by Chris Ryan
'Get down and shoot,' I told him, 'or the chance will be gone.'
'Treacherous cunt!' he said out loud, and then, almost shouting: 'Fucking treacherous bastard!'
If his right wrist hadn't been cuffed to Tony's left I'm sure he'd have taken a swing at me. Then he saw the Sig levelled at his chest and stumbled backwards, heaving for breath.
'You're the shooter here,' he gasped. 'That's the deal.'
'You have the choice,' I said. 'Shoot or die. Simple as that. There'll be few enough questions asked afterwards.'
'I can't shoot that thing.' He flicked his right foot in the direction of the rifle. 'Holy Mary, I never saw a weapon like that in my life. I couldn't hit the house, let alone the target.'
'Bollocks! It was you who shot the British soldier with it at Crossmaglen last August. It was you who killed the man long-range on the border in February. It was this very rifle, and yourself firing it. I don't know how many murders you've got on your slate, but one more's not going to make much difference:'
From the way Farrell flinched I knew I was right.
'Get down and shoot,' I repeated.
'Never,' he said. 'If you're wanting your family released it's you to shoot, and that's all.'
'I'll give you ten seconds,' I said.
He took a step towards me and made a sudden movement with his free left hand, but Tony jerked him backwards so violently that he fell over and landed on his arse. 'Unless I give the codeword they'll never be let go,' he warned. 'They'll be dead by noon.'
'I'll take a chance on that,' I said. 'I'm counting now.
Ten, nine, eight…'
At six he made a gesture with his right hand, which I took to be one of capitulation.
'Christ Almighty!' he cried. 'How will I shoot trussed up like this?'
'You'll manage. Tony'll get down alongside you.
Now shift yourself, or the target'll be gone.'
Through all this Tony had waited impassively, poised for action. I'd told him beforehand what I was planning, and he'd agreed not to intervene unless he had to.
The rifle was already in a perfect position, its bipod sunk into the moss on top of the little bank. Farrell was shaking violently as he positioned himself behind it, and the ferret stink wafted all around us. Tony went down beside him, extending his left arm to give the rifleman freedom of movement at the end of the short chain.
Farrell gave one more curse — a long-drawn-out groan of 'Ah, you bastards!' — then gathered his concentration, settled his elbows into the leaf-mould on the forest floor, aimed through the scope, opened and closed the bolt, and clicked off one dry shot. The practised ease of his movements made it plain he knew the weapon well.
The target was still meandering about the terrace, but by now he'd moved nearly to the front of it, close to the right-hand summerhouse. In the clear early light his pale sweater showed up a treat.
'Let's have a bullet, then,' Farrell snapped.
I leant over between the two men and laid one of the six-inch rounds in the breech. As Farrell slammed the bolt forward I gave three consecutive double jabs on my pressel switch to warn Yorky that the shot was imminent.
Farrell had the rifle up and aligned, but the target was moving, alking slowly across to our right.
'Wait, man, wait!' I hissed. 'Let him stop. Now! No!
Wait again.'
Once more the target had ambled on; But at last he came to a standstill with his back to us, right in front of one of the trimmed box bushes.
'There!' I said. 'Take him now!'
I put my hands flat over my ears and held my breath.
BOOM!
I saw the big bullet go. At least, I saw the grey streak of disturbance in the air along its path.-I was aware of movement at my feet as the recoil jolted Farrell backwards, but I tried to keep my binos on the target.
For what seemed an age he remained standing. Then suddenly his arms flew half up, away from his sides, as if his hands had been lifted on strings, and he pitched forward away from us in a flat dead-man's dive. Once down, he was out of sight behind the box hedges, and we could see no further movement.
Weapon like that in my life. I couldn't hit the house, let alone the target.'
'Bollocks! It was you who shot the British soldier with it at Crossmaglen last August. It was you who killed the man long-range on the border in February. It was this very rifle, and yourself firing it. I don't know how many murders you've got on your slate, but one more's not going to make much difference.'
From the way Farrell flinched I knew I was right.
'Get down and shoot,' I repeated.
