“There’s a madman in there with a gun. You’d better drive this ambulance away from here as fast as you can.” Stratton tried to inject his voice with as much urgency and command as he could muster.
As soon as the man climbed back into the cab, Stratton pulled on the back door and waited for the swivel step to fold into place. Not daring to lift his head towards the driveway he threw himself into the interior, rising quickly to dash past a startled nurse and an elderly woman strapped to a gurney. He pulled back a small divider window and thrust the barrel of the Beretta through the gap and into the back of the driver’s neck.
“Find me another exit road out of here.”
“There….there isn’t one,” the man stammered.
Stratton pressed the gun deeper into the driver’s flesh. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to live a bit longer.”
“Wait! We could go through the staff car park on the east side, but we need a pass.”
Stratton smiled. “You let me worry about the pass.”
The blanket shutdown of communications had left everyone fumbling in the dark for information. Even the fully-integrated Metropolitan Police radio network, which operated off its own satellite-dish towers, had to be taken offline as a precaution against providing an unwitting platform for carrying a signal to the bomb. The blackout appeared to be working, but at what cost to managing the vast resources deployed in the hunt for the bomber?
Two armed SO19 officers en route to Westminster Bridge had no way of knowing what was happening when their armoured vehicle encountered a rush of bodies running away from the entrance to St Thomas Hospital. The policemen were sure of only one thing. They had stumbled into the path of their quarry - and they were not about to let him escape.
The driver stomped on the centre pedal and yanked the handbrake to slew the police car to a sideways stop across the road. His passenger leapt out, cradling an MP5, his thumb disengaging the safety switch as he ran against the tide of fleeing civilians.
One woman screamed at him. “There’s someone back there shooting at us!”
Less than a hundred yards ahead he could see a black Range Rover parked across the hospital entrance. A man dressed in black was just rising from behind the cover of the vehicle, holding what appeared to be an automatic pistol in a two-handed grip. The man turned to look directly at the SO19 officer whose eyes were fixed firmly on watching the weapon sweep towards his position.
All the training and combat simulations in the world amount to little when someone is finally confronted with their first potentially-lethal situation. The policeman ignored the shake in his hands and tried to remember the proper procedure. Identify yourself before engaging. Be sure of a clear line of fire. Check for potential risks on the through-path of any rounds discharged towards a suspect. Engage only as a last resort.
It was all happening too fast. The gunman was beginning to walk forward, closing the distance between them while still holding his weapon. The SO19 man sighted along the barrel, moved his index finger into the trigger well, and began a final squeeze.
At the last moment he remembered to shout a warning. “Armed police! Stop or I will fire.”
The last of his words were lost by the noise of a three-round burst he fired.
Bill Carlisle had watched the police vehicle screech to a halt, grateful for much-needed back-up to help deal with the throng of civilians to be screened and processed as they exited the hospital. The big LonWash operative was not comfortable with crowd control, preferring to remain crouched behind his car as his colleagues attempted to stem the flow of bodies running out into the main road.
He rose to walk towards a policeman who had exited the patrol car and watched bemused as the man aimed an MP5 in his direction. The face resting on the pistol butt looked to be that of a young man in his early twenties with a wide-eyed stare that showed a mixture of shock and uncertainty.
Didn’t the young fool realise the dangers of being bumped by the bodies barging past him? When this was over he would have to get some of these youngsters into a training camp and teach them the correct way to deal with what his old SAS instructors had described as a “potential urban clusterfuck.”
As the space between him and the SO19 officer began to clear, Carlisle looked in horror as the man closed his right eye. He was sighting on him!
“Stop!” His frantic shout seemed to evaporate into nothingness. He thought he could see a discharge of smoke from the barrel of the weapon, but knew that wasn’t possible. At this short distance a bullet would have reached him long before his brain could register the fine details.
He felt two sledgehammer blows to his chest, then a searing pain in his neck. He experienced an odd sensation of clouds spinning and whirling maniacally above him. He watched as they changed hue from blue to red before someone pulled a big black screen across the sky.
Chapter 45
THE AMBULANCE disappeared around a sharp bend, the swinging back door slamming hard against the side of a building. The driver fought the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding an oncoming estate car, before straightening the vehicle to tear off into the distance.
Devon was in full sprint, determined to keep sight of the black-and-yellow high top, but knowing that it was becoming a futile chase. His head felt as if a dozen workmen were going to work on him with pneumatic drills that were peeling away at his energy and sapping the strength from his legs.
He shouted over his shoulder, knowing that Doyle was not far behind. “Alan, get back to the entrance and bring one of the Range Rovers down here. Get someone to find out if there’s another road exit from the site and see if we can plug the gap before the bastard breaks free.”
Several minutes later he heard gunfire from somewhere to his rear. Had he miscalculated? Was Stratton still back in the hospital building? He shrugged off the thought and kept pounding on the tarmac.
He turned the corner where the ambulance had clipped the building. Far ahead he could see its brakelights as it disappeared around yet another corner and was lost to sight. He stopped to suck in some much-needed air, his hands resting on his knees as he tried to push a wave of nausea to one side.
