Just Kill Them

by Michael Leese

  The spray was so powerful that it went straight in the eyes of the driver. Somehow, he managed to produce his gun. He fired, wildly, unable to see anything for the blood that coursed into his eyes – but the bullet only found the security guard sitting next to him. The man slumped, bleeding profusely from a shoulder wound.

  By the time the driver had wiped the blood from his face it was all over. His ears were ringing from the shotgun blast and he was seriously disoriented. He could see the team from the other Range Rover were out of the vehicle, guns drawn and shouting in impotent rage.

  One man looked about to fire at the fleeing bikes – but stopped himself as he realised he would be in danger of hitting innocent bystanders. There was nothing they could do.

  The incident had lasted less than ten seconds – but, judging by the number of people taking pictures with their mobiles, the first images were already on their way to social media platforms.

  ◆◆◆

  Meanwhile, one of the most controversial stores in the UK was situated close to Sloane Square. It was called Diamonds and Pearls. A temple to modern consumerism, it promoted itself with the slogan, “Always exclusive, always expensive.”

  The doorway was guarded by large, shaven-headed men with earpieces, and before they were admitted within, would-be shoppers had to be appraised by one of a bevy of super-skinny models wearing towering six-inch heels. Credit cards were carefully inspected and, if you could produce one that had no spending limit, you were welcomed with open arms. Occasionally, just such an owner was turned away simply because the women had the power to do it.

  There were two queues and the one that stretched from right to left was the one to be in. This was the preserve of the Instagram “Rich Kids” who had cash and connections. This queue moved at a decent click as people were allowed in to be relieved of their money.

  There was another queue; this one went from left to right and moved very slowly. People who arrived before dawn considered themselves blessed if they got in before lunchtime. These people were called “No Mo’s” - as in “no money.”

  But for Paula Brown it was heaven. Today, her seventeenth birthday, she had risen at 3am and awoken her dad who, with a lot of grumbling, drove her to Sloane Square, arriving just after 4am.

  Despite it being early summer, there was an early morning chill. Her father asked if she wanted to stay in the warmth of the car a little longer. But she wasn’t having any of it, ushering him away before he could embarrass her.

  She got out, leaving behind the sandwiches her mother had made. Her dad would be making short work of those. She’d asked for cheese and pickle - his favourite.

  She took her place and settled into wait. While she hadn’t wanted to be burdened with a coat, she had been sensible enough to choose several layers – so she resisted the urge to shiver and told herself that all would be fine.

  By 9am, the sun had chased away the early morning chill and Paula was feeling thirsty, but she would have to wait; no-one would be seen dead drinking out of a plastic water bottle, not outside Diamonds and Pearls.

  As she stood there, her attention was grabbed by a grubby, white van that had screeched to a halt right outside. To her amazement the driver, wearing a ski-mask, jumped out and ran up Sloane Street, towards Hyde Park.

  Paula had the perfect view and gasped as the masked man leaped onto the back of a waiting moped which tore away even as he was settling into place. The pair were moving away as the van exploded.

  The pressure of the blast blew the teenager to pieces. Where just moments before there had been more than thirty people on the pavement, now there was no-one. The store was a smoking ruin.

  Chapter 7

  “The Royal Family has refused to leave London. A Buckingham Palace source said it would send out the wrong signal at a moment of crisis.”

  Roper looked up after reading out the latest news flash. Hooley was shaking his head in disbelief. They were still half-an-hour from St Pancras station and had been reading news reports and eyewitness accounts of the events.

  Frustration at being so far from the action was etched into the DCI's face. “Good for them”, he said, adopting a fierce expression. “We can’t have people thinking the Royal Family are in a panic. There must be real concern at the highest levels for them to have even considered such a thing.”

  “Can you remember anything like this happening before?” asked Roper. He was tugging hard at his ear lobe, a habit he only adopted at moments of highest stress.

  “You’re doing that thing,” Hooley replied, tapping at his own ear. It brought the younger man up short. The DCI was relieved; he’d once seen him make his ear bleed.

  Before Roper could say anything, Hooley responded to the original question, holding his hands up in what might have been seen as gesture of surrender. “I can’t remember such a feeling of being under siege as I am right now. For me this instant news can still take some getting used to. I worry that it will make me lose my sense of detachment, which is crucial in this type of crime.

  “When we were on the way back from Paris and we kept getting hit with updated news, I was itching to get in there. But that’s silly – what could I, or you for that matter, have done? We’re not first responders or have any medical skills. Much better for us to wait and see what develops.” A fleeting smile moved across his face. “This couldn’t happen now, but in the old days I can remember the Press team at Scotland Yard leaving announcements that something had happened until really late in the day, so the morning papers could have it. As police officers, it meant you had a chance to get on top of things before you had to talk about them. Now there’s no chance – you see police officers having to respond in real time and it shows what happens when things go wrong.”

  His mouth suddenly dry, he grabbed a water bottle and chugged half the contents down. Normally it was Roper who did that. He shrugged. More role reversal.