'Never,' he said. 'If you're wanting your family released it's you to shoot, and that's all.'
'I'll give you ten seconds,' I said.
He took a step towards me and made a sudden movement with his free left hand, but Tony jerked him backwards so violently that he fell over and landed on his arse. 'Unless I give the codeword they'll never be let go,' he warned. 'They'll be dead by noon.'
Tll take a chance on that,' I said. Tm counting now.
Ten, nine, eight…'
At six he made a gesture with his right hand, which
I took to be one of capitulation.
'Christ Almighty!' he cried. 'How will I shoot trussed up like this?'
'You'll manage. Tony'll get down alongside you.
Now shift yourself, or the target'll be gone.'
Through all this Tony had waited impassively, poised for action. I'd told him beforehand what I was planning,
and he'd agreed not to intervene unless he had to.
The rifle was already in a perfect position, its bipod sunk into the moss on top of the little bank. Farrell was shaking violently as he positioned himself behind it, and the ferret stink wafted all around us. Tony went down beside him, extending his left arm to give the rifleman freedom of movement at the end of the short chain.
Farrell gave one more curse — a long-drawn-out groan of 'Ah, you bastards — then gathered his concentration, settled his elbows into the leaf-mould on the forest floor, aimed through the scope, opened and closed the bolt, and clicked off one dry shot. The practised ease of his movements made it plain he knew the weapon well.
The target was still meandering about the terrace, but by now he'd moved nearly to the front of it, close to the right-hand summerhouse. In the clear early light his pale sweater showed up a treat.
'Let's have a bullet, then,' Farrell snapped.
I leant over between the two men and laid one of the six-inch rounds in the breech. As Farrell slammed the bolt forward I gave three consecutive doublejabs on my pressel switch to warn Yorky that the shot was imminent.
Farrell had the rifle up and aligned, but the target was moving, alking slowly across to our right.
'Wait, man, wait!' I hissed. 'Let him stop. Now! No!
Wait again.'
Once more the target had ambled on; But at last he came to a standstill with his back to us, right in front of one of the trimmed box bushes.
'There!' I said. 'Take him now!'
I put my hands flat over my ears and held my breath.
BOOM.
I saw the big bullet go. At least, I saw the grey streak of disturbance in the air along its path..I was aware of movement at my feet as the recoil jolted Farrell backwards, but I tried to keep my binos on the target.
For what seemed an age he remained standing. Then suddenly his arms flew half up, away from his sides, as if his hands had been lifted on strings, and he pitched forward away from us in a flat dead-man's dive. Once down, he was out of sight behind the box hedges, and we could see no further movement.
'Fantastic!' I yelled.
'Bejaysus, I got the fucker!' cried Farrell. 'I nailed him! I fucking dropped him!' In his excitement he forgot he was linked to Tony, and tried to jump up, only to be dragged down again.
'That's his lot,' I said. 'The bullet lifted him right off his feet. Now — send that fucking codeword and we'll get out of h
ere. Quick, they're on the move.' As Farrell stood up I handed him the mobile phone.
The shot had sent pigeons clattering out over the field; dozens of them flashed blue-grey and white in the low rays of the sun as they fled from the clap of thunder.
Away in the distance, figures were pouring out of the house. People were running back and forth, and clustering round the spot where the target had gone down. More doors opened, windows too. From somewhere to the right a police siren began to wail.
'I'll call the chopper first,' said Farrell. He punched numbers into the phone, listened and said, 'Yes. Come in now. Pick-up immediately.' As he was doing that I called Whinger to close on us. Then Farrell ended the first call and dialled again. This time his face creased into a frown. He muttered something, switched off, switched on again and punched once more. When he moved the receiver away from his ear I could hear the metallic, electronic voice saying, 'I'm sorry. It has not been possible to connect your call. Please try later.'
'What the fuck are they doing?' he cried. 'The bastards have switched off. HolyJaysus! They know the timing. They should be on the ball and waiting.'
'Come on!' I shouted. 'We can't wait. Run!'
