by Powell, Mark
McCabe, who was now standing on Mooney’s shoulders, peered in through a half-open side window. He instantly saw Stowe on the quantum breach 290709.indd 231
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ground off to his right. His mind fl ashed back to Myanmar, when he had last saved Stowe’s sorry arse.
He then quickly scanned the open warehouse. Mainly empty, aside from a few wooden crates. He counted four men, all heavily armed with AK-47’s. Hajj made it fi ve players. The Rain Angel was sitting at a small table just off to the left; she made six.
As he jumped down, McCabe barked out, ‘Listen up. We have six players. One female hostage, Asian. One man down, Stowe. Copy.’
Each team member then responded with ‘Roger that.’
McCabe continued. ‘One female player, a woman. I need her alive.
Others have AK’s, rear of warehouse left-hand side. We go in one minute. Time now, 9:15 and mark. Standby.’
Each team member checked his watch and readied his weapon and stun grenade.
‘Kill him and the girl, we are out of time. I just have to assume the data is on the laptop and destroy it.’ With that, the Rain Angel smashed down the laptop on the fl oor.
As the fi rst fl ash bang and smoke grenade rolled in, Mooney was not far behind. As it exploded, the percussion sent a deafening blast around the warehouse. The second fl ash bang and smoke came in via one of the open side windows, courtesy of Sweep.
Having come in immediately behind Mooney, McCabe, his breath now hard and fast inside his respirator, shouldered his weapon and detected two silhouettes off to his right through the billowing white smoke. The short bursts of fi re from his MP5 dispatched the two men, who had not even raised their weapons. They were holding their heads, having been debilitated by the fl ash bangs.
‘Two terrorists dead,’ he barked out into his radio set.
Hajj, who had spun around, was trying to aim his pistol at Mooney, but the butt of Mooney’s weapon sent him fl ying backwards. No sooner had he fallen backwards than Mooney brought down the butt of his MP5 on his skull; the sadist was now out cold.
Mooney then jerked upwards as a bullet stung hard into his shoulder.
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The man off to his left was bearing down on him. As if stung only by a drowsy wasp, Mooney raised his weapon and sent a return burst.
‘Terrorist dead,’ he responded.
The smell of smoke and cordite fi lled the air. A hail of bullets came in, having been delivered from behind a wooden crate. The last known threat had taken up position. Wood splinters fl ew off the wooden table as his bullets hit home.
Mooney, one of the best rugby centre forwards the regiment had seen for many years, pulled off one of his signature fl ying tackles, one that would have been at home in any world-class rugby fi nals at Twickenham. He hit Ying square on the side, knocking over both her and the chair which she was tied to, to get her away from the hail of bullets, two of which now struck him in his right side and leg.
McCabe moved over to put down cover fi re, keeping the one remaining player down. His job now was to protect Mooney and Ying from further fi re. Stowe will have to lay there and wait, he thought.
Sweep, who had taken up position on a pile of junk situated halfway down the gap, had taken charge of the sniper rifl e from Mooney. As he scanned the warehouse, the scope simply presented him with wafts of white smoke. When it cleared just enough, he caught sight of the last remaining threat, tucked in behind a crate. He then neatly took off the scalp of the last remaining terrorist as if bashing his boiled egg with a teaspoon. He delivered the message down his Com’s link: ‘Clear.’
‘Hold up. The lady. Where is she?’ McCabe responded. He started to scan the warehouse. In all the confusion, he had failed to note where she had gone after the fi rst fl ash bang went off.
‘Support unit move in, and get an ambulance here fast. Out,’
McCabe instructed the van to come in, not wanting to delay medical attention to Ying or the others any longer.
Mooney, who was holding his side, sat up, having just felt Ying’s pulse.
‘She’s alive, McCabe, but what about him?’ he asked, pointing to quantum breach 290709.indd 233
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Hajj, who was now beginning to stir. McCabe now had two issues to deal with: Hajj and the Rain Angel.
