Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  Downstairs, neatly isolated from the outside world, George Douglas whistled through his front teeth. He was impressed with the boy’s stamina, a man after his own heart.

  Why had he never had Cynthia on board a bus? What a wasted opportunity. He made a mental note for the next time he met up with his sweetheart. In the meantime, he was content with driving back to the depot whilst watching the overhead activities.

  At the moment of no return he had rung the bell shouting ‘All aboard’.

  He chortled to himself, aware of what he had just done.

  The female’s hands slid down the window. She was gasping for breath, trying unsuccessfully to be quiet, her face ending up on the periscope lens, panting, hot and all sense of worry momentarily abandoned.

  The girl smiled. It was almost as if she had known.

  Quite how Douglas had not crashed was beyond him. He got home that night and made love to Cynthia like never before.

  Some thirty years later Cade stood in the same spot, watching, scanning, looking for a hint of something, a speck of evidential support, knowing deep inside that his plan was probably as flawed as Roberts’. This was a pro-active, well-trained team that would be long gone. Wood had a lot to answer for, but that could wait. Right now, all emphasis was on finding Nikolina.

  He remained deep in thought. Myriad questions raced through his mind. He swiftly dealt with those obvious to anyone in the law enforcement profession but dwelled on a few that haunted him.

  ‘Would they ever find her?’ ‘Had he offered her the right amount of protection?’ ‘How would he maintain his promise to bring her daughter to safety?’

  The last haunted him more than any other.

  His eyes started to lose focus. The more he concentrated the more he drifted, and a series of watermarks on the glass screen soon became all he could see. Eventually he drilled down even deeper until he could make out the Kitemark on the safety glass.

  It was O’Shea that brought him back around with a gentle but deliberate question.

  “Do you think we’ll find her, Jack?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m on this bus either to be honest, and I certainly don’t know why I let your so-called team guard her. I could throttle Roberts too, given half a chance. My force and yours – they put me in a position of trust Carrie, a bloody sergeant caring for a top-flight gangster’s girlfriend. What were we thinking?”

  He looked, for the second time that day, visibly furious, but also fearful of what he might discover.

  She held onto the polished chrome seat handles, placing her hands where the ghosts of millions of others had done before her – all those hands leaving countless fingerprints and greasy, dirty marks. If only they could see her now. For the first time in years she simply didn’t care.

  She moved towards him, in the nearest sparkling handle a distorted image developed. She stopped and deliberately put her arms around his middle. He initially resisted, but tiredness took over. He leant back into her supportive body and sighed. She kissed him on the nape of his neck. It felt good. He continued to watch every side street, but slowly she won him round. It may have been a long time since she had done this with anyone, but Cade found himself thinking that she was very much an experienced participant. He also knew that he was deeply attracted to her.

  She was highly aroused and just like her white-clad eighties’ predecessor, she wanted her man. The thrill of the situation engorged her body and emotions with chemicals, causing an imbalance that she futilely resisted.

  An image flashed uncomfortably across her mind. She was horrified that her knickers lay abandoned on her lounge floor – what if a burglar were to enter her flat, what would he think?

  Douglas looked up through the prism.

  “Oh bwoi here we go again Dolly, what is it with dese endless displays o’ lovemaking? It’s a good ting you and me are retiring soon girl!” he laughed out aloud, clapped his hands together and carried on driving.

  Roberts rang Cade’s cell phone again.

  “Come on Cade, answer the poxy thing. I have news, you northern bastard.”

  He heard Cade’s answer phone message.

  “Jack, pick up mate. I’ve got an update. We may have had a sighting of the Mondeo – Battersea area. Local Section lads have also found a Transit. Fire brigade attended to it a while ago, completely gutted, down some shitty back street. Pretty sure it’s a stolen motor. Checking CCTV, it’s them mate. They switched her from the Mondeo. Sorry, no sign of the girl. Where are you? Ring me mate, I know you are up to your nuts with O’Shea but get back to me ASAP. Out.”

