by Shah, R D
As Regis squinted his eyes and moved closer for a better examination, Munroe placed his shoulder against the wall and then pushed his weight against it. An entire section of the wall swung outwards, revealing a shiny metal door with a heavy-duty plastic handle attached to it.
“Same as upstairs,” Regis noted, and he took a step back as Munroe clutched the handle. After glancing at Regis, who was warily keeping his distance, he gave it a gentle tug and it swung back, releasing a cloud of icy mist into the air.
“It’s a walk-in freezer,” Munroe said as he reached into the darkness and grasped the dangling piece of string which was the only thing visible. He gave it a firm tug and with a click a bulb overhead lit up the interior. What they saw had Regis jerking backwards with his hand across his mouth. “Fuck me.”
Suspended from the ceiling, three bodies hung from meat hooks, their skin frozen with an icy sheen as white frost covered their hair, making each corpse appear older than it was. There were two men dangling stiffly either side of a woman, all naked, each with grey frozen eyes which stared at Munroe, as if they were positioned to do so at anyone opening the door. The bodies themselves were horrifying enough, but what caused Regis to turn away and gag were the limbs missing from both the men, and the fact that the woman’s eyelids had been removed at some stage along with her lips, revealing the white enamel of her teeth. Both men were missing a leg, and one had a hand removed at the wrist, but what really got Munroe’s attention was the stitch work that had sewn up each of the wounds. As he moved in to take a closer look the true horror of what had happened now became apparent.
“There’s healing around the stitching.”
“What does that mean?” asked Regis, his face becoming whiter by the minute.
“It means that after their limbs were cut off and stitched back up… they were still alive.”
Chapter 5
“So who’ve we got back there, Sarge?”
“What! Jesus, you really are a mushroom, Constable Pendrew.”
“I only just got on shift when they assigned me to drive.”
Sergeant Richard Mills stared at the young officer with unease as the windowless Ford police van passed Parliament Square and went on towards the silhouette of Big Ben towering high in the night sky. In front of them two motorcycle cops with blue lights flashing were ensuring a straight run with no delay as behind an unmarked Land Rover with four heavyset men wearing plain clothes stayed within eight metres of the van’s bumper at all times.
“Don’t usually get an armed response unit for transfers,” Pendrew added, glancing back at the 4x4 in his wing mirror.
“Don’t usually transfer killers with such notoriety.”
The young driver’s eyes widened. “Who is it?”
“Icarus.”
“The serial killer?”
“Apparently,” Mills said, returning his attention to the road. “Someone leaked it to the press so we’re moving him to a more secure location.”
“Bloody hell. Been front page in the tabloids for months. My girlfriend’s parents actually cancelled a trip down here to see us because of that bastard.”
“Yeah, well be prepared to read about him a lot more in the coming weeks. Now keep your eyes on the road, Constable.”
Pendrew offered a respectful nod as he steered the van left past the Houses of Parliament and down Victoria Embankment along the edge of the River Thames. “What does he look like?”
Mills could hardly blame the young officer for being curious. Most people expected those who committed terrible crimes to look like monsters, but this could not have been further from the truth. “He looks just like anyone else, son. They always do. It’s how these people go unnoticed for so long. Hell, he could even look like you, Pendrew. That would be one ugly bastard, a real monster. Now keep your eyes on the road.”
Pendrew shot Mills a sarcastic smile. The roads were pretty clear and within minutes they were turning onto Waterloo Bridge leading into south London. As they passed the halfway point and the two motorcycles sped up towards the upcoming junction it was the young driver who saw it first.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing to a black minivan parked up on the kerb with its side door slid open. As something poked out from the dark interior, the officer’s question was answered.
The first bullet caught the constable squarely through the neck, splitting his larynx in two and spraying blood across the windshield in a single burst. As he gripped his throat with one hand he managed to keep his other on the wheel. At the same moment a six-wheel truck came surging towards them from the left and screeched to a juddering stop just metres from the oncoming motorcycles. The lead rider had no time to react and collided head-on into the side of the truck’s main cabin with a dull thud, while the other skidded onto its side, sending the bike sliding underneath the truck and its rider slamming hard into its thick rubber wheel.
Back in the cabin of the Transit van Mills was wrestling with the wheel as Pendrew instinctively clutched at his neck with both hands, trying in vain to stem the discharge of blood streaming down his chest. As the young officer continued to choke on his own fluids, Mills lifted his left foot and jammed it down hard onto the brake, bringing the van to a screaming halt at an angle, halfway across the road.
That’s when the sound of automatic weapons shattered the night air.
“Jesus Christ,” Mills yelled as a cascade of bullets smashed through the windscreen and thudded into Pendrew’s chest in a spectacle of ripped fabric and blood, sending the sergeant ducking down into the footwell as low as he could go. In the back, the sound of his prisoner hitting the floor could be heard, and then all fell silent except for the blaring of the van’s horn as Pendrew lay spread out across the steering wheel.
