McGovan patted the shoulder of the man wearing the vest. His name was Zayn. Born in Bradford, he was a Pakistani Muslim who had spent three months fighting with ISIS in Syria before returning home, flying from Turkey to Canada and from there to the UK. ‘You’ll make us proud,’ said McGovan. Zayn nodded but his eyes were dull and lifeless as if his spirit had already left his body.
Another of the jihadists helped fit the fragmentation jacket over the explosive vest. The explosives created the shock wave but it was the shrapnel from the jacket that would do the damage, dozens of pockets filled with nuts, bolts, nails and ball bearings. When the PE-4A was detonated, the lethal shrapnel would radiate outwards, killing or maiming anyone within fifty feet.
The jihadist muttered an Islamic prayer as he fitted the jacket, then stood back to admire his handiwork. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he said.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ muttered Zayn.
McGovan and the jihadist helped Zayn put on a raincoat. It was several sizes too big so that it would go over the vest and jacket. The jihadist buttoned up the coat, muttering another prayer, as McGovan fed the wires of the trigger down the sleeve. ‘Don’t forget. Only make the vest live when you’re within sight of the target.’
Zayn nodded again, but didn’t say anything.
‘Repeat that back to me,’ said McGovan, putting his hands on the man’s shoulders and looking into his blank eyes.
‘Only make the vest live when I’m within sight of the target.’
‘Good man,’ said McGovan. He beckoned Zayn’s driver. He was one of the non-Asians in the group, a twenty-five-year-old Glaswegian, who had converted to Islam in Scotland, then spent a year in Syria as a foreign fighter. An ISIS talent-spotter had realised the man’s potential and persuaded him that he could best serve Islam back in the UK. His name was Bruce, but McGovan didn’t know if that was his family name or his first name. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Names didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the men did their jobs. Bruce was to drive Zayn as close to Waterloo station as he could get. Zayn was to walk into the middle of the station to detonate. ‘Off you go, lads,’ said McGovan. ‘Allahu Akbar.’
The two men smiled thinly. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ they chorused, then headed outside.
CHAPTER 59
Harper watched on the drone feed as the two men walked from the industrial unit towards a blue Hyundai. One was Asian, wearing a long coat. The other was white, in his twenties, in jeans and a leather jacket.
‘I have a tail up and running and a bike on the way back from the A13,’ said Hansfree in Harper’s ear.
The two men got into the Hyundai. A few seconds later it drove away and was soon out of range of the drone’s camera.
Barry Whisper drove up and parked behind the van. Harper climbed out, waved at him, then took out his mobile and called Button. ‘The third team has just set out. A blue Hyundai. We have a tail on it. I’ll call in the location once we know where they’re headed.’
Harper ended the call and got into Barry Whisper’s car. ‘How’s it going?’ Barry Whisper asked.
‘Two-man suicide-bombers. We’re dealing with them as they leave. The third has just headed out and so we think there’s one team left. I’ve a job for you, Barry, if you’re up for it.’
‘I’m up for it,’ he said immediately.
‘At least let me tell you what it is.’
Barry Whisper shrugged. ‘We go back a long way, Lex. If you want something doing, I’ll do it.’
Harper grasped the man’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘You’re a star, but this is different from the normal jobs. I’ve got to slot this guy McGovan and I’ve got to do it myself. I think the best way is from the back of a bike and even I’m not good enough to drive and shoot at the same time.’
‘No problem,’ said Barry Whisper. ‘I’ll drive. What about the bike?’
‘We can get it off Hansfree’s guy. In fact, talk to Hansfree now, then head over with the car and come back on the bike.’
CHAPTER 60
‘There it is, dead ahead, white Honda,’ said Glenn Marsden. He was at the wheel of the black BMW X5, favourite vehicle of the Metropolitan Police’s armed-response unit. Sitting next to him in the front passenger seat, Jon Cooper was the most experienced of the three-man unit.
