pulse to confirm her death, he looked into her lifeless eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” It was a question that needed answering, and he took two more photos. The voice came into his ear again
“Three suspects matching your descriptions were seen exiting a car in the cemetery car park 40 minutes ago. There were four people in the car. I have GCHQ running their biometrics through Mother.” Mother, the core of the UK intelligence infrastructure. A vast central database, a super computer that could track virtually every human being through every transport hub, along every street, anywhere it was connected to the CCTV network. All those facial images stored, all that biometric data collected and collated. And virtually nobody knew the damned thing existed.
“I’m sending you pictures, should help speed up Mother’s recognition. Get the local police out here to seal off the area. I’ve got a live one here, so I’ll need MI5 on scene.” The police would arrive, their superintendent having been phoned directly. They would seal off the area, and then the questions would probably start. Croft would be patient, would explain that this was now an MI5 matter, that he would only discuss the matter with their superior officers. He would show them his official ID. Major David Croft, Military Police of her Majesty’s armed forces. If the officer was clued up, the questions would stop there. If not, if the person speaking to him persisted, it would not be great for that individual’s career prospects.
“Do we have eyes on the fourth assailant?”
“Yes. GCHQ report he has left the scene. Two SCO19 units have been sent to intercept. We have a helicopter unit en-route.” SCO19 designation, the firearms units of the Metropolitan police. If these had been trained killers, he would have advised against that. But his analysis at the scene suggested these weren’t experts.
“Control, you better let Whitehall know I’m probably going to be late for that meeting.”
10AM, 17th February, 2008, Whitehall, London
He had been waiting for thirty minutes, which was about right. This was generally how it always was. How many times had he sat outside offices like this, either government or his senior commanders? When you sat with nothing to preoccupy your time, you tended to notice things. Decorated probably a hundred years ago, the room’s ornate nature a façade of greatness long since faded. He looked around, noticed the signs of decay, the signs of an empire that now existed only in the history books. A bit of peeling wallpaper here, a chipped skirting board there. Threadbare, stained carpets and windows that could really do with some double glazing and a lick of paint. The whole of Parliament was like this. Old, unrepaired, and in need of a damned good clean. Rumour had it that there was an electrician on site to deal with all the electrical fires that kept breaking out from the ageing wiring that the taxpayers didn’t seem to have the money to replace. And yet, despite letting their own home rot under their very feet, the government still had the money for war, still had money to keep the Parliamentary wine cellar well stocked. Croft could have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all; after all, there wasn’t much else in his life to laugh about these days.
Croft shifted nervously on his chair, its wooden carved arms unpadded and uncomfortable, probably deliberately so. His right knee throbbed as it often did at this time
of year, the cold no good for his apparently healed injuries. Despite being inside, it was as if someone had forgotten to turn on the central heating, and he kept his winter coat on. Admittedly, these were all minor discomforts compared to what he had endured so far in his life. Still, it would have been nice if someone had at least brought him a cup of tea.
There was a sound, and the door to the inner sanctum opened. Out stepped the thin and gaunt humourless woman who had led him to this waiting area from the front desk of the building when he had arrived. “Captain Croft, they are ready for you now.” Croft nodded his agreement and stood, his right knee cracking loudly. He took the four steps over to where she waited and stepped through the threshold. The woman remained outside and closed the door behind him.
“Captain, apologies for keeping you waiting. Affairs of state and all that.” Croft recognised the elderly man who strode towards him, the present Home Secretary David Pendlebury. He walked further into the room and shook the proffered hand. There were two other men in the room with them, both seated, neither of them Croft knew. “This is Arnold Craver, Head of the Centre for the Protection of National Infrastructure.”
“MI5?” Croft asked, knowing the answer. Craver nodded in agreement.
“This is Sir Peter Milnes, Commissioner of the Police of the Metropolis.” Neither of the seated men stood or offered their hand. “Please, Captain, have a seat.”
“I presume this is where I learn why I have been trundled into a car and brought to London, sir?” Croft sat down, this leather seat infinitely more comfortable than the one outside.
“Yes, sorry about that, old boy,” Pendlebury said. “Secrecy and all that. So let’s get to it. Craver?” Craver lifted a briefcase off the floor and placed it on his lap; opening it, he withdrew a thick folder and set the briefcase back down. He looked at Croft for a second and then opened the folder.
“Captain Croft of Her Majesty’s Royal Military Police, age 38. Formerly a commissioned officer in the Black Watch and the Special Boat Service. Graduated top of his class at Sandhurst. Two tours of Afghanistan. Three Tours of Northern Ireland. Saw action in Iraq and various other theatres that remain classified. Winner of two Military Crosses and the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. Mentioned in Dispatches countless times. Presently with the Royal Military Police at Regimental headquarters.” Craver closed the folder. “Quite an impressive CV, Captain.”
“I do what I can, sir. But I suspect we aren’t here to talk about my service record.”
“No, Captain, we aren’t,” said Milnes. “You are here because someone thinks you are the man for a job we require filling.” Milnes stood up and walked over to a decanter set on a sideboard. “Drink, Captain?”
“No, thank you, sir, never touch the stuff.” Especially not before lunch time.
