by Tom Barber
As Archer and Farha stared at each other, an image suddenly came into the police officer’s mind.
Big brown eyes, the colour of hazelnut.
They were beautiful.
But scared.
And filled with tears.
The eyes he was staring at now were narrow, filled with hate and fury. Not a drop of compassion.
And he was the man who had left that girl to die.
‘OK, asshole. The American dies!’ he screamed.
‘You never came back for her,’ Archer said.
Farha heard this. He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Suddenly, five gunshots thundered in the corridor.
Shapira was thrown back, five nine-millimetre bullets tearing into her torso, pieces of her chest and blood spraying in the air. Her pistol and detonator fell to floor as she skidded back down the corridor. She was dead before her body came to a halt. Clutching the wound on his back, Chalky looked the other way.
Rivers was lying on the ground in a pool of blood, his weapon aimed where Shapira had been standing. He lowered the gun, clutching his stomach with his other hand, grimacing and gasping in agony.
Chalky tried to call to him, but he found he couldn’t speak. The room was starting to swim. He felt sleepy. He suddenly felt warm. No more pain. Sleepy. As his eyes started closing, he saw the door down the left end of the corridor open. Mac, Deakins and Fox were running towards him, shouting something.
Upstairs, he could hear the roar of the crowd.
He felt his eyes close, and a warm feeling covered him. It felt good.
His back didn’t hurt anymore.
And he drifted off to sleep.
Archer’s words hung in the air.
Number Nine hesitated.
Archer didn’t.
He shot him through the eye.
The policeman had maybe two inches to work with, but it was perfect. The bullet skimmed Crawford’s neck. Farha wasn’t expecting it, and the bullet thumped into his eye socket, throwing him back like the whiplash from a sudden car accident as it tore through his brain and exited the back of his head in a bloody spray. The knife twirled from his hands like a baton from a juggler’s grip. He fell back onto the hard concrete with a thud, his legs and arms splayed. Crawford stood motionless, like a statue, afraid if he moved the man might still be there. Archer stood just as still, his pistol still aimed where Farha’s head had been, the two of them like two statues.
And suddenly, the adrenaline started to wear off. The pain screamed through his body like his ankle was on fire. He felt as if he was going to throw up. He staggered, and fell back onto the concrete. Cobb, Nikki and Frost ran over to help him as he sat on the tarmac, his pistol spilling from his hands.
He looked over at the dead terrorist, who was laid out across the car park twenty yards away.
‘Found you,’ he muttered.
TWENTY-SEVEN
It took everyone concerned a good few hours to fully understand everything that had just happened and put together the whole picture, piece by piece. The Manchester United- Chelsea match was cancelled mysteriously half-way through the first half. According to ground staff, apparently a gas pipe had ruptured under the stadium and they needed to clear the area immediately. A number of fans in the South Stand said that they heard five distant bangs, but apparently that was just the sound of the pipe rupturing. The game was postponed until a later date, but everyone made it out OK.
In reality, the other Armed Response Unit officers and the stadium security had arrived to find a bloodbath in the white corridor of the lower level. There were three dead bodies, two guards and Shapira, and two critically wounded in Rivers and Chalky. Before anything else, the two of them were rushed to hospital as quickly as possible. Rivers especially was in a seriously bad way. The EOD squad had arrived from Canada Square as soon as they could. Luckily, they quickly inspected the nerve gas and said that it was secure. There was no timer, no trigger switch aside from the one dropped from the dead woman’s hand. They disarmed it without any difficulty, then loaded the canisters up securely and removed them from the site to be destroyed.
There was more shocking news. Mac had received a call from Director Cobb as he and his men watched Chalky and Rivers being loaded into the ambulances outside the stadium. He couldn’t believe what Cobb told him. Apparently, Dominick Farha himself had appeared out of nowhere outside the Unit’s HQ and tried to kill Special Agent Crawford. However, he hadn’t counted on the presence of the youngest member of the task force, hobbling his way through the parking lot after Porter dropped him off.
