by Jack Gatland
Monroe thought for a moment. ‘I have no idea,’ he said. ‘Probably because forensics have scared me since I was a small child. Is that really the conversation you want to have now?’
Declan shrugged. ‘Just passing the time.’
‘Well, pass it by killing a few of those bastards out there, soldier,’ Monroe snapped, before glancing nervously out of the window at the opposing force. Monroe had never been in the military. This was a new situation for him. ‘They’re going to hit hard, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah,’ Declan said. ‘You’d better find somewhere to gain cover.’
‘What about you?’ Monroe asked. Declan forced a smile, but it wasn’t a happy one.
‘I’ve been here before, and I know what to do,’ he said as he rammed the carbine of the MP5 through the pane of glass, firing out at the approaching enemy, wincing at the sudden noise while seeing them dive for cover as the bullets zinged past them.
‘Well, there goes the negotiation option,’ Monroe adjusted his balaclava when Declan finished, pulling back from the window in case they returned fire.
‘They would never negotiate,’ Declan said. ‘They want to kill us.’
There was the sound of an explosion in the back room; the gunmen who had flanked to the left had most likely found the kitchen door and had blown it in. Semi-automatic gunfire could be heard, most likely Rosanna Marcos and Joanne Davey trying to hold them off. Monroe looked nervously back.
‘Should I help?’ he asked. Declan nodded.
‘I can hold the buggers here,’ he said. ‘All we have to do is keep them off us long enough for Anjli and Billy to get the hostages to talk.’
Monroe sighed and with a ka-chick of his MP5 left the room. Declan looked out of the window, firing wildly again, keeping the gunmen outside pinned. Pulling another magazine out, he quickly reloaded, reminding himself that unlike the enemy, he only had limited bullets. Best to stop pretending he was John Rambo.
Bullets smacked into the wall of the cottage and Declan backed away, watching the door, finding a position in the room where he could defend himself. It was a small room with minimal furniture; stairs led up at the back to where Billy and Anjli were, while the door to the left-hand side led to the kitchen where gunfire and screams of anger and rage could now be heard. Beside Declan was a fireplace with a sofa, a hideous red and pink one with flowery patterns on it next to the mantlepiece. But neither of those could save him right now. To his right however was a dining table made of solid oak, something chunky and heavy that could save him from the oncoming attack. He ran over to it, overturning the heavy table with a sizeable amount of effort and setting up a position behind it.
He’d only just settled into some sort of loose defending position when the door exploded in. A CS gas canister rolled in, filling the room with smoke as three SCO 19 officers entered it, guns at the ready.
Screw this. They were just police. He was military trained.
Declan quickly rose, firing his MP5 at the officers before dropping as the bullets slammed into the table. He’d seen one officer go down; he hoped it was a kill shot. He needed to remove the others quickly, force them to back out so he could retreat upstairs and help his colleagues. The gunfire from the kitchen area had already ended; he didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad omen for the day. Although, as nobody was entering from the side door, he hoped this meant that Monroe and the others had forced the issue there.
‘I don’t care how you do it, just shoot that bugger!’ the SCO Team Leader shouted. ‘We need to save the hostages!’
The table protecting Declan was hit again with multiple shots, and Declan slid backwards towards the stairs. He had a gas canister of his own and he tossed it into the midst of the officers, using the explosion and the confusion to run up the stairs, feeling the zing of bullets hit the wall as they followed him up.
Billy Fitzwarren was at the top of the stairs, nervously watching.
‘The others?’ he asked.
Declan shook his head. ‘I think they’re already dead.’
Billy cursed and looked back to the bedroom doorway where Anjli Kapoor currently stood. They were in the same armour as Declan was, but Anjli had removed her rifle and held the Glock instead.
‘Where’s your weapon?’ Declan asked. Anjli shrugged.
‘Feel more badass with a Glock,’ she said, bringing it up and firing past Declan as he ducked; the SCO officers that were already making their way up the stairs dropped back as Anjli’s bullets pinged around them. Billy turned to continue fire, but the SCO officers were ready this time, had moved back up quickly and Billy slammed back into the wall as four bullets slammed into his chest.
