Marked for Death

by Tony Kent

  FORTY-THREE

  ‘Have you ever been so bored in your life?’

  The question was asked by Police Constable Richard Haye. He was twenty-two years of age, six foot seven and, as his colleague Police Constable Colin Moxon had noticed, seemed to lack anything resembling an imagination.

  Making him the worst possible person with whom to be cooped up in a car for an eight-hour close-protection shift, Moxon thought.

  Unlike Haye, Moxon had done this sort of thing before. Usually it involved staying close to a key witness before a trial. Only once before had it been to protect a potential imminent victim. In none of those cases had the protection ultimately proved necessary. Moxon did not doubt that the same would be true tonight.

  ‘Why don’t you step out of the car and stretch your legs?’ Moxon asked. As much for his own relief as for Haye’s.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Haye replied. He seemed shocked at the suggestion. ‘What if someone sees me?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Moxon could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘We’re sitting in full uniform right outside this guy’s house, in a fully marked bloody police car. Short of a neon sign, there’s no way on Earth we could be any more conspicuous. Which is the whole bloody point.’

  Haye still seemed confused.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Richard. Is the oxygen not reaching you up there? We’re not here to lure whatever crazy bastard is after this bloke into his home and jump him. If we were there’d be a whole lot more of us. We’re here to be seen. So the crazy bastard stays away. It’s not bloody rocket science.’

  Haye nodded his head. At last he seemed to understand. Moxon could only wonder how long he’d remember; how soon he would need it explained again.

  Christ knows where they find them these days, he thought to himself.

  Haye was already halfway out of the car when its radio crackled into life.

  ‘Sierra Granada to Sierra Four, over.’

  Sierra Four was the call sign for the car. Sierra Granada was its home station, Islington.

  ‘Sierra Four, over,’ Moxon answered.

  ‘Sierra Four, operation is suspended. Perceived threat was incorrect. Head back to the station, over.’

  ‘Understood, over,’ Moxon replied.

  He turned to Haye, who was now fully back inside the car.

  ‘Looks like you’ll have to stretch your legs back at the station.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘You heard them. They got their information wrong. All we need to know.’

  Moxon had already started the engine as he spoke. Within moments they were moving. Moments more and they had left Lonsdale Square behind.

  The figure in the shadows watched as the police car drove away.

  It had been parked outside Derek Reid’s house since at least 5 p.m., but no earlier than 4 p.m., because it had appeared some time between Pale Eye’s second and third passes of the address.

  And it had posed a problem.

  Maybe not a problem. But it was still not ideal.

  Nothing could be allowed to get in his way. Nothing could be allowed to derail his plan. What was going to happen here was going to happen tonight. And if that meant that the men in the car died, well, then they died.

  So no, not a problem. Just an inconvenience.

  That inconvenience disappeared as the car drove away.

  He had no idea why it was leaving. Nor did he know if it would return. The first of those facts did not matter. The second did. And so he would wait and he would observe. If they came back, then he would do what he had to do.

  And when that was complete, he would do what he wanted to do.

  FORTY-THREE

  Steven Hale tightened his grip on his pistol. A Glock 17. Standard issue. Seventeen 9×19mm Parabellum rounds. It was seventeen more than he intended to use. But it paid to be prepared for the worst.

  Hale looked around. Ahead of him were two officers. Huge men. Each at least six foot four. Each with fifty pounds or more on Hale himself.

  The man on the right carried what they called ‘the Big Key’. A sixteen kilogram battering ram designed to send over three tonnes of impact force through any door lock. His partner carried a Heckler and Koch MP5. The semi-automatic assault weapon preferred by the Metropolitan Police Unit SO19.

  Beside Hale was DS Dean King. Though smaller than the two SO19 officers at the top of the stair, King was still a big man. Similar in natural stature to Hale but lacking Hale’s expanding waistline. King was armed with the same standard-issue firearm: a Glock 17 pistol. Both men would have preferred the MP5 but neither had the training.

