Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  With a larger-than-usual list of Witness Protection cases, the local specialist teams were unable to assist so Roberts’ crew were running a roster for the time that Petrov was with them. None of them were armed. If they needed additional or specialist support, they had to get on the radio and make those requests.

  Cade knew it was far from ideal but he had to work with what he had and according to Roberts, despite his arrogance, Wood was the primary option. And he’d be just fine alone.

  “It’s the big city Jack, help is seconds away here, it’s not like Hicksville where you lot come from!” Roberts had announced as he left.

  With everyone briefed, they commenced the initial phase of the nightly operation. Petrov followed Wood to the car park with Cade in tow. Gary West, the driver for the evening, was two steps ahead.

  An older grey Volvo estate was the vehicle of choice: strong, dependable and relatively bland. Petrov turned to Cade and gave her million-dollar smile, tucked her head down and got in the back of the car. She was joined by Wood, who had his work-related and personal kit in a black bag. West looked across at Cade.

  “Ready boss?”

  “Ready Gary, thanks. See you in the morning, Nikolina. Ring me if you need anything. Sleep well, you’ve earned it. Tomorrow we will start work on stage two – the hunt for The Wave. There is more that you need to tell me, you just need to tell me. OK?”

  He pushed the Volvo door closed with a resonant thud.

  They left the car park, turned onto Victoria Street and quickly blended with the rush hour traffic.

  West scanned constantly. Wood did the same; professional to the core, he appeared to have lost his arrogant edge. Fifteen minutes later and only a few miles away they pulled into an underground car park, waited for the all clear from the equally anonymous silver Ford Fiesta that had been following them and decamped from the Volvo.

  They moved quickly and deliberately from the car to the lift and from there to the apartment. They had done this every night since Cade had arrived. He had conducted the same run himself, but now after a repeated string of successful runs he felt easier.

  The team entered the apartment, disarmed the alarm, drew the curtains and turned on some lights. They were in.

  West called into the control room announcing that Operation Breaker was complete, shook hands with Wood, waited for him to secure the door and left, retracing his steps to ensure that he hadn’t been followed.

  Satisfied that all was normal he called Wood and gave him the good news. They were in, they could relax. Wood threw the Sky remote to Petrov.

  “Help yourself, I’m a Discovery man myself but you’re the guest.”

  “I am fine, thank you. I will read.”

  She hadn’t seen this side of Wood in the week that she had been at Scotland Yard; it was evident that he was a team player and perhaps he had just been showing off in front of his junior colleagues? Either way, she felt relatively at ease.

  “Right miss, you know the drill, you take the main room and lock the door and I’ll be in the lounge. If anything happens, anything out of the ordinary, you stay put. Do not under any circumstances leave that room. I will knock twice and twice again on the door when it is safe. Understood?”

  She nodded. These people were trying their best, but their training lacked the raw brutality of hers. She could disarm this Wood character in a second. But he needed to feel that he was in charge.

  “Yes officer, I understand, thank you. Shall we eat?”

  Wood walked to the kitchen, opened the freezer and removed two ready-meals.

  Petrov gently eased past him and took the containers.

  “Please officer, allow me, go and sit down, I can do this.”

  Who was he to argue?

  Twenty minutes later Wood had untied and lovingly removed his leather shoes. They were handcrafted by Churches of Northampton. His consuls from the Classic Collection were one of his only vices. He considered them an investment. One day he would tell his wife.

  Leather uppers, leather soles, polished to within an inch of their lives. They were a trademark of his. His physique was another, or rather it was until he had let himself go a little, a hint of excess here, a lack of exercise there.

  He checked the door, looked out of the curtains, down onto the street below and satisfied that all was as normal as London could be, he sank himself into the black leather armchair and flicked through a few channels on the television.

  Petrov had eaten and made her excuses and headed to bed. She had endured a long day.

  “Bless her. She wants to try working for a living.” Wood said to no-one in particular.

  He would remain in situ until relieved by a teammate at 06:00 hours. For him, the morning couldn’t come soon enough. Such a pity he couldn’t spend it with the rather appealing Bulgarian.

  “Now that is pure sex. God, I wouldn’t mind half an hour with her.” Again, to no-one special; his dulcet Welsh tones singing out the sentence.

  He knew he needed to remain alert but if anyone wanted to get through that bloody door then God help them. Besides, they would need at least the equivalent of the police ‘Big Red Key’ and he would ensure that any greeting was very personal.

  “Yep, they’d need an Enforcer,” he said out aloud as he navigated through the sports and then the films, “or a small explosive charge of some description: Bang!”

  He laughed and in time with the ‘Bang!’ pulled the alloy ring on a can of orange Fanta, causing its gaseous vapour to explode out of the small pear-shaped aperture.

  “A whole night away from normal work, a can of Fanta and a chicken tandoori, that plus eight hours at time and a half, away from my nagging wife, what more could a man ask for?”

  He was, he decided, living the dream.

  He finished his meal and looked at the main door once more. Whoever might have the foolish idea of entering without an invitation would also be advised to prepare for an unfriendly welcome.