The phone to his ear, Mac smiled. After a standoff, apparently the lad had shot the terrorist leader in the head, no negotiation, no mercy. His ankle was a mess though, broken in two places, and he was taken to hospital immediately afterwards. After hearing all this, Mac informed his men, and without a moment’s hesitation, they all piled into the Unit’s cars and headed for St Mary’s Hospital. Mac was surprised to find a spare MP5 resting on the back seat of one of the vehicles. It had to be Archer’s. However, considering what had just happened and what the lad had just done, he’d let him off the hook. Just this once.
Once Agent Crawford was patched up and had recovered, he’d received some mixed news himself. French police had contacted the American embassy, informing them that four dead bodies had been found in an airfield outside Paris. Two of them had ID. They were Agents Floyd and Brody, DEA. Both men had been murdered as they lay in a hide on the edge of the airfield, machine-gunned from behind. However, Henry had made a huge mistake. Crawford had another agent in place as back up, a man whom no-one aside from him knew was there. The man had witnessed the entire trade with the Albanians and called ahead to Riyadh. The moment Henry’s jet landed, an entire division of Saudi Police and armed agents from the DEA appeared on the runway. He was done.
Back at the ARU, Cobb and Nikki pieced together Shapira’s involvement. According to the log at Stamford Bridge, the vending machine containing the canisters of nerve gas had been delivered the day before. Henry and his daughter had planned the attack all along, but it seemed the bomber at the Emirates had complicated their plans. Security would have been tight before. After the incident at the Emirates, it would have been close to impossible to get inside Stamford Bridge and to the nerve gas without authorisation. Shapira had been forced to improvise, and had infiltrated the Armed Response Unit.
Cobb was wracked with guilt at being deceived by her, but no one blamed him. She’d prevented the ambulance bomb outside the stadium and also shot the guy on the roof with the RPG, currying favour and allaying any suspicions. No one had considered the thought that she was on the other team. After talking with Crawford’s sixth agent and looking at timings, it appeared that the woman had also been providing Henry with intelligence all along. The drug lord all of a sudden knew about the DEA’s involvement and operation from her, hence how Brody and Floyd had been compromised. They realised he’d also ordered Dominick to put the hit on Crawford. Cobb guessed it was a way of buying the drug lord time to get back to Riyadh, getting rid of Dominick, and also exacting revenge on the DEA Special Agent.
Shaking his head at it all, Cobb took a deep breath. He couldn’t have scripted this day.
He was now alone on the upper level of the Armed Response Unit, inside the ops room. Once it became clear the operation was over, he’d told the tech team to go and take a few days off, effective immediately. The task force, who’d also been given some well-deserved leave, were all down at the hospital, checking up on Archer, Chalky and Rivers. The Prime Minister had also called once he’d been evacuated from the stadium at Stamford Bridge, saying he wanted to meet each member of the detail and thank them all personally. Cobb looked around the empty level, smiling.
They’d earned it.
Leaning over a desk, he powered down the last computer as Agent Crawford appeared from the stairs behind him. He had a plaster stuck to the right side of his neck. They were the
only two people left in the building. Cobb turned as the man approached. ‘Good news. I just spoke to the hospital. Rivers is going to make it.’
Crawford sighed with relief.
‘That’s great.’
A broad smile appeared on his sandy Southern features. Like a young Robert Redford, Cobb had thought when he first met him. That seemed like a lifetime ago. Crawford’s smile faded though.
‘And your men?’
‘They’ll be fine. They got the bullet out of Chalky- I mean Officer White’s- back. And Archer’s getting a cast on his ankle. Broken in two places. But he’ll be OK.’
Crawford smiled. ‘That’s good. I’m glad. The kid saved my life.’
Cobb nodded. There was a pause.
‘I’m sorry about your two men. Three men, I mean.’