Cooper checked the registration number on the screen in front of him. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Guns out, Paul.’ He picked up his radio mic. ‘Trojan Six Three Four, we have the target vehicle in sight.’
Paul Evans, the youngest member of the team, was sitting behind Cooper. He pulled down the seat next to him revealing the three SIG Sauer 516 assault rifles. The SIG 516s the unit used came with a telescoping stock and a thirty-round magazine. Evans slid the guns out and handed one to Cooper.
‘Right, just so you know, if this is the same situation as the other Trojans had, the passenger has a suicide vest on and the driver is clear,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s an on-off switch that has to be in the on position before the trigger is pressed so, providing we act quickly enough, we can stop the detonation.’ Marsden and Evans grunted.
‘Trojan Six Two One, we’re right behind you. How do you want to play this?’ It was Stan Mitchell, senior officer in the second armed-response vehicle that had been assigned to the situation.
Evans twisted around in his seat. A second black BMW X5 was three cars behind. ‘I see them,’ he said.
‘We’ll pull ahead and stop the Honda,’ said Cooper. ‘It has to be fast but we need to issue clear warnings. Any attempt to detonate and Operation Kratos applies.’
‘Understood,’ said Mitchell.
The Met had laid down the Operation Kratos tactics in 2002 specifically to deal with suicide-bombers, and although the term had been officially dropped in 2008, the tactics still applied: if a suicide-bomber was in danger of detonating, he or she was to be shot in the head until the threat was neutralised.
Cooper nodded at Marsden. ‘Let’s do it, Glenn.’
Marsden accelerated, pulling smoothly in front of the white Honda. He braked, slowly at first, but then increasing the pressure on the pedal. The driver of the white Honda pounded his horn but Marsden continued to slow. Cooper and Evans flicked the safeties off as the car stopped and piled out of the offside.
They ran to the Honda, shouting, ‘Armed police!’ Cooper to the passenger side, Evans covering the driver. Trojan Six Two One had pulled up behind the Honda. Traffic continued to drive past but slowly as motorists craned their necks to see what was going on.
‘Armed police, hands up!’ shouted Marsden. The driver kept his hands on the wheel, his mouth wide open.
‘Put your hands in the air, now!’ screamed Cooper.
Marsden was climbing out of the X5, his gun in his right hand. The men in the second X5 were getting out too, guns at the ready.
The passenger opened his mouth to shout and his right arm moved. Cooper fired twice. The windshield shattered and the man’s head exploded.
Evans kept his weapon aimed at the driver. ‘Stay exactly where you are!’ he shouted.
The driver blinked, frowned, then looked at the body next to him. He glanced back at Evans, then lunged towards the body. Evans pulled the trigger. The shot took off the top of the driver’s head. He fired again, twice, a professional double-tap with both shots hitting the face, dead centre.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl now and in almost every car a mobile phone was pointing at the Honda and the two dead bodies inside.
‘Let’s move these vehicles on and set up a roadblock,’ Cooper shouted to Mitchell. ‘This is now a crime scene.’ He waved at Marsden. ‘Glenn, move these vultures on. Anyone not out of here in double-quick time is to be charged with using their phone while driving.’
CHAPTER 61
Harper watched as the final two jihadists walked out of the industrial unit and got into a white van with the name of a courier company on the side. ‘They’re taking the van,’ said Harper into his mic. ‘You’ve got a tail ready?’
‘Barry Big’s in place,’ said Hansfree, over the radio.
‘Roger that,’ said Barry Big. ‘Raring to go.’
‘I’ve a bike ready, too,’ said Hansfree.
‘Just keep updating me. Once we know which route they’re on, the cops can take over.’
‘How do we stand so far?’ asked Hansfree.
‘Two neutralised, one on the way,’ said Harper.
‘Any collateral damage?’
‘So far so good,’ said Harper. ‘Looks to me as if Tango One is now alone in the unit. So I need you to pull off all surveillance. Only those following the vehicles are to stay in play, everyone else is now off the clock.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Hansfree.
