Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  Locked and Loaded

  A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

  Charlie Flowers

  © Charlie Flowers 2014

  Charlie Flowers has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  Excerpt from “My Kind of Party” (c) Len Deighton.

  First published by Black Dove Books 2012

  This edition published 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Hard Kill

  Danger Close

  Kill Order

  Hard Kill

  ‘I'll be judge, I'll be jury,’

  Said cunning old Fury:

  ‘I'll try the whole cause, and

  Condemn you to death.’

  Lewis Carroll

  1

  The pistol that they had given me was covered in gun oil. Cheap gun oil, I couldn’t tell the make from its scent. It didn’t smell like the oil Uncle Khan put on his guns. It made the weapon’s grip slippery, and it was too late in the job to rinse the damn thing down with warm water and Fairy Liquid. Why hadn’t they given me a stun gun? Stuff this, next time I’d sort my own. This was the kind of thing that had made me go and get my ammonia spray. The pistol was ready, tucked down the front of my jeans, shirt un-tucked to cover the grip, hopefully out of sight of tonight’s commuter rush.

  Teacher was sitting in the drivers’ seat of the London Ambulance Service response car that we’d just stolen from Royal London Hospital. He was singing along to the radio and grinning at me; I leant forward uncomfortably on the car’s bonnet with a view up the Mile End Road towards Aldgate. Pro that Teacher was, he had the engine running and a Bluetooth headset on his left ear. I had to admit that the green LAS paramedic uniform really suited him.

  The plan was that we’d have our target lifted off the pavement and into the boot within the next ten minutes, and ten minutes after that we’d be driving down the Westway on our way to RAF Northolt and a rendezvous with a rendition jet. We could leave our ride there and all go our separate ways - the response car should be untraceable by the LAS for now. I’d disabled the twin tracking systems inside it and done a number on the licence plates with some judicious application of some black tape. That is, if it all went according to plan...

  Our target for tonight was a star of the jihad scene. His name was Rahman Miah. He had a glittering CV. Former spokesman of al-Muhajiroun and prominent member of al-Maddad, an organization that sent dozens of British Muslims to fight in Chechnya and elsewhere. Our man had also been to camps in Pakistan and Afghanistan and had trained in the use of guns and explosives. Once back in England he just hadn’t been able to resist taking part in the demo outside the Danish Embassy in 2006, where he’d chanted “Europe you will pay with your blood” and “Denmark, USA, 7/7 on its way” through a megaphone. Shortly afterwards he was arrested and charged with using words likely to stir up racial hatred. He got four years. He got out on licence in 2009. Straight away he was arrested again and found guilty of Incitement to Terrorism Overseas. He got three years.

  Since coming out of prison two months back he’d been laying low at various addresses in Whitechapel, moving often and, as far as we could tell, using pre-paid mobiles to communicate. Obviously the novelty of reporting to the Probation Service had worn thin with him. His electronic tag had been found on Brick Lane with “dirty kuffar” written on it in magic marker. I’d heard that the Met had gone to his last two previous known addresses, knocked, and given up when no-one answered. God bless the Met.

  For us though, figuring Rahman‘s movements had been pretty easy. Last night I’d hacked into his Facebook page by using his last known email and guessing his password. It took me all of five tries - far too many jihadis use ‘shadeofswords’. Once I was in I had his comments, friends, fanpage likes, and most importantly, private messages. The most recent exchange in his inbox showed that he was arranging to meet some people in Baraka, the tandoori based on the end of the sprawling London Muslim Centre. Not a problem. We’d just sit outside Baraka until he showed up. When he did, he’d be getting a faceful of ammonia.

  My BlackBerry vibrated in my hand. Teacher. I hit answer and held it to my ear.

  ‘Holby City to daft 'stani currently on my bonnet, are you receiving over?’

  ‘You’re killing the mood, nugget. Make yourself useful and do a tracker check for me.’

  ‘On it, wait one.’

  Pretty much the only thing that irked me about Teacher in all the years I’d known him was that he refused to get a BlackBerry like me, and insisted on using the work of Shaytaan known as the iPhone. To say it caused compatibility problems was an understatement. As we might be about to find out. Teacher came back on my phone.

