by Nick Oldham
‘The Lexus has come off at junction four and is heading into Blackpool on the A583.’
‘Roger,’ Rik said unsurely, then, ‘Shit!’ as the doors of the Focus opened and both occupants climbed out. He relayed this development to all the other participants in the operation and told them all to stay put. ‘Not good, not good,’ he said to Henry.
The two guys split up, one crossing the street, then they started walking slowly down the street towards the Astra.
‘If they are mixed up with this and they spot us, cover’s blown and maybe the operation,’ Rik said bleakly. Henry’s thoughts entirely.
‘And there’s no doubt about it, they’re gonna spot us.’
The men were getting closer.
Henry and Rik were rigid in their seats, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
‘Whaddaya reckon, pal?’ Rik said through the corner of his mouth.
‘I think our goose is cooked and we’ve about ten seconds to make a decision.’
‘One way or the other, they need to be neutralized, because if they are spotters or even rivals, this op will go tits up if we don’t get them off the street like now. You up for it?’
‘Shiny-arsed I may be—’ Henry began, but didn’t finish.
Rik was speaking hurriedly into his PR: ‘For info of patrols, Alpha One is challenging occupants of the Ford Focus … Alpha Six, get yourself on to the street now … intention is to get these two out of play now, no messing …’ He was uttering these words as he opened his door, Henry following suit just a fraction of a second behind him. They would have to work quickly to deal with the two men, get them off the plot and get everything back to normal.
The two detectives were out of the car speedily, Henry approaching the man making his way down the left side of the street, Rik moving diagonally across to the other, each cop reaching for his warrant card; Henry also curled his fingers around his extendable baton which hung from the belt of his jeans.
He glanced over at Rik, seeing his hand extended with his warrant card in it. Henry turned his attention back to the man he was going for, seeing him more clearly now as they closed on each other, although the guy’s face was still a mix of shadow and light.
‘Police,’ Henry said, ‘need to have a word, please.’
Across the road, Henry was aware of a similar confrontation taking place.
The man Henry had challenged stopped in his tracks, but did not speak.
At the far end of the street, a vehicle swung in, headlights blazing: Alpha Six.
Henry breathed an inner sigh of relief. Now they had these two jokers, whoever they were, whatever they were doing, outnumbered and boxed in and could take them off the plot quickly and efficiently.
Just as long as it all went swimmingly …
Suddenly there was a ‘crack’ from the other side of the street. Henry knew immediately what he had heard – a gunshot.
He ducked instinctively.
Rik groaned and went down, clutching his thigh.
These two were not going to be easy.
The man in front of Henry reacted. He lunged at him, taking him by surprise. He was a big guy, as was Henry, but he barged Henry aside and pushed him roughly against the wall of a house. Henry crashed painfully against the brickwork, but bounced straight back and launched himself at the man who had begun to run. Henry’s warrant card skittered away (never to be found) as both his hands grabbed the man, who twisted into him and powered a big fist up into Henry’s guts.
Even in the darkness, Henry saw it coming, although there was little he could do to prevent it connecting other than to tense his stomach muscles and try to pull back.
It was still a good punch. Henry’s breath shot out of him. He curled double, holding himself.
The police car raced down the street.
Henry – ashamed he’d taken such an early punch – staggered backwards a step, righted himself, then leapt at the man as he turned and attempted to run away again.
This time Henry succeeded in wrapping his arms around the man’s waist. He gripped him tight, head tucked in for protection, and heaved him round, trying to slam him against the wall. The suspect pummelled Henry’s head with his fists, shouting obscenities at him as he fought.
But Henry clung on like a limpet, even though one particularly powerful thump crashed into the side of his head, sending a flash of lightning through his brain.
And then help arrived as one of the cops from Alpha Six piled in and felled the guy with a blow across his back with his baton, narrowly missing Henry’s head. Henry reared away as the officer sprayed him with a faceful of CS gas just to be on the safe side, ensuring the man was then skilfully taken down and handcuffed within seconds.
