Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  Chapter 14

  Barry crossed the gap a split second after the lead van. All three vehicles were riding within a metre of each other to make sure they crossed the gap over the river and stayed together. Before Barry could widen the distance between the vehicles again, the van ahead turned sharply and flipped. Too close to avoid the change in direction and sudden loss of speed, Barry drove straight into the side of the van, knocking it further and causing the tail end to spin and hit their own car, flinging it sideways. The rear van crashed into the first one and they both spun.

  Anders lost sight of the vehicles as their safety bags burst open and cushioned their impact as the car bounced into the blue steel railings at the side. They held firm and the car wrapped itself around them in violence and fury, the car absorbing the impact and buckling under the stress as it was designed to do.

  The world blanked for a moment as the windows shattered, covering them all in glass. The sound of shearing metal eased and was soon replaced by a buzzing in the ears as Anders pulled herself from the wrecked car, amazed that she wasn’t badly hurt. Barry fell out behind her and they rushed to the back to check on Duncan. He was reeling from a cut to the forehead but his eyes were clear and his focus sharp.

  Buckland had dislocated a shoulder as his cuffed hands had yanked and pulled behind him. Barry felt little remorse as he dragged him from the car, Buckland groaning in agony at the pain. Anders moved to the trunk and leaned in. The boot had been torn clean off, but the contents were still in their straps. She pulled the Heckler and Koch out, the attachments on the weapon giving the stubby rifle an air of menace, brimming with ill intent.

  She ducked down as she heard the ricochet of bullets from the concrete around them. Barry had dragged Duncan round the side of the car and he peered over to see who was shooting at them.

  “One of the armed unit guys,” he called, looking calmly around. The bridge behind them was now raised at too steep an angle to climb so they were effectively trapped. Anders peeked over the car and saw one of the officers striding towards them, rifle raised to his shoulder and firing wildly. He would be there in seconds. She tossed her gun to Barry and he caught it deftly.

  “On my mark,” said Anders. “Three, two, one.” She leapt out from shelter, sprinting across the road and catching Darren’s eye. He turned his rifle to her, tracked her movement briefly and pulled the trigger.

  Barry’s gun fired first and Darren’s bullet missed Anders as he spun with the impact of Barry’s shot. The bullets tore through his chest, fragmented against the ribcage and shredded his heart. Darren was dead before he hit the ground.

  Anders kept sprinting, moving quickly to the two vans that were strewn across the bridge, just before the barriers leading to the North side of the Thames. To their left was the Tower of London and on their right sat a squat, ugly hotel. On the other side of the barrier, people were getting out of their cars to see what was happening. Some, sensing an opportunity to make some money, started moving towards the accident. The truck that Darren had flipped lay on its roof. The van was warped and twisted and she could see a pile of bodies lying on the ground, broken limbs and torso’s a sickening sight. A few of the officers started to move and she yelled at them to get clear. She could smell petrol and saw it leaking from the tank, a jagged tear along its edge. The engine had cut when it had crashed, but she didn’t want any stray sparks to set it off.

  The other truck was on its side, the back flush against the edge of the bridge. She saw movement in there as the men inside started hammering at the door, trying to get out. Anders turned to see Barry heading towards her. He tossed her a belt with clips, spray and baton attached and passed her a Glock. Duncan was dragging Buckland across to them.

  Shouts sounded from across the barrier and she sensed that the crowd there was building up the courage to do something rash. As Buckland was pulled to her, she passed Duncan her speedcuffs and told him to cuff Buckland’s ankles, effectively immobilising him. She leaned down to him and grabbed his chin as he lay resting against the railing, a pale sheen on his face at his dislocated shoulder.

  “You try and run, you go off with anyone trying to collect your pretty little reward and I will kill you.” Buckland looked at Anders and felt real fear, saw death in her bright green eyes. She held his gaze a moment longer before turning away.