  Douglas eased Dolly onto the Chelsea Road Bridge and began to cross over the Thames, heading south. He merged onto Nine Elms lane and ran alongside the old power station at Battersea, these days more synonymous with Pink Floyd than producing power. It was always his favoured route at this hour. The four miles made all the more pleasant with a floodlit view of the Thames which always looked at its best at high tide.

  As they passed a non-descript service road a Ford Mondeo joined the road in front of them from their right. Without headlights, the only thing that allowed Douglas’ fading eyesight to see the car were the myriad streetlights. He cursed and pressed the miniscule horn.

  The Mondeo had exited so rapidly that it began to fishtail, its tyres scrabbling for traction, the noise of which caused Cade to turn around sharply. He pushed O’Shea to one side, terminating her advances as quickly as they had begun.

  “Carrie, ring Roberts. No ring the control room. Then Roberts. Ring. Ring!”

  He pressed the bell repeatedly and ran downstairs to the lower tier.

  Ahead, the Mondeo balked in slower traffic. Where the occupants were heading was anyone’s guess, but now, for a short while at least they were the hunters, hunted.

  Cade rubbed his eyes. “Now what?”

  He yelled through the window as arranged. Pointing ahead whilst trying to dial a number on his phone.

  “George – that’s the car, follow it!”

  “I’m one step ahead of you bwoi. One step ahead.” Douglas yelled back.

  He accelerated, but the old girl seemed asthmatic, almost ready to retire.

  “One more day. Come on, girl!”

  Chapter 31

  Douglas rammed the bus into a lower gear, accelerating as hard as he could, offering a balance of urgency and sympathy. He tapped the wheel and shouted, “Come on Dolly, now is the time!”

  O’Shea was busy talking to the Control Room, passing information on their location and trying to abbreviate an unnecessarily long story.

  Cade’s phone rang.

  “Yes!”

  “Jack, it’s me we’ve had a possible sighting of the Mondeo near Woolwich, I’m deploying staff there now, my son. We’ll have that bastard in custody before you…”

  “Jason, stand your team down. We are behind the bloody thing…stand by…”

  He paused, shouting through to Douglas.

  “George, where the bloody hell are we?”

  Douglas was otherwise engaged, fully committed to the chase.

  Cade hammered on the window again.

  “Douglas bloody answer me – where are we?”

  Cade could hear Roberts shouting into the phone, but he needed the information and for now Roberts could wait.

  He could just make out what the Jamaican was saying.

  “We are on Nine Elms Way…no wait one…now on Wandsworth Road. I can see the sign. Wandsworth Road Jason heading…north east.”

  Roberts was now relaying the information to the Control Room but also desperate to fill in some gaps.

  “Jack, what the sweet Jesus is going on my son? How the hell did you pick it up?”

  “Call it luck, call it female intuition.”

  “Classic! You had a sex change in the last half hour?”

  “Twat. I mean O’Shea. She’s my lucky talisman Jason. We are on a London bus, don’t ask me the number, it’s red if that helps? It’s the o
ne that’s trying to keep up with our bandit car.”

  “Do they know you are behind them?”

  “Not sure, unless they happen to notice a twelve-ton bus being driven by a manic Jamaican. For now, I think we’ve got the element of surprise.”

  “Top man. I’ll get our Air Support up – can you see the girl?”

  A cold wave washed over him. Until that moment, Cade hadn’t given a second thought to whether Petrov was in the car – either alive or dead.

  “Not sure, Jason. Note sure. Sorry. OK stand by, we are slowing for the lights. If he goes through then they know we are onto to them…it’s a stop, stop, stop. Where are your boys?”

  Cade was trying to remain calm. He thought about decamping and running to the car, but he knew that they needed Dolly to remain in her Trojan Horse status. And unlike him, his opponents had at least one weapon.

  “Kennington Lane heading…Fuck it Jas’ I don’t know which way we are heading but they are starting to increase speed. George has just shouted Elephant and Castle.”

