by Sibel Hodge
Corinne answered on the second ring. Breathless. Anxious. ‘Have you found her?’
‘Not yet. But I’m close.’ I filled her in. ‘This farm has to be the place.’
‘I want to come. I want to be there.’
‘I can’t put you in danger. I don’t know how many guys they’ve got there, and I’m not going to risk you getting hurt in the process.’
‘But you’re on your own. I want to help get Toni back. I can be a lookout or something, just, please, I want to come with you.’
‘It’s not safe. Corinne, this is what I’m trained to do. If she’s there I’ll bring her home. I promise.’
Corinne let out a wail full of pain but there were no further objections. I told her I’d call as soon as I had news. Pictured her pacing up and down, crying with anguish, Maya trying to comfort her.
I pressed my foot down on the accelerator.
By the time I hit the Hertfordshire county line, Lee was back on the phone.
‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘According to GPS data, Jimmy’s phone is currently at a place called Parker Farm in Turpinfield. It’s a small settlement of four properties.’ He gave me directions, which I noted. ‘The farm’s owned by Connor Parker. It used to be a farm, growing wheat, but it hasn’t been a working farm for three years. It was left to Connor when his parents died. He’s twenty-nine. Some kind of freelance web designer, according to his tax returns.’
‘Designing sick red rooms. But he pays taxes to make it look like he’s doing something legit?’ A wolf hiding in sheep’s clothing. I seethed inside.
‘Yeah. On the surface he looks like a regular, respectable guy.’ Lee snorted with disgust. ‘Brett’s a different story. He’s only twenty-three, but he’s got a criminal record for multiple assaults and violent behaviour.’
‘So Connor’s the brain and Brett and Jimmy are the brawn,’ I said. ‘But not for long.’
‘Do you want me to carry on digging into their backgrounds?’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘I’ve looked at satellite images of the farm, which I’m sending over now. The best place for access is going to be at the rear, where the property is separated from its neighbours’ fields by woodland, which should give you some good ground cover.’
‘Cheers.’ I hung up and drove along the A1M until I reached the Welwyn exit, then turned off the motorway and headed down some country lanes towards Turpinfield, looking for an unobserved location to stop.
I pulled off the lane, drove down a bumpy track that led to a disused and derelict water tower, and stopped the pick-up.
I reached for my phone and brought up the images Lee had sent. First I looked at the photos of Brett and Connor Parker that he’d included. Studied their faces, committed them to memory. Then I turned my attention to screenshots of the satellite map.
Parker Farm was set in around twenty acres of land. The fields, which were once used for growing wheat, were now just scrubland. The front of the farm was accessed by a country lane with no immediate neighbours. A high wall with gates separated it from the road. A long driveway led straight up to the red-brick farmhouse. At the rear of the main house were two large outbuildings. Behind them, Parker Farm butted up to a semi-circular patch of woodland, which separated it from the nearest neighbours, Turpinfield Farm, Beech Lodge and Simms Livery Stables.
In an ideal world, I’d have liked time to set up an observation post, watch them for a few days, see how many guys they had up there, learn their routines, work out which building they were holding Toni in. But this wasn’t an ideal world. It was one full of psychopaths who inflicted torture and death for money.
I looked at the countdown marker on my watch. Thirty-five minutes left until the live feed started. No time to prepare.
The sun was setting as I took my daysack out of the pick-up and placed it on the bonnet. I retrieved a camouflage sniper suit and swapped it for my black clothes. I unrolled my camo balaclava and put it on my head like a beanie hat. Pulled on some ultra-lightweight gloves that fitted like a second skin. Then changed the number plates on the truck for false ones.
I checked my Glock, extra ammo, wire-cutters, taser, ASP baton and other items. Then I turned my attention to the Baikal and conducted mechanical safety checks, which confirmed that it was in working order. I fired a test shot. It was dead accurate. The suppressor silenced the noise adequately.
With the business end all sorted, I got back in the truck.
All dressed up with some place to go.
PART TWO
Dying is a wild night and a new road
Emily Dickinson
THE VIGILANTE
Chapter 42
Half a mile away from Parker Farm I pulled off the road again and drove down a bumpy track that led to a small copse of trees. Somewhere quiet and unseen where I could tuck the pick-up away. I doubted this remote rural location would get much passing traffic. I hadn’t seen a single car en route from the water tower. Dusk was settling now, too, so it was unlikely there’d be anyone around who might stumble across it and start asking questions. I found a suitable gap between a couple of trees and reversed in, ready to bug out quickly if necessary.
At the edge of the trees was a hedgerow that separated it from the outer field belonging to Turpinfield Farm. I set off at a tactical pace, scanning my front and keeping to the cover of the hedgerow, my daysack on my back, my Glock keeping me company in my holster.
I reached the semi-circular patch of woods that surrounded the rear of Parker Farm and then trekked through the dense trees and bushes, searching for a good vantage point. Most of the foliage was in full bloom and far too thick for useful visual. I carried on until I found an area of sparser trees and greenery along the edge of another field belonging to Simms Livery Stables, separated from the woods by a post-and-rail fence.
