by Ted Tayler
Success hinged on getting their four vehicles in the right spot. No different from on a race track. His own choice of vehicle was the key.
Two of his mates drove Range Rovers, cars with good visibility and capable of pursuit if their target attempted to escape at high speed. Mitch had seen the motorway warning signs about the roadworks for the past two weeks. Nobody was going anywhere at high speed for months until this work finished.
His mate in the overladen truck behind them was ready to prevent the police or any pals of those cars in the little convoy getting in on the act from the rear. The action would lay ahead.
An alert tone on his Bluetooth headphone signalled a message from the driver of the lead Range Rover.
“I’m in position. Our guy is boxed in by three cars. Like Renzo said from the bridge, it’s obvious they are riding shotgun.”
“We’ll hold back until everyone gets up to speed. Nobody will stick to the forty miles an hour limit. Wait until I tell you I’m in position, then get in close and cut up the first car,” said Mitch. “Make sure he slams on his anchors. I want the target to ram into his backside.”
“Got it, Mitch,”
Mitch edged along the six hundred yards strip allocated to the works vehicles and Portaloos, moving closer to the target convoy of cars. He saw they were still slowed by the tailback of traffic built up during the brief dead stop.
Mitch signalled right and waved a thank you to the lorry driver who let him back into the inside lane. He was right where he needed to be. It was time for the fun to begin.
“Now,” he shouted.
Sixty yards ahead the lead Range Rover veered across from the middle lane and almost rammed the car in front of Andy Walters. The Olympus team leader had no warning. There was no time to do anything but brake hard. He couldn’t avoid hitting the Range Rover.
“What the blazes,” shouted Andy, “you prick.
Hugh Fraser spotted the crazy manoeuvre and immediately sensed it wasn’t random. He braked hard and turned the steering wheel hard right. He narrowly missed the rear end of Andy’s car. Hugh’s bonnet was now pointing towards the central reservation. Denzil Cornish had been shunted forward by a second Range Rover. This was it. They were under attack.
Denzil Cornish had only seen the grill of an SUV looming large in his rear-view mirror. The mayhem on his right could have distracted him, but Denzil didn’t panic. He accelerated. The Range Rover had clipped his rear bumper, but he never lost control of the car. He grabbed his gun and prepared to leap out.
Hugh was relieved at what he saw behind him. The rear Olympus car had been far enough back to stop in time. The driver was getting out onto the hard shoulder. He held his gun close by his leg as he ran forward to check on him and Andy. Hugh saw Denzil Cornish nod to say he was okay.
Andy Walters had finally realised what was happening. He and Denzil Cornish had now both climbed out of their cars. Andy signalled to his colleagues to form a protective ring around Hugh Fraser.
The overladen truck that had been one hundred yards behind the convoy had moved into the outside lane. As everything ahead of him braked, the driver whipped his steering wheel viciously left and right. After they had stolen the truck from the stone quarry early this morning, he and Mitch had taken two hours stacking fridges, freezers, dishwashers and washing machines lifted from a local recycling centre. It looked perfect.
If he drove in a straight line, he was fine. To negotiate a bend in the city streets would have been tricky. Out here on the motorway, the truck slewed across towards the middle lane and back again. The weight behind him had shifted so much he was on two wheels. He braced for the inevitable impact. Mitch had been right. With several tonnes of white goods scattered across two lanes, the M1 would now remain closed for hours.
The first Range Rover moved forward. Andy wasn’t concerned whether the attacker was leaving the scene of an accident. The priority was to protect his agent. Suddenly, there was the roar of an engine. Something deep and throaty. Andy thought it sounded industrial.
Andy realised the first car wasn’t going forward anymore. The Range Rover slammed into Andy’s car and kept reversing. His car was now being shoved into the side of Hugh’s car.
Mitch Blackstone revved the engine of the stone quarry earthmover.
“Get out, Hugh,” shouted Andy.
In the middle lane, the second Range Rover had been abandoned. Andy saw the driver darting between stationary cars and onto the hard shoulder. He was running back towards the last junction.
