by A P Bateman
Grant did not feel the heat, but heard the deafening explosion and then felt the air being sucked from all around him. He half ran, half threw himself down the second stairwell and into the foyer below. The shockwave snatched him from his feet, picking him up and throwing him to the ceiling. He felt it squeeze him, engulfing him with its pressure, then carry him across the room. He scraped against the ceiling; then felt the pressure subside, letting him fall the fifteen-feet or so to the floor, among the shards of glass and other debris.
He lay still, winded, deafened and almost paralysed with fear. Large fragments of plaster fell all around him, crashing to the floor. He saw them fall, but could hear no impact on the polished concrete floor. His eyes flickered, as he tried to lift his head, his consciousness threatening to leave him at any moment.
He gazed towards the open space that had earlier been a series of glass doors, watching the man wade through the scattered debris towards him. He looked up at him, but try as he might, was not able to focus on the man’s face. He was fit and hard-looking, his dark hair cropped short and two days’ stubble on his face. He held a pistol in his hand, it was pointed at the floor. The man’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, and Grant could see muscles and tendons, several scars. It looked as if a tattoo had been amateurishly removed. He did not know why he noticed these details, but for some strange reason he did not focus on the man’s face.
The man bent down, rested the pistol on the ground beside him and pressed both hands around his ribcage and gently squeezed. Did he feel pain? He wasn’t sure, he just felt numb. Again, the man prodded and felt, this time, turning his attention to Grant’s neck. Was he being asked something? He could not tell, yet he sensed vibrations; was it the man’s voice? His ears were singing, whining – a shrill piercing that filled his head and left him feeling numb and drunk and left behind as time marched on.
The pain was sharp, but quickly overcome, as the man pulled him roughly to his feet. He was a dead weight and knew the man was strong. He tried to stand for him, to take some weight, but instantly felt his legs start to buckle. The man took his weight, manoeuvred him around, and then eased him over his shoulder. He squatted down to retrieve the pistol, stood back up with little effort.
Grant tried to mumble something, maybe a thank you, but even he was unsure quite what. As the man took his first steps, Grant’s mind filled with emptiness, lost in a void of unconsciousness.
30
King pulled the van off of the road and into the short lay-by. He studied his rear view mirror for a few moments then, satisfied that he was free of tails, he switched off the engine. He turned around and peered over his seat at Simon Grant, who lay in the back. He was a mess, that was for sure. Although, King was aware that the injuries sustained were mainly superficial and inflicted by the splinters of glass and tiny pieces of sharp debris. The bleeding had virtually stopped, most probably conveniently plugged, for now, by the tiny slivers of glass.
Grant was unconscious, but King could clearly see the man’s chest rise and fall as he breathed, and his head was tucked to one side, preventing him from swallowing his tongue. No doubt his hearing would be temporarily affected, but with luck his eardrums would not be shattered.
King had been suspicious when the Mondeo left as soon as the men had gone inside. He was curious when the Peugeot drove away a few minutes later. The explosion had come as a shock, but it had suddenly made sense in light of the two getaway vehicles leaving the scene. For a moment, King’s mind had filled with the memories of destruction that he had witnessed in Northern Ireland. The residents of the street had panicked at the sound of the blast, but the specialist knew from experience that he had only minutes to investigate before the panic was replaced by unthinking curiosity and reaction. He had reacted on impulse and snatched Grant from the scene before the police made an appearance.
Grant flinched momentarily, but his eyes remained firmly closed. The man would most certainly suffer an horrendous headache, but hopefully nothing more serious.
King reached for his mobile telephone and pressed the memory button for Ian Forsyth’s number.
***
Forsyth felt the vibration of his phone, which had been pre-set onto the silent ringing function to avoid unnecessary detection. He glanced once more through the compact field glasses, then fished the telephone out and pressed the receive button, before holding it closely to his ear. “Yes?” he answered quietly, not once averting his eyes from the two vehicles.
“Ian, it’s Alex. Everything has gone pear-shaped at this end.”
