Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus

by Charlie Flowers

  I thanked her and walked outside. I read the receipt slip. The account holder was one Iqeel Latif. He’d gone back to his mother’s name, I was sure of it. I raced back to my flat and logged into 192.com using KTS’s account, which let me access the full electoral register, landline details, births, deaths, and marriage records. I typed in “Iqeel Latif Woolwich”.

  One result came back.

  IQEEL LATIF

  FLAT 9

  HANSON PLACE

  121 THAMESMEAD

  LONDON SE28 3LP

  We had him.

  At 11 that night Bang-Bang and I were sat in my car next to the block of flats at Hanson Place. Bang-Bang was working on the controls of a PSP games console and I was looking at her in disbelief. She looked back at me and grinned.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, but watch. I’m about to get the whole internet input for this block of flats.’

  ‘From a PlayStation?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Watch and learn, brother, watch and learn.’

  Bang-Bang was concentrating. I could tell because her tongue was sticking out and those daft cat ears she was wearing had turned down. Distractedly she spoke.

  ‘Remind me why we’re after this fella?’

  ‘He’s SOAP SUD, love. The missing link. He was in the Crevice plot, the 7/7 plot, the 21/7 plot … and then he dropped off the face of the earth. We need to know what he’s been doing for the last seven years, why he laid low, and who he knows.’

  She looked at me. Again she had that glazed look that hackers get when they’re “in the zone”.

  ‘You might also want to ask how he managed to get away from every single plot.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Minutes passed. I turned on the Bluetooth function on my BlackBerry and set it to search for any other enabled devices in range. The screen started to fill with phone nicknames. And there, near the bottom of the list, was “ Samsung SGH - G600 ”. I showed Bang-Bang and she nodded, then looked back to her screen.

  ‘OK … we have some packets going in … we have some WEP …’

  She laughed. ‘That’s a bingo. Someone in the block is looking at Islambase.’

  ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Not sure … who’s Umm Hanifa?’

  ‘Could be his new wife. The one with the pink phone.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Could be. I’ll see what I can get. How long we got?’

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘OK. Huah.’

  Ten even longer minutes passed while Bang-Bang worked on the console’s controls and I sat on one butt-cheek, nervously scanning outside. My gun was wedged under my right thigh.

  ‘That’s it. Time’s up.’

  We drove away, slowly, minimum of fuss.

  Bang-Bang blew out her cheeks and sat back.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We have a look at what you grabbed, we get some floorplans, and we ring the letting agents to get any info about the other occupants. Then you gather your girls. We hit the target in 48 hours.’

  Bang-Bang snickered. ‘Better by the minute. I’ll get on IMVU when we get back.’

  14

  For the final briefing before getting onto target, we needed an RV close to it, and sketchy enough that the clientele and management wouldn’t raise an eyebrow to our fractious teams. Most Woolwich pubs were a bit “white”, so that only left TJ’s in the town centre.

  TJ’s was a club run by local gypsies. It was so bloody rough that, paradoxically, there was never any trouble inside, as all the customers were terrifying tooled-up fuckers. Different story outside though. As I walked in and towards the stairs leading up past the bingo hall, I could still see the faded bloodstains where a local lad had been stabbed a month or so back.

  I stepped into a haze of cigarette smoke. The smoking ban was disregarded here. There was a light evening crowd. I could see several Rastas and a few local car thieves I knew from the old days around the two pool tables. In the left hand corner were some drug dealers, and in the right hand corner were the gypsy mums with their many kids. On the karaoke stage in front of a classic silver-strip curtain, a local lad was murdering A Night Like This. Good backing music. And best of all, behind the bar was the fixture that was Patrick.

  ‘RIZ!’

  Wahey. I braced myself for the lecture and went over.

  ‘’Ello Paddy. I’m here to see your licence.’

  Patrick had heard them all before.

  ‘Good to see you, boy. I don’t need to tell you if you’re staying …’

  No actually he didn’t, but he was going to anyway.

  ‘You’re welcome to smoke, and you’ll not be asking for drinks as you are like family to my wife. Family, did she tell you?’

  Funnily enough she had.

  ‘But I will not be having swearing in front of the children in the club. Now - the usual?’