In the earthmover, Mitch continued to accelerate towards the car in front. He hit it hard and laughed as he heard screeching metal and breaking glass. He was almost up and over it. The target car was right in front. He could see the driver panicking to get out. The giant front wheels of the earthmover reared up as the truck steamrollered over the flattened car.
The target Mitch was aiming for disappeared from view for a few seconds and then the truck’s giant tyres crashed onto the car’s roof. There was a satisfying crunch. Anybody still inside wouldn’t survive once he’d driven over it. With his mate in the lead Range Rover completing the manoeuvre they had the target car in a vice-like grip. This was easy money.
Hugh Fraser jumped clear with a second to spare. As he rolled to the side, he pulled his gun from his holster. There was only one target left at the scene. The driver of the Range Rover who had caused the so-called accident had quit trying to crush him to death with Andy’s car. He had now accelerated away and was heading up the motorway as fast as the traffic allowed.
Andy Walters was already on the move towards the earthmover. Its driver was continuing to creep forward over wrecked cars, trying to reach clear road ahead.
Andy couldn’t let that happen. Hugh watched him clamber onto a wheel hub at the rear of the truck and make his way towards the driver’s cab.
“Sod that,” thought Hugh, “this bastard tried to kill me,”
He raised his gun and emptied the magazine into the driver’s cab.
Andy Walters hit the deck as soon as he realised Hugh’s intentions. When the firing ceased, the truck stopped.
He checked the cab. Mitch Blackstone was dead.
“We need to get out of here,” said Andy, “Denzil, is your car okay?”
“Yes, boss,” shouted Denzil, “jump in. Let’s make ourselves scarce.”
“We’ve got a stretch of clear road behind and ahead,” said Denzil. “Shall I get us off the M1 at the next exit, or do we cross over via the M42 and join the M5 as planned?”
“Stick to the fastest route for now,” said Andy, “I’ll contact Giles at Larcombe. We need extra security teams to get us home. This might only be the first attempt. If Giles thinks we need to zig-zag our way across the country to reach Bath in one piece, we’ll change our plans.”
“That was hairy,” said Graham Heath, the driver of the rear car, “it was a crude attempt, but it could have worked. What was happening behind us? I heard a crash.”
“A lorry shed its load, but whether it was connected, I couldn’t tell,” said Andy. “It blocked the motorway which is why things are so quiet. Until the next junction.”
“I’ll keep watch to see if any traffic joining the motorway poses a threat,” said Denzil.
“Give me a shout if you see a tank,” said Andy, “I don’t fancy being rammed by one of those.”
An hour later they neared the A42 exit to Birmingham. Giles was monitoring traffic in the ice-house, looking for traffic jams, roadworks, and suspicious vehicles. The armed escort was outside Tamworth. They would pick up the convoy and take them south until Junction 15 and the M4 exit. A team from Larcombe would escort them home from there.
In London, Tyrone O’Riordan was still waiting for a phone call from Mitchell Blackstone. A call that would never come. Colleen stopped listening to music on her iPod and turned on the television.
“We should have heard by now,” she moaned, “that’s another team to disappoint you.”
&n
bsp; “Good help is so hard to find, isn’t it Mum,” said Tyrone, “quit complaining. We’re not done yet.”
Colleen flicked to the news channel.
“Someone is,” she called. Tyrone joined her on the settee.
A reporter was standing in the middle lane of a closed section of the M1, south of Sheffield.
“This is what happens when you reduce police numbers and allow organised crime to ride roughshod over the law of the land. This road is closed until tomorrow morning at the earliest. The police are still trying to piece together what happened here this morning. A series of accidents occurred close to the stretch of roadworks you can see up ahead. Were they accidents though, or were they orchestrated? This earthmover was stolen from a nearby stone quarry last night. It still carries its load of fifteen tonnes of stone. Two cars were flattened. One was badly damaged. It was a miracle nobody was killed. What happened next shocked the drivers and passengers brought to a standstill by this mayhem. A man who had narrowly escaped death in this middle car fired eight shots into the driver’s cab of the earthmover. A cold-blooded murder in broad daylight. The police are refusing to comment on whether this was two gangs bringing their rivalries into the open in such a horrific way. How much longer do we have to put up with this lawlessness? When will the Government act?”
