by A P Bateman
Caroline turned towards the wall separating the kitchen from the lounge. She aimed and fired a line across the plaster, each shot approximately three feet high and ten inches apart, until all sixteen rounds had gone and she started to change over to her spare magazine.
The wall exploded in plaster and wood fragments as the gunman returned automatic gunfire with five times the muzzle energy and three times the velocity. He changed magazines quickly too and started to answer Caroline’s sixteen rounds with sixty of his own. Caroline threw herself to the floor and rolled into the fire place. The space was tight, thankfully unlit and surrounded by bricks and mortar. She was covered with soot and had smashed a glass vase and display of dried flowers, cutting her leg in the process, but she was shielded from the onslaught of sustained gunfire.
Hoist had taken several of the rounds in his chest and stomach and lay still. There was blood, but not much. The bullets had hit more than one vital organ and death had been close to instantaneous.
Caroline heard gunfire deep within the house. She checked she had reloaded correctly and that a bullet was chambered. He hands shook and she realised she had been holding her breath the entire time. She breathed in a huge lungful and breathed out slowly. She was safe in her hide and she had a good view of the doorway. She would have the advantage.
King could see the sports bag with the SCAR rifle inside. It was loaded, cocked and the safety on. He could go for it down the stairs, but the man with the AK above him may make a move, and the man with the AK below might chance a look. Either way he was exposed and under-gunned. He fired three shots above him and tore down the stairs. He got to the bag, dropped the Walther on the floor and got the SCAR out. He flicked the selector to fully automatic, and realising what had been going on downstairs, he turned towards the lounge. He could see Hoist’s body on the floor. “Caroline!” he shouted.
“In the lounge! X-ray in the kitchen!”
King fired the whole magazine into the doorway and trailed it along the wall. The 7.62x51mm was far more powerful than the AK and the bullets smashed through the kitchen units and the saucepans within and through the range and slammed into the wall beyond and far into the second adjoining building. For a moment there had been return fire, but as King reloaded, there was an eerie quiet within. It didn’t last long and gunfire erupted from upstairs once more. King trailed the SCAR under the landing above his head and heard a solid thud of somebody hitting the floor. He took the stairs two at a time and dived prone at the top. A young man of around twenty with thick glasses and a poor complexion was struggling to bring his rifle round to aim. King aimed, but a flash of light and roar of gunfire resonated from the end of the landing. He ducked under the top step and slid down a few treads for good measure. When he raised his rifle and head above the step again, the man on the floor was steadying his aim. King fired three rapid rounds and the man jolted and rested still. The bullets had entered through his head and exited out of his backside. It wasn’t the prettiest thing King had seen, but it wasn’t the worse either. He got up and made his way carefully down the landing. He could hear running footsteps. He wanted to pursue, but chose Caroline instead. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, kept the weapon trained on the hallway and kitchen doorway.
“Caroline!”
“I hear you!”
“Moving down the stairs. One X-ray dead! Another exiting out of the adjoining safe-house!”
“Go after him!”
“No. We’ll do this,” he paused, looking at Forester’s tattered and bloody body on the parquet floor. “Cover me at the door.” He looked at the lounge doorway and saw Caroline easing herself out on her belly. For a moment he felt a pang of desperation that she had been wounded, but almost as soon as he felt this he could tell that she was keeping low and approaching tactically. Her weapon was steady, as was her nerve.
King stepped off the staircase and crunched the glass under his feet. Whoever was in the kitchen would hear his approach, but then again, they would have heard him communicating with Caroline. He just had to do this and not get shot. He stepped over Forester’s body and peered into the kitchen. It was covered in debris and tiles had punched off the wall and smashed on the stone floor. Cupboard doors had opened as pots and pans had been blown out and plates had disintegrated into shards and dust. There were numerous empty cases, but still no sound. King edged inside, shouldered his weapon on the form on the floor and closed the gap.
Mohammed Betesh lay on his back, his hand still on the grip of the AK47, but the weapon was pointing away from King and the man’s grip was loose. He was breathing irregularly, his torso strewn with holes, each trickling a steady flow of blood. King could tell the man’s limbs were useless, paralyzed. A couple of the bullet holes were low, but dead centre. They had shattered the man’s spine. The man looked up at King belligerently.
“Where is the bomb?” King asked.
Betesh smiled. There was a faint smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth. “You think… I would… tell you?” he rasped.
“This isn’t about religion,” King said. “You’ll kill thousands of Muslims. Decent people.”
“They… made… their choice… they… can… die by… their decision… to live… among… the godless… pigs…”
“I killed your brother,” King said coldly.
Caroline entered, her pistol held down by her side. “Me too,” she said. She glanced back at Forester’s body. Her boss, her friend, her mentor. When she looked back at Betesh she had tears in her eyes. She raised the pistol slowly, deliberately and fired.
47
King caught Caroline by the arm and pulled her out of the kitchen. He picked up his Walther and holstered it, grabbed the sports bag containing the spare magazines and the silenced pistol and ran to the door. “Come on!” he shouted.
