Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  Roberts leant back, just out of view and keyed the microphone on his radio, whispering almost, hoping that his words would be heard.

  “Alpha Five-Five MP – I need urgent assistance. I’m about to arrest a target offender. I’m on the underground heading towards…”

  Christ! Where was he heading? He looked up at the map, scanning the vivid arteries and veins that criss-crossed London. Colours of the rainbow and iconic station names filled his view, ‘Come on! Get a grip, man!’

  It took two long seconds, but he blurted it into the microphone. “Towards Blackfriars.”

  No one heard him but the back-up he craved was already on the way, racing from different directions, converging on the station, a plan in place to capture a murderer and common thief. There would be no negotiation, little fuss and it would all be done just so; thoroughly British and all better for it.

  As the train began to decelerate Roberts made his move. The carriages bucked and shook from side to side as they moved around on the aging rail system. He lost his grip for a second, but managed to grab hold of an overhead strap. He moved again, his quads bracing against the rodeo-like energy of the train.

  Trying as hard as he possibly could to avoid detection his hand had been played, Constantin started to edge forward clutching more picture cards than his adversary.

  Gheorghiu looked at him and discreetly shook his head.

  ‘Not now. Wait.’

  Paranoia was already weaving its spell and convincing Constantin that his days as a free man were limited, he’d soon be staring at a blank ceiling again, a faceless cell with bland whitewashed walls and the only decoration being a faded and lurid inscription from a former inhabitant. There was no way he was going back inside that bloody place. He’d made the decision to escape at any cost.

  He stood up and paced left and right, then towards the door. He looked at the emergency stop system and knew that the train would halt in seconds if he pulled it. But could he get off? Where would he run to? This wasn’t an action film – he couldn’t run along the tunnel, find a hitherto unseen and convenient doorway and make good his escape up onto the brightly lit streets quickly blending into the urban chaos that enveloped him, providing him with a cloak of anonymity.

  He had to fight for his freedom. Once more, he had to fight for it.

  He turned towards Roberts who was now in the middle of the carriage with a raised hand which held a leather-clad warrant card.

  “Stop right there. Police!”

  Constantin looked around, contemplated grabbing hold of the young girl to his left, considering the value that a hostage would bring, but instead drew the aging revolver from his jacket and brought it up into the aim, staring intently at the foresight. He could almost smell the metalwork, taste the black powder.

  All he could see among an ocean of faces was Roberts. Looking back at him. He looked scared, as if this was to be the last event of his life.

  As he glared at Roberts, his mind returned to the gaudy, damp stairwell of the two-up, two-down rental property in Kent; it struck him that it was the last time he was able to recall a brief and miserable home. It was also the place where he had watched a solitary bullet exit the barrel and drill into that young boy’s forehead. He could hear the round now, slicing through his skull like over-ripe fruit being dropped onto a cold concrete floor.

  He shook himself visibly and regained control of his senses. The nearby screams of passengers had brought him back to the here and now.

  Those that could run towards the opposite end of the carriage did so, others cowered in their seats. Men who had previously failed to so much as give up a seat to a female now shielded them, some using their briefcases as a hopeless barrier.

  “All of you go away!” yelled the Romanian addict, physically shaking and filling with adrenaline.

  “I do not want to kill you. Just get…away from me! And you…”

  He looked into Roberts’ eyes. “Stay there or I will shoot you. I do not care anymore. Please.”

  It was the civil, almost courteous gesture at the end of the sentence that threw the experienced detective, long enough to unsettle him. He knew he had to recover rapidly and negotiate his way back out of the pit that he found himself sinking in.

  “OK mate, I have no idea what you have done.” It was a lie. He spoke slowly, trying not to be too patronising. He held both of hands out, open, offering a transparent and non-threatening gesture. It was textbook stuff.

  “You are lying!”

  “No, trust me. I am just here to help. To prevent you from hurting yourself. Give me the gun and you will not be harmed. Then you and I can both go home tonight.” He smiled at him but it looked awful, in truth if he could see his own reflection it would have manifested as an indignant, worried sneer.

  The train continued onward, all the while approaching the station, its driver oblivious, moving forward through the claustrophobia of a subterranean capital.

  “Listen to me my friend. Hear what I am saying.” He was now more deliberate. “Lower the gun. Please. You don’t want to shoot me, it would be the worst thing you could do. If you do as I say you will be given a warning.”

  “I have killed people! How can you warn me? Do not lie to me. I am in control. Not you. Get on your knees!”

  Roberts, trained, but unused to ever carrying a firearm on a regular basis found himself wishing he had one secreted about his person, one that he could draw and fire two rounds into his chest and one to his head.

  Bang, reset. Bang, reset…Bang.

  ‘Cover down, Scan, Re-assess’.

  He could hear the range officer’s words, muffled but concise. He was back there now, so much so that he too took his eye off the ball for a split-second.

  Constantin’s right index finger reduced the miniscule remaining slack on the trigger and squeezed. He had crossed the line now. The chamber revolved and the awaiting cartridge casing prepared for the inevitable firing pin to strike home, setting off the charge and propelling the heavy round along the barrel and toward its target.