“What do you make of that?” asked Colleen.
“Our target had protection,” said Tyrone, “which suggests Vasiliev’s thugs were spotted yesterday morning. Olympus knew we were gunning for them. They would have joined the dots on the other hits on Friday and laid the blame at our door. The police will identify the truck driver in time and link him to the criminal network he was part of in Sheffield. That will be no problem. It’s what the police learn from the three cars under, or in front of the earthmover, that interests me.”
“They could be traced back to Larcombe, you mean?” asked Colleen. “If the Olympus Project comes under suspicion, the police might solve the problem for us.”
“Dream on, mother,” laughed Tyrone, “they can’t find their arse in the dark. This organisation has avoided exposure for years. They’ve fooled the charities people all that time and not one killing has ever been attributed to a group working in secret. So, they have layers of security screening the identity of the people in those cars. Only one car might be traceable to the charity. That’s the one driven by our target. The rest will lead to a dead end.”
“Will they have reached their headquarters by now?” asked Colleen.
Tyrone checked his watch.
“We live in hope,” he muttered.
CHAPTER 8
The sole remaining Olympus car reached the Tamworth team over ninety minutes after leaving the scene of the attack. The Sunday morning drive had passed without incident, for which the four men were grateful.
Three cars moved into position around them.
“Do we stay on the motorway lads,” asked Andy, “or should we head into the country and find a decent pub for lunch?”
“Larcombe’s orders are to get you back as fast as we can,” the escort team leader replied.
“Any roadworks, or accidents between here and the M4?” asked Andy.
“The road is clear, at present.”
“How long before we reach the next handover point?” asked Hugh.
“Two hours,” replied Andy.
Hugh Fraser tried to relax. They had plenty of protection now. It would take a small army to prevent them from reaching Larcombe Manor. He thought about the first attack. They had to be thankful there were no cameras close enough to aid the authorities in identifying those involved.
The man he had killed would lead the police to his companions. No doubt, they came from the same criminal outfit. Ten minutes scanning the known associate's list would throw up a few likely names.
His car posed a bigger problem. At least it didn’t carry an Olympus logo. His name wasn’t connected to it directly. It was a pool car from the transport section. Henry, Rusty, Phoenix and Athena could have driven it.
“A penny for them,” said Andy Waters.
“I was thinking of the evidence we left behind in those cars,” said Hugh. “It’s not Olympus practice to get caught in a shootout on a major highway. Nor to abandon our vehicles to leave clues for the police.”
“Giles are you listening to this?” asked Andy.
“I am, Andy. It’s not ideal, Hugh, but we take precautions. The car was valeted before you collected it yesterday morning. I take it you noticed?”
“It was spotless,” said Hugh, “they always are.”
“There are no documents inside the car. The only fingerprints will be yours. Andy and his crew are in the same boat. The police will trace the cars to dummy leasing companies. The smokescreen that surrounds those businesses will take them months to unravel.”
“I get the picture,” said Hugh. “On the rare occasion an agent gets caught in the open, Olympus is protected. The agent is the only one at risk. We have to hope the police don’t match a name to the prints.”
“Erebus believed it bought us time,” said Giles. “In the past where a mission has gone astray the agent concerned transferred abroad. By the time the police asked questions, they were well out of reach in Timbuktu or Outer Mongolia.”
Hugh didn’t comment. He thought of Ambrosia. She would be unhappy if he had to disappear.
Denzil Cornish was enjoying the drive south. He felt more comfortable with the escort team. He could see the spire of Worcester Cathedral as it rose majestically above the River Severn. Cheltenham and Gloucester were less than an hour ahead. This ordeal was almost at an end.