  “I’ve got you son, I’ve got you. Air Support are going to be overhead in five, area cars inbound, I reckon they are heading south, my guess is Old Kent Road, Black Heath and onto the A2 – nice and quiet, foot down, through Dover and across Europe before you can say you’ve met the Met.”

  Cade’s mind shot back to the journey he had taken with Petrov. It seemed like years before and yet could be counted in hours. They had travelled from Dover along the same well-trodden route on their first journey into London. It had been Petrov’s first visit to the iconic city and unbeknown to her the start of her demise.

  They had followed him.

  “Jason, hard right, hard right onto…Walworth Road. I think they know something is wrong.”

  “Bollocks Jack, they won’t expect a frigging bus to be pursuing them, keep going, and get your man to force them off the road if you have to.”

  “Deliberately crash Dolly, you don’t know the driver very well.”

  “Dolly? What the…?”

  “Forget it, it’s too long a story. Any more news on our potential kidnappers?”

  “None pal, look it’s likely that they are part of the group that Petrov was ID’ing. Makes sense, yeah? So, let’s catch the bastards, then we can start to put the pieces into the jigsaw. Smart money says she knows a shed load of info, her beloved boyfriend knows that and well, the rest as they say is history.”

  “Agreed. Jason, there was something she wasn’t telling us and this is already going to take some serious writing up.”

  Roberts sighed. It was the best possible answer. Paperwork would be the death of him.

  “Heygate Street, we’ve got some traffic, which is helping. Where the living bloody daylights are your men?”

  “Nine Nine is overhead, he’s got obs on you Jack. Your man can back off now. Let’s do this by the book, yeah?”

  Cade knew the protocols backwards, chapter and verse. All police officers did. The ‘Red Mist’ was notorious for getting in the way during a pursuit. Adrenaline and the overwhelming desire to get the bad guy had been the undoing of many an experienced officer. Sadly for Cade, George Douglas hadn’t read the book.

  “Jason. Find the girl. Find Nikolina. Please.”

  Cade pressed the red button on his phone terminating the call but Roberts had already gone.

  Overhead an Aerospatiale AS355N registration G-SEPA and one of a number of helicopters utilised by the Metropolitan Police announced its arrival on scene. As its rotors cut through the air, its crewman used succinct communications to relay information and a visual update to the control room inspector, who used the computer aided dispatch system, hence why he was better known as the CAD Commander.

  “MPS from India Nine Nine, target vehicle is on Walworth Road heading east, stand by, stand by, deviation onto Heygate Street, Heygate Street.”

  These were the icy, professional tones of the third crewman, the Mission Commander who relayed his information expertly, calmly notifying both the CAD room and those units listening on the ground.

  In front of the Mission Commander and alongside the civilian pilot sat the observer, checking his on-board digital maps and communicating with the pilot and alternating between maps, on board electronic systems and the ever-changing London skyline.

  “Vehicle is continuing east, normal road speeds, our bus has departed the pursuit and is heading along Walworth Road. If units can deploy to the…”

  Both crewmen exchanged a few ideas before the commander continued.

  “…junction of East Street and Old Kent Road and another unit onto Thurlow Street and Albany Road. Over.”

  Cade was still alone. O’Shea had chosen the upper deck as a safe haven rather than risk the stairs. Dolly was creaking and swaying, but somehow allowing herself to stay in the race. Despite what the eye in the sky had broadcast, she was far from done.

  Cade shouted to his new teammate.

  “George, we’ve lost them, we need to turn left.”

  “No way!” bellowed Douglas, “We go down here, then we turn left, you just watch me bwoi, this old girl is not done yet.”

  Cade rubbed his face, concentrating on his chin.

  “This is going to end in tears, I have a feeling in my water.”

  His phone rang.

  “Cade, Roberts. Nine Nine is in control now, units deploying, we’ve got them my son. I’m en route with Dave, they are somewhere near the Walworth Road nick. Heaven only knows where you and the rest of the double decker have have gone!”