He wasn’t sure how long he remained like that. A screech of tyres brought him back to the moment and he lifted his eyes to see Doyle, sitting grim-faced behind the wheel of the Rover. He sprinted around to the passenger side and climbed in. “What, no witty remark about being out of shape?”
Doyle flung the car into gear and accelerated away before speaking. “Bad news, Mike. Bill Carlisle is down. Don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
“How? Is Stratton still back there?”
“You’re never going to believe it. He was shot by the fucking Metropolitan Police. Some rookie mistook him for our terrorist. This whole place is getting too cluttered and nobody knows who the fuck is doing what. Maybe we should just stand all our people down.”
Devon kicked out at the vehicle dashboard. “It’s too late for that. If we don’t nail Stratton now there’s no telling what he can still do. Put your foot down and catch up with that ambulance.”
Chelsea Horgan had been the first to react to Bill Carlisle’s shooting. She pulled out her CIA badge, held it above her head and raced towards the SO19 policeman. “Stop shooting. We’re on your side. Lower you weapon.”
The young officer was still trying to process her words when his colleague ran up behind him and gently nudged his arms down to his side. Satisfied the danger was over, Horgan rushed to Carlisle and bent down to stare at the blood pooling below his upturned head. She could hear the air rasping in the man’s throat.
She unfastened her protective waistcoat, tore off her cardigan, and pressed the material firmly against a wicked-looking neck wound. It was only then she noticed two spent rounds sticking up through the fabric of Carlisle’s bulletproof vest. Thank heavens for small mercies, she thought.
Without looking up she began to bark orders. “Someone get down to the hospital and whist
le up an emergency team. Get a gurney up here and tell someone to get a theatre ready for an emergency operation.”
She continued to press on the makeshift bandage and began whispering into Carlisle’s ear. “Stay with us Bill. We’re already at the hospital. What more could you want?” Despite her attempts to lighten the mood, her heart sunk as she watched Carlisle’s eyes glaze over. She squeezed his arm. “Stay with us, damn you!”
She became aware of someone kneeling beside her and turned to look into Alan Doyle’s anxious face. “What’s happening? I thought you guys were in pursuit of Stratton?”
Doyle gently touched her hand. “We’re still in the picture, but we need to get mobile again.”
“I’m not letting go of this compress until the medical team arrives. You do what you have to, but be careful.”
Doyle rose and addressed the rest of the team. “I’m taking one of the vehicles into the hospital site. Cheadle, you and Mortimer grab the other one and head off in that direction,” he said pointing to his right. “There’s bound to be another entrance or exit farther down the road. See if you can head off an ambulance attempting to make use of it. We think Stratton’s on board.”
Chaos reigned on the Thames as the driveshaft on the Maid of Inishfree sheared off its central mounting and choked the engines with a backwash of exhaust fumes. The propellers stopped thrashing the water and an eerie silence descended, save for the odd sobs and screams of some of the terrified passengers.
Four heavily-armed marine policemen boarded the vessel and manhandled the innocent captain to the deck of his ship. He was clubbed on the back of his right ear and zip-tied at the arms and feet before two pairs of hands tore at his clothing in an attempt to recover any weapons or bomb-arming devices. The officers were not to know he was not the terrorist.
The same treatment was meted out to the cowering passengers. Until the police could be sure of their innocence, everyone was treated as if they posed an immediate and serious threat. Far from objecting to what was happening, the tourists seemed to catch the mood of the uniformed boarders and succumbed meekly to what they were ordered to do.
Six people had been flung from the vessel on its immediate impact with the protection barrier. Five marine divers in full scuba gear were already in the water attempting to bring them to safety, but the fast-flowing tidal stream was working hard against their efforts. Four people were already hauled into a circling recovery boat, a fifth would be saved within a matter of ten minutes.
The last passenger to be accounted for was a sixty-year woman who had been celebrating her wedding anniversary with a visit to London from New York. Her body would be recovered two miles downstream, but not for another twelve hours.
The marine policemen were not sure how to proceed. Eventually, the senior officer, an inspector with seven years’ experience, decided to evacuate everyone from the Maid of Inishfree. If there was a bomb hidden somewhere on the cruiser, he reasoned he needed to clear the way for a bomb disposal team. The thing was there was no bomb disposal team – and he had no way of knowing if one was on the way.
A flotilla of small Marine Police boats began to ferry the passengers to the South Bank where the inspector had arranged a holding enclosure to contain everyone until a full screening process could be completed. He was not about to let a terrorist, masquerading as a tourist, simply walk away from the scene.
The exercise was completed within thirty minutes of the initial crash.
The inspector and two other officers now stood on the deserted deck of the Maid. His next decision was to take the cruiser in tow, drag her to the centre of the river, and prepare her for scuttling in the event that a bomb disposal team didn’t show up anytime soon. He would rather face the consequences of clogging the Thames rather than risk a detonation that could cause untold damage to the Palace of Westminster.
