The John Milton Series Boxset 3

by Mark Dawson

  Hicks and Gillan had parked two stolen cars in the street adjacent to the second door. It meant that Öztürk would have to park fifteen feet away and then walk to get inside. They had timed it, taking his limp into account, and reckoned it would give them another ten seconds. It didn’t seem like much, but when you were planning an operation of this nature, each additional second was a gift.

  Hicks slid around just a little so that he could bring his own HK417 to bear. He had the version with a Leupold Mark 4 scope. He cradled the forestock in his left hand, pressed the butt into the cleft between his shoulder and cheek, and reached around with his right hand so that he could slide his finger through the trigger guard. He felt the cold touch of the trigger against the pad of his index finger and squeezed until he felt the resistance.

  The general had wanted to get to Öztürk for months, but planning the operation had been difficult. They had scouted his property, wondering if they might take him there, but they had quickly discounted it. The front door was so well fortified that they would have had to use explosives to breach it. They had considered knocking a hole in the rear wall of the property so that they could get in, but that, too, had been discounted. Too noisy. Too slow. They would wait until he ventured out onto the street.

  Öztürk was guarded by another two men. Both were shaven-headed and muscular. Both would be armed. They flanked him on either side as he hobbled down the pavement to the second door. One of the guards, the one nearest to the wall and on the other side of Öztürk to Hicks, went ahead and knocked on the door. Hicks pressed his eye to the scope and tracked him, placing the guard squarely within the centre of the targeting reticule. There was a pause, the man looking up at a CCTV camera that had been fixed above the door and then leaning forward and speaking into an intercom. Words were exchanged with someone inside the building, and then, the careful security measures satisfied, the door opened. A third man appeared from inside, stepping out into the recessed doorway.

  Öztürk stepped inside the building. His men followed him, and the door was closed behind them.

  Hicks reported: “They’re inside.”

  He waited, aiming at the door. Öztürk visited this building several times a week. It was where he collected and stored the money he made from the sales of his product. He was careful, never following a routine, and they had kept him under surveillance for the last few days so that they could be sure of his plans. Hicks had camped out on the roof for several hours every night, just waiting for him to visit.

  The door to the building opened.

  “Stand ready,” Hicks said into the mic.

  He was aware of the lights of a car in his peripheral vision as it drew to a stop fifty feet along Umfreville Road. He glanced at it: an Audi. Alistair Woodward’s car.

  One of Öztürk’s bodyguards stepped outside.

  Öztürk was next.

  The second bodyguard followed him, this one carrying a large sports bag.

  Hicks changed his aim and spoke one word into his mic. “Firing.”

  He started to count.

  One, two, three.

  He pulled the trigger on four.

  The gun recoiled into his shoulder, but he had anticipated it and was able to accommodate it easily. His 417 was chambered in 7.62mm, a heavier round that was generally used for sniping or when more muzzle velocity and penetration was needed. The man in the doorway fell, clutching his gut. Hicks had not attempted a head shot; he was confident that he would have been able to make it, even with the poor visibility in these awful conditions, but there was no need to risk a miss. That might have meant that the door would have been closed and their chance gone. Far better to plan it out this way: the man had fallen in the doorway, blocking the access point and making it impossible to shut the door.

  Five, six.

  Öztürk shouted in panic.

  Seven, eight.

  Hicks shortened his aim, placed the reticule between Öztürk’s shoulder blades, and pulled the trigger. Uncle staggered against the wall as if he had been shoved in the back. He fell to his knees, one hand reaching down to prevent himself from falling flat on his face.

  Eight, nine, ten.

  The remaining guard was good. He realised that they were being sniped from above and immediately fell into cover behind the parked cars. Hicks held his aim, waiting for him to risk a glance up at his position, but he knew that he wouldn’t be needed. Alistair Woodward was on the same side of the road as Öztürk and his men. He had been twenty feet away when Hicks had opened fire and, in the seconds that had elapsed, he had allowed his coat to part so that he could bring his own HK to bear. The man was directly in front of him; the car that he had chosen to shelter him from Hicks now prevented any possibility of him evading Woodward. He fired in two short volleys. The man was hit, and Hicks watched as he fell out of cover into the gap between two cars, toppling over onto his back, his arms splayed out wide and a pistol falling from his fingers.

  Eleven, twelve, thirteen.

  “Clear.”

  Woodward turned into the doorway, his HK raised and ready, and went inside.

  The Audi raced forward. It skidded to a stop, the passenger door opened, and the general stepped out into the rain. Higgins was a man of normal height and build, unremarkable in the way that most special forces soldiers were unremarkable. He was in his mid-sixties, but he was as fit and active as a man twenty years younger. He bore the years well. He passed between the two parked cars and approached Öztürk. The Turk was on his side now, his legs lethargically scraping against the paving slabs as he tried to crawl away.

  Higgins took a pistol from inside his jacket, pushed the muzzle against the top of the man’s head and fired. Öztürk dropped flat to the ground and lay there, unmoving.

  Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one.