The field contained some horses munching on grass. They were the last thing I needed. Livestock in fields were a pain in the arse. Their inquisitive nature had compromised many a soldier’s covert OPs in the paddy fields over the water, and I didn’t need half a dozen horses sticking their heads into my position when I was on target.
In the far distance, I could see the shadow of a house and a stable block but no lights were on. I made my way slowly and cautiously, parallelling the edge of the fence, using natural cover and the undulating ground, until I identified a good spot to establish a night-standing OP. It was a natural dip, with dead ground behind it and some frontal camouflage with a few bushes and a thicket of nettles. It wasn’t as close as I would have liked to be but the fields of observation were good and I had an excellent panoramic view of the whole rear of Parker Farm.
I lay down in the dip, slowly slipped my daysack off and placed it in front of me so I could put my binos on top, an ideal observation aid. I pulled my balaclava down, took the Baikal from my daysack and placed it on the ground next to my Glock as I observed my arcs.
I checked the timer on my phone, synced to the countdown clock on the video box.
Twenty-five minutes to go.
It wasn’t dark enough yet to use my night-vision goggles so I started to scan the target area to my front with my binos.
The farm was enclosed by barbed wire fencing. All was quiet. The only sound was the occasional snort from the horses in the field behind me.
I observed the target area and took in the detail. There was no one wandering around in the grounds of Parker Farm. The main house was about fifty metres away to my front. A light was on downstairs in what I could see was a kitchen but I spotted no one in the room. Another light was on at an upstairs window. I wondered if the house had a cellar, accessed from the inside. Was the red room in the house, underground? Or in one of the outbuildings?
To the right side of the main farmhouse building was a large wooden barn with a corrugated iron roof. It was in a state of disrepair; some of the wood on the walls had splintered away and had darker patches that I suspected were rot. It had a huge sliding door, big enough t
o allow entry for a lorry. A storage facility, perhaps, from when this was a working farm. The door was open, and from this angle I could see the rear end of the white van used to abduct Toni but couldn’t see anything else inside. It was doubtful that was the place. It would have better security, for starters. They wouldn’t want anyone innocently visiting the property – the postman, for example – to stumble upon what they were doing. The red room was a concrete structure, which meant it would either have to be built inside the barn, or underneath it, and why go to that trouble but not maintain the outer part?
So I turned my attention to the left of the farmhouse, where the other outbuilding stood at the end of a long driveway that ran up the side of the house. It was about the size of a treble garage. Flat-roofed. There were no windows I could see because my position only afforded me a diagonal view of one side and part of the rear.
But it was made of concrete. Old, crumbling, moss-covered concrete. It was most likely the place but I couldn’t be sure. I’d have to sit it out and wait a little longer. If someone made their move towards it I’d have confirmation. But the prevailing thought twisting my gut was that one of them could already be in that red room right now with Toni, getting everything ready for the torture show they were about to put on, or maybe having their warped idea of pre-show fun with her.
A movement at the periphery of my vision caught my eye. I panned across with my binos, and there was Jimmy Delaney, exiting the back door of the farmhouse, lighting up a cigarette as he talked on his phone, laughing.
Fucking laughing!
Raging blackness rose inside.
I picked up my Glock and aimed it at his centre mass.
I had a clear shot, but I couldn’t take it. Not from this far away. The Glock was short-barrelled, designed for close-quarter combat. And I couldn’t afford to shoot and miss. Not when Connor and Brett could still be in the house. I’d give up any element of surprise. I couldn’t use the Baikal, either, even though it had a suppressor to mask the sound. When I’d test-fired it, the accuracy on the Baikal was only good for short distance. My only option was to move closer and engage him.
I scanned the area, looking for some sort of covered approach. It was crucial that he didn’t see me until I was able to neutralise him quickly without him raising the alarm. Speed, aggression, surprise: the old SAS maxim.
My heart rate quickened. Adrenaline pumped through me.
Delaney walked towards the barn to my right, getting closer. He was still talking but I couldn’t make out his words. I was waiting for him to get inside it before I made my move. Take him out under cover of the barn and I wouldn’t be spotted by prying eyes from the house.
I took a deep breath, watching carefully. Delaney stopped, turned back the way he’d come, still chatting casually. And then—
Something clicked in my head like a switch being fired, and I was no longer in a dip in the ground in rural Hertfordshire. I was in the compound in West Africa. Eighteen years in the past.
Explosions from the flashbangs roared. Gunshots. People shouting. Running. Hostages screaming. Everything playing out in double-speed. It drowned out the sound of the horses in the field nearby and my pulse hammering in my ears.
In my mind, I was standing over the rebel lying on the ground. I shouted ‘Clear!’ Turned away. Then everything slowed down as I saw the rebel’s rounds catch Tony in the back. Saw Tony jerk forward as they hit his body armour. The fatal round hitting the base of his neck, its upward trajectory taking the 7.62 mm short round through his head. The kinetic shock causing massive head trauma. I watched Tony die again right in front of me before he hit the ground.
I blinked rapidly. Tried to slow my ragged breath. Tried to focus. My head swam, my brain tuning in and out. Past. Present. Flashes of memories from Africa mixing with the here and now, like I was under water in a storm, breaking the surface before being dragged down again into its unforgiving depths.
