Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  To the south of the building, another van of armed staff waited for the signal to strike.

  Dave Francis was up and climbing out of his sleeping bag. Northern Ireland had conditioned him to not sleeping, that, and years of alcohol.

  “India One receiving.”

  Fisher was pleased to hear his voice. Liked Francis a lot.

  “India One, we have no activity at this time. The three have moved to the side of the building. We’ll leave them to it as per the brief.”

  The first two men waited, received a text, then walked nonchalantly past the CCTV system, bags in hand.

  “They may as well be whistling the theme to bloody Snow White.” McGee couldn’t understand how the team could be so arrogant.

  In his cheap but clean hostel room, Valentin manipulated the camera system on the outer layer of security on one of the premier bullion vaults in the city. He’d been there the night before, added and replaced, removed and camouflaged, all in a matter of moments. Poor baby, having its candy ripped out of its little adorable fingers so easily.

  As Mr Cade had told his trusted colleagues, ‘Valentin is a true professional.’

  The text message lit up on the throwaway Nokia, which was held by the more thick-set of the trio. In Romanian it simply said Intra acum.

  Enter now.

  And that was the first hurdle leapt.

  Valentin sipped on another black coffee. Entered a few words into the dark net site. Miles away, but not many. Two men read the script as it unravelled on their larger screen.

  Further north west another man did the same, on his tablet, tucked up in his deeply cushioned sofa, as his attractive wife watched a British drama, about a politician and his mistress. She was sat on the next sofa, knees tucked up and under her bottom, allowing her black kimono dressing gown to gape at the thigh. Bluest eyes, dyed blonde hair. Athletic, an ex-tennis player with a voracious appetite for one man only.

  She’d have to wait until the weekend. He performed best at the weekend. Their games, that Chanel perfume, his dominance, her look of submission. Their contract that said she would never kiss and tell.

  Intra acum indeed.

  The fourth member of the syndicate that would never meet sat in his own office, working late, gently brushing his fingertips over the keys of his laptop. Click, click. Fast typing, make no mistakes. He really should go home.

  Twelve paces away, seven metres, seven and a half yards, it mattered not what the conversion was. Another male was also reading and typing as quickly as his well-manicured fingers would allow.

  ‘Trial run tonight. By courier to the restaurant.’

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘Of course. I do not deal in failures.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ Typed another member.

  And the messaging ended.

  In the office, twelve paces away, the man smiled, steepled his fingers and leant back in his brown, cracked-leather office chair, each line of which told a war story.

  “Come to papa.”

  Valentin checked the package, wiped it clean. A new iPhone 5S was carefully wrapped and lowered into it. The bag was sealed and verbal instructions given to the courier. Sixteen minutes later he was met outside the Mexican restaurant, hadn’t even entered before the anonymous male took the package from him and pushed a fifty-pound note into his gloved hand. The rider nodded at the man and walked away. It took seconds.

  ‘If you have a memory for faces, make sure it stops working today.’

  They meant what they said. And besides fifty pounds, tax free, was fifty pounds. He was told there would be no more business. It was how it was. An hour later, the device was sat on Alex’s lap.

  Five minutes after that, the last swirl of his index finger created a failsafe entry into the device. He placed it on the floor of the safe, tapped in four digits, closed the wardrobe door, turned off the light.

  Two and a half hours later, the electric blue digital read-out on Jason Roberts’ bedside clock shifted from 11:59 to midnight. He knew because he lay awake, curtains open, watching out across the full-length glassy view of the Thames, the London Eye and into north Kent. The government had been generous with his accommodation.

  There was a knock on the door. It was Daniel.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “No, you neither I guess?”

  “No. I confess to having a rather full mind. I’ve just been watching the world go by and trying to figure out what it is Alex is going to do next. We agree all of the other stuff is a sideshow?”

  “Absolutely. That said, there were three ATMs literally blown out of their wall mountings last night. Two west, one down south. One in Bedfordshire but apparently that was members of the travelling community who ripped what was left of the bloody thing out of the wall and dragged it down the street on the back of a tow truck, pursued by three patrol cars and a rabid police dog.”

  “Quiet night then?”

  “Unless you also factor in what we’ve got going on at the vaults.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Slowly, by all accounts. Can you seriously believe the government is allowing this to happen? Literally sitting back and waiting?”

  “Honestly, yes. I’d do the same. We need Alex to believe he is in control.”

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  “He thinks he is. Slowly, slowly catchee monkey Jason. Fancy a brew? Looks cold out there.”

  “Yep, sounds like a plan. Any biscuits?”

  The two men stood in their boxer shorts and stared out of the large patio door, sipping their tea, looking down onto the Thames with its twisted reflections and a murky blanket of green-grey mist that fought to cover the muddy riverbank and the centuries of history that it retained.

  Roberts remembered hunting for treasure along it with his uncle, knee deep in chaos and loving every minute. Some things never changed.

  “We will get him, won’t we, John?”

  “Is the Pope a Catholic?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question JD, or do you actually not know the answer to that ecclesiastical conundrum?

  John Daniel smiled as he sipped his police-standard tea; milk, no sugar, then nodded wisely. He knew the answer to many things.

