The driver took a moment before exiting the van and yelling at the prone figure on the floor.
“Are you fuckin’ mad chief? ‘Ave you seriously got a death wish or what?” As he spoke, he jabbed his index finger against his temple.
Cade sucked the available air into his lungs, slowly exhaled, and then spoke.
“Son, you have no bloody idea. Two minutes ago, I was a passenger on that bus…”
He nodded up the street.
The driver, previously distracted by Cade’s motionless figure, had completely missed the chaos only a few hundred metres up the road.
He pointed out the crash site to the prone officer, somewhat pointlessly, Cade thought.
“Are you shittin’ me? Whoa! Look at that, would you look at that?”
“Christ, you’ve got a knack of asking multiple questions, haven’t you? Has anyone told you that?”
The irony was lost on Jerry Batchelor, career van driver and Chelsea football fan.
“Give me a hand mate, I need to get to the bus.” Cade was forthright, leaving Batchelor with no room for negotiation, but he tried nonetheless.
“I’m no doctor chief, but I reckon you should stay on the deck until someone checks you out. Besides, there’s enough Old Bill there to sink a battleship…leave them to do their thing, they hate us mere mortals interfering. Trust me on this?”
He pushed his hand into Cade’s making him wince as the skin flapped on the heel of his palm.
“Jerry Batchelor.”
“Jack Cade, Sergeant Jack Cade actually, nice to meet you mere mortal.”
Batchelor smiled a toothless smile.
“I guess there’s no point in ordering you around anymore then – Sarge!”
The front of the Mondeo had struck the bus’s cockpit, demolishing the aged glass, ripping it from its rubber surround, the dense shattered screen hitting Douglas in the chest.in situ
The Ford, its airbags already deployed, was nothing more than a high speed, relentless sarcophagus. Its own bodywork disappearing into a maelstrom of dust and metallic debris. The driver was killed instantly – the post mortem almost running out of injuries that probably attributed to his demise. Douglas would last only a moment longer.
The brutal crash had torn the Mondeo’s safety cell in two. The driver, what remained of him, would later remain in-situ as the emergency services contemplated how to remove him.
Lethal shards of metal had penetrated his body, slicing through his precious skin, separating tendons, ligaments and bone.
The explosive collision was heard from the helicopter which appeared, along with every other emergency vehicle to stop, to suspend in time and wait for the inevitable screams.
Silence.
“Nine Nine crash, crash, crash. We need fuel, repeat, we need fuel. We have to RTB.”
Daniel looked at his team. Initially trying to separate the words crash from refuel – in a moment of sheer desperation at the notion of also losing his air support unit on what would transpire to be the most taxing night of his career, he exhaled and started to speak.
“Just perfect. OK, show Nine Nine returning to base, but let’s get them back in the air ASAP.”
On the darkened, hackneyed city street the two vehicles had now become one. Whilst the majority of the bus was intact, to the casual observer, the Mondeo was all but gone. What remained was an unblemished passenger seat and the sole living occupant. The male appeared to be seriously, alarmingly injured, but these were existing injuries, wounds from a previous encounter, disfiguring damage from his meeting with a stunning, frightened whore.
The bus had come to a halt, shielding the scene from onlookers, both on the ground and in the air.
No-one present expected the passenger door of the Mondeo to open, but it did and in a hundredth of a second the passenger was gone, providence on his side, running into a nearby partly derelict building, carrying his firearm and praying that the chemicals coursing through his body would help him to escape.
The reality was that the act had not been seen at all. In that moment, that precise moment the aircrew were scanning back along the street, preparing to depart the scene, Cade was explaining himself to a commuter and O’Shea was otherwise engaged.
The passenger had no need to run as fast as he did, his heart now pushing blood through the entry wound in his neck.
Frantically trying to slow down his breathing, the passenger began his escape.