Mills reached up and pushed the dead officer back into his seat and then poked his head over the dashboard to see the truck driver up ahead exit the cabin, pull a pistol from his jacket and pump two slugs into both downed motorcycle drivers, each to the face. The gunman was then joined by three others, all dressed in the same beige Kevlar protective gear and equipped with AK-47s with extended clips, which they raised in the van’s direction before beginning to advance.
From somewhere behind Mills the sound of additional machine gun fire began to flare up in short bursts and realising the armed response unit were retaliating, he made the decision to move. He released the passenger door handle and with a nudge opened it a crack before sliding down onto the tarmac outside and then pressed his body against the van, manoeuvring himself towards the back end, the angle allowing him cover if he needed it. And he did.
The sound of automatic gunfire once again blazed away, but as Mills stole a look around the corner of the van what he saw made no sense. Of the four armed response unit one was lying in a pool of blood, splayed out a few metres from his position, while the others were using the Land Rover for cover as they fired from behind. The perplexing thing was not that they were firing – it was where they were firing. All three men were shooting timed bursts directly up into the air, and as Mill’s gaze followed their arc he felt a downforce of wind attempting to crush him back to the ground, and through wincing eyes he saw it. The sleek black helicopter hovered silently about fifty metres up in the air. There was no sound except for the expulsion of air underneath it and an extremely light buzzing from the rotors. It just hung there as sparks riddled its black canopy from the bullets being fired up at it. It had no markings and was painted such a dark black it was difficult to even make out its shape against the night sky.
The sparks continued as more bullets ricocheted off the surface of the helicopter, and then from its nearest side a rectangular compartment slid open and the automated muzzle of a thick 50-calibre appeared… and that’s when the real shooting started.
* * *
Munroe was already turning onto Victoria Embankment when he heard the sound of automatic gunfire, and from his position the flashing of muzzles dancing in the dim light could be seen over Wa
terloo Bridge. Within seconds the Mondeo Zetec’s engine was pushed to its maximum performance as Munroe tore down the road towards the firefight.
There were no complaints from Regis. Instead he jabbed a number into his mobile and did what he did best. Gave orders.
“This is Superintendent Mike Regis, we have shots fired on Waterloo Bridge. Attending scene. Possible officers down. We need armed backup ASAP. Repeat, armed backup now.”
Even though Munroe was aware of the conversation going on in the seat beside him his mind was locked on the bridge. He was already weighing up and countering what came next, but it wasn’t so much a decision as a checklist. The reason that military training is so repetitive is to ensure that when entering combat a soldier’s procedure is second nature, like a reflex. But with his own training, ground assessment and quick independent decision-making were key, the additional layers that would make the difference between success and failure. He wasn’t considering how to approach, that part for him was the reflex. No, he was already calculating the way through.
As they approached the bridge the sight of all four armed officers was clear, their bodies lying motionless around the Land Rover which had been completely torn up by heavy-calibre ammunition, although Munroe couldn’t see such a weapon in sight. The entire bonnet and engine had been destroyed, and it was only then that he noticed the jet-black helicopter hanging in the sky just off the side of the bridge. There was no familiar hum of an engine or rotor blades and below four masked men wearing protective gear were in the process of dragging a man from the back of a windowless police van.
Icarus.
Further back Munroe could see an older man in police uniform crouched behind the wreck of the Land Rover, surrounded by the fallen bodies of the armed response unit.
“Get ready to duck and roll,” Munroe ordered as Regis, still with his phone clamped to his ear, looked at him in total confusion.
“What?”
Munroe brought the Mondeo to a screeching halt just at the bridge’s entrance, and before Regis even knew what was being asked of him his seatbelt was unclicked and Munroe reached over, flung open the door and with a solid push shoved the chief hostage negotiator out of the car and onto the tarmac outside.
The Mondeo took off at high speed, leaving Regis looking in complete shock as the dust from the tires washed over him. He uttered the only words that came to mind.
“What the fuck!”
Munroe switched off his lights and then flicked the engine to electrical. The car went silent. As he approached the mangled Land Rover the four gunmen were already leading Icarus back to the helicopter, which was now descending onto the bridge itself. Three landing gears popped out and it landed gracefully on the tarmac as a side door slid open and waited as the gunmen and Icarus headed towards it.
Munroe brought the Mondeo to an abrupt halt and jumped out to join the older uniformed officer squatting behind the Land Rover.
The movement must have caught the attention of the nearest gunman, and he raised his black Colt M3A1 SOPMOD rifle and began firing towards the Mondeo, shattering its windscreen and popping the nearest tire with a loud bang.
“What’s your name?” Munroe shouted over the gunfire, grabbing the M6A2 tan carbine lying next to the nearest body.
“Mills,” came the reply.
“Are you hit?”
“No, just shaken.”
“Good, stay here. Support’s on the way.”
With barely a nod Munroe was pushing forward, using the back of the police van for cover, which he reached in seconds as more bullets struck against its metalwork. It was no more than suppression fire, but it was doing the job. He backtracked around to the other side and then he held up the carbine to his chest, took a deep breath to steady himself, and leant out, took aim and fired off a single shot.