  Roberts’ senses had stepped into hyper-drive. He could hear very clearly, intently, but strangely he was also able to taste the air that surrounded him, almost sense the bullet heading towards him, it was just a moment in time and for him, the end. He heard his kids, his wife, his father, and strangely, almost surreally the clipped tones of his elderly English teacher.

  ‘You will come to nothing in life if you fail to work hard Jason…’

  The train continued regardless. It was heading one way, at speed, the bullet in the opposite direction, but much faster.

  A tightly compressed spring propelled the hammer forward forcing the firing pin to strike the round, pressing deep into the brass primer plate and releasing its explosive power. The gas pressure completed the process, allowing the bullet to escape.

  Roberts was only five metres away. He watched the round leave the barrel. Actually watched it. He could see it turning in its flight, he swore he could hear it cutting through the air too, but in reality he could hear nothing. The noise of the revolver activating had almost deafened him and everyone else within close proximity, including Constantin.

  The bullet seared past its target striking the aluminium carriage wall and ricocheted to a stop, lodging into the top of a worn velvety seat cushion.

  Roberts tried to close his eyes; transfixed to the spot, he was unable to think.

  Constantin pulled the trigger again, the cylinder repeated its earlier action. Weapons such as his, even ancient ones were relatively reliable, with fewer moving parts they were de rigueur for many criminals.

  The hammer forced the pin forward again but this time the round failed to fire despite Constantin convincing himself that he had shot at the officer for a second time. Seeing no bullet in the air and noting Roberts’ now rejuvenated and quickening approach, he fired again. Nothing.

  He held the gun towards his face, precariously; it was a worryingly common action of even trained firearms o
fficers when a weapon failed to fire in anger. He looked at the barrel, then at Roberts.

  The police officer had made his move. Saying a symbolic goodbye to his loved ones he lunged at his target and caught him in the diaphragm causing a sizeable gust of air to escape. It rushed into Roberts’ face, causing him to inhale the manic offender’s week-old mortuary breath. Despite the stench he kept his own head as close to Constantin’s as possible and hung onto him, grasping at anything and everything.

  Surely someone would come to his aid – the train was nearly bloody full. Surely?

  The revolver had clattered to the floor arriving at the feet of a young office worker who in a moment of oblique terror had kicked it further up the carriage and for now out of harm’s way.

  Roberts was fighting for his life, hanging onto Constantin, grabbing anything that he could, trying to inflict pain, attempting to immobilise him. He struck him in the pelvis with his knee again and again, driving the bony protrusion into the softer more vulnerable target area but the determined bastard kept fighting.

  Constantin swung wildly with his fists, catching Roberts on the temple and the left ear. The high-pitched ringing providing an unsubtle reminder that his hearing had returned to normal levels.

  Like many police staff Roberts had been taught what were known as ‘Home Office Approved Techniques’ – methods of self-defence that were reliable in a classroom situation but practically useless in a feral street fight where the offender had ten times more to lose, and a barrel-full of adrenaline on tap.

  He was sensing very quickly that his energy levels were sapping and realised his gentlemanly fighting techniques needed changing. He ran his fingers up and over Constantin’s eyes and clawed at them, feeling the skin ripping under his immaculately short fingernails.

  Constantin screamed in pain but fought back.

  Passengers were now frantically dialling on their phones, some to their loved ones; some to the police. For them this was their Ground Zero. They had left home as a commuter but now found themselves a part of what the media would refer to generically as a developing situation. They were the news in the breaking news item.

  They could see that Roberts was getting the upper hand. He was punching now, striking the opponent’s face with his clenched fist, propelling his palms up and into his rival’s septum, trying deliberately to break his nose. He was equally feral now; he wanted to force that bone up and into his skull. He wanted to go home to his family.

  He struck again, this time feeling cartilaginous matter shifting under his palm with a resounding crack.

  Roberts’ senses were now reduced to sight. He couldn’t hear and even his sense of touch appeared to have departed. He knew he needed to stay on his feet, once he was down, he was out.

  He caught a glimpse of movement to his right, a male, non-descript, but a potential saviour. At last. He softened his grip, knowing he was rapidly running out of strength and waited for the male to come to his aid.

  The moment he felt the male grabbing for his handcuffs he knew he had an ally. The pouch, attached to his trouser belt popped open allowing the highly polished Smith & Wesson ‘cuffs to slip out. He had set them, as any good officer would, with the ratchet primed on its last tooth, allowing for rapid deployment.

  He saw a hand enter the maelstrom and shouted out, as loud as he possibly could.

  “Get them on! Now!”

  The male rammed the first cuff onto a slim wrist which did little to resist. The mechanism worked perfectly, encapsulating its target, shutting with a deliberate, high-speed set of clicks.

  Roberts was incredulous. They were on the wrong wrist. His.

  “For fuck’s sake. What are you doing?”

  The male rammed his fist into Roberts’ ribs, cracking one and splaying another, tearing the intercostal muscle that separated the ivory cage. He struck again, and again, once more cracking another of the fine bones.

