He moved to the second gun and repeated the process. Same thing.
Wells’ brow furrowed as he tried to envision what had taken place. The obvious answer was there had been at least one other shooter. Otherwise, where had the bullets in the dying man come from? Not from the two dead gunmen, that was sure.
That also answered the question of where the dying man’s weapon had gone, assuming he’d had one.
The shooter or shooters had taken it.
But why?
The more he tried to imagine the scenario, the fuzzier it got.
The dead men had their guns drawn, which told Wells that whatever had gone down had happened in a matter of seconds, or they would have had a chance to shoot.
His eyes strayed to the garage doors. There were bullet holes in the wood at the base, which he hadn’t seen on entering. He walked over and crouched down, and then swung one closed and examined the exterior. No exit marred the heavy wood, so the slugs were still in the door.
Wells stood and looked thoughtfully at the scene. Whoever had shot the place up had done so between the wounded man and the dead one deepest in the space. The second dead man had a wounded leg, so the shooter had taken out his tibia first and then shot him in the head, firing rapidly; hence the wasted rounds.
But why at that level? Less than thirty centimeters from the floor?
He took in the door, the two dead men, and then snapped his fingers, the sound a dull thwack with the gloves on. “Of course. Because you were shooting at him from under a vehicle.” He slowly stepped to a few feet from where the wounded man had lain, held out his hand as though he had a gun in it, and pivoted as he made shooting sounds, like a child on a playground. “Bam. Bam, bam.”
When he finished, he smiled in satisfaction. That was probably what the ballistics would tell him. Same gun had killed both men, as well as wounded the third. One shooter, standing midway between the pair, had fired and then dropped to the floor and shot the third man below a car or truck, wounding him in the leg and then finishing him when he’d fallen.
Which was incredible shooting. He’d seen enough crime scenes to understand how singular this one was. Somehow the Terminator had arrived in Dover.
Wells did a more thorough study of the interior and stopped at the surveillance system. He’d heard the call on his radio about a van that was to be considered armed and dangerous, and had no doubt he’d find it departing the garage, the shooter driving.
The footage was just ending in the mysterious burst of static at the end when a voice called from the mouth of the shop.
“Hullo. Where is he, then?”
Wells slowly turned, his face a mask, and regarded the ambulance driver. “You picked him up a few minutes ago.”
“Blimey. I hate when they do that to us. Waste of time and money. Buggered it up again.”
“Might want to call in and confirm that he arrived. Should have by now.”
“Will do. Idiots.”
Wells studied the tape again. There was only one explanation for the drop out in the surveillance footage. Someone had deleted their arrival after the van had left.
Which explained the anonymous call that had tipped them off.
But now the question was, who had been there, and what other elements of the crime scene had they fiddled with?
An already complicated double homicide had just gotten far more difficult to fathom. Wells walked slowly back to the shop entry, peeling off his gloves as he took measured steps, and looked up at the forensics van with the technicians that had just arrived. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he took in the scene. Whatever had happened here, it was as far from a drug deal gone wrong as he could imagine.
Which meant a bad night had just gotten far worse.
Chapter 43
Maya was startled by the cell phone ringing in her pocket. She pulled it out and eyed the number on the screen. London prefix. Headquarters with her marching orders.
“Hello?”
“Are you still in Dover?”
“Of course. You told me to stay put.”
“It appears that your van has been spotted at an MSA a few kilometers west of Dover.”
“That was fast. How?”
“The local police blocked the main highways leading from the city. A squad car was doing a sweep of the MSA when it saw a van that matched your description. They’ve called in the tactical squad, which should be there any minute.”
“That’s great news.”
“You’re to go to the MSA. We’ve cleared you to speak with the lead man on the tactical squad – he’s connected with MI5, and we can depend on him to be discreet about your involvement.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we aren’t officially involved, but MI5 recognizes that we’ve provided an invaluable service. So they’re willing to share information on a limited basis.”
“What’s this man’s name?”
“Crosby. Sergeant Crosby.”
“And who am I?”
“Jill. As in Jack and Jill. Last names won’t come up.”
She checked her watch. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
“I’d put a rush on it.”
“On my way.”
Maya opened her bag and removed a baseball cap. If she was going to be exposed, she could at least limit what anyone saw of her. She removed her hygiene bag and slid a disk of dark base from it, and hastily applied it to her face, instantly converting her light caramel coloring to a heavy olive-skinned complexion. A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that it had subtly altered her look, and she finished the quick camouflage with a pair of green plastic-framed glasses with clear lenses – she knew from her training that brightly colored accessories would be remembered far more vividly than her features in a day or two, and anyone asked to describe her would likely recall the odd glasses and cap before they remembered much about her face.