“What’s the problem, old boy?”
“An explosion blew the team all to hell, but Grant’s alive. He’s with me. Don’t ask why, I just grabbed him before the police arrived. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell us something.”
“An explosion? What, they blew the safe and it went wrong?”
“No.”
“Well, what then?”
“An IED. A bomb. They were carrying it. Maybe they were looking to plant it and set the thing off by mistake. I don’t know though, because both getaway cars left before it detonated.”
Forsyth was silent for a moment. He had eyes on Neeson, noticed the Mondeo pull into the side of the road next to him. “Hang on, old boy,” he said casually. “Look, something’s going on here, the Ford just turned up. Get Grant out of the way and I’ll speak to you later.” He broke the connection and studied Neeson and the driver of the Mondeo through the binoculars. “Now, what are you two little birdies singing about?”
***
Neeson had walked over to the driver’s side of the Ford Mondeo and smiled anxiously at Ross, as the man opened his door and stepped out onto the muddy ground. “Everything go alright?”
Ross grinned. “So far, so good. I’ve just heard a report on the radio. They say that there was a bomb blast, or gas explosion, no news on the casualties yet, but they’ll do a special update later.”
“Good. Looks like they succeeded then,” Neeson quipped. He glanced at his watch, then looked back at Ross. Both men looked down as a car sped past. “Did Sean get away all right?”
Ross shrugged his shoulders. “I presume so. I heard heavy gunfire not long after they went in. I thought I had better get the hell out of there. No sense in risking both of us getting caught,” he paused, looked up at the sound of an approaching vehicle. Both men looked up expectantly, then turned their faces away when they saw that it wasn’t Sean. The car drove past, the driver merely glanced at them.
Neeson let out a low chuckle. “That would be Patrick, I’m sure. The mad bastard always was trigger happy…” He shrugged. “Just goes to show we picked the right man for the job.”
Both men looked up at the sound of a high-pitched exhaust note as another car approached, down shifting through the gears. “Aye, here he is now!” Ross exclaimed excitedly, somewhat relieved that his friend had made a safe getaway.
The Peugeot pulled erratically off the road and into the lay-by, splashing through a muddy puddle before coming to rest behind the Ford Mondeo. Sean opened his door and hastily stepped out. He slammed the door shut and held up his arms in a gesture of triumph. “You should have heard the blast! It was unbelievable; it rocked my car outside the grounds! What the hell did you have in it?"
Neeson smiled. “Four-pounds of Semtex, twenty-pounds of fertiliser packed with over six pounds of nails and screws, he said casually and watched the men’s expressions. “Oh, and half a dozen cans of lighter fluid, just to help clear the remains away.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Ross said quietly. “Those poor bastards…”
“No!” Neeson glared at him. “They were bastards, the fucking lot of them! Right after the peace agreement got underway, they tried to shatter it with an attack. They weren’t working towards the cause like us! They had their sticky fingers in everything. Splinter groups like the INLA, IPLO, and not just at home. Rumour is that McCormick and his team had their own little enterprise going on the side. Six months ago, a Span
ish politician was shot and killed in Santander. ETA claimed responsibility, but guess where our friends had just been for a wee little holiday?” He spat on the ground in distaste. “I’ve no time for chequebook assassins, especially when they are using the situation at home to line their own pockets.”
“What about the peace agreement?” Ross stared back at him defiantly. “What are we doing here, if we really want it to work?”
“We are protecting our future,” said Neeson. “It will fail; we all know that. The British will shaft us, like they shaft everyone. But we must never be the ones who are looked on as not having tried. The likes of McCormick and his hired guns can only ruin the effect for us. We also need to keep the funds rolling in,” he paused. “When the cease-fire and everything else goes by the board, we will need to fight harder and dirtier than ever before. The opposition must be overwhelmed by our superior ordinance and unlimited funds. Today has served two purposes - we get rid of a box of bad apples, while at the same time, raise enough money to buy a box of good ones.” He smiled at the two men, then looked at his watch. “Right, are you ready? It’s nearly time.”
