My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1)

by Col Bury

  “Standby!” Davison hit seventy and began to close in on the hatchback.

  Thirty metres away. “One occupant, looks like a male.”

  “Keep it coming.”

  Twenty-five metres. “Part VRM: mike, kilo, zero, eight…”

  “Got it. Did you say male driver?”

  “Affirmative.” Davison eased his foot to the floor, seeing hazy streetlamps and houses whizz past in his peripheral vision. Twenty metres. “Seventy-three miles per hour.”

  “DI Stockley, control. Back off, Davison, I’m calling this pursuit off.”

  “Ben, did you get that?”

  “Juliet, victor, yankee.”

  “Received, but DI Stockley said you’ve to end the pursuit, Ben.”

  “End it, Davison. You’ve breached force policy. That’s an order!”

  “Sir, he’s slowing down… fifty-seven… vehicle taking a left, left onto Richmond Road… temporary loss…”

  “Four double-zero seven, about five minutes away.”

  “Received, Bob. Sir, can they continue?”

  “What speed?”

  “Ben?”

  “Only thirty-five… right, right onto Boldman Street…”

  “DI Stockley?”

  “Okay, continue.”

  “Mike five, making the area.”

  “Nice one, we may need a van. Ben, that VRM comes back to a Skoda Octavia in white.”

  “Vehicle stopping, Boldman Street.”

  “Four double-zero seven, four minutes away.”

  “It must be on false plates, Mo. It’s a VW Golf GTI in black.”

  ***

  The last thing he wanted to do was kill a cop.

  But his work for tonight was not yet complete. With the cops closing, it had been imperative that he’d made the jump to the last batch on his list, the ones that the police could actually find a link to. It wasn’t a problem, as he knew a conflict situation was always in a state of flux. He was adaptable and nothing would stop him from completing his mission. The midlist scumbags would be the fortunate ones, for now. They were just mere irritants, stains on society. He simply couldn’t risk being caught before the ones who really mattered had been dealt with, particularly after last night’s turn of events and the little predicament he now found himself in.

  He sighed and stared up at the wispy clouds snaking past the moon, as the lone officer got out of his patrol car. Blue lights flashed around, bouncing off the two large industrial buildings, between which he’d purposely stopped on the deserted street. Checking his mirrors, he watched the officer edging toward him.

  He slipped the knuckleduster onto his right hand and checked the baton was in position up the left sleeve of his coat. He calmly placed his man bag into the footwell of the passenger seat. The Glock 17 would remain in the glovebox, for now.

  The officer was bound to react on seeing that he was wearing a balaclava. Checking his wing mirror, he saw that the cop was up close, just a few paces away.

  He swung open the door, into the cop, knocking him sideways. He leapt out of the car, throwing a straight right, the knuckleduster impacting the cop’s left cheekbone. He instantly flicked the baton from his left sleeve and clicked it open. Still on his feet, the stunned cop reached for his CS gas, but the baton was already crunching into his collarbone. The metal fist followed up with a nose-bursting blow and the cop fell to the ground.

  He stood over the young constable, whose eyes rolled back. No resistance remained. He stooped down, unclipped the noisy radio from the body armour and threw it twenty metres down the road. The desperate concern in the woman’s voice faded and the radio clattered in the distance as it landed then skidded to a stop.

  Another police car exploded into the street, wheel-spinning to a stop with a handbrake turn. The occupant, a much older officer, was already rushing out, clutching his baton and yelling in a Scottish accent, “Urgent, back up! Officer down, Boldman Street. Get an ambulance.”

  The cop was just five metres from him, so he turned and headed for the Golf. The door still open, he dived inside and reached for the glove compartment. As he felt his legs being grabbed, he fumbled for the Glock.

  “Ben, it’s alright, pal,” roared the cop. “I’ve got the bastard.”

  He kicked out, buying crucial seconds. Forcing himself round, he faced the oncoming officer, pointing the handgun at his forehead, stopping him dead.