And then I heard a sound that snapped me out of the flashback. Less than a second later, before I could react to what my subconscious and ingrained self-preservation already perceived was some kind of threat, a heavy weight landed on top of me, knocking the Glock from my hand and into the dip.
My first thought was that a horse had jumped the fence and fallen in on top of me. But I managed to scramble around on to my back and dislodge the weight a little. Every synapse was alive with energy as I tried to work out what the fuck had just happened.
I came face to face with a man. Literally nose to nose as he was half on top of me.
Thoughts fired quickly through my head.
One: He was part of the gang who’d kidnapped Toni and he was their lookout.
Two: He was a dead man.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 43
It was almost dark and I had two choices. One, I could go back towards the country lane, get a better phone signal and call Greene with my suspicions. Or two, I could go and check out the back of Parker Farm myself and see if the van was there or find any sign of Tracy Stevens. I knew what Greene would say: that Connor Parker had no criminal record and wasn’t known to us, that there wasn’t enough for a search warrant, and that he didn’t believe my theory anyway.
Looked like it was choice number two, then.
There was no evidence that Tracy had been shot at the Jamesons’ house, which meant she could still be alive, and I didn’t have time to waste on trying to convince Greene I was right. A woman’s life could be at stake.
I climbed over the post-and-rail fence that separated the Simms’s house from the field of horses. They were still at the far end to my right, thank God. The woods were just a blur of dark shadows in front of me as I walked forward slowly and silently so as not to attract the horses’ attention.
I held my breath, alternating between trying to watch my footing and keeping one eye on the equine monsters. They were still at the opposite end.
So far so good.
I thought about turning the torch app from my phone on but there was a slight possibility it would be visible through the woods and I didn’t want to take the chance of alerting Connor Parker I was nosing about.
I heard the horses now, blowing out air and neighing. One of them lifted its head and watched my trek across the field. Another one did the same. I couldn’t see their eyes but I knew they were staring at me.
I swallowed and stopped walking for a moment, rigidly standing there, making sure they didn’t move.
One horse separated away from the others and began to walk in a wide circle around to the back of my position. One more followed it.
Then another.
Sweat broke out on my forehead as two more horses circled around. They were still to my right but almost behind me.
I swallowed hard.
One of them started cantering in my direction.
That was when my fight-or-flight instinct took over and I ran towards the woods in front of me and the fence that separated it from the field.
I didn’t dare look behind me as my legs pumped forward, but I could hear the horses’ hooves chasing, closing in.
I tried to climb over the fence, but panic made me clumsy, arms and legs moving at once, scrabbling to get over.
I slipped.
And then I was flying through the air.
It all happened in a split second. One minute I was falling, and the next, I’d landed on top of some kind of hard lump.
I didn’t have time to register surprise. Or the air being expelled from my lungs as the landing force hit me square in the chest. Or the wrenching pain in my stomach and shoulder. Because I was being flipped over on to my back by a man, and our positions were reversed.
He pinned me down, his forearm digging into my throat.
I struggled for air, trying to gulp in breaths and failing. Fear squeezing my throat.
Then there was a gun digging into my forehead as I stared into a face covered with a balaclava, two shadowy dark eyes the only features visible. My heart beat
erratically. My vision swam with the lack of oxygen.
Two thoughts rushed into my head.
One: I’d found the bastard who’d killed the Jamesons.
Two: I was going to die.
THE VIGILANTE
Chapter 44
While my left forearm was digging into the bastard’s neck, reducing his oxygen intake, my right was scrabbling around in the dip. My Glock had fallen from my hands when he landed on top of me but the Baikal was still resting next to my daysack.
My fingertips touched the Baikal’s cold metal and then it was in my grasp and pointed at his temple, anger blasting through me because I’d missed an opportunity to take out Delaney. I wanted to lift my head out of the dip and check if he was still out there, but I had to deal with this problem now, and it would help if I had as much intel about their positions as I could get.
‘Do not make a noise. Answer quietly only when I ask you something,’ I whispered.
The guy looked like he was about to have a heart attack, clammy forehead, gulping for breath, his eyes frozen in terror. He nodded he understood.
‘How many other guys are in there?’ I asked.
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘I’m not pissing about here.’ I ground the muzzle harder into his temple to add emphasis. ‘How many?’
He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I don’t know!’
‘Don’t bullshit me. How many of your gang are inside?’
‘I honestly don’t know! I’m not working with them. I’m a police officer!’ he whispered back to me and gulped in a breath.
I frowned. Lifting my forearm just a little, allowing him to breathe easier. What the fuck? ‘You got proof of that?’
He opened his eyes, panted in and out. ‘In my . . . pocket . . . warrant card.’
I released my forearm, keeping my gun in the ready position until I was sure, and patted his trousers down. Left-hand side. A mobile phone. Right-hand side. Something flat.
I slid my hand into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. Flipped the cover open. The light was dim and I brought it closer to my eyes, seeing a card in a clear pocket section that read: DS Warren Carter. CID. Hertfordshire Constabulary.