The younger officer looked quickly at his senior colleague who nodded and carried on driving.
“Absolutely guv. You’re the boss.” He withdrew the Austrian pistol from the gun safe and handed it over his shoulder, quickly followed by the magazine.
“Weapon is safe.”
“Thank you.”
Regardless of the safety briefing Cade withdrew the chamber flag and pulled the ribbed slide back quarter of the way, checking for a round. Seeing it empty he slammed the seventeen round magazine into the stock and racked the weapon. His left hand moving rapidly and efficiently, backwards over his right shoulder.
“Sorry boss, haven’t got a holster. You be OK?”
“It won’t be in the holster mate. How long?”
“Two, maybe three.”
The train reached the station; the doors opened and its passengers disgorged, some were walking at a pace, oblivious to the chaos, others ran; some were powerless, unable to put one foot in front of the other. Men and women wore panicked expressions, panicked but relieved. In such tight confines the business-as-usual pedestrian carnage aided the two comrades who were able to move quickly through the station.
A lone female, a lifelong officer in the Royal Air Force had seen enough, now mobile she had made the decision to follow the pair, and if they separated she’d follow the one who looked ravaged by heroin.
“Yes, you bastard, I’m following you.”
Having seen the way they had attacked the officer she knew it was her duty to track them – it wasn’t without risk, Air Force or not she was only an Education Officer, hardly a combat pilot, but she knew right from wrong and this was wrong on every possible count.
She dialled 999 and spoke as she walked.
She was physically and mentally fit, and typical of Her Majesty’s Forces as she had displayed an early and uncanny tendency to win on the athletics field, she soon found herself spending as long training for an event as she did teaching junior staff. Her bosses had been quite candid.
‘Why let work get in the way of beating the army?’
And she could keep up with these two all day long.
On a rare day off from nearby RAF Northolt, Flight Lieutenant Mary-Jane Shipley was the epitome of the girl-next-door.
She favoured plain hair, plain make-up and had a willowy frame, the result of years of what she considered to be ‘competitive ballet’. Plain she might be but in many aspects she was the envy of many of her more ‘rotund’ and more colourful friends.
She was attractive in a very addictive way. Men wanted to be with her, they adored the way her nose crinkled when she giggled and how she laughed openly at their appalling attempts at humour – and yet none had ever conquered the fear, simply to ask her out. Perhaps it was the fear of being beaten to a pulp if they went too far?
And so she became their friend rather than their lover. Which was rather a pity as deep down she had an appetite as large as her lust for life.
She’d joined 32 Squadron Royal Air Force and revelled in the opportunity to meet with VIPs and the British royal family. Her latter-day role was more liaison than anything else, but her core, the very heart of her was a fighter.
She could still beat her male colleagues hands down at arm wrestling and had a strength of mind to match. With a brown belt in Shotokan karate and another, more recently in Taekwondo she revelled in a good scrap. Where she lacked in physical strength she excelled in speed, often using her own attacker’s energies against them.
She also had a spirit that contradicted her relatively tender and sheltered upbringing as the only daughter of strict Christian parents, both teachers from the west country county of Devon. The day she passed out at RAF Cranwell her father had wept. They were genuine tears of pride. All he needed to do now was protect her from the dangers of conflict.
“Pick your battles, my girl.”
And so, to appease Mr Shipley, as his pupils called him, she moved into the education branch and in her father’s defence had never looked back. She had found her vocation, life in the forces, teaching but ready to fight should the day ever arise.
She’d never had a boyfriend, not even close, but she had plenty of friends who were boys and she was immensely popular. Never the twain.
The night before, under floodlights, she had acted as a pace runner to a male colleague, in training for a joint forces long distance event. She cruised along, engaging him in conversation, at one point even telling a joke. He loved and hated her at the same time.
In truth he loved her; she was just Flight Lieutenant “MJ” to her colleagues, but to him she was simply Mary and rather beautiful. He was desperate to tell her, even more so to marry her, just hadn’t got the first clue how.
She had missed it entirely, the subtle nuances were simply that, too subtle.
Leaving him at the trackside she jogged away. It helped her to cool down on the way to the dojo where she would train for two more hours. Her aim, in her latterly discovered Korean martial art was the next phase, a belt, nothing more elaborate than that. And this one happened to be red.
Her teacher, a Californian with straw-coloured hair and a physique that belied his sixty years, was a man of few words. However, she could still recall them as he handed her belt over at a recent grading.
“Red. The next phase, and never forget, red is for danger. You are almost there. One more step.”
She’d risen early as always, brushed her hair, tied it in a simple ponytail, flossed her teeth, rinsed, paid limited attention to her appearance and having donned a tracksuit and waterproof jacket had travelled across her favourite city.
She adored the underground, seeing it as a splendid way of navigating, avoiding the above-ground traffic chaos, in itself a positive thing as she had never learned to drive.
It was a great day. It was always was. She lived to be alive, despised cruelty to her fellow man and above all, hated bullies. And now she was behind two, keeping pace, easily.
‘All day long!’
One was evidently struggling. That copper had landed a really good strike on his leg and he was paying the price. She decided that if she got the chance, she’d kick him too.
