No Time to Lose: A Matt Flynn Thriller

by Iain Cameron

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Wood’s girlfriend, a former Victoria’s Secret model, originated from Barbados, so Amos had concentrated his search on British citizens applying for local passports in the Caribbean region. If this hadn’t produced anything, he would have expanded his remit to include the handful of other countries around the world which offered rich individuals the opportunity to apply for a passport, in return for investing a large sum in local property, or making a substantial donation to their Infrastructure Development Fund.

  The list of successful passport applicants generated by this trawl were loaded into face recognition software and compared to all the pictures of Wood the security services possessed. Wood was now known as David Barnes, the name Matt gave to Amos, and lived in a two-million-pound property on a remote promontory to the south of the island, a few miles from Falmouth Harbour. In some respects, they should have guessed Antigua. This was the place where Byron Locke also owned a property.

  ‘Perhaps my paranoia comes from watching too many gangster movies of late,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Maybe, but it doesn’t pay to be too complacent. We’ll take a view once the local boys have briefed us.’

  ‘Most times, I would agree with your assessment, but after funding the TFF, and seeing them fail, I think he will be on his guard. He might not think we would attack his villa, but he must be expecting some reaction.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Matt had visited Antigua before, several years back, on only his second foray abroad. Then, it was to an apartment in St John’s owned by the parents of a guy he hung out with at sixth form college. It was an okay holiday, but even with the added attraction of girls and cheap alcohol, he couldn’t see the fun of lying on a beach every day from ten in the morning to six at night.

  Then, the terminal had been a small, cramped and humid place, the excess clothes required on any plane to counter the chilly air-con being peeled off before they stuck to the skin. Now, it was a modern, swish place, larger than before, and spacious enough for the volume of passengers landing on the island.

  Airport security had also been tightened, but with a Caribbean twist. Back then, on the advice of his mate, they’d slipped one of the baggage handlers who hung around the terminal a few dollars, and they sailed through the formalities. Now, it felt like going through any other airport terminal in the world, except the faces of the officials often broke into smiles.

  Outside, a police car was waiting for them. It drew some strange looks from the other passengers when the back door of the car was opened for Rosie and Matt. They were perhaps thinking they had brushed shoulders with a mass murderer as they went to the toilet. Matt hoped they didn’t meet any of them when they finally reached their hotel. The odd looks they’d receive at the breakfast buffet might discourage the restaurant staff from helping them.

  ‘Well hello there. My name is Constable Eamon Ramos,’ their driver said. ‘Welcome to our lovely island.’ They shook hands and climbed in. ‘Have you been here before?’ Eamon asked, as he drove away from the airport.

  ‘Several times,’ Rosie said.

  ‘You must like it here.’

  ‘I do, that was when my former husband worked for an airline, and he could get access to cheap tickets.’

  Thankfully the airport was in the north of the island, not far from their hotel and the main Antiguan police station in St John’s. The roads here were every bit as worn and pot-holed as those in the UK, with the added problem of twisting and turning every fifty metres or so. It was a good job the airport wasn’t at the other end of the island, as doing the journey south-to-north, and then again, north-to-south to arrive at Wood’s villa would do Matt’s head in, and no doubt his stomach as well.

  Their driver was a good talker and some of his stories took Matt’s mind off the road. Eamon was a fast driver and didn’t slow down for oncoming cars, chickens in the road, or fruit wagons unloading melons and mangoes at local shops.

  He did slow as he approached St John’s, however, and it was just as Matt remembered it: an untidy sprawl of shops selling beach gear, fast food restaurants and bars. It was a town which looked as if it had developed in response to the needs of tourists, and lacked any central attraction or character of its own. When they turned into the central police station on American Road, Matt was struck by how modern and business-like it looked, in contrast to the casualness and slow pace of life all around.

  It was a wide, three-storey building with a tall communication mast nearby, and the ubiquitous air-conditioning units fixed outside many windows. They left their bags in the car as Eamon said he would be their driver for the duration of their stay, and made their way into the building.