‘Billy!’ Anjli screamed.
‘Billy’s dead!’ Declan pushed Anjli into the bedroom, passing her his own Glock. ‘We need to—’
He didn’t continue, as the force of three bullets slammed into his back, sending him stumbling into the corner of the hallway. As he spun, ignoring the pain up his spine, he went to fire a last round at the SCO team, but two more bullets struck him in the chest, with another striking his helmet.
Declan’s body slumped to the floor as the SCO officers moved in.
‘Targets one and two dead!’ the lead officer shouted. ‘One more to—’
He didn’t finish as Anjli dived out of the door, guns in both hands firing wildly, the Glocks pumping out bullets John Woo style as she crashed to the ground. Two of the SCOs were struck by these, but their brother officers had blocked the ones behind and now, with Anjli on the floor, they raised their weapons and shot her.
Repeatedly.
‘All hostiles down!’ the Team Leader shouted from the stairs, watching the scene from behind. ‘Cease fire!’
All gunfire stopped. There was a long silence.
And then the SCO 19 officers applauded.
Declan, pulling off his helmet and balaclava winced as he moved.
‘Jesus, those bullets really hurt!’ he said as Specialist Firearms Officer Andrews helped him up. ‘That’s not a bloody paintball bullet.’
‘Never said they were,’ Andrews grinned. ‘They’re Simunition rounds. Paintball’s for little children.’ He looked to Anjli, now clambering to her feet. ‘What was that?’
‘John McClane, Die Hard,’ she explained. ‘Always wanted to try it.’
‘And how did that work out for you?’ Declan was pulling his bulletproof armour off now, wincing at the bruising on his back. Anjli looked down at her own armour, now covered in red paint.
‘Not great,’ she said.
‘At least you fired a shot,’ Billy walked over now, a gloomy expression on his face. ‘I went out like a bitch.’
Anjli looked to Declan. Neither of them spoke. Billy saw this.
‘Oh, so you think that too?’ he groaned.
SFO Andrews entered the bedroom. ‘Did you gain anything from the hostages?’ he asked.
‘They’re dummies,’ Anjli said. ‘They weren’t really conversational.’
SFO Andrews walked over to the two dummies, both dressed in suits, and pulled a sheet of folded paper out from the inside pocket of the dummy to the left.
‘Christ,’ Declan muttered. ‘You didn’t check them?’
‘I was too busy stopping Billy soiling himself and worrying about his oncoming death,’ Anjli replied indignantly. Billy shrugged.
‘Never been a baddie before,’ he said.
Walking down the stairs, Declan found Monroe, Doctor Marcos and DC Davey waiting. All were covered in paint, although Doctor Marcos was currently tying some small baubles to her tactical vest.
‘What are they?’ he asked.
Doctor Marcos smiled and held one out to him to see. It was a 3D printed SCO 19 helmet with goggles, spray painted black.
‘Trophies,’ she said. ‘One for each officer I killed.’
SFO Andrews looked to Monroe with an expression that seemed to combine a small amount of amusement with a far larger element of horror. ‘She’s one
of yours, right?’
Monroe smiled. ‘In a loose kind of way,’ he said. ‘Did we at least fulfil our side of the debt?’
‘Well, my boys and girls needed a less disciplined force to go against, so definitely yes to that,’ he said, ‘but we killed you all rather quickly. Maybe we could have a second round?’
‘Oh definitely,’ Billy nodded. ‘And this time I want to be behind that table. With a bigger gun.’
Monroe however was now taking a call on his phone, frowning as he listened.
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a rain check,’ he eventually said as he disconnected. ‘Maybe next week?’
‘Problem?’ Declan asked. Monroe looked to him.
‘New case,’ he said. ‘You’ve been asked for personally, laddie. Seems an old friend of yours has been accused of murder. Well, more admitted to it. Or, rather, walked into the Command Unit in Tottenham North and told everyone, very loudly that he did it, before demanding that you take the case on. And by you, I mean us. All of us.’