In Greenford a breathless wait ensued as Aherne disappeared into the building. In less than a minute the reserve team had secured both entrances and fire- escapes, but there was no sign of the player. By then SP technicians had replaced the fish-eye peephole in Miss Treadgold's front door with another fibre-optic lens, which gave them a xvide view down the corridor, and enabled them to keep watch on the entrance to no. 57.
Everyone expected Aherne to show up there, but minutes passed without anyone getting eyes on him.
Had he gone up to his own flat? Was he skulking on the staircase or in the lift? If he was at large somewhere, there was a chance he might appear just as the Blue guys were taping their charge to the front door to blow it in.
'Zero Bravo for Sierra One,' called Control. 'Any change in the windows on the top floor?'
'Negative,' came the answer. 'All the same.'
At last the suspect came back into view. 'Blue One,' the Blue leader reported. 'He's walking along our corridor, west to east… He's left a shopping bag against the wall outside the door of fifty-seven. Now he's gone on to the” far end.'
Again he vanished. In forward control, Terry was left with a difficult decision. The bag might conceivably contain a bomb. More likely it held supplies for the people in the flat Should he ignore it? Should he get Blue to remove it? Should he wait or go?
At 0644 the sniper leader called, 'Sierra One, movement in window figures two. The curtains have been opened.'
'Zero Bravo,' Control answered. 'What about the others?'
'No change.'
'R oger. Wait out.'
'lked One,' came a call from the leader on the roof.
'We've definitely been compromised. There's a crowd gathering in the street out the back. They've got us marked down.'
'Zero Bravo. loger. All stations remain on listening watch.' Then a minute later came, 'All right. Ignore the bag. We're going in. I'm being handed control. All stations into position.'
The Blue leader slid out into the passage and silently taped a length of det cord down the line of the hinges on the front door of no. 57. At the same time all six members of the Red team came down the south wall on their ropes, squeezing the handles of their pretzels to descend, and then letting go so that the devices locked up when their feet were just above the fifth-floor windows. Down in the street the crowd was swelling rapidly, but it was too late for anybody there to intervene.
Both leaders reported themselves ready. Then Terry called, 'All stations, wait out… I have control…
Standby, standby… GO! GO! GO!'
The Blue leader, hanging back in the open entrance to no. 58, closed the clacker in his left hand. BOOM!
The door of no. 57 burst inwards and disintegrated.
Smoke and dust filled the corridor. The Blue team piled through the opening.
In the same couple of seconds the Red team dropped the final few feet, smashed all three windows with fire axes and piled into the rooms. The two into the main bedroom, Geoff Hope and John 1Kyle, instantly identified Tracy in a single bed against the left-hand wall, and Tim in the camp bed at its foot. Another bed had been pulled across the door, blocking it. As the female terrorist sat up in it, reaching for a cabinet beside her, a quick double-tap in the head put her flat on her back. Blood flew out over the pillows and ran down the pale wall.
While Geoffwent down on one knee to give cover, John dragged the bed away so that the door would open. 'Get down! Get down!' he yelled at Tracy.
Geoffyanked her roughly out of bed, forced her on to the carpet and knelt with a knee in her back. 'Don't look over there!' he yelled. 'Look that way!' With his other hand he grabbed Tim and flattened him on the floor as well.
Before the door was open, two more double-taps cracked off in the other bedroom. When John burst into the hall he found it full of smoke, with his two black-clad mates from P, ed team down on one knee, covering the guys from Blue. Two terrorists lay dead in the small bedroom, one on the floor, one sprawled across a bed. It took just seconds more for the lads to rip open the cupboards, turn over the beds and sofa and case the bathroom and kitchen to make sure there were no more PIRA in residence.
'Zero Bravo for all stations,' called Control. 'Secure?'
'Blue One,' replied the Blue leader. 'We have three dead X-rays on the location. Two men, one woman.
The flat is now secure.'
'Red One,' said Fred Daniels. 'Confirm flat secure.'
'Tango One,' said the boss of the reserve team. 'One suspected X-ray detained in hard arrest. He tried to do a runner when he heard the explosion. We got him on the stairs.'
