by Robert White
“I think our Target may have just set off the fire alarm. Keep eyes on those rear fire exits, Mitch.”
“Roger that,” answered the American. Then a split second later. “Confirmed. Target confirmed. I have eyes on. Al-Mufti is exiting rear of building.”
Next, I heard the unmistakable sound of small arms fire rattling around the enclosed space at the back of the hotel. There were more screams from the crowd.
Mitch was back on comms. “Target has a hostage, repeat hostage. White female, dark hair, black dress. Two civilians down, repeat two casualties. I’m unable to return fire, over.”
Finally, I was out in the open. I clocked Mitch who was desperately pushing his way through terrified partygoers to get out of the back alley. Sirens wailed in the distance only adding to the sense of panic. Ahead, I could see Al-Mufti. He was dragging a young girl by the hair and waving his handgun about wildly. People didn’t know where to go and began running back in our direction, away from the obvious threat. We were maybe ten metres behind our target. We may as well have been ten thousand.
As he hit the street and clear air, the Arab dropped the girl in a heap and ran off onto Princess Street and out of sight.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I spotted him in an instant. Those white flared trousers, black satin shirt, ponytail. Even in a place as diverse as The Village, Al-Mufti would have been easy to see.
He sprinted across Princess Street, crossed the canal and turned immediate right. I was on his tail, arms and legs pumping hard. I’d figured he was heading towards the Palace theatre junction. From there he could lose himself in the after-show crowds, maybe even cross the road and slip into The Ritz or one of the other bars in the area.
But he didn’t. Al-Mufti put on the brakes and skidded to a halt at the entrance to the NCP car park.
As he did so, he turned his head and saw me.
The Palace car park is a gated building, but the Arab’s luck was in. Just as he reached the pedestrian entrance, a customer was on his way out. He grabbed the guy, pulled him to the floor and sprinted inside. I was no more than a second or two behind him and I kicked the closing gate open as I reached it, leaving the poor bloke shouting abuse on the pavement.
Al-Mufti made for the stairs.
He shoved at the heavy door leading to the landings, disappeared from view and started his ascent. I followed, breathing hard. No time for tactics. This was a straight race and chase.
I could hear him pounding the stairs above me, my own feet mirroring his, my heart racing, leg muscles burning.
I heard him exit the landing above me onto a car level. As I pulled on the door to follow him out, he opened fire. I ducked back into cover and his two bullets flew harmlessly over my head and ricocheted down the stairs behind me.
I pulled my own Sig, crouched down behind the jamb, punched the weapon forward and arced it left to right.
In that moment, he was gone.
I stayed in the crouch and did my best to listen for him, but the mixture of police and ambulance sirens arriving at the New Union and the blood rushing in my ears made it impossible.
Dropping down into a prone position, I scanned the floor for a wayward pair of feet.
He had to be close. Very close. There waiting for me to make my move. I took slow steady breaths, forcing my body to recover from the sprint and stair climb. Sweat poured down my temples and spine as I fought for control of my heart rate.
I knew there was only a limited time I could stay in position. Sooner or later, some innocent bystander would be in the lift, or climbing the stairs to collect their car and the bastard would have another chance at a hostage.
I set myself and sprinted to the first parked vehicle.
He didn’t make his move and all I could hear, as I dropped in behind a big 4 x 4, were more distant sirens and screams.
I had no choice but to methodically check between each row of cars.
Al-Mufti had all the ideal hiding places; under or between the myriad of vehicles; or behind the dozens of supporting pillars. He had the advantage. But I couldn’t give up.
As I cleared the third row, I heard a stumble and a grunt off to my right. Seconds later the repeating blare of a car horn filled all my senses.
As the Arab had scurried between a row of vehicles, he must have clipped one, activating the car’s alarm in the process.
He’d given his position away.
Once again, he was off and running. I powered after him, gaining with every stride.
Was I close enough?
Only one way to find out. I squeezed the trigger twice and the Sig responded, but both rounds went astray of their target. Firing single handed, on the move, at a running man was a lottery at best.
He hit the stairs again but rather than go downward as I’d expected, he carried on his climb. I took two stairs at a time, driving my body upward. Al-Mufti had almost twenty years on me, but he wasn’t going to get away, not in a foot race. He was tiring, I could sense it.
He climbed flight after flight, until there was nowhere else to go. I heard the door at the very top floor open and swing closed.
I reached the landing and leant against the heavy fire door, blowing hard, pulse pounding, weapon at the ready.
I wiped the sweat from my eyes and took a cautious look.
He’d gone to ground again.
As I regained my breath, I did a quick calculation in my head. He’d fired nine rounds. Five in the bar, two in the alley and now two at me. I was certain he was using a nine shot capacity M1911 .45.
Unlucky.
Unless Al-Mufti had a spare mag… he was fucked.
I checked my Sig and stepped out into the garage. Moving quickly and methodically, and confident he was without ammunition, I knew it was just a matter of time before I finished him.
Then I heard a car engine fire. There was a squeal of tyres, and a black Ford C-Max came hurtling out of a space ten metres in front of me. Now I knew why he’d chosen to climb the stairs.
