[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Will do,’ said Aspden, in his ear.

  ‘Shall we go up?’ asked Shepherd.

  Willoughby-Brown nodded and headed into the empty lift. Shepherd and the three armed officers followed him.

  The man was lying on the floor, programmes scattered around him. He was groaning and the woman standing over him thought he’d fainted. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘Can I help you up?’

  ‘My leg,’ he said. ‘My leg – it’s burning.’

  She looked down at it – his trousers were wet with blood. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. Help me – please.’

  The woman wasn’t sure what to do. She caught the eye of a man sitting in the stand behind her. ‘Please help me!’ she shouted. ‘There’s a man hurt here!’

  Music began to play, a Russian tune, as the Russian heavyweight made his way to the ring, surrounded by his entourage. The main bout would soon be under way.

  The woman screamed again, fighting to make herself heard over the blare of the music. ‘Help me, please!’

  Shepherd concentrated on breathing slowly as the floor counter ticked on. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  Willoughby-Brown turned to the wall and began to speak. ‘Thank you, Wendy.’ He paused, took a breath, then continued: ‘Superintendent Enfield, you have a helicopter in the air over the stadium?’

  ‘We do, yes.’

  ‘I need you to get it to take a look at the middle of the three tower blocks overlooking the stadium. We believe there’s a sniper in the block and at least three men will be close to the window. I’m hoping the chopper’s infrared capability will find them.’

  ‘I’ll get it done now,’ said the superintendent.

  ‘I’ll stay on the line, if I may.’

  ‘See how Kuznetsov always drops his right, just before he does the uppercut with his left? That’s a tell, that is. As soon as Hughes spots it, it’s game over.’ Richie McBride was sitting next to his son, trying to explain the finer points of the bout. They were up in the stands but even though they were well away from the action the seats had cost close to fifty pounds each.

  Richie’s son, Sean, was leaning forward with his head in his hands, watching the fight as if his life depended on it. He’d started boxing a year earlier at his local youth club, following in his father’s footsteps. Richie had almost made pro. Almost, but not quite. He’d taken one too many hits to the jaw and a fracture had healed badly meaning that his fighting days had ended before they’d really started. But Sean knew how to protect his head and, even though he was only fourteen, he was clearly going to be a better fighter than Richie could ever have hoped to be.

  ‘Hughes is going to win, no question,’ said Richie.

  ‘He’s tired, though.’

  ‘No, he’s sweating, but that doesn’t mean he’s tired. You can sweat without being tired. His arms are up, and look at the way he’s ducking and diving. He’s fine.’

  A man walking down the aisle to his seat suddenly stopped and slumped to the floor. Richie looked at the man, frowning. He hadn’t stumbled, or tripped. He had just been walking, then fallen to the ground.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ he shouted over.

  The man groaned but didn’t get up.

  Sean was still engrossed in the fight as Richie stood and made his way over to the man. He was lying face down and blood was oozing from his shoulder, darkening the blue of his suit. ‘What the fuck?’ muttered Richie. He waved at a steward in a fluorescent jacket. ‘Hey, there’s a guy hurt here! He’s bleeding!’

  The steward hurried over.

  The lift jerked to a halt at the top of the building and the doors rattled open. The men stepped out. Shepherd had the Glock in his hand, his trigger finger pressed against the side of the gun. The corridor ran from left to right, with emergency stairs at either end. ‘I’ve lost my bearings. Which side faces the stadium?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.

  Shepherd gestured at the doors opposite the lifts. ‘They’re facing north. But there’s no guarantee that the stadium is his target.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ said Willoughby-Brown. His hand went instinctively to touch his earpiece. ‘Yes, Superintendent, I’m here.’

  ‘The room you’re looking for is on the twelfth floor, fifth window from the left as you face the building,’ said the superintendent. ‘There are four people inside, one of whom appears to be lying down by the window.’

  Willoughby-Brown gestured at the lift. ‘Twelfth floor,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Superintendent. Could you get the helicopter to pull back now and clear the area? Thank you so much.’

  ‘Do I need to evacuate?’