  The senior cop who, along with Matt, would lead the raid on Wood’s villa met them in reception. Sergeant Chris Waller was a Brit with an Antiguan mother. He had spent ten years in the West Mercia force in the UK before transferring to Antigua with his wife and two sons. He was joining his mother who still lived on the island, partly because he wanted a slower pace of life, and his mother was becoming more housebound due to the increasingly debilitating effects of multiple sclerosis.

  ‘This must be a bit of a change from Wolverhampton and Walsall,’ Rosie said.

  ‘It is from the weather and policing points of view, as I dealt with more stabbings on a weekend back then than I do here in a year. However, the ethnic mix is about the same,’ he said, smiling. ‘There are so many Afro-Caribbean people in the Midlands that I slotted in here no problem.’

  Waller led them into an interview room with four other officers already seated around the table. He and Rosie were introduced to everyone, before a trolley was wheeled in with a large coffee pot and a plate of pastries and fruit. Matt didn’t think he was hungry, as often on a transatlantic flight all he seemed to do was eat, but he was, partly because this time he had slept through most of it. He availed himself of a Danish and a cup of steaming coffee. The coffee tasted as good as it smelled, and was many times preferable to the airline stuff that was served tepid and often tasted of the plastic cups it was poured into.

  Waller walked to the front of the room and stood beside a smartboard lit up with a picture. ‘This is a photograph of the Barnes villa, overlooking Rendezvous Bay,’ Waller said. ‘I think as his real name is Simon Wood, and it’s the name you two are familiar with, we should stick to that from now on.’

  Matt nodded. ‘If it’s all right with you guys?’ he said looking around at the other officers.

  ‘Okay, I’ll start again. This is Simon Wood’s villa. The house is on its own and situated at the top of a small cliff. On the plus side, a police operation won’t be disturbed by nosey neighbours snapping hundreds of pictures on their smartphones.’

  This brought some mirth from some of Waller’s team. Clearly this had been a problem on a previous job.

  ‘On the negative side, its remoteness makes access a bit tricky. At this point, I’ll ask Constable Vickers to come to the front and give us an update on his one-man surveillance operation.’

  Vickers was short in stature, aged around thirty, but well built with shorn hair and big ears. He was black, in common with the other Antiguan officers, and sounded native, as if English was the language of work and Creole was spoken at home.

  ‘I spent several hours watching the house from a high viewpoint,’ Vickers said, showing the product of his secretive photography on the screen behind him. ‘You can see in the afternoon, Wood’s partner came out on the terrace to do a bit of sunbathing,’ he said, eliciting a few wolf whistles from the seated officers. She had a fantastic figure, as befitting a former lingerie model.

  ‘And in this picture, our target comes out with a drink for her.’

  In an operation of this nature, no matter how good the intel, there was always a doubt lingering in everyone’s mind: did they have the right person?

  Matt got out of his seat and walked to the front, keeping his eyes on the figure in the photograph. It was top down,
and the only features visible were the hair, nose, and outline of the frame dressed in t-shirt and shorts.

  ‘You’ll find the next one is better,’ Vickers said to Matt.

  Sure enough, this time the man was looking up and stretching, as if posing for the camera. He hadn’t changed. The hair was shorter and neater, yes, but two-days’ stubble was visible, as was his self-satisfied smugness. Matt had to admit he was a handsome sod: light brown hair, fine features, unmarked face, plus he looked slim and fit, as if he worked out.

  ‘It’s him all right,’ Matt said. ‘He wasn’t looking at you, was he?’ he asked Vickers with a smile.

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘He didn’t appear to be agitated, or rush inside the villa as if he’d seen the glint of your camera or phone screen lens in the sun?’

  ‘No, I’m sure of it. The hillside where I was hiding is wooded, but would be quite picturesque from the position where he was standing. Also, the sun had clouded over around eleven and didn’t return.’

  ‘Good,’ Matt said, before returning to his seat.

