by Dc Alden
Roy listened carefully, mentally rehearsing his forthcoming movements, his actions. He checked his gear, going through each item with Frank, its intended use, which pocket to keep it in, the physical methods of covert approach. He was scared, sure, but the closer they got the more that fear was tempered by a strengthening resolve. He had to focus on Max, channel his son’s terror and confusion for his own purposes. Frank had said that people would die tonight. Roy had to make sure it wasn’t any of them.
Outside, night had fallen. Traffic ebbed and flowed around the roads to the west of Heathrow airport. Roy looked towards the distant horizon where the setting sun had left a thin red band across the sky, and wondered what the world would look like when it next rose again. Whatever happened, the life he once knew was behind him.
What lay ahead, unknown.
Chapter Twenty-One
The narrow lane was dark, empty.
Vicky stepped on the brakes and brought the Toyota to a halt. Wild hedgerows closed in on either side. Lights were extinguished and doors closed quietly. Roy saw the rusted signpost, the public footpath beyond, a pale ribbon of dirt stretching away into the darkness. He felt a hand on his on his shoulder.
‘Time to move.’ Frank went ahead, into the gloom.
‘Wait.’
Vicky came around the vehicle, her hair covered by a rolled-up ski mask, her black coat zipped to the chin, her face a pale oval hovering in the dark. Then she was hugging Roy, strong and tight. She stayed like that for a second or two, then laid a gentle hand on his face.
‘Bring him back, Roy. Bring our son home.’
‘I will.’
He wanted to say more, so much more, but she was already climbing back inside the Toyota. Maybe later, when things had settled, he would tell her how he still felt. How he would always feel. The vehicle pulled away, quickly swallowed by the night.
He followed Frank across the empty field, a black silhouette against the night sky, moving easily across grassy hillocks and muddy furrows. Roy stumbled and cursed in his wake. Then Frank held his arm up in a tight fist. Roy walked right into him.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered.
Frank grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him low to the ground. ‘You want to see your son again, start thinking about what you’re doing. There’ll be no second chances.’
‘Take it easy, Frank.’
‘Make the call.’
Roy pulled the BlackBerry from his pocket and powered it up. He dialled Josh’s number. It answered on the second ring.
‘This is Josh. Tell me where you are, Roy.’
‘I’m on a road called Lark Hill Lane. It’s to the west of Iver, in Buckinghamshire.’
‘Is Frank there?’
‘Not yet, but he just called. He’s freaking me out, to tell the truth. And he mentioned something about Messina. Does that mean anything to you?’ Frank nodded in the darkness, a smile cracking his rugged face. ‘Hello, Josh?’
‘I’m here. Exactly where and when are you meeting him?’
‘In an hour, at a caravan site on Lark Hill Lane—’
Roy heard a muted discussion at the other end of the line, then Josh came back on.
‘Roy, I need you to send me the number Frank called you from.’
‘I can’t, it’s blocked.’
A muffled curse.
‘I’ll send you the postcode of the travellers’ site though.’
‘Do that. What’s the problem with your phone?’
‘God knows. It keeps switching itself off. It’s brand new. Must be the battery or something.’
‘Okay. If Frank calls again tell him you’re running late. That’ll give us a chance to get our people into position. If your phone goes dead again, wait near the camp entrance. Someone will find you.’
‘Thanks, Josh, and please hurry. I don’t trust this—’
Roy powered off the phone before Josh could answer.
Frank slapped him on the back. ‘Nice work.’ He checked his watch, a faint green glow in the dark. ‘Josh now has good intel, a grid reference and a target. That’s all he needs. We need to move quickly.’
Roy followed him across the field, until the footpath ended at another deserted country lane. Frank crouched in the shadows. The wind gusted suddenly, rippling along the hedgerow that hid them. Roy felt a raindrop on his hand, another on his face. A low grumble of thunder echoed across the sky.
Frank smiled, his eyes raised to the heavens. ‘Thank you, Lord.’ He leaned into Roy’s ear. ‘Okay, this is it. You know where you’re going, what you have to do?’ Roy nodded. ‘Any questions?’ He shook his head. Frank gripped his hand. ‘The storm will give you some cover. See you at the rendezvous in three days.’