***
Forsyth moved further along the field, keeping tight to the fence and the row of bushes and small trees lining the roadside. Unusual for one with such a high rank within the Secret Intelligence Service, he had never seen military service. He had therefore never had formal training in camouflage and concealment techniques. On the other hand, Ian Forsyth had a quite unsurpassed talent for stalking. He had been brought up on his family’s estate in the Scottish Highlands, and had been taught the art by his father’s gamekeeper. From an early age, Forsyth had regularly accompanied him on deer-culling shoots. At the age of twelve, he had stalked his first stag, approaching through the long bracken and heather, from downwind and over a distance of more than four-hundred metres, and finally dropping the beast from eighty-metres with one shot from his father’s Remington .30-06 rifle. Deer, hare and feathered game were far more sensitive creatures than humans. Forsyth could move through the countryside like a shadow. Grading his footsteps and controlling his breathing, he was soon level with the vehicles, his presence completely undetected.
Sean reversed the Peugeot up the road around the blind corner, then pulled in tight against the grass verge. In the meantime, Jason Porter started the Porsche’s throaty engine and drove steadily down the road, halfway around the sharp right-hand bend, then pulled up tight to the hedge, keeping the powerful engine idling smoothly. He glanced nervously into his rear view mirror, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in anticipation. He was not entirely sure of the plan, all he knew was that when he heard the sound of a car-horn, he was to pull across both lanes, switch off the engine, lift the rear engine cover and activate his hazard lights. After that, he was to stay in position and await further instructions from Neeson.
Neeson watched his mobile phone intently. The signal was strong. He glanced at his watch, then back at the screen. The ringtone chimed and he saw the number displayed on the screen. As arranged, it rang four times, then ended. The next call would tell him if they were on, or had to stand down. They had come too far, taken to big a steps to stand down now. The phone rang again, this time just twice.
They were on.
Neeson kept his eyes on the rear view mirror. In the distance, he could see a vehicle approaching. The colour seemed correct - white with a light blue trim. Then, as the vehicle got closer, he was able to make out the shape. He was positive. His contact had been as good as his word, but he was getting a great deal more out of this venture than merely money. Neeson pressed the horn, cursed when it did not sound. He fumbled for the ignition. Years of driving told him to turn the key on the steering column, but the Saab’s ignition was on the centre console next to the gear lever. Bloody Swedes, he cursed. He switched the ignition on but the van was now far closer than he had planned it to be. He pressed the horn twice, then started the vehicle’s engine and engaged first gear.
The van drove steadily past him and towards Sean, waiting in the Peugeot.
Sean waited until it was approximately twenty-metres clear, then swung out into the road, occupying both lanes. He quickly released the bonnet catch, switched on the hazard lights and hastily opened his door. As he ran around to the front of the Peugeot, he raised the bonnet, then fastened it in place, before taking the M16 out of the boot and running frantically down the road.
Upon hearing the sound of a car-horn, Jason Porter almost found himself completely overtaken with a feeling of sheer, unrelenting panic. A sense of impending doom that he could not explain. It was too late now, he would have to regain his composure and continue as planned. His old life was behind him now, too late to turn back, and without the money promised to him, he would have no existence at all. He swung the Porsche out into the road, then operated the hazard warning lights and switched off the engine. He got out, released the engine compartment catch and walked around to the rear of the vehicle and opened it up to expose the engine.
Ross waited for the security van to pass him, then pulled steadily out of the lay-by and followed, matching the vehicle’s speed, at a distance of no more than twenty-metres. He looked down at the M16 in the foot-well next to him. There was no going back now.
It was all down to Neeson now, timing was everything. Between the two points where the Peugeot and the Porsche were parked, there was enough distance for them to stop the security van, while remaining completely hidden from any approaching traffic. The stretch of road had been chosen carefully. There was enough curve, that from apex to apex, there was a distance of one-hundred and eighty-metres of road that would hidden from view. The guise of a car breaking down, while occupying both lanes, would be sufficient to stop any other vehicles from passing, but would certainly not work for long.
