by Mark Dawson
The general had stayed in his car, laid up in a quiet turning before the estate’s main gate. Hicks heard his voice through his earpiece.
“Report.”
Connolly spoke. “In position, sir.”
“Anything?”
“Affirmative. Multiple guards, sir. Two by the lake, two others just coming out of the cottage to the side of the house. We’ve seen another four on top of that.”
“Hold position.”
Hicks found that he was holding his breath. He knew that he and Milton had been fortunate to be able to persuade the general to mount the operation. The story that they had constructed in Milton’s hotel room was decent, but it wouldn’t have stood any real investigation. Hicks had known that the general was motivated by greed, and it had been that upon which he had staked his hopes. They had presented the old man with an opportunity to recover the money that had been taken from him, and the chance to confiscate enough additional loot from the vault to make even that look like small change.
Woodward radioed: “General?”
“I’m blind from here. Recommendation?”
“I can only see three men now. The fourth has gone around the back of the house and the others are inside. Hicks—can you take the two by the lake?”
“Affirmative,” Hicks replied.
“I can get close enough to take the third out. Connolly and Gillan can attack the cottage. I say we go ahead, sir. We’re here and we have surprise on our side.”
There was another pause, marked by a crackle of static across the troop net.
“What about Milton?”
“He knows what he’s doing. We give him a distraction.”
“Afterwards?”
“You can leave that to me.”
“Copy that, sir.”
“You’re clear to proceed. In and out as quickly as you can. Higgins out.”
Hicks felt a moment of relief, but it was quickly washed away by a surge of adrenaline as his body prepared itself for the concentrated burst of action that was about to be unleashed. There was fear, too, because the course he had chosen to take did not allow for the possibility of failure. If it went wrong, he was dooming himself and, more than that, he was dooming his family. It was only because he was so desperate to leave the Feather Men that he had even contemplated what Milton had suggested.
“You heard the man. Hicks, take out the guards by the lake. I’m going to go around it and get as close to the house as I can. Gillan—cut the telephone line.”
“On it. Cutting in three, two, one. Line is down.”
“Fire on my mark.”
“Copy that.”
“And don’t fuck it up, Hicks.”
I don’t intend to, he thought.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
DETECTIVE CONSTABLES Banks and Edwards were leaning against the balustrade that protected against the short drop into the lake beyond. They had their elbows on the pitted, weather-beaten wood. It was a cool night and a bracing breeze curled small waves across the surface of the water. Banks looked up into the sky; the thick cloudbank that had been in place all day was unmoved by the wind. It smothered the light of the moon, but at least the rains were holding off.
Edwards took out his packet of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
Banks took one, took Edwards’s lighter and lit it. He inhaled smoke and blew it out, watching as the breeze tore it to pieces. “What are we doing here?” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
“The DI say anything to you?”
“About what?”
“About how long he expects us to freeze our arses off here?”
“Smith put the wind up Fabian. We’ll be here all night.”
“Can you believe his lads got bail? It’s ridiculous.”
“Money talks.” Edwards shrugged. “And Fabian has a lot of it. Bruce said that he has a pet judge. There were all sort of restrictions on the bail—residence, passports surrendered, curfew.”
“Doesn’t matter how much money he’s got. It won’t be enough to get those two off the hook. They were caught in the vault, mate. Bail’s one thing, but they’re still going down. They’ve got to be looking at ten years for what they did.”
Edwards shook his head. “You don’t know?”
“What?”
“He’s getting them out of the country. He’s got a plane coming to fly them out tomorrow afternoon, Bruce said. They’ll be on the Costa del Sol working on their tans.”
“Lucky bastards.” Banks shivered. “I bet you anything you like it pisses down before we’re done.”
“I had a lovely plan to go and get smashed tonight. You know the girl behind the bar at The Cat and Mutton?”
“Piss off.”
“Seriously. Been seeing her for the last couple of weeks.”
“You dirty old man. She’s half your age.”
Edwards reached out, put his arm around Banks’s shoulders and squeezed. “Jealousy’s all right, mate. I’d be jealous, too.”
#
MILTON TRAINED the binoculars on the house. He had done his research. The property had been in the Fabian family for decades, but it had come onto the market fifteen years ago. The reason for the attempted sale was unclear and it had been quickly removed, but not before Google had cached the sales page. The agents had prepared a plan of the property for prospective purchasers, and Milton had printed it, blown it up to A3 size, and then fixed it onto the wall of his hotel room. He had studied it and assessed the means of attack that would be most likely to yield results. There was a boot room at the back of the property that offered access to the kitchen extension and then the rest of the house.
He heard a voice over the radio.
“I can only see three men now. The fourth has gone around the back of the house. Hicks—can you take the two by the lake?”
Milton recognised Hicks’s voice: “Affirmative.”
“I can get close enough to take the third out. Connolly and Gillan can attack the cottage. I say we go ahead, sir. We’re here and we have surprise on our side.”
The conversation was hushed, tight with the anticipation of imminent violence.
“What about Milton?”
“He knows what he’s doing. We give him a distraction.”
“Afterwards?”
“You can leave that to me.”