  The DCI went on. “I heard you say the terror threat level has been raised to ‘Critical’, but to be honest I think we all know that it’s not going to do a lot of good right now. It makes you appreciate what a tough bunch they must have been during the Blitz when the Germans were bombing London. That was a lot worse. Hopefully this is the closest we’ll ever come to something similar.”

  His gloomy thoughts were interrupted as his phone beeped. Grabbing it, he saw that it was a message from Mayweather.

  “PM has convened Cobra,” he read. “All the key players in attendance. Need you both there. Both of you will have full access to all information.” He checked the time. “We’ve got an hour. That should be plenty of time. What do you think?”

  Roper shrugged and nodded.

  Hooley could be skeptical about the motives behind Cobra meetings, feeling they were sometimes only convened so that politicians could try and give the impression they were in charge of events, rather than reacting to them. This time, however, he knew they needed as much critical information as they could get their hands on.

  “Make sure you’ve got that Rainbow Spectrum of yours at full blast. We’re going to need to bring a lot of firepower to bear.”

  It was his Rainbow Spectrum which allowed Roper to make connections that other people couldn’t see. Hooley privately admitted that the whys and wherefores were beyond him, but he knew it worked. And that was all he needed.

  The DCI glanced at his watch and muttered to himself. Only a few minutes had elapsed since he had last checked - it felt longer. The countryside had long given way to the suburbs and it was clear they were approaching their destination as the houses became more and more packed together. He just had to hope they wouldn’t be delayed by problems outside St Pancras.

  Ten minutes later, he groaned out loud as the train slowed and the driver’s voice came over the intercom apologising for the hold-up “because of signal problems”. He was wondering how long they would be when the train set off again. Five minutes later, they glided into the station.

  “We need to run,” he told R
oper and watched in bemusement as his colleague grabbed his bags, leapt off the train and disappeared into the distance. He sighed and followed more slowly.

  Roper reappeared. “I thought you wanted to move quickly. I’ve been telling you, you need to get more exercise, and this is a good opportunity. A quick run now will help counter the stress.”

  The DCI looked at him “Yes, thanks for the advice. But if I start to run about with all these bags, I’m going to have a heart attack.”

  “You said we needed to run!” said Roper indignantly.

  “I know but I meant it like ‘get your skates on.’ I don’t actually want to put skates on – I just meant we had to move as quickly as possible. And this is me moving as quickly as possible.”

  Roper shook his head in apparent disgust but remained at his boss’s side.

  An unmarked black Jaguar was waiting for them at the taxi rank, the uniformed driver standing outside of the car to deter complaints from other drivers. They just had time to buckle up before they were racing east to Whitehall.

  Roper turned to Hooley.

  “Do you think this is terrorism?’

  Hooley suspected this was leading up to something. “It’s very hard to see it as anything else. Why? What’s on your mind?”

  Roper leaned back. “It’s a funny thing but my Rainbow Spectrum says it isn’t a terror group.”

  “How can that be? Said Hooley. “We haven’t had anywhere near enough detailed information yet to draw any conclusions. We must keep an open mind. The only thing I am sure about is that they are related. When we find out what links them, maybe that will help say if it is terrorism.

  Roper was gazing out of the window. “You always say that we need evidence, but sometimes my spectrum works out answers from the most basic of information. I’m not sure I can explain how it has done it this time, at least not how quickly it has happened, but the signs are very clear. And it never changes once it has done something like this.”

  Hooley took a moment. “It wouldn’t be the first time that Rainbow Spectrum of yours has worked things out before anyone else. I’m happy to keep an open mind, but I will need some persuading.”

  Roper looked over to his friend. “Don’t worry. The moment I get more I will be letting you know.”

  Chapter 8

  Armed police teams, supported by Army troopers, were on the streets as Roper and Hooley arrived for the Cobra meeting in Whitehall. The soldier’s grim expressions, and the fact they were carrying assault rifles, underlined just how serious things were.

  As soon as Roper spotted the soldiers, his hair started to stand on end, and even Hooley felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Although armed officers had become a routine sight in the capital, to see such a display of concentrated firepower on the streets of London was still unusual.

  Hooley hated to see assault weapons so openly displayed – but he knew that there was very little choice. Those in charge were being forced to consider the awful prospect that more attacks were imminent.

  Security was tight but efficient. Soon they were hustled inside the building and into the Cobra meeting itself. The room was relatively narrow with much of the space taken up by a large wooden table. It had the feel of a bunker, which was appropriate given how under siege those present were feeling. Inside, it was standing room only – with just the most senior people getting a seat. Julie Mayweather was sitting towards the top of the long table.

  Some sixth sense made Mayweather look up as they walked in and she acknowledged them with a tight smile, waving them over. They took up flanking positions on either side of her, like a pair of mismatched bodyguards.

  “I’m hearing some sort of claim has been made but I was already in here when the information came through. I don’t think it’s made the news yet.”

  Hooley held his hands out in a “not as far as I know” gesture while Roper checked his phone.

