Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

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Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1) Page 35

by Lewis Hastings


  Cade smiled, “Typical, assassin with a conscience; always make sure that your victims are looked after. Come on, I’ve got a warm car outside and a safe place to take you to. I’ll grab your stuff, you sign for it.”

  She did as instructed, thanked the staff and walked with Cade, through the security screening area and out into the fresh air.

  Cade plipped the remote and opened the doors on the Focus. He put Petrov’s case into the boot and opened the passenger door; ever the gent.

  He knew the staff were watching on the camera and for the hell of it wanted to give her a playful tap on the backside but thought better of it. Instead, he chose to look up and give a quick American-style salute before getting in and turning the ignition on.

  The Bulgarian spoke first.

  “Jack, I don’t know what to say, other than thank you. I know you believe in me. I know we can help each other, I know…”

  “I know, you know. Look for now just trust me OK? From here we head to London. I’m not sure why but my bosses believe in you too and I’ve been seconded to a unit with the Metropolitan Police; between us we want to see if we can use your knowledge to get on top of a growing crime problem.”

  “On top of? Like a man on top of a woman?” she asked playfully.

  “Yes, if you like.” He replied distantly whilst concentrating on merging into traffic along Snargate Street. Ten minutes later the Focus was up on top of the white cliffs once more and heading along the A2 towards Canterbury and London.

  Cade has chosen a different route back, partly out of paranoia and mainly because he fancied a change of scenery.

  By the time they had passed Canterbury, its exquisite cathedral nestling in the vale to his right, Petrov was fast asleep.

  Cade took his eye off the road for a second to look at her.

  “Christ, you are even attractive when you are asleep girl.”

  He found Radio Two on the radio and pressed on towards the capital.

  Twenty minutes later the Focus crossed the broad expanse of the River Medway and climbed a steady hill before descending onto one of the busiest interchanges in the country where the M2 and M20 motorways merged.

  Cade swiftly negotiated the roundabout and avoided the rush to get towards the Dartford Tunnel and Thames Crossing, choosing instead to continue along Watling Street, one of many old Roman roads heading to London.

  She was awake now and chatting.

  “You should have woken me. I wanted to see the history. I love history, Jack.”

  She stretched out in the seat tightening her already-snug jeans, pushed her arms above her head and yawned. In doing so, she snapped one of the paper stitches from her shoulder. It acted as a reminder that this was not a holiday.

  Cade spotted the blood stain and offered to stop.

  “No, we must carry on. I will be OK. But Jack, I do have one question.”

  “Fire away but if it’s top secret, I will have to kill you.” The veiled humour was lost on his guest so he had to explain which took up another five minutes. Eventually he was able to answer her question.

  “We are heading to the spiritual home of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard. I have an appointment with a man called Jason who is going to help me. Help you actually. Between us we are going to put together a plan to hunt down your illustrious Jackdaw and have him stuffed.”

  Once again Cade’s use of English threw an otherwise linguistically gifted Petrov. Another explanation followed which saw the duo miss the grassy expanse of Blackheath altogether.

  She pointed at a sign and in her broadest Bulgarian said, “Green Which – the home of the time, no?”

  Once more she made him laugh out loud as he tried to explain the complexities of a complicated language to a woman who knew five fluently.

  “Erm, no it’s pronounced Grenitch – but yes, you could say it is the home of time. It has a fascinating maritime history too.”

  He was about to offer an insight into the traditions of the British navy when they entered the Old Kent Road.

  “Monopoly!” shouted an excited almost schoolgirl-like Petrov.

  “Yes, but you cannot collect your two hundred pounds as I used my ‘Get out of Jail free’ card on you earlier!” Cade thought it was a perfectly delivered game-based comment but she just shrugged and carried on looking out of the window.

  He realised just how much history there was in London, and having her on board simply added to the occasion. He was growing to enjoy her company. As he negotiated Westminster Bridge, he found himself wishing it was a holiday and that they could get to know each other better.

