by Dan Fletcher
‘Here it is,’ Ibisi relayed the address to Pickles, ‘you may also want to check out his warehouse in Tilbury. We know he has been using it for the smuggling of cocaine into the UK and he may be holding them there.’ The Commander gave him the address in Hume Road.
‘Cocaine? Coming into London? Why weren’t we informed? This is an outrage! I will be reporting this to the Commissioner,’ shouted Pickles, losing his cool. Who did this guy think he was?
‘We, at the NDLEA, are pursuing more than one criminal at the moment, Detective Pickles. If and when the time was right we would have informed you of the Chief’s activities,’ the Commander replied, trying to avoid an international incident.
‘The Chief? Who the hell is he?’ said the fuming Detective.
‘Sorry...I meant Mr Akintola. Look Detective this is just a courtesy call, I didn’t have to call you. Now good day,’ the Commander said, hanging up.
He slumped into his leather recliner. His well laid plans to raid the warehouse had been delayed, and now the Chief was in the air on the way to Washington. Somehow the Commander-General got the feeling that he wasn’t going to be coming out of all this smelling of roses.
Pickles thought about calling the Commissioner’s office straight away, but decided that it could wait until later. His priority was Mrs Shorey and the two girls. He would need to put a team together quickly and get plans of the house and warehouse. As well as arrange warrants and an armed police unit.
Deciding it would take the longest, he searched for Lorraine’s number in his cell phone memory. A widowed fifty-seven year old, who lived and breathed the law. She was the only Magistrate he knew likely to pick up out of office hours.
‘Hello? Who’s that calling at this time of night?’ was her sleepy greeting. It was only 10.15pm but that was late for Lorraine, an early riser.
Hi Lorraine. Sorry to disturb you but something urgent has come up and I need a couple of warrants, tonight. Lives are at stake,’ he said, as if by refusing she would be condemning them herself.
‘It’s that serious is it?’ said Lorraine, yawning in an attempt to wake herself up.
‘I’m afraid so Lorraine. I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise,’ replied Detective Pickles.
‘OK. Come over, I’ll put the kettle on. You remember where it is?’
‘Yes. I’ve got a few phone calls to make first so I’ll see you in about forty minutes. Thanks you’re a star,’ said Pickles meaning it. This was the third time she had helped him out of hours in the last year.
‘Don’t mention it George. You know I’m always happy to help. I’ll see you in a bit. Drive carefully,’ she said hanging up. Lorraine knew how preoccupied he got with work. Divorced and approaching forty, Pickles didn’t seem to have any life outside work. It just wasn’t healthy in her opinion.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Detective Pickles had worked through the night, only stopping for the occasional coffee to keep himself going. He had managed to get the go-ahead to assemble two Firearms Units from CO19, the armed division of the Met. Two twelve man teams to hit each of the targets simultaneously. The raids were planned for 6am that morning. Deciding that Tilbury was the most likely location to be holding them, Pickles was going along with ‘Bravo’ team. The other squad had been designated the call sign ‘Alpha’.
After getting the warrants, Pickles followed up on his earlier phone calls and organised for them to meet in one of the building’s many briefing rooms at 4.30am. The room was only just big enough for the some twenty-six officers crammed inside. The white-board displayed what they had to go on, which amounted to an aerial shot of the warehouse and plans of the house in Woodside Gardens. Not a lot but it was going to have to do.
‘How many are we expecting at the warehouse sir?’ said a square-shaped officer at the back.
‘I’m afraid we don’t know, so we are assuming the worst. Unfortunately we haven’t got time for surveillance, hence the over-kill,’ Pickles replied, looking around the room.
In front of him was what amounted to a small army of Special Firearm Officers, or SFOs. Each team had two logistics & communications officers who would hold back, giving intelligence support to the other ten members when they were in the field. There were two snipers, armed with HK G3k assault rifles with telescopic sights, and another two carrying Benelli 12-guage shotguns.