He had to make a U at the end of the row to make the down ramp, so I set myself and raised my weapon. As the car broadsided around the turn, I saw the windows were down. Al-Mufti floored the car, and as it straightened he opened up at me with an MP5 on fully automatic.
I dove for cover, skinning my knees and elbows, as 9mm rounds clattered around the parked cars and skidded off the concrete floor.
As I raised my head, the C-max and our target, were disappearing down the ramp.
Dragging myself upward, I cursed my stupidity and once again sprinted for the door. Could I run down twelve flights of stairs before the Arab could drive six ramps?
The race was on again, and I negotiated the stairs with a mixture and runs and jumps. As I approached landing four, I lost my footing. Grabbing the handrail slowed me some, but I still hit the floor hard and I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder as I struck the wall. I scrambled to my feet and began again, running four or five steps then jumping the rest.
As I made the bottom landing, I could hear the squealing tyres and screaming engine of Al-Mufti’s car.
I tore open the door and brought the Sig up into the aim a split second too late. The C-Max smashed through the exit barrier and I saw the flash of his brake lights as he slewed the car out into the street.
As I stood on the pavement, hands on my head, desperate to get some oxygen in my burning lungs, soaked in sweat, battered and bruised, I cursed my luck. It had been a long time since I’d been so pissed off.
I’d lost him. He was gone, and I’d torn my new fucking D&G trousers.
Des Cogan’s Story:
Our glorious leader was not a happy bunny. Rick had demanded we go for a drink and fuck the consequences. For once his grand ideas about the team using constant anti surveillance techniques had been binned off, due to what appeared to be a wardrobe malfunctio
n.
We were grouped around a small table in the Thirsty Scholar. The pub was busy with student types and a band were setting up on a raised section.
Rick sat with a glass of Jamesons, examining a small tear in the knee of his pants. Face like fucking thunder.
Now, I’ve been acquainted with the big man long enough to know when to stay out of his way. I know exactly when to let him throw all his toys out of his very expensive pram. Unfortunately, Mitch didn’t.
“Did y’all not consider calling us on our mobiles, Mr Fuller?”
Rick gave Mitch the hard stare and took a swig of his whiskey. “And when exactly, did you think it opportune for me to make this call, Mitch? As I was sprinting along the street? Maybe as I was running up twelve flights of stairs? No? Okay, how about as I was being shot at?” Rick’s voice was becoming louder with each suggestion. Finally, he bellowed, “Or maybe whilst I was ripping my fucking trousers!”
Mitch leaned away from Mr Angry and sipped his Dr Pepper. I gave him a look that I hoped he’d understand. Moments later, he seemed to grasp the situation and, like the rest of us, fell silent.
Two drinks in, Rick had calmed down some. He turned to Lauren. “What are they saying on the news?” he asked.
She scrolled the feeds on her phone. “The doorman was pronounced dead at the scene. The guy next to him, and two kids wounded in the rear yard are described as comfortable. Henrietta Duvall, is critical but stable.”
Rick nodded. “Anything about our target?”
She shook her head. “Not much, there’s a vague description, that’s all. Says the cops are treating it as a hate crime. Some lone nutter who hates gays.”
As Lauren scrolled some more, her phone rang in her hand. She stood to go outside. “I think I should take this,” she said.
I got another round in. By the time I was back at the table, Lauren had returned from her call.
“That was Larry,” she said. “He wants to see me… now.”
Rick cocked his head quizzically. “So late? I thought he was off the case, anyway?”
“He is,” said Lauren. “They’ve essentially suspended him. He’s on indefinite gardening leave.”
“So, what does he want, hen?” I asked.
She shrugged. “He won’t say on the phone. Just that it’s important.”
Rick nodded. “Okay, but take Mitch with you.”
She shook her head. “He won’t talk with Mitch around. We found that out the hard way.”
Rick blew air down his nose. I could see he wasn’t happy. I broke the ice.
“Look mate, Lauren’s a big girl. She can look after herself. I reckon Al-Mufti and his crew will be keeping their heads down for a while eh? I mean, there must be dozens of pictures of him available to the cops from tonight’s debacle. He might even be on his toes.”
Rick wasn’t sure. “He’s not the type, Des. He’s cocky, confident. He won’t run.”
“Aye,” I said. “But he might hide for a while.”
Rick was still reluctant. “Maybe… alright, you go Lauren. But don’t take any chances, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, smiling. And to everyone’s surprise, leaned over and gave the big man a peck on the cheek as she left.
I checked my watch. “Well, while the going is good, I reckon I’ll go and see my pretty wee landlady friend.”
Rick shook his head in disgust. “I suppose that leaves me and Clint Eastwood here to try and figure out our next move.”
I pulled on my coat, slapped Rick on the back, and said. “Maybe ye can go shopping for new trousers together… see yer.”
Lauren North’s Story:
I’d driven my Audi the short hop to Piccadilly. Then, just has Rick had insisted, I went through some anti surveillance drills and caught a tram to Heaton Park.
Larry lived nearby, but rather than go to his home I agreed to meet him at his local, The Ostrich.
