Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

“Is he? First I’ve heard.”

  “Well no, actually I made it up. But you get the point. He’ll be fine. Right now, wherever he is, he’ll be figuring out his options.”

  Daniel looked across at O’Shea and winked.

  She wanted to sob. Years they had known each other – they had come so close to being a couple – and yet one or other of them was destined to drift like a piece of wood on a tide, swirling around in an eddy, hoping for salvation before drifting out to sea.

  “Where are you?” She sharpened a 6H pencil, then snapped it on her desk, then sharpened it again. “Jack, where the bloody hell are you? Talk to me.”

  Stefan Stefanescu and his new partner Scott McCall were in place. The back of the van they inhabited had one way glass in the tailgate. They both sat and watched, waited. For McCall it was what he did, almost why he existed. Although why he was sat in a cold van, near a busy waterway in a foreign city with a foreigner was something he chose not to dwell on. He owed a debt to the British, and he was going to repay it – diamonds aside.

  Francis was on his fifth cup. Dark, strong, made his heart race. Just how he liked it. Not since the notorious job on the Irish border had his heart been so ready to beat. He looked at O’Shea. She was tired, but a series of words activated her adrenal gland, got her firing on all four cylinders.

  “Fancy kicking this into touch and going out and doing some real intel gathering?”

  Of course she did. “We can’t though Dave, Jason would string us up.”

  “He has to catch us first. There are plenty of analysts doing what they need to do, scanning here, adding value there. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling stagnant. Whatever happens today is not going to happen in the square mile of London. So we need to spread our wings.”

  “I disagree. If I was Alex, I’d hit a target right in the heart of the city, the tower, a bank. You name it, there’s certainly enough of them. But I’m open to suggestions?”

  “You’ve missed the markers, they are there if you look. He’s not looking to steal anything. People need to clear that from their minds. He has enough jewels and bloody gold to last a lifetime.” He picked up Carrie’s pencil and pointed at the map on the screen.

  “There. That’s where we find our man, his team, and the answer. But we won’t do so sat on our collective arses now, will we miss?”

  She couldn’t put it better herself. Looking around, she saw a set of keys on a hook. “Come on then, let’s take the fight to the bastard blackbird – and when we find him, we can bake him in a pie.”

  He was called the Jackdaw. Francis was in no mood to correct the girl. He took the keys and headed for the car park and north of the river.

  Remus logged on once more. Ran a couple of checks then began to type.

  “Gentlemen, start your engines.” It was the pre-planned statement indicating the team was ready to go.

  Romulus acknowledged. “Received. Activating now.” He sent a piece of coded data to Remus and crossing his fingers prayed it would do what he had planned.

  Sancus watched the cursor flashing on his screen. Sat in the back of a silver Jaguar, cossetted by leather and walnut and darkened glass, he was whisked through the capital to his next meeting – a discussion with the Police Federation of England and Wales, and how they were predicting a nationwide meltdown if the Minister didn’t dip his hand in his pockets. They would tell him to do something to recover from the chaos that his predecessor had caused by cutting back so violently on frontline staff.

  He’d listen, nod at the right time, tell the Federation they were doing a marvellous job, the frontline too – ‘yes, do tell them how much they are appreciated.’

  Then he’d get back into his Jaguar and return to his office, purging his mind of all of that nonsense. Pay rises, better working conditions, what next better pensions?

  Police Minister Harold Halford was the least popular holder of that title in fifty years. In fact, the rank and file despised him and one or two would even be happy to push him into the path of a bullet.

  But they were a housefly in a sink, swirling, and he held control of the mixer tap. There they were, twisting, turning, on their backs, down, into the drain. He cared that much.

  He checked his reflection in the tinted glass, swept his hair aside and grinned. ‘Good looking bastard.’

  Alex was on the move. He’d left the old building and posted one of his team to watch over the two captives. He was moving at a pace now, to his vehicle, then back into the corporate clothing and closer to the target. Constantin mirrored his every move.