The rest were sporting HK MP5 sub-Machine Guns, the scaled down version of the one used by the SAS. It only carried 15 rounds and fired single or semi-automatic bursts, using hollow point rounds for low penetration. Making the bullets less likely to go through the target and hit innocent bystanders.
In addition all of them were carrying handguns, GLOCK 9mms with 17 round magazines. Combined with their Kevlar body armour and accessorised assault vests, they definitely looked the part. When they went in they would be wearing ceramic helmets and gas masks, adding to the first impression they liked to create.
‘Right are there any more questions,’ asked Detective Pickles, looking around the expressionless faces in the room. They were the two most seasoned teams out of the some five hundred members of CO19. Having taken part in numerous raids and practiced their procedures hundreds of times, they knew what was expected of them and did it well. There were no more questions.
‘Right then, we go at 6.00am,’ Pickles said, looking at his watch, ‘wait for my signal. Timing is crucial, we don’t know which location they’re in and we don’t want to tip them off. Good luck!’
The men started talking amongst themselves as they left the briefing room. There was a buzz of excitement in the air, a camaraderie that Pickles didn’t feel.
Detective Pickles rode with four members of ‘Bravo’ team in the back of their BMW 5 Series Area car, uncomfortably squashed between two over-clad officers. Without using the sirens they sped through London, the lights flashing to warn other motorists as they shot through traffic lights and junctions.
They pulled up behind the communications van on Hume Avenue, a few hundred meters from the entrance to the warehouse. Pickles joined the officers in the van, whilst the three SFOs went to take up their positions.
‘How are we doing?’ said Pickles, taking a seat and donning a headset.
‘Fine sir. Everyone else is in their oppositions. The two snipers are covering the front gate, there’s no vantage point from the rear. They’ve reported an armed guard in the gatehouse holding a machine gun, looks like he’s actually asleep sir,’ reported the officer, looking back at the screen. Using thermal imaging they were monitoring the Officers positions.
Pickles looked at his watch, twenty minutes to six. He radioed ‘Alpha’ team to make sure they were ready.
‘Yes sir, we’re all in position. There doesn’t seem to be any movement here though, sir. The curtains are open and there are no lights anywhere, looks like they’re probably with you. Over,’ reported the SFO.
‘Don’t take anything for granted. Stay alert and assume that they are inside. Is that clear? Over,’ Pickles said, not one for complacency.
‘Yes sir. We’ll stay on our toes. Over,’ replied the SFO, signing off.
They waited, nerves becoming more strained as the minutes ticked by and six o’clock approached. Pickles was checking his watch every thirty seconds, with nothing else to do. Radio silence was maintained, meaning there had been no movement from the gatehouse or anywhere else. Four of ‘Bravo’ team had crossed the farmland, and train tracks, on the other side of the warehouse. Having crawled through the brambles, they were now at the perimeter fence, waiting to crawl through the small gap they had cut.
‘Echo One this is Romeo Six come in, over,’ the sound was deafening in Pickles headphones after waiting so long in silence.
‘Yes Romeo Six this is Echo One. What’s up? Over,’ replied the Communications officer, sitting beside Pickles.
‘We’ve got dogs, at least two of them wandering around loose in the compound, be advised. Over,’ the radio went dead again.
The other SFOs listening in tensed in their hidden positions. Dogs were their worst nightmare during raids, often attacking from concealed locations. Their already heightened senses were pushed even further. Pickles counted down the seconds on his watch, before giving the order to both teams.
‘All teams go! I repeat it’s a go! Over,’ Pickles said loudly into the microphone, watching the red triangles spring into life on the monitor.
The four men crouched against the perimeter fence either side of the entrance gate ran forward. The lead man was carrying a pair of bolt-croppers and bent on one knee in front of the gate whilst the other three covered him with their weapons. The SFO cut through the padlock, the sound echoing off the lorries and the buildings. The dogs heard it and started barking, running towards the gate. The three SFOs guarding the one with bolt-croppers, sent a hail of bullets in their direction, killing two instantly and wounding the third, who scampered off dragging its hind legs behind it. A bullet had passed through the animal’s spine, crippling it.