  ‘Have you on screen mate.’

  Well, that was one thing in our favour. We were using MobileLocate to track each other's phones and plot our positions on online maps in real time, and tonight it looked like it was working cross-platform.

  ‘What callsign d’you want to be tonight?’

  I sighed. This was our matinee shtick.

  ‘Tonight, Matthew, I’m Romeo.’

  ‘Have that. Tonight I’m Hotel.’

  ‘Got that, Hotel. Keep eyes on for Bravo One Foxtrot from our left.’

  ‘Romeo, Hotel. Have you noticed that these LAS uniforms have mesh in the armpits, over.’

  I had three hours notice from the boss to let me know they’d decided it was best that Rahman Miah was lifted, which gave me two hours and 59 minutes notice to roust Teacher and swing by my lockup to grab my party bag, and the best part of an hour to get the pistol off the boss’s PA, rendezvous with Teacher and run through the limited options for lifting our target. As luck would have it this job had come up at the exact time my own pistol was at the gun shop having new tritium sights installed. It was nothing like the movies.

  I checked my watch. It was now 1910 Hours, five minutes before Jama’ah, and dark and drizzling, which suited us fine. Passers-by were more interested in getting their heads down against the rain than wondering about the response car sat in a bus stop with a moody-looking Asian bloke leaning against it. Above us, the adhan, the call to prayer, started from the minaret loudspeakers.

  ‘Hotel, Romeo. No, I had not noticed that your uniform has –’

  ‘Look right! LOOK RIGHT!’

  Mercy of Allah. Rahman Miah had walked across the line of traffic not fifteen feet in front of us, from our right , and was heading for … he wasn’t heading for Baraka. He was heading for the mosque entrance. Inwardly I did a mental slap of the forehead. Jama’ah - evening prayers. I’d better get after him and keep eyes-on, because if we lost him in the London Muslim Centre, he had a myriad of potential exits to leave from and he’d be gone.

  ‘Romeo is going Foxtrot, watch my signal.’ I boosted myself off the car bonnet and followed him in, up the steps and into the polished, echoing interior.

  Straight in, across the hall, and to the left, my eyes boring into Rahman Miah’s small, squat back the entire time. I tried to slow my movements and breathing. Act normal , Riz , you’re coming for prayers . You’ve been here loads , it’s no drama . Contrary to the perception of the Daily Mail, LMC isn’t some epicentre of jihad, it’s just a place where all kinds of Muslims meet and do business. I’d prayed here and met people here, many times. It was just tonight we happened to be chasing Takfiri target number one right through the building.

  Down the steps we went, for wudu. Trainers and socks off, into the pigeonhole. I followed our man. No eye contact. You never made eye contact with who you were following. I squelched acr
oss the loo floor, parallel to Rahman. Just acting on the side of caution. Even though we’d been in the same organisations and in the same camps and meeting rooms from time to time, it was unlikely that he’d recognise me. Back then I had a beard and hair down to my arse and a different name. I’d been hearing stories about the psycho since 1991 and none of them were good. The death threats, the intimidation rackets, and those two unexplained murders. Time to cut away and focus on the wudu and the tap and basin in front of me.

  Bismillah - Hir - Rahmanir - Raheem … I washed my right hand with my left hand, three times, and then vice versa. In my peripheral vision, Miah was doing the same. I rinsed out my mouth and threw water into my nose, snorted. I washed my face. I washed both arms from wrist to elbow, thoroughly. Wiped my head and ears with water. Now for the feet. Good rinse in the basin. Lastly, I recited the following:

  As - hadu allaa ilaaha illallaahu wahdahuu laa shariikalah , wa as - hadu anna Muhammadan 'abduhuu wa rasuuluh . I bear witness that there is no God but Allah, without any partner, and I bear witness that Muhammad is his servant and messenger. I surely did.

  Wudu finished, we squelched our way back to the towels and then back up the stairs and left, into the main room. I shuffled my way to the back of the congregation where I could keep a good view of Abdul, breathing slowly to calm myself. I was now acutely aware that I had a Browning Hi-Power tucked in my jeans and a can of ammonia in my jacket … and that I was about to pray. Strangely enough, it wasn’t the Lord that came into my head at this point, but a mental picture of my Mum and Dad looking extremely ticked off with my behaviour.