  Wood had been a renegade in his early youth and subsequently spent his formative years in the Parachute Regiment after his parents threatened to abandon him. Joining as a boy soldier at Catterick, North Yorkshire he had learned to fight, like so many young men, via the non-genteel art of milling.

  Milling saw two combatants, possibly friends, drawn into a gladiatorial circle. They wore standard Physical Education clothing; dark shorts and a white vest and boxing gloves. That was where the finesse ended.

  Some partook by ducking and diving, avoiding a blow at all costs, waiting for the chance to strike but losing valuable points in the process. Others entered the ring, looking at friend or foe, and swung every punch as if it were their last. It was described as ‘controlled physical aggression’ and Wood excelled at it.

  On his upper right arm he wore a faded and somewhat larger than originally inked tattoo, it said utrinque paratus.

  For the uninitiated it meant ‘ready for anything’ and was the time-honoured regimental motto of his beloved airborne unit.

  Less than an hour later the combination of the carbonated drink and the spice of the curry started to play havoc with Wood’s acid reflux, so as was his nightly custom he opened the fridge and hunted for milk. The large appliance illuminated the room, casting a beam of yellowy light towards Petrov’s bedroom.

  Wood was stood looking at the door; doing what many men would do in his (polished leather) shoes and pondering what Petrov looked like in bed.

  He couldn’t help it. His wife, God love her, was once eight stone and had been his childhood sweetheart – now she was twice that weight and half as nice. She once looked like a film star, he told people, but now the star was faded and Mrs Sheila Wood was an ever-expanding shadow of her former self.

  It had been many years since his lips had trodden a path from her delicate wrists, upwards and along her arm, pausing to kiss her on the lips. He missed the old days, the old them, but it wasn’t reciprocal, wasn’t the same.

  If they ever had sex, it was swift and unint
eresting, and Wood often found himself thinking of his favourite actress when the ‘moment’ arose.

  Little did he know that Sheila was also thinking the same; different actor, same thoughts.

  And right now, the beautiful Bulgarian was laid in that king-sized bed, all Egyptian cotton and scatter cushions, wearing a businessman’s shirt no doubt, and her skin smooth from the recently applied passion fruit body lotion.

  “Oh God, she’d smell good enough to ruddy eat,” he sighed and tried to console himself by surfing through the channels again but to no avail. Every station featured beautiful people, doing beautiful things.

  The more he tried to put her out of his mind, the more she drew him nearer.

  “Stop it man, she’s half your age and most likely half your weight, and bugger it probably a quarter as hairy. I bet she’s as bald as a coot down stairs…”

  His conversation was somewhat louder than he had realised and quite bizarre given he had no audience. Except that he did.

  Although she made no sound, he became aware that she was stood at the doorway to the bedroom. Fortune had shone on the boy from the valleys. She was indeed wearing an over-sized man’s shirt, her hair darker than he remembered, damp no doubt from a recent solitary shower.

  All that was missing, in Wood’s mind, was a pair of high-heeled shoes and a come-to-bed smile.

  Sadly, she had neither, and her look gave out altogether different signals.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I could hear you talking; I thought there was someone here.”

  “I thought we agreed miss, you stay in your room at all times. If anything should happen to you my boss would have my guts for garters.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “It doesn’t matter – I’d be in trouble.”

  “I understand that. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble, Detective.”

  Was this a hint, a subtle signal that she found him interesting, possibly even attractive? In his day, ten, possibly fifteen years earlier, she would have done, so why not now?

  His mind was racing. He was alone with a stunning girl in a swanky London flat. What would his mates in Swansea make of all of this?

  He stood up and placed the empty can on the kitchen worktop.

  “I think we’ve got some brandy in the cupboard somewhere, would you like one?”

  Petrov sensed another sea change in Wood, and it made her feel uneasy. Surely, he shouldn’t be drinking on duty? The English police were famed for their integrity and rules.

  She declined.

  “Fair enough, have it your way, miss.”

  “You don’t have to call me miss, Detective Wood.”

  “And you don’t have to call me Detective – it’s Clive.”

  “OK, Clive, anyway we have long days ahead. Would you please post this letter for me?” She handed him a handwritten white envelope – it needed a stamp and was addressed in blue biro to somewhere unpronounceable in Bulgaria. There was no return address.

  “Sorry, it needs a stamp. I will pay you. I am going back to bed; it must be time for you to go to bed too?”

  This was the second signal and perhaps his last: Now or never Clive.

  He walked towards her accompanied by his finest seductive face.

  “When I’m on nights Miss Petrov, I never sleep, I stay rigidly awake. I can go all night.” He winked, but his signals were lost, desperately.

  He was at the door now, he could smell the passion fruit – was there a hint of mango in there too? Either way, it was gorgeous. Do it, Clive.

  He stepped forward and placed his arms around her waist, his powerful muscles pulling her towards him. The instant it happened he knew it was wrong, knew his marriage, his career and everything that accompanied it were doomed, but he wanted her and nothing else mattered.

  She was struggling now, both physically and mentally. Why was her protector doing this? What would Jack say? Was this expected of her? Should she say yes?

  No, this was not right, not right at all. She should fight.

  He was strong, but she would use his own strength against him.