  Woodward appeared in the doorway again. He was carrying another bag, similar to the one that the bodyguard had been carrying. That bag was on the pavement, and the general went over to collect it. Both he and Woodward went around the parked cars and into the waiting Audi. Gillan was behind the wheel and he put the engine into first and fed in the revs. The car leapt forward, taking a sharp left into Green Lanes and disappearing quickly from view.

  Thirty seconds from start to finish. Very efficient. The general would be pleased with that.

  Hicks collected the two spent shell casings from the roof and put them in his pocket. He removed the rifle’s bipod and barrel, put the component parts into the bag he used to carry it, and zipped it closed. Hicks crossed the roof to the ladder and descended into the empty yard below.

  Chapter Two

  THEY SPLIT UP and travelled back to Hereford separately. Hicks had parked his Range Rover a short walk away from Green Lanes. He put his equipment into the back and was underway as the sound of sirens could be heard from the grid of streets behind him. Hereford was one hundred and forty miles to the north-west of London, and the journey passed without incident. The M4 motorway was clear and he made excellent time, shaving fifteen minutes off the usual three-hour duration.

  He was on the outskirts of the city, in sight of the illuminated spire of the cathedral, when he heard the first reports of the London shootings on the radio. The newsreader said that three men had been murdered in what the police were describing as an eruption of the violence between the Turkish and Eastern European gangs that ruled the heroin and cocaine trade in that part of north London. There was no suggestion that the police had anything useful to investigate, and Hicks was not concerned. He knew that they had been thorough in their planning, meticulous in the performance of the plan, and conscientious in the clean-up and exfiltration. The general had bestowed a sobriquet on the unit that had proven to be resilient. He called them the Feather Men, on account of their light touch during operations and the fact that they never left evidence that might later betray them.

  The unit always met at the Cock of Tupsley. It was a pub to the north-west of Hereford, just off the A438 and a mile before the vill
age of Lugwardine. It was a large white building surrounded by a broad asphalt parking area and a wide lawn. It was owned by a brewery, and, next to a sign that advertised special deals for those who booked their Christmas meals now, they had made a feature of a dray that was loaded with barrels bearing the brewer’s corporate logo. Hicks would not normally have chosen that kind of pub for a social event, but this was not social, and the proprietor was an old friend of the general from the Regiment who guaranteed them privacy and discretion in return for a very small shaving of their profits.

  It was just before eleven, and there were two taxis parked next to the main entrance of the pub to collect customers who had enjoyed the hospitality too much to drive. Others headed for their cars and drove back to the city. Hicks parked next to Joseph Gillan’s Maserati, collected his equipment from the back, and walked around to the separate staff entrance at the back of the building. There was a flight of stairs immediately inside, and he ascended these to the first floor. There was a set of toilets up here, together with two function rooms. The unit had the exclusive use of the second of these rooms. It was the smaller of the two, with three six-person tables and chairs, a large fireplace, three armchairs and a window that looked down onto the children’s play area and the pub’s beer garden.

  Gillan, Rafe Connolly and Sebastian Shepherd were already there, half-finished pints on the table before them. Their bulky equipment bags were on the floor next to the fireplace. Hicks placed his bag next to theirs.

  “Any issues?” Connolly asked.

  “None.”

  “You see the police?”

  “Heard them as I was driving away. I left it clean.”

  “Sweet.”

  “It was on the news,” Hicks said.

  “When?”

  “Five minutes ago. They’re saying it was gang related.”

  “Suits us,” Gillan said.

  “It was clean,” Shepherd reiterated. “They’ll be wasting their time.”

  The others indicated their agreement. Hicks slumped down in one of the vacant armchairs. It had been a long day and he realised that he was tired.

  “What was it like to lose your cherry?” Gillan asked.

  “I have done that before,” Hicks said.

  “In the Regiment, maybe. But not with us.”

  “It was fine,” Hicks said. “The plan was good. You follow the plan, you don’t get problems. We followed the plan.”

  “Listen to him,” Gillan said. “Sounds like a veteran already.”

  “You want a beer?” Connolly asked.

  Hicks was thirsty. “I’d love one.”

  “Bar’s downstairs,” he responded with a grin. “Same again for us, too.”

  “Come on,” Hicks protested feebly. “I’m done in.”

  “New boy gets the drinks. Chop-chop.”

  There was no point in putting up a fight. He was the newest member of the unit, and, because of that, he had come to expect a little ribbing. That had certainly been the case. The Americans he had worked with when he was in the Regiment had called it hazing. It was the same the world over. No sense in letting it bother him. He levered himself out of the chair, took his wallet out of his pocket and went downstairs.

  #

  GENERAL RICHARD HIGGINS had arrived by the time Hicks returned with the drinks. Higgins had been driven north by Alistair Woodward, and now they had taken two of the armchairs by the fire. Hicks closed the door with his foot and brought his tray of beers to the table. He had bought six pints and distributed them to the men. No one thanked him; instead, Shepherd suggested that he had forgotten the crisps and should go back to the bar to get them. Hicks told him to piss off and get them for himself. Shepherd glared at him, daring him to repeat the suggestion, before he fell back in his chair with a chuckle and told him he was just yanking his chain. Hicks shook his head and sat down with his drink. The men were all experienced soldiers and none of them was younger than forty, but there was still an undercurrent of juvenile humour that was occasionally exposed. The operation had been stressful, and Hicks knew that it would presage a night of boozing. He thought of his wife and kids, miles away in Cambridge, and wondered how quickly he would be able to excuse himself without drawing down more of their abuse for not getting involved.