  Hale looked behind. The short staircase that led up from the street to the first floor was full with officers from SO19. Twelve more firearms specialists, all standing two to a step.

  The decision to bring SO19 support had been inevitable. Every item of intelligence the Trident unit held on Ed Burrell said the same thing. That the man was obsessed with weaponry. Everything from samurai swords to grenades, from ceremonial daggers to combat rifles. No one knew how many firearms Burrell possessed. Or what types they might be. All that was certain was that he and his men were armed and that they enjoyed the confidence that gave them.

  A confidence that could only be dented by a show of overwhelming force.

  The SO19 assault team had been assembled quickly. Fourteen men, all highly trained specialists. Hale had issued their orders: that an armed engagement was to be avoided at all costs. They were there for a clean arrest. Burrell was to be detained, questioned and his role in Ferris’s death established. Nothing else would do.

  With the mission statement clear, the team had travelled to Brixton: SO19, Hale and King. Sixteen armed police officers. A force to be reckoned with.

  Hale had been surprised to note how similar Burrell’s set-up was to Ferris’s own. The same ‘no questions asked’ style of pawn shop below. The same first-floor office space. The same cramped staircase leading up from the street.

  The only real difference seemed to be the location. Popes Road instead of Electric Avenue. Barely half a mile apart.

  The team had made its way along Popes Road. Quickly and quietly and in tight single file. Moving as close to the shopfronts as space would allow. No one looking down from Burrell’s office could have seen them approach. Within seconds they were through the stairway door and lining up as directed.

  Ready to breach. Ready to make their arrest.

  Hale looked back towards the office door and saw the left-hand giant raise his hand. His five fingers were extended.

  Hale felt his stomach tense. The first telltale sign of the adrenaline rush that was sure to follow.

  Here we go.

  Four fingers.

  First round chambered.

  Three fingers.

  Christ, we could use Levy right about now.

  Two fingers.

  Deep breaths

  One finger.

  Calm. Calm.

  None.

  ‘GO GO GO GO!’

  The shout came as the left-hand giant lowered his last finger. At the same moment the right-hand giant swung the Big Key. It impacted the door at the top of the stairs and ripped through it like paper.

  The signal to move.

  Hale was second through the door with his pistol raised, sweeping the room. Ahead of him was the left-hand giant. Just behind was King.

  Within moments the room was filled. Eight armed police officers. Highly trained and ready for anything. Eight more had continued moving up, climbing the second staircase. A safety sweep of the floors above.

  Ed Burrell sat at the far end of the room, behind a desk near identical to the one Hale had seen in Ferris’s office. A crude attempt to match his rival.

  It’ll take more than a table, Hale thought. You’d need to grow eight inches for one thing.

  The raid had not been expected. That much was clear. Burrell and the room’s four other occupants had frozen at the sight of the first weapon
s. Just three sets – Hale and King’s pistols, plus the first giant’s MP5 – had been enough. No one had moved. That was not going to change as five more MP5s entered the room.

  Hale moved forward, towards Burrell and ignoring the other four. His pistol remained up, aimed squarely at Burrell’s chest. Hale had heard stories about the man in the last twenty-four hours. Stories of irrational violence. He would not be taking any risks.

  ‘Edward Burrell.’ Hale spoke with authority. ‘I am arresting you for the murders of Leon Ferris, Kevin Tennant, Harvey Ellis and Tyrone Leach. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you fail to mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence against you. Do you understand this caution as I have explained it to you?’

  Burrell did not answer. Nor did he take his eyes from the pistol that was aimed at his chest. The man was suffering from shock. Hale could see that and it made him wary of getting too close. Shock can have many different effects; most common is inaction, but it depends upon the man. Burrell had a reputation. A tendency to erupt. There was no telling how he might react when taken by surprise.

  Hale’s pistol remained steady as he moved around the desk. Burrell’s men were being dealt with by others. They were already on the floor. Already being cuffed. Burrell, though, was still in his seat.