  He looked away in irritation as he remembered there was no chance of getting a signal inside this room. It was a sign of his anxiety that he had forgotten such a thing; normally he had a memory like an elephant.

  Hooley leaned forward. “That’s a pretty intimidating mix of armed people out there. Is that going to be repeated all across London?”

  Mayweather gave a sharp nod of the head. “It’s one of those moments when we need to send out a clear signal that we’re doing everything we can to keep people safe.”

  “Any name yet on the copper who was killed at the 02?”

  The way she kept her eyes down and her shoulders tightened made an icy chill run through him. Even Roper could sense something was wrong.

  “It was Barry Asmus.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  Hooley didn’t know what to say, not here, not in this wood-panelled room that was packed with the great and the good. Mayweather was just one of two women present. The rest were all white and middle-aged men, the majority in well-cut suits. “The funny hand-shake brigade,” Asmus had called such characters – although he had always been ambivalent about the people at the top levels of the security and services. After all, he was a white, middle aged bloke himself.

  Hooley looked up as a sudden silence descended. The Prime Minister had arrived, flanked by the Home Secretary, the Cabinet Secretary, in his role as the most senior civil servant, and the head of the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS.

  With everyone shuffling out of the way there was just enough space created for him to reach the head of the table at the far end. Hooley knew there were multiple rooms that made up the Cobra complex. Surely, they had something bigger than this?

  James Harold, the PM, was a tall man, in his early forties. His dark hair framed a long, thin face, which lent him the look of a mildly disappointed headmaster. He had risen to power on a pledge to reunite a country heavily divided after a referendum on whether the UK should stay in Europe. It had caused a great deal of bitterness and Harold was seen as the man who could heal the wounds.

  He was also seen, unusually for a politician, as a man who never used two words where one would do. He reached the end of the long table and gazed around with his eyes falling briefly on each person, as if expecting to find answers to this catastrophe.

  Pulling off his glasses, he wiped them carefully with a cloth he produced from an inside jacket pocket, then gently replaced them. He was the centre of attention. He might be a man of few words, but he understood how to communicate. Still standing, he leaned forwards and placed his hands on the brilliantly polished surface of the table.

  His bright blue eyes locked onto Mayweather.

  “We start with you Commissioner. Then I want to hear from MI5 and MI6. Just tell us what you know.”

  Before Mayweather could say anything, one of her aides entered and started forcing his way through the crowd. He found it tougher going than the PM, but finally handed her a sheet of paper. She read it carefully, taking her time – even though she was conscious of the scrutiny on her.

  Finally, she looked up and made eye contact with the PM. “We have a claim of responsibility. A group calling itself the Cohort has posted on social media sites including Facebook, Twitter and Snapchat.”

  In this room where power held sway, the names of the digital giants seemed to echo loudly. An already intense atmosphere became electric with everyone wanting to hear more. The various intelligence chiefs were especially unhappy that the police had got this sort of information before they did.

  Mayweather went on, “They claim that they are, and I quote ‘dedicated to putting right the wrongs of the world. John Ryder was targeted because his company exploited other human beings. Valentina Ferrari was only interested in helping herself. Diamonds and Pearls was an abomination when people all over the globe are dying from hunger.’” She stopped. “That’s all for now. There are no demands, no boasts about how they defeated us and, unless someone here says otherwise, no-one has ever heard of this group until today.”

  There was the faintest sigh as everyone simultaneous
ly breathed out.

  The PM spoke into the silence. “Is there any chance this is a hoax?”

  Mayweather gathered herself, squaring her shoulders as she took a breath. “We don’t think so. The claim was sent to my most secure email account. Very, very few people have access to it. Plus, they attached video footage of each incident. I’m told it’s very high quality, far better than you would get from most mobile phones.”

  Everyone in the room started shouting questions, except for Roper, who went very still. Only the way his eyes sparkled showed how fast his mind was working as he contemplated this information.

  Hooley looked at Mayweather. “Is it just me, or does that claim sound a bit odd? I can't quite put my finger on it, but something jars.”

  To the surprise of both, Jonathan leaned in close. “Actually, Brian I should congratulate you. You appear to have got to the point unusually quickly. This group has issued a note to try and justify themselves and almost made it sound like a shopping list. I can’t recall anything like that before.”

  Hooley, who was stinging from what he saw as patronising praise, said, “Well excuse me Mr. Sherlock Holmes, but do you think there has ever been a series of attacks like this before?”

  Roper stood up again. “Well of course. That is exactly the point and how we shall find out who is behind this.”

  Chapter 9

  When he named his company, John Ryder hadn’t indulged in false modesty. It was always going to be called the Ryder Corporation, and from the beginning he declared it would become one of the biggest brands in the world.

  Like most of his predictions, it turned out to be true – and it wasn’t long after he set up in Silicon Valley, California, that his business was dominating technology sales. His mobile phones, laptops, tablets, desk-tops and wearable technology became a byword for cutting edge capability, coupled with fabulous design that made the most cynical consumer go weak at the knees.