He ordered two extra anchors to be attached to the stricken vessel, knowing that the tides would help her to fight hard against her restraints. As soon as he stepped back on to dry land he ordered the immediate closure of all roads and buildings in the area. Satisfied he had done as much as he could, he retired gratefully behind the cordon he had created, content to let someone higher up the chain decide what to do next.
He was surprised to be approached within minutes by the group leader of a Royal Navy bomb disposal squad that had arrived from Plymouth and had apparently been ordered into action over an hour previously. He arranged for the three-man team to be ferried out to the cruiser and waited for less than thirty minutes before they declared the area safe.
The crisis on the Thames was over.
Chapter 46
A NARROW ALUMINIUM pole covered in yellow fluorescent paint stretched across the entrance to the car park. As far as barriers were concerned it might as well have been a solid brick wall to the driver of the ambulance.
He hit the brakes hard, sending his back-compartment passengers crashing forward. The elderly woman in the gurney was thrown upwards, but restrained by the leather straps folded across the bed. The other two occupants were not so fortunate. The nurse was flung against Stratton whose forehead slammed into the metal divider, causing a gash to open across his forehead.
He rubbed a smear of blood with the back of his hand and cursed. Then he pushed the barrel of the Beretta violently into the back of the driver’s head. “You fucking idiot! What do you think you’re doing?”
The man stammered. “I can’t go any farther. There’s a barricade in front of us.”
Stratton couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Leave the engine running and get out. Do it now or I’ll splatter your brains across the windshield.”
As soon as the man reached for the door handle Stratton turned to the back of the ambulance. He flung open the rear door, jumped to the ground and raced to the front of the vehicle where the driver was standing sheepishly beside the opened door. Stratton walked forward, lifted the pistol, and clubbed him mercilessly several times on top of the head.
The man fell to the ground and Stratton used his body to step up into the cab. He placed the Beretta on his lap, meshed the gearstick, and depressed the accelerator to the floor. The ambulance shot forward, snapping the pole like a twig, and broke clear into a central driveway running between rows of neatly-parked cars.
A silver Mercedes, inching out of a side bay, was sent spinning by a jarring impact with the front offside of the ambulance as Stratton peered ahead for an exit onto the main road. He followed a sweep of white arrows painted on the road surface and several hundred yards ahead he could see another yellow pole reaching its arm across the road. Just a few more seconds and he would be clear.
He gripped the wheel tightly in anticipation of cracking against the pole, but as it turned out, that was not his main concern. A black Range Rover had suddenly swept into view across the entrance.
He kept his foot on the accelerator, smashed past the pole, and careered into the side of the LonWash vehicle.
Alfie Cheadle had spotted the ambulance as he sped up the main road outside the hospital grounds. Without hesitation he jerked the wheel sideways, bumped across a central reservation, narrowly missing the first of an oncoming stream of cars, and braked to a halt across the car park exit. His driver compartment took the full brunt of the impact, the sudden jolt whiplashing his head viciously to the left before he was caught on the seatbelt restraint. The violent rocking of the Rover tossed him back to the right, his head striking the plate-glass window with such force that it cracked and starred. Cheadle slumped unconscious.
Beside him, Bob Mortimer was quicker to react to the impending crash. As soon as their vehicle slid to a halt he pushed open the passenger door and dived out onto the ground, rolling several times before he checked his momentum and ran back towards the cover of the front wheel arch.
The impact deployed the driver’s airbag on the ambulance, but Stratton had already opened his door and jumped clear. He came quickly to his knees, with the pistol aimed directly at a spac
e in front of the Rover’s passenger-side windscreen. Before he had left the ambulance he had seen Mortimer roll free and guessed what he would do next.
A second later Mortimer’s head appeared; the eyes directed about two feet from Stratton’s position. It was reasonable for Mortimer to assume the ambulance driver would still be behind the wheel. It was an assumption that would cost him his life.
Stratton fired twice, both rounds entering Mortimer’s face just below his right eye.
Devon saw the execution as his vehicle slid round the final corner of the car park. He hit the passenger window’s automatic button and leaned out to draw a bead on Stratton. There was a gap of less than fifty yards.
He shouted at Alan Doyle behind the wheel. “Aim straight for him and keep it steady.”
Devon’s arms swung wildly as he tried to steady them against the motion of the vehicle. The gun sight jumped from ground to sky and back again before he could centre it on Stratton, who was now standing and taking aim at the onrushing Range Rover.
“Watch out, Mike!”
The words had no sooner left Doyle’s lips than a burst of automatic fire raked across his windscreen, the impact doing little more than dislodge a handful of chipped shards from the toughened polycarbonate surface.
Devon blotted out the danger and forced his mind into a Zen-like trance. Everything around him seemed to blur into a slow-motion haze that created a private tunnel between him and Stratton. It was almost as if everything was coming to a grinding stop, his arms suspended rock-steady, allowing the gunsight to rest unwaveringly in the centre of Stratton’s chest.
Just as he squeezed the trigger he became aware of the screeching sound of brakes as Doyle hit the pedal. The Range Rover slewed to the right, the tunnel disappeared, and for a moment Devon lost sight of Stratton.
Absence of Mercy Page 24