Nine Lives

by Tom Barber

  Mac’s voice continued.

  ‘Mason, report.’

  ‘Nothing, Sarge. We’re checking everyone, but so far, no sign.’

  Fox’s voice came up over the radio. His voice sounded as worried as Archer felt.

  ‘Mac, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. We need to clear the area. This guy could be anywhere.’

  Mac’s voice responded. ‘We wait. Cobb’s orders. Stay calm, lads. He’ll be here. Keep your eyes peeled.’

  Archer searched the crowd again. But everywhere he looked there were families, young kids, couples. No one matching the suspect. Shit.

  He checked his watch.

  11:54pm.

  Six minutes ‘til midnight.

  And the guy wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ Archer muttered.

  Twenty miles to the south-east, an unmarked police car pulled up outside a block of tenement flats. The driver applied the handbrake and two police officers stepped out, shutting the doors behind them. Their names were Edgar and Wright, both of them Detective Inspectors and both dressed in plain-clothes. They were part of an undercover patrol that roamed the streets, able to intervene in any unlawful activity instantly without fear of being recognised before they made their approach. Twenty yards across the courtyard, they saw a woman standing outside the door of a flat on the ground floor. She was dressed in a pink dressing gown, wrapped up tight against the cold with the noise of a television blaring out from the flat behind her. The two policemen approached her. ‘You made the call?’ asked Edgar, quietly, pausing in front of her.

  She nodded. According to dispatch, she’d contacted the police call-centre ten minutes ago. She’d been channel-hopping and seen four mug-shots of four wanted terrorists on the news.

  And she was convinced that one of them was living next door.

  Edgar and Wright had been in the area. Requesting back-up from Hammersmith and Fulham, they’d driven over here as fast as they could. Reinforcements would arrive any minute. Even though this woman would probably prove to have an over-active imagination, they had to follow-up every possible lead.

  ‘Which flat is it?’ asked Wright, quietly. She pointed to her left, their right.

  ‘There.’

  The two men examined the exterior. They couldn’t see anything from the windows. The curtains were drawn, the lights turned off. ‘Is he in there at the moment?’ whispered Wright. The woman shrugged.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  The two policemen nodded, together, they crept forward to the door. Edgar slid his hand forward and checked the handle, twisting it gently. It was common practice for many suspects or criminals to leave their front doors unlocked, sometimes even already open. This one however, was locked tight. He glanced at the door itself. It was a cheap design, eaten away and softened by years of inclement weather and no maintenance.. Edgar was a big guy, over six feet and built like he belonged in the front row of a rugby scrum. He glanced at Wright, who read his mind and nodded.

  Stepping back, Edgar dipped his shoulder and smashed his weight into the frame as hard as he could.

  The lock splintered and the door gave way.

  Pushing it all the way open, the two men moved into the apartment.

  In typical nosy-neighbour fashion, the woman in the pink gown peered round the doorframe to look inside. She couldn’t help herself, her curiosity piqued. However, she instantly wished she hadn’t.

  She gasped, a hand flashing to her mouth as she stifled a scream. In front of her, Edgar and Wright had frozen momentarily, shocked by what they saw.

  A naked body was dumped on the floor. It was a man. He was lying in a pool of sticky blood that had congealed around him. Edgar looked closer, horrified. Someone had gone to work on the guy’s neck with a blade, it was a real mess. As the two policemen stepped closer to the dead man, back up arrived behind them in the courtyard, three police cars with lights flashing. Edgar knelt by the body whilst Wright disappeared to inspect the rest of the apartment, searching for the homeowner. He reappeared after a few moments.

  ‘He’s not here,’ he said.

  Edgar didn’t respond. He was staring at the corpse’s face. The man’s dead eyes were lifelessly gazing at a roof light above them in the ceiling. The moonlight shining down made him almost look as if he was made of marble.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Wright asked, noticing his partner’s reaction.

  Edgar looked up at him, confused.

  ‘I think I know this man.’