He ran along Larcom Street, staying on the right-hand side to avoid any obvious shadows cast from the regularly placed street lamps. Past once-grand three-story homes he jogged now, desperate to maintain his strength until he reached the familiar outline of a church.
He pushed against the black wrought-iron gate but it was locked – a sign of the times. St. Johns Walworth church in the Diocese of Southwark, once a haven for any man who sought peace and sanctuary, was now a fortress.
Was he not worthy of salvation?
He looked back along the street, waiting to see his pursuers, but he was alone. The helicopter had gone.
To his right he could make out an alleyway so he continued to walk as quickly as he could, fumbling for his phone and forcing himself to calm down. He was losing blood, but the wound appeared to be more superficial than he had feared.
He could do this. He stopped in the alleyway and leaned against the red-brick wall. Now shielded from view under a Lime tree, he waited, recovered and made a phone call. He whispered into the mouthpiece. The sound of a friendly voice calmed him a little. He was almost home.
Thirteen minutes later a dark red Vauxhall entered the street, turned around and parked. The driver flashed the hazard lamps once and waited. The passenger shuffled towards the car, opened the rear door and laid down on the back seat.
Without looking at the single occupant, he mumbled into the well-worn caramel-coloured upholstery.
Artur Gheorghiu was safe.
“Drive…”
ARV officers approached the crash scene, cautiously stepping forwards, weapons at the high ready, coordinated, composed and practiced. The first area car from the north came across Cade cautiously walking in the road. A newspaper delivery van had narrowly avoided him and was rendering what first aid the driver knew to a patient that neither wanted nor needed help.
The ARV officers cleared the Mondeo, finding only one desperately mutilated occupant. Other team members searched the iconic red bus, now lying on its side, a stranded whale on a metropolitan beach.
One member lay down, pushing his weapon through what was left of a window, his high-powered Surefire torch illuminating the cabin. His colleague called out the grim message that the bus driver was almost certainly deceased. He called for paramedics to be on standby nonetheless; hearing how the vehicle had played its own part in the chase, he considered it the honourable thing to do.
Once the rest of the vehicle was clear, he would call the medics to the scene. It was risk management, but he’d seen enough bodies in his fourteen years to know who he could and couldn’t save.
He continued to slide cautiously into the cabin of the bus, his weapon leading but still under his control. To his right, he heard a noise.
Safety off.
And again. There it was.
He arced the weapon around, the Aimpoint laser sight now ominously illuminating potential targets.
Daniel watched, whilst his fingers weren’t crossed, he wished he had a rabbit’s foot to stroke. He caught a glimpse of himself in the computer screen. He’d aged at least five years.
At the edge of the street another ARV operator stood, leaning into his weapon, looking over the sights, ready. He’d been joined by a red-eyed Andrew Pickers and his faithful friend who was laid on the pavement anticipating his next command. To him, it was just a game, to his potential victim, the imperfect ending to an awful day – a visitation from the Land Shark.
Once more, as he crawled into the bus, he heard the noise, but this time it was a lower, visceral noise, he
lpless as opposed to a threat. Even more reason for the seasoned copper to proceed with caution.
The officer edged his right index finger onto the trigger. The weapon was so accurate that he would only need one shot at this range. As he methodically traced around the cabin he suddenly stopped. There, in his sights and looking like the grey remainder of Daniels’ fortunate omnivore was a female face. Ashen, scared and silent.
“Miss, can you show me your hands? Do as I say and you will not be harmed…”
The face cracked a half smile.
“Do you not think I would have shot you by now, mate? I’m on your side from the Yard. I’m with DS Roberts and Jack Cade…” she started to weaken.
“Jason Roberts?”
“No, Julia, who the fuck do you think I meant?” She was stronger again.
“Then you are indeed one of us. I joined with Ginger Roberts. Does he still lob biscuits around at briefings?”
“He does, now, as much as it’s nice to lay here and discuss your career and my boss’s tendency to maim people with a bloody ginger nut do you think you can arrange for the Fire Brigade to send some beefy men to rescue me?”