  ‘Get to your feet.’

  Hale’s voice was steady. Firm. And backed up by the weapon still aimed at Burrell’s heart.

  Burrell did as instructed, slowly and deliberately. The shock seemed to be fading, replaced with an expression of fury. Hale tightened his grip on his pistol and took a step back, well out of Burrell’s range.

  The difference in their size was significant – Hale large, Burrell surprisingly small – and right now only Hale was armed. But the look on Burrell’s face said that he would act if he could.

  Hale would not give him the chance.

  ‘Get on the floor. Face first with your arms outstretched ahead.’

  Burrell stayed exactly where he was. His eyes had now left the pistol. They were instead fixed on Hale’s own, their message one of intense anger. Hale could see the murderous intent within them; he could somehow almost feel it on his own skin. Burrell’s threat was now electric in the air. And surprisingly effective. Hale was not easily intimidated. But somehow Ed Burrell – a small man with eight guns now aimed directly at him – was managing exactly that.

  ‘On the floor, Burrell,’ Hale forced more confidence back into his voice. Raised it to a shout. ‘NOW!’

  Burrell did not move. Hale could see why. The man was weighing his options. Would he comply? Or would they have to force him? There was no doubt how this would end. With Burrell face down and cuffed. But the journey to that conclusion was in Burrell’s hands.

  ‘I won’t ask again.’ Enough was enough. A message that was clear in Hale’s voice. ‘Get on the damn floor or I’m gonna put you there.’

  Burrell’s intensity did not lessen, but his resistance did. He seemed to have realised the futility of his position. Slowly he put his hands behind his head and dropped to his knees. One at a time, his eyes never leaving Hale’s as he descended. The anger was still there. The hate. But they had been overruled by reality.

  Burrell could not win this. Not now. And there was no point in being injured for a lost cause.

  He lowered his upper body to the floor and stretched his arms out ahead of him, awaiting the inevitable cuffs. Hale kept his pistol steady throughout; still aimed, but now at Burrell’s head. He did not lower the weapon until two SO19 officers had secured Burrell’s wrists behind his back and lifted him from the floor.

  Hale stepped back as Burrell was pulled from the room. He returned Burrell’s stare as the smaller man passed him. The animosity was obvious. Hale did not doubt that, if given the slightest chance, Burrell would have killed him where he stood.

  ‘Nice guy.’ Hale approached King as Burrell was bundled through the door. His heart was racing. ‘He definitely chose the right career.’

  ‘I don’t think the priesthood was ever an option,’ King replied. ‘Nasty little bastard.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can keep him off the streets, then,’ Hale said, before taking a few moments to survey the room. ‘Does this remind you of anywhere?’

  ‘You mean Ferris’s office?’

  ‘Exactly. It’s like Burrell’s paying tribute. Only with a cheaper version.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ King replied. ‘By all accounts Burrell was obsessed with Ferris. But judging by this place it might be more than that. This makes it look like he wanted to actually be Ferris.’

  ‘Doesn’t that concern you?’ A doubt was beginning to eat at the back of Hale’s mind. The sort of thing that would bother Levy, he thought. ‘That sort of an obsession?’

  ‘Should it?’ King asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just . . . it’s just, you know, an obsessive killing their obsession? That’s not unusual. In fact it’s common enough that we know how they tend to do it: they almost always do it themselves. Close up and personal. But if Burrell was behind Ferris’s death, he has to have hired someone else to do the job. It’s . . . it’s just not typical.’

  Hale shook his head. Perhaps he was trying too hard to ape Levy. He forced himself to dismiss the thought.

  ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said. ‘I mean, this was a business thing, first and foremost. So let’s just get that little shit into an interview room and get some answers.’

  Hale took one final look around the room and – as much as he resisted it – the same doubt resurfaced. He forced it back down once again and turned towards the door. Just as an SO19 officer walked through it.