“Copy that, sir.”
“You’re clear to proceed. In and out as quickly as you can. Higgins out.”
Milton swung the glasses around and tried to spot the soldiers. There were plenty of places that they could hide, and he was unable to place them.
He heard the first man’s voice again. “You heard the man. Hicks, take out the guards by the lake. I’m going to go around it and get as close to the house as I can. Gillan—cut the telephone line.”
“On it. Cutting in three, two, one. Line is down.”
“Fire on my mark.”
“Copy that.”
“And don’t fuck it up, Hicks.”
Milton wriggled forward a little more. He held his breath. He waited in the cover of the undergrowth until he saw the first muzzle flash spit out against the darkness.
The first flash was two hundred metres to his five o’clock, a split four-way burst that was quickly followed by a single barked report. That was Hicks and his HK, Milton assessed; the gun was equipped with a muzzle suppressor. Milton scanned back to the lakefront and saw that one of the two men who had been smoking had fallen backwards, landing on his backside, his hands pressed to his chest.
The second and third shots followed quickly after. Milton watched as the second man by the lake dropped to his side, his legs twitching.
The fourth shot was aimed at the guard who had stayed by the house, and it was a more difficult shot, especially so given that the man had heard the first three cracks and perhaps seen his colleagues drop. The guard threw himself to one side, rolling until he was in the cover afforded by the parked Q7. The shot missed, ploughing into a window and de
tonating the glass with a crash and then the jingle of shattering fragments. An alarm sounded from inside and the security lights that Milton had noticed earlier flicked on, throwing out blinding sheets of light.
Milton pushed himself to his haunches and then crouched low, his muscles aching for action, the adrenaline pulsating through his veins. He needed to wait. Needed to assess.
“Two down.”
“Eyes wide, boys. Advance.”
Milton saw the suggestion of movement through the undergrowth. He knew where to look, and, even with that advantage, it was still difficult to be sure that his eyes were not deceiving him. The men were SAS veterans, honed by months of training and years of operational experience. This kind of assault, backed by the benefit of planning, would not faze them.
“Firing.”
Milton saw the starburst and heard the angry chug as an automatic rifle fired. The shooter was a hundred metres to his four o’clock.
Now.
Milton set off quickly. He hugged the trees and moved with cautious speed. He hurried with his head down, careful where he placed his feet.
He heard the sound of automatic gunfire from behind him, and he quickened his pace. The terrain dipped down into the shallow depression and then climbed up again. When Milton crested the top and paused to take his bearings again, he was adjacent to the house, at the corner, with a view that allowed him to see around to the wide patio area, the outside kitchen to the rear and, closer to him, the screened-off area that he had noticed when he had visited the house for Eddie’s wake. It was the location of the domestic oil tanks.
There was a man there, pressed against the wall, cradling a submachine gun.
Milton paused.
He watched as the man stayed down low and then sprinted ahead, scurrying into cover behind the Q7.
“Movement!”
“Behind the car.”
There came another burst of automatic fire from the vicinity of the lake. Bullets thunked into the bodywork of the Audi and then the windows were blown out.
Milton ran. He stayed in cover for another twenty metres, stopped, satisfied himself that the way ahead was clear, and then broke cover and sprinted as hard as he could for the cover of the fuel tank. If he could get there and then around to the back, he would be sheltered from the firefight behind him.
“Movement! By the wall!”
Milton caught his breath. Shots cracked out and he flinched as he heard the rounds whistle overhead.
“Fuck! Missed.”
“Stay on the car. Pin them down.”
Milton reached the screened area and slid down into cover. A reed fence had been erected around the tank. The set-up had been installed in the centre of an excavation that had then been lined with concrete. Milton forced the reed screening aside and dropped down next to the tank. He shucked his small rucksack from his shoulders, opened it, and pulled out one of the wine bottles that he had prepared earlier. He shook the bottle to mix the oil and petrol, took out his lighter, and lit the fuse. He counted to three and then, popping up just as long as necessary, he tossed the bottle toward the house. It was ten metres from his position to the kitchen extension, but his throw was accurate. There was a brick chimney above the kitchen, protruding from the midst of the thatch, and the bottle struck it plumb in the middle. The glass smashed, spilling the fuel over the straw beneath. It lit at once, the orange-red flames spreading out across the roof.
He ran hard to the side of the house. The security lights overhead blazed out into the grounds, creating an inky pool of darkness beneath them that he could melt into. There was a small wall that defined the perimeter of a kitchen garden, and he dropped behind it. He heard more shots from the front of the house, and then the sound of more glass being blown apart.
Milton heard a tense voice in his ear. “You see that?”
“Roof’s on fire.”
“Milton?”
“Concentrate. We need to get this done. It’s taking too long.”
Milton gritted his teeth. The fire had taken hold of the thatch and he could feel the heat pressing down from above him. The flames roared and patches of straw, lit up, fell down to the ground.
It was now or never. He ducked his head, took a breath, counted to three, and then stayed low as he made his way around to the rear of the house. He stopped at the edge of the house and then peered around the corner.
He looked for extra guards.
There was no one.