  But then a strange calm descended on me. At the end of the day, what I was about to do was something I could square away with Allah and it was me that would have to answer to him, and no-one else. With my target no more than twenty feet away, I began my Salat. I stood still with the rest of the congregation, raised my hands, and said ‘Allahu Akhbar’. Then I folded my hands and recited the first verse of the Quran. Bismillahi ramani rraim Alamdu lillahi rabbi l - 'alamin .

  Once more I raised my hands and said ‘Allahu Akhbar.’ I bowed, reciting three times, Subhana rabbiyal adheem . Glory be to my Lord Almighty. Miah was unaware, and was doing the same prayers, with some extra little Wahaabi hand movements. The arrogance of the man.

  And now, a sura between me and God. In the light of what I was about to do, Surat al-Ikhlas seemed the best.

  Bismillah ir - Rahman ir - Raheem , Qul huwa Allah hu ahad

  Allah hu 's - samad , Lam yalid wa lam yulad

  Wa lam yakun lahu kufuwan ahad .

  The truth is: Allah is One. Allah is besought of all, needing none. He neither begot anyone, nor he was begotten. And equal to Him has never been any one.

  Al-Ikhlas meant The Purity. I rose to stand while reciting: Sam'i Allahu liman hamidah , Rabbana wa lakal hamd . God hears those who call upon Him; Our Lord, praise be to You. I rose my hands up again, saying ‘Allahu Akhbar.’ And then down, prostrating myself on the ground, and three times I repeated Subhana Rabbiyal A'ala . Glory be to my Lord, the Most High. I rose to a sitting position, saying ‘Allahu Akhbar.’ And then down. Then I stood, saying ‘Allahu Akhbar.’ This was one rak'a , or unit of prayer. After two rak'as , you remained sitting after the prostrations and recited the Tashahhud.

  At - taiyyatu lillahi , wa - alawatu wa - ayyibatu . As - salamu alaika ayyuha n - nabiyyu wa - ramatu llahi wa - barakatuh . As - salamu 'alayna wa - 'ala 'ibadi llahi - aliin . Ashhadu alla ilaha illa llahu wa - ashhadu anna Muammadan 'abduhu wa - rasuluh .

  All worship is unto Allah. Allah's peace be upon you, O Prophet, and His mercy and blessings. Peace be on us and on all righteous servants of Allah. I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.

  We then all turned to our right and said " Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah ".

  Peace be upon you and God's blessings to our neighbour. My neighbour and I exchanged smiles, and from the corner of my eye I watched Miah do the same. We turned to our left and repeated the greeting to our neighbours on the left. Already I felt better about the whole thing.

  Time to go. The congregation rose in staggered ranks and went their various ways, back to restaurants, cars, cabs, or the tube. I hurried to catch up at the back of the crowd, never losing sight of Rahman. Socks and trainers retrieved, I continued with my focus on the targets’ back as he pulled on his. A minute later he walked out of the hall and turned left, heading for the back of the centre, through the newer office section facing Fieldgate Street. I kept twenty feet back and hit the speed dial for Teacher.

  ‘Hotel.’

  ‘Romeo. Tracking me?’

  ‘Got ya.’

  ‘Back of LMC, Fieldgate Street, thirty seconds, keep it running.’

  ‘On it.’

  Rahman went down the back exit stairs with a spring in his step, ten feet from the glass doors. He straight-armed the right-hand door, bouncing along, ready to hit the pavement..

  ‘Abdul ya akhi!’ I called.

  He turned, puzzled.

  I twisted and smacked my right palm up with the full force of my body into the base of his chin, lifting him almost a foot into the air and propelling him out through the breaking glass of the exit and onto the pavement, his fall interrupted by the dull thud of his impact with a parked car. As glass rained all around us I was giving him a good dose of Misty ammonia cleaner straight into the face. His howl of pain was drowned out by a vroOOOooom as Teacher pulled up right outside the exit and ran round to get ready with the lifting.

  Teacher’s feet skidded to a halt on the pavement beside us, Rahman bucking and flapping about like a beached fish. Twenty feet away a Bengali lady dropped her shopping and screamed.