Kayin was woken by the commotion and stood up from the chair holding his AK in front of him. It was the last thing he ever did, as one of the snipers sent a large .51mm round through Kayin’s head, exploding it like a water-melon. Bits of his brain and skull splattered the wall and key rack behind him. He fell back into the chair in eternal slumber.
Two of the SFOs at the rear of the building had crawled through, and now one held the fence up for the others, meanwhile his colleague covered the warehouse doors. All through, they sprinted to the loading bay doors, and were joined by the four SFOs from the front gate.
They took up positions against the wall at a safe distance, as the demolitions expert placed a small charge of semtex on the doors, and moved back to join the others. He took a small, cigarette packet sized, object from his pocket. Extending the tiny aerial, he flicked the switch and detonated the device.
Inside, all three of the men had been sleeping, with nothing on the premises to guard. Ogun was the first of them to wake up and react to the firing outside. He had just made it to the other side of the doors, when they exploded inwards. There was a large bang, followed by the feeling of hot metal burning into his flesh. Some of the door had embedded itself deeply into his chest.
The leading two SFOs burst through the opening, and one of them shot Ogun twice in the face at close range, killing him instantly and relieving him of the agony.
Femi ran through the plastic sheet into the warehouse. Seeing them, he dove for cover behind a stack of barrels. Nwake was crouched at the end of the corridor, his AK upright in front of him, breathing rapidly.
The other SFOs entered the warehouse and fanned out, covering the entrance to the corridor, and the barrels where Femi was hiding. A stand-off occurred.
‘Throw down your weapons and come out with your hands up. The place is surrounded. There’s no need for anyone else to get hurt,’ said the SFO nearest to Femi, mindful that the hostages could be in there.
Femi wasn’t convinced and let a short burst off from his AK in the direction of the voice. The bullets ripped into the cladding above the SFOs head. He signalled to two of the officers to try and circle around to the left. Crouching behind barrels they leapfrogged forward, covering each other as they moved from position to position. Eventually they were at the end of the row of barrels where Femi was hiding, ninety degrees from the other SFO.
‘I said come out with your hands up and you won’t be harmed,’ shouted the leading SFO.
Femi leant around the barrel and let off another burst at the SFO. The two crouched at the end of the row took the opportunity and rounded the corner, riddling Femi with bullets. He was picked up in the air and shaken around, before being thrown backwards towards the corridor. Nwake fired a few random shots through the plastic sheeting and retreated into the kitchen, adrenalin coursing through his veins. He was the only one left.
The SFOs took up positions either side of the sheeting.
‘This is your final warning. Put down your weapon and come out slowly with your hands behind your head,’ said the SFO, preparing to throw in a stun grenade. One of the other SFOs was doing the same, shotgun in his other hand.
‘OK, I’m coming out. Just don’t shoot,’ Nwake replied, realising he had no way out. He wasn’t ready to die.
Nwake laid his AK down on the wooden bench and with his hands on his head walked out into the corridor. Two of the SFOs rushed forward and forced him to the ground. He was pinned there with a knee in his back and a shotgun against the back of his head.
‘Don’t move,’ snarled the SFO, unnecessarily.
The others moved into the corridor and checked each room, finding them empty.
‘Echo One, Romeo Three. All clear, no casualties. Three hostiles down, one in custody. No sign of any friendlies. Over,’ reported the SFO.
He had got it wrong. They must be at the house thought Pickles listening to the radio. There had been nothing from Woodside Gardens yet. He checked his watch, they should be in by now. Not wanting to break the radio silence he waited in eager anticipation. The few minutes seemed like hours.
‘Echo One this is Echo Two, over,’ the static was broken by the SFO’s voice, sitting in the van outside Alan’s house.
‘Yes Echo Two, have you got them?’ replied the SFO beside Pickles, disregarding normal radio procedure.
‘No Echo One, nobody here. The place is deserted, we’re returning to base. Over,’ stated the other SFO, ending the transmission.