Crawford nodded. ‘Me too. But we got what we needed. My last agent watched the whole thing first hand. Right now, he’s got Henry in custody himself. We had an entire division waiting for him in Riyadh. Working with the Saudi police, we’ve already started raiding his compound and seizing his assets. It looks like we have enough evidence to take two other cartels down with him.’
‘Congratulations. That’s great news,’ Cobb said. He meant it.
There was a brief silence. Then Cobb pulled on his suit jacket. Crawford had travelled light, he was ready to go. The two men walked to the stairs, Cobb flicking off the light switch as he passed. Together they walked down the stairs and arrived in the reception area, pushing open the door and walked outside. It was surprisingly warm after the cold of the previous few days. A bright January afternoon. The sun was just starting to set in the distance.
Twenty yards away, Cobb saw a black taxi waiting in the car park.
‘Yours?’ he asked.
Crawford nodded. ‘I’ve got a plane to catch.’
‘You headed home?’
Crawford shook his head, with a smile. ‘No. Not yet. I’ve got one final pit-stop to make first.’
There was a moment’s silence.
Then Crawford offered his hand. Cobb shook it. ‘Thank you. For everything you’ve done,’ the American said. ‘I couldn’t have done this without your help.’
Cobb nodded. ‘Same to you. You ever need my help again, don’t hesitate to call.’
Crawford smiled. Turning, he walked across the lot towards the taxi. But he stopped and looked back at Cobb as he opened the door. ‘Did you know Agent Rivers was part of the team that took out Bin Laden?’
‘I didn’t’.’
‘He never made it into the house. His helicopter crashed before he got there. The first time I met him, he told me his biggest regret from that night was that he’d never have anything special to tell his grandchildren about what he did in his life.’
Cobb smiled. ‘Well I guess he does now.’
Crawford stood still for a moment, smiled, then climbed into the taxi and pulled the door shut. The driver released the handbrake and the vehicle moved out of the lot and down the street until it disappeared out of sight.
Cobb turned back to the entrance to the building, set the sophisticated alarm system and locked the door with a set of keys pulled from his pocket. He climbed into the front seat of his car. Just as he went to slot the key into the ignition, his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey Dad.’
Cobb smiled. ‘Hey buddy.’
‘Are you coming home today? We’re all worried about you.’
‘I’m just leaving now. I’ll be home soon, OK.’
‘OK.’
The called ended. Cobb pushed the key in the ignition and fired the engine. Reversing, he took one last look at the Unit.
What a day, he thought.
He moved out of the car park, and drove down the road towards his family and his home.
What a day.
*
Four thousand miles away, a man woke up from a deep, deep sleep. As he opened his eyes, a dazzling glare from above momentarily blinded him. Throwing his arm up to shield his small, reptilian eyes, he tried to focus. Where the hell am I? He could feel a familiar rocking and swaying from the ground beneath his obese bulk. He realised the glare was coming from the sun. He smiled. He was on his yacht. He must have dozed off. He went to climb to his feet.
But he couldn’t.
Confused, he pushed his upper body upright, looking past his immense gut. His socks and shoes were gone.
Someone had looped his feet through a cinderblock.
He looked through the gaps.
Three pairs of handcuffs had been fastened the other side.
And for the first time in over twenty five years, Henry was scared. He started pushing himself forwards, trying to reach past his belly and frantically scrabbling at the metal.
‘That won’t do any good,’ said a familiar voice, behind him. ‘You of all people should know that.’
He twisted his head, sweating and in disbelief.
It was Faris.
He was in a white shirt and khaki shorts, sipping on a drink, sunglasses over his eyes.
‘Undo these cuffs,’ the fat man said.
His lieutenant looked down at him and smiled.
‘Faris, undo these cuffs.’
‘My name’s not Faris,’ the man said. ‘It’s Special Agent Cruz. I work for the DEA.’
Henry blinked, his fatty torso soaking his suit with sweat. Faris’s accent had changed. He now sounded like an American.
Cruz smiled as he saw the fat man register this. He continued.