‘I’m sure,’ said Harper. ‘I’ll take care of Tango One. Barry Whisper will help. Everyone else can stand down, job well done.’
‘Roger that,’ said Hansfree. ‘You just be careful. I’d hate anything to happen to you before my money goes into the bank.’
‘Good to know you have my best interests at heart,’ said Harper. He patted the drone operator on the shoulder. ‘We’re done, mate, thanks. Pack up and head on home.’
Harper climbed out of the van and went over to the BMW. Maggie was in the driving seat, drinking from a bottle of water. He leaned down and winked at her. ‘All done, the authorities will take care of it now.’
‘What about Tango One?’
‘I’ll deal with him.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Nah, I’m good,’ he said. ‘You can stand down.’ He nodded at the BMW. ‘You can keep the car, sell it for whatever you can get or give it away. It’s untraceable.’
‘I’m happy to stay, Lex, you know that.’
‘I know. But it’s not necessary. I’ll call you.’
She blew him a kiss. ‘Make sure you do.’
As Maggie drove off, the drone came in for a perfect landing close to the van. The operator climbed out, put it into the back, waved to Harper and disappeared down the road after Maggie.
Harper went over to Barry Whisper. He took out his gun, checked it, then put it back in his underarm holster. Barry Whisper was already wearing a black full-face helmet and he handed a white one to Harper. ‘Let’s get this done,’ said Harper, climbing onto the pillion.
CHAPTER 62
The police took down the occupants of the blue Hyundai about three miles from central London, south of the river. There were two occupants: a Caucasian was driving, an Asian sitting in the front passenger seat. Three armed-response vehicles were involved, working together to slow down the Hyundai at a quiet section of road.
As soon as it had stopped, six armed officers surrounded the car, their SIG Sauer 516 assault rifles aimed at the occupants. They knew now that there was no doubt about the threat. Two cars had already been dealt with and both had contained suicide-bombers.
‘Armed police, raise your hands!’ shouted a sergeant, who had his carbine trained at the passenger’s face. All the intel suggested that only the passenger was carrying explosives but both men were a threat because either could operate the trigger.
The two passengers looked at each other, their mouths open and their eyes wide. It wasn’t unusual for suspects to freeze when they were confronted by armed police. It was a natural human reaction, and a result of brain chemistry rather than conscious thought. The amygdala – a small region of the brain near the top of the spine – kicks out a neurotransmitter called glutamate in response to any sign of danger. It activates the freeze response first because evolution has taught that freezing is the best way to avoid a predator. But within less than a second that same neurotransmitter reaches the hypothalamus where it triggers the flight or fight response. That is when the heart rate jumps and adrenalin courses through the body. At that point a conscious decision has to be made – fight or run. But until that decision is taken the body stays in freeze mode. That was where the two men were as they stared out at the armed police. They couldn’t run because they were in a car surrounded by policemen with guns. They couldn’t fight because they had no weapons. So they froze.
‘ARMED POLICE, HANDS IN THE AIR NOW!’
The passenger moved his right hand. Just his right hand, not the left. The sergeant took that to mean he was about to reach for the trigger and fired. The side window shattered into a thousand cubes and the sergeant fired again. The second bullet slammed into the side of the man’s head and exited the other side before blowing off the top of the driver’s skull. The driver slumped forward and, as he did so, two of the other officers opened fire. The windshield shattered and both men’s heads blew apart. Blood, brain matter and pieces of skull sprayed across the interior. More than a dozen shots were fired, then everything went quiet.
The sergeant’s eyes were stinging from the cordite in the air. He knew that, strictly speaking, neither man had made a threatening gesture, but he didn’t care. If the vest had gone off everyone would have died. So far as he was concerned, two dead terrorists and no collateral damage was a perfect result.