  “Roberts.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ll go fuck myself.”

  “Good man. Hey Jason.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “This is just the start, you know. We are going to need some serious help. This isn’t just a random couple of crimes, it’s an angry boil that hides a deeper festering infection.”

  “And I know just the dynamic duo to lance it. Out.”

  Roberts was temporarily gone. It was a good job as Cade’s cell phone battery was diminishing, along with his tolerance, by the minute.

  He turned to see O’Shea haphazardly navigating the staircase.

  He banged on the window, “George, pull over as soon as you can, we’ve got to think this through.”

  Douglas was unhappy, he wanted to show those foreign bastards a few lessons in respect. But he knew Cade meant what he said, so reluctantly he eased Dolly to the side of the road and applied the brakes.

  “Rodney Road, speed approximately seven zero, no opposing traffic, approaching Flint Street, right-hand deviation. He won’t make it at this speed, MPS. Brake lights, brake lights, hard left onto…Catesby Street. Narrowly missed a red Renault. Can see driver and front seat passenger. Possibly one, maybe two rear seat passengers.”

  India Nine Nine’s crew continued to relay the critical information.

  A local unit joined the commentary.

  “MP from November 4 we are on Old Kent Road turning onto Massinger Street. Where do you want us? Over.”

  “November 4 hold at your present location, target vehicle is currently on Catesby towards Congreve Street over.”

  “Yes-yes.”

  “India Nine Nine vehicle is now Congreve heading south east towards East Street. Rear passenger has thrown something from the vehicle. Received?”

  “MP received – all units stand by. Any unit that can check Congreve and East Street for property please?”

  The chess pieces were being skilfully manoeuvred.

  “November 2 onto Old Kent Road and stand by near the Thomas à Beckett pub – thank you. November 4 back onto Old Kent Road, please. Units are to deploy Stinger if possible. Trojan en route, ETA four minutes. All units to be aware that occupants may be in possession of a firearm.”

  The last sentence sent a chill down the spine of Police Constable Darren Simms. With only three years in the job he’d pretty much seen it all and knew the local beat like the back of his hand. The only thing he hadn’t experienced was
an up close and personal familiarisation with a pistol.

  Other local units were now joining the incident. Local panda cars were zigzagging across south London, vying for position should the Mondeo lose control. Officers on board these smaller vehicles knew they were no match for the more powerful, faster area cars, but they could run as fast as any of their colleagues in a foot chase. And listening to the commentary, this would be a very rewarding arrest with limited paperwork.

  For PC Daz Simms, it could be the kick-start his career needed.

  “November 51 MP – I’m on Portland Street heading north.”

  “51 received.”

  “Nine Nine to that unit, stand by. Target vehicle is going to pass you any moment now – from your right heading west. MP is this vehicle stolen?”

  “Nine Nine from MP, yes, yes. Confirm vehicle is one of ours.”

  The operator hated admitting that her staff were chasing one of their own.

  “November 51 air priority!” It was PC Simms, using the call familiar to police officers across the globe.

  “Ford Mondeo failing to stop, at least three up, towards the one-way street, he’s got opposing traffic MP, still failing to stop.”

  His sentence was delivered in a few seconds.

  Simms was trying his utmost to remain calm; he could taste the excitement as his adrenal glands released their potent chemicals.

  “51 from MP you are to continue your commentary, however, should the situation become dangerous for you or any other road users you are to abort, received?”

  Simms was thrashing the Ford Focus’ five-speed gearbox, second to third and back again, the noise of the 1.8 engine jostling with the sirens for primacy, sirens which ricocheted off the mixture of residential housing and run-down commercial buildings.

  He heard the operator but ignored her. This was his first full-bore pursuit, and these people were not going to get away.

  “Nine Nine – 51 has no opposing traffic, it is safe to continue.”

  The two vehicles hurtled along King and Queen Street, with three or possibly four people on board the Mondeo was slower and now Simms had gained ground.