by Iain Cameron
‘It’s always horrible in the back of the van,’ Hamilton said beside him. ‘There are no windows and the suspension is no better than a go-cart. This is the reason we have a rota for the driver and the passenger seat.’
‘I need to be on that list,’ Matt said, smiling, the cool air slowly helping him recover.
‘Constable Vickers,’ Waller said, ‘you lead the way. You know where you’re going.’
Vickers led them over to what would look to a delivery driver or walker like a lay-by. Nearby and shrouded by trees and bushes, was an easily-missed road wide enough for a single car. Clearly, no matter how much someone wanted to live a remote, solitary existence, they always needed vehicular access. Even with a fully-furnished place, a hermit still required the use of a car if they wanted to eat, as there were no shops nearby.
The team walked as quietly as they could, but there was little point. Crickets and cicadas were making such a racket it would drown out the rattle from a noisy truck engine.
Villa Fortuna appeared through the bushes. It looked like any other large and luxurious holiday villa: massive swimming pool with inflatables floating on top of the water; six sun loungers around the edge; a barbeque to one side, and the toys of children lying haphazardly around where they had been discarded.
The four members of the house raiding party waited while the three officers designated to guard potential escape routes moved to their places at the far side of the villa. Waller had told them he would do a visual check to confirm their position, as he had called for radio silence. The team’s movement down the access road may have been drowned out by noisy insects, but radio static was such an alien sound it would prick the ears of any insomniac, or an on-the-run criminal like Simon Wood.
They crept quietly to the front of the villa, mindful of where they were stepping as there was all manner of detritus lying around. The injudicious placing of a foot might wake up a talking alphabet set, or the air would be echoing to the sounds of the squeaker inside a rubber alligator.
The doors of the house were locked, but Matt wouldn’t expect anything different from a criminal, keen to protect his ill-gotten gains from the sticky fingers of the local tea leaf. Looking around, Matt spotted the red winking eye of an alarm system. Normally such a system would alert the police if it detected the presence of an intruder, but Matt imagined Wood’s main purpose in having one installed was to give him early warning of a police raid like this one.
The house had a lovely entrance, a pale oak door with windows lining either side, but even it succumbed within two bashes from brawny Constable Hamilton armed with a door basher. The raid team ran upstairs with the alarm ominously beeping. Any moment now, it would release its venom, and shriek louder than ten sugar-infused children. They soon located the main bedroom and, due to a combination of the early start and their quick entrance into the house, found Wood in bed with his wife.
He was groggy from booze or a deep sleep, and hardly noticed when Waller reached under his pillow and divested him of the pistol lying there. He also picked up the phone from the bedside table and handed it to Rosie.
‘What the hell is the meaning of this?’ his partner exclaimed, looking more awake than Wood seemed to be. Realising her bedroom interlopers were cops and not vengeance-thirsty drug dealers, her face lost its frightened expression and became one of outrage; Mrs Angry of Antigua. ‘This is a bloody disgrace! Get out of my house or the Governor will hear about this!’
In a pre-planned move, Waller, Rosie, and Matt dragged Wood out of the room and downstairs. Constable Hamilton was left in the room to ensure his partner didn’t leave, and to corral any children who turned up looking for their mother.
They took Wood downstairs and dumped him in a chair in the spacious lounge. A few lights were switched on, and they made clear: the man of the moment was looking worse for wear.
‘Been sampling some of your own products, have you, Simon?’ Matt said.
‘Something like that. It’s taken a while but I’ve now realised cocaine doesn’t mix well with Argentinian Malbec. What am I doing, talking to you people? Who the hell are you lot?’ His bleary eyes focussed on them for the first time. ‘Fuck me! It’s you, Flynn! What the fuck are you doing here, in my house?’
‘You, my friend are under arrest for murder, kidnap, drug trafficking. I could go on.’
Just then, they heard gunfire.
FORTY-SEVEN
On hearing the rat-tat of gunfire, and more through instinct than fearing for his life, Matt ducked. He moved to the window, teased open the blinds a crack and peered outside as Waller killed the lights. A few seconds later his eyes adjusted to the gloom, but from the flashes and shouts, he couldn’t make out who was shooting at whom.
‘Chris,’ Matt said, ‘I think you need to break radio silence.’
He lifted his radio and broadcasted his call sign. His face was grim when he removed the radio from his ear a few moments later. ‘As far as I can tell, there are two opponents, and one of my officers has received gunshot wounds.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Matt said. He turned to the prisoner. ‘Who are these people, Wood?’
‘Why should I tell you, you bastard? I want you dead.’
Realising he would get nothing out of him, and he didn’t have time to question him further, Matt searched for a place to anchor him. In the UK, a suspect could be chained to a central heating radiator, but here in the Caribbean he doubted if many residents owned a jumper.
‘We’ll drag him,’ he said to Waller and indicating Wood, ‘into the kitchen.’
‘Why?’ Rosie asked.
‘We need to cuff him and make sure he doesn’t escape. I can’t see anything suitable in here. Then, we need to go outside and help them,’ he said, jerking his thumb backwards in the direction of the garden. ‘C’mon, let’s do this.’