‘Pin the bastard down – and call for an ambulance,’ Henry ordered the bobby, who jammed a size eleven Doc Marten boot into the middle of the man’s back, not allowing him the chance to clear the CS away. Henry extracted himself, thankful he hadn’t been clattered with the baton or given an accidental shot of CS, and ran across the wet road to Rik Dean who lay there groaning, holding his right thigh.
‘Ah, shit, shit,’ he grimaced in agony.
The other cop from Alpha Six was kneeling next to Rik, saying soothing words and holding something that looked like a hankie to Rik’s leg wound.
Rik looked up at Henry. ‘Bastard shot me … Christ, this hurts …’
Henry bounced down on to his haunches. ‘It’s OK, pal, ambulance is en route … where is he?’ he asked. Having been involved in his own little fracas, Henry had not seen what had happened on this side of the street.
‘In there,’ Rik gasped as more pain shot through him, whipping him back and causing him to smack his head on the pavement with a horrible, hollow sounding thud. ‘Shit.’ He pointed to the warehouse gates and Henry saw a Judas gate set within the larger gate. Rik’s pain eased momentarily and he looked up pathetically. ‘Am I going to die?’
‘Not bloody likely.’
‘Shit – I always get into trouble with you.’ He was referring to a previous incident when, with Henry, he’d been stabbed by a psychotic child molester they’d been questioning. Henry had saved his life that time.
‘You’ll be OK, honest. He’s only shot you.’
‘Your bedside manner is crap … ahhgh!’ More pain speared through him.
In the distance Henry heard the ambulance siren closing in. They were a pretty efficient bunch in this neck of the woods. Now he knew he needed to take a step back, take stock of the situation. He stood up, groaning as his stomach muscles tensed from the blow they’d received. He needed to get his thoughts into gear quickly and reprioritise what was going on as, by default, the running of this operation had now dropped into his lap.
What had started as an attempt to catch a major drug dealer had deteriorated into farce. Nothing new there, Henry thought cynically. Story of my life. Question was, what, if anything, could be salvaged? The priority was to get Rik urgent medical treatment, then to catch the guy who’d shot him and, way down the list, try to achieve the original objective of the operation.
Henry’s mind buzzed.
He’d just come along for the ride, nothing else. A bit of a jolly whilst Kate was gallivanting in the Big Smoke with the kids; something to do on what would have been a long, boring evening. A bit of gung-ho policing. Fun. Chasing baddies. Not having any responsibility – that had all been on Rik’s shoulders, but not now.
He squatted back down. ‘How’s it going?’
Rik’s face was creased in agony, but he still managed to give Henry a withering look. ‘As well as can be with a slug in my leg.’ Rik shivered and Henry recognized the onset of shock. He had been going to tell Rik was what going to happen now, but he decided Rik probably wasn’t all that interested.
He stood up and spoke into his radio.
The dog patrol arrived seconds after the ambulance had departed with Rik in the back of it. The whole wet street was now alive with cops and their cars, with Henry, no
w sporting a hi-viz yellow jacket, directing everything.
Lancon Albert looked greedily up at Henry, his eyes shining like diamonds in the dark, his big teeth very apparent, his long, sloppy tongue drooping out, hot breath making steam.
Henry was glad that his handler, a squat, tough-looking copper called Craig, was holding tight on to the German Shepherd’s leash because Albert obviously wanted to get working, all the movement and flashing lights obviously exciting him. He wanted to sink his teeth into something.
‘He ducked into the Judas gate,’ Henry was telling Craig and Albert. ‘He didn’t come back out and no one followed him. As far as I know there’s no other exit … it’s an old warehouse, partially falling down …’
‘Yeah, I know it,’ Craig said. ‘I searched for a missing kid in it about a month ago.’
‘This is no missing kid … it’s a guy with a gun who just shot a cop.’
Craig nodded and gave Henry a look which said, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘I’ll kit Albert up, then send him in to play. It’s what he does best, isn’t it, pal?’ He ruffled the dog’s head and Henry thought he heard the canine reply, ‘Yeah, yeah.’ The pair headed back to the dog van.