The pub sat overlooking the historic park. The 600 acre estate was renovated as part of Manchester’s millennium project and boasted an 18-hole golf course, a boating lake and the only flat green bowling in the city.
The Ostrich had a lovely polished wood bar, with brass fittings, and a pool room off to one side. It was busy with locals, some of who took advantage of the fact that the pub was one of the few remaining establishments in the area to be ‘dog friendly.’ I guessed that these canine owners regularly made the excuse of walking their pooches in the park, before nipping in for a pint or two of real ale.
I counted three of our four legged friends as I sat down next to a very harried looking Larry Simpson.
“You look stressed,” I offered. “Considering you are on your holidays.”
“Very funny.” Larry gulped at his pint and I got the impression he’d had one or two earlier. “How’s the spy business?” he said.
I looked at my watch. There was two hours to closing. Whatever Larry had to tell me, he’d need to make it quick. “Busy,” I said. “And it’s getting past my bedtime.”
“Rick waiting for you, is he?”
I turned in my seat. “Look, Larry. If you brought me all the way across town to point score, you’re barking up the wrong tree. You said you had some important information. That is the only reason I’m here. Are we clear?”
He managed a thin smile. “Okay, okay, look… I’m sorry about the other day, Lauren. Soon as I saw the Yank, I just lost my head, that’s all. All this Secret Service stuff makes me nervous. I wanted to help you, honestly I did.”
I sat back and took a sip of my G and T. True, Larry was a nice guy. However, his conscience, his moralistic stance and his inability to see the bigger picture, hadn’t helped our cause one bit.
And, as he’d brought me out on the premise of new intelligence, I was in no mood to massage his idealist ego.
“Yes, you told me that on the day, but you didn’t help me, did you? Wanting and doing are two very different things, Larry.”
I got straight to the crux.
“I presume you went straight down to the station with those stills you were supposed to give to us? Gave them to the murder enquiry team, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Really Larry? Why not? I would’ve thought they’d get you back in favour with the new Chief. What’s his name, Williams?”
Larry looked like he’d just taken the top off a sour milk carton. “You must be joking. DCS Williams? He’s no intention of moving the case forward. He’s in Blackman’s pocket.”
I shook my head ruefully. “So, you sat on them? Did nothing… right?”
Larry stood and waved his empty. “Not exactly. Another? I’m having one.”
“No thanks,” I said laying my palm on the top of my glass. “I need my wits about me these days.” I gave him a sarcastic smile of my own. “What with all the bad guys still out there and all.”
Larry returned with his beer, sat and took a deep breath.
“I may not be a spy, or an MI5 agent Lauren, but your tale about the guy in those pictures being just a witness didn’t wash with me. I said so at the time, didn’t I?”
“You made yourself perfectly clear, Larry.”
“Yes, well… like I said, sorry about that. Anyway, like you, I was aware that the search teams hadn’t recovered Todd’s mobile from either the murder scene, or his flat on the Quays. It was a concern to our lads straight away. So, when you came to me with your tale, I instantly presumed that somehow, you had been able to obtain Todd’s phone records; hence the need for the CCTV of the Sackville Gardens phone box and your interest in the caller.”
I raised my brows. “Well done Detective, two points.”
Larry glared at my irony, but ploughed on. “We knew Todd had been out in the area of Sackville Gardens on the night he was killed. Henrietta Duvall, told us as much. I figured that you’d identifi
ed the call box from Todd’s records, matched the time of the call to the CCTV footage and bingo, you had a picture of the man that called Todd, just hours before he was murdered. The man who was just streets away from Todd’s last known location. Your number one suspect.”
I shrugged. This was old news. “Again, well done. But you couldn’t hand those pictures over, could you Detective? You were so worried about your precious reputation, you kept them to yourself.”
He shook his head. “It had nothing to do with my reputation, and you know it. I couldn’t hand them over and watch you just run roughshod over the justice system.”
I eyed him. People were dying, and I was tired of hearing the same old excuses.
“Oh yes, I know your reasons alright. It went against your haughty principals. In fact, your little lesson in ethics was so helpful, I went straight home and promised to be a good girl guide in future.”
“No need for cynicism,” he muttered.
“No? Well let me tell you this Mr High and Mighty. Your little delaying tactic, your lecture on morality and playing by the rules, ensured we spent several wasted hours obtaining our own pictures of our ‘suspect.’”
I did my best to keep my voice down.
“And you know what playing by the fucking rules got us, Larry? It’s got us dead people. Whilst you pontificated about the rights and wrongs of releasing vital clues about the identity of Todd’s killer, he and his pals were turning the streets of Manchester red with blood. Have you seen the news tonight… Detective?”
“Of course.”
“Of course you have, yeah. The New Union? One dead. Henrietta Duvall critical, three others wounded? That was our man. Your man Larry. The one in those pictures… and you,” I pointed. “You slowed us down.”
He nodded a little too quickly, showing his discomfort. As he took another swig of his beer, I noticed his hands were shaking. Things were all coming on top for our Chief Inspector.
Larry rummaged under the table and pulled out his briefcase.
He began to open it, but stopped and rested his hand on the clasp. As he looked into my eyes, I saw turmoil laced with genuine sorrow.