“I can miss, I can. Are you alone?”
“I am. The other passenger got off without paying, he’s laid on the road, about two hundred metres behind us. Will you find out if he’s OK? Please?”
The officer shuffled forward, nodded, smiled and extended a black gloved hand. O’Shea reached out and grabbed the offered fingers, squeezing them gently. He leaned back against the framework of the ancient carriage, causing the metalwork to creak.
“MP from Trojan. One passenger on board the bus is safe. The other is with our team further up the street. Sit rep on him ASAP, please. Driver of the bus is beyond help. Passenger of the Mondeo likewise. Can you get the Major Incident Team en route? We need to close the road sharpish and get the duty inspector down here too, it’s a bit of a mess. Over.”
Police the world over so enjoyed diminishing the true pandemonium of a crash scene. It was far from a bit of a mess. It was a lot of a bloody great amount of chaos brought together in a twist and turn of metal, wood and bone.
Cade would be terribly bruised and flinch at the merest pressure on his skin. Silk would be bearable, cotton, not. It would take a few days to subside, but he too had survived.
A patrol crew pulled up alongside him, the brake discs on the Ford ticking as they cooled. The passenger, who was deftly balancing a cell phone between his cheek and his left shoulder, spoke first.
“Greetings. Would you be Sergeant Cade?”
Cade nodded.
“Jason Roberts sends his best; do you want a lift?”
“Thanks boys, is O’Shea alright, what about the bus driver? Nikolina?”
“Stand by Skipper, one question at a time.” The Met officer used the standard local colloquialism for a sergeant as he tried to offer a calming voice. Whoever this bloke was he was clearly suffering from a higher level of stress, poor bastard.
“Sorry skip, the bus driver didn’t make it, nor the driver of the Mondeo. Good news though, your girl is fine. She’s being looked after by a firefighter.”
“Which one?”
“I’m guessing the one with the obscenely sculpted muscles. The girls always go for the good-looking ones, don’t they skip?”
“I meant which girl…which girl?” Humourless.
“Sorry boss, I meant the girl on the bus. I didn’t realise there was two of ‘em.”
Cade felt disloyal to O’Shea, she was important, he even found himself thinking about her in his quieter moments, but operationally and morally his mind was only on Petrov.
Cade lifted himself carefully out of the back of the patrol car, as he did so he acknowledged the update, failing to correct the officer about his apparent ownership of Carrie O’Shea. He visibly winced as he walked slowly towards the bus, finding himself a little peeved that a man ten years his younger and twice as broad was rescuing the trapped maiden whilst his yellow-clad colleagues, all equally good looking were alongside him, ready to lend a gallant hand.
“Bloody firemen…”
In the CAD room at the heart of the Metropolitan Police Service, the broadcasted scene provided a watchful Daniel with a moment of insight and solace.
“I’d like to work with that lad one day. Balls of steel.”
No one heard what he said, but it mattered not.
He was busy scratching his chin, wiping his eyes and generally wondering when he could go home. This night would be the end of him.
Tea? Yes, that’s what he wanted right now, and to fall into the arms of his childhood sweetheart. But they would both have to wait.
George Douglas, God rest his cheery Caribbean soul, was gone. Cade was accounted for. O’Shea too. The driver of the Mondeo was dead. All staff were accounted for, including Simms, who was being transported to Kings College Hospital. Any other battlefield scrapes were hardly likely to be reported. There were no civilian casualties outside of the immediate pursuit.
But for the rat-like gnawing sensation in Daniel’s fraught mind, it could, allowing for the minor drawback of two criminal fatalities, be considered a successful operation.
However, a deep-seated ‘something’ was troubling him.
He focused on his own reflection once more, as realisation hit him square in the face. The same cerebral notion pummelled Cade and O’Shea was but a moment behind them both. They all knew that Petrov was gone.