  “You’ve ‘got’ no one. Now back the fuck up.”

  The dogman’s face hardened, but he didn’t move, just froze, glaring.

  “You deaf, Constable? Don’t make me do it.”

  The old cop stared into his eyes. “I guess you’re Him, aren’t you? They’re gonna catch you. Don’t make it worse for yourself. Just give me the gun.” His voice was surprisingly unwavering.

  “Not a chance. I’ve not finished yet. Now, move away, old timer, or you’ll never get to see your pension.”

  The veteran slowly retreated, holding the stare. “So now you’ve gone from attacking scumbags to assaulting police instead? You’re gonna lose that public sympathy if you’re not careful.”

  “Stop trying to stall me. You lot are just in my way. It’s nothing personal. Now go help your mate.” Hearing more sirens approaching, he slammed the door, fired up the Golf and screeched off.

  Chapter Forty

  The metal barrel beside Striker had two gunshot holes spouting liquid, bizarrely reminding him of an old western he’d once seen starring Clint Eastwood. The sudden hiss of liquid had drenched Striker completely. His ears were still ringing from the bullets that had very nearly taken off his face. His heart was palpitating faster than he thought possible. Experiencing the gun’s discharge close up reminded him of Lenny being shot all those years ago, and the piercing bangs still resounded in his ears, doing his headache no favours.

  Thankfully, either the gunman was a lousy shot or Striker’s theory of the man not wanting to kill a cop was correct. Either way, he’d certainly made his point, and some. The latter was the most probable, as the way he’d held the pistol was textbook, with the opposite wrist supporting the firing hand. Striker didn’t doubt this man’s dexterity of aim and he was almost certain this man was the killer. With that in mind, Striker simply had to escape, and quick or he’d probably end up as rat food. He struggled to shake those unforgettable scenes from Herbert’s rats trilogy from his weary mind.

  His guess at his kidnapper’s possible identity had clearly hit a nerve. If Striker was correct, then who knows what a desperate man would do next for self-preservation, even if cop killing was against his moral code.

  Once the rounds were discharged, the gunman’s silhouette had disappeared through the door, the ensuing darkness and solitude engulfing Striker again as the door slammed shut, offering him a strange solace. The only sound was the flow of the liquid from the barrel that was slowly diminishing in intensity.

  Striker was drenched, but wasn’t too bothered since he recognised the smell of the liquid and licked his lips. He smiled, then leaned over and let the tiny waterfall pour into his gaping mouth, savouring its refreshing taste as his thirst was welcomingly quenched. He’d lost all sense of time. His eyes had adjusted better than he’d thought to his new place of residence – albeit temporary, he hoped.

  Again, he pondered Lauren and her possible whereabouts. Was she also tied up in some cellar somewhere? Or worse? He dismissed the thought, unable to handle it. And what about Copeland? Were Striker’s colleagues still wasting time hunting him, while Striker was stuck in this godforsaken shit hole?

  His predicament, combined with his scrape with possible death, had made him feel a little emotional, philosophical even.

  His children had been at the forefront of his mind throughout the conscious hours of his incarceration. A tinge of guilt jabbed him, a reminder from within that they should have been paramount in his thoughts always, not just now. Nonetheless, he’d been pushed out by Suzi – admittedly after his own regrettable dalliance – and
had since thrown himself deeply into his work. And now, with her lover Bannatine on the scene, Striker felt even more distance between them than ever before.

  He cursed. The liquid behind him became a trickle and his mind drifted toward his mum. He wished he’d met up with her more often for a brew and a chat. Good old Mum. The only one who’d forgiven his shortcomings throughout the family feud that had erupted after Lenny was shot. Striker’s late father had been seriously peeved at having the cops sniffing around his family home. So much so that he’d chucked teenage Jack out into the big wide world, with those reverberating words: “Good bloody riddance!”