‘Who’s the friend?’ Anjli asked, pulling off her helmet.
‘Declan’s old mentor, and an old colleague of mine,’ Monroe said. ‘DI Derek Salmon.’
‘Derek?’ Declan exclaimed. ‘he’s terminally ill!’
‘Aye,’ Monroe replied, already passing his equipment over to one of the SCO 19 officers. ‘Which means that we have a lot less time than we thought to find out what the hell is going on, and either save your friend, or convict him.’
And with that, the team of the Last Chance Saloon stopped being terrorist insurgents for the day and returned to their usual roles, while Declan wondered how the hell Derek Salmon had gotten himself tied up in murder.
2
The Pick Up
The name Birmingham came from the Old English word Beormingahãm, which was the name given to the home or settlement of the Beormingas, a tribe whose name literally meant ‘Beorma’s People’. And as for the man himself, Beorma was a 7th Century Anglo Saxon leader who settled his tribe beside the River Rea, to the East of what would one day become Birmingham City Centre.
Stripe didn’t know if this was true; he didn’t learn it at school and nobody that he knew discussed Anglo-Saxon tribes that much these days, but every day for the last week he would return from school at around 4pm and stand on Gooch Street Bridge beside an ornate brass message that spanned the brick wall.
Beorma Inghas Ham
Home of the People of Beorma
Underneath it was a plaque that talked about all of this history rubbish, and across the road was another brass message that read:
Near this River Crossing an Anglian Tribe
Led by Beorma founded Birmingham
He’d often re-read both brass signs while the bridge was quiet, inventing stories of the mighty Beorma, who in his mind spoke in the Black Country Yam Yam accent and wielded a mighty broadsword. He’d even drawn Beorma once, but Macca Byrne had laughed at it, said it was shit and set fire to it with his lighter.
Stripe had said nothing. He never did. He simply returned to his post and re-read the plaque on the side of the Gooch Street Bridge.
But later in the day, especially into the evening, Stripe would stop examining the walls, he’d stop imagining the adventures of Beorma and would instead spend his time watching the road, keeping an eye out for cars slowing down. When a car slowed down on the bridge, seeing the boy in the school uniform standing alone, there was usually only one thing they wanted.
Stripe knew it was dangerous, but at fourteen years old, he was the smallest and fastest in the gang. He could run from anyone. However, the point of his waiting wasn’t to run. It was to wait.
To wait for one particular car.
Stripe had an actual name, Alfie. But nobody ever used it; they all called him Stripe because of the inch wide stripe of white hair that streaked through his fringe, contrasting with his normal auburn colouring. Nobody knew why it grew that way; it just always had. His Mum had said once that there was an accident when he was tiny, and the trauma had caused it. Stripe didn’t ask more than that as it was never wise to get into a conversation with his Mum, or else she’d sober up, remember she had a son, and then the arguments would begin again.
Besides, he liked the nickname Stripe. It made him sound cool.
Standing in the rain wasn’t cool though. It wasn’t heavy rain, but it was irritating. That light fall, only a mist that still drenched you throughout. They’d said that he couldn’t wear his parka, that he had to have his face visible. And that meant no hood, which meant that his white stripe was now plastered to his head in the rain.
Waiting for the car.
It had passed him twice over the last few days; a jet black Mercedes A-Class, a quality motor which probably cost more than his parents made in a year, if not several years. Each time, he’d watched from the shadows, noting the registration number, checking when it slowed, when it sped up, working out the best place to stand for maximum exposure when the time was needed. Stripe liked this part; it made him feel like a spy. The part that he didn’t like was the part he was playing now. Standing in the rain, exposed, waiting to see the car one last time.
And then he did.
Driving up Conybere Street and approaching the small, three-way roundabout that was barely more than a bump in the road, the Mercedes A-Class was crawling towards him in the early evening rush hour traffic. Seeing this, Stripe turned north up Gooch Street, trudging along, his hand out as if thumbing for a lift. He’d walked about twenty yards before he risked looking behind; the Mercedes A-Class had just turned on the roundabout, and was passing across the bridge, the two brass signs on either side of it.
