'Stand-To' (Armageddon's Song)

by Andy Farman

  Colin MacKay heard the sound of McEllroy's body hit the floor and his helmet rolled into sight in the living room doorway. Colin also depressed his panic button as a kneeling McVinnie appeared in the doorway, MP5 hanging from a strap and a Glock pistol levelled at the young Constable.

  Two loud gunshots and a screaming Colin MacKay stopped Sarah and John in their tracks. Hit in the upper body MacKay was instinctively stepping backwards and as his legs folded beneath him he rolled, falling off the unguarded balcony to the footpath seven floors below.

  After a moment’s hesitation John ran for the carrier where Dave Carter still sat unmoving. Sarah was scared; nothing in her twenty-three years had prepared her for this. What she should have done, as she had already decided that someone upstairs had a firearm, was to get clear and report. We are all wiser in hindsight, and besides, her friends were in trouble. Right or wrong she went to her colleagues’ aid something she would never be criticised for by her peers. Drawing her Asp and CS spray canister she ran for the stairs, also pressing her radios alarm button and shouting into the mike as she ran, reporting the sound of gunfire and an ‘officer down’.

  Carmichael and company had extracted the information they wanted from the flats sole occupant just before the police had arrived. In the absence of Jubi himself it was the next best thing. He now knew where Jubi would be later that night and used a length of telephone wire to dispatch the informant before calling Constantine on his mobile with the news. The strangulation had excited him, as it always did. It was a shame it could not have been Svetlana whose eyes had turned red with burst blood vessels though. He was at odds of how best to deal with that girl. Whether to deliver her, addicted to crack cocaine and controllable, to a Mafia brothel for a very fat fee, or substitute her shower gel bottle for one containing a water sensitive phosphorus compound. Decisions, decisions, his erection throbbed now, a result of the killings as well as pondering Svetlana's ‘punishment’.

  Killing the police sergeant had been a thrill but it was a shame that there were no women officers present. It was far more satisfying than killing men.

  Although there were no approaching sirens yet audible, that situation would change very soon. McVinnie's gunshots had ensured that. Not aware that Sergeant Harrison had already sounded the alarm, Carmichael and the Irish quickly left the flat. Nearby was the windowless hire van that had brought them. Carmichael led the way downstairs, the sound of Sarah’s pounding approach caused them to leave the stairwell at the fifth floor to avoid meeting her but Carmichael caught a glimpse of a ponytail, as she swept past unawares. He could not resist.

  “Constable! Over here”.

  As a flushed Sarah glanced cautiously around the corner from the stairwell, Asp at the ready, she let out a relieved breath to see an armed police Inspector an arm’s length away.

  “My, my, what extraordinarily beautiful eyes you have” said Carmichael, and promptly shot her through the right one.

  With a clearer picture from Sarah’s hurried sitrep, ‘Trojan’ units were now converging on the scene. British police officers are not armed as a matter of course, despite the growing violence in the country. The Home Office would state the reason being that it was simply unnecessary. Politician speak for “It would cost money to arm and train our officers”.

  The call sign of India 99 was added to those units attending as a police helicopter was making its way from the Lippets Hill base.

  The Duty Officer, an Inspector, had ordered an RVP be designated and was driving toward that rendezvous point at speed. Local units although unarmed were also clamouring to be included. At least one of their colleagues was probably dead and now there were three activated radio alarms. None of the officers at the scene were answering radio calls.

  John Wainwright did not notice the splattered blood and brain matter or small hole and matrix of glass fragments that were held together by friction alone in what was the driver’s door window until he reached the vehicle; he froze with hand on the driver’s door. Berria stepped out from behind the vehicle’s rear and shot him through the side of the head with a single aimed shot from her MP5 before hurriedly making off toward the waiting transport.

  Elsewhere in London; 1430hrs same day

  Svetlana had taken the day off sick on Constantine’s instructions to keep herself ready for whatever may arise. Clad in a leotard that was wet with sweat, and long leg warmers. She was suspended from ankle straps attached to the top of her bedroom doorframe, her hair in pigtails and coiled inside a sweat-cap. She slowly double over and touched her toes, holding the position for a few seconds before slowly unfolding and repeating the exercise. As she touched her toes for the eighteenth time that session her mobile rang. Hanging inverted she stretched out her hand and grabbed the phone off the carpet.