The road was miserable, and her ten minutes stretched to twenty before she arrived at the MSA. A dozen police cruisers were gathered in a semicircle at the far end of the massive parking lot, which was swarming even at that hour with vehicles of every description. She pulled up next to an oversized official van, where four uniformed police officers were standing, sipping tea and talking. One of the men, who looked to be maybe twenty-five, approached her.
“Can’t go any further, ma’am.”
“Yes. I see that. I’m looking for a Sergeant Crosby. Tactical squad?”
“They’re a bit busy at the moment, Miss…”
Maya gave him a warm smile. “Jill.”
“Well, Miss Jill, we have a bit of a situation here, so if you can wait until they’re through…”
“And when will that be?”
The cop’s tone changed. “When they are.”
“I see. Of course, I’ll be delighted to wait for him to free up. If you’d let him know Jill is here to see him, though, I’d really appreciate it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He frowned at the Rover like she had arrived riding a unicorn and then strode off to where she could make out a group of a dozen officers encircling the van. After a brief discussion the young man returned, accompanied by an older, hard-looking man in his thirties, lean, with high cheekbones, gray eyes, and a military haircut that was all business.
“Miss…Jill? Sergeant Crosby.”
Maya opened her door and stepped out of the car. Crosby nodded to her and they moved away from the local police, Crosby’s eyes in constant motion as they stepped a dozen paces from her car.
“I’ll make this short. There’s nothing in the van but some smears of blood on the steering wheel, likely from your man’s hands,” he said.
“There’s nothing else? Have you checked the chassis? The gas tank? It could be concealed or integrated into the vehicle.”
Crosby smiled humorlessly. “We’re waiting for a bomb specialist to arrive, but my money says it’s not. If the
re was anything in it, which we only have your people’s word for, it’s gone now.”
“Then he must still be here,” she said, looking around slowly.
“If he took off on foot, we’re not going to find him in this fog.”
“Have you blocked all vehicle traffic?”
“The locals did, but they admit there was a gap. They were waiting for us to show up.”
She shook her head. “Incredible.”
A voice called to them from near the van. “Sergeant Crosby?”
Crosby turned to her. “Excuse me for a moment.”
He left and didn’t return for ten minutes. When he did, his expression was grim. “There are two dead bodies over by the tree line. A man and a woman. No ID. Mid-forties, near as we can tell. Both with their throats slit.”
“It’s him.”
Crosby nodded. “Appears to be, I’ll grant you that. Probably killed them for their vehicle.”
“What else can you tell me about them?”
“Not much I left out.”
“I want to see them.”
Crosby shook his head. “Not a chance. There’s no way you’ll be allowed anywhere near them. This is now a crime scene – murder investigation. You’re nobody. You don’t exist.”
“Please. Give me something.”
He palmed his cell phone and pushed a button. The screen illuminated and he held it up so she could see it. “This is as far as I can go.”
She looked at the couple, their faces distorted from pain, blood splatter staining her blouse and his football jersey. Maya studied the corpses for ten seconds and then fixed Crosby with a determined stare. “He chose them for a reason. There was no way he’d kill two people unless it was important. We need to figure out why that is.”
“Obviously, he wanted their vehicle. And they were at the far reaches of the facility, near the water outlets and the WCs. So a target of opportunity.”
“This guy doesn’t do anything by accident. He’s a planner. Something about them attracted him to them. Discover that, and the odds increase of our finding him.”
“I appreciate your insights, but I’ve got my hands full now. Scotland Yard has been called in. I need to get back to work.” He appraised her. “Not being rude, but we never met.”
“Of course not. Thanks.”
Maya returned to the Rover and called London. She gave a terse summary of the situation and waited for instructions. After being placed on hold for five minutes, a different voice came on the line – older, more authoritative sounding. The head of station had likely been dragged out of bed and was now in the office.
“Return to Dover. There’s nothing you can do at this point until we have more information.”
“Where in Dover?”
“Unimportant. Get a motel room. No offense, but I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”
“He’s out there, you know. With the bomb. On the loose.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We can assume he didn’t go to Dover from Manchester for the weather.”
“All due respect, but our job isn’t to assume anything. Now return to Dover, or if you like, to London, and get some rest. It’s out of our hands now. We’ll speak tomorrow morning and you’ll be debriefed.”
Maya hung up and fumed. She’d been treated like a child the entire time she’d been in England, even after everything she’d achieved. The arrogance of her superiors mirrored that of their British counterparts, apparently. She was green, barely more than an intern, and thus not to be taken seriously.
Fine. She’d get a room, and damn the cost. The expense account would just have to absorb it.
Chapter 44
Abreeq yawned as he rounded another bend on the rural road, his speed as stately as a hearse so as not to attract attention. He hadn’t seen another vehicle in a half hour, not since passing through Lympne Village. The map he’d found in the glove box had proved invaluable, and after perusing it he had a mental image of the route he’d take to reach his ultimate destination.