  “Duncan, get a crowbar and open the door on top of that truck.” She pointed to the one on its side that was jammed against the railing and started to run towards the one with the leaking fuel tank. It had taken the brunt of the crash and several bodies both inside and out weren’t moving.

  The noise on the bridge was deafening as the crowd ahead of them gathered its courage, much like an old Saxon shield wall. Anders had seen it before in New Orleans. A few of the bravest would make the first move and the others would follow, emboldened by the stupidity of the mob. She knew that she had moments before something happened and needed to get everyone off the bridge fast.

  The world slowed then. She saw it but couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t quite believe it. Arcing through the air was a bottle with pale brown liquid inside and a strip of cloth stuffed down the neck. The end of the cloth was lit and it hurtled towards the van before Anders could get there. She turned and yelled for Barry, just behind her, to get down as the bottle hit the van and exploded, droplets of flaming petrol covering the vehicle and igniting the exposed petrol tank.

  The explosion knocked Anders from her feet and she was flung backwards, landing painfully on the floor. A sharp jab in her rib told her she may have cracked it and another pain in her arm lashed her with agony as a shard of metal pierced the flesh. Her head swam and her vision blurred. It didn’t stop her hearing the screams though, as the men inside the van were roasted alive, black, acrid smoke broiling from the vehicle as metal and flesh popped and cackled.

  She felt Barry drag her to her feet and leaned on him momentarily whilst she cleared her vision. Her arm bled freely. The metal shard had torn right through and Barry quickly ripped his shirt and tied it round her arm, tight as he could manage. She flexed her hands and tested her movement, giving him quick thanks. She checked on Duncan, seeing him crouched on the side of the van, pulling with his crowbar to open the door so the other team could get out.

  Beyond that, she saw a stream of men and women climb over and under the barricade and start sprinting to the van. Their faces were contorted in anger and bile having worked themselves into a frenzy and built up enough courage to come and claim their reward. Some looked like believers, a hint of fanaticism about them. What really chilled Anders was how varied they were. Office workers mingled with Goths who ran with builders. United by one purpose. There seemed to be hundreds of them, but most were simply filming the attack on their phones or cowering from the rage. A few had blanched at the smell and violence of the burning van and turned away.

  “We need to keep Duncan safe,” said Anders. “Try not to kill anyone, but do it if you need to. Stick together.” She turned to Barry and he gave her a steady look.

  “I ain’t letting any of these punks get Buckland,” he said. His voice was calm and steady. Anders couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather have by her side right now.

  They sprinted to close the gap, making sure they got past the van Duncan was on and give him time to get the men out from there. Barry fired some warning shots above the heads of the crowd and a few more faltered and turned. Anders saw another Molotov Cocktail being lit from the rear and fired her Glock. The bullet shattered the glass and covered the assailant in flames. His screams cut through the noise but Anders felt little pity for him.

  A few more turned back, sickened by his burning torment, though there were still almost thirty men and women heading for the pair of them, covering the distance quickly. The first to reach Barry found the stock of a machine gun smashed into his face and went slack, tumbling to the ground as his momentum took him past the veteran soldier. The second was hurled backwards, causing those behind to stumbl
e as Barry stepped forward, his massive fists beating them back further.

  Anders opened her baton and swung quickly at the first to reach her, a woman in a business suit who snarled at her as she lunged forward. Anders’ baton smashed her temple and she fell, eyes rolled up in their sockets. A sharp pain coursed through Anders as the swing opened her wound further, but she ignored the pain and stepped forward, constantly moving, spraying and punching those who came near.

  “On your six,” she yelled to Barry and he turned to meet an attack from the rear. They were being swamped by sheer numbers. Barry protected her right flank and she his left, but they were quickly being subdued. A brick flew over the group and crashed into Barry, the blow cracking his collarbone with a loud snap. He grunted, but his right arm was now useless, his flank undefended.

