Blood, Bullets and Blue Stratos lom-2

by Tom Graham

  ‘Well?’ Gene hissed up at him. ‘What can you see?’

  Sam gestured at Gene to shut up and keep quiet, and peered around him. He leant forward, squinting through the darkness at the registration plates on the parked vehicles — and then, sickeningly, he felt his balance shift. He reached out for something to steady himself, found nothing at all, slid, toppled, and fell.

  The next thing he knew he was slamming to the ground on the wrong side of the fence. Pain surged through his body and he bit his tongue to stop himself crying out.

  There was a voice, the sound of footsteps, a noise that might have been an assault rifle being cocked. Ignoring his pain, Sam scrambled for cover, squeezing himself into a tight space between towers of stacked pallet crates. He held his breath and waited.

  If anybody had indeed been there, they were gone now. Silence. All Sam could hear was the furious beating of his heart.

  He looked about. There was no getting back over the fence, not without noisily dragging pallets about and climbing up them. The wooden doors out of which the truck had driven were firmly chained. Even if Sam could reach them, somebody would see him, and then he’d be caught in the full glare of the security lights with nowhere to run. Given how determined and reckless the RHF were, they’d gun him down first and worry about who the hell he was later. And, even if they didn’t gun him down, he could not expect a friendly welcome if captured, especially once they discovered he was from CID.

  That’s it, he thought — no way out, and no way of speaking to Gene without drawing attention to myself. I’ll just have a prowl about, hope to God nobody notices me, see what I can, and find a means of escape somewhere.

  He renewed the grip on his gun — and then realized that he had no gun.

  Where is it? he thought. Where the hell is it?

  He looked about wildly, but there was no sign of it anywhere.

  Damn it! I must have lost it when Gene fell on top of me. The damned thing’s on the other side of the fence.

  He glanced about. There were lights on in the windows of a low cabin away to his left; from time to time, he glimpsed moving figures. Sam crawled, keeping to the shadows, until he reached the cabin and flattened himself against the wall. Inching up, he reached the level of the window and dared to peer inside.

  The interior of the cabin was very spartan, with a couple of naked light bulbs burning in the ceiling. A number of rifles were lined up against a wall, above which a map of the north-west of England had been pinned to a board. The map was marked with lines and notes Sam couldn’t read — areas around Blackpool, Fleetwood, Morecambe Bay and the Cumbrian coast all bore scribbled information.

  Targets for future attacks? Safe houses? Rendezvous points and meeting places?

  He risked lifting his head further to see more clearly, but at that moment a figure stepped directly in front of him, only inches away on the other side of the glass. Sam instantly ducked back down, holding his breath, his heart hammering.

  Too risky here, he thought. I have to move.

  Without leaving the shadows, it was possible for him to reach an open-fronted shed just across from the cabin. Sam inched his way towards it. Peering all around, he could see no sign of movement, so he made a dash for it. He flung himself into the deep darkness of the shed and waited. No voices were raised, no lights snapped on.

  My luck won’t last, thought Sam. I can’t creep around here all night. Where’s Gene? What’s he doing? Posing with his Magnum and chewing on a cigar? Damn him to hell! He’d better be calling for backup.

  Sam was an unarmed officer, alone and in trouble. Gene was duty-bound to summon help. It was the correct procedure. Gene would follow the correct procedure. He would. He would.

  God, I wish I could believe that.

  Looking out from his hiding place, he saw movement. A door opened, and a young woman sauntered into the courtyard, a cigarette burning between her fingers. She was slim, neat, very youthful — perhaps no more than twenty-one — with her long blonde hair tied into plaits on either side of her face like Heidi. Unlike Heidi, however, she sported a large semi-automatic tucked into the belt of her camouflage trousers.