  Inside Trafalgar Square, Archer checked his watch.

  11:59pm.

  There was no sign of Number One anywhere. Mac was repeatedly asking Deakins on the radio if he could see anything, but no one had any answers. Across the Square on the stage an MC had taken the microphone and the crowd rippled and chattered with excitement, preparing for the countdown to bring in the New Year.

  Behind them, Archer snapped his head back and forth, frantically searching and moving to change his line of sight. Nothing. No-one.

  ‘London, are you ready?’ shouted the MC down the microphone.

  Archer scanned the crowd frantically.

  The terrorist was nowhere to be seen.

  High above Archer in a building on the south-east corner, Deakins was standing by a window in a long dark rectangular conference room. Rivers, Spitz and another officer were also in the room, each man at a different window with binoculars in his hand. They were searching as anxiously as the men on the ground. What had seemed like a dangerous plan an hour earlier now looked as if it was going to be catastrophic.

  But suddenly, Deakins spotted something.

  He tensed like a cat who’d seen prey ahead of him and took another hard look with his binoculars.

  Grabbing his radio from a desk beside him, he pushed the button.

  ‘Mac!’ he said. ‘Mac!’ Across the room, the three other men snapped their heads to look at him, hearing the urgency in his voice.

  ‘Here, go ahead,’ came Mac’s voice.

  Deakins double-checked with his binoculars as he talked rapidly into the radio. ‘South-west corner, near the trees. There’s a guy matching the target,’ he said, looking closer through the field glasses. The three men beside him did the same. ‘Oh shit. He’s wearing a thick coat and backpack!’ Deakins added, looking closer. ‘I repeat, south-west corner, guy matching the target wearing thick coat and backpack. Someone get over there!’

  Across the Square, the MC on the microphone had started the countdown. The crowd shouted with him, excited.

  Twenty seconds till midnight.

  Deakins kept his binoculars on the guy in the coat and backpack, watching helplessly.

  The man had just entered the Square from the south.

  He was moving towards the crowd.

  Down below, Mac, Fox and Porter found themselves close together, one side of the fountain. They were fighting their way through the throng to try to get to the outskirts, which would give them a clear run around the Square to the south-west. But the crowd was distracted and getting through was a nightmare. The mass of people had started chanting the countdown.

  Fifteen seconds to go.

  ‘Shit!’ shouted Mac, pushing the switch to his radio. ‘Someone get over there!’

  Across the Square, Archer was already running. He was the only one who could get there before the clock struck midnight.

  ‘I’m going!’ he screamed into his radio, as the crowd’s chanting arrived at ten.

  ’Ten!’

  ‘Nine!’

  Archer had pulled his pistol. He was thirty yards from the guy, bearing down on him as fast as he could. He saw the man’s face. Deakins was right.

  It had to be him.

  The man saw Archer coming and turned. His hands were jammed tight in his pockets.

  And he was muttering something to himself.

  ‘Eight!’

  ‘Seven!’

  ‘Put your hands up!’ Archer screamed at the guy, his pi
stol on the guy’s forehead. The man looked at Archer, terrified, his eyes as wide as dinner-plates.

  He lifted his hands from his pockets, trembling.

  There was something in his palm.

  ‘Six!’

  ‘Five!’

  ‘Don’t move!’ Archer screamed at the guy.

  He kept his weapon trained on the guy’s forehead, moving forward rapidly.

  He grabbed the man’s hand and looked at the black object.

  It was a mobile phone.

  He dropped it to the floor and grasped the zipper to the guy’s coat.

  ‘Four!’

  ‘Three!’

  He pulled it down.

  ‘Two!’

  He gasped.

  ‘One!’

  Archer blinked and looked closer.

  It was just the guy’s sweater.

  No explosives.

  There was nothing there.

  ‘HAPPY NEW YEAR!’ the crowd shouted.

  Behind Archer, Mac, Fox and Porter had arrived, all three of their weapons drawn. Archer grabbed the suspect and spun him around, unzipping his backpack, peering inside.