The nearest gunman dropped to the ground like a dead weight, the bullet having missed his back armour and found its mark right at the base of his skull. Munroe pulled back to his cover position as the bombardment of bullets against the van started up again.
Up ahead Icarus was already being bundled into the helicopter, followed by the others, who began to jump inside, each lending supporting fire as they moved, keeping Munroe pinned behind the van until the final gunman turned and boarded through the tight opening in the helicopter.
The break in firing was seized upon immediately and Munroe once again leant out and managed to clip the last gunman in the back of the knee, sending him sprawling inside as the helicopter rose quietly upwards.
Through the carbine’s scope Munroe had a perfect head shot of Icarus, but the killer did something that caused him to pause for just a millisecond. It was enough for him to lose the shot, and the helicopter’s side door slid shut as it continued to gain height.
Icarus had winked at him! The bastard had actually winked at him.
Munroe wasn’t exactly sure what had thrown him off. Perhaps in that millisecond he had admired the brazen lack of care Icarus had shown in the face of death. It could also have been that to kill him there and then would have constituted cold-blooded murder on his part, and in a moment based on instinct perhaps his moral shell had got the better of him.
Up above the helicopter was putting more distance between them. Munroe came out of cover and raised his carbine once more but it was pointless and besides, a stray bullet in a city of 9 million could land anywhere.
“Shit.” With the flashing of police lights now approaching the exit of Waterloo Bridge he lowered the muzzle and rushed over to the body of the gunman. He knelt down and grasped the neckline of the balaclava before ripping it off.
The man with blonde hair stared up at him with lifeless eyes. Munroe dug his forefinger in to his neck but there was no sign of a beat, and with that realisation he expelled a long, frustrated sigh. He laid the carbine on the ground, kicked it away and then rubbed at his ears, which were still ringing from the gunfire.
The helicopter was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and the almost silent running of the engine was remarkable. Sure, he’d seen adverts for near-silent helicopters passed around military circles, but they always turned out to be bullshit. Whatever or whoever these people were he had no idea, but they were professional, with a level of tech even the Americans didn’t have, so far as he knew. There was only one thing Munroe knew for sure, and it concerned Icarus. The man wasn’t just your average serial killer, if there was such a thing, he was something else entirely. The real question was what.
Now Munroe began to consider his options. What had just transpired would be just a matter of course if this was a movie but, in the real world, picking up a loaded weapon and killing a man in public had consequences. Even if it was in self-defence.
“What the hell was that, Ethan?” Munroe turned around to see Regis, his face flushed and judging him warily.
“Sorry to boot you out the car, Mike, but I couldn’t risk you getting hurt.”
Munroe’s response received a blank look from Regis, who briefly glanced down at the carbine Munroe had kicked away before looking back at him nervously.
“Me! Forget about me. You just shot a man. You’re a hostage negotiator, not a fucking killer.” Regis was looking at him with not only contempt but accusation. “Who the fuck are you?”
Before Munroe could answer the sound of someone clearing her throat behind him caused him to turn around and he found himself face to face with a stocky red-haired woman in a long overcoat, shadowed by two beefy-looking men in identical charcoal suits. “Someone would like to speak with you, Mr Munroe, and time is of the essence. So chop-chop.”
It wasn’t a refusal, but Munroe stood there for a moment, unsure of what to make of the three goons standing in front of him, not to mention where the hell they had appeared from. Sensing his hesitation, the woman casually grasped the edge of her jacket. “We can do this the easy way, Ethan,” she said, pulling back her coat to reveal the Ministry of Defence ID card attached to her belt, “or the hard wa
y.”
Munroe wasn’t exactly sure, but he had a rough idea what these people were, and he managed a courteous smile as he glanced down at the dead body beneath him. “Easy way every time, ma’am. Please, lead the way.”
Chapter 6
“Just up here.” The redhead directed Munroe up the long gangway to the top deck of HMS Belfast. Built to serve in World War Two, the light cruiser warship had served with distinction throughout the Korean War until being taken out of service in 1967. By 1971 it had ended up a symbolic museum piece after being permanently docked on the river Thames, within shouting distance of Tower Bridge. Munroe had taken the tour some years before and as he stepped onto the deck he could make out the flashing emergency lights from the police presence attending the clear-up on Waterloo Bridge in the distance.
“If you’ll just wait here, sir,” the redhead said, and began heading away, towards the bow of the ship.
“You really don’t need to leave the chaperones,” Munroe said, and glanced over at the two suited goons waiting either side of the gangway who, like his host, had not uttered a word during the short drive over.
“I know I don’t,” came the reply, and without even looking back at him she casually disappeared out of sight.
Munroe looked over at the two suits and offered them an impatient smile, but with not even an inkling of a response he turned to the railings, grasped the edges and looked out across the river. Whoever these people were they were unquestionably government-connected, because no one just gets pulled away from a crime scene, especially a shooting incident near Parliament, without even the mildest complaint from the local authorities. No, this… they… was something else entirely.