  It was a strange sight, this delicate, attractive young woman all kitted out for war. Was she, like Brett Cowper, another educated, middle-class college graduate seduced by the RHF’s crazy mix of anarchism and world revolution? Was she high on the Red Hand Faction the way other girls her age were high on the Bay City Rollers or their latest boyfriend? Did a life on the run, planting bombs and shooting at policemen, give her the sort of thrills that the privileged existence she was born into could never hope to achieve? Was she spiting her parents by joining the RHF? Was she looking for kicks? Did she really believe all this rubbish the RHF stood for? What had motivated her to become an urban guerrilla, hazarding her life for a hopeless, violent cause?

  Looking at her pretty face with its clear complexion and bright, intelligent eyes, Sam might have been looking at a young air hostess, a wannabe actress, a singer of pop songs; perhaps even a rookie detective new to the job and not yet hardened to the sexism and endless blokey bullshit of the force. He could not imagine her killing in cold blood.

  The girl finished her cigarette. She placed it carefully on the floor, ground it beneath her boot — and then picked up the crushed dog end to dispose of it properly in a rubbish bin. She had embraced violent anarchism, but she had been brought up not to drop litter.

  These people really are mad, thought Sam, crouching in the shadows. Perhaps that’s all the explanation there is.

  He turned his attention away from the girl and tried to figure a means of getting out of the compound. There seemed to be no way over the fence from here, so Sam decided to keep moving and hope an opportunity presented itself. He ducked behind one truck after another, making for a set of workshops and lockups on the far side of the cabin. His hand kept reaching instinctively for his gun and finding nothing but an empty holster under his jacket.

  I’m probably the only person in the compound who isn’t carrying a firearm, he thought. Unless the Deerys’ daughter is here somewhere.

  Michael and Cait certainly thought she was here. If Sam found her, and saw a way of getting her out, what should he do? His instinct, of course, was to save her, but, if he did, the RHF would find her gone and realize CID were trailing their munitions suppliers. They’d go to ground at once, disappear — and only resurface again when they managed to trigger a bomb somewhere.

  But if he found the hostage and didn’t take her with him, what then? He was a police officer — he had a duty to that girl, no matter the violent activities of her parents and no matter Gene’s views about running this operation. He couldn’t leave a young girl here in the hands of these lunatics. How could he face himself if he did?

  I’ll do what I have to do, Sam told himself as he dodged and crept his way past the cabin. The moral debates will just have to wait for another day.

  He reached a workshop. It was locked, and dark inside, but Sam could see rusty tools hanging from hooks by the window.

  A short distance away, some sort of lockup shed was visible, its stout metal doors firmly bolted, the only window a tiny, thick-paned opening covered with a metal grille. As Sam looked, a light came on, and for a brief moment a small girl’s face appeared wretchedly at the grille. She peered out with sunken eyes — she was perhaps ten years old, twelve at the most — and then disappeared from sight.

  Sam remained crouched in the darkness, hidden, thinking hard.

  The moral debates will have to wait for another day, he told himself again. I’ll just have to do what I have to do.

  He glanced about the compound, could see no sign of anybody moving, braced himself, and then dashed towards the lockup.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CAPTIVE

  Through the tiny, barred window, Sam could see her — a young girl, unwashed and dishevelled, sitting wretchedly beneath a naked light bulb. She had a bare mattress for a bed, beside which stood an
empty cup and bowl. The girl hugged her knees and stared blankly ahead.

  Sam’s first instinct was to tap on the window — but then he hesitated. What if the girl panicked, started screaming? Who could say what state she was in, being held by these lunatics, locked up all alone in a filthy shed, away from her parents? Her nerves would be in tatters. She might do anything.

  He had to be cautious. Cautious and quick.

  He looked around. There seemed to be no activity in the compound. Lights were still burning in the cabin windows, but there was no sign of movement.

  Without wasting a moment, Sam darted round the front of the shed and examined the lock that secured the door. It was a heavy, internal mechanism, impossible for him to either pick or force. In a good light and given plenty of time, he might have had a chance of cracking it, but under these conditions, in almost total darkness and with armed maniacs poised to appear at any moment, he wasn’t even going to risk it.