  Into the car park, space forty two was free. Parked. Exiting, they walked at a slower pace. He checked his right trouser pocket. Tapped the phone for reassurance. He resisted the urge to look around, for all he knew there could be a sniper on the roof, as far away as across the river. In his backpack, all he needed for his stay.

  In their home city of Craiova they could walk the streets day or night and never even get approached by the police, they were untouchable. He missed that. Now, for the first time in years, he felt slightly on edge. But considered that a positive.

  They flashed their IDs to the gate guard, then across the reader on the staff entrance door. They were inside once more, this time as staff. Alex checked his pocket again, trying not to appear paranoid. He’d mapped his way to the control room, fallen asleep with the map on his chest. Dreamt about it. Left, left again, up, along, left, door, straight ahead, door, in.

  And that is what they did.

  Behind them, by a minute, his brother and the kiwi soldier.

  The radio operator called across to Roberts.

  “Three clicks from McCall, sir. He’s in and behind the target.”

  “Thank you.”

  Alex approached the first of two secure doors, picked up the pace and then tailgated the first with Constantin a pace behind him. They feigned swiping their cards and got away with it. The staff member in front of them picked up the pace now, started to pull away. Sixth sense.

  Alex did the same, almost a jog. The male looked over his shoulder, and not liking what he saw, he began to run. Alex followed, but faster. One of them would reach the door first.

  They approached the door to the control room. The male fumbled with his card, tried to be quicker than he had been at any time in the preceding year, then dropped his ID. It was all the encouragement Stefanescu needed.

  They called him the Jackdaw because he had glossy hair that shone like the birds’ feathers, eyes, soulless, dark and unforgiving, but many thought of him as the ultimate nest raider – just like the bird itself. He was here to raid the nest.

  The Jackdaw was also known for its inquisitive nature and intelligence.

  An Italian criminal group once trained one to steal from cash machines. Alex loved that story. It made him smile. Clever boy.

  He wasn’t smiling when he caught the forty-five-year-old Londoner. As he lifted his head back upwards from picking up his ID Alex hit him hard with his knee, driving it across his face and temple, knocking him out cold. It was a swift attack and seen by no one.

  Constantin had covered the nearest lens with a cloth held up by a telescopic handle. Two minutes later Alex had returned. The male was in a side room, where research showed no one would go. He might wake, but he wouldn’t be able to move.

  Constantin checked the remaining plasticuffs in his backpack. Then nodded at his boss. ‘Time to go.’

  Chapter 59

  Cade leant forward again, the pen now in his pocket. He had no idea of its value but secured it, anyway. He picked the largest piece of glass he could see and held it tight just as momentum saw Blake win the balancing act.

  Even before Cade was up in the air again, he was sawing at the plasticuffs. Gripping the cube of brown glass, he cut and cut again. It would take a while, but he figured he had nothing else to do.

  “Reckon you can catch this if I throw it?”

  “I played cricket for Surrey.”

  “I�
�ll take that as a yes then.” The whole conversation took place at less than a whisper. The guard, if he could be called that, illuminated his face in a side corridor, flicking his finger across his smartphone. Left for no, right for yes.

  He swiped right for all of them. Overweight, rarely showered, a squint and poor skin wasn’t the description he had used in his profile picture. He found two matches, wondered if they could form a threesome. He was engrossed.

  And so was Cade. Cutting had become his life, slowly etching the plastic away, stroke by painful stroke. Piece by piece, tiny shards of the material falling into the water. His thumb and index finger bled. He gave up worrying about the blood when he noticed that the water was now lapping over his seat.

  Elena had also found transport in the guise of a young detective who had spent days glancing sideways, then looking away whenever she looked back. She was beautiful, every man in the office thought so.

  “So you’re certain that the governor said this was OK miss?”

  “Absolutely. Does this face look like it could lie?”