  “Let go of me, Clive. This is not right; you are here to protect me!”

  He didn’t respond. It was too late; he’d overstepped the mark and was now verging on animal. His deep-seated sense of arousal and power had overtaken years of exemplary service and wiped away decades of rational training. The least that could happen was that he found a few moments of pleasure.

  He had her in a bear hug, vice-like and impossible to escape from. It was everything but romantic. If she could release her arms, she had a chance.

  He picked her up and shuffled her backwards towards the bed. His intentions were now clear. For Nikolina this situation was wholly déjà vu, and she was back, tied to a bed in a Romanian apartment at the mercy of Alex and his guests for the night.

  Not this time, not again.

  She exhaled and managed to gain a few centimetres of space, allowing her some liberty. She drove her hands upwards, pushing his arms outwards before striking him quickly across the temples. It was a temporary distraction, but all she needed.

  He stepped sideways to avoid the blow that never followed, then started talking all too quickly.

  “Miss, I’m sorry, this shouldn’t have happened, please go to your room.”

  She was now on the offensive, equally animal and highly driven; she needed to show that she wasn’t a plaything for men to enjoy when and wherever they chose.

  She stepped sideways too, but opposite to the direction chosen by Wood, creating an arc for a straight-arm strike across his face. All the years of experience and training, those heady days in the milling circle at Catterick, all were useless. The blow struck him just underneath the nose, her radius bone slamming into his philtrum and causing hideous pain across the top of his teeth.

  The blow was so fast, so unexpected, that he had been caught completely unaware. His nose was pouring with blood as he staggered backwards, falling to the kitchen floor. He was, for now, unconscious.

  She considered a follow-up strike, a kick or worse, but she could clearly see he was unlikely to pose a threat in the few harried minutes it took her to compose her thoughts, gather her immediate belongings and leave the apartment.

  She dressed hastily, checked to see if he was still breathing, and then left, closing the door quietly behind her. Quite where she would go she hadn’t considered. She would rather take her chances in a foreign city than in a flat with a goal-driven man.

  Her mind was now a miasma, a whirlpool of emotive reasoning, of interrogatives and anger, but mostly disappointment. The very people that had promised to care for her had turned against her.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket and started to dial Cade but stopped. There was his car, the Mondeo, moving quietly down the street towards her. He had been in the neighbourhood all the time. He was the back-up. She sighed in relief, pleased to see the man she saw as her saviour.

  The Mondeo headlights were on full beam, dazzling Cade,her and causing her to place her hands across her face, but instinctively she walked towards the light. She knew that Wood would be awake soon, so she needed to explain her side of the story to Cade – in the hope that he would believe her and not one of his own team.

  Within a few paces of the car she heard a familiar accent, it was Wood. He was running at full pace up the street, phone in one hand, ASP baton in the other. She heard the metal partitions slide against each other as Wood engaged the weapon.

  Two paces.

  He was gaining ground. When would Cade leave the car? What was he playing at? Was he afraid of Wood too?

  One pace.

  Decision made.

  She had reached the Mondeo passenger door. As she entered the unlit cabin, a hand appeared and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t resist; she was safe, tumbling into the car and slamming the door behind her as Cade accelerated away: first gear, rev limiter reached, second, third, fourth and into the heart of London.

&nbs
p; The last event had taken sixty seconds and in that minute, she had realised that she had walked into the hands of something far worse than Wood could ever have been capable of.

  Five streets behind them Wood was down on one knee piling air into his lungs, reloading his ASP and desperately trying to prioritise.

  The girl. The car. The males. The gun.

  He wiped his nose, which was bleeding profusely again, the result of his sprint down the stairs from the apartment and out onto the street. How the hell would he explain this to Cade, to Roberts – to his wife!

  “Get a grip, man, make a bloody decision. For once in your wretched bloody life do the right thing.”

  He pulled the job phone from his pocket and hit speed dial 1.

  With no response, he tried again and then once more. Each call terminated in Cade’s answerphone.

  He tried Roberts’ cell – again he found himself talking to an answer machine.

  He leant back against a low wall, finally able to breathe freely, dialled another number into the phone and quietly, despite not being a religious man, prayed that someone would answer.

  Chapter 28

  Back at the unit O’Shea was clearing the backlog of emails and data. She had been diligently entering names, vehicles and locations into an i2 chart – a visual display of every piece of intelligence that they had gathered, from open or more secure sources. It was looking good.

  “Looks great Carrie, top job, now, how about that meal?”

  She was startled and chastised herself for not hearing him enter the office, but she was quietly delighted. He had remembered.

  “Oh, yes, OK, why not?” she replied nonchalantly, “I’ll get my jacket; it looks cooler out there tonight.”

  “Shall we walk?” Cade needed a break from the relentless London traffic. The Mondeo was parked opposite the Yard, it could remain there for a few hours at least, no one, not even the most diligent Parking Warden would dare to ticket it.

  O’Shea walked to the coat stand, suppressing a huge smile.

  They exited the building and in a few minutes were on Broadway. Their conversation was quickly work-centric, but eventually Cade asked about O’Shea. What lay behind that apparently frosty exterior?