  It was becoming like a tour of London’s most iconic landmarks as they drifted slowly by the Palace of Westminster.

  “Big Ben!” she exclaimed.

  He just nodded and tried to point out a few other highlights. Choosing this way to get to the Yard had been a success. She was relaxed now, singing to a familiar track on the radio by the Eagles and pointing at building after building.

  They were both distracted further when Cade pointed out Westminster Abbey on their left.

  “That is a very famous building, many kings and queens have been buried there, famous people too, it’s where Diana and Charles got…”

  Cade had relaxed and taken his eye off the ball for a split second.

  His day was about to change.

  Chapter 24

  At the junction of Broad Sanctuary and Great Smith Street a white car screeched to a halt in front of them, causing Cade to ram instinctively his left foot onto the brake pedal – the force of using the left foot brought the car to an abrupt halt.

  Behind him a white van stopped instantly, its tyres protesting on the road surface.

  To the uninitiated Cade had just avoided a crash with another tourist and the van had almost become an unwitting casualty. Cade knew different and placed the Focus in first, ready to ram the white car which had now transformed from a bright white blur into a Vauxhall Vectra.

  He looked straight at the driver, a swarthy black-haired individual with hateful eyes and a stereotypical sneer. The passenger could easily have been his fraternal twin. Unable to take his eyes off them, he ignored the number plate and cursed himself for his lack of street skills.

  He glanced in the driver’s door mirror and found himself looking at another set of malevolent eyes. The driver was wearing a simple white T-shirt, which did little to disguise his physique.

  This was no accident. Cade knew it and now so did Petrov.

  “Jack, go, go, go…drive. Get out of here!” She yelled, thumping the dashboard as if to offer extra momentum.

  He had less than a metre to negotiate the front of the Vectra. The Focus obeyed his instructions as its tyres chirped and announced to the myriad pedestrians that yet another road rage incident has just occurred on London’s busy streets.

  He accelerated along Abbey Orchard Street before turning across the face of traffic on Victoria Street. The ever-alert bus driver on the 211 to Hammersmith managed to bring his vehicle to a halt and offered a solitary finger in protest. Seconds later the passengers had dusted themselves down, begun to ignore one another again, and life in the metropolis continued.

  Cade was hyper-alert now. Looking ahead he saw the van once more. It was being driven at such a pace that he knew that it wasn’t just another vehicle. It and its cargo were there for a reason, and his best guess was that the reason was a redheaded Eastern European female.

  In his rear-view mirror, he saw the Vectra trying to get beyond the bus. However, its driver had now had enough excitement for one day and simply used its impressive, bright red bulk to keep the car at bay.

  Without indicating, Cade screeched into Dean Farrar Street, changed into third and hammered the car the short distance to the rear gates of Scotland Yard.

  He had his hand firmly on the horn now and was waving his warrant card at the civilian gate guard who approached him cautiously, one hand on his radio microphone, the other fumbling for his Browning
Hi-Power but finding only a belt. His previous role as a military police officer had caused the muscle memory reaction, either way he could smell trouble at fifty paces and this car spelled trouble with a capital F.

  Cade, sensing that he was probably about to be shot, yelled to the guard that he needed to see Jason Roberts and that the vehicles that were pursuing him needed to be stopped by a local police unit.

  An armed unit had now arrived and having challenged Cade and his passenger were firmly in control. He obeyed their every instruction and prompted a confident but wary Petrov to do the same.

  “Do as they say and you will be fine.”

  He then looked up at the armed response officer who was staring back over the sights of his MP5.

  “Guys, we are not a threat, I need to see Jason Roberts. Tell him Jack Cade is here. Please.”

  As he waited for their response he looked carefully around. The two vehicles had gone, blending back into the busy traffic flow and disappearing.

  If they had belonged to the Jackdaw, then they had achieved their goal: Cause chaos, upset the enemy and make a point. A point delivered in broad daylight in front of a few hundred sightseers. They were bold and therefore dangerous.