  There was no way on earth he was going to disagree. He wanted her, couldn’t stop thinking about her, had even started dreaming about her. The northern bloke Cade was a fool to have let her go. Lucky bastard. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he might just have a chance.

  “Not at all, miss. Now, where do you need to go?”

  Alex was light on his feet. He reached the next secure door. It looked like it weighed a ton. Technically it was half that but either way it performed its role admirably. However, all the weight in the world was nothing when matched against a simple piece of plastic that activated the motor and allowed it to slide open.

  Two of the control staff were wearing Peltor ear defenders that they had adapted to look like radio headsets. They had worked there for six months – and had done a very good job. Sleepers, and now covering their eyes and hoping that the plan worked.

  The electronic ear defenders were rated to deflect the sound of most gunfire. At a 170dB, the flashbang that Constantin casually tossed into the room was testing their effectiveness to the maximum. The light was blinding, a million candela at least causing immediate flash blindness. The bang part did the rest, temporary deafness, tinnitus and balance issues followed. They affected different people, differently.

  The control room had seven staff in total, the duty manager, two radio operators and four staff that monitored everything else, and there was plenty to keep them occupied.

  The two members of Alex’s team were up, on their feet and cable-tying, as the group, all men except for one woman who was stumbling around as if she had been shot. Her ears rang, and she staggered into the Duty Manager who had the air of a drunk. The concussion had disturbed the fluid in his semi-circular canals – three delicate half-circles of tubular matter filled with saline. And then there were the microscopic hairs – those practically pointless things in the human body that allowed their owner to stand, sit, jump, walk or fall.

  He fell, hitting his head on the corner of the nearby desk, and remained there until he came around, strapped up and angry.

  The four-man team had done its job – as fluidly as the human ear, a precision team working to great effect. Alex stood, pistol in hand, watching the staff come to terms with their situation and minor injuries. He tapped into the keyboard nearest to him. He then turned and gazed out of the window of the control room, downstream towards the city centre, then upstream towards the sea.

  “Lovely view, don’t you think?”

  O’Shea and Francis were making slow progress through the traffic. “Dave, is this the best you can do? I could walk faster!”

  “Then walk. But where exactly are we supposed to be going?”

  “The river, then just drive along the Embankment until I tell you to stop.”

  “Hardly scientific, my lady.”

  “More than you can imagine. Now, let’s get through this traffic, shall we?” She flipped open the central glovebox and found the switch panel, turned the dial to yelp, decided that was too much like hard work then selected wail. And it did. And the sea parted. And Dave Francis smiled for the first time since his uncle Ted had been systematically blown to pieces by the very men they were now hunting.

  “This is great Carrie, but she’s a big city and I don’t have the Knowledge.” He was referring to the ultimate test of memory that London cab drivers studied for years.

  “No, but I do. Left here, straight on, then right, at the T-junction stop. I need to think.”

  Sancus was back in his office, sipping on Earl Gray from a bone china cup, he had logged onto the ‘net. He too smiled for the first time since the last time he had been particularly spiteful.

  The Police Federation had approached him, cap in hand, grovelling.

  ‘You should have seen them, grovelling little shits.’ He said to no one in particular. Then he hit send.

  ‘Well done. Next phase. One hour.’

  He rang his executive assistant. “Caroline, I’ll be out for the rest of the day. Hold all calls, except from anyone higher than me. Clear?”

  “Completely boss.” She knew that as far as Halford was concerned, there was no one higher.

  Viduus watched the screen, as he had always done, quietly, discreetly and unseen. So that was his game. Time to tune in and announce his presence. He walked towards his car, plipped the remote, flashing the hazards twice, then slipped into the leather heated seats, started the Audi and moved into the commuter traffic. He didn’t need sirens. His journey was relatively short.

  Valentin had been watching too. He replied, “I have done as you asked. We are now equal. The birds have fled the nest. They have flown in every direction, but in yours. Good luck. We will never cross paths again. Our debt is settled. Romulus.”