Stripe turned to face the oncoming car now, walking backwards, holding out his left hand, the thumb extended in the international sign of hitch-hiking. He wanted the driver of the car to see his face.
To see how young he was.
He’d been told that this part was important. He was walking alongside a series of blue railings now, shivering with the cold. This wasn’t make believe; he was genuinely cold now, the lack of his parka coat now being felt.
The Mercedes A-Class drove past him.
It didn’t stop.
Stripe fought the urge to turn, to watch after it, but he was playing the part of a hitchhiker. Maybe the driver had seen him, but was suspicious? Maybe he was being careful?
It turned out that it was more likely the latter, because as Stripe eventually turned to continue walking, he saw that the Mercedes A-Class had pulled to the side of the road about ten yards further on, now in a parking bay as the other cars passed by.
Stripe pretended that he hadn’t realised that the car was waiting, instead pretending that he was still watching the cars as they drove past. Inside there was a mixture of excitement and fear running through him; excitement that he’d succeeded in his mission, that he’d caught the prey, but fear as to what would happen next. He was still a long way from the target.
As he passed the car, the passenger window wound down, and the driver leaned across to call out.
‘You need a lift?’
Stripe looked into the car, and for the first time, he saw the driver clearly. He was old, like maybe forty or so. He had short cropped light brown hair and wore a Pea coat over a pale, textured sweatshirt. Swallowing, suddenly regretting his rash decision to agree to this in the first place, Stripe nodded.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Are you heading towards Digbeth?’
‘I can be,’ the driver said, leaning over the passenger seat and opening the door. ‘Get in. You look half drowned.’
Quickly, Stripe climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Thanks,’ he said. The inside of the Mercedes smelt like new leather. Stripe had never been in such an expensive car and wondered if this was the new car smell that everyone always talked about in the adverts.
The driver smiled.
‘Not a problem,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been caught in the rain before. Why didn’t you catch
a bus?’
‘Bullies stole my money,’ Stripe lied. The driver shook his head.
‘Bastards,’ he said, believing the story. ‘I’m Dave. What’s your name?’
‘Matthew,’ Stripe lied again. The last thing he wanted was for the target to know his actual name.
‘So where too, Matthew?’ Dave asked, already indicating into the traffic and preparing to pull out.
‘Next right, please,’ Stripe replied. ‘I can guide you.’
Dave continued to drive down Gooch Street, turning right into Vaughton Street South. If he knew the area, he didn’t say.
‘You shouldn’t allow strangers to pick you up,’ he said. ‘You never know who you’ll meet.’
‘You picked me up.’
Dave grinned. ‘Exactly,’ he laughed, as if making a joke, before returning to a more serious and concerned expression. ‘How much did the bullies steal from you?’
‘Ten pounds,’ Stripe replied. In answer to this, Dave reached into his pocket, one hand on the wheel, and pulled out a crisp fifty pound note.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘I don’t like bullies. Take this.’
‘I can’t take that,’ Stripe shook his head, his eyes already widening at the sight of the note. ‘It’s too much.’
‘It’s nothing, really,’ Dave replied, throwing the note onto Stripe’s lap. ‘Buy your girlfriend something nice. You do have a girlfriend?’
‘Not really,’ Stripe replied, noting the subtle way that Dave had thrown the question into the conversation. Macca had taught him what to say if he'd been asked that, too.
Dave tutted. ‘Good-looking boy like you? You must have loads of girls after you.’
Stripe shook his head again.
‘I’m not really into girls,’ he admitted softly, another lie coached to him by Macca. ‘Oh, it’s right here.’
The car turned into Adelaide Street, now an area of warehouses and car parks. Dave smiled again. ‘That’s okay, Matt,’ he said. ‘It’s okay to not be into girls. You’re young. You should try everything at your age.’