‘Okay,’ Roy croaked, his throat suddenly dry. He moved to the end of the hedgerow. The lane was empty in both directions. He rolled the ski mask over his face and loped across the asphalt.
Heart pounding, he plunged into the darkness of the woods.
Frank lay hidden beneath the hedge for a full thirty minutes, impervious to the strengthening wind and rain sweeping in from the east.
He checked his watch, waited another five minutes, then rolled out from cover and got to his feet. He brushed himself off and raised his face to the sky, letting the rain wash away the dirt and stiffness, energising him for the task ahead. Lightning flashed across the horizon like distant artillery, followed by rolling thunder. The storm was a sign, Frank decided, and the knowledge that the Almighty had taken a divine hand in this mission filled him with a righteous strength. He smiled. Such was the joy of rapture.
He hit the road and turned south along Lark Hill Lane.
It was a brisk ten-minute walk to the camp entrance. There was no sign, just a badly potholed road cut into the trees, the ditches on either side littered with weeds and rubbish. Frank headed down it, his eyes roaming the adjoining woods. Twenty yards ahead a stationary Range Rover waited, engine silent, rain drumming off its roof. Beyond that, the trailer park was lit beneath tall pole lights. As Frank neared the camp the Range Rover’s doors creaked open and four men climbed out, large silhouettes against the lights of the camp. He squinted as a torch beamed in his face. A voice growled above the wind and the drumbeat of rain.
‘State your business.’
‘I’m here to see Derek.’
‘Are you Roy?’
‘Roy couldn’t make it. I’m Frank.’
‘Let’s see your hands, Frankie boy.’
The unmarked Mercedes van turned off the lane and into the car park, crunching to a stop in the wet gravel.
Josh climbed out, boots squelching in the puddled ground. The car park was empty, the dog walkers and ramblers gone for the day, the surrounding woods dark and silent.
Another Mercedes van pulled in, stopping alongside Josh’s command vehicle. Rear doors were opened, equipment unpacked. Minutes later, assisted by two trees and a stiff bungee cord, a Desert Hawk miniature UAV shot across the car park and climbed skyward, quickly swallowed by the darkness. Josh ducked into the back of the command vehicle. Eyes was piloting the UAV, its high-definition signal filled with static. Villiers settled into the chair next to Josh.
‘How’s it looking?’
Josh pointed to the monitor. ‘Nada.’ He keyed his radio. ‘Bravo leader, stand by.’
Through the side window Josh saw his team assembling in the rain. They were geared up in woodland camouflage jackets, military-spec helmets, and NVGs over black Nomex hoods. Each man carried a Heckler and Koch 416 with holographic sight and suppressor, as well as a several grenades. With the storm blowing, Josh thought they might just get away with using them.
‘Video is up,’ Eyes announced.
Josh peered at the screen. He glimpsed a collection of trailers, then lost them as the UAV swung away towards a distant stand of trees.
‘Strong easterlies,’ Eyes said. ‘She’ll self-correct in severe weather. I’ll programme her with a GPS fix right above the trailer park.’
‘You still think Sullivan is being straight with us?’ Villiers asked.
Josh shrugged. ‘Maybe. His cell signal confirms he’s around here somewhere.’ Josh didn’t want to get his hopes up, not until Frank was lying dead at his feet with a dozen bullet holes in his chest.
‘What d’you want to do with him? Sullivan, I mean.’
‘Frank is our only concern here. If the kid catches a bullet, so be it.’
‘Back online,’ Eyes confirmed.
Josh saw the trailers, a dozen vehicles parked haphazardly, the Star Safire imaging system capturing the park in high-definition shades of black, white and grey. The camera zoomed in and out again, the cross-hair receptacle jumping across the screen.
‘Looks like only two of those trailers are occupied,’ said Eyes, pointing to the heat blooms on the thermal imaging feed. ‘There’re a couple of minor heat sources, probably animals. The rest of the park is empty.’