  Chapter 55

  One of the things that John Daniels knew was that you didn’t send out your best people without back up. Jason Roberts knew that too. He had insisted on two armed staff supporting two of the best DSs he had ever worked with, Nicholas John Fisher and Bridie Anne McGee. It made sense. But who would look after them?

  Fisher was getting agitated. Sat in a van with a bladder screaming at him to let go of its contents, he refused to piss into the bottle that was supplied for just such an occasion. Not in front of a lady. And certainly not in front of one called Bridie. No. No way. Not happening.

  “You shy Nicholas?” Eyebrow raised.

  “Me? No. I’m just a gentleman. Call me old-fashioned, but I respect you.”

  “You know, sometimes I wish you didn’t.” There was that look again. Wise beyond her years, eyes that burst with life and knee-deep sensuality.

  “Stop it. Not here.”

  “Oh, so you are willing to at least try to take advantage of me?”

  “Not with a full bladder, I’m not!”

  “Then let it go, then try…”

  She raised her hand. ‘Quiet.’

  “Movement. A new pedestrian. Showing interest in the doorway.” She checked her watch, called out the time.

  “I wish these bastards would hurry up and do something. I am now officially desperate for a piss.” The more he tried to ignore it the worse it got.

  She slipped her arms out of her sweater.

  “Bridie, seriously, we’ll get sacked.”

  “It’s for you to piss into you fool, I saw it done on a training course once.”

  “What?”

  “Use it to soak it up, go and kneel in the corner, close to the door as you can so it runs out of the bottom, but the steam
doesn’t give away our position. I promise I won’t look.”

  “Turn off the light.” He had never been so terrified. Fisher had been there, done that, got so many T-shirts he needed a separate drawer. Slowly he knelt down and produced what for him was without a doubt an above-average and much-prized possession, and pushing it into her sweater he began to finally let go. The feeling was exquisite. If not a little odd. Hours he had waited and yet it was so now so surreal. Erotic? No. Surreal yes, urinating quietly into the still-warm clothing of the girl he had become besotted with was nothing if not bizarre. There was probably a word for people like him.

  It was just wrong. But it felt so incredible. He almost let out a sigh of relief. Then midstream she called out.

  “Stand by! Stand by!”

  “No! Not now!”

  “Nick, we need to move. Now! Get that thing away.” She found a second to smile.

  Up the street, the two armed and plain clothes staff had deployed to something. No comms. Not ideal. But McGee could see everything. She called it in. Nothing. No transmission, no response. Dead.

  In his room Valentin was fighting with technology too, overriding, trying to relay a signal, to steal one from anywhere, racing through a series of close circuit cameras that he should never have been able to access. Three were near, fixed lenses, no use to anyone. He found himself wishing he was working from a modern operations centre not ambiguous bedsit in central London where no one knew his name, and better still didn’t care. He needed and wanted to remain anonymous.

  There had to be a link somewhere on the London network. Government, negative. Large-scale commercial, nothing.

  There. A standalone, some sort of wi-fi set up routed through an iPhone. Cheap but effective and it came with a pan, tilt and zoom camera. He was in. He hit record and then saw the activity. Three men running from the vault. A van entering the frame, at speed. The men were running as fast as they could with bags, but they looked empty. One had a pistol. The van came to a halt, side door open. Shots fired.

  The first officer was hit. The second took evasive action, returned fire, ripping through half of his magazine, feeling for the spare and seeking cover. Where was their back up?

  Valentin hit speed dial three. Cade answered.

  “Your team needs urgent armed support. Shots fired. Officer down.” He added the location, then repeated his message and added, “Someone is using a powerful jammer Jack. They mean business. This is high-end stuff.”

  He cleared the line. Rang the Metropolitan Police via the operator. Repeated the message again. No, he didn’t wish to leave his details. Instead, he sat and watched, and wished he was closer. He knew his place. Had to adhere to the briefing. Stay put, add value. Fight another day. It was what all of the world’s best field operators did. He was a professional, able to think on more than one plane, whilst peeling an apple with a knife and solving a Rubik’s Cube with his feet. That was what they paid him for.

  The firearms that the van occupants were pinning down the surviving officer with were very effective. Valentin was zooming, capturing it all.

  Soviet. GSh-18s with 9mm rounds. He’d fired them plenty of times. Rounds that ripped through body armour like a samurai sword through satin. Russian made and that meant simple, effective and guaranteed to cause mayhem.

  Cade had raised his red flag a minute before the Met control room had keyed the microphone and deployed armed response units. His next call was to Roberts.

  “Jason. Get dressed, mate. We’ve been hit. One officer unaccounted for. We’ve lost footage. Our man is trying to restore imagery, but someone has overruled him and it’s not us. Units are travelling to the scene. I’m heading that way too.” He hung up as Roberts and Daniel dressed and headed to their own car.

  Cade was met by Elena. She was a light sleeper too and busy dressing in the hallway. Hooded top, track pants and trainers. He didn’t have time to remember how beautiful she was.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you are not El. Stay here and be prepared to defend this place with Carrie. She knows where the weapons are. Hit the alarms if you need to. Go and wake her.”