“Yes, I’m still in direct line of sight. They are making their way towards the exit. One is limping slightly, I’m going to stay with him. He has the gun.” She was whispering, pointlessly as the ambient noise of the tube meant that her targets couldn’t hear her if they wanted to.
The control room operator at the newly opened Bow Command Centre was frantically typing into the police system whilst a wave of the hand attracted her supervisor. She pointed to the screen. It took less than twenty seconds for the team leader to read, digest and disseminate the information.
The rapidly typed message read:
‘2 x males – both IC1 – one wearing a blue jacket. Carrying a backpack.
*Older of two has a gun*. Revolver.
He is limping. Has a fresh cut to his face, near his eye.
Speaks with an accent. Russian?’
The text was free hand, without analysis and beginning to fill with acronyms and codes which to the untrained eye were all but impossible to read: IC1 was standard police code for a white European.
“Are they both armed? How do you know it’s a gun?”
“I can’t answer the first question, sorry. One is though, definitely carrying a revolver and to answer the second question, I’ve fired enough to last a lifetime.”
Shipley continued, it appeared that she did so without even taking a breath.
“The one who is limping shot at a police officer. He missed. The officer is still on the train, they handcuffed him. He needs help quickly – nasty injury to his arm.”
She looked ahead, lifting her head to maintain the view in the growing crowd.
“What is your description please?”
Shipley described herself briefly and without question. Then she continued her commentary.
“OK, they are starting to get ahead of me, stand by a second I n
eed to move faster.”
The operator could only wait, her right headphone full of background noise. He wanted to warn her.
At the same time at least half a dozen other callers had rung the emergency services, many now from what they considered a safe place. Their first call had been to the police. One, in a panic, rang the Fire Brigade. Another pulled the emergency cord, rang her husband, then the police. Most had left, either continuing their commute or running anywhere they could to avoid conflict.
A suited female sat on the floor of the train as it waited at the platform, doors open, her hand rubbing the back of the complete stranger who was now almost unconscious, manacled to the bright yellow, cold metal pole.
“Stay with me, officer.”
Roberts cracked open his left eye, swallowed deeply to avoid vomiting and uttered, “I’m hardly going anywhere, am I my love?”
“Guv, control room have a sighting of our targets. One wearing a blue jacket, carrying a backpack. Got a limp. Being followed by a witness. Stand by…one male has a firearm, seen by the witness. She’s RAF apparently, giving a commentary. On an escalator.”
“All units Blackfriars. Two IC1 males responsible for a serious assault on a police officer. One is known to be armed with a revolver. One wearing a blue jacket. One is limping…he has the firearm. A witness has been following but has temporarily lost sight. Witness is a female, wearing a tracksuit, hair in a ponytail. Stand by for further. Now towards the bridge. Units attending please acknowledge call signs.”
And so the flow of information slowly increased. Piece by piece it was processed until the dozen or so staff who were now on the ground and heading rapidly to the scene, knew roughly who and what they were looking for.
In the middle of a field in broad daylight their two wanted offenders would stand out like fresh red wine on a pristine wedding dress but here in the heart of a pulsing city it was easier than many realised simply to lose a target, especially if the target steadfastly refused to play by the rules.
“I need to stop. Just give me a moment. I can’t breathe.” It was Constantin.
“Brother, if we stop, we die. And I do not intend to die in England. Not today. Not ever. Now come on, keep moving, just another hundred metres and we will be free. Keep moving or I will shoot you myself.”
Constantin looked behind him and saw an organised crowd; people to meet, places to go. To the left and walking quickly, talking on a cell phone was a thin girl, with what he considered a pale and uninteresting face and she was looking at him. She stopped, tried to blend back in, but he had isolated her now. He shuffled forwards trying to maintain Gheorghiu’s pace. They were up now and out onto the street, walking quickly with the southbound foot traffic.
“This way, quickly, we must separate, head up the street, towards the old sandwich bar. Take the door on the left just before the red phone box. It is safe. I’ll meet you in two minutes. Remember what I told you on the train. Now go.”
Gheorghiu knew he could also be a target, but he realised that the police were after Constantin, first and foremost. He took a minute to watch, observe and sense what was happening. There were police converging on the street, cars came across the bridge, one from the north too, the cacophonous noise of sirens surrounded him. Before long they would be everywhere and the luck that had guided them so far would soon end.
A thin female stopped at the edge of the station exit and looked up the street and then to her left, across the bridge. She was not police, somehow he had a sixth sense about her, but she wasn’t a conventional passenger either. She had purpose, a mission, although he wasn’t sure what. He looked away, turned and carried on towards the same door that his partner had now reached.
She followed. Looking down at her phone she saw that she had been cut off, so pressed the green icon and re-dialled.
Constantin was beginning to panic. He could almost smell his pursuers; any second now he would hear them shout his name, feel their cold, bony hand on his shoulder; die at the hands of their firearms or slowly decay in one of their prisons.
He reached the door and walked straight through, nonchalantly, following instructions, pieces of simple data that had somehow managed to navigate through the nauseating haze of a still-recent drug intake.