  Feeling through his pockets, he found a scrap of paper and a pen. He scribbled, ‘My name is Sam — I’m here to get you out — trust me,’ on the paper and fed it under the door, then crept back to the window to observe.

  The girl had seen the note appear, but she was making no move to pick it up. She just sat there, staring dumbly at it.

  Take it, Sam urged her silently. Go on — take it!

  Was she in a state of shock? Had she been drugged? Why wasn’t she doing anything?

  A voice momentarily drifted across the compound, and Sam squeezed himself into the shadows behind the shed. Several armed men trooped across the courtyard, all of them carrying heavy assault rifles. They were dressed in a motley array of military fatigues, homemade paramilitary attire adorned with ammo belts and even the odd hand grenade. There was an amateurishness about their get-up that sharply contrasted with the very serious firepower they were toting. They were like a militant students’ union — uniforms from Oxfam, armaments from the IRA.

  Sam watched the knot of men stride across the yard and move out of sight. After a few moments, when they did not reappear, he edged back to the window. Peering in, he saw that the girl was now standing under the bare light bulb, staring at the note in her hands. For what felt like minutes she did nothing but look at it, motionless, blank-faced. And then, quite suddenly, she turned and looked directly at Sam. Sam smiled, the friendliest, least panic-inducing smile he could manage. He had a horrible feeling he might actually be leering.

  But the girl didn’t scream. She didn’t react at all. She just stood there, looking at him with dark, sullen eyes.

  Sam indicated for her to come closer and open the latch on the inside of the window. Stiffly, the girl shuffled over and obeyed. With effort, she forced the rusted window open. The hinges creaked; it was like the sound of a siren echoing across the courtyard. Sam gritted his teeth and flinched, expecting shouts and gunfire at any second.

  ‘Hi,’ he whispered through the metal grille. ‘I’m Sam. What’s your name?’

  The girl stared, blinked once, then at last said in an Irish accent, ‘Mary.’

  ‘That’s a lovely name,’ said Sam. It wasn’t the most inspired response, but there wasn’t time for anything more subtle. He needed to win the girl’s trust, free her from this locked shed, then somehow get the two of them out of this sealed compound without raising the alarm. It was impossible. And yet he had no choice but to try.

  ‘Mary, listen to me — I’m a policeman. I’m going to get you out of here, get you back to your mum and dad. You’re going to have to trust me, okay?’

  The girl shook her head.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I don’t trust you,’ said Mary.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Your voice.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my voice?’

  ‘You talk like them.’

  ‘Like who, Mary?’

  ‘Like them. The English. They’re bad people, the English are.’

  ‘Not all English people are bad.’

  ‘Bad enough,’ said Mary, earnestly. ‘Mum and dad say so. You kill people.’

  ‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Some of us try to save people. That’s why I’m here. To save you.’

  Mary’s face remained impassive.

  ‘I know what your mum and dad must have told you,’ Sam whispered. ‘There are English people who do bad things, just like there are Irish people who do bad things.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘Protestants.’

  ‘And Catholics, Mary. There are bad people everywhere, on all sides — like the bad people who’ve locked you in here. But there are good people, too. Like you. And me. And that’s why I’m going to get you out of here and get you back home where you belong.’

  Sam’s heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel the sweat running down his back under his clothes. There was only so long his luck could last. Daylight was coming; the RHF would be on the move, carrying out their operations, and at some point somebody would head out here to check on the hostage. The clock was ticking.

  ‘Mary, you have to listen to me,’ said Sam, his voice low and urgent. ‘Your parents sent me. Your mum and dad. Didn’t you hear their voices earlier?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I heard Mummy shouting.’

  ‘That’s right. She was shouting. And your daddy was here too. But those bad Englishmen sent them away. So your parents sent me in here to get you. That’s how I knew you were here.’

  The girl frowned, trying to imagine her parents trusting an Englishman.

  ‘Did they really send you?’ she asked.