  He looked around at the others. They were all ex-SAS. An observer would perhaps have said it was obvious that they had been involved with the military at some point in their lives—they all had the same firm posture and shared the same banter—but there was nothing about their appearances that would have marked them as special forces men. Joseph Gillan was the largest of them, but even he could have made his way down the high street in Hereford without drawing attention to himself. The others were much as he was: they were of solid build, they wore their hair close to the scalp, they were clean shaven. There was nothing to suggest that they were killers; nothing to suggest that they had just returned from an expedition to murder five men; nothing to suggest that they had more blood on their hands than the blood they had spilled tonight.

  The general allowed them to finish their drinks before he told them to be quiet and listen. The others all deferred to him. He had a closely cropped white beard, a lined face and pouches beneath his eyes. He had the coldest and most penetrating stare that Hicks had ever seen. It was as if, when he looked at you, he could see through the deceit and mistruths and divine the pure, unvarnished truth. It was those eyes that made conversation with him so unnerving.

  “Well done,” Higgins said. “That was good. Quick and efficient. Did any of you have any concerns?”

  They all shook their heads. Higgins nodded, seemingly satisfied. He was an exacting commanding officer, rarely praising his men, and just the suggestion of his satisfaction was valuable. “It was a good haul. Alistair?”

  Woodward picked up his bag and deposited it on one of the tables. He unzipped it and pulled out thick bundles of bank notes. Hicks counted forty bundles and guessed that each bundle must have contained five hundred notes. There would be tens and twenties and fifties in each bundle. Even on a conservative estimate, there must have been a quarter of a million on the table.

  “We’ll count it up and divide it tomorrow. I don’t need to tell you to be careful. Nothing extravagant. Put it wherever you put it to keep it safe. Not the bank. All clear?”

  Hicks nodded with the others until he noticed that Higgins was looking at him. He flushed; the new boy was getting special attention again. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “I know you’re not. But a big payday like this needs to be handled with caution. The temptation is to go out and spray the money around. Isn’t that right, Shepherd?”

  The men looked at Shepherd, their laughter intensifying with his discomfort. Hicks didn’t know any of them well enough to know what the general was talking about, but, from Shepherd’s expression, it was obvious that whatever it was, it wasn’t something that he liked to have brought back up. “Very funny,” he said.

  Well, Hicks thought, a joke that wasn’t at his expense. He felt like he was making progress.

  Gillan leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “What’s next, sir?”

  The general nodded his head to the bags of equipment. “Get the gear put away safely.”

  “Yes, sir. And then?”

  “There is another thing.” He turned his attention to Hicks. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  He had arranged to take his kids to the cinema, but he knew he couldn’t say that. “Nothing, sir.”

  “I need you to drive me.”

  “Where to?”

  “Back down to London. There’s someone I need to speak to.”

  #

  HICKS STAYED for an hour before making his excuses and leaving. It was raining with a fine drizzle as he stepped outside, and he blipped the locks of his Range Rover and hurried across to shelter inside the cabin. He sat there for a moment, composing himself. He looked down at his hands.
They were shaking. All that adrenaline, all that juice; now that it was gone, he was left with just the nerves that had been torturing him ever since he had agreed to take part.

  He had done it now. He was involved.

  He had spent the last two days searching for a way to extricate himself from taking part. But he had known that wasn’t possible. He had been involved in the planning, he knew all of the men now, and the suggestion that he wanted out would have met with a hostile response. The events of the last few hours just underlined his involvement; he had committed himself as soon as he had met Higgins and Woodward and taken their offer. He had resorted to the consolation that he had taken part because he was desperate for the money and had no other choice. He wasn’t driven by greed, like the others. It was fear that pushed him on. He tried to believe that that was true, and sometimes he did. But other times, he found it difficult to ignore the ache in his gut that told him that he had made a mistake, that he had bound his fate and the fate of his family to some of the most dangerous men that he had ever known.

  And on those occasions, like now, there was no comfort at all.

  Chapter Three

  “MY NAME IS JOHN AND I AM AN ALCOHOLIC.”

  The meeting was held at St Leonard’s, a church on the outskirts of the city of London. The building was located next to the major junction with Shoreditch High Street and Hackney Road. Milton had learned during the first meeting that he attended there that it was the church with the “bells of Shoreditch” that was mentioned in the nursery rhyme “Oranges and Lemons”. It was built in grand Palladian style, with a steeple that soared high above the street and a four-columned, pedimented Tuscan portico, but the interior was shabby and in need of repair, something that seemed endemic to the venues that the fellowship used throughout the city. There were twenty other men and women in the large room, and they welcomed him with the usual, “Hello, John.”