‘Chaz, keep an eye on him. If he fucking moves, shoot him,’
McCabe ordered.
As McCabe stepped outside, he could see the Rain Angel, about 20
yards away, standing by the driver’s door of her black Mercedes. She must have slipped out of a side entrance. She turned and looked right at him. Her eyes, to his surprise, showed no fear. She had caught his attention. He immediately drew his Sig and aimed it right at her head, his trigger fi nger ready to squeeze. He slowly started to walk towards her, narrowing the distance between them. Then something inside of him stirred and said ‘Stop!’ Instinct was telling him not to take the shot.
‘Things are not all they seem, Mr McCabe. Look closer to home, at those who lead,’ she said.
McCabe, caught off guard by her comment, paused. This small lapse in time was all she needed. She ducked down, got in the car, shut the door and headed off down the road.
‘Damn it!’ McCabe shouted, lowering his weapon. He stood for a while looking at the car vanish, then turned and started to walk back towards the warehouse.
As McCabe walked back in, Sweep stood in front of him, placing a fi rm hand on his chest in an attempt to stop him. ‘Sorry, mate; he didn’t make it.’
McCabe then looked across at Mooney, whose head was now shaking, his eyes cold. ‘Who didn’t make it?’ McCabe spat, not realising whom they meant. Then it hit him. His head started to spin, his stomach suddenly churning, he quickly side-stepped past Sweep and looked down. His eyes then knew instantly: the gaze of a dead man could never be mistaken. Stowe was dead.
‘No, not Stowe!’ McCabe shouted, as he dropped to his knees and held Stowe in his arms, his mind fl ashing back to Myanmar, 1993.
‘You bloody fool, why didn’t you wait, damn you!’ McCabe quantum breach 290709.indd 234
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bellowed, tears now running down his face. Stowe’s death was not easy to accept. The two of them, despite their long absences in seeing each other and very different characters, held a bond, a bond that many would never understand. The bond they shared had been forged in the hardened confl icts of time, blood and sweat. The single bullet hole in Stowe’s head, delivered by Hajj, had ended an era.
Then as if a trigger had gone off, McCabe got up and headed directly for Hajj.
‘Okay, get up, you bit of shit. You understand English. I’m guessing you are the one who likes to torture women. You look like a perverted bastard, so I reckon it was you,’ McCabe spat, then placed a swift kick to his ribs. Hajj moaned and rolled over just as McCabe was about to follow in with another kick.
‘Hold up, boss,’ Chaz said, as Dr Tan entered the warehouse to administer medical aid to Ying. He was escorted in by the Singaporean offi cial and Sooty.
Regaining his composure, McCabe instructed, ‘Chaz, you go help the good doctor to sort those two out, get them off to hospital and fast.
I will deal with this character. Oh, and we must all get out of here within the next 30 minutes, okay. The place will be crawling with soldiers any minute.’
The sirens had already started to wail in the distance, the British High Commission, with MI6, having arranged for the Indian Defence Force to come in and clean away the evidence. Several ambulances were also en route.
‘Sure, boss.’ Chaz dashed over and started to help Mooney on to his feet and out the door.
Mc
Cabe went back to Hajj, hauling him up and dragging him over towards some narrow steps just off to his left. As he reached the door at the top, he shoved Hajj down the narrow steps, sending him crashing and tumbling down. McCabe then followed him. The steps seemed to run down to a basement below. As McCabe reached the bottom, he found Hajj in a heap. The fall coupled with the blow Mooney had quantum breach 290709.indd 235
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delivered with the butt of his weapon had cracked his skull; accordingly, Hajj was already half out of it.
McCabe had his Sig gripped fi rmly in his hand. He stepped over Hajj and into the dark room where he could see, through the dim light, a chain fi xed to the wall and what looked like blood and old clothes on the fl oor. The room stank of urine and damp air.
He immediately knew that this was where they had kept Ying. He turned and stepped back over Hajj.