  ‘In this picture,’ the constable continued, ‘there are two children, a boy and a girl both aged around five or six in my estimation, but at no time did I see any security personnel.’

  ‘What’s that wooden building in the grounds?’ Waller asked. ‘Does someone else live there?’

  ‘In all the time I was there, I didn’t see anyone go in or out of it. I assume it’s empty.’

  Matt turned to look at Sergeant Waller. ‘Could there be a contract security company involved? One that would appear if called, or visit the grounds at periodic intervals?’

  ‘Such companies do exist, as many rich people from places like the US and UK have houses here. I would expect them to be armed as we are, but I wouldn’t anticipate they would put up much resistance if we’re involved. I’ll check if Wood’s engaged anyone; it’ll be safer to know.’

  ‘That’s all I have, sir,’ Vickers said, before returning to his seat.

  ‘Matt,’ Waller said, ‘why don’t you give us an idea what we are facing and what you want us to do.’

  Matt walked to the front of the room. He didn’t have a presentation as such, and instead perched on the edge of a desk and faced them.

  ‘Simon Wood is a dangerous man. The pictures Constable Vickers showed may look like he’s on vacation with his partner and kids, but in reality, he’s on the run from the UK police. He’s a major player in the UK drug market, with numerous dealers and no end of suppliers who bring large quantities of marijuana, cocaine, and heroin into Britain. He’s also a chemist by trade, and known to dabble in whatever’s new and hot, as he’s done with skunk, fentanyl, and spice.’

  Matt eyeballed each man to see if they were listening. They were. If they had come into this operation thinking it would be a doddle: nab a guy snoozing on his sun lounger, they were in for a shock. They wouldn’t be prepared when Wood pulled a gun from beneath his towel and put a bullet between each of their eyes, or picked them off one by one as they walked through his garden.

  ‘He is also responsible for a number of murders, some directly by his hand, others ordered by him. There is no need for me to go into detail, but I’m sure you all recognise that you don’t become one of the biggest drug dealers in the UK by being nice to people.’

  Matt wasn’t trying to be funny, and the Antiguan officers didn’t laugh. This meant they were taking the threat seriously. Good.

  ‘As I’m sure Sergeant Waller has told you, we will hit his villa at five o’clock tomorrow morning. There is no point in thinking we can make this easy for ourselves by walking up there with a warrant during the day. If we did, I think he would pull out a gun and kill whoever was there and worry about how to escape from Antigua later. Does that make sense?’

  They nodded, and he didn’t hear any bitching about the early start. Clearly, Sergeant Waller had trained them well.

  ‘We will surround the villa at these points here, and here,’ Matt said, pointing at the photograph of the villa behind him. ‘When we breach the door, myself, Sergeant Waller, Agent Fox, and one of you guys…’

  ‘Constable Hamilton,’ Waller said.

  ‘Right, the four of us will enter the house. At this point, the three remaining officers will be stationed outside and must be on alert for anyone trying to escape from the house, or someone coming up behind with the aim of assisting Wood. Is that clear?’

  They nodded.

  ‘Questions?’

  FORTY-SIX

  The alarm went off at three-thirty. Matt leapt out of bed and headed into the shower. Due to the time difference between Antigua and the UK, and the near-twelve hours he and Rosie had spent travelling, by nine last night they were both shattered. The early-to-bed routine seemed to have worked as now he felt refreshed and eager to get on with the day.

  Twenty minutes later, he left his room and tapped on Rosie’s door. It was a fact of life that most women took longer to get ready in the morning than men. Despite the nature of today’s activity, when looking good and smelling great weren’t high on the list of priorities, this morning, it appeared, was no different.

  Even with this short delay, they were out on the road outside the hotel a few minutes before four. It was dark, but not the pitch-black of a British night with thick clouds and no moon. Here, the sky was bright and clear with a million stars visible, and there was enough light to make out the detail on the bushes that had been planted to soften the hotel’s frontage. Ten minutes later, there was still no sign of the police vehicle.