  ‘I think we have it in hand, Superintendent. But if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.’

  Shepherd and the three armed officers followed Willoughby-Brown back into the lift. Willoughby-Brown stabbed the button for the twelfth floor and the doors rattled shut.

  Ian Chapman put down his radio and walked over to Inspector Fielding. ‘Andrew, something weird’s going on.’

  Fielding turned away from the screens. ‘What’s up?’ He’d been planning to head ringside. The first round was over and it was set to be an awesome bout.

  ‘We’ve got two woundings,’ said Chapman.

  ‘Woundings?’

  ‘Stabbings, by the look of it. They both happened within the last few minutes.’

  Fielding stood up. ‘What happened? Who stabbed them?’

  ‘No one knows. We just have two people on the ground bleeding.’

  ‘Hang on, what are you saying? Someone’s going around stabbing people?’

  ‘Andrew, I don’t know anything other than what I’ve just told you. Two people with stab wounds.’

  Fielding looked back at the screens. Everything seemed normal. In the ring a pretty blonde in a bikini was strutting around with a sign announcing round two. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.

  Chapman scrutinised the screens, then tapped one. ‘That’s one of our programme sellers.’ Fielding went over and peered at the screen. A small crowd had gathered around a man lying on the ground. Three men in fluorescent jackets were trying to get them to move back while another steward was kneeling next to the injured man.

  ‘I’m not sure where the other one is,’ said Chapman.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to have to tell the Met Control Centre,’ said Fielding, reaching for the radio. ‘But, frankly, I’m not sure what to tell them. Do we have one nutter with a knife or is something bigger going on?’

  Chapman shrugged. He had no idea.

  Fielding was just about to radio Superintendent Enfield, but the superintendent beat him to it. ‘Andrew, we might have a problem there.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I was just going to call you. We have a number of casualties here and we’re not sure what’s going on.’

  ‘Casualties?’

  ‘Two people with what appear to be stab wounds. No suspects but with severe injuries.’

  ‘Is it possible they are gunshot wounds?’

  ‘Gunshot wounds? I don’t think so. We haven’t heard shots and everyone who enters the stadium is searched.’

  ‘We’ve had reports of a possible sniper in one of the blocks overlooking the stadium.’

  ‘A sniper?’

  ‘That’s what I’m told. Is it possible the wounds are sniper-related?’

  Fielding waved to get Chapman’s attention. ‘Could the woundings be gunshots?’

  Chapman shook his head. ‘No one’s reported hearing shots.’

  ‘There might be a sniper.’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ He scratched his head. ‘But why?’

  ‘We’ll check and get back to you, sir,’ said Fielding, into his radio. ‘In the meantime, do we evacuate?’

  ‘What’s the state of play there?’

  ‘Round two is just about to start.’

  ‘Do you think you could evacuate, if necessary?’

&nbs
p; ‘We could try, sir, but I’m not sure we’d be listened to.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ said the superintendent.

  The man stepped through the metal detector, hesitated, then walked over to the table to pick up his keys and mobile phone. He turned to wait for his friend, who came through the metal detector grinning. It must have beeped because a security guard stepped forward and began to pat him down.

  Mohammed al-Hussain took aim at the man being searched, the security guard, then across to the man at the table. He aimed, took a breath, let half of it out, and squeezed the trigger. Half a mile away, the man fell to the ground in agony.

  It was only then that he realised there was a helicopter outside the building, off to the left. Amma al-Kawthari was at the window, staring at it. The helicopter was several hundred yards away but the nose was pointing in their direction. ‘They’re going to shoot us!’ he said.

  Al-Hussain smiled. ‘It is a police helicopter and they are not armed,’ he said. ‘But even if they were, they would not be allowed to shoot us. In England the police cannot attack civilians. That is the law.’

  ‘But they know we’re here,’ said Elyas Assadi.