Caroline hesitated over Forester, looked at King bewildered. “We need to be here when the police arrive.”
“We need to get that gunman!” He peered outside, saw the bomb-damaged Jaguar, the dead driver inside, the bullet holes through the windscreen. There was no sign of the attackers’ vehicle, no sign of the man with the AK47. He glanced back at her. “Stay if you want but I’m going to find him!”
He ran down the steps and made for the BMW. Ahead he saw a red van, someone getting into the driver’s side. All he saw was khaki combat trousers and a desert boot. He thought back to the stairs, saw the muzzle flash and the man retreating. He remembered boots. It was close enough. The van took off rapidly and erratically took the bend at the end of the road at speed, and on the wrong side. That decided it. He got the door open and threw the SCAR rifle onto the passenger seat.
Caroline opened the door, pushed the rifle aside and dropped into the passenger seat. “Well move then!” she shouted. She dropped the used magazine into her lap and reloaded, then tucked the partially full magazine into her pocket.
King pressed the start button and slammed the gear selector into drive. He floored the accelerator and the car surged forwards, its traction control cutting in and avoiding wheel spin. It juddered as the ‘box went up through the gears and within seconds they were heading towards eighty miles per hour. Hard on the brakes, a slight drift around the corner and the morning traffic was already congested in the street ahead. King pulled out into the traffic without hesitating and a van sounded its horn. A cyclist slammed a fist on the roof and swore as he pedalled onwards.
“I see it!” Caroline shouted excitedly. “Five, no six cars in front. I can get out, run to him and take him now!” She went for the door handle and King grabbed her thigh.
“Wait!” He looked ahead of the van and saw the traffic lights. “We follow him for a minute and see where he goes.”
“Fine,” she said. She looked at him. “You don’t need to hold my leg anymore.”
King looked down, removed his hand. “Sorry.”
“Dinner first,” she smiled. “Jesus! My bloody heart is going to come out through my chest!”
“
Serious adrenalin rush. What the hell was that back there?”
“I don’t know. It was seeing Forester. I saw red.” She shook her head. “Oh my god! Charles!” She started to sob. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I can’t believe it!”
“Don’t think about it,” King said. “We need to stay on this guy.”
“I should call it in.”
“Yes, you should. But don’t give too much away. Don’t tell them you shot Mohammed Betesh and don’t volunteer to come in for questioning yet.”
“Why?”
“You killed him, and not in self-defence,” said King. “A post mortem will show he was paralysed, if anybody pushes for one. There’s plenty of people out there who would want to stick an execution on the British establishment.”
She stared at the floor and shook her head. “What was I thinking?”
“Give them the salient facts only. Nothing more,” he said. “Forester mentioned a Special Branch commander called Anderson. Call him. It should be someone he had a professional relationship with.”
Caroline was trying not to sob as she dialled. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and held the phone to her ear. King opened the window, keeping his eyes on the van in front. He didn’t listen but heard Caroline speaking softly.
“I should call headquarters now,” she said, looking at the screen of her smartphone.
“No. Anderson will take the lead now. The police have to be involved in this, nothing MI5 can do at a crime scene like that other than shadow them.”
“And Hoist?”
“Screw him. He was a traitor, he got the traitor’s kiss.”
“Jesus, you’re black and white.”
“It’s all there is.”
“He’s turning left!” Caroline said suddenly.
“On it.”
The traffic drew to a standstill ahead and King mounted the pavement. He gave a short burst of acceleration and swung left. The van was already a long way ahead but King did not jump on the accelerator. Now, more than ever he had to hang back and not risk drawing attention to their vehicle.
Just another vehicle. Just another street.
“He’s turning right.”
“On it.” King floored the throttle and slowed before the turning. He eased through the turn just in time to see the van turning left. “I’m not sure if he’s made us.”
“Do you think he’s doing some counter-surveillance?”
“It’s possible.” Again he floored his right foot and the car surged forwards on a wave of power. “He’s turning right.” King suddenly accelerated up to forty miles per hour, swung the wheel and pulled the handbrake.
“What are you doing?” Caroline shouted as the car swung through one-hundred and eighty degrees.
King floored the accelerator and swung left and brought the car up to sixty in the quiet residential street. He threw the car left at the junction in front of a taxi and settled into the traffic. “One… Two… Three… Four…”
Caroline stared ahead. “There he is!”
“Knew it.”
“He’s only four cars ahead now.”
“Perfect.”
“He won’t be too bothered about what’s behind him now,” King said. “If he was on to us, he’ll never expect us to be on this street already.”
Ahead the traffic was thinning and the pace was quickening. King kept back as much as he could, but it was a balancing act. He needed to maintain a visual, but if the cars in front turned off in a short space of time, they’d be right behind the target vehicle and sticking out like a sore thumb. The van stayed on the road for a mile, crossed Waterloo bridge and headed southeast. King allowed a taxi and a few motor scooters past him, lengthening the gap. The road was wider and the van threaded its way in a little more relaxed manner. They were driving through Camberwell. The traffic was lighter. Many of the vehicles were trades vehicles and public transport. Before long they were in a less desirable area with tall tower block social housing and a series of lock-ups and closed-down shops. Graffiti adorned the walls of many buildings and the doors to the garage lock-up units were kicked in and buckled. Youths in hoodies swaggered and loitered, skaters performed tricks on railings and old people walked among them with discount supermarket chain shopping bags.