CHAPTER 63
Harper had his gun in his hand as Barry Whisper revved the engine. They were at the entrance to the industrial unit. The gate was open but, with no windows in the unit and the door closed, there was no way of telling what McGovan was doing inside. Time was ticking away and he didn’t want to wait for ever. He tapped Barry Whisper’s shoulder. ‘Drive in, drive around the unit and let me off at the side. Then head back to the entrance and attract his attention. But be careful, mate – he’s got some serious weaponry in there.’
Barry Whisper revved the engine again, and drove through the entrance. He accelerated hard, then turned to the left to drive by the lean-to garages. He slammed on the brakes and Harper was off the bike before it had stopped. Barry Whisper accelerated and disappeared around the back of the unit.
Harper kept close to the building as he went around to the front. He reached the corner as the bike appeared at the other side, heading for the exit.
Harper heard the door open and ducked back. McGovan was holding an L85 with a thirty-round magazine in place, and as Barry Whisper reached the exit, McGovan swung the rifle up to his shoulder. Harper knew he had to react quickly – the Heckler & Koch assault weapon had an effective range of close to 400 metres and, as ex-SAS, McGovan would be a marksman more than capable of killing Barry Whisper, even on a motorbike.
McGovan was totally focused on Barry Whisper so didn’t see Harper step out and raise the Smith & Wesson until the last second, just as he was pulling the trigger. McGovan had started to turn as Harper fired and the slug slammed into his left shoulder. The impact spun him around and the rifle clattered to the ground. McGovan bent down to pick it up but Harper fired again and McGovan’s right hand practically exploded. He staggered back and disappeared inside the unit.
Harper ran after him and pushed through the door. There was a small office to the left but the rest of the building was open plan, empty except for a few trestle tables piled with weapons and provisions. There was a tailor’s dummy with a canvas vest on it, but no explosives. McGovan was staggering as he ran, blood dripping from his wounded shoulder and hand.
He was running towards a table on which there was another rifle. Harper shot him in the leg and McGovan pitched sideways and fell to the floor. He rolled over, then slowly pushed himself up so that he was sitting against the wall. He watched impassively as Harper walked over to stand in front of him.
‘They got them all,’ said Harper. ‘They killed the guys you left at Menwith Hill. They didn’t get anywhere near the listening station. And those suicide bombers? All dead, mate. Not one of them even got to press their trigger. All shot in the head. Bang, bang, bang, bang. It was all for nothing. Everything you did. A total waste of fucking time.’
McGovan’s shirt was now soaked with blood from the shoulder wound. His right hand was shattered and useless. What was left of it was lying in his lap. Two fingers were missing. There was blood all over his
trousers.
‘Get me a field dressing, will you?’ asked McGovan. ‘There’s one on the table over there.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Harper. He pushed up the visor of the full-face helmet.
McGovan tilted his head on one side as he looked at Harper. ‘You were in the Regiment, right? Or are you still in?’
‘Never was, never will be,’ said Harper. ‘I was a Para, and happy with that. I couldn’t be doing with all the crap you have to go through to get in.’
‘But you were a soldier.’ McGovan winced, and gritted his teeth. He took a long, slow breath before speaking. ‘You’ve won. I accept that. But now I’m a casualty. I’m bleeding to death here.’
Harper shrugged. ‘I’m not a medic. That’s not what I do.’
‘Just take me in. Let me have my day in court,’ said McGovan. ‘I’ll tell the world why I did what I did. They need to understand.’
Harper shook his head. ‘That’s not going to happen. No one gives a fuck why you did what you did. You did it for a fictitious god that you believe doesn’t want you to eat bacon or drink beer, a god that says women should cover their faces and not drive cars. You’re fucking deluded, mate.’ He tapped the side of his helmet with the barrel of the gun. ‘You’re a few rounds short of a magazine, not right in the head, get it? I dunno what made you become a Muslim nutter, but that’s what you are. That’s all anyone will remember.’ He leveled the gun at McGovan’s face. ‘No one gives a shit who you are or why you did what you did.’
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