‘So what are we going to do with you? Hand you over to the authorities? Nah, don’t think so. What about beat you to a pulp?’
Hajj was now trying to move. He mumbled in what McCabe recognised as Arabic.
‘Sorry, what was that? “Shoot me, I’m a bit of shit,” is that what you said?’ McCabe asked with mock solicitude. His Sig then delivered a well-placed shot into the kneecap of Hajj’s left leg. This snapped Hajj back to a state of consciousness as he started moaning on the fl oor, gripping his leg.
It was then that McCabe suddenly realised that, by prolonging his suffering, he was becoming as bad as the man on the ground. He was, in fact, sinking into the same shit pit of life this animal lived in.
McCabe then kicked him over. ‘You’re not worth the effort.’ The second shot, aimed at his head, sent Hajj silently off into whatever world he belonged, and it wasn’t earth.
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TWENTY-SEVEN
As the rear doors of the last ambulance slammed shut, the three Indian medics were very relieved at having managed to successfully load the 220 pounds of pure muscle known as Mooney into the rear of their ambulance, a task they had not expected to greet them when they arrived. As if that was not enough of a challenge, Mooney wouldn’t keep still. Trying to get an intravenous drip into him was like trying to stick a whale with a toothpick, but Mooney was at last on his way to hospital.
In actuality, he would be the perfect patient: every injury he sustained over his 20-year army career was nothing more than a scratch to him. He could be missing a leg and he would still get up, hop over and smash his enemy in the teeth.
As for Ying and Stowe, Ying had been placed on the fi rst blood wagon out. Stowe was carefully zipped up in a black body bag and sent off to an army base mortuary. From there, MI6 would deal with him.
As McCabe watched the ambulance speed away, he felt a sudden wave of fatigue descend upon him, a result of the waning adrenaline levels in his body and the desperate need for sleep. He turned and walked the few yards back to the warehouse, his footsteps now laboured and heavy. He needed to rally the remaining members of his team and be on his way.
The area surrounding the old warehouse was now swarming with members of the Indian National Security Force. Their job, much to quantum breach 290709.indd 237
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their disappointment, was simply to clean up the mess, which meant the motionless bodies that were strewn about, along with the various bits of skull spread around outside after Mooney had slotted the fi rst player. If not, the rats would be on for a feast that night.
The area had to look normal, as if nothing had happened; not even a shell casing could be left. McCabe knew that for a few poor bastards, this would mean having to crawl around on their hands and knees going over every inch of ground.
As McCabe stood for a few seconds, taking in the sights and sounds of men rushing around, he knew that this was his true domain. Despite its macabre nature, he thrived on the excitement and the inherent danger such operations brought with them. He knew for sure now that banking was at an end for him. He could no longer stand to be caged and used as a form of battery-farm chicken whose only task was to lay golden eggs.
McCabe also knew that over the next few weeks, many diplomatic meetings would be required between the UK and India to smooth this operation over. The local authorities, whilst being made aware, were perhaps not expecting a bloody fi refi ght in the docks of Mumbai without more of their own boys being involved.
Still, it will give MI6 something to do, he thought.
Just before he and the other men boarded a minibus, the more senior Indian army offi cers on the scene had the common sense to at least request McCabe and his team to surrender and hand over their weapons that had so mysteriously made it past Customs.
No sooner had McCabe, closely followed by Sooty, Sweep and Chaz, entered the British High Commission in the early hours of the next morning than they were each whisked off to a room for interrogation or ‘debrief ’, as it was politely referred to. Trent had instructed a few MI5 and 6 offi cers from London to fl y out and ensure every detail was recorded. Strange, given that old Trent wanted a ‘black op’, but who was McCabe to challenge the mighty Establishment.
As McCabe reclined in his chair (not so much a sign of arrogance, quantum breach 290709.indd 238
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but that he was exhausted), he nursed a cup of hot chocolate fi rmly held in his hands, waiting patiently for his interrogators to fi le into the room. He wondered what Trent would say when he found out Stowe was dead and the notorious Rain Angel was still alive. To some extent, he was past caring.