  “Caroline Carlisle?” she answered with as close to a heavy head cold imitation as she could manage, and then an instantly cured “Hello sir” when Constantine spoke. After a minute she ended the call and released herself from the self-induced torture device to check her wardrobe and shower.

  Constantine replaced the receiver and looked back at the television in his office. The media were reporting live from a street in London, blue and white police cordon tape was stretched across a road and grim faced policemen of all ranks were in evidence. He had phoned Carmichael asking if this was his handiwork and received a denial but he knew in his gut that the man was lying. Constantine was appalled that the man could kill in cold blood without considering an alternative, as there undoubtedly was. He corrected himself, no it wouldn’t have been in cold blood, and the man would have enjoyed the killing.

  Switching off the TV set he stood and paced to the window. As soon as the suitcase was retrieved his own life and the girl’s, Svetlana, would be forfeit.

  He was not unduly concerned for himself, he had faced danger often, but the girl? He had become very fond of her in a short space of time. On his desk were the building plans for a club in west London, he had gone over them thoroughly and tried to cover all possibilities in his head. Glancing at his watch he saw he now had nothing to do except kill time for the next two hours’. He opened a copy of the Times to the crossword page; confident he would crack it in the time. He would have been exasperated to learn that Svetlana rarely took more than twenty minutes to complete the broadsheet’s famous brainteaser.

  SE London: 2145hrs, same day.

  Jungle night at the South London venue was the place to be if you wanted to be noticed. Despite the security on the doors, if you were really bad you didn’t get checked. Doormen who tried to make an issue over who really ran things tended to get shot before the night was over. Jubi had not reached the lofty heights where he could just turn up and blow through unchallenged; a £50 note had however ensured that his stash of rocks went un-confiscated.

  He was trying to be cool and be noticed all at once; so far he had been ‘dissed’ and ignored.

  After a trip to the gent’s toilet’s to unload some of his stash to two customers, he had some of his own wares and now was feeling pretty good. He tried for introductions with some of the names here tonight. The names were all rivals but the venue was neutral territory, just so long as each stayed in his own ‘corner’. ‘J-‘(Jay Dash) was the biggest there that night, he was up on the balcony with his favourite bitch and some long auburn haired girl, totally hot in denim hooker boots. Jubi had tried to catch his eye but ‘J-‘had been more interested in watching the girls’ heavy pet. Fuck ‘em all; he thought as he sat on the floor with his back to the wall, listening to the music that thumped out with so much bass it shook the walls.

  There were several ‘crews’ present; all had some really hot pussy along, one day he would be there too.

  The news had been full all day of some shooting, six pigs! In his mind he formulated a scheme that would get him noticed by the big crews and popping a copper featured strongly.

  The crowd of sweating humanity seemed to part and the sexiest girl he had ever seen glide
d on through. It was girl who’d been on the balcony with ‘J-‘, her hips and shoulders swaying in time to the beat. Those denim thigh high hooker boots clad a pair of killer legs and the short and skimpy skirt the girl wore was a pixie affair of numerous short strips of lacy material that sat on her hips, only half covering her cheeks. The girl’s loose crop-top draped over barely covered breasts that moved wonderfully in time to her dance steps. The rich flowing mane of auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders and down to the visible cleft between her buttocks.

  Heavy guys from the crews tried talking to her, and gang pussy snarled threats on recognising competition they could not match, but she ignored them as if they didn’t exist. In the strobing lights Jubi did not recognise the girl he had seen for only a few minutes in the car park two days before, even when she was stood just two feet away, apparently unaware he was staring up with lustful eyes. On the previous occasion she could have been striding along the catwalk of a Paris fashion house. Tonight her attire would be more suited to a porn star convention.

  Svetlana had been up on the balcony, all which remained of the 1930’s cinemas upper circle before its conversion, in order to both blend in and identify Jubi before dangling herself as bait. She had to admit that the reaction she got from the guys and the less than hetero girls was a bit of a turn on for her. A big black guy draped in too much gold had offered her a week’s supply of crack to perform an act with him and the girl on his arm which was illegal in many countries. She had made out with them, kissed them both lingeringly on the mouth and allowed their hands free reign beneath her top and skirt for several moments before shaking her head and dancing clear of their clutches, laughing to herself and feeling quite good.