“Nice area.”
“You’ll see where I grew up soon.”
“You’re joking?”
“Yeah, this is nice compared to where I used to live.”
“Really?”
King nodded. “A tower block not dissimilar to that,” he said, pointing to a monstrosity covered in satellite dishes and drying laundry hanging from the windows and balconies. “Broken lifts, drug dealers on the stairs, people pissing in doorways, cars on fire outside. All the desirable features you look for in a family home.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said lightly.
“My mother would throw us out at midnight. So she could shag some bloke for a day’s worth of crack,” King shook his head. “We were taken into care. Some pervert wanted some time with my younger sister, my mother almost caved,” he said quietly. “She would have for the right amount of blow. It was only a matter of time. My sister was ten.”
“Jesus.”
“A neighbour spoke up, we got taken into care. My mother later died of a heroin overdose,” King paused. “I think he’s parking up.”
King pulled the BMW into the side of the kerb and selected neutral. He would have kept the engine running but start/stop eco technology was here to stay. He knew it would restart the moment any of the controls was touched. He watched the van park up ahead. The SCAR was down beside Caroline’s feet in the foot-well. King reached for it and held it across his lap.
“We need to take him alive,” Caroline said. “We need information.” She looked at the compact rifle and shook her head. “That’s overkill.”
“He has a Kalashnikov.”
“Then let’s get him now and take him by surprise. Look, he’s using his phone. We need that, we need to know who he called.”
“So we snatch him?”
“Yes.”
“Might end up messy.”
“He probably won’t get out with an assault rifle. It’s broad daylight.”
“You really don’t know the area.”
“Let’s do it now. He’s obviously going into one of the buildings, if he does we may lose him. Too many exits, too many variables. But we better do it quick, a smart car like this will attract attention here.”
“So you do know the area.”
Caroline took her pistol out and checked the breach. She holstered it and reached for the door handle.
King caught hold of her thigh again. “Wait,” he said sharply. “I have an idea.”
“I’m listening,” she paused. “And yet, your hand is still there.” He moved it, but not too quickly. “Go on, what’s the idea?”
King watched the van as the door opened and the man got out. He looked around the buildings, appearing to watch the windows and casually closed the door. King pressed the footbrake, put the selector into drive and the engine fired up quietly. He eased the car forwards slowly. The man turned and looked at them, walked slowly, yet purposefully towards a building which looked like an old mill. It was largely derelict-looking with many broken windows. King speeded up and the man turned, looked and then continued, quickening his pace.
“So, what’s the plan?” Caroline asked. “Because he looks a little spooked.”
King floored the throttle and the BMW lurched forwards. The man had past the point of no return and he was caught halfway. He instinctively ran and he was doing well until the very edge of front bumper slammed into the back of his knee and he was thrown both forwards and upwards as King snatched the handbrake, spun the wheel and the car slid through one-hundred and eighty degrees and the rear bumper slammed into him as he landed on the concrete. This time he was thrown ten feet forwards and landed on his stomach.
“That was the plan?”
�
��Well it worked,” King said, getting out.
“Yeah, if killing him was the plan, well done!” Caroline followed suit, her pistol held down by her side.
King reached the man, dropped to one knee and pressed his fist into his neck. “You hear me?”
The man groaned.
Caroline bent down. “Well he must be breathing if he’s groaning.”
“Armed police! Remain where you are! Show your hands!” The warning was clear and loud and came from behind them. “Armed police!”
“Stay still!” King snapped. “Pass me your pistol.”
She dropped it on top of the man. He was still groaning. She started to raise her hands slowly.
“Let me see your hands!”
King ejected the round in the chamber and another took its place. A storm drain was three feet away and he flicked the 9mm round over towards it with his foot. He slipped the weapon into the man’s hand and clamped it tightly around the butt.
“He has a gun!” King shouted, twisting around. He looked at the two armed officers, held up one hand, but kept the other on the man’s hand. “I can’t get him to let go of it!” he shouted, then whispered to Caroline out of the corner of his mouth. “Hands up, stand up and step away.” He kept his left hand raised, looked at the officers and with his own finger covering the man’s trigger finger he squeezed. The gun fired, rocked in the man’s hand, and King snatched the weapon out onto the ground, raised both hands and kicked the pistol a few feet away. “I’ve got it! It’s clear, don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” He was standing to one side and said, “Caroline! ID and pull rank now!”
The armed officers were moving forwards, their pistols aimed at them, both shouting who they were and what they wanted. Caroline had her ID out of her pocket. Behind the armed officers two plain clothes police officers were on site and moving towards them.
“Caroline Darby, Security Service! Lower your weapons and stand down at once! You are interfering and corrupting an MI5 operation! I said, lower your weapons, now!”