They dragged him into the kitchen, but again found nothing heavy to chain him to. ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ Matt said.
Matt pushed Wood on his front and, despite weak protests, handcuffed his hands behind his back. ‘Tie his legs with the flex from the kettle,’ he said to Waller.
‘What the fuck are you doing to me?’ Wood protested. ‘I’m trussed up like a fucking chicken.’
‘If you don’t shut up I’m going to drag you outside and hope you get hit by a stray bullet. Does that sound better?’
‘Maybe it’ll hit you instead. Chance would be a fine thing.’
Guns drawn, Matt, Rosie, and Waller moved through the house to the stricken front door. Using his radio, Waller contacted the three officers outside and asked them to identify their positions. Matt could now tell from the sounds of the discharges which shots were being fired by the police and those by the opposition.
‘Tell your men to stop firing unless they are under direct attack. I’m going after the gunmen.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ Waller said.
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded.
‘Okay. Rosie, take a covered position near the house with a good view of the front door. If any of the gunmen approach, shoot them.’
‘Right.’
Matt, with Waller in his wake, headed for the bushes at one side of the garden. Once there, they made for the end of the garden, and judging by the sound of crashing waves, it was taking them closer to the cliffs.
The bushes they were creeping through were a mix of various leaves and colours but what they had in common was their small size and sparse foliage, suggesting they had recently been planted. This wouldn’t be a problem in darkness, but with light levels increasing all the time, anyone looking in their direction would be able to spot their movement.
Matt moved forward in a broad arc, intending to come up behind the gunmen. A few seconds later, he spotted one of them. He and Waller watched for a few moments, but didn’t think this was one of the ex-Marine hard nuts as Rosie first feared.
If so, they would have come better equipped, with rifles and night-sights r
ather than handguns. They would also move from position to position, not static, making it difficult for the officer they were shooting at to pin them down. Instead, they appeared to be sloppy security guards, unused to being in a gun battle with better-trained police.
The guy Matt had spotted was talking to a companion, so the two of them had to be in close proximity. Waller seemed to read his mind as he indicated with a hand his intention to go after the other guy.
Matt gave Waller a minute to move into position behind his guy before he himself crept forward. Matt was about three metres away before his guy realised he had been made. Matt ran the remaining distance and booted the gun out of the gunman’s hand. The guy screamed and grasped his damaged hand before Matt punched him on the side of the head. He wrapped his arm around his throat and squeezed, hard.
‘Ahhhh. I can’t breathe.’
He could hear the sounds of Waller doing something similar with his guy.
‘Tell your mate to put his gun down.’ Matt growled into his ear.
‘You’ve got it all wrong, par’ner. I think you and your mate should put your guns down,’ another voice said. ‘And I’d like you to let my people go.’
Matt turned. In the dull light of dawn, he saw the barrel of a well-used, scratched M16 carbine pointing at him. It was being held by a heavy-set guy, ex-American Special Forces he imagined by the accent, steady grip of his weapon, and a picture book of regimental tats running up his broad arms.
Matt released his hold on the guy, who started rubbing his neck as if he’d had a noose around it, the prat.
‘And the gun,’ the big guy said. ‘Throw it over there,’ he said with a nod of his head.
As he did so, Waller appeared, another heavy-set guy holding a gun at his back, and the guy he tried to get a drop on, rubbing his sore face.
Matt was keeping one eye on the guy he’d grabbed, and he more or less emailed his next move. A fist shot out, but Matt was ready and ducked to one side to avoid it. He swung a fist in return. His connection was better than his opponent, as the guy fell into the bushes. Matt didn’t have time to savour the moment, as his legs turned to jelly and the lights went out after something smacked him in the head.
FORTY-EIGHT
When Matt came to, he was sitting on the patio at the side of the pool, his back against a pillar. His eyes were having trouble focussing, but at least the blue expanse of the pool was visible.
A few seconds later, he realised several people were beside him: Rosie, the Antiguan cops, and Chris Waller. All of them had their hands tied behind their backs with plastic ties. None looked injured, only the cop Waller had told him about earlier. Someone had wrapped a bandage around his damaged arm, but blood was already seeping through.
‘What happened?’ he asked Waller.
‘Hi Matt.’ Waller said quietly. ‘I’m glad to see you’re back in the land of the living. How are you feeling?’
‘Woozy, with a bloody big headache.’
‘I’m not surprised. The big bastard, who I think is the leader, smacked you hard with his rifle butt.’
‘What’s going on here?’
‘I assume, but I don’t know for sure, Wood is packing up and getting the hell out.’
Matt tried to process this. Wood had engaged the TFF to kill him, and they’d failed. No way would he pass up the opportunity now to kill him himself before he left. He hadn’t recognised Matt in the house, as Wood was too groggy with sleep, coke and wine, but time had passed and as sure as hell, he would recognise him now.
When the Antiguan cops had handed out the weapons in the van, Matt had taken a knife and placed it in his leather leg sheath. It was something he wore at all times, even on plane journeys, as it was stitched, not rivetted, and didn’t trigger the metal detectors. The knife was still there now. It was clear, the guys who’d made the drop on him and Waller were better than the two they’d caught, but still the cushy life in the Caribbean had left them sloppy.
