Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  She looked, then looked away. And then she vomited into the long grass, and then again, bringing up the breakfast in spasmodic waves of which she had no control, the heat of her stomach contents causing the grass to steam.

  She fished around in her pockets, hunting for the cell phone that her brother had bought her. ‘You’ll need that one day, girl!’

  “Bugger, it’s in the house. Come on, Nick.”

  As she turned to run, she heard the voice again.

  She stepped back around the body, moving slowly towards the sound, as slowly as she dared. Looking around her, above the layer of cool moist air, now frantic. Her head and upper torso were all the distant motorists would have seen. It looked surreal. What was beneath the shroud? Was she next?

  She took a breath. A cold, biting breeze collided with her windpipe. Tried to calm herself down. She had been in situations like this before. ‘Calm down.’

  Her eyes narrowed against the wind, teeth chattered, lips raw.

  A hand grabbed hold of her foot, gripped onto her as if its owner’s life had been determined by her arrival. It had.

  “Oh my God!” she shrieked, kicking out. No one heard her. If she slipped beneath the surface, what then?

  She dropped to her knee and immediately faced another person. Curled in the foetal position. Whispering. Then nothing.

  She was transfixed. “It’s a woman, isn’t it? Oh God, please tell me that wasn’t her last act? Do something. I have to do something.” Her mind churned with thoughts. This was far from normal, Very, far from normal.

  She spoke to Nick, who was pushing the body with his paw, still playful.

  “Good boy, Nick. Stay with mummy. Stay.”

  Something told Bradley that this was a friend before her, not a foe. A victim, not an offender. Impassive, eyes fixed shut, bald, she was bald. But she was a she. Her coat gaped, two buttons missing, revealing a shapely breast. Her features were definitely female. And she needed Marlene’s help. Now.

  “My love, are you OK? Talk to me.” She lowered herself down, still wary of the other body, then prodded the frozen form with her boot, slipped her glove from her hand, placed two fingers against her carotid, just as she had been taught, all those years ago, as a student nurse at Guy’s Hospital. A pulse. Shallow at best. This was a hypothermic woman clinging to life.

  She wracked her brain. What was the important temperature? Come on. Thirty-five, that was it, any lower, and you were heading the wrong way and it happened rapidly. This woman was almost frozen. Her core temperature was probably in the twenties.

  It all depended upon how used to the conditions a person was. She had read about humans who had drifted into a state of hibernation and survived. She was thinking about it now, mesmerized by the situation that was unfolding, walking distance from her warm and inviting home. She needed to get help.

  “Come on, Marlene. Stop messing about. Get help.”

  And then it happened again, but this time the eyes were open, startled, trying to scream, desperately trying to swallow away the cold and fear, her lips peeling apart, leaving skin torn and bleeding.

  “Jack. Jack. Jack. Cade.”

  “OK, my love, I’ll get Jack…you just relax.”

  “Jack…”

  “Stay here. Stay here.” It seemed a ludicrous thing to say to a young woman who was as near to death as she could be. “I’ll get help, dear.”

  She ran now, but Nick stayed, lying alongside Carrie O’Shea and willing her to stay alive.

  “…daw. Jackdaw…” She closed her eyes again. Slept for five minutes, woke with a start, her heart pounding. She could feel something warm in her hand.

  She broke a smile and whispered, “A rescue dog. I don’t suppose you have any brandy do you?” She laughed a weakened laugh, then laid her head down once more. She was safe, but was she alive?

  In the house Bradley dialled and spoke. “Ambulance. And Police. I need an air ambulance or she won’t make it. Look for a mad woman waving like someone’s life depends on it. The house with the Union Jack. We need to save one of them.” She outlined the situation as best as she could.

  “You can’t miss me, I’m the only house here. Not far from the old firework factory.”

  “There is more than one casualty?”

  “Yes, but one hasn’t made it. I need to go back to the girl.”

  Bradley put the phone down, grabbed a pile of blankets and a first aid kit and ran. It was the first time she had run in fifty years.

  The ambulance operator shared the information with her police colleague, who in turn did the same with his boss.

  “Possible murder scene ma’am just off the A206 – male deceased. One seriously injured female, up near the old Wells Fireworks Factory. Ambulance en route.” She hit enter and started the incident log, unaware that it had just shared with the larger Metropolitan Police command system.

  In the Essex control room, northeast of London, another operator was entering a job into their own system.

  “Boss. Report from Heathrow Air Traffic Control. Crew of a Triple Seven say a passenger sighted a body in the Thames, somewhere near the QE2 Bridge. Could be anything, but we’ve got a maritime unit on the way.”

  “I want all jobs within thirty miles of us to be read, re-read, and then analysed by our intelligence people. No exceptions.” These were the original words of AC Mike Collins at the initial briefing for Operation Orion.

  “Knowledge is power, and I want every bit you can find. I don’t want to be two steps behind this lot. One, at the very worst. I want them to feel us breathing down their necks. Clear?”

  The system worked. It was amazing what could be done with the correct funding. The Met Police were already crunching the data and hitting send to the Op Orion team before the air ambulance had even left its base in Kent.