  No swearing in front of the kids. The usual.

  ‘Course, Paddy. Thanks.’

  A Guinness appeared. I daren’t touch it. It had to stand for a long moment.

  ‘Now will you be having guests today Riz?’

  ‘Well actually I do, and that is what I wanted to talk to you about Pa-’

  Two girls in full Asian salwar kameez walked through the door. One grinned at the pool players and said ‘Y’alroite?’

  A red ball hit a cushion, rebounded and hit the white. The white slowly rolled into a pocket. Clunk.

  Paddy spoke.

  ‘When I said guests I didn’t mean the fockin’ Mela, Riz.’

  But it was too late. One girl had taken a table and spread a blueprint on it, and the second had slapped some change on a pool table and was bothering the karaoke DJ.

  ‘They’re with me, Paddy.’

  ‘Obviously. But I’ll have to tell them about the swearing in front of the children. Drinks are on me.’

  He beamed.

  I felt a pinch on my arse. Farzana “Fuzz” Shaheen was standing next to me, whistling. She had full bindi with the white lines and a great big gold nose decoration, and the maddest blue eyes I’d ever seen on a desi girl. The infamous Fuzz Shaheen - helicopter pilot, nutcase, and legendary for dropping a forty-inch television on the chairman of MAC’s head. I suddenly realised she was whistling the cantina theme from Star Wars and I glared at her to stop it.

  ‘You’re going to ask me where I parked the chopper, aren’t you Riz? Hello bhai, long time no see.’

  She grinned up at me with dazzlingly white, broken teeth.

  Behind us the karaoke sparked up. A Night Like This started again and then died.

  Fuzz spoke to Patrick.

  ‘Don’t mind Roadrunner, Mister landlord Sir, she’s with us.’

  Roadrunner was onstage and she had started singing A Night Like This properly. As one, the clientele turned to look at the stage, to see a girl in full salwar kameez wreck a lounge hit. She sang. They were hers and the music filled the venue.

  I took the table with the blueprint of the buildings’ top floor on it and tried to look like I was in charge. Slowly but surely the members of the Hur al-Ayn came into the venue, wandered over and took their seats, or, got sidetracked by the bar and shouting at the karaoke. I noticed that the two factions insisted on sitting on separate tables.

  I was now surrounded by what I had referred to as “the weasel gang from Who Framed Roger Rabbit” the other day and I felt at a loss.

  ‘Farzana - can you make the introductions?’

  Fuzz stood up.

  ‘OK ladies, this is our brother Riz Sabir. He is one of us. Ya hear me?’

  A ragged cheer went round our new crowd. As she spoke, a chavvy-looking Asian girl dragging a child came swearing at full steam through the door. Fuzz grinned.

  ‘OK first off, we have the august pleasure of Lady Calamity and her darling daughter Daisy.’

  Bloody hell. That was Lady Calamity?

  Lady Calamity came over, placed a pistol on the table with a clunk, stubbed her cigarette into the
ashtray, and went back to the bar.

  ‘Roadrunner you all know as our Midlands lass who steals cars …’

  Roadrunner waved from the stage.

  ‘OK from the left … Raggydoll, Mishy, Sags, Maryam, Duckie, Misbah and Sadie.’

  I got some grins and more waves. They all seemed to be Asian or Somali, with the exception of Duckie, who was white, and was wearing an England shirt. By now I’d given up playing the what the fuck game. To my right, Lady Calamity’s little girl Daisy was staring up at me.

  ‘I can play the guitar!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Can you?’ I asked.

  ‘I can play the guitar to Jessie J! ... My mum says you were a jihadi. Are you a jihadi?’

  ‘Erm. Yes, I was, angel.’

  The little girl grinned at me.

  ‘Death to Wahaabis.’ She ran off to play with the gypsy kids. I felt a hug from behind and a kiss on my head. Without my noticing, Bang-Bang had appeared from nowhere - the fire escape? - and had taken the seat next to me. She was leaning on me and glaring at Lady Calamity. Here we went. Ten minutes in and the two factions were fighting over me. I stood.

  ‘Ladies. We aim to hit a high-value, extremely dangerous terrorist target tonight. Are you all aware of that?’

  Mass shrugs. It seemed they were. I looked at Fuzz.

  ‘Not being funny Farzana, but this lot are hardly Delta Force, are they. I can see one schoolgirl,’

  Maryam waved.

  ‘And that one there is pregnant!’

  Sadie waved.

  Fuzz laughed. And then Lady Calamity laughed, and then Holly laughed. They obviously knew something I didn’t. Fuzz spoke.

  ‘Riz, Holly and I have been working on our plan. Holly?’

  Holly stood and placed an Android tablet on the table and swiped the screen. Floor plans and photos appeared.

  ‘OK chicas. Here is how what we know about the flat and its occupants…’

  Behind us, Roadrunner was finishing off A Night Like This. Half our tables started whooping. Calamity got on the stage with Roadrunner and started on the lyrics. Well, heck, if we were going to have background music…

  We all got up and applauded. This was good. Some of us could be dead by the morning so it was as well we made the most of it. Duckie stood up and shouted up at the bar.

  ‘Keep this place open mister, we’re coming back later and we’re CELEBRATING!’

  Patrick nodded.

  The faction leaders stood over the blueprint. Lady Calamity took a long drag on her cigarette, stubbed it out on the table and started the briefing. Her daughter clung to her thigh.

  ‘Listen in. Our target is Iqeel al-Afghani. He is a veteran of jihad, and may well have an AK in his flat. First girl to his AK owns it. His family may be in the residence.

  ‘Here’s how we do it. Ground entrance to the block has buzzers for each flat, so we either hit all of them except the top ones and wait for someone to hit the buzzer and open the door, or just wait for someone to walk in and follow them in. Fuzz has determined the flat opposite the target is unoccupied. We break into it using the Holmatro and start a party. He either objects to the noise within minutes, comes out and we bust him and the door … or he doesn’t, in which case … at 2200 we knock on his door. Target answers the door on the chain, Holly cuts the chain with the boltcutters, bangs the fucker and Riz goes into the gap with the shotgun, controls the target.

  ‘OK, so now we’re in.’

  Calamity traced a line along the blueprint of the flat. The girls watched like a gang of rooks.

  ‘Control the target and his family. Get the family members to another room. Isolate the target. Then we start.’

  Fuzz spoke.

  ‘All with us?’

  ‘HUAH!’

  We were go.

  ‘I have the camera. Fuzz has control of the opposite flat. Bang-Bang has control of everything else. Any questions?’

  No questions. We were good to go. As one, every Blackeye stood.

  I went to the bar. Patrick eyed me. ‘Some rare friends you have there. So you’ll be coming back?’

  ‘It looks like we are, Patrick. And we’ll be bringing an intel haul. Will you be open?’

  ‘We’re always open. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Riz.’

  I went back to the table. In front of me, the faction leaders were whacking down playing cards, and throwing up their hands in disgust. Behind us the rest of them were packing up to go hit the target.

  I had to ask.

  ‘What are you guys playing for?’

  Calamity stood up from the table and fixed me with a stare.

  ‘His head, Rizwan Sabir. The honour of sawing off his head.’

  15

  Outside in the side street two vans waited. I clambered aboard the lead vehicle with the faction leaders and we drove off in convoy. Calamity, Fuzz and Bang-Bang started putting their war-paint on - a simalcrum of Mexican sugar skull masks. It would disguise their identity on video, and would also scare the shit out of any adversary. It was already giving me the goosebumps. Bang-Bang started digging about in the kitbags on the floor, checking the essentials. Zip-ties, a chainsaw, video camera with tripod, a large set of boltcutters, a Holmatro door opener, a boom-box. And last but not least, a roll of gaffa tape and a large black backdrop with Arabic script on it in white. I checked inside my own kitbag. The Mossberg M500 Cruiser shotgun sat there with a box of shells, its breech glinting evilly.

  Ahead a street sign read Mervury Close and we turned left and pulled in close to the middle block. Hanson Place. There was no messing about now. Everybody was quiet and methodical as we disembarked and trotted in loose file around the corner to the block entrance. The faction leaders hung back with me. No sense in scaring some old dear with their facepaint. Maryam was the youngest, so as was their custom, she went forward and started hitting the lower buzzers. We waited.

  Bingo. The door clicked open. The two teams filed upstairs to the top floor, sticking close to the walls. Second floor. Fuzz pulled the Holmatro from its bag and went to the left-hand flat door. She pressed it against the doorjamb, it hissed, and the lock went. She led her team into the empty flat.

  I took the right-hand side of the target’s door and readied the shotgun. Bang-Bang took the left-hand side and brought the boltcutters to bear over her shoulder. I checked my watch. It was 21.57. Three minutes to go, whatever happened.

  At the head of the stairs, Duckie sat down and faced away from us, placed my HK on her lap and cocked the bolt back. She was there to give us advanced warning of any interlopers.

  Suddenly the opening horns from House Of Pain’s Jump Around started blaring from the flat opposite. Fuzz’s crew were starting the party. I glanced at Bang-Bang and we both started laughing. It was ridiculously loud. Clack-clack. I racked a shell into the breech of the shotgun and pressed the safety on the top of the receiver forward. Gun armed. One … two …

  There was a commotion from within the target flat, a chain rattled off, and suddenly the door was yanked inwards and in a flurry of swearing out came Iqeel Ahmed.

  ‘How many times have I told you - ’

  Time slowed, stopped. The colour drained from him and he started to backpedal as he saw us. I pushed the shotgun into his face and I was screaming at him and he was trying to get back in the flat. Bang-Bang cannoned forward into the door and swung the boltcutters at him. Swung and missed. Paint flakes and wood flew. He was going left, reaching for …

  We barrelled through the door, me heading right, Bang-Bang heading left. His wife and two kids were there, screaming hysterically. I pointed the shotgun at them and yelled even louder and swung my head left. Iqeel was going for an AKS-74U carbine propped near the door.

  ‘DROP HIM HOLLY!’

  Iqeel stumbled to the floor and his hand stretched for the folding stock of the AK. Bang-Bang swung the boltcutters down and smashed him on the left side of his head with a sickening crack. His left ear flew off and blood and teeth sprayed up the wall.
He dropped to the ground. Bang-Bang scrambled for the AK, grabbed it, and whooped in delight. She stood over our target and turned to me.

  ‘Cuz, get a chair and the flex ties. We ain’t got long.’

  His wife and kids were howling even louder now. I had to deal with them. I shouted in Urdu and hustled them into a bedroom, then slammed the door.

  We tied Iqeel to a chair with the flex ties and gaffa tape. His breathing was shallow and irregular, and blood and snot bubbled from his mouth. Lady Calamity walked in from next door, whistled appreciatively at the carnage, and began to ready the video camera and the backdrop. She patted Iqeel’s gore-smeared face, and said

  ‘You’re in for an interesting night, bhai.’

  And then she reached down and pocketed his severed ear. She grinned at me.

  ‘It’ll make for a good necklace ornament, I guess.’

  Iqeel was coming round. Behind me, Calamity had found a laptop and was inspecting it.

  ‘This his?’

  Bang-Bang shrugged.

  ‘Dunno. Shall I ask him?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  Bang-Bang wiggled her hips like she was taking a golf swing, got the boltcutters into position behind her head, and swung them at the other side of Iqeel’s head. CRACK. The flat of the cutters smacked his good ear and blood flew. He jerked and screamed.

  ‘Now that’s got your attention … WAKE UP! Passwords. Now!’

  One eye was swollen shut. The other eye opened and glared at us. He spoke through the ruins of his teeth.

  ‘Teri ma ko kuttey chodein.’

  Calamity and Bang-Bang howled with laughter.

  ‘Uloo ka pattha!’ said Calamity, and powered up the laptop. Son of an owl? Urdu swearing could be very random. Bang-Bang swooshed the boltcutters back and forth.

  ‘Listen up, bhen chod. You have ten fingers, and ten toes. That’s twenty options. I’m going to start cutting your fingers off in a minute, and if you don’t want to be a bleeding stump in an hour, you will answer our questions.’

  Iqeel coughed blood and whispered.

  ‘I am al-Qaeda. My emirs were Osama bin Laden and Anwar al-Awlaki. I welcome death and Jannah. And you whores had better mark my words, my friends will kill you and all your families -’