Henry read his mental check list again: the warehouse was surrounded, tick; four armed cops were on the plot, tick; the dog was about to be let loose, tick; Rik should be at the hospital by now, tick; senior officers had been informed, tick; the Lexus was being taken care of, tick. All bases covered.
Craig returned with Albert, who looked like a Star Wars extra, now wearing doggie body armour and a small camera on his head, known as a FIDO cam – an acronym for Firearms Incidents Dangerous Operation – which could transmit pictures and also allowed the handler to speak to the dog as it was running free as it searched.
Craig handed Henry a mini-monitor that was already getting pictures from the dog’s point of view.
Craig patted his thigh and said, ‘C’mon, Bert, let’s go play,’ to his eager partner. Man and dog stepped through the gate into the warehouse yard.
Henry heard Craig’s shouted warning which was repeated three times before the further warning that the dog was being let off the leash. Henry went to sit back in the Astra out of the rain, but the truth was he could not have been any wetter. The rain had been relentless.
He settled back to watch Albert’s progress through the dark, dangerous corridors and rooms of the old warehouse.
It was a bouncy, jarring ride on the dog’s head, reminding Henry of the camera work on some US TV cop shows, but the image transmitted by the tiny camera was clear, despite the lack of light.
Albert worked his way diligently through the building.
Then suddenly he became still.
Henry found himself tensing up. Had the dog found someone?
The dog moved slowly. Was he now stalking someone?
Henry was transfixed by it. His knuckles were white as he gripped the monitor.
Then there was a sudden rush.
Two bright flashes.
Henry heard two bangs from inside the building. Gunshots.
His insides churned as he watched the blurred images on the screen.
Albert had found the gunman – but had he been shot?
The images kept moving – and then Henry watched in amazement as the screen showed the figure of a man getting larger and larger as Albert rushed at him, then leapt.
Henry saw the man’s face, abject terror on it, then his forearm came up in a protective gesture as Albert powered into him and did what police dogs love doing: sinking their fangs into bad guys.
‘Remind me never to go out on a job with you again.’
Henry looked down at the woozy, drugged-up Rik Dean on the hospital trolley. A tangle of tubes and wires had been inserted into him and he was in pre-op before going under the knife to have the bullet removed. Rik managed a weak smile.
‘As if,’ Henry responded. ‘Anyway, just thought I’d let you know – we got the guy who shot you up. He’ll probably be in the operating theatre after you after the mauling the police dog gave him. It just wouldn’t let go, apparently.’ Henry smirked. ‘His mate’s in custody.’
‘What about the Lexus?’
‘I got it pulled and searched.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
Rik tutted, rolled his eyes.
‘Guy driving it was clean, said he’d just bought it.’ Henry shrugged. ‘It’s obvious he was a decoy. I think the drugs’ll have come in by another route. C’est la vie.’
‘So he out-thought us.’
‘Seems that way.’
‘And another police operation fails to net the biggest drug dealer this side of the Irwell.’
‘Aye, the Crackman lives to fight another day, whoever the hell he is … one day, eh?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Rik had lost interest.
A nurse came into the room and told Henry it was time to leave. He touched Rik’s arm and went just as the nurse inserted a hypodermic needle into the back of his friend’s hand and he started counting down from ninety-nine.
One
Mark Carter knew he was going to get a battering.
‘I don’t do drugs,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
He was standing astride his Diamond Back Igniter BMX bike, staring guardedly at the three lads in front of him. They were arced around in a semicircle to prevent him from pedalling away, all noisily chewing gum, looking menacing, their heads tilted to one side as they glared at him.
Mark knew all three by name and reputation. As his eyes darted from one to the other, he kicked himself for choosing this route home. Normally he would have circled the estate, but because he was running late, he’d decided to cut through instead.
Big mistake.
Now he was going to pay for the big mistake.
Big style.
