No Time to Lose: A Matt Flynn Thriller

by Iain Cameron

  His head was swimming and it took several seconds to clear. Leaning towards his feet was more painful than before, forcing him to grit his teeth. No matter how many times he rested and tried again, the pain in his chest still throbbed.

  Minutes later, with his chest heaving and perspiration clouding his view, he completed the first part. He managed to lean forward and touch his ankles. He knew he had to untie his feet or he would die in this place.

  The knot was as tight as it had been before, but this time it wasn’t so elaborate. Maybe Ahmed had gotten sloppy, believing the man he had beaten was not capable of doing anything.

  In two hours, or perhaps three, judging by the small window at the far end which indicated darkness had fallen, he had slackened the rope, but still not enough for him to pull a piece out. It was old rope, not the modern polypropylene stuff that slid apart without any trouble when some slack had been introduced, but old brown rope made from something like jute, each strand firmly wedded to its neighbour.

  Everything in his body ached, and by sitting in this strange position for some time, he was putting pressure on his waist, hips, and stomach, and all of them were screeching at him to stop. He had no intention of stopping, though. A few minutes later, he finally felt some movement in the rope. He tugged frantically for about thirty seconds but stopped when he heard a noise. Someone was coming down the stairs.

  The lock on the door clicked as Matt pulled a section of the rope free. Footsteps were moving towards him as, at last, he freed his legs. Despite still having his hands tied together, he managed to undo his belt, a thick American cowboy-styled thing with a large and heavy embossed buckle. Ahmed approached, the gun in his hand held loosely at his side. His previously impassive face took on a look of shock when the expected prone figure of Matt leapt up. In the same movement, he swung the buckle at his attacker’s face.

  A combination of the weight of the buckle and the pin sticking out, which gouged into his skin, forced the big guy to stagger back. At the same time, the gun dropped to the ground as his hands moved towards the injured area.

  Matt dived for the gun and without hesitation, swung round and pumped two bullets into Ahmed’s chest. He slumped to the ground, blood and life oozing out of him. Matt clumsily searched his body for a knife. He found one, it was his. After securing it between his knees, began to saw the rope against the blade. In seconds, the rope started to part. A minute or so later, Matt removed the final pieces from his wrists, and put the knife back into his leg sheath.

  With hands and feet now free, he waited, legs apart, gun held in a two-handed grip, in a position to the side of the door. The gun was pointing at the basement door opening. A few minutes later, he heard the noise of a second person coming down the stairs. There was no hurry in his movements, suggesting the two shots Matt had plugged into Ahmed were sounds he had expected to hear. This guy was coming to help Ahmed remove Matt’s lifeless body.

  He was talking Turkish in a loud voice, perhaps to someone on the phone, or down to Ahmed. Maybe he was enquiring if the prisoner was dead and if he had died an honourable death.

  In the dim light, it wouldn’t be clear to the new arrival, for a second or two at least, whose body was lying on the floor. The giveaway would be Ahmed’s bulk once the newcomer’s eyes had become accustomed to the dull surroundings. Nothing he’d heard or seen so far could have sounded any alarm bells, as he walked into the basement without caution, his gun tucked safely into his waistband. Matt dropped him with two bullets, one to the throat the other in his chest.

  Matt removed the gun from the guy he’d just killed, and stuck it into his own waistband. As before, he took up a defensive position, listening for any movement upstairs. Hearing nothing to alarm him, he peeked up the staircase. No figures were hiding, and he couldn’t see the shadows or hear the sounds of anyone lurking at the top.

  He crept up the stairs as quietly as possible, making slow but steady progress. If Ahmed had killed Matt, the folks in the house would have expected to hear one or two shots, so he could have stomped upstairs as noisily as he wanted. Having now fired four, it should have put everyone else in the house on high alert.

  The door at the top of the stairs was open, another reflection of the casual approach of the second terrorist who’d assumed Ahmed had done what he’d been asked to do. To the left, a small corridor leading to the kitchen and the back door, with another door to the left and two doors to the right.

  The first door was open: a small toilet. It and the kitchen were empty. It would be too easy to catch the third guy sitting on the john with his trousers down. The door opposite was closed, so he turned the handle and eased it open. It made a sighing noise as it moved across the coarse carpet, enough to alert someone inside, but it didn’t encourage a response, shout or gunfire. Just as well; the door was light and made from a composite material and incapable of stopping an airgun pellet.

  If the house had been occupied by a family, this would have been the dining room, as it was furnished with a table and six chairs. Instead, it was a bomb factory. The table was strewn with wires, cheap mobiles, timing devices, and a box of Czech-made Semtex. Christ! These guys meant business. He’d seen enough explosives in the Hackney house to kill the Turkish PM and most of his entourage, but when added to this lot, what further damage were they capable of?

  It crossed his mind he was looking at the explosives from the Hackney house, deposited by the supermarket owner, Yusuf Batuk. How was this possible when he had secreted a tracking device in the sports bag? Had they discovered the tracker, removed it, and left it in the Hackney house, leading them to believe the bag hadn’t been moved? If he managed to get out of here alive and report what he’d seen, everyone engaged in anti-terrorist activities would have to agree, the TFF were too dangerous to leave unchecked.

  Matt finished his sweep of the downstairs rooms and, finding no trace of his interrogator or anyone else, climbed the stairs to the first floor. He needed to be more careful than before. The basement staircase was made from stone and didn’t generate much noise beyond his footfall. Here, they were made of wood, covered in carpet, and, in an old house like this one, he wouldn’t be surprised if over half of them creaked.

  Around the halfway point he stood on one step that didn’t make a sound until he put his full weight on it, then it screeched so much he thought it would wake the dead. He reached the top, believing he’d made a helluva noise, but to his surprise, no one came out to investigate.

  This time all the room doors were shut. He walked towards the first and put his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. He did the same to the next two, but the results were the same. From the last, a room which he reckoned overlooked the road, he heard music. It wasn’t anything he recognised, but if put on the spot, he would have to say it sounded Turkish.

  He had two choices. Kick the door and rush in, or push the door slowly and, with luck, the music would drown out his approach and he could surprise the occupant. The first option would provide ‘shock and awe’, a tactic favoured by American Special Forces. However, as it was only him and not a squad of soldiers, it would provide some shock, but not much awe. He selected the second option. If the occupant didn’t respond to the two extra shots being fired or his creaky climbing of the stairs, it was unlikely he would notice his door being opened.

  He gently pushed the door. All the time wary of a gun being fired, he peered inside. Kerem, his questioner, was sitting at a dressing table trimming his beard. He said something in Turkish. Matt was sure he heard the name ‘Ahmed’ as he waved his hand in a theatrical, dismissive gesture. This to Matt meant, ‘Don’t bother me now, Ahmed, I’m busy. I’ll be down to see your handiwork when I’m ready.’

  Matt, holding his gun in a two-handed grip, stepped into the room and pointed it at his head. ‘Kerem!’ he said in an authoritative voice. ‘Turn around slowly. Put your hands where I can see them.’

  Kerem, to his credit, didn’t look surprised or alarmed to hear a non-Turkish voice or
his prisoner holding a weapon. Instead of glancing round, he tilted the dressing table mirror in Matt’s direction. He nodded when he saw Matt’s reflection. Slowly, he turned to face Matt in his seat. He was wearing long robes and only when he pulled out his hands did Matt see he was holding a gun. Matt ducked as Kerem fired, clipping the door above Matt’s head, showering him with shards. Kerem then dived behind the bed, but not before Matt let off a round which hit him in the lower leg or ankle.

  Behind a bed was a terrible hiding place; no way would soft furnishings stop a bullet. Matt decided he needed to end this quickly in case anyone heard the shots and came up behind him. He looked underneath and saw the shadow of what looked like legs. He fired.

  He must have hit something as the guy screeched. Matt reached in front of him and grabbed the chair Kerem had been sitting on and lobbed it on the bed, making it sound as if he had jumped on it. Without waiting for Kerem’s reaction, he scuttled around the bottom of the bed, intending to pump the terrorist full of lead if still clutching his gun.

  The Turk was lying in a pool of blood, most of it oozing from a chest wound. Matt picked up the guy’s gun and added it to the other in his waistband. He did a quick search of the other rooms, reasoning if anyone was living there, they would have appeared at the first signs of gunfire. He found no one.

  He went back into the room containing the injured guy and searched the dressing table until he located Kerem’s phone. He decided not to waste time trying to extract the password out of Kerem, as the phone was probably set up in Turkish. He dialled 999, the one thing he could do on a password-protected phone.

  If Kerem survived, and Matt didn’t care one way or the other, it would give them someone from this TFF unit to question. Matt also didn’t care about what they were planning or what their capabilities might be. MI5 could object all they liked, but he was determined now he would close the TFF down and capture or kill every one of the group he came across.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Matt had been forced to spend a night in hospital. This followed an examination of his chest and legs by the doctor who was called to the scene. Where Ahmed had done his worst on Matt’s chest, his skin was red and bloody and surrounded with emerging bruises, giving it the appearance of a bizarre tattoo. Nothing was broken, according to the X-rays, but with his shirt off, it looked as though he had been in a bad car crash.

  He was at home now, in the middle of a couple of days’ mandatory convalescence, the usual after a major incident. Nevertheless, he was itching to get back out, even if it looked like his body was fraying a bit at the edges. Rosie was coming round for a visit later, ostensibly to take his statement. This was to keep the police happy, and not a requirement of HSA. With two dead and another with bullet wounds, some explanation was required, even if it was only to placate an alarmed public.

  He was looking forward to seeing her, to grill her about the latest developments. He would only be out of circulation for two or three days, but investigations like this were fast-moving and a lot could happen in a couple of days. They’d had a quick conversation on the phone, and he’d learned about the operation mounted to rescue him, but they had gone to the wrong location, a bit like going into a house after hearing loud music, only to discover this wasn’t where the party was being held. He felt grateful however, it was the thought that counted.

  Ahmed had whacked him on the shins enough times to leave them like those of a footballer who didn’t believe in wearing shin pads. He was able to walk reasonably well, but the pains in his chest made him feel like a thirty-a-day man. He headed into the kitchen and made a coffee.

  He preferred living in this house in Clapham to the flat he had rented in Ealing. It was bigger, in better condition and had the benefit of a rear garden, the place where he was heading now. He walked out and sat on the bench, letting the morning sun warm his face as he sipped his coffee.

  The one disadvantage this house had over the upstairs flat he had also been thinking of buying at the time, was that it was easier to burgle. He wasn’t much of a materialist, so he didn’t own a great deal of things worth stealing: no expensive watches, jewellery, or electronics. However, a burglar didn’t know what a house contained until they’d smashed a window, trampled broken glass and mud all over the floors, and trashed the place looking for hidden valuables they were unable to find.

  He also remembered the grief a burglary had caused a neighbour, a friend of his mother when he was about twelve. Unlike Mrs Mason, he wouldn’t be fearful or anxious about going out or living in the area. He would instead be angry and prowl the streets at night with a full ammunition clip looking for the culprit.

  Matt was glad HSA agents didn’t have to go through the same rigmarole as armed police officers whenever they were involved in a fatal shooting. If so, he would now be suspended from operational duty and sent on garden leave, or given a cushy desk job for the next four to six months. He’d also face an internal inquiry, and a possible public enquiry if the incident ranked high enough in public consciousness. If either enquiry found that he had acted recklessly or had breached the guidelines in other ways, he would be sacked, and in addition, could face criminal prosecution.

  The doorbell sounded. Times like this, he wished he’d installed one of those door systems which would ring on his phone and he could look at the screen to see who was standing at the door. That said, even if he had the spare cash, he knew he would never buy one while he was capable of getting up and doing it himself. Using his arms for leverage, he got up from the bench, stood for a moment to regain his balance, and walked through the hall towards the door.

  Despite expecting Rosie’s visit, it was in his nature to take basic precautions. He removed his gun from the holster hanging on the peg close to the door, shielded from visitors with a jacket, and opened the door on the chain.

  For most intruders, a chain wasn’t much of a deterrent, as it was only as strong as the wood it was screwed into. With most modern houses, and he would include his own in this assessment, as it was an old house extensively renovated, builders would install softwood door frames, and the same for the door itself. A well-placed shoulder or foot would be enough to detach the chain’s retaining screw from the frame. Matt had modified this, changing the existing door and frame for hardwood, and ensuring the screws holding the chain to the frame were long and also embedded into the stonework behind.

  Seeing Rosie, and looking as though she hadn’t been coerced or had a gun pointing at her head, he undid the chain and opened the door. He had little chance to check the area behind her when she threw her arms around him, the bag she was carrying slapping against his back.

  ‘It’s great to see you’re all right, Matt.’

  ‘I’m fine, nothing a few days of taking it easy can’t solve.’

  She held him in her arms for a few seconds more before breaking away. She lifted up the bag for him to see. ‘I bring sustenance.’

  Matt recognised the shop logo on the bag. ‘Good. I can only drink so much instant. Come on through, I’m sitting outside.’

  Matt closed the front door, resetting the chain, and put his gun back into its holster. He followed Rosie down the hall and out to the garden through the kitchen.

  ‘It’s such a lovely day,’ Rosie said, taking a seat on the bench. ‘It’s hard to believe this is September. It feels like summer.’

  Matt eased down beside her. ‘Make the most of it, weather like this never lasts.’

  Rosie unpacked the paper bag she had been carrying, and removed two coffees and a blueberry muffin.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took the coffee and the muffin. ‘I haven’t had one of these for ages. Do you want a piece?’

  ‘No thanks. You enjoy.’

  ‘Tell me about the interview with the van driver I nabbed.’

  ‘He was pleading innocence until we showed him pictures we received from Interpol and MI6. He’s been an active member of the TFF almost since the time they broke away from the PKK, the Kurdish Workers’ Party.
The PKK are Kurds too, as you know, but they believe in taking the fight directly to the government and trying to change it.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘He says they have over a thousand members in the UK, but we think he’s bigging them up. MI6 put their strength at about 50, and most of them are on the periphery, distributing leaflets and raising money from pubs and coffee bars. What’s worrying though, is they’re organised like the IRA operational units in England were in the 1970s.’

  ‘What, in cells?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘The cell who kidnapped you in Stoke Newington don’t know anything about the cell Steph and her team are watching in Hackney. In turn, they know nothing about the cell we raided in Lambeth. Only one person from each cell can make contact with one person from another cell.’

  ‘It sounds like they’re better organised than we thought.’

  ‘Maybe yes, maybe no. The way this guy talked, he knew some things he shouldn’t, that is, if they were operating a strict cell structure. I think, in reality, it operated a bit looser than the term suggests.’

  ‘Did he shed any more light on David Burke’s kidnap and murder?’

  ‘We’ve had David’s ballistics report back.’

  ‘I take it by the expressionless look on your face it didn’t tell us much.’

  ‘Right. 9mm handgun.’

  ‘About as useful as a chocolate watch. What else did the van driver say?’

  ‘I think one of the reasons he mentioned the cell structure, is he thinks by pleading ignorance it will lead us to conclude it was the work of another cell. It seems you were kidnapped by the operational cell, I led a team looking for you in the quartermaster cell, and the one Steph and the surveillance team are watching is the fund-raising cell. MI6 and MI5 don’t believe there are any more cells.’