‘You never had a clue, did you? See, first of all, I knew you would try to kill me when we got back to Riyadh. I saw it in those puffy little eyes of yours. So I sedated you on the plane. You don’t remember? I got out of my seat to use the bathroom and pulled the autojet from behind you. You’re a big boy, so I gave you a double dose. You’ve been out for two days.’
Henry blinked.
He had a distant memory of sitting in his seat. A prick in his neck, like someone pinched him. The next thing he knew, he was waking up here.
‘You piece of shit,’ Henry screamed. ‘Undo the cuffs.’
Cruz smiled, sipping the cocktail. ‘See, I spoke with the British government. We realised how you’d known about our surveillance at the airfield. Your daughter had managed to infiltrate one of their counter-terrorist teams. She’d gotten talking with a guy from the DEA, and you couldn’t believe your luck, could you? You knew all about our surveillance at the airfield. You sent the two meathead assholes to take them out.’
Henry said nothing.
‘The two agents you had your goons murder at the airfield, they were friends of mine. And right then, you thought you were in the clear. But I was standing right behind you. I watched everything. Little did your stupid little brain realise there was an American DEA agent standing right beside you.’
Henry said nothing.
Cruz sipped his drink and checked the watch on his wrist. ‘Right about now your compound has almost been emptied. Every person who’s ever been on your payroll is going into custody. See, I worked hard and gained your trust. You had to tell me about all your hides and stash houses so I could pay people off, didn’t you? My agency is now seizing all of it. Every dime. We’ve done the math already. It looks like it’s going to be close to half a billion dollars.’ He whistled. ‘Oh, and I’ve forgotten to tell you. Seeing as I was a member of your crew for so long, our case was so complete that police are moving on the Albanians and the New Yorkers. It’s probably a good thing you’re out here on the water. There’ll be eight or nine figures on your head after this.’
Henry was sweating.
‘Bullshit,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘You’re full of shit.’
‘Oh, and two more things. Your daughter failed at the stadium. A DEA agent shot and killed her before she could blow the nerve gas. Everyone there is safe, and she’s dead. And Dominick failed too. You sent him to kill my boss, didn’t you? That was
part of the deal, him getting off and all, right? Your daughter told you all about Special Agent Crawford, and the strength of his case, so you sent Dominick to kill him and erase the problem. He was close. Real close. He had a knife to Agent Crawford’s neck, apparently. But a British cop shot him in the head.’
Silence.
‘Take me back then, asshole. You need me for trial,’ Henry said
At that moment, a blond man appeared from inside the hull, dressed in a suit with a blue shirt and red tie. A band aid had been stuck to his neck.
‘Oh, let me introduce Special Agent Crawford,’ Cruz said. ‘He’s the head of our team, the six men that have taken your whole business down. The man you sent Dominick to kill. I was going to take care of all this myself, but he insisted on joining me.’
Henry ignored him. ‘I don’t give a shit. Take me back to land. You work for the government. You have to follow rules.’
Cruz smiled. Crawford didn’t.
‘See that’s the thing,’ Cruz said. ‘We have everything we need, right now, we’re seizing everything you’ve ever owned and arresting every guy who ever worked for you.’
Cruz sipped his drink.
‘But we don’t need you. It’s down as a real tragedy in the report. We confronted you on your yacht, out at sea. We planned to take you in out here, away from the public. But you decided to try and shoot your way out, so we were forced to fire back. Unfortunately, one of the bullets knocked you into the sea. So we couldn’t recover your body. Shit, it’s a hell of a long way down. We’d never find you if we searched all year.’
Henry blinked, and stayed still for a moment.
Cold fear seeped into his belly.
Then he frantically started scrabbling at the cuffs by his ankles, trying to reach over his fat gut.
‘It’s useless. You’re a big boy, so I used three sets.’ Cruz pulled three things from his pocket. Henry saw they were steel keys. As he sipped his drink, he threw them overboard, one at a time. He then drained the cocktail and placed the empty glass to one side, checking his watch.
‘Right. I think it’s time for you to go.’