  Earlier, as she had dressed with the Pussycat Dolls on MTV in the background her thoughts had been on her Controller. It had been a long time since anyone had made her ovaries twang the way they did when he looked at her. Several outfits had been tried and then discarded. She had decided that she still looked too elegant and on discarding a white leather micro mini she had next tried a tiny Highland kilt before settling on the pixie skirt. With one eye on the mirror she had danced out some moves in perfect step with the girls on the screen. Whilst still gyrating to the music she had undone the side strings securing the G-string she wore beneath the skirt and let it tumble down to her ankles. Kicking it into a corner of the room she had performed a pirouette that exposed her nakedness from the hips down, before nodding to herself critically. Perfect, the exact look she had been seeking, ‘Complete-and-utter-slut-with-a-dash-of-chic’! That should do the trick she’d decided, heading for the door and pulling on a full-length greatcoat. She had been honest enough with herself to realise it was the major with the grey eyes flecked with green who she wished to tempt, rather than the thief.

  Dancing close to Jubi now, feeling his eyes on her she executed a little twirl that left nothing to his imagination before returning his stare. Jubi could not believe what he was seeing, the girl was naked except for hooker boots, top, a wispy excuse of a skirt and she was speaking to him.

  “Hi.”

  He swallowed, trying to think of a cool response but all that came out was.

  “Er…hi.”

  She smiled, looking him up and down and pausing when she reached his crotch with its fairly obvious bulge. She licked her lips, equally obviously.

  “You want me to blow that, or ride it?”

  “What?”

  “For a rock…you want a blow job or do you want to do me against the wall?” she nodded her head back towards the fire exit door across the room behind her

  “I’ve got a rubber.” When he did not immediately reply she rolled her eyes as if making a concession.

  “Okay, okay…both then.” And with a glance over her shoulder at him to ensure he got the message Svetlana headed for the fire exit to the rear alley, posterior rolling suggestively. Teenage hormones propelled Jubi off the floor and into her wake. He lost sight of her in the crowd and was panicking until he saw the exit door ajar. Stepping out into the night he blinked and held out an outstretched arm in front as his eyes were not adjusted to the dark of the alley. Looking to his left he could see the lights from the street, but she wasn’t silhouetted in its light so he went right, cursing as he trod on broken glass from a recently smashed security light. After a moment or two his eyes began to adjust but two wheelie bins partly obscured his view down that end of the alley. Doubt filtered through to his brain, what if this was a trap to relieve him of his rocks, or another dealer thinning out the competition. Spying a broken beer bottle beside the nearer bin, Jubi picked it up by the neck. If it were a trap he would be ready and if the girl was just prick-teasing him for a free rock of crack, then it would serve as a persuader too. At that point Svetlana offered an audible incentive and Jubi heard soft sighs of female pleasure. Warily he moved further away from the safety of the door. Peering deeper into the gloom his eyes began to slowly adjust, and then he saw her beside a car and already on her knees, her eyes closed and lips parted with one hand under her top, the other tucked between the fine net strips of the skirt and apparently busy between her legs. In six strides Jubi was with her, trousers undone and erection pointing the way ahead. In four strides Constantine was with him, coming out of a crouch from behind the bin furthest from the fire door and pressing a stun gun into the side of the youth’s neck. Jubi dropped in his tracks.

  “Would you please put your coat on,” Constantine asked her, and she smiled as she retrieved the long coat from through the cars open window. Constantine chuckled.

  “You should join the Mounties”; Svetlana paused before replying “Why?” injecting a dose of Valium into Jubi.

  Constantine knelt and lifted the unconscious body up and over in a fireman’s carry.

  “You always get your man”. The girl opened the boot. All Constantine could see of her in the shadow of the boot lid was her outline against the lighter brick wall behind.

  “No, not yet…but I’m working on him, sir”.