  Petrov hissed at Cade “Those men Jack, they were here to kill me. You too. They will not be scared of you. You said I would be safe. You promised.”

  He had. It was a lesson that he needed to learn from. Either that or pay the ultimate price. As a shaft of sunlight shone into his face, he found himself reverting back to the preceding week. What he had got himself involved in here?

  His daydream was interrupted by a booming local accent.

  “Cade? Is that you? Christ, boy they said you would make an impression, but this is taking the piss old son. OK, boys lower your weapons, I know how poor at shooting you both are and I really value my arse.”

  The voice belonged to Detective Sergeant Jason Roberts.

  Roberts swaggered over to the car, ducked under the security barrier and stood up, swept his blond hair back out of his eyes and recovered his Jaffa orange tie back into place. Cade noticed that the knot was at least as big as a man’s fist. In fact, a few members of Roberts’ team were watching, and they too had the same style of clothing. It was obviously a London Thing.

  “Cade?” asked Roberts.

  “I sincerely hope so, or you have just risked having your arse blown off,” replied a now-relaxing Cade.

  “Nice one. Nice one indeed, a northerner with a sense of humour. Who’d have thought it?” They shook hands briskly.

  “Actually, Jason, I was born in Royal Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Were you now, were you indeed? Now, forgetting all that, who do you support?”

  Petrov just stared, open-mouthed, taking in the situation and slowly recovering from the earlier incident.

  “Leeds United,” replied Cade.

  “Leeds Bloody United. Dirty bastards Leeds. Do me a favour, you really expect to get help here? This is Chelsea territory, my son.”

  He closed in to whisper to Cade.

  “Although between you and me I support Celtic as I’m part Scottish, I’m more Jockney than Cockney, but for Christ’s sake don’t tell this lot or they’ll have my balls for a wallet.”

  He turned to Petrov smiling.

  “Kazvam se Jason my love, dobri doshli v London.”

  He had even impressed himself with his rudimentary Bulgarian, which he had been learning for at least an hour.

  She smiled, which lit up the courtyard more than the mid-morning sun.

  “Your Bulgarian is excellent, Mr Roberts. You must have travelled there many times? Blagodarya vi, che mi pozvolikhte da posetite dnes. Ochakvam s netŭrpenie da vi pomaga.”

  She had thanked him for allowing her to visit and hoped that they could help each other.

  Roberts took the least line of resistance and replied as only a true Englishman could.

  “Lovely jubbly, my dear. Right, who’s for a Rosie Lee?”

  Cade turned to Petrov.

  “It’s English for a cup of tea.”

  She replied, “I thought that was a cup of tea?”

  “It is, look, it’s…complicated. People from London use two or three words to describe one, it’s called Cockney and even I don’t understand it.”

  Cade asked if he could park up the car as the ‘Yard’ once more returned to normal. He was directed to a visitor’s bay in a far corner. He parked up and joined Roberts who was now teaching Petrov some classic Cockney rhyming slang. It was his way of calming her down after her recent exploits.

  “Right my love, straight up the apples for you and we’ll get the heavy metal on and get that Rosie underway.”

  She giggled and replied, “Are you riding a giraffe with me Mr Roberts?”

  It was clear that she too was having difficulty with a new language. But as with everything, she tried.

  She walked up the stairs on her own as Roberts and Cade talked.

  “Jack, what happened back there? We picked you up on camera as you came down Broad Sanctuary. We were about to deploy a team when you nearly came through the gate. Your motor pinged on the ANPR. Who are these people?”

  “I’m still learning Jason,” replied Cade “I’m pretty glad you had the number plate recognition software loaded with my registration though. Another five minutes away from here and I think the situation would have been a little different.”

  “You think? Things are rapidly changing, Jack; we were talking to one of our units in the next Borough yesterday. They found the body of a young male in a factory doorway. Possible Eastern European. His throat had been cut, brutal stuff, it’s been put down as a robbery but I’m not sure. If you fancy it later, we can house your bird and go and take a butcher’s at his body?”