'Zero Alpha. Roger,' replied the main Control, cutting in. 'All stations, evacuate the building.'
John set Tim on his feet, seized a blanket, rolled him in it and picked him up in his arms. 'Come on, love,' he said to Tracy. 'We've got to go.'
Later he told me she'd gone into shock at this point and didn't seem able to move. When Geoff had lifted her to her feet she nearly fell straight back over, so rigid had she become. Then she appeared to wake up; still without making a sound, she snatched up a dressing gown, stepped into a pair of slippers and ran out on to the landing, with John and Tim following close behind her.
Already the corridor was full of people from the 357 other flats, some excited, most angry, demanding to know what in God's name was going on. The assault had been so swift that no policeman had yet reached the fifth floor.
One of the Blue team had grabbed the lift and was holding the door open. While John, Tim and Tracy rode down, the rest took the stairs at a run. At ground level the hostage reception wagon was already outside the door. Within seconds, rescued and rescuers were packed into it with all their equipment, and heading clear of the scene.
Running with the Haskins was no joke. The rifle was not only heavy, but awkward too. Farrell was in no shape to run far, either- and being cuffed to Tony didn't help him. Whinger caught up with us after a hundred yards and offered to take the rifle, but I panted that I was OK. Nevertheless, the temptation to head out on to the. edge of the open field was strong — the going would be far better along the footpath. But it would strike an obvious false note with Farrell if we revealed ourselves prematurely, and to keep our RV and complete the exchange we positively needed to get away.
We struggled on as best we could, dodging between trees, scrambling over fallen trunks, ripping through brambles, until at last we reached the northern point of the wood. Now we had no option but to break cover; we were on the edge of the field in which the chopper was due to put down. As we paused to recover our breath I could hear the thudding beat of its rotor in the distance.
By now several sirens were wailing from the direction of the house, and my earpiece was full of rapid exchanges, most of them calls for the police to seal off the surrou
nding roads.
I pushed out through the screen of leaves and scanned up the sloping grass field that rose gently to our left. The ground was clear. The chopper was still out of sight behind the nearest hill, but the sound of its engine was growing rapidly.
'You two carry on,' I said to Tony.' 'We'll cover you till the chopper's in. Go for it!'
I launched the pair with a flick of the hand and watched them run out awkwardly, Farrell dipping on his lame left leg. I'd intended that Whinger and I should follow them after a few seconds, but at the moment I scrambled to my feet I realised that I was getting something different in my earpiece.
'Zero Charlie for Green One,' Yorky was saying.
'Bananas. I say again — bananas.'
Of course it was what I'd been dying to hear. But I'd been so engrossed in our own scenario that my mind was entirely at Chequers.
The mssage made me stop dead. I hit my pressel and said, 'Green One. Confirm that.'
'Zero Charlie,' Yorky repeated. 'Bananas. All good.'
I let out an almighty yell — no words, just a con tinuous noise so loud that it made Whingerjump. Tony heard it, too. He looked round for an instant and stumbled.
Before I could get myself back together I heard the abrupt reports of small-arms fire. Jesus Christ! Rounds were going down across the field in front of me. The helicopter was in sight now, a blue,and-white Jet- Ranger, lifting over the skyline and heading our way.
But also in sight a little posse of men had appeared suddenly out of a dip, and were running towards our pair. I saw by their irregular DPM overalls and lack of headgear that they were PIRA. The one in the lead was carrying a pistol; the other two had sub-machine guns and were firing from the hip as they ran. They were already within thirty or forty yards of their target.
Instantly I hit my pressel and called, 'Green One.
Three armed X-rays on helicopter pick-up point. tl.equest immediate backup.'
As I spoke, Tony and Farrell suddenly went down.
They didn't lust fall over, they were hammered to the ground, and one of them let out an almighty roar. Jesus!
Had Tony been shot? I yelled out, but it was not enough to distract the leading PIRA guy, who bore down on the struggling heap, obviously intent on finishing off the man he'd wounded.