Perhaps, he pondered, in a part of his brain that allowed another conversation to continue unabated, the drugs had kept him alive? Perhaps.
‘I need more, that is true. But later. Now, I need to live.’ He pressed on.
A prematurely balding and wiry-electrician walked straight into him, head down, busy trying to complete his work so he could get away, and where possible avoid the inevitable traffic chaos. He intended to spend at best an hour with his new and rather-flexible girlfriend before once more stepping back onto the hamster wheel of municipal life.
“Oy watch it pal, you wanna slow down there chief. ‘Ere, you alright? You got yourself a nasty little cut on your eye. ‘Ad a scrap wiv your missus?”
“My wife, she find out about other woman!” He emphasised his natural accent, in a successful attempt to avoid a full conversation. “I go to cellar, do plumbing.”
“Fill your boots, chief. I haven’t been paid this week, so I don’t give a monkey’s who goes in. Careful though, it’s wet through down there.”
The male was already walking away into the shadows, resolute, and for all the world just another illegal migrant tradesman living a downtrodden life.
“Women eh? Can’t live wiv ‘em, certainly can’t live wivout ‘em. See you later, lock the door on your way out, don’t want any more bloody squatters in there do we?”
And with a whistle the youthful tradesman left the corridor, walked through the partially boarded-up entrance and headed for his van.
Gheorghiu watched him exit and made a similar purposeful approach to the partly derelict building. Without looking behind him he walked in and slid a wooden hoarding into place, creating a temporary barrier. He stopped, listened for activity, other than the chaos outside, and smiled. He exhaled slowly, adapting to the reduced light. Almost there. He could be guaranteed safety if it wasn’t for his boss’s misplaced loyalty to that helpless drug addict. So what if he brought them more money than they had witnessed for many months? They could train new, younger, expendable boys to do the same role.
‘Enough thinking. Get moving.’
Cade and a growing team were rapidly through Blackfriars station, searching as methodically as they could, all the while waiting for any updates.
“Anything from the control room teams? Or our friends at London Transport?”
“Not a thing, guv. It’s called TFL now, by the way… Transport for London.” He stopped.
“Hang on, look down there!” He was pointing with his non-master hand, the other staying firmly on his weapon.
The officer had been attracted by an underground worker, waving but not wanting to shout, for fear that the attackers might still be in the area.
As they ran towards the guard, weapons in the low ready position their radio hissed back into life.
“TFL have a sighting of our target. He’s no longer alone. In company with a younger male. They were seen to exit Blackfriars and turn left. Time delay about three minutes.”
Cade was becoming rapidly frustrated, angry at the level of their ill fortune.
“Exit? Jesus H Christ! Right, you two see what he wants. Guys, you two come with me.”
He called up on the local channel.
“Cade, all teams at Blackfriars. Let’s concentrate our search in the Blackfriars Bridge area please, get into offices, ask questions and remember one of these…people…is armed. Control, you received?”
His instructions were acknowledged and followed by another update.
“All units Blackfriars, DS Roberts is on an underground train with a member of the public, a number of calls coming in, he’s alive but injured. The train has been stopped.”
“Cade. We’ll deal with that.” He looked around for another s
taff member.
“You! I need to get to the train that has just arrived from Embankment.”
The sixty-three-year-old female Dominican questioned him immediately.
“Seriously? You want me to go to the train when there are men, with guns? Are you crazy?”
Cade had begun to question over the last twenty-four hours whether he was indeed as unwise as the subterranean veteran was suggesting. He’d crammed more into a day than most would deal with in a lifetime.
“My love I don’t know if you have noticed, but we all have guns?”
She hadn’t.
“Good, so now you know. I would suggest you are a damned sight safer with us than you are stood here on your own with a bloody whistle. Your call.”
She paused, sucked air in through her overly white teeth and started walking.
“This way, gentlemen, this way.”
They reached Roberts in less than two minutes. Cade instructed the team members to ensure the train remained on site and also double-checked that they were happy that the platforms and surrounding areas were safe.
“And find out how long the ambulance staff will be. Get someone to fast track them down here!”
He stepped into the train and walked a few metres before kneeling down, smiling at the attending female and placing a hand on Roberts’ shoulder.
“Don’t tell me, you should see the other guy?”
Roberts could only laugh a shallow, controlled laugh.
“Fuck off, Inspector. This is Emily, by the way. She works for Deloittes. Lovely girl.” He was grey with pain. “Have you caught the bastard yet? I want five minutes with him. He’s smashed my bloody arm. Look at it. Actually, I can’t. I feel sick. I’ll never play the guitar again…”
Cade looked down at him, carefully undoing the offending handcuff but still causing his colleague to scream. He laid the damaged limb down at Roberts’ side, deciding that any further manipulation would just be cruel.
“I didn’t know you played the guitar?”
“I don’t.” They both laughed, causing Roberts to wince and cough up some more fresh, bright red blood. He spat it onto the train floor whilst trying to ease himself onto his good side. A trickle of red-tinted saliva clung to his chin. He wiped it off with his good hand.
Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2) Page 30