  Between us we had Rahman flipped over on his front and the flex ties on within seconds. Teacher took the shoulders, I took the legs, and into the big Response car boot he went. I slammed the tailgate down as Teacher went for the drivers’ seat, I jumped in the passenger seat and we were off down Fieldgate and right, in a shower of door glass.

  And that’s when the night lit up like day.

  Teacher spat curses and heeled the car over to the right. We’d gone noisy and we’d been found by a police helicopter. Credit to Teach, his drills had taken over. He put the car at 45 degrees to the roadside, engine running, and was already pulling on his balaclava. I did likewise.

  ‘Riz- sort them, I’ll get new wheels.’

  I gave a sharp nod as I stepped out of the car, opened the rear door and pulled out the party bag. Our immediate world was lit in juddering, surreal, dazzling Persil white. Shadows leapt and danced at odd, flat angles and the sky was filled with the thrumming of helicopter rotors. I gave Abdul a quick look in the rear compartment. He seemed to be rolling around in his own private world of hurt. Good.

  Out of the wobbling circle of the Nightsun, Teacher jogged down New Road, hunting for a car old enough to jack. I had faith in his skills- he was nearly as good at it as I was. Towards Mile End Road, the buildings were suddenly lit by blue strobes as a Met area car squealed round the corner and slowed, faced with the unknown quantity lit by the Nightsun above us.

  The police helicopter’s rotors growled as it turned to keep its cameras on the target, clawing for air. I knew that sound of old, it had been the soundtrack to my teenage years. I hated cops, and air-cops more. But I had just the thing for both varieties.

  From my left pocket I pulled a 50MW green laser pointer, looked up, aimed, and hit the button. Bullseye. The chopper body flared green and it veered away. No more nightvision for those guys. As the police megaphone sparked up at the end of the street and Teacher shouted from the other end that he had a possible, I booted the party bag towards the threat, getting it between me, Teacher, and them.

  Time to get their heads down. I pulled the Browning, flicked up the safety, and squeezed off six or so rounds in rapid fire vaguely into the area of the roofs across the way. That�
�d keep their minds focussed on the pavement.

  To the sound of screams and shouts and smashing glass, I trousered the pistol, reached into the bag on the road in front of me, and yanked the ringpull on the Ikaros marine flare gaffa-taped to a bumper variety pack of Black Cat fireworks and four Enola Gaye smoke grenades. The fuse hissed. I ran to the ambulance car hatch, popped it, grabbed Rahman like a deadweight and heaved him out. He hit the street with a thud and I hauled him with all my might towards Teacher -

  There was a fizz, a pop, and then in one apocalyptic flash, Guy Fawkes’ Night, Mardi Gras, and Eid came to Whitechapel all at once. I spared one glance back to admire the world ending behind me in a holiday of blinding, deafening whooshes and bangs, and dragged Rahman towards Teacher and his new ride.

  Directly above us a star shell went whipcracking into the window of Flyte Fashion Wear, blew up, and set the place alight. Teacher had found an old Nissan Micra and the engine was already running. He was shouting something at me and laughing as we hoisted Rahman into the boot but I had no idea what he was saying. Firing that Browning had made me a tad deaf. I slammed the boot lid, jumped into the drivers’ seat this time, and we smoothly accelerated away and made distance south.

  Ten minutes later we really were on Marylebone Road, as planned, heading west and hoping that Allah would keep smiling on me. I kept well within the limit. The front seats had those bead curtain covers on them and there was a minging Christmas tree air freshener hanging from the mirror. It wasn’t doing its job - we both smelt of cordite and gunpowder and our hair was sticking out at all angles like crazy men. We’d both pulled our balaclavas off and now Teacher was trying not to keep his eyes jerking all over the place looking for Old Bill on the road or in the air. There didn’t seem to be any noise from our guest in the boot. My mind kept replaying the whole lift, trying to work out how they’d found us so quickly. I tried to put my body into autopilot and my brain in neutral, concentrating on the fact we could be at RAF Northolt in fifteen minutes. As the adrenalin wore off it suddenly registered that the palm of my hand hurt, from smacking Rahman under the chin. Still, as my instructor always said, better a bruised palm than broken knuckles.