Graham Heath had nodded off in the back seat. He was woken by the conversation with Giles that Andy shared with everyone. Graham Heath sat next to Hugh Fraser. He only knew Fraser by reputation. His work in Scotland had been exemplary although it was the man’s attention to detail that marked his missions rather than his actions.
Heath was surprised by the agent’s reactions when they had been attacked. Fraser was pissed at that guy who tried to kill him. Two well-placed bullets would have done the job. He had heard a rumour he had a bloody good reason to stay alive and return to Leeds. Whoever she was, she must be worth it.
“Does the outlook stay sunny, Giles?” asked Andy.
“I’ve got two drones in the air,” replied Giles, “one on the M5, one on the M4. There are the usual waves in the flow of traffic that squeeze vehicles into small groups until the minor irritation that caused it to concertina is removed. Nothing as bad as on a Monday morning, or a Friday evening. Fingers crossed, no accidents.”
“It’s too bloody calm,” muttered the escort team leader.
“Exactly,” agreed Andy Waters, “the first attack seemed crude. As if it had been cobbled together at the last minute by amateurs.”
“I spotted the cars tailing me as I drove north, and now the Grid’s leaders must have put a bounty on my head,” said Hugh. “There could be more attempts lying in wait.”
“Don’t panic, Hugh,” said Giles. “We’ve got you covered, both on the ground and in the air. There’s nothing sinister on any camera Artemis and I can access between you and Junction 15. If we spot a threat, we’ll get you to leave the M5 early and reassess your route.”
Hugh saw Junction 12 to Gloucester flash by the car window. He unzipped a side pocket on the bag he’d grabbed as he leapt from his stricken car. Fresh ammunition for his weapon. Graham Heath watched him reloading. His hand inadvertently went to his own gun in its shoulder holster. He hadn’t fired it yet today. He was ready when the need arose.
At Michaelwood Services a group of men ate lunch. They were members of a bikers group based in the Cotswolds. This was their first Sunday meet of the year. Around sixty bikers had scattered throughout the five food outlets available, munching on beef burgers, fried chicken, fish and chips or doughnuts. It takes all sorts. Not everyone wanted a Sunday roast with the trimmings these days.
Their bikes were park
ed nearby, with every manner of brands on show. Yamaha, Ducati and Suzuki dominated, but Harley Davidson and BMW drew the most attention from any members of the public passing.
As the Olympus car and its escort passed Junction 13 for Stroud the bikers gathered to prepare for the next leg of their journey.
“Time to head out on the highway, then?” said Boz Mellon, the group’s leader.
“Looking for adventure… or whatever comes our way,” chorused a dozen bikers surrounding him.
The genuine laughter that followed was a sure sign Boz made that same comment every meet. Several of the group had been riding when Steppenwolf was in the charts, like Boz Mellon, but for the majority, it was before their time.
The peace of the Cotswold countryside was shattered as one by one the powerful motorcycles roared into life. Boz had plotted today’s route with care. The service station was a decent rendezvous point for friends who travelled from South Wales, Bristol and the counties of Somerset and Wiltshire. He preferred not to spend the next four hours on a motorway. As soon as they reached Junction 15 they could strike out via the M32 to reach North Somerset. Boz knew some beautiful spots in that area even at this time of year. The group would visit Chew Magna, Brean and Weston super Mare, before returning via Clevedon and Portishead.
The long echelon of riders strung out along the M5. High speed wasn’t their aim, not like the boy racers who gave bikers a bad name. They wanted to enjoy the views and make sure they reached their destination in one piece. Many of the machines in the group were capable of over a ton, but Boz banned anyone if they took the piss.
The rear escort car saw a bike in his wing mirror soon after they passed the service station. His team leader stuck to the same formation as Andy Walters used. If traffic wanted to speed overtake them in the outside lane, go ahead. They themselves maintained a steady sixty miles per hour. A second bike appeared, then another. They closed on the escort. He assessed their speed at between seventy and seventy-five. Could this be the next threat?