  She heard it before she saw it. Bradley did too. The blades chopping through the cold winter air that whipped off the Thames Estuary.

  “They’re here, girl. They’re here. Just hang on a little longer.” She laid alongside her, under the blankets, giving as much of her bodily warmth as she could.

  The MD902 circled, the crew decided on the best landing place, and in under fifteen minutes were calling their own control room.

  “Helimed Two One – Helimed Two One. On scene, please.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Lane closed the door behind her, entered, everyone made to stand. She ushered them down. It was what they always did.

  “Good morning.” She looked around the room. All were present. The Prime Minister, the police minister, various police commanders including Acting Deputy Commissioner Mike Collins and the key members of the Operation Orion team, led by Jason Roberts and supported by Cade and Daniel. Elena had been accepted and acknowledged as the Subject Matter Expert on Eastern Europe but more notably the SME on Alex Stefanescu.

  “Good morning, Prime Minister. I’ll begin if I may?”

  James Cole nodded and smiled. He had a coolness that had little to do with the weather outside, weather that clung in various forms to the tinted windows and aluminium cladding of the Terry Farrell designed building and wouldn’t let go of its grip for a few more days.

  “You may.”

  She moved straight into the latest news.

  “I find swearing only helps in certain situations. This is one of them. Overnight…some bastard or bastards have removed the London Stone.”

  Silence.

  “It’s been there for a thousand years Minister.”

  “Oh thank you for telling me something I didn’t know.”

  “Thank you Home Secretary.” Cole could sense the chill. “I think the point of Minister Lane’s anger is simple. The stone is just an ordinary lump of sandstone or granite or whatever it is. Its position in the city is what counts. It is an icon. Ignored by countless commuters yet cherished. Like one would cherish a weatherman or newsreader. Take them for granted until they are gone. And now, the stone has gone. Under our noses, with s
urveillance and yet we had no one to respond.”

  He turned and looked at Mike Collins.

  “Sir. I can only apologise. We were busy last night. In fact we are permanently busy. But last night was off the scale. Calls all over the city to bank alarms, traffic light signalling issues, even a few explosions at ATMs. This is not the time to discuss cuts to our service and how that impacts upon our ability to…”

  Cole cut him off. “No, Mike, it isn’t. But I get your point. I need this thing, this beloved lump of sandstone back, in situ or somewhere safer, today, or sooner. They have sent a message, now we, the people of London must reply – as we always have done – in acts not words. Keep this out of the press please.”

  Lane took the hint and moved on.

  Collins stared down at the list of priority jobs that had distracted his staff. Two more stood out. He ran a yellow highlighter through them.

  Lane continued. “New intelligence indicates that our targets are aiming to attack a property within the ‘walls of London’ – makes no sense to me, after all we are not Paris are we?” It raised a small, much needed and unexpected cheer. And a smile from Lane.

  “As it stands our counter terrorist intelligence teams tell us that whilst an attack is considered likely as yet nothing has happened. This I’m sure you will all agree is a blessing.” All nodded. She had their attention.

  “So, whilst the streets are free of the rivers of blood my father waxed lyrical about we need to focus on this team – this Seventh Wave. We are stepping up surveillance, increasing covert patrols, targeting human sources, listening. If it comes to pass that we are doing anything illegal then only my head will roll. You have my word.” She meant it. They knew.

  “But for now, I am hereby unleashing the Operation Orion team. DCI Roberts, I need you to allow a number of your squad to become a little bit more…feral than they have been. Do we understand each other?”

  He cleared his throat, unintentionally straightened his tie. Stood.

  “Absolutely Minister. Unleashed they are. Now what?”

  “Well I would have thought that was pretty obvious. Your boys and girls need to start shaking the tree. All of them. Give them a bloody shake and see what falls out. Need I remind you that this is not about a lump of sandstone but the potential reputation of the United Kingdom on the European – no, on the world map. Leaving Europe is one thing, admitting it had been planned for years will be an unmitigated disaster.”

  Cade’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He discreetly looked – as a schoolboy tries to discreetly unwrap a year-old toffee.

  “Something more pressing Mr Cade?” It was Halford peering over the brim of his glasses as a cat would at a mouse it was about to tease.

  “As it happens, yes. If you will all forgive me?”

  “Do we have any choice?” Halford pressed, enjoying the game.

  “No.” Cade’s reply unsettled him. There were few people that had the courage to go beyond the first round with Halford.

  Cade nodded to the Prime Minister and discreetly left the room, dialling as he walked.

  “Cade here. Talk to me please. This had better be important or I have just sacrificed what is left of my tattered reputation at the altar of the police minister.”

  He nodded, made the right noises then stopped in his tracks.

  “And David how is this anything to do with me?”

  “Well Jack I appreciate a murder may not be within your current remit, but we were told to identify any jobs of interest within thirty miles that might relate to Op Orion.”

  “And this does?”

  “We don’t exactly know yet sir, but I can tell you the survivor is a woman, and she has asked for you by name.”