  Those damn words had cut Striker deeply at the time. Three years later, just after he’d got himself a flat and become a police officer – basically to show Dad he wasn’t worthless – the oak tree that was Harry Striker went and died on them. The melancholy surrounding his dad’s sudden heart attack was deep-rooted.

  The noisy liquid abated, the barrel now empty. His befuddled thoughts shifted and he began to ponder his precarious relationship with Lucy, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Perhaps he’d been too stubborn, like he’d been in the three years away from his dad, despite his mum’s efforts to reunite them. He should have swallowed his pride much earlier, which may have prevented his big sis deteriorating into a life revolving around drugs with DJ.

  He hoped he was wrong on that one, but he’d already met hundreds of so-called ‘druggies’ in his job and the signs were disturbingly evident: loss of weight, dishevelled appearance, spotty complexion and unpredictable disposition. Unfortunately, Lucy ticked all the boxes. If he could somehow wangle his way out of this mess, he would make a concerted effort to help her.

  He’d heard before of people staring death in the face and somehow coming through with renewed purpose, then righting all the wrongs in their life. What he would give for that opportunity himself. He’d tragically missed that chance with his old man, and the profound sense of making Dad proud that he’d carried all his life had intensified rather than diminished since their bust up. Maybe it was time to concentrate on the living. Striker desperately wanted to be included in this philosophy too.

  The concerned, craggy features of his dad looked serious in Striker’s mind’s eye: “Dig deep, son.” He used to shout this to him from the sideline, whenever his junior football team was losing.

  Striker took not only a deep breath, but also his late father’s advice.

  As far as he’d seen, when his abductor had visited him the room had no windows, and he felt sure of what type of cellar it actually was. When his host had shown his unique brand of hospitality a second time he’d learned more about the room’s layout, it having been partially illuminated.

  In the far corner was definitely an opening of some sort that almost certainly led to another room. The walls had no decoration and were just plain old brown brick in bad need of pointing. What struck Striker was the supporting wall that ran halfway down the middle. He was unable to see behind it; even so, it offered possibilities. The hefty supporting pillar, in line with the wall toward the far end, revealed a gap between the pillar and the wall. Hopefully it allowed access to the other side. The obvious hindrance was his ligatured wrist and ankles, which had been chafing with a vengeance, despite the cold liquid providing some relief.

  Even considering his numerous aches, his senses seemed heightened, invigorated by the refreshing liquid he’d gulped, and simple logic told him at least the type of location, if not his exact whereabouts.

  What had clinched it for Striker was the smell and taste of the liquid that perhaps he knew rather too well: his beloved John Smith’s.

  Maybe there was a God after all.

  The irony being, to escape he would need all the Dutch courage he could muster. The bonus being, the spewed bitter had soaked the rope, enabling him to ease his wrists from side to side.

  Chapter Forty-One

  It must have taken Striker more than half an hour of frantic manoeuvring to finally slip his hands free from the ligature, then another ten minutes to free his legs. The relief was momentarily tangible, and now at least he would have a fighting chance.

  He ached all over, so much so that his troubled mind didn’t know which ache was worse: his pounding head, bloodied nose, sore chest or his abraded wrists and ankles. So he just concentrated, ignoring as best he could the stiffness in his legs and the dizziness. Arms outstretched in front of him, he lumbered toward the pile of boxes beside the room’s supporting wall. More crisps. The many silver beer barrels, and the one he’d sampled earlier, had clarified beyond any doubt that he was in a cellar of an establishment that sold alcohol. He felt that in all likelihood it was the temple, as he’d seen a bar area through its windows – what must have been yesterday – when checking the place out with Bardsley.

  The lighting was virtually non-existent and he’d felt around for light switches to no avail. He strained his eyes to see more, but was confronted by shifting shapes and shades of blackness. With his hands still outstretched, he edged tentatively forward, feeling the rugged brickwork for the gap between the wall and pillar. The only sounds, as much as he tried to stifle them, were his own footsteps and haphazard breathing, the latter dangerously loud, enhanced somehow by the gloom.