‘Perfect,’ Josh said.
The killing fields were clear.
The trees swayed around him, the rain lancing down in cold, blustery waves, yet despite the conditions Roy was sweating.
He’d reached the edge of the wood. Ahead of him was open ground, an untended paddock, the grass tall and wild. Beyond that, the camp itself. Roy counted eight caravans, all squatting on concrete stands. There was no life to be seen but what scared him was the light. The camp glowed under harsh white floodlights mounted on tall poles. Power cables swung lazily between them, the rain falling in steady sheets through the cones of light.
Roy took a breath and headed out into the paddock, keeping low, climbing the fence on the other side. He lay immobile in the long grass, his eyes moving left and right through the narrow slit of his ski mask. The nearest caravan was six feet away, but Roy couldn’t hear any noise from inside. He got to his feet, thankful for the wind and rain cover.
He crept toward the access road, rolled beneath another caravan, waited, listened…
Voices.
Movement.
Roy lay on his belly, peered around a tyre. Three men stood outside a brightly lit caravan across the access road. He saw Frank and swallowed hard, frightened for him, for both of them. The door swung open and a chorus of voices spilled out into the night air, rough banter, coarse laughter. Frank and his escort disappeared inside and the door slammed shut.
The wind barrelled through the camp, rain bouncing off the puddled road. Roy was about to move when he heard it, tacked onto the end of a long ripple of thunder, the sound cut short by a muffled curse of a woman’s tongue. Roy rolled over onto his back, peered at the rusted undercarriage above him, felt the caravan creak as someone moved inside. Then he heard it again. A frightened wail.
A child’s wail.
Roy’s heart rose into his mouth.
Max.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Frank stared at the giant sprawled across the bench seat in the trailer’s large lounge. Big Jim Connor, the bare-knuckle fighter that Roy had warned him about. He had a chiselled face, his oily black hair receding heavily and falling to the wide shoulders of his short black leather jacket. Tattoos crept up his neck and a blue ink tear fell beneath one eye. He reminded Frank of one of those TV wrestlers. Only bigger.
Connor was holding court, surrounded by several other men, tough-guy types, leather jackets, earrings, tattoos. They eyed Frank with palpable hostility. Bottles of liquor crowded the table in front of them, the air thick with cigarette smoke. His two escorts stood behind him, close enough to lay hands on if they had to. Frank did a quick head count. Seven in front, two behind—
He heard a toilet flush and another man pushed past him, zipping the fly of his jeans. He was smaller than the others, and they made room for him on the bench seat. He flopped down next to Connor.
‘Who’s this?’ the short man growled.
‘Are you Derek?’
‘It speaks,’ Connor smiled, and the other gypsies laughed.
‘Yeah, I’m Derek. Who the fuck are you?’
‘The name’s Frank. Roy couldn’t make it. I’ve got something for you.’ Frank reached inside his jacket and Connor sprang to his feet. Frank was impressed by the large man’s speed. Standing, he was taller than Frank and half as wide again. The shotgun looked tiny in his tattooed hands.
‘Easy, lad,’ Connor growled in a deep voice.
‘He’s not carrying, Pa,’ the younger of Frank’s escorts chipped in.
‘Shut up, Mickey.’ Connor’s eyes never left Frank. ‘Slowly. Two fingers.’
Frank withdrew the padded envelope from inside his coat and dangled it in the air. Another gypsy stepped forward and snatched it from him. Derek ripped it open, spilled the contents on the table.
‘Sweet,’ the Scot purred, flicking through the stiff new passport. Then he picked up the folded pages, a USB key drive.
‘What’s all this shit?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Nothing. Personal stuff.’
Derek shoved the passport in his back pocket. ‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘Roy got called in to work so I’ll be taking you to the hotel, get you freshened up before your flight. Where’s the boy?’
Connor retook his seat, the shotgun cradled across his lap. Amusement played at the corners of his mouth. ‘Why?’
‘We should take him with us when we go.’
‘Is that right? Well, let me tell you something, Frank, until we get a phone call from Derek in Dubai, the kid stays here. Then we can negotiate his release.’