Time was of the essence.
Neeson revved the Saab’s engine as he waited, then as the security van was almost upon him; he accelerated out into the road, forcing the driver of the van to hit the brakes urgently. Neeson changed up into second, building his speed, then pulled the handbrake and turned the steering wheel to the right. The Saab skidded in the road, coming to rest broadside, in the van’s path.
The driver of the van sounded the horn and quickly applied the brakes. He struggled to engage reverse gear, but before he could, Ross had pulled the Ford Mondeo across the road, just inches from the van’s rear bumper.
Neeson jumped out of the Saab and aimed his silenced Glock model 19 at the windscreen, in a double-handed grip. Both the driver and the security guard in the passenger seat raised their hands, instantly conceding at the sight of the handgun. Neeson suspected that the tiny 9 mm pistol would not be a match for the toughened laminated glass of the security van, especially with the addition of the suppressor, which would lower the bullet’s velocity considerably. He glanced down the side of the van and signalled for Ross to come to the front.
Ross turned to Sean, who had just reached the rear of the van and was breathing heavily from the sudden exertion. Both men took aim and fired at the vehicle’s tyres. They shredded and the armoured van dropped down on one side. Both men walked around and fired on the wheels on the nearside. The van dropped lower, its underside only inches from the road. Both men stepped back and covered the front and rear doors, casually reloading their weapons.
“Take the fuckers out!” Neeson shouted. “No witnesses.” He nodded to both men, then stood aside for Ross to get into the best position.
Ross calmly stepped around to the driver’s door and shouldered the rifle. Both security guards signalled desperately for him not to shoot, the held their hands high, there was no mistaking the gestures. Ross fired and the glass held. He squeezed off ten rounds, and the glass spider-webbed and seemed to go loose in the door frame. He stepped closer, kept firing, and the glass finally gave out. The windscreen was covered in blood and brain matter instantaneously. He calmly reloaded a full magazine, and walked to the rear of the vehicle, where Sean was cro
uched low, wiring a series of small Semtex charges to the hinges and lock. There were wires hanging down to a central charge unit and he stepped backwards and around the van, feeding out the command wire. Ross and Neeson joined him and crouched down by the nearside front wheel.
Sean took out the battery-powered control unit and connected a wire to one of the terminals. “Ready?”
Neeson nodded. “Ready.”
“Fire in the hold!”
“What?” Neeson frowned.
“Always wanted to say that.”
“Just blow it.”
“You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off…” Sean grinned
“Worst Michael Caine ever,” Ross said. “Come on man!”
Sean connected the second wire to the terminal and pressed the red button. The van rocked and the explosion was a dull thud, followed by a solid boom. The van shifted a foot forwards on its flat rubber.
Neeson stood up first, walked around to the rear of the vehicle and aimed his weapon at the smoking doorway of the security van. He advanced cautiously. He held his left hand over his nose and mouth and peered through the thick, pungent smoke. The lone security guard lay on his side, rendered unconscious by the ferocity of the blast. The IRA man aimed the pistol at the man’s chest and fired two shots in rapid succession. The body threw itself into violent spasm, then lay still. Neeson stepped out from the barrage of thick smoke; breathed in some fresh air, then bellowed at the two men. “Right, come on! Get unloading!” He stood aside, allowing both men to pass. “Get everything loaded into the Saab and the Ford, quickly!” He caught hold of two heavy sacks, then walked quickly back to the Saab.
He was soon joined by Sean, who dropped both of his sacks into the boot of the vehicle and grinned excitedly. “There’s a chuffing fortune here, boss! An absolute fortune!”
Neeson tried to suppress a smile. “Later! Just keep unloading!” He ran back to the rear of the security van and grabbed hold of another two sacks. He just couldn’t help smiling to himself. Sean was right. If the sacks contained what they had been led to believe, then there was an absolute fortune - far more than both he and Mark O’Shea had ever anticipated.