Killing the couple had been easy. Once he’d seen their vehicle, seemingly just asking for it in the shadows of the MSA, he’d realized that it was perfect for his purposes. He’d approached the man, who was filling a water bottle from a spigot, and asked for directions in broken English. The man had shrugged and resumed his task, and Abreeq had slashed his throat before he’d had a chance to twist the tap back on.
The wife had emerged from the restroom, and Abreeq had waited until she was at the vehicle to jump her. She’d died screaming into his hand, writhing like a wild animal as she sensed her end approaching.
He’d dragged them both into the brush and stripped them of their identification, and had manhandled the device into their vehicle and been on his way within minutes of laying them to rest. As he’d hoped, the convoy of police cars hadn’t given his new ride a glance as he drove past them, which told him they had no idea what they were dealing with. Abreeq knew he couldn’t rely on that ignorant apathy for any length of time, but intended to capitalize on it while he could.
The couple wouldn’t be immediately identified, and once they were, it would take hours more to establish whether they had rented a car or driven their own vehicle to the coast. By which time it would be too late to stop him – he’d be hiding in plain sight.
A fox darted across the road in front of him and he slowed, grinding his teeth at the sound of the keg sliding forward. He hadn’t had time to secure it, but he’d need to soon. Until now he’d been focused on putting distance between himself and the police.
He coasted to the shoulder and peered through the windshield at the total darkness around him. The fog had thinned as he’d made his way inland, but was still thick enough that visibility was impaired. Abreeq switched off the headlights and checked on the keg. After improvising bindings with some towing rope, he was back behind the wheel, the vehicle’s diesel engine clacking along with the monotonous regularity of a locomotive.
Abreeq made a turn south in the sleeping hamlet of Woodchurch, onto a single-lane road that stretched through farmland. He was in no particular hurry and had elected to stay to back roads, well away from any main arteries or major metropolitan areas. Minutes stretched into several hours, and at half past four he pulled onto a dirt track behind a grove of trees and shut off the motor, determined to get a few hours of sleep so he wouldn’t be too groggy for the big event the next day.
He moved into the rear of the vehicle, stripped off the bloody sweatshirt, and replaced it with a clean one. After double-checking his weapon and setting it by the pillow, he lay down and closed his eyes, the bucolic landscape around him silent as the grave.
~ ~ ~
Maya found a reasonable-looking establishment near the coast and roused a sleepy innkeeper to the front desk with the ring of a bell. The old man looked surprised to have been awakened from his slumber at the late hour but was more than happy to accept her money in exchange for a room. She declined a guided tour to the second-floor digs and instead took the key from him, hoisted her bag, and set off up the stairs, a headache starting in the deepest reaches of her skull from the tension of the last hours.
Her cell rang as she was stripping off her clothes, and she hopped to the small table she’d placed it on, her pants around her ankles. She glanced at the screen – the same London prefix.
The head of station’s distinctive voice was grim when she answered, and got straight to the point.
“Our contacts tell us that the wounded man from Dover has disappeared.”
“What? He was dying. What are you talking about?”
“Nobody’s sure. At first they thought it was some sort of a mix-up at the hospital, but he hasn’t been admitted at any of the local facilities, so it could be something more…ominous.”
“How does a dying man vanish into thin air?”
“Obviously he had help.”
“That tells me that perhap
s we aren’t the only ones with sources in the police force.”
“While I typically argue against making any hasty decisions, I tend to agree with you.”
She frowned. “Every step of the way this has gone from bad to worse. Is there anything else? Any promising leads?”
“Not at this time.” He paused. “I’m afraid Jeff didn’t make it. We just got the call.”
Maya swallowed hard. “That’s a shame. He was a good agent.”
“I know.”
“His last order was to stop Abreeq at all costs.”
“Yes. There was history there.”
“We haven’t done a particularly stellar job.”
“It’s a big country. You’re only one person. Did you get a room?”
“Yes. Dover.”
“Fine. Let’s talk tomorrow. Maybe there will be some positive developments overnight.”
“That would be nice.”
“Leave your phone on just in case.”
Maya set the cell back on the table and yawned, then stepped out of her pants and pulled her shirt off. Once in the bathroom, she scrubbed the dark base off her face and noted that her eyes were red. She looked as bad as she felt. She’d failed to catch the terrorist, Jeff was dead, and what career she’d had could well be in jeopardy. Everyone involved would be looking hard for someone to blame for the fiasco and trail of dead bodies, and she, as the junior agent in the field, was a prime target. It wouldn’t matter in the end that she’d gone to impossible lengths to get to Dover, and had come within minutes of apprehending Abreeq. It would only be remembered that her supervisor had died while with her, and the assumption would be that her carelessness had killed him – an easy leap to make given the string of failures to date.
None of which mattered to her right then. She was exhausted, and her mind was playing tricks on her, painting worst-case scenarios, assuming she’d be scapegoated. Whatever happened tomorrow, she had no control over it, and the best she could do was get some rest.
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 21