Daniel cradled his head in his hands, stared at the ceiling, then ran his palms precisely over the contours of his face before finally opening his eyes and speaking.
“Where-is-the-bloody-passenger?”
Chapter 33
The majority of the team had been stood down, sent home to rest.
Those that could sleep did so.
The search had continued throughout the nightshift. Teams deployed far and wide, starting with the kidnap point at the safe house, recovering every piece of potential evidence: locking down the scene, security CCTV footage, pending the discovery of a body, somewhere, sometime.
They slowly fanned out from the anonymous address, beat officers asking open questions of residents and business owners, all to no avail. Detectives covered the same ground, asking what they considered to be more robust questions, those that had human sources used them, again, despite a willingness to help none were able to offer the nugget of gold that was needed to allow the investigation to move forwards.
Another team traced CCTV imagery, trying to establish the intended route of the Mondeo, looking for ideas, traces of hope, elements of guilt. Nothing. They hadn’t even changed the number plates.
The fact that the car belonged to the police hampered any start point. Everyone knew where it should have been and that was parked, secure outside the Met’s iconic flagship. Almost everyone south of the river knew where it ended up, buried in the front of a bus.
Another unit, consisting mainly of civilian analysts, were dredging through old intelligence notings for the area around the safe house, in relation to the pursuit and the subsequent ending.
Border agencies were tasked with examining the arrival of Eastern European nationals – those that had previously left a footprint, not the thousands who routinely and legitimately entered the country.
The tabloids were fended off. For now, they would only hamper the investigation. They got the scraps they needed and went to press with the simple lead:
Gunfight at the Old Kent Corral!
It was a typically puerile headline, designed to attract the attention of myriad readers who routinely handed over a few coins in exchange for a few less facts and a blend of near-naked women.
Roberts, his team, Cade and O’Shea and a few senior staff members were still on duty. The long night had segued into an even longer day ahead. Jet-lagged, hungry and frustrated, they all sat in a briefing room waiting.
Cade sat awkwardly, perched on the edge of his chair, on what he could best describe as
an ‘arse from hell’ whilst O’Shea simply looked pale, most likely the result of shock. She moved cautiously, shielding her developing bruises. Roberts knew that they both needed more in-depth medical intervention, but neither was willing to seek it. He chose not to push the matter.
Clive Wood had been stood down, pending the result of the initial inquiry. The team wouldn’t blame him for Petrov’s possible death, for her disappearance, yes, but not for her demise.
The coffee arrived along with an assorted array of breakfast items, paid for by the local Commander Frank Waterman. He knew this was likely to be a long day, and the old adage about armies and their stomachs never rang truer.
He had them placed them on the large briefing table, nodded to all present, lowered himself onto a high-backed office chair and spoke.
“Good morning all. First and foremost, let’s eat whilst we talk. Thank you to you all for whatever part you played in last night’s events. I’ve heard some incredible feedback from the various commanders who were on duty, not least John Daniel in the CAD room. It’s pleasing to hear this folks, across the board there were some gutsy decisions made last night. Constable Simms will live to fight another day although he may not be walking the beat for a while. Miss O’Shea, what can I say? You’ve got bigger balls than some of my male staff. Quite what you were doing on the bus in the first place is subject to heated debate on the top floor of the Yard.”
He winked at her. Clearly there was some history between them.
“I was attempting to analyse the situation, boss, trying to give Sergeant Cade some guidance.”
Waterman turned to this left and acknowledged Cade.
“Sergeant. How are you?”
Cade shuffled uneasily before replying.
“I’m fine, sir, one hundred percent. Top work by your team, I’m indebted.”
He smiled again.
“Bullshit, sergeant, this was a team effort with you leading the way from what I’ve heard from DS Roberts – and trust me, no-one bullshits better than Jason, he’s a master, isn’t that right Jason?”
Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1) Page 47