The fi rst to enter the room was a tall, skinny man in a grey suit with receding grey hair. His thick-rimmed spectacles made him look geeky, but McCabe knew that despite his nerdish looks, this guy would be no fool. Not that he had anything to hide.
The second man to enter was very different. His face bore a harder look, his shaved head and thick-ridged eyes made him look like an England prop forward, and his stagger suggested he was solid and well-fi t. He must be the bad cop, McCabe thought to himself.
The introductions that followed were short and not so sweet; more blunt and to the point. McCabe learned that both men were MI6
and they wanted to know every detail, starting from when Stowe had called him and requested his help. Not wishing to drag the process out, McCabe started to give his account of what had happened, starting with that night’s events and working backwards.
He neglected to mention the bit where Stowe had gone rogue and stormed into the warehouse on his own. It would have made no real difference to the outcome now. He wanted Stowe’s record to refl ect that he had died in action, nice and simple; not that he had died by being rash and stupid. McCabe understood why Stowe had had a moment of madness: Ying was his only mission that night.
After four hours of intense questions, McCabe had fi nally had enough. He stood up and bore down on the two offi cers.
‘Okay, that’s all you get. I’ve not slept in 48 hours, my feet hurt and I stink, so if it’s okay with you, and on the basis that I am on your side, I will call it a day.’ He was now mentally and physically exhausted, mainly the former.
McCabe had explained in detail how Stowe had contacted him, given he worked at Banning Capital Bank. As did Aziz, the main target quantum breach 290709.indd 239
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of investigation by MI5, for that matter. He pointed out that British Intelligence had suspicions that the Afzal Jihad terrorist group were mounting an attack on the fi nancial industry. They had a plan which in fact allowed them to launder billions of dirty, drug-related dollars from an Asia-centric drug cartel into the banking system, cleaned by a series of legitimate profi ts and losses from oil contracts.
The ingenious part of the pla
n was that Aziz had worked out that by using the various holding and shell companies owned by his dubious clients, Banning Capital Bank would, given the economic climate, seek to raise capital from a share issue. That was his way in: Tai Investments could inject their billions and buy a legitimate controlling stake in the bank. Legitimate aside from the original source of their funds, that is.
They would, in effect, end up almost owning their own bank.
McCabe had laughed at this point, much to the disgust of the MI6
offi cers.
Unfortunately, the bank had not halted the rights issue to Tai Investments, so, in essence, Tai Investments now owned a signifi cant controlling stake in Banning Capital. Christopher Fleming had not heeded the warnings about Aziz; he had gone ahead with the issue. The group head of audit would now also be forced to explain why he had failed to alert the bank to the fact that the investigation into Aziz was going on.
As McCabe walked out of the interview room, the hard-faced offi cer shouted, ‘Don’t go and leave the country, McCabe, until we are completely satisfi ed with your part in all this.’ Hearing this, McCabe turned instantly and walked back into the room. A fi nal burst of adrenaline had been found from deep down in his guts. He placed his hands fl at down on the table. His eyes said it all. Both offi cers were looking up at him, somewhat surprised by the fact McCabe was now hovering over them in their seated position.
‘I have done the job you fuckers should have taken care of, which is track down the terrorists. So push it, little man, and it will be you who is sorry. So fuck you!’ McCabe fi nished and just glared at them. He once quantum breach 290709.indd 240
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again turned and left the room. This time, not a word was spoken.
Over the next few days, information began to leak out within the intelligence network and fi lter its way to McCabe, given he was now all but formally accepted into MI5. What McCabe discovered was very interesting. The Rain Angel—or Mrs Chamat, to use her real name—
was a business partner of one Khun Surat, the CEO of Tai Investments, who had, via Fleming’s oversight, bought into Banning Capital.