  With Roberts dropping to his knees in agony Artur Gheorghiu knew he had control. He pulled on the empty handcuff link and dragged a subdued Roberts for a metre, slamming the cuff against an upright, brightly painted pole and incarcerating him onto the pole and within the train which continued, regardless.

  People stopped speaking. Their phones idle. Their loved ones forced to listen to the dull groans of one of London’s finest.

  Constantin had recovered the handgun and swung it around wildly, pointing it at anyone who looked remotely capable of intervening. The only noises that could be heard were distant whimpers, the train carriages creaking and moaning and then silence.

  It was the type of silence that people later recall – when in fact their brains are scrambling to understand what is occurring.

  Roberts lay on the grubby floor, his fight over. His arm was bent at a perverse angle from where he had fallen. He looked up at the two males.

  “Why?” It was all he could say, his breathing laboured, each word a struggle.

  Constantin knelt down and with his grubby fingers forming a lever under his chin, lifted his face, stared at him and said “Because you would not just let me leave. All I wanted was to have enough money to live a good life. Is that so much to ask?”

  He moved his hand and took hold of Roberts’ face. His grip was vicious and determined, as if he were exacting the revenge of years of hardship on Roberts and no one else. The pressure was intense, as if he was trying to crush his molars into a fine calcified powder.

  “I do not kill people for the…” He searched his mind for the right word, “…fun. For the hell of it. But people like you, in authority, people who stop me from being me, then yes, those people I will happily kill.” He looked around the carriage, expecting to see somebody prepared to take a risk, but no one moved. Most didn’t dare breathe.

  “The government that oppressed me and its servants, yes those too. I am Roma and proud. We are a proud people, Sergeant Roberts and men like you hunt us like rats. But even rats have pride. We have lived with a reputation for centuries. But we are good people. That is why I kill. Pride. I kill in the name of…”

  Roberts found his second wind. Realising that his life, ironically given his location, was very much on the line, he spoke, quietly as first, then more determined, more resilient, belligerent almost, and with a heaped tablespoon of recklessness.

  “You are as bad as the rest of them then? My colleagues will hunt you down, rat or otherwise and you will end up in prison once more. And another thing…and when you talk to me mate…it is Detective Sergeant and nothing less...”

  His head dropped to the floor. At this level he could smell the rubber and leather and the long-departed contents of a hundred thousand different soles; he could taste the bitterness, the detritus and daily flotsam and jetsam of a city that moved its people around on foot, underground. He was one of them, normally, a quiet soul watching life pass by, through the window, the blurred images of a commercial world whipping past as the train progressed at speed from tunnel to platform.

  Using the reflection to keep a weather eye on the people around him Roberts was on one hand a commuter and on the other, a guardian. The job did that to you. You never quite switched off. But now, lying face down on the industrial surface of what for many was a necessary and convenient way to get from A to B, he was done. His hearing remained but his other senses had almost admitted defeat.

  Constantin stood, lifted Roberts’ face with the tip of his foot as if he were examining something putrid and then smiled a vacuous smile.

  “There is nothing left of me to imprison Mr Roberts. We will be gone soon. Then, you will never…”

  Gheorghiu looked at his colleague and shook his head once more.

  “Enough, we need to go. We must always be one step ahead. Tell him nothing.”

  Constantin lowered himself in what appeared to be an act of conciliation. His hand was close to Roberts’ face, his tawny-stained fingers tapping him and stroking his cheek. Roberts retched at the stench of month-old nicotine.

  “Goodbye
. Tell your friends not to follow us.”

  Roberts struggled to focus but he could clearly define the image that adorned his attacker’s wrist. A simple design, overlaid across the arteries, bright blue and in the shape of a wave.

  He could hear his own laboured breathing and shifted awkwardly, trying to find a comfortable position. The train was slowing and would soon be at its destination. Cade would be there along with the might of the Metropolitan Police, waiting and ready to lock these bastards up.

  He exhaled. The pain is his chest was awful. He swore he could taste blood, oxygenated and bitter.

  As he opened his eyes, he saw the booted foot heading towards him. It was aimed squarely at his handcuffed arm. It was more a stamp than a kick. The blow was nauseating as it punched through both the radius and ulna, breaking both instantly and causing part of the radius to erupt through the skin of his forearm.

  The skin around the injured site blackened immediately then bled.

  The second blow hit him in the chest, targeting the already broken ribs. The offender held the boot against the bones for a fraction longer than necessary, twisting it slightly as if extinguishing yet another cigarette.

  Roberts waited but the third wave never came.

  They left him chained to the pole, a twisted and broken man with an audience too afraid to even move.

  Cade and the two AFO’s were making progress but struggling to keep up with the pace of the underground. BTP officers called up on channel two, stating that they were seconds away. Another three units, including one from south of the river were also en route. A colleague in trouble meant that staff from every facet of the force had dropped everything to get to his side. It was a universal response.

  Cade leant forward. “You carry spare weapons?”

  “We do sir but…”

  “It’s an order, son. I do not have time for buts right now. Stick it in your statement. Hand me the Glock and a magazine. I don’t intend to carry a warrant card to a gunfight. I’m sure you would agree. Agreed?”