  Another brick flew in, but he managed to avoid it, sweeping up the one that had hit him and clubbing an attacker. Anders knew they were beaten. There were too many of them. They hadn’t wanted to use their guns. The sight of two police officers mowing down civilians would be screened around the world for years. She had to hope that they had fought long enough to show that there was no alternative. They’d still lose. She would be killed on the street by an angry mob, but maybe they would suffer such loss that the attackers would flee. Or she would take as many out with her as she could, a flutter of wings as the darkness within her bared its teeth.

  Two large men charged her at the same time. She stepped into the closest man and thrust upwards with the handle of the baton, cracking his chin. Spinning under his arm, she took her gun from its holster and aimed over him to the second man, finger on the trigger, safety clicked off.

  A deafening roar of machine gun fire splintered the air as Duncan finally freed the men from the van and they clambered out, forming a solid line that walked forwards, firing an entire clip above the crowd, who disengaged and ran. Anders lifted her finger from the trigger and saw Barry lower his own weapon. He’d also reached the point at which firing his weapon may be the only way to survive. She ran back to the safety of the line and saw Duncan dragging Buckland behind them.

  “Thank you,” she said, relieved at their rescue. She was breathing heavily, the pain in her ribs spearing her every breath with white agony, cuts and bruises from the attackers peppering her body with pricks of pain. She pointed to the barrier. “We’ll need to cross that and find transport. I can see a bus near the back. That’s where we’re heading. We’ll need a circle with Buckland and Duncan in the middle. I’ll take point. Barry, you good?”

  He grunted in distain at her question and stepped to her side as the men formed around them. She grinned at him, exhilarated at their survival.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and led them forward. They were attacked frequently, stones flew at them and all manner of projectiles, but they held firm, moved swiftly and with purpose. No one broke the line, held in place by Anders and Barry. The group bristled with machine guns and this stopped all but the most foolhardy from attacking them. Those that did were beaten off and left on the street, bloodied and bruised. They made it to the bus and clambered aboard, Anders taking the wheel and smashing her way down the river, London burning around them. Buckland’s acolytes had started the fires, but more and more had rallied as the night wore on, whether to loot or in the belief that the world order could be changed. A pall of smoke hung in the city air, besmirching the darkening sky, fire flickering up to greet the night.

  As they approached Scotland Yard, Anders could see down the street to the Palace of Westminster. It was ablaze, the oldest symbol of democracy in the modern world a pyre to Buckland and his teachings. Anders hated the man even more in that moment, beyond what he had done to Mal. Hated him with passionate fury. It was all a game to him, teasing those in need, those in suffering, for his own sick fantasies.

  She looked in the rear view mirror and saw him staring back at her, a smirk on his face. Even though he’d been caught, it was still going as he’d planned.

  Chapter 15

  Anders stood behind Jesse and watched the news reports come through. It seemed as if the whole world was on fire. They’d fought hard to get back into the Yard, surrounded as it was by thousands of supporters of Buckland and those who would see him hanged by the same death penalty he was pushing through the House of Lords. They had clashed with each other and the riot police surrounding the building had been helpless to prevent it. They stood in a ring around the building, preventing entry and trying to protect it from the rioters, fires blazing in the street, rocks hurled at the windows and officers. The noise was a deafening wave of anger and rage, a physical force that was barely absorbed by the layers of concrete and steel that separated them and those in the hub.

  Three of Jesse’s screens showed Buckland’s website, the drone now focused on Scotland Yard as it hovered high above, the commandeered bus parked at an angle across the entrance, now providing protection to the main entrance. They were effectively locked in, the only escape through the underground car park, which was protected by steel shutters. Helen was tending to Barry’s wounds and Ben fussed around Anders as he stitched up her arm. He was no surgeon and the wound would heal in a crooked scar. Abi had hugged Duncan fiercely as he entered, saying how proud she was of him. He’d held his own and had not faltered.

  “The army has been called in. They’ll restore order in a few hours.” The voice came from McDowell who was on one of Jesse’s many screens. “Buckland has wreaked havoc, but he’s achieved nothing more than death and misery. This time tomorrow, everything will be just as it was.” Anders shooed Ben away as he tried to put a bandage round the wound. She stuck a large plaster on it and spoke to McDowell.