  “Jason, I can think of nothing finer to do. For the record, she’s not my ‘bird’. I’ve been assigned to get her here and look after her whilst we work on Operation Breaker. I’m hoping you’ve got somewhere safe to house her?”

  “Naturally, my son. She can stay with one of our team. I tell you what, I don’t know how you keep your ‘ands off her, she’s a right belter. Stunning little body and those eyes…and that hair! And that arse? Jesus.”

  “Alright mate, calm down. Right, let’s get this tea drunk and we can go and have a look at this body you are so desperate for me to see.”

  “Sorted my son!” Roberts vigorously clicked his thumb and ring finger together; he’d seen the local black guys do it and had spent weeks perfecting the action.

  “Right come on, let’s get on with it. By the way, are you staying locally or do you need a room?”

  “I was hoping to stay with her, actually. I swore I wouldn’t let her out of my sight.”

  “I bet you did you old dog,” mocked Roberts, punching Cade on the arm.

  Cade finished his overly milky tea and went to talk to Petrov, who was sat next to a female officer.

  Roberts joined them.

  “Good to see you getting along, ladies. Jack this is Cynthia Bell, one of our analysts. Cracking girl, she’s a real whizz with facial recognition stuff. She’s going to spend a few hours running Miss Petrov through our directory of faces, see if she recognises any of them. You OK with that?”

  Cade was more than happy. She was safe, and she was in her element. For now, somehow she had forgotten her injuries and the recent event. Cade was looking at the screen when he heard a strident commotion.

  Roberts’ incessant cell phone rang again. This time it was the mortuary explaining that due to a small fire the body couldn’t be viewed until the morning. Roberts was about to communicate the message to Cade when they became aware of a commotion nearby.

  “I don’t give a rat’s arse if you are a chief inspector, touch me again and I’ll throw you through the fucking window. What is it with you CID boys? You think everything is at your beck and call, don’t you? Well, touch my backside again and you’ll wake up with your balls in your mouth.”

 
The woman pushed the overweight and grey-suited male backwards with a flattened palm and stormed into the canteen where she noisily selected a mug and started angrily making herself a strong ‘builder’s’ tea.

  The anonymous chief inspector made good his escape, fearing for his thirty-year marriage and his twenty-year pension, and hoped that the little lady would simply forget all about it.

  A few of the younger detectives on the Major Crime Unit were laughing now, causing the woman to enter the main office once more. She selected the youngest, a prematurely bald officer, only three years out of training school. Grabbing his face in her right hand, she squeezed his cheeks until he felt like his back teeth were about to explode.

  “Find it funny, do you, kid? I’ve had more arrests than you’ve had wet dreams darling and trust me, if you laugh at me again I’ll ram my fist so far up your arse you’ll think you are the unpaid partner in a ventriloquist act. Do I make myself clear?”

  He nodded, desperately trying to shake her hand from his ruddy cheeks.

  She looked around, scanning the room, checking for anyone else that found it humorous that a boss had just indecently assaulted her. Seeing that no-one was brave enough to take her on, she strutted back towards her desk.

  As she approached her place in the office, she brushed by Cade and Roberts.

  Roberts cleared his throat, clearly aware of the potential of saying something wrong to an already volatile individual. He almost looked scared of her.

  Cade put her at thirty, possibly younger. She had very short chestnut coloured hair, which was supplemented by a very subtle hint of burgundy.

  Her eyebrows were preened but not overly so, they arched gracefully, framing her eyes which were quite spectacular, brighter than anything he had ever seen, slate grey and blue they were the window to her very soul and Cade wondered whether a damaged spirit that lay deep within.

  Her nose was small and ever-so-slightly bent, the legacy of a fight with a drunk at Shepherd’s Bush, the beat where she had carried out her formative years as a policewoman.

 

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