  It was full of books.

  No explosives.

  ‘Shit!’ Archer shouted, turning to his three fellow officers. ‘It’s not him!’

  Fireworks started to go off above them, a series of loud bangs and booms, each one lighting up the Square for a brief moment with its bright colours. The crowd ooh’d and aah’d with each explosion, watching the display above them in the sky. The guy in the coat was shaking. He still had his hands in the air and he was shivering with fear, unable to speak.

  But suddenly, there were two thunderous explosions, behind the four policemen.

  BOOMBOOM.

  They came in quick succession. The sound was unmistakeable.

  Two gunshots.

  They all snapped around. A street police constable ten yards behind them had been thrown backwards, two bullets in his upper chest. Blood and bits of his torso and jacket were sprayed in the air as he fell back, his helmet striking the concrete with a loud smack.

  Nearby, members of the crowd had heard the explosions and turned. They saw the shot policeman and started to scream, backing off.

  Amongst them, one man stood still.

  Chalky.

  He was twenty yards away.

  He had his pistol up.

  Aimed where the policeman had been standing.

  ‘Chalky!’ Mac screamed, in utter disbelief, confusion and rage. Fox, Archer and Porter stood still, momentarily motionless, frozen with shock, staring at the shot policeman. Other police constables nearby were already reacting, descending on Chalky. He lowered the pistol to the ground slowly, as three street officers wrestled him to the ground, pushing his face to the concrete as they went to handcuff him. ‘What the hell did you do?’ Mac screamed, rushing towards him.

  Archer ran to the policeman who had taken the two rounds. The guy was flat on his back, not moving. Archer dropped to one knee beside him as two other police constables ran over to join him. ‘Is he dead?’ one of them asked, horrified.

  Archer checked the guy’s neck for a pulse. He couldn’t feel one. He looked at his chest. The man was wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket, standard issue for a street officer of his rank. It was spattered with blood, two maroon holes in the centre of his upper chest, seeping blood.

  Archer ripped open the guy’s coat, to check the wounds.

  He froze.

  Beside him, one of the two constables gasped.

  The policeman was wearing a vest. It was shaped like a V, so the two bullets had hit his sternum, not the fabric.

  But it was packed with nails.

  And bright orange plastic explosive.

  Archer looked down at the dead man’s hand.

  A switch lay there, resting in the open palm. It was hooked up to a black wire that ran into his coat.

  Archer grabbed the man’s police helmet and tore it off.

  He saw his face.

  He wasn’t a policeman.

  He was Number One.

  TWENTY

  The five members of Henry’s crew had been waiting on the tarmac runway for just under ten minutes before they saw two cars approaching in the distance. The road was bumpy, and the headlights of the arriving vehicles bobbled up and down as they neared the airfield.

  Each man, save for Henry, was armed. The pilot was still holding the HK CAWS shotgun, the two enforcers cradling AR 15 Carbines, fresh magazines slotted into each base. Faris had his pistol clipped to the holster on his belt, but he doubted he’d need it. The Albanians were a brother cartel, not an enemy, and the two organisations shared a good working relationship. The guns were there just to make sure everything ran smoothly. The amount of drugs and money about to be exchanged could make even the most honest man unpredictable.

  Standing behind the four men by the jet, leaning against the steps, Faris was in a dark mood. In the Escalade on the way back here, he’d heard the two grunts bragging, running their mouths. Apparently, Henry had received a tip off that the DEA had surveillance in place at the airfield, and had sent the two giants with the rifles to take care of it. Faris was furious. Why didn’t he give it to me? I would have handled it properly. He didn’t like being passed over for responsibilities, especially when any Americans were involved. He was also wondering where Henry had sent Dominick, but he had a million guesses and zero answers. Slowly but surely he was getting cut out of the group.

  And he knew what that meant.