He recalled the plan of the building, saw the entrance to the boot room, took another breath and then ran for it.
Another round of shooting.
“There—by the house!”
“Get him?”
“Affirmative. He’s down.”
“Flanking now.”
Milton reached the door. There was a glass panel that he could use to see inside. He peered in: the room beyond was empty, the glow of the fire lighting it brightly. He reached out a gloved hand and tried the handle. It was locked, but he could see the key was in the lock on the inside. There was no need to be delicate about how he proceeded. He took a step closer, clenched his fist, punched through the glass and then turned the key. He opened the door and slipped inside. The heat washed over him at once.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
FRANKIE FABIAN had gone upstairs to his bedroom. He had arranged for some of his best men to stay in the guest accommodation until he was able to leave the country tomorrow. He had a team he trusted; some of them were ex-soldiers and ex-police, all of them with experience in his line of work.
Frankie’s wife and daughter were already on their way to Florida and his sons were leaving tomorrow by way of a private plane to avoid the legal proceedings that had been brought against them. Frankie was going, too, first class from Heathrow. He had not been in any doubt that Smith meant everything that he had said, and there was something about him—something cold and unmistakeably authentic—that had made it very clear that it would be foolish to underestimate him or to fail to take the necessary precautions. Fabian had brought in enough men to protect him and his boys. His packed suitcases had been moved down to the lobby. He was booked on a flight to Florida tomorrow, but it looked as if that might be unnecessary now.
Smith was here.
Spencer had a walkie-talkie pressed to his ear as he spoke to Bruce. The detective had brought two of his men and was waiting downstairs. Marcus was holding a shotgun. Smith had broken Marcus’s ribs, and he grimaced in pain every time he stepped to the window to risk a glance outside. Both of his boys were nervous. Spencer was pale as he swore at Bruce. Marcus was drumming his fingertips against the barrel of the shotgun.
“Fuck!” Spencer said as he clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt.
“What?” Marcus said.
“Bruce tried to call for help. The phone’s out and I can’t get a signal.”
“Out?”
“The line’s been cut.”
“I don’t—”
Marcus stopped. They all noticed, with sudden shock, that the curtains were glowing bright orange.
“What’s that?” Marcus said, forgetting where he was and reaching for the curtains.
Spencer grabbed his arm before he could move the curtains aside. “Don’t.”
“Well, what was it?”
“The kitchen,” Spencer said. “He set the thatch on fire.”
Marcus went back to the shotgun. “This is ridiculous. He can’t be on his own.”
“So who the fuck is helping him?” Frankie snapped.
“Doesn’t matter, Dad. There are loads of us. You stay in here. We’ll keep him outside.”
“Why is he doing this?” Marcus said quietly, almost rhetorically.
Spencer took the walkie-talkie and put it to his ear again. “Bruce,” he said. “Bruce—what’s going on?”
All Frankie heard was the squelch of static.
Spencer swore.
“What is it?” Marcus asked.
“He’s not replying.”
“Go and check,” Frankie said.
Spencer clipped the unit to his belt and collected his pistol from the table where he had left it. Frankie took his own pistol and checked, for the fifth time, that it had a round in the chamber ready to fire. Spencer held his pistol in his right hand and, carefully, reached out for the door handle with his left. He opened it, glanced outside and slipped into the corridor.
“Who is he?” Marcus said.
“He said he was a soldier.”
“Why is he doing this? Why is he coming after us?”
“I told you,” Frankie snapped. “It’s Eddie. This is about him. It’s about what we did.”
“Eddie didn’t have any friends. He didn’t have any—”
All of the lights went out.
Marcus stopped mid-sentence.
The room was completely dark. Frankie couldn’t see the end of his nose.
“Dad?”
“I’m here.”
“Hold on.” There came the sound of frantic fumbling. “I’ve got my phone.”
Frankie reached for the wall, placed his palm against it and then backed away from the door. The darkness seemed to lengthen the time it took for Marcus to find his phone and, as he waited there, Frankie could hear the sound of automatic gunfire from the grounds outside. It came in concentrated bursts.
There was a flash of light as Marcus activated his torch app. The beam swung around the room, casting deep, eerie shadows against the wood-panelled walls. Marcus trained the beam on Frankie, so bright that he had to look away.
“Not in my face,” Frankie said.
“He got to the fuse box.”
Frankie tried to remain calm.
There was an almost immediate clatter of gunfire from outside the window.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
THE KITCHEN had quickly become an inferno. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling where the fire had consumed all of the thatch and then the boards beneath, and the flames had rushed inside in search of more fuel. The large range ran on oil, and as the fire swept over it there was an audible pop and then a sudden outrushing of flame as the oil was devoured. Milton was glad of the balaclava across his mouth as he hurried through the room, feeling the heat through the wool that was pressed against his skin. The fire alarms were screaming now and the flames were roaring with a ferocious hunger, the two combining to create a deafening cacophony through which it was almost impossible to hear the small-arms fire that continued outside. It meant that it was unnecessary for him to be careful about making too much sound, but he stayed low and proceeded carefully, aware that there were likely to be armed guards inside the house.