These were the most feared lads on Shoreside, even though none of them was older than him, that is to say fourteen. Their leader and biggest troublemaker was Jonny Sparks, Sparksy or JS to his mates. It was he who was standing directly in front of Mark, the front wheel of the BMX gripped securely between his legs, his bony, spider monkey-like fingers curled tightly around the handlebars. Jonny was as tall as Mark, but thinner, wiry, pale, his face pockmarked from a childhood disease. Mark would say he was as evil-looking as a weasel.
‘Maybe you should start. They’re good for you,’ Sparks said with a sneer.
‘Drugs screw you up. I don’t need ’em,’ Mark replied.
‘Unlike your sis, eh?’ Sparks taunted.
Mark’s mouth clammed shut. His guts were jittering, his insides trembling. He was frightened, no doubt about that; too frightened to respond to Sparks. He just wanted to get away unscathed and as far as he was concerned, Sparks could bad mouth his family to hell and back if it meant not getting hammered.
However, Mark was canny enough to know that whatever he said, or didn’t say, was unlikely to help this situation. They were out for blood. Mark could sense it.
They beat up people just for the fun of it, sometimes to rob them, sometimes for a laugh. They were into happy-slapping, too, recording their exploits on their mobile phone cameras to watch back later and post on the Internet. And they were known to use knives and hammers as well as fists and feet. The fists and feet didn’t bother Mark too much. It was the possibility of weapons that terrified him.
He tried his best not to look intimidated, staring impassively at Jonny. He blinked, said, ‘I don’t want any drugs, thanks,’ and did not rise to the nasty remark about Bethany, his older sister.
Mark wondered what was going to happen now. He knew that others had been beaten up for refusing to buy drugs off this crew. In a one-to-one confrontation, and unarmed, Mark was pretty sure he could equal any of the three, even though he didn’t consider himself a fighter. But these lads never operated singly. They always ganged up, hunted in a savage pack, which was why they called themselves ‘The Hyenas’.
A heartbeat
of silence passed between Mark and Jonny Sparks.
Sparks leaned in closer. ‘Your sister’s a slag, y’know,’ he hissed, with a dirty expression on his face.
Mark bit his lip hard, trying to stay cool, not get wound up. His mind raced as he tried to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess, but try as he might to hold back, he could feel that the tremble inside him was morphing from fear into anger, especially when Sparks taunted, ‘She’ll shag anyone just for a score.’
Sparks eyed Mark with a triumphant smirk, knowing he was succeeding in touching a raw nerve and winding him up. A twisted smile played on his thin lips, as he added, ‘Shagged her meself,’ really turning the screw.
Jonny Sparks had been after Mark for a long time, never missed a chance to goad him and it was well known he wanted Mark to have a dig at him, just to give him an excuse. Mark had no idea why this was because, for sure, he’d never knowingly done anything to annoy Sparks so much. He just stayed out of his way, avoided him at all costs, and maybe that was reason enough for Sparks. That’s how it was on the Shoreside council estate in Blackpool, Lancashire. People often hated others for no definable reason. They just did, and that was good enough. Just like Jonny hated Mark. It was probably all about some sort of perverted ‘respect’ thing – fights often started because one lad had ‘dissed’ another by showing disrespect, often innocently. That was part of the jungle that was Shoreside.
Mark couldn’t ever recall knowingly dissing Sparks. Maybe his avoidance of Sparks amounted to disrespect? Maybe that’s what wound the little toad up – because he couldn’t get to Mark, couldn’t get his claws into him. And Jonny liked having his claws in as many people as possible.
Mark swallowed. His nostrils flared. He glanced quickly around for some help, but he knew there would be none. This scenario was nothing out of the ordinary around here – a scrap brewing between lads outside the boarded-up Spar shop. It happened all the time and you could guarantee no one would intervene or get involved in any way. Nobody would call the cops either, except maybe when it was all over and Mark was sprawled in the gutter with his head kicked in and blood gushing out of his nose and the danger was over. Nobody saw anything, nobody got involved. Everybody was scared, usually.