“Well, I trust you won’t mind if I indulge,” Milne said as he poured himself a short measure. Ice followed. At the side of the decanter was a clipboard which Milne picked up. He took a sip of his precious drink, savouring its texture for a brief moment. He brought the clipboard over to Croft. “Before we continue, you need to read this, and if you agree to it, sign it.” Croft took the clipboard and took off the attached pen. He started to read it.
I agree that the information I am about to receive is Top Secret…
Official Secret Act blah blah blah
Disclosure will result in life imprisonment, etc., etc.
Croft sighed to himself and skipped to the last page, leaving the bulk of the document unread. He signed it and handed it back to Milne, pen attached. There were undoubtedly over a dozen similar documents with his signature on it lurking in filing cabinets in the bowels of some secure office somewhere. One more wouldn’t make any difference.
“Very good, Captain,” said Pendlebury. “Now to business. We need a job doing, one that you and several others like you are eminently qualified for. Did you ever wonder why you were pushed into joining the military police?”
“Yes, to be honest. After Afghanistan, I was expecting to be asked to resign my commission due to the … medical issues I had.” That had been a surprise when it didn’t happen. He’d been kept on in an administration role after his release from the German hospital and had received intense counselling above what was normally provided. The physical injuries had been the least of it; it had been the trauma to his mind that had nearly ended him. Then a job offer at the Royal Military Police had been pushed upon him, which he had accepted on the advice of several senior officers who he knew and respected, and who had each visited him personally.
“You were being groomed, Major,” said Craver.
“I’m a captain, sir.”
“Not if you accept the job, Croft,” said Pendlebury.
“So this isn’t an interview then?”
“No, Croft, it’s an offer. Let me tell you what will be expected of you,” said Pendlebury with a smile. “And we will need your answer before you leave this room.”
Croft had left the room a major, on a much higher salary, far in excess of what the army usually paid for the rank. He was to be given a residence in Waterloo so he would be close to Whitehall. He would retain his military police position but would probably never set foot in a uniform again. Croft and four others like him had been chosen to be the trouble shooters, the fixers. They would be the ones who got the phone call in the dead of night. They would be the ones who would deal with the things the conventional emergency services didn’t even know about. Croft presumed there had been others before him, others tasked with the job he now had. He didn’t ask what happened to them. Croft was a soldier; he knew what happened to them. They either died, or they became obsolete, a fate he himself would face at some point in the future. But what the hell, he had nothing better to do.
10.54AM, 14th September 2015, Hounslow, London
Jack didn’t mind working in the fast food establishment. It had been his weekend job since he was sixteen (his father had insisted on it), and his manager allowed him flexibility with his hours. His manager had known Jack’s dad and had wanted to help the family out as best he could, which Jack had obviously appreciated. Although working at the tills or in the kitchen could be mind-numbing, it was sometimes just what he needed to anaesthetise his brain and give him a reason for being out of the house. Plus, he had friends here, and the money helped keep his sister in her precious Disney paraphernalia.
“I’ll have a burger with medium fries and a large full-fat coke please,” the umpteenth customer of the day said. Although the grossly obese customer looked like he really should be eating salad rather than food riddled with fructose and trans fatty acids, Jack just went through the motions, smiling a repetitive smile, laying out the tray, taking the customer’s money. When he eventually presented the food, the customer thanked him and moved away to one of the tables to enjoy his most splendid feast that would probably harden his arteries just by touching it. It was then that Jack saw trouble come in.
The three teenagers that entered were well known in the locality, and not for their humanitarian activities. They were also barred from the restaurant, for very good reasons. And if they hadn’t been barred, the fact that they had all walked in smoking would have seen to that in an instant. Jack wasn’t the only one to have spotted them – his manager had too.
“Oh for fucks sake,” Clive the manager said under his breath. Clive was as tall as Jack, but where Jack was slim, Clive was built like a brick shit house. But as Jack knew, he also had a heart condition brought on by years of smoking, unhealthy eating and his advanced years. Although in his mid-fifties, and although Clive now smoked only electronic cigs, his angina seemed to get worse as the months progressed. As physically imposing as he was on the outside, the organs on the inside were weak and failing. He was no longer a force to be reckoned with. “Oy you lot, I’ve told you, you’re barred,” the manager shouted at the new arrivals. They swaggered forward anyway.
“That’s no way to treat a customer,” the leader of the gang said. Owen Pa
tterson was a nasty piece of work. Dripping the arrogance of youth and wrapped up in the blanket of sociopathy, Owen did not seem intimidated by Clive’s obvious size advantage.
“Out, or we call the police,” Clive said stepping from around the counter. He bunched his fists together, trying to ignore the gnawing pain that was threatening to stab into his chest. The three white yobs stood inside the entrance to the establishment, one even leering at a female customer, and Clive took another step towards them. Jack followed him from out behind the counter, backing him up. There were only five other customers present, and they eyed the developing situation nervously.
“Well, will you look at these two black bastards,” Owen said. It was obvious to Jack that he was trying to goad Clive, and Jack put a restraining hand on his boss’ arm. Clive looked back at him and seemed to physically calm. He nodded to Jack and shouted for one of the other staff members who appeared from out of the kitchen.
“Beth, code seven.” Beth nodded and dipped her hand under the counter by one of the cash registers. Clive turned to Owen. “So do you want to leave now, or be dragged away by the cops when they arrive? It’s your choice.”
Cobra Z Page 4