  In front of him, one of the big men holding the AR 15’s made a cheap joke to his friend. Faris had learned that they’d cornered the two agents across the airfield, who’d been lying there, completely unaware. Each grunt had given them thirty rounds each from the machine guns. Faris watched the two morons, glaring at their huge backs.

  Karma was going to be a cruel, hard bitch.

  Up ahead, the two cars arrived pulling onto the dark airfield, their headlight beams momentarily blinding the men by the jet as they swung round. They were vulnerable for a split second, but the lights continued to sweep past as the 4x4’s came to a stop twenty feet away. Six men stepped out, three from each car. The Albanians. Faris had set up the deal with their lieutenant, a man called Hicham, the second in command, Faris’s equivalent. It was dark, so Faris couldn’t make out any of their features, but he could see their hands. Three of them were holding Uzi nine-millimetre automatic pistols, the other two clutching a Remington twelve-gauge shotgun each. Only one of the men was unarmed. A gap in the clouds let the moonlight shine through, illuminating his face. It was Hicham.

  Holding his hands in front of him in an open gesture, the man walked forward. He shook hands with Henry, who stepped to meet him.

  ‘It’s been a while. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Let’s get on with it. I’m cold.’

  The other man nodded and motioned for him to follow. He led him towards the back of one of their two cars. Behind them, the two separate groups of men stood in front of each other. No one moved. Both sides had enough firepower to stop a rhinoceros stampede. By the rear of one of the cars, Hicham pulled the boot open. Faris could see from where he was standing that it was packed with stacks of tightly-bound US dollar bills. Henry scanned it for a moment. He nodded.

  ‘Now the cargo,’ Hicham asked.

  Henry turned to the two enforcers. ‘Get it out of the jet.’

  The two guys didn’t move for a split second. It seemed they were having a stare-down with two of the Albanians standing opposite them. But they turned away and moved up the stairs to the aircraft, the AR 15s still cradled in their hands.

  The whole trade took less than ten minutes. The cocaine was packed into the backs of the two 4x4s, the six million US dollars transferred into the jet. As the last brick of powder was stowed, one of their men shut the door. Hicham turned to Henry.

  ‘We should do this again,’ he said. ‘If the stuff is good
, we’ll be in touch.’

  Henry didn’t respond. The other man turned on his heel and walked over to one of the cars. His crew followed, climbing inside and firing each engine. The two vehicles turned on their tracks, exiting the airfield and the Albanian cartel moved off into the distance and disappeared into the night. The pilot and the enforcers relaxed. They were happy. They’d just stacked six million dollars into the plane. Naturally, they assumed they were going to get paid handsomely for their assistance.

  They were wrong.

  Henry checked his watch. He turned to the two giants. ‘Go and stow your weapons. Then meet me back out here.’

  The pair nodded obediently, turning to climb up the stairs of the jet, moving out of sight. A few moments later, they reappeared without the rifles and moved back down the stairs to the tarmac.

  ‘Over there,’ Henry said as he jabbed a finger, pointing across the tarmac.

  The men looked at each other, confused. But obeying the order, they shuffled over to where he had directed and turned, wondering what was going on. They were now standing away from the ‘plane, their backs to the countryside, in the middle of the runway.

  By the jet, Faris closed his eyes.

  Henry approached the pilot. He grabbed the shotgun from the guy’s hands.

  The two enforcers didn’t have time to react.

  Henry gave each of them four shells to the stomach. The weapon pounded explosion after explosion, the muzzle flashing as each shell erupted out of the shotgun as he worked the trigger. One or two shells would have been enough for anyone, but he wanted each of them to take four. Five hundred pounds of muscle were no match for the power of the weapon, and blood and shreds of flesh sprayed in the air as Henry relentlessly pulled the trigger. Each man was dead before the third blast. They collapsed backwards on the runway, bits of them scattered around them like confetti. Henry walked forward. The weapon had a ten-round magazine. He’d only fired eight.

  He used the last two shells to shoot each man in the face, up close. There was no need for it. They were already dead. He just wanted to.