If they weren’t there then where the hell were they?
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Alan flitted in and out of sleep all night. After the close call with Happy it took him nearly ten minutes to steady his nerves. He tried to get his friend to wake up a few times to no avail before finally nodding off. Alan was woken a few times later by John’s terrifying screams. Alan said consoling words and tried to talk to him. There was no rational response, just mumblings that didn’t make any sense.
Dawn arrived and there was no movement from next door. Alan went over to the sliding doors and pulled back the thick curtains. The sun-light blinded him for an instant after being in the blacked out room. Squinting against it, Alan searched for any sign of the officers ‘protecting’ him. He couldn’t see them, and wasn’t sure whether that was a good or bad thing.
What looked like a residential area stretched before him, an endless sea of tin roofs. Most of them had one or two floors, some of the top floors open and unfinished with bamboo poles propping them up. Facing east, the sun reflected off the rooftops doubling its intensity.
‘Alan...Alan is that you?’ called John feebly.
‘Hello mate. Back with us are you, thought you might be a goner,’ Alan said, shuffling over to John’s side.
‘Where...am I?’
‘It’s a long story mate. You just take it easy and I’ll fill you in slowly. Some of it might be a bit of a shock,’ Alan replied kindly. John grimaced as he tried to push himself up in bed.
‘Here let me help you,’ Alan said, lifting John up a bit by his armpits, ‘and have another couple of these.’ He took two painkiller capsules from the packet and held the glass of water for John to take them.
‘Thanks,’ John replied, gasping, ‘where the hell are we...and what’s happened to Vanessa and the girls?’
Alan told him what he knew so far, including their imminent trip.
‘Los Angeles? This is crazy! Why didn’t the police just arrest this Chief bloke, and get us the hell out of here?’ said John.
‘Keep it down mate. I don’t know, they didn’t tell me. They just told me this was the only way we can avoid doing time and save the girls. What was I supposed to do? Do you think leaving you here and fucking off didn’t cross my mind?’ replied Alan.
‘Am I supposed to thank you for...,’ John stopped as pain shot through him, ‘not leaving me here? We’re supposed to be mates.’
‘I’m here aren’t I? Stop your bloody whinging and save your strength,’ Alan replie
d.
‘Alright...thanks for coming back, I owe you a big one,’ said John. ‘What are we going to do then? Make another break for it?’
‘We didn’t do very well last time did we?’ said Alan, looking at John’s shoulder. ‘Maybe we should just do what this copper wants. It’s the best chance we’ve got for us and the girls. I mean, those DEA guys don’t mess about do they. I’ve seen them on TV.’
Unfortunately John remembered seeing an American real life cop show, the image of the officers going in guns blazing and asking questions afterwards didn’t fill him with confidence. He tried to sit up straighter in the bed, but the effort left him feeling faint.
‘Why don’t you get some more rest? We’re not going anywhere until tonight by the sounds of it anyway. I’ll wake you up when they bring some grub in,’ Alan said, seeing the colour drain from John’s face.
John protested that he was fine, but within half an hour he was snoring lightly. Happy and Patience took turns sticking their heads in to check on them, but otherwise nothing happened until food arrived. Alan managed to wake John and they both ate some of the late continental breakfast. John covering himself in croissant crumbs in the process. He could feel the digestive warmth in his belly afterwards, feeling better for it. Giving him the strength to visit the toilet and relieve himself. He felt the blood rush to his head as he stood up, and was forced to hold onto the sink to prevent himself falling, eventually walking precariously back to the bed.
The afternoon passed slowly as they flicked through the TV channels, waiting to be taken to the airport. Patience came in twice to give them both shots of antibiotics. Alan’s leg felt stiff and painful when he moved it, but keeping it up on the bed dulled the pain. John dozed off again and woke up at around four, feeling hungrier than he had before eating brunch. He sat upright and drank some of the water to revive his throat.
‘Any chance of some more food?’ he called through to the other room. Happy burst into the room, with a fierce look on his face.