His sight and his senses were more or less returning to normal, but the headache remained. He realised the security detail had left one of their number guarding the prisoners, the guy Waller had come up behind. Now, he was enjoying a little piece of R&R, lying on a sun lounger, eyes closed, catching the early morning rays to soothe his sore face, his M16 carbine lying across his lap.
Constable Vickers was close to Matt’s legs, Waller his back. He tapped the dozing constable with his foot. In a way, the officers’ complacency in what he would regard as a dangerous situation was understandable. Wood had no beef with the local police, and if they played their cards right, they would live to fight another day. This was a dispute between Wood and Matt.
Matt, with muted signals, indicated what he wanted, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if Vickers would play ball. He might think, with a certain degree of reasoning, if a freed Matt beat up or killed one of their captors, it would change the tacit agreement between Wood’s security team and the cops and encourage them to shoot everyone.
Vickers, in a slow, deliberate movement, pushed backwards on his bottom, and moved between Matt’s open legs. It was awkward with hands tied behind his back, but he managed to pull up Matt’s left trouser leg and extract the knife.
The constable scooted back to his original position, and Matt, keeping his eye on the snoozing guard, spun himself round and edged his back closer to Vickers. Now, the tricky part. Matt had experience of doing this, as situations like this were part of regular training he undertook with the Army, but he didn’t want to free Vickers or any of his colleagues and put them in danger. He wanted Vickers to free him.
The secret, if it could be called that, was to keep the knife steady and for the trussed-up hostage to move their hands, and not the other way round. Moving the knife risked dropping it and making a noise, or in a sunny place like Antigua, creating light reflections. In any case, tied up as they were, the amount of actual hand movement was limited.
He conveyed this information to Constable Vickers with whispers, all the time keeping his eye on the guard. Using intuition, as Matt believed Vickers to be the smartest of the bunch after Waller, the constable held the knife blade-up on the patio to steady it. This gave them a stable platform to operate with, and helped to ensure Matt didn’t cut off one of his fingers.
Using Vickers’ whispered guidance, Matt guided his hands to place the plastic tie, and not the soft part of his palm, against the blade. He began to saw.
Just then, their guard opened his eyes, looked over, and spotted something he didn’t like. He got up from his sunbed and walked towards them, the M16 slung down, but his hand close to the trigger.
FORTY-NINE
The guard strode over towards the prisoners, his expression annoyed at having his siesta disturbed. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he barked. ‘You’ve moved,’ he said, nodding at Matt. ‘A half hour ago you was facing the other way.’
‘You’ve got a short memory,’ Matt said. ‘Your man whacked me with a rifle. I’m in pain. I shifted into a more comfortable position, nothing more.’
He was standing a metre or so away, but leaning over, trying to peek behind Matt’s back. He couldn’t see anything for Matt’s crooked leg. ‘Stand up!’ he ordered.
Matt did as he was told, and the guard stepped closer to him. He put a hand on Matt’s arm, easing him to one side while he leaned round to look behind his back. At the same time, the knife in Matt’s freed hand flashed forward, and Matt sunk it into his neck. The guard’s hands shot to the injured area, and he dropped to his knees. The knife had clearly sliced a carotid artery as blood was gushing out of his neck. The blood had either filled his throat, or the blade had also severed vocal cords, as his cries for help were strangled and barely audible.
He was fading fast. Matt grasped his shoulders and lowered him to the floor. He removed the M16 and took all the plastic ties and ammo clips out of his pocket. He found five; these guys had certainly come to the party tooled up, ready for action. He pulled the knife out of
the dead guy’s neck and wiped it on his fatigues. He reached over and cut Waller’s bindings.
‘Chris, take the knife,’ he said in hushed tones when the sergeant’s hands were free. ‘Do the same for the rest of your men, and Rosie. Moving as quietly as you can, go back to your van. Only return here when you’ve got reinforcements. Understand?’
He nodded, but his face was pale and bore a look of shock after witnessing the guard’s grisly demise.
‘Rosie, you’re with them.’
‘But–’
‘No buts. I’m armed, you’re not. Now go.’
Without stopping to make sure they were complying with his instructions, Matt ran. He kept low and headed for the far end of the pool and disappeared into the bushes. Unlike the bushes on the other side of the garden, these were more mature and provided better cover. He made his way to the outhouse, a place he now believed was being used by the security detail to make a brew or bunk up and catch a few hours of shut-eye.
Matt approached the area, his caution antenna on full power. He’d come here to protect his rear flank, either from the house itself, or an access road or steps. Moving closer to the cliff, he could see no access road or steps. In fact, cliff access was impossible due to a tall and sturdy wire fence, put there, no doubt, to prevent Wood’s young children falling to their deaths.
Approaching the house, or cottage as it would be called in the UK, he estimated by its size and dimensions that it probably didn’t contain more than two bedrooms. Matt turned the handle on the door and pushed it open slowly. He took a step back, watching, listening. He waited. Nothing. He ventured inside, the M16 in a shooting position, finger close to the trigger.