  ‘This is so typical for the Caribbean,’ Rosie said. ‘Everything slows down.’

  ‘It’s fine for holidaymakers who just want to feed their faces, drink rum and chill out on a sun bed, but when you’ve got a job to do, I find it bloody infuriating,’ Matt grumbled.

  ‘Whatever your frustrations, Matt, don’t take it out on Waller and his men. Just accept, this is how they do things, and don’t forget we need their cooperation.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’ll try my best.’

  ‘It’s not such a bad place, this,’ Rosie said, looking back at the hotel.

  ‘You think so? I didn’t see much last night, but what I did see obviously never registered. I was so zonked.’

  ‘There’s a nice restaurant out on the terrace, a decent-sized gym, and a white sandy beach as far as the eye can see.’

  ‘It must be good, you’ve stayed in enough of these places to be a good judge.’

  ‘Andrew more than me, but yes, I’ve had my fair share of Caribbean holidays.’

  A few minutes later, vehicle lights appeared in the distance. Soon, a van bearing the Antiguan Police logo stopped in front of them.

  ‘Remember, Matt, don’t be looking at your watch and making curt remarks about timekeeping.’

  Matt had already checked the time and knew with a thirty-five-minute drive in prospect they would reach Wood’s place shortly before five. Any later, and they would lose the cover of darkness. On reflection, it maybe wasn’t such a problem on a holiday island like this; few people had any reason to get up early. In reality, he was more chilled about the situation than Rosie believed, but he had to admit, he hated being kept waiting.

  As agreed between Kingsley Walsh and Sergeant Chris Waller, Matt and Rosie would be supplied with flak jackets and weapons. They considered bringing their own equipment with them, but it would have involved too much hassle at the airport.

  A few minutes later, they were seated and the van set off. The gear was handed out: flak jackets, helmets, gloves, weapons and ammunition. The safety equipment protected the wearer from suffering the full force of an iron bar being swung at their head or body, and prevented them being killed by a pistol or shotgun blast fired from a distance. No amount of high-tech kit could stop a high velocity bullet fired from a rifle at close range. It was a lesson rookie cops needed to learn, so they didn’t wander into dangerous situations, blindly believing the kit they were wearing would protect
them.

  Where the Antiguan Police and HSA differed was in the type of weapons they favoured. Matt imagined some Caribbean Island police forces were still using Webley service revolvers and bolt action rifles, left over from the occupation of US and UK military garrisons during World War Two. Instead, he and Rosie were both handed US-made M4 carbines, and they looked to him like the latest variants.

  ‘Have you fired one of these before?’ Constable Vickers asked.

  ‘Several times,’ Matt said.

  ‘Rosie?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Good.’

  He then passed out handguns, a leather shoulder holster to keep them in, and spare clips. This time, the more familiar Austrian-made Gloch 17s.

  ‘How about those?’

  ‘It’s the gun we use at home.’

  ‘Good. Anything else, just ask.’

  ‘A knife, if you’ve got one.’

  ‘No problem.’

  If Matt thought the journey to St John’s from the airport was gut-wrenching, this one was worse. Constable Hamilton was driving, not as fast as Constable Eamon Ramos, the guy who’d picked them up from the airport, but the suspension in the back of the Nissan van was unforgiving. He felt a jolt in the small of his back every time it went over a rut or a pothole.

  Matt was so focused on trying to keep his body erect to avert most of the road pain, he didn’t realise the southern coast was now visible ahead. A few minutes later, Waller turned in the passenger seat to face the raid team. ‘We’re nearly there. Everyone get geared up.’

  On a deserted road, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, the van slowed. Easing it over to the other side of the carriageway, the driver bumped it up on the verge and turned off the engine. Without much preamble, the back door opened and the raiding party decamped. Matt was pleased to see he wasn’t the only one feeling queasy after the journey. In common with a few others, he took deep breaths to calm the gurgling goings-on in his stomach. This early in the morning, the air was cool and fragrant, not how it would be in a few hours’ time when it would be like sticking your head into a hot oven.