‘Negotiate?’
‘Kids cost money. I’ll need compensating.’
Amusement rippled around the crowded bench seats. Frank smiled too.
‘C’mon, guys, he’s just a kid. He’s got problems, special needs. His mom’s really scared.’
‘I told you he was a fucking retard!’ Connor cackled, and the caravan rocked with laughter.
Frank grimaced, his fingers scratching his neck, reassured by the hilt of the hunting knife taped between his shoulder blades. Then his eyes flicked to the window, to the man in black disappearing inside the opposite caravan.
‘That you, Riley?’
‘Yeah—’
Roy coughed loud and hard to disguise his voice. The woman was still where Roy had observed her through the window, her back to the door, cooking bacon on a two-ring stove. She had a mop of wild red hair, and two large hooped earrings dangled from her ears. She jerked the pan back and forth, bacon hissing loudly. Roy shut the door behind him and took a step towards her.
‘I’ve had to gag that fucking kid,’ she complained, turning around. ‘Can’t you stick him in a shed or—’
She froze, the pan still gripped in her hand as she looked Roy up and down. She seemed completely unfazed by the black clothing, the ski mask, and when she spoke there was no fear in her voice, only anger and suspicion. Roy felt distinctly unnerved.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
Roy brought his hand up, the spray adhesive blasting into the woman’s face. She screamed and swung the pan, missing Roy’s head by an inch. Hot fat splashed across the walls. Roy rushed her, forcing the canister into her face, finger jammed on the button as she thrashed her head from side to side, her long nails flailing at Roy’s eyes. He pulled his left arm back, punched her as hard as he could, the blow knocking her off her feet. He kicked her twice then fell on top of her, ripping the plastic cable ties from his pocket. He bound her hands behind her back, did the same to her ankles, then secured her hands to her feet. He pulled another ski mask over her head, back to front, restricting her vision, then taped over her mouth with a roll of electrical tape. He stood up, panting, nauseous. The woman lay face down on the carpet, trussed like a Christmas turkey, her moans muffled by the adhesive, by the material of the ski mask.
Roy dragged his own mask off and splashed cold water on his face at the sink. He peered through a crack in the curtains. Outside, nothing moved. He searched the caravan, the floor creaking beneath his booted feet.
Empty. He moved quickly to the last room, steeled himself. He shouldered his way through the door.
He froze.
Don’t think, act.
He reached for the knife in his pocket, cutting the rope that tied his son’s hands to the bedpost. He removed the blindfold, saw the eyes, red and raw, the cheeks pale and streaked with dirt and tears, his cries muffled by the rag still tied around his mouth. He removed that too and sat on the bed, rocking his son against his chest.
‘It’s all right, Max, Daddy’s here.’
Max’s sobs came in deep, distressing heaves. Roy checked his arms, his legs, and thanked God he was in one piece. He stood up, clutching his son, oblivious to the smells and stains seeping through his short trousers.
His only thought now was escape.
Josh’s heart thumped in his chest.
He was now so close now he could almost taste the kill. He rode with his team in the Mercedes, moving south towards the trailer park, Eyes and Ears providing a constant update through the earpiece nestled beneath his helmet and Nomex hood. The hunter team sat in silence around him, locked and loaded, weapons cradled in their arms.
Josh smiled when he thought about Frank, his frame and gait so recognisable even through a thermal imaging camera. There would be no time for a dramatic confrontation, no lengthy victory speeches, just the emptying of rounds into Frank’s body. He glanced through the windshield, saw the wipers beating off the rain, the tarmac ahead as slick as oil.
‘Access road to the right, fifty metres,’ Eyes reported over the radio. ‘Target still inside trailer one, two Tangoes in stationary vehicle.’
‘Roger.’
Villiers guided the Mercedes across the lane and blocked the entrance to the access road. The side door opened and the wind rushed in. Josh peered into the darkness, heard the sound of car doors slamming, the scrape and splash of approaching footsteps. Two figures sauntered towards the van, dark silhouettes against the distant lights, clubs held casually in their hands. Josh heard Villiers power down the window.