  ‘Sir.’ The officer made a direct line for Hale. ‘I think you’d better see this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Drugs, sir. More drugs than I’ve ever seen.’

  Hale moved quickly. King too. They followed the SO19 officer out of the room. He turned left and moved up to the second tier of the staircase, followed by the more senior officers.

  It took them up one more floor. To a room just as big as the office below.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Hale could think of no other words. What greeted him as he stepped through the door did not need them. The sight spoke for itself.

  ‘Holy fuck.’ King was just a step behind.

  The room was directly above Burrell’s office but it had not enjoyed the same attention. It was nothing but floorboards, whitewashed walls and windows covered in masking tape. Like a room awaiting the attentions of a decorator.

  That must be the intention, Hale thought as he gazed at the room’s contents. To fool the people in the buildings across the street.

  It would have been an effective deception from out there. But not from inside, where it was spoiled by four wooden pallets that sat in the centre of the room.

  Each pallet carried a full load of conspicuous white powder, tightly wrapped into kilo-sized bricks.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  King spoke without looking at Hale. His eyes stayed fixed on the pallets.

  ‘It has to be.’

  ‘Have you ever seen that much in one load?’

  ‘I haven’t seen that much ever. Not if you add up every arrest in my whole career.’

  ‘Shit.’

  King estimated the value of what was in front of them. He let out a whistle as he passed twenty-five million.

  ‘That’s one shitload of—’

  King never finished his sentence. It was interrupted by the sound of gunfire.

  In an instant King was out of the room, Hale just a step behind him. Both pulled their firearms as they rushed down the stairs. Towards the sounds coming from the street outside.

  FORTY-FOUR

  King reached the door first. He did not hesitate, running straight through and into the street. Hale did the same. It was the wrong move, one that none of SO19’s firearm sp
ecialists would have made. It was contrary to their training.

  And it cost King his life.

  Hale would later count himself lucky to have been slower than King. It placed him second, the less obvious target.

  The SO19 officers had taken effective cover as soon as the bullets began to fly, leaving the gunmen they faced with little to aim at. A fact which made King’s wide, muscular frame an irresistible temptation.

  King went down within three steps of the door. At least five shots had been fired. Two had hit. One had shattered his hip. The other his head. The force of the impact had sent him backwards into Hale, who was close behind.

  It was King’s falling body rather than Hale’s tired reflexes that sent the older man to the ground and saved his life.

  Hale landed heavily on the pavement. King fell next to him, a bullet hole unmissable in the centre of his skull. Hale scrambled for his own dropped pistol, picked it up and then grabbed King’s too.

  With a pistol in either hand he crawled the final few feet to the cars that were already providing his cover.

  ‘GET BEHIND A WHEEL!’

  The shouted instruction came from the nearest SO19 officer. Hale looked along the line of parked cars and saw that each firearm specialist was carefully positioned in the same way.

  The sight brought his own firearms training came back to him. Lessons until now lost in the adrenaline of the moment.

  The tyres give the best protection, Hale remembered.

  He was moving in an instant, launching his body behind the nearest wheel. He tried to make sure his body was as covered as possible, although his bulk was working against him.

  Hale signalled the attention of the same SO19 officer.

  ‘WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?’

  He had to shout over the sound of gunfire.

  ‘AMBUSH,’ the officer shouted back. ‘THEY HAD A TEAM IN THE BUILDING OPPOSITE. THEY OPENED FIRE AS BURRELL WAS BROUGHT OUT.’

  ‘WHERE’S BURRELL NOW?’

  ‘DON’T KNOW. WE LOST OUR TWO GUYS BRINGING HIM OUT STRAIGHT OFF. THEN BURRELL MADE A RUN FOR IT. ACROSS TO HIS TEAM.’

  Hale nodded. His heart was racing but the initial shock was passing. He was beginning to calm. And to understand. With that much cocaine in the office upstairs, he should have expected this additional security. A team covering the entrance was just good sense.