  “Did you get her name?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Well ring me again when you do.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, and Dave.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well done. Get stuck into it and keep me in touch. Anything. And I mean anything, I want to know. We’ve just been given the green light by the Home Secretary, we are officially, in her words, feral, and that means you too.”

  Dave Francis smiled. He was back in the game. All he needed to do was stay off the drink and focus. He could start by scanning the systems and finding as much information about the two latest jobs and the two overnight jobs that stood out on his list. He also ran a highlighter through them but his was green.

  Cade returned to the briefing, edging by the guard who recognised him immediately.

  “Going back in boss?”

  “I am. All quiet on the western front?”

  “So far yes.”

  Cade walked quietly back in.

  “So, let’s sum this up. We are all busy people. Intelligence Units will feed into the analysts working on Orion. Frontline units will be told that there is a heightened risk of an event, targeting London. DCI Roberts will form a breakaway team who will report to myself and Mr Halford. That is the reporting line. Clear?”

  Heads nodded.

  “Jack. Nice of you to join us again. Nothing serious I hope?”

  “No ma’am, not yet.”

  “OK. One last thing I would like you all to do. Please stand and join me in the time honoured tradition of singing happy birthday – and on this occasion I know the recipient won’t object to you inserting James instead of Prime Minister.”

  Cole smiled and feigned embarrassment. “Oh no really Home Secretary. Do we have to?”

  Halford started the singing, a chance to gain an advantage over Lane, a deeper than expected tone that caused a chill to run along Lane’s spine.

  As the group sang, some with gusto, some awkwardly, some respectfully, Cole opened his parcel. He pulled at the contents, a white linen handkerchief embroidered with his initials. Classy. He unwrapped it and the tooth fell onto the desk, ivory encrusted with aging blood.

  “Bloody hell!” The song was on its third line.

  “Happy birthday dear James…”

  A few people stopped, some gathered around Cole. Some continued, unsure what the protocols were in such circumstances.

  Roberts assumed the lead role. “Sir. Leave it. Don’t touch it. Or the packaging. DS McGee get someone down here with a camera and an exhibit kit now please.”

  Sassy Lane was tearing the security strip from her own parcel. She looked at Roberts and without words asked, “What Jason? Can it really get any worse?”

  “Boss, don’t open it. Please. Let me. Move away.”

  She did as she was told. Roberts picked up the package and tried to gently tease the seams apart – to have a look inside. He knew he was breaching something in a security report, somewhere deep in the vaults of the Home Office. But he had gone this far and the package has met all of the security standard operating procedures.

  As the final line of the song finished, the parcel’s seam gave way and the partially-deflated eyeball left the package and shot across the table, rolling a little further, then stopping at the edge, as a golf ball would on the edge of the hole, pausing, teasing the crowd, the lens staring up at Halford.

  “Happy birthday…to you.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Halford stared at Roberts – ice cold, impassive, as a Tiger shark examines its prey before it rips it in two. His own eyes as lifeless as the one that sat, awkwardly staring back at him.

  Unusually he stammered slightly then spoke.

  “W-what the bloody hell kind of circus are you running here Roberts?” He thumped his fist down onto the table, causing pens, cups and the eye to bounce and then return to the table.

  Roberts was still reeling from the shock of seeing the eye, as a staunch vegetarian he began to have bizarre thoughts, trying to focus on the Minister for Police he found himself almost able to feel his teeth crunching into it, an amuse bouche before the main meal.

  It made him nauseous to the point of retching.

  Then he responded – and it was career limiting.
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  “Us? Sir, respectfully, this is your domain, your staff checked these packages, please do not blame me and my team. Need I remind you…?”

  “No, you bloody well need not, chief inspector, you damn well know your place or I’ll call the taxi for the…bloody labour exchange. Do you hear me?”

  Roberts was caught by an uppercut but had had enough. He was happy to walk, leave it all behind and find a role somewhere else. There was always work for someone like Jason Roberts.

  “Yes, I hear you Minister but again, as these people present are my witnesses…”

  James Cole held his hand aloft – it meant stop in any language.

  But Roberts was far from done.

  “As these people are my witnesses and that includes you Prime Minister…” He let the words hang like the smell of a freshly-opened airliner door. “My team are not responsible for this appalling act. My men have worked their bollocks off…” He gritted his teeth and nodded at Bridie McGee acknowledging that she was one of the last women left on the team.

  “…Day and night. None of it claimed as overtime. Sir, need I further remind you that in recent times I have lost one of my best Detectives, no, make that two. One hung himself because of this, the other was decapitated. My analyst was kidnapped and her body had yet to be recovered. All doing what they did best. But you…”

  “Enough!” said Halford, trying to regain ground.

  “I have not fucking finished Halford!” Career. Limited.

  “You think an eyeball is bad? Try having your analyst’s hand posted back to inside a candle. It sat on my desk, slowly revealing itself when I lit the bloody thing. They cut her hand off to make a point! She was harmless. But they have got her somewhere right now and for all I know she may be lying in a gutter somewhere.”

  James Cole interrupted a clearly impassioned Roberts. “Thank you, chief inspector, I think we all need a break. We’ll get some tea…”