  “But Jack…”

  “No. No buts. No challenges to my authority, Elena. Please. Not now. I need your experience and training tonight, and I’ll need it every day from here on in. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She shrugged her shoulders and relented but felt she should go with him. She knew she was a superior shot too, and if things got up close and personal, all the better. She liked up close – and personal, enjoyed the smell of bad breath and adrenaline.

  O’Shea heard it all, opened the gun safe and racked a Glock. She wanted to have hers first. She’d only ever fired one once, over and over again. Three hours later she was accurate up to twenty metres. That was enough. She picked up the second of three pistols together with a magazine loaded with hollow point rounds and then walked out into the lounge.

  “We might need these.” It was ludicrous. “Worst case, I’ll throw mine at someone!” She was an analyst. A trained bloody analyst from Scotland Yard with a reputation second to none. Why couldn’t they bring in the entire might of the Met Police and deal with these bastards?

  An analyst and a Glock. Her weapon of choice was a pencil.

  Fisher was out of the van now, running, tucked tight into the building line, one weapon drawn, the other safely away. The patch on the front of his trousers would only embarrass him if he ended up in an ambulance, so he chose to stay in the shadows.

  Of all the bloody times!

  He covered the ground quickly, found a place to stay in the dark, and then rang McGee.

  “Any update? I’ve got a fairly clear shot from here. Anyone else lurking around before I commit to this?”

  “Nick. Stay down, help will be coming.”

  “Bridie, no one answered us. This is not good. Those lads need our help.”

  “Then I’m coming with you. The time for photographs is over.” She pocketed the phone, slipped the Glock 17 into the leg holster, and left the van.

  Fisher could literally sense that she was nearby – could hear the material on her cargo trousers swishing together. He could hear her, it was such a good sound. So could the steel-eyed gunman that raised his weapon and fired a burst of seven or eight rounds down the street towards her.

  She actually heard herself say out aloud, ‘Well, this is a first.’

  Reaching a doorway she rammed her body in tight, could smell the dampness in the wall, feel the chill, rubbed the red powdery surface as the brick beneath her fingertips crumbled. She hoped it was strong enough to provide some cover.

  Instinct versus recklessness. Time to put into practice all those hours on the range. She dropped down to one knee and leaned carefully out from the door, reducing her own target picture. Nothing.

  Sweeping the street, she saw a shadow. Friend or foe?

  Foe. The shadow fired another burst from his own weapon. On the move.

  The van engine was also being gunned. They needed to leave, and soon. And this was her opportunity.

  She fired a few rounds from the fabled Austrian weapon, two into the tyre, one into the cockpit. The trigger reset each time, smooth as silk.

  ‘Don’t anticipate the shot, McGee!’

  Another exited the short barrel.

  The time for health and safety had also long passed.

  Two men on board the van heard the rounds hitting, striking steel, ripping into plastic, shattering the side glass with a dull crack, sending tiny cubes of it across the cockpit. For the driver, it was time to go.

  He started the van, into first and away, leaving the trailing team members behind him. His passenger, straddling the side cargo door, cared not either. It was every man for himself. That was what Jackdaw had said in the briefing. And what Jackdaw said…

  Fisher took the chance to fire off two bursts of two rounds, keeping the now abandoned burglars at bay. He looked down the street, blue lights, strobes of hope, appr
oaching fast. He called out.

  “Armed police! Put down your weapons.”

  Silence.

  He could see a pair of feet at the side of a car. Immobile.

  Injured? Dead? He swept the street, looking over the foresight, not distracted by the Tritium dot that surreptitiously guided his aim. He called out again.

  Down the street, a 5 Series BMW came to a halt. At a safe distance but within tactical range, the three staff on board also announced their presence. The German Shepherd was on the prowl too; black body armour and a ferocious set of teeth. For this was the domain of the Land Shark.

  It was time to take the fight back – even up the numbers.

  Members of the original burglary team were now reduced, and what was left of the group was inept when it came to a firefight against armed and trained police. The military component of the small Eastern European team was gone, heading God knows where, but somewhere other than prison.

  The men looked at one another, checked their weapons, realised they had been used as scapegoats and knew their choices were limited to surrender and an uncomfortable mattress, or a blaze of glory. It was what they had grown up on; American cop films, shooting from the hip, weapons, side on, no aim, just pure luck. And no one ever got injured.

  Fisher was on the move again, with McGee sprinting up behind him, weapon at the low carry but ready.

  As he reached another natural barricade, it happened.

  The thirty-two-year-old former carpenter had left Cluj, the second largest city in Romania, looking for a better life, but now found himself an isolated and hunted man. He swung his weapon up and over the bonnet of a Renault Megane, narrowed his eyes and fired. Three randomly placed rounds screamed down the street and skidded off the road surface, changing the shape of one bullet, altering it just enough to create a larger entry wound. A straightforward shot may have been better – at least for the victim.

  Fisher heard it first, a high-pitched yelp then a freight-train-collision, hitting him below the pelvis. The bullet remained intact but being misshapen it caused havoc. He began to bleed, then more, then violently. He carried on operating, squatting down, standing, firing.