by Gus Ross
He had made his way through the housing estate that was now at war with the authorities and was beginning to think that perhaps there might be a way out of this mess, perhaps he could simply disappear; it had been done before and if anyone knew how to do it then it was him.
But as is often the case when we start to think that maybe this time we can defeat the odds and pull off the big one, the firm hand of reality appears and slaps us hard in the face.
In Hanson’s case, the firm hand of reality came his way in the form of a single bullet, dispensed from a high powered rifle that had been tracking him for the last half mile or so, waiting for the perfect shot. The bullet that killed him was the kind that provided no second chances, the kind that had been outlawed for some time and was technically no longer available, the kind that exploded outwards upon impact, creating an exit wound that was far in excess of the entry one and which obliterated most of Charles Hanson’s innards in the process. He was thrown forwards in a mass of blood and guts.
No one had witnessed his execution and no one had heard the single shot ring out from the flat roof of the high rise, amidst the cacophony of the impromptu mini riot below.
Chapter 19: Time to show your hand.
Finally he was clear.
It had been a long time coming and there had indeed been times when he was not sure he would ever see the day. There had certainly been a lot more collateral damage than he could ever have imagined.
“If you want to play in the big league then you had better make sure you are bigger than the rest of them. Otherwise you are going to get hurt.”
That’s what his father used to say to him when he was little.
He had never really seen much of his father; always away on business, always in one meeting or another, and as a result they had not been close. In fact, when the news of the massive heart attack that killed him had been broken to him, he had not shed a tear; he simply went back to playing with his toy soldiers.
....“Leave him for now.”
....“The kid will be ok”
....“He’s not quite grasped it yet.”
....“Are you sure he’s alright.”
He could hear all the voices from the hallway; all the family and friends who had gathered, as they only do when someone’s ticket comes up a bit ahead of schedule. He could hear all of them, all the concerned relatives and yet he still felt nothing. His father had abdicated his responsibilities in terms of fatherhood so why should he expect to feel anything.
But that one saying had always stayed with him... “...make sure you’re bigger than the rest...”
And that is exactly what Mac Howison had done.
There had been casualties but that was just the price you paid for playing with the big fish. And now the final loose end had been tidied up. The final target had been confirmed as eliminated and now he was free to play his hand, comfortable in the knowledge that no one could tie any of it back to him.
Of course there would be noise, lots of it, empty threats, strong words of warning, thinly veiled admonition, recommendations, but in the end that is all they would be. There would be no bags of bones rattling around in his closet, nothing that he could be threatened with, no leverage to exploit against him. He had taken care of everyone associated with the murder of Lucian Hendrick, and of course now that Charles Hanson was out of the equation, there was no way of establishing where he had obtained that particular piece of information in the first place.
He was in the clear.
And now he could show his hand.
And who better to show it to than the old man himself, George Thomson.
It had just gone 8.30pm, and he had an inkling that Thomson would still be in his office, if not then he would no doubt be at his club. Either way, he was about to disturb his evening and perhaps the rest of his life come to think of it. He plumped for the office first, and low and behold the old man was still there.
“Hey George. How are things over in spy land?”
If Thomson hated any American more than Charles Hanson then it had to be the oversized, big mouthed Mac Howison, but this was a call that he had predicted would come and had been hoping for; he had pretty much known all along that Howison would be the one with his finger in the pie, the trick was to catch him before he removed it.
“Mac Howison. It has been while since I last had the pleasure. What could I possibly do for you at this time of night?”
“I was just sittin’ here thinkin’ that it has been way too long since we last had a chance to catch up. How you placed this evening? Perhaps your club for a drink? Or mine, if you prefer? I have something to discuss that I think might be of interest to you.”
Now the game really was about to start, all the posturing and tactical positioning was over; the gloves were off and the Queen was in play and George Thomson was all over it.
“Let’s make it mine Mac. A little more civilised. I’ll be there at nine. Does that work for you?”
“Sure it does. I’ll see you at nine George old boy. Make mine a Jack Daniels and Dry, on the rocks.”
George Thomson replaced the receiver in its cradle and pushed back on his chair, he was now extremely thankful that he had decided to resist the urge to join his team down in Bournemouth, in fact, if this played out as he expected it might then there was now much less urgency in recovering the girl, although she might still be required.
He toyed with the idea of informing Charles Hanson of the meeting that was about to take place and then thought better of it; he would brief him in the morning and anyway, the thought of having to deal with two obnoxious Yanks in the same evening would be enough to give him indigestion. He could already feel it coming on at the thought of a few hours in the presence of Mac Howison, or perhaps it was the anticipation of what lay ahead.
Yes, Hanson could wait his turn until morning, although, of course, his CIA counterpart was all out of mornings.
Ulyana (I suppose I really had to get used to her real name), had moved swiftly and quietly from the beach and was now approaching the entrance to the Pier, her Stechkin APS was still in her hand but she kept it low and tight to her leg. She had set it to auto fire mode which would be more difficult to control, but in the darkness, her best bet.
To her left and just behind her was the Bournemouth Oceanarium, and to her right and in front an expanse of concrete that marked the entrance area to the Pier, and she reckoned it would be the equivalent of open season if she ventured out into that.
She was now keeping instinctively low, hugging the line of the building to her left, eyes piercing the darkness, looking for the slightest sign of movement.
Off in the distance she could see a woman walking what looked like three oversized poodles that certainly would not be fitting in anyone’s handbag anytime soon. The woman was moving in her direction, but she had the hood of her jacket way up around her head and was too busy struggling with her headstrong dogs who had long since picked up the salt smell from the Channel and were desperate to get off their leash.
She could see no one else but her instinct told her otherwise. She eased passed the Oceanarium to a scrubby piece of grass that separated it from the Hot Rocks Surf Restaurant (a place where she had loved to sit out and eat with yours truly but his was no time for sentiment). Suddenly a car came out of nowhere, almost taking out the poor dog walker in the process and sending three of the largest Poodles you will ever see, bounding like lunatics towards the beach. The car slewed to a halt and two men, dressed in head to toe black, jumped from it, both carrying Uzi sub machine guns. The dog walker lady, who had only narrowly avoided tumbling face first to the cold wet concrete and whose dogs had deserted her, let out a terrified scream. Ulyana watched in horror as the first of the men simply turned and mowed her down in a hail of bullets.
They had clearly not seen her and she fought with the urge to respond to their wanton act of violence, but she could not risk giving up her position, not yet anyhow.
The Hot Rocks bui
lding was providing some level of cover and she could only just make out the voