No Time to Lose: A Matt Flynn Thriller

by Iain Cameron

  Suzy laughed. ‘It takes all sorts.’

  They were outside now, walking along Eldon Street, heading towards Liverpool Street Station. They stopped at a coffee bar on the corner of Finsbury Avenue and bought a couple of takeaway coffees. Suzy didn’t have the time to sit and chat, but why deprive herself of a better drink than her ancient filter machine could produce?

  The two women parted at the station concourse, Suzy heading a few stops north to Dalston, Michelle with a longer trek south-west to Pimlico. Mid-morning on a Monday, non-Londoners would expect the station to be quiet, but no, it was buzzing with activity: students on their way to college, large groups of schoolkids visiting a museum, retired couples up for a day’s shopping, and individuals going to or coming from work.

  For most of her time living down south, Suzy considered herself an outsider. Originally from Harpenden, she’d studied English at Newcastle University, the home city of her grandmother. She had only arrived in London three years ago, when she realised the majority of screenwriting work emanated from there. However, many of her neighbours in the apartment block where she lived had been in London even less time than her. To them, she was an old hand and the go-to person for recommendations of new entertainment, good restaurants, and lively bars.

  She stepped off the train at Hackney Central station and, it being a pleasant enough day, decided to walk the kilometre or so to her apartment. If it had been Saturday and she’d been through a tough kick-boxing session, it wouldn’t have taken much: a slight dampness in the air, a couple of dodgy characters hanging about, or something she wanted to see on television, to jettison the walk and head over to the bus stop or hail a taxi.

  She walked past the railings surrounding London Fields. She was a keen cyclist and occasional runner, and the availability of numerous cycle routes here, and at nearby Victoria Park, plus further out to the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park, was what first attracted her to the area. As a freelance writer, in theory she could live anywhere, but it made sense to be in London as this was where most of the film production companies were based and the large studios were located.

  Walking along Richmond Road, the hedge surrounding the tennis courts of London Fields on one side, a small block of apartments on the other, a van came towards her. She only noticed it as it appeared to be slowing down. She sighed. She was already the fountain of London knowledge for all her neighbours, was she also about to become the human satnav for lost delivery drivers?

  The van stopped beside her, blocking her view of the apartments over the road. The side door of the van opened and a guy dressed in black jumped out and made straight for her. He grabbed her, wrapped an arm around her neck and began pulling her backwards towards the opening in the van.

  She immediately thought rape, and tried to holler, but his arm was restricting her breathing. She struggled hard, using the rear kicking action she had learned in kick-boxing, trying to lessen his grip.

  It seemed to be working, as her assailant’s grip slackened, but in the next second a heavy blow struck the side of her head and she struggled no more.

  FORTY

  Matt felt as though he had been watching the house he was staring at for days, but in fact it had only been about twelve hours. The day before, they had raided the house where the TFF leader, Yusuf Batuk, lived, but even though his wife and kids were still in bed, he wasn’t at home.

  They had also visited the supermarket owned by Batuk to find out if he had recently made contact with anyone. There, a chance remark made by the manager led them to a deserted farmhouse near Waltham Abbey, a place where Batuk had apparently been spending many weekends over the last few months. When pressed, several staff said they assumed it was a holiday house, or a place for him to meet his clandestine lover, a person so secret no one knew anything about her. Matt doubted she existed.

  They had more or less discounted the holiday house idea since the raid on Batuk’s family home. His wife denied all knowledge of its existence, and if they had the money, which she claimed they did not, she would have insisted it would be located in a sunny place, preferably Turkey or Cyprus. Lending credence to her denials, Matt couldn’t see any pictures of it among the many photographs lining the hall and fireplace.

  A property search conducted by Amos confirmed the farmhouse was owned by Batuk through a shell company. It was remote enough to test out guns, assemble explosives, and train soldiers without the fear of being overlooked. On the other hand, it was secluded enough for him to rent it out to executives for brainstorming new ideas, to allow them to recharge depleted batteries, or for a family to ‘get away from it all’. Hence the reason Matt decided not to kick in the door until they had confirmed what the building was being used for and had eyeballed the subject.

  The HSA raid team had been there since six-thirty the previous evening, and Matt was pleased to see dawn breaking. He was hungry, and Joseph had been nominated to drive down to the nearest shop when it opened at seven to bring them all breakfast.

  It hadn’t been a cold night in the shelter of the copse overlooking the farm. They all had brought blankets and sleeping bags, and the temperature hadn’t dipped much below 12 degrees Celsius. Lights had been displayed in the windows of the farmhouse from early evening, but Batuk, if he was in there, didn’t come to the window once.

  He must have known the security services would be out looking for him after his daring escape from the raid team who had gone to his supermarket to arrest him. They didn’t know the vehicle he used to make his escape, but a one-year-old BMW estate had been spotted parked outside the farmhouse by the HSA unit located on the other side of the property.

  If the suspect was there, chances were he would be armed. Perhaps not only with an AK47, as favoured by the operational unit of the TFF, but also with some of the explosives he had deposited at the house in Hackney. This raised the possibility of the house being booby-trapped, something that troubled Matt, and he had warned everyone to be on the lookout for tell-tale signs.

  A rustle in the bushes made Matt look up, but it was only Joseph returning, a couple of large paper bags in his hands. He handed out welcome bacon rolls and cups of tea.

  ‘Did you touch base with Lee?’ Matt asked Joseph as he was about to take his first bite.

  ‘Yep. He’s fine. He had a night like the rest of us. Uneventful.’

  Matt, Joseph, Rosie, and Jess Harvey were covering the front of the farm, while Lee Jackson and Kamal Ahmed covered the rear.

  ‘It’s a shame we can’t monitor his phone,’ Jess said. ‘If we could, we’d be able to confirm for sure if he was in there, and whether his wife or someone at the supermarket had phoned and told him we were looking for him.’

  ‘I think that bird has flown,’ Rosie said. ‘Even though he won’t be expecting us to be sitting outside the farm, he must know we’re out there looking for him.’

  ‘I agree, Rosie,’ Joseph said. ‘Even if his wife believes he hasn’t done anything wrong, and assumes he’s gone away on business, it would come out even in an innocent phone call. ‘What happened today, dear? Ah yes, a team of armed policemen came to the house looking for you. I think they had the wrong address.’

  ‘Good rolls, these,’ Jess said.

  ‘You could never be a vegan doing this job,’ Joseph said. ‘Sometimes, you just have to eat what’s there. In this case it was bacon, chicken with mayo and sweetcorn, or ham.’

  ‘I suppose you could have the roll without anything,’ Jess said.

  ‘You could, but where’s the fun in that?’

  ‘I know it’s not vegan, but for vegetarians, I’m sure the shop could have rustled up a slice of cheese or something,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Matt said, ‘but you’d spend your life eating that processed stuff, which often tastes so bad you'd be better off eating the packaging.’

  The radio crackled.

  Matt picked it up. ‘We’ve got to thank the Lord, or in Batuk’s case, Allah, for a bit of sunshine and a man who needs his fix
of nicotine,’ Lee Jackson said. ‘Our man is standing on the back step sunning himself while dragging on a ciggie.’

  ‘It’s definitely Batuk?’

  ‘As I live and breathe clean Essex air.’

  ‘Excellent. Give us a few minutes to get organised and I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Roger and out.’

  Matt looked around at the faces of the small group in front of him. They all had heard the conversation and were raring to go. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘remember the earlier briefing. We’re taking no chances with this guy. We surround the house and throw gas grenades through the windows. When he comes out, or if he refuses to do so, we put on our masks and go inside. There will be no gung-ho barnstorming. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ they said.

  ‘We all must beware of trip wires and booby-traps. It’s a credible threat, as we know this guy previously handled explosives.’ He looked around at the faces, making sure they took on board this important point. ‘Understood?’

  ‘Got it,’ they said.

  He called Lee and confirmed his unit were ready to move. In return, Lee told him that Batuk was back inside the house with the door closed.

  ‘There’s no sign of anyone else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. We move in one minute. You and Kamal be ready to move at the same time.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Over and out.’

  ‘Right everyone,’ Matt said looking at his watch and confirming the minute had expired. ‘Get your kit together, it’s time to move.’

  FORTY-ONE

  The HSA team broke cover and approached Yusuf Batuk’s farmhouse. There was a clear area of land in front of the house, meaning when they emerged from the copse of trees where they were hiding, they would be exposed. The team fanned out and headed quickly towards the building some two hundred metres away. Kamal and Lee were doing the same from the other side.

  A window creaked open.

  Matt yelled, ‘Everybody Down!’

  Seconds later, the rat-tat-tat of an automatic rifle opened up from a ground floor window. A typical magazine contained around thirty rounds, and with it set to ‘Auto’ mode it would empty in around three seconds. It was a long three seconds. Batuk may have been a crap shot, but with thirty bullets zipping through the air it would take only one to reach its target, or a ricochet off a rock, for him to be lucky.

  The shooting stopped.

  ‘Everyone move!’ Matt shouted.

  They all got up and ran towards the building. When they got there, they flattened themselves against the wall, making it difficult for the shooter inside to reach them. A quick glance told Matt that no one had been injured.

  ‘He must have spotted us as we approached,’ Joseph said, ‘grabbed his rifle and just let off a burst. He didn’t take time to adjust the angle or anticipate our reaction, especially with the restrictions of a narrow window.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Matt said. ‘We got lucky this time, but I don’t want us taking any more risks.’

  Matt picked up the radio. ‘Lee, hit him with the gas.’

  They heard windows breaking at the back of the house as Lee and Kamal popped in their canisters of CS gas. This was an attack on Batuk’s rear flank, as the rifle was still poking out of one of the front windows.

  ‘Gas in,’ Lee said on the radio.

  ‘Good man, Lee.’ Matt put the radio back into the pouch in his belt. ‘Cover me,’ he said to Joseph.

  Joseph and the other agents popped shots at the rifle barrel, causing Batuk to pull it inside. This allowed Matt to creep along the wall under the windows. Before reaching Batuk’s position, he broke two windows with the butt of his H&K carbine and threw gas canisters inside. When he reached the open one where the rifle barrel had been, he lay back on the grass and pointed his rifle at the window opening. With his other hand, he pulled out a canister of gas and threw it through the opening.

  Seconds later, Batuk appeared at the window, his face covered with a gas mask, but before bringing his rifle round and pointing it at Matt’s prostrate figure, Matt fired. Batuk recoiled. Matt was sure he had hit him in the shoulder.

  Matt crept up to the window and slowly eased himself upright, ready to fire at the first sign of the shooter. The room was empty, but he spotted a blood trail on the floor, leading out through the open door.

  ‘He’s wearing a mask!’ he shouted to the rest of the team. ‘I think he’s been hit. Masks on, let’s go get him.’

  Matt fitted his own mask. He pulled the window open as far as the hinges would allow, and climbed in. With much of the gas escaping through the open window, he had an unimpeded view of the room and could see it was sparsely furnished, and what was there looked old-fashioned and unused in decades.

  He carefully moved through the open room door. It led to a dark corridor. To the right, the front door of the house which would be bashed open in a few seconds. To the left, the main part of the corridor, and numerous closed doors. He had no need to check every one with all the attendant risk, as the blood trail told him to move straight ahead.

  Matt crept forward. Behind him, three bashes on the door and it swung open, three masked agents bursting inside. Lee and Kamal were instructed to stay where they were and guard the rear in case Batuk tried his Houdini act once again.

  At the end of the corridor, the blood trail shifted to the left. As Matt approached the closed door, he heard movement inside. Seconds later, Batuk’s automatic rifle opened up once again. Matt pressed himself against the wall. Luckily, it was an old house with what looked like solid oak doors, and he didn’t think any of Batuk’s bullets penetrated. Just as well, as the only cover Matt could find was a dresser filled with dishes no wider than his head and offering little protection for his chest.

  Matt wondered how Batuk knew he was outside the door before opening fire. He looked around for a camera. It was an old and dilapidated farmhouse, so he wasn’t surprised to find there wasn’t one. This meant Batuk was either trigger-happy, or he had reasoned with the time that had elapsed, chances were someone would be on the other side of the door.

  Matt took off his mask; most of the gas having dissipated through the open door and broken windows, and was less prevalent at this end of the house. The rest of the agents did the same.

  ‘Take cover,’ Matt said to them.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Rosie asked as she hunkered down.

  ‘We can wait here for a while until he runs out of ammo, or…’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’ll encourage him to fire, and when he’s changing magazines, I’ll throw open the door, providing it’s not locked. You guys provide the necessary cover, but I wouldn’t mind keeping him alive. There’s a lot he can tell us. Okay?’

  ‘If he twigs what you’re doing, you’re a dead man,’ Joseph said.

  ‘No, I think I should be all right, that’s a pretty solid door. Right,’ he said, ‘let me give it a go.’

  From his position behind the dresser, Matt fired a series of single shots. He was aiming roughly at the indents in the wood made by the man inside, reasoning that if Batuk’s bullets had gone partly through the door, Matt’s shots might penetrate the rest. The rounds would lose much of their energy penetrating the thick wood, and wouldn’t do much to stop the guy inside, but at the very least would give him a fright.

  In response to Matt’s shots, Batuk fired back. This time he had the nous to switch his rifle to semi-auto and save his ammo. This forced Matt to count the rounds expended.

  Matt and the other agents took turns to shoot at the door, each time eliciting a reaction from the man inside. When Matt was sure he had counted thirty and received no further bursts from Batuk, he dived forward. From his position on the floor, he reached up, turned the handle on the door, and shoved it open.

  What it revealed was an old-fashioned kitchen, one that could grace the pages of the National Trust magazine. There was a pair of butler sinks, a long oak table, and, hangin
g from the ceiling, a wooden contraption that draped all manner of kitchen implements over the table. This, Matt assimilated in the space of a second. He also clocked Yusuf Batuk, his shoulder bloodied and his fingers similarly smeared, fumbling with another magazine. He was trying to slot it into the magazine holder, but his shaking hands, perhaps due to nerves or the shock of being injured, were making it difficult.

  ‘Put the fucking rifle down, Batuk, or we fire!’ Matt shouted.

  Batuk finally slotted the magazine home, but he didn’t raise the rifle. Just as well, as Matt and his three colleagues behind him were all pointing their gun barrels at the TFF man’s temple and were about to fire.

  ‘Down, Batuk! Now!’

  Batuk looked nervously at Matt and the other HSA agents, and then at the rifle in his hand, no doubt weighing up his chances. Realising he didn’t have any, slowly, slowly the gun was laid on the ground, and then he put his hands into the air. Matt blew out a sigh of relief and got up from his prone position. He walked into the kitchen.

  FORTY-TWO

  Matt and Rosie were back at the Waltham Abbey farmhouse. They walked into the house where a forensic team were already engaged in applying their expertise. Batuk was now under armed guard in hospital.

  After the shoot-out the day before, and a cursory search for arms caches and explosives, Matt had noticed a tall bookcase with cupboards at the bottom in the lounge, filled with all manner of electronic junk: cables, timers, relay switches, all the accessories required by a bombmaker. He decided to come back and have a better look before the forensic boys bagged the lot and it disappeared from view.

  ‘Look at the state of that door,’ Rosie said as they walked past the kitchen. ‘Knock out a load of those dents, and it’ll have more holes than the colander hanging from the ceiling.’

  ‘This place is in a time-warp,’ Matt said. ‘It hasn’t been updated for decades.’