  He felt cobwebs brush his face and hastily wiped them away. He heard scurrying in the far corner behind him. A prickle ran down the back of his neck, despite the rats not mattering quite so much now he was mobile. As he edged forward, he was mindful he could do with a makeshift weapon of some kind. Hopefully, something more effective than the cans of coke he’d used the last time he’d been confronted by a handgun in the Bullsmead newsagents years ago. He tried desperately to search for implements to assist an escape bid, anything, but the darkness was his enemy.

  Something made contact with his left foot and rattled across the stone floor. He froze, winced. Groping blindly, he searched for the culprit as the noisy object clattered to halt.

  A bloody tin lid! Fingers crossed he’d gotten away with it. Gingerly turning right, he finally entered the second section of the cellar behind the supporting wall.

  A glimmer of excitement flickered inside him. High in the far left corner, he saw a rectangular beam of light, not too dissimilar to the door where his opponent had entered. The leakage of light, from what he hoped was a door of some kind, illuminated the cellar enough for him to see there was a direct route with no obstacles on this side of the wall.

  He picked up the pace until he was standing below the hatch, where he realised the beer barrels came in and out. There was an old wooden sloping fixture in front of him, the hatch ten feet or so above. He saw a ledge beneath the hatch door, where the light was at its brightest and on which appeared to be three plastic crates of bottles. Alas, there didn’t seem to be a handle or knob to open the hatch. A closer inspection was required.

  It was then that Striker heard the footsteps.

  ***

  There was no direct evidence, but the warrant application had been flowered up somewhat and the magistrate they’d awakened – with an initial phone call, then in person – had given them the green light. With it being an emergency, Mrs Grafton-Jones authorised it expeditiously, especially when being told about the two missing cops.

  Halt had told Brennan, Cunningham and Stockley to continue with the murder enquiries, insisting on attending the strike on the temple himself. He was in the front passenger seat of a plain Mondeo being driven by Bardsley. They’d rustled together a team and conducted an impromptu briefing. In the back of the Mondeo was DS Becky Grant. They were directly behind three armed response vehicles, with another three double-crewed, liveried vans following, in case transportation of prisoners was required. Ambulance control were made aware and put on standby, if necessary.

  Bardsley had informed all concerned about the temple’s three potential exits: the obvious double doors to the front and the two separate rear doors.

  The risk assessment was obviously high and all of
ficers wore their body armour. No one was expected to be living at the temple, although they couldn’t be sure of this, so had to be on alert for any eventuality. The current owner of the building, a local businessman who was unknown to the police, didn’t hold a firearm’s licence. He was apparently “away on business” and would be spoken to later if need be. Radio silence was to be maintained unless absolutely essential, until the strike commenced.

  The right turn to the country lane was approaching so, as planned, Bardsley flashed his headlights. The ARVs turned into the lane and Bardsley followed, stopping amid the canopy of trees just short of the car park. The rest of the convoy remained behind him until given the all-clear by the armed officers.

  The dozen firearms officers were to conduct an armed strike in – Halt checked his watch – two minutes.

  “Just hang on here. And silence, remember.”

  The only noise for the next few moments was the distant whirring above from the force helicopter. They nearly all still referred to it as “India 99”, but in 2012, like everything it seems, air support was centralised and became NPAS: National Police Air Service. Regardless, Bardsley knew any aerial recordings of the temple strike would assist immensely in a future court case and also that any escapees would struggle to outwit the chopper with its multi-million-pound dexterity, including the priceless heat-source camera facility.

  “Go, go, go!” suddenly blasted out of their radios from the armed officers. Repeated bangs and smashing could be heard, along with shouts of “armed police!”

  Bardsley exchanged glances with Halt as they waited, hoping.

  The atmosphere in the Mondeo was morose. The half-hour wait had been longer than anticipated, but was understandable considering the temple’s size and the amount of rooms to check. Plus, they’d not had time to obtain any plans of the building.

  Their radios came to life: “Sergeant Rhodes to Mr Halt.”