  Sam nodded urgently, thinking, Trust me. Just trust me. For God’s sake just trust me!

  Mary’s expression softened. Through her fear and loneliness and confusion, the image of her mum and dad sending somebody to save her came as a sudden beacon of hope.

  ‘Your mum and dad sent me, Mary — and you trust them, don’t you?’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘So — will you trust me?’ Sam asked.

  At last, Mary nodded again.

  ‘That’s good,’ whispered Sam. ‘Now, listen to me very carefully. We’re in a real hurry. I don’t think I can open the door to this shed, but I reckon I can get the grille off this window. If I do that, will you be able to climb out?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good girl. Now what I need you to do is stay as quiet as a mouse. There’s a workshop just over there with tools in it. I’m going to get those tools and use them to get this grille off. The very second I manage it, you jump straight out through this window and come with me. Understand?’

  ‘Of course I understand,’ Mary said. And then, ‘Please hurry, Sam. I want to go home.’

  ‘I know you do.’ Sam smiled, trying to calm her. ‘So do I.’

  He dropped down into the shadows. Silently, he slipped back across to the workshop. The door was secure and wouldn’t budge, but the filthy panes of glass in the window were loose in the frame. If he could crack one, the whole pane could be slipped out, and he could reach inside for the pliers and hammers hanging from the rack.

  But how to break the glass without alerting the whole compound?

  Sam felt in his pocket and produced the door key to his flat. Carefully, he prised it between the glass and the frame, and then, very slowly, he began to lever it outwards. The pane creaked and groaned as the stress on it increased. All Sam needed was a hairline crack to appear and then he could, in almost total silence, snap the glass, remove the pane, and reach inside.

  Crack!

  The window pane shattered, exploding inwards in a sudden cascade. Sam’s heart leapt into his mouth. His blood froze in his veins.

  Don’t just stand there, you idiot! he told himself. Act! Fast!

  Blindly, he grabbed the first tools he could get his hands on — a claw hammer and a broad-bladed chisel — and sprinted back to Mary’s shed.

  But, before he reached it, he heard noises. Doors flew open. There were shouts. Torch beams flashed int
o life and raked wildly about the compound.

  Sam tried to empty his mind of everything except the job at hand. Get the grille off the window. Get the girl out. Get both of them the hell out of this place, before the bullets started flying.

  Don’t think, just act. Like jumping off the high board — don’t think — just act!

  He raced to the little shed and skidded wildly to a halt.

  ‘Mary! Get back!’

  The girl ducked away as he swung the claw hammer with all his strength. It smashed into the metal grille, loosening the screws that held it in place.

  There was a blinding glare as the security lights blazed on, dazzlingly bright. Sam heard the sound of rifles being cocked, of ammo being smacked into place, of booted feet rushing across the yard.

  He aimed a second blow at the grille — and a third, then a fourth. Wood splintered, heavy metal screws went flying and the grille crashed down onto the shed floor.

  ‘Mary! Quick! Jump! Jump!’

  Mary raced forward, sprang at the window, and, as she did, the shadows of running men flickered across the illuminated wall of the hut. Sam reached wildly for the girl as she appeared in the window, then felt a sickening impact to his spine, right between the shoulder blades, that pitched him forward as if he’d been struck by an express train. He struck the hard wall of the shed and bounced off, slithering to the ground in a half-dazed confusion of tangled limbs.

  I’ve been shot, through the spine … That’s it, I’m finished, it’s over.

  He rolled groggily onto his side and looked down at himself. Lit up brightly by the search beams, he could see his crumpled body sprawled on the ground, but there were no traces of blood on him. If it had been a bullet that had torn into him, half his spine should be hanging out.

  It was then that he saw the pair of army boots — rather small and expensive-looking army boots — planted beside him. He looked up, and saw the girl with the blonde plaits standing over him, the semi-automatic in her hand, ready to club him again with the butt of the hand-grip the moment he tried to move.