  Alex – or as his alter ego in the cyber world was known Remus – leant back in the high back office chair, spun around a hundred and eighty degrees, then pointed his pistol at the duty manager.

  “How’s the head Andy?”

  Andrew Darkin was in his fifties, a career man with more integrity than the Jackdaw had lustrous hairs on his head. He tried to stand, but soon realised his ankles were cable tied. He shook his head, trying to clear the remnants of concussion.

  “It’s just great. Like the time Arsenal beat Chelsea in the FA Cup – or rather the morning after.”

  “Oh, so you are a comedian as well as the Duty Manager? How nice, I look forward to your next joke with great eagerness.” He pointed the pistol as Darkin’s head and mimed a shot, recoiling, the round leaving the barrel and striking him with the sound of a motorcyclist’s head hitting a concrete wall.

  “It’s that easy, Andy. Bang. You’re dead. Or we could chat about your boy Samuel, the one at boarding school. He’s fine, honestly, a little scared I’m sure, but he’ll pull through. Your wife on the other hand is having the time of her life.”

  He turned the computer monitor around so the whole room could see. Two of Stefanescu’s team were with her. Darkin could feel the bile rising in his throat.

  “Why? She’s done nothing to you. Let her bloody go or seriously I will…”

  The shot left the gun. If Alex hadn’t blinked, he would have seen it travel through the air, such a short distance. It hit Darkin in the left thigh, slicing through the thick flesh, superheating as it travelled through the limb, and instead of burrowing out of the back of his leg, dragging creamy-white strands of flesh with it, it stopped. It was no longer the shape that had left the brass casing, now the copper head was distorted, re-shaped by Darkin’s femur.

  “You should think yourself lucky I wasn’t aiming. Now, let’s try again, shall we. And for the record, my boys are very careful, such gentle lovers.”

  “You didn’t ask for anything yet, you still shot me you twat.”

  “Oh, that’s not nice. I don’t even know what it means. It’s not a word we have in my country.”

  “Then why don’t you go back and learn to read.�
�� Darkin was looking away from the screen. His wife of thirty years was clearly not enjoying herself.

  “Stop. Please. Just stop. You obviously want something or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Alex clapped, sarcastically. “Give the man a round of applause.”

  No one clapped. He pointed the pistol at the woman, a plump, forty something with brown split-end hair in a ponytail and oversized hooped earrings.

  She clapped vigorously. Like a sea lion on death row.

  “That’s better. OK, Andy, my new best friend. How’s the leg?”

  “Superb thanks.” He gasped each word. “Cut the small talk, I need medical help and you are obviously a terrorist so get it over with. Shoot us all…but do me a favour, make Sheila the first. You can see how afraid she is.”

  Alex looked genuinely hurt. “A terrorist? Andrew, that is a terrible thing to say. Why do people always think I am a damned terrorist? Does a man who shouts obscenities in a public library necessarily have Tourette’s? No! They might not have the book he ordered.”

  “So what are you then Mister Bloody Perfect?”

  Alex liked his courage. He was actually quite funny too. Pity. Another time, perhaps?

  “I sir, am your worst nightmare. I’ve walked into your professional world and…” He searched for an analogy that worked. “Pissed all over your British roast dinner ad watered down your gravy.”

  It didn’t work.

  “That makes no sense. Possibly in the world of the nomadic people that you inhabit…”

  “I thought it was funny.” He paused as he rewound Darkin’s sentence. “Sorry, you said nomadic? What do you think I am Andrew?”

  “I didn’t like to use the G word.”

  “Gypsy? You think we are gypsies?” He looked at Constantin. “They think we are gypsies!”

  Alex stepped towards the Londoner, pulled his head into this waist, held it there, rubbing the back of his head, affectionately. Strangely it aroused him. That was a first. He pushed his head away.