  “I’ll speak to him anyway, see if we can’t get this damn virus shut down.” McDowell nodded his agreement. There was nothing left to say. Anders took an earpiece from Jesse and put it in her ear.

  “Take care,” he said. “He’s one sick son of a bitch. Don’t let him get you all twisted up.” Anders gave him a tired smile. She couldn’t remember when she’d last slept.

  “I’ll be fine.” She tapped her earpiece. “Keep me posted.”

  Anders walked to the interview room, gathering her thoughts and focusing her mind. Her rib hurt and she could feel it grate every time she moved. She knew she would have to check it out sooner rather than later but pushed her pain away. She was covered in bruises and cuts from the attack on London Bridge, but had suffered worse. Far worse.

  She tapped in the code for the interrogation room and entered to find Buckland sitting on the metal seat, cuffed to the table and staring blankly at the wall ahead. As she entered, his eyes focused on her and he gave an insidious smile.

  “Miss Anders,” he said. “I’m so glad I killed Mr Weathers and made you the boss. You’re much more interesting.” Anders ignored his taunt and sat opposite him. He continued to speak. “You found me much more quickly than Mr Weathers did. I’m impressed.”

  “It was Mal’s work that led me to you. We simply continued with his investigation as he had it,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral. Anger seethed below the surface at what he had done to Mal. She struggled to control herself and it was through sheer force of will that she didn’t attack him where he sat. Buckland smiled and gave her a patronising look, the effect distorting his handsome features.

  “You do yourself a disservice. Mr Blackwell should be arriving soon. I believe that I cannot be interviewed without my consent until I have spoken to my attorney.” Anders leaned forward and bared her teeth.

  “I spoke with Mr Blackwell earlier. Seems he has declined to represent you. Would you like me to find you another attorney?” Buckland shrugged as if without a care in the world.

  “Never mind. How goes my revolution?”

  “Habeas Corpus. Why abolish it? Doesn’t that make it easier to throw you in jail?” Anders wanted to keep changing topic, put him off guard.

  “I’m sure my trial will be too good an opportunity for the likes of McDow
ell to pass up.” Anders leaned back in her seat.

  “Shame you couldn’t get that capital punishment deal back up and running. I’d love to see you hang for the suffering you’ve caused.” Buckland gave her a steady look.

  “Pull the lever yourself no doubt.” Anders flicked some dirt from her nail. Pretended to consider the comment. Deciding he wasn’t going to get an answer, Buckland folded his arms across his broad chest and waited for her to speak.

  “It’s just chaos isn’t it?” said Anders eventually. “Take away more rights on one hand, offer them more incentive with the other. Nice little hornets’ nest you’ve stirred up.” Buckland looked pleased with himself as she spoke. In that moment, she saw him for what he was. He wanted to rip and tear and burn. No reason. He cared little for revolution, just pain and suffering and misery.

  “Your little revolution will be over by the morning. Army has been drafted in, martial law declared. As it always would. You knew it would never happen, you just wanted some legitimacy, some aspiration to a higher purpose for people to follow you in your sick games.” Anders put her hands on the desk, showing him her bloodied knuckles. “I want to know where your son and your wife are and I’d like to shut down your website before any more innocent people are killed.”

  Buckland looked surprised for a split second at the mention of Lady Margaret, before hiding it behind his mask of superiority.

  “My ex-wife I believe.” Anders inclined her head at his correction.

  “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t dump the body?” It took a moment for him to realise that she was talking about his brother.

  “Didn’t think you’d find the house and then the safe. Did you have fun chasing me up and down the country? I will admit, I was annoyed at my son for being so careless, but I guess it was fun to see your officer blown into little pieces.” Anders visibly controlled herself with an effort of will, fists clenching on the table. Buckland noticed the reflex and chuckled.