  San Diego, California: 1500hrs 23rd March

  Alicia O’Connor entered her apartment with two FBI agents in tow. She had spent all morning and the best part of the afternoon in their offices at 9797 Aero Drive. Thoroughly puzzled as to what the hell was going on. She had repeated, several times, her job in Moscow. Named the people she had worked for, given the address of the building where she had been working, she had even had to point it out on a map of the city. No she hadn’t seen any Chinese. No, no names had been mentioned as to who the backers were.

  After four hours’ of getting very bored with the sound of her own voice repeating itself they had sat her in front of a computer screen. All she was shown were pictures of men and women, no names for any of them. Some of the pictures were obviously scanned from newspapers and magazines; the remainder were passport or identity photos and some obviously covert in origin. She tried to read the characters of the people on the screen, to fathom some clue as to why she was being grilled, if nothing else. After an hour this palled and the faces started to take on a uniformly bland appearance. Then a group shot of what appeared to be Chinese and Russian diplomats, stood beside Red Square for a cheesy publicity snap. Behind this group, glancing out in an idly curious sort of way from the back seat of a Zil limo was one of the two ‘silent partners’ of the enterprise who had hired her. One of the agents asked her why she was so certain,

  “When a guy with sweaty palms laughs at your work one day and then offers you a thousand dollars to visit his home dressed as a nun and sit on his face the very next, he tends to stick in your memory.” She explained. “If only for the novelty value”.

  An agent had treated her to lunch, chilidog and a Bud Light as they tried to ID the guy. She wasn’t told if they succeeded or not but after lunch she was slapped with a warrant to seize all records she had of the work she had done for them.

  London, England: 1600hrs same day

  Constantine had allowed Svetlana to administer the Sodium Pe
ntothal to Jubi. He had absolutely no experience whatsoever in interrogation techniques. He was a 35-year-old pilot, grown too old to throw fast jets around the sky in combat, not a master spy.

  Svetlana had known without asking that he would not harm this black youth without very good cause, so she had provided two ski masks for the pair to wear, negating any reason to administer an overdose.

  Jubi himself had been in a drugged haze. Valium, Crack and Pentothal would not have been a cocktail prescribed by any reputable doctor but it had not induced any psychosis on that occasion. After about one hour the location of the suitcase had been revealed. Keeping in touch over mobile phones should more detailed directions become necessary; Constantine had found the case hidden with a large stock of crack, doubtless purchased with the money from the BMW. Also present was a 6.35mm Beretta handgun and ammunition, so apparently the young man intended a more violent future for himself.

  Although someone, probably Jubi had attempted to force the case open, its sturdy design had thwarted his efforts.

  Collecting everything from beneath the floorboards of the derelict shop Jubi had described.

  Constantine had lugged the lot to his car. Once in the boot he then collected something from off the back seat and held it over the suitcase. The word that escaped from his lips after a few moments would have seriously offended his mother had she still been alive.

  A small farmhouse in Essex: Same time

  Just off a quiet road in the Essex countryside, a family called Fitzhugh for over a hundred years has owned a smallholding. The Fitzhugh’s had been in England for so long that all that remained of its Irish heritage was the name. The present owner, and end of the family line, so far, had been dispatched to University in Dublin. By far the brighter of his two children, George Fitzhugh felt that it would have been wrong not to let his youngest child get a proper education. Paul had got into the swing of campus life and on the way fallen for a fiery Antrim girl with very republican political views. Young Paul had fallen under her spell as she awakened him to his Irish heritage and the wrongfulness of a British Army of occupation to the north. After graduating, Paul had returned home and had lost touch with the girl. Several years later, tragedy had befallen the Fitzhugh family by way of a head-on collision with an articulated lorry as the family returned home from an outing in heavy rain. Paul had been the only survivor of the wreck and had inherited the farm. A lonely and unhappy young man, he had been delighted by a visit a few months later from his old flame from Dublin days. She had a proposition for him. By employing men sent his way by the Provo’s, he would be providing them a credible cover as farm labourers and a safe house. This is why Paul was now watching his five labourers’, sat around his dining room table, clean and oil some quite scary hardware. The news had been full of policemen and a policewoman being gunned down in London. Taking a very long pull of whiskey, he wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into.