  ‘Perhaps, but even if they do it is too late for them to do anything,’ said al-Hussain. He put his eye to the scope and focused on the helicopter. When it had first appeared he had assumed it was a random patrol but it had stayed in its present position for almost a minute and it appeared to be concentrating on the building. He could just make out the two figures but he knew there was no point in trying to shoot through the Plexiglas. Even if it wasn’t bulletproof the round would almost certainly ricochet off it. He moved the rifle slightly to the right and took aim just below where the rear tail rotor was spinning. The first shot hit bang on target but didn’t seem to have any effect. The second shot smacked into the tail and a few seconds later black smoke poured out and the rotor started to flicker. The helicopter began to rotate and al-Hussain took his eye away from the scope. Without the tail rotor functioning properly the helicopter was impossible to control and began to spin crazily.

  It lost height rapidly, still spinning, and the lower it got, the faster it spun. It disappeared from view and a few seconds later al-Hussain heard the dull thump of an explosion as it hit the ground. His magazine was empty so he ejected it and slotted in a fresh one. He already had the scope to his eye and was selecting his next target as grey smoke plumed up from the wreckage of the helicopter.

  Eight doors faced the lifts, each with a number: 1202 to 1216. All even numbers. ‘You should hang back, Jeremy,’ said Shepherd, ‘seeing as how you don’t have a gun.’

  Willoughby-Brown nodded. Shepherd was impressed by the man’s calmness. He had seemed perfectly ready to go charging in even though he was unarmed.

  Shepherd ran the numbers. The superintendent in Met Control had said fifth window from the left. There had been twenty-four windows running the length of the building, which suggested three per flat. That meant the sniper was in the second flat from the left looking at the building: 1214. Assuming all the flats were the same size. In a perfect world they would have obtained a floor plan of the building but there was no time.

  Shepherd pointed for the three armed cops to take up positions either side of the door to flat 1214. There was no time for subterfuge, no time to pretend to be delivering a parcel or checking for a leak: a frontal assault was the only way to go.

  ‘There’s another one,’ said Chapman. ‘Up in the stands.’

  ‘A stabbing?’

  ‘They don’t know. He was in the middle of a row and no one saw anything. But the guy has a wound in his shoulder and is bleeding to death. We need ambulances, now. Lots of them. We’ve got paramedics but we need to get them to hospital.’

  ‘Ian, what the hell’s happening here?’ He waved at the screens. ‘We’re not seeing anything? Who’s doing this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Chapman. A phone rang and Chapman grabbed it. As he listened, the colour drained from his face. ‘That’s one of the stewards outside the ground,’ he said. ‘A helicopter’s just crashed.’

  ‘Crashed where?’

  ‘He’s not sure exactly. He just saw it coming down at speed with smoke pouring from it.’

  Confused, Fielding turned to the screens, rubbing the back of his neck.

  ‘We need to get ambulances in here now,’ said Chapman.

  Fielding continued to massage his neck. ‘I’ll check with Superintendent Enfield. He’s Gold Commander on this.’

  ‘Andrew, there isn’t time. We need to call for ambulances now and we need to get the gates open. And we need to find out where that helicopter crashed – there could be more casualties.’

  Fielding reached for his radio.

  Mohammed al-Hussain took a breath, released half, and squeezed the trigger. The stock kicked against his shoulder and he relaxed. The bullet sped through the air at close to three thousand feet per second, friction slowing it every step of the way but it still hit its target in less than half a second. The man slumped back in his seat, a look of pained surprise on his face.

  Al-Hussain ejected the cartridge. He loaded a round, then put his eye to the scope and searched for another target, this time on the opposite side of the stadium.

  Muhammad Saleem fingered his prayer beads as he recited the ninety-nine names for God. He had parked in a side road about two hundred yards from the stadium. He was on double yellow lines but nobody was going to give an ambulance a ticket. His mobile phone lay on the seat next to him. It buzzed to show he had received a message and he picked it up. Three words. It is time. He smiled to himself, took a deep breath, then pressed the switch to start the siren and flashing lights. He put the ambulance into gear, pressed the accelerator, and started to drive. The wail of the siren set his pulse racing but he calmed himself by concentrating on the names of God. Al Jabbaar: The Powerful. Al Haqq: The Truth. Al Qawiyy: The Strong. Al Mumit: The Bringer of Death. Al Muntaqim: The Avenger.

  ‘On three,’ mouthed Shepherd, and the officers nodded, their guns at the ready, fingers on triggers.

  Shepherd mouthed, ‘One, two, three,’ then kicked the door hard putting his full weight behind the blow. The jamb splintered but the lock held. Shepherd stepped back and kicked again. This time the door crashed inwards and he stepped into the room, both hands on his gun. The two men he had recognised in Page’s photographs – Amma al-Kawthari and Elyas Assadi – were sitting on the sofa, mouths open in shock. The sniper was lying on a table, taking aim through the open window. The fourth man was holding a gun and swinging it towards the door. Shepherd fired twice in quick succession and the double-tap hit the man squarely in the chest. Two red roses blossomed on his shirt and he slumped to the floor.

  The three armed cops piled in behind Shepherd. Graves and Leigh peeled off to the left, their guns aimed at the two men on the sofa. Shepherd hoped the cops realised the men weren’t armed but if they fired it would be understandable and forgivable. Walker came up behind Shepherd’s shoulder.

  The sniper rolled onto his back and swung his rifle around. Shepherd dropped into a crouch and pulled the trigger at the same moment as the sniper pulled his. The two cracks overlapped and Shepherd saw his round smack into the sniper’s chest as the sniper’s bullet whizzed past his neck. Shepherd fired again and the second shot hit the man two inches below the first. The sniper fell back and the rifle clattered onto the table.

  There was a dull thud behind Shepherd. He looked over his shoulder. The sniper’s round had hit Walker in the face and he had died instantly.

  Graves and Leigh dragged the Asians off the sofa and threw them to the floor, face down. Leigh had his foot in the small of Assadi’s back and was screaming at him to lie still.

  ‘Get the gates open! Let the ambulances in! We’ve got casualties here!’ shouted the security guard. He waved at the two men on the gate and they followed his instructions. Outside there were two ambulances, lights flashing and sirens wailing. ‘Tell th
em to cut the sirens!’ shouted the guard. He put his transceiver to his mouth and spoke to Ian Chapman in the control centre. ‘The ambulances are here, sir.’

  ‘Get them in as quickly as possible,’ said Chapman. ‘The casualties need to be on the way to hospital immediately.’

  As the gates opened, both ambulances cut their sirens and lights, as if the drivers had read the security guard’s mind. They drove through and he pointed to where they were to go. Two more ambulances were heading down the road towards the stadium, sirens wailing.

  ‘Clear!’ shouted Shepherd, and Willoughby-Brown peered cautiously into the room. He grimaced when he saw Walker’s body on the floor. Leigh and the other armed cop had bound the wrists of their prisoners and were staring stony-faced at their dead colleague.

  Willoughby-Brown went over to the cops. ‘Back-up’s on the way, so you two can stand down as soon as they’re here.’

  Leigh shook his head fiercely. ‘We’re booking them,’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘I’m sorry about Neil.’

  He went over to look at the sniper. ‘The old one-two,’ Willoughby-Brown said, when he saw the two wounds in the man’s chest. ‘Does the job every time.’

  Shepherd joined him. ‘I’ve seen him before,’ he said quietly.

  ‘One of Yilmaz’s passports?’

  ‘No. He was the sniper in Syria when we took out those two British jihadists. The one who ran before the missile hit.’

  ‘Seriously? He’s a long way from home.’

  ‘They all are,’ said Shepherd, picking up the weapon.

  ‘What sort of gun is it?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘It’s a rifle, Jeremy.’

  Willoughby-Brown flashed him a cold smile. ‘I realise that. What is it? American?’

  ‘It’s British. An L115A3. It’s a very tasty bit of kit. It holds the record for the longest confirmed kill. A corporal by the name of Craig Harrison killed two Taliban with consecutive shots at a little over nine thousand feet in Helmand Province. With his third shot he took out their machine-gun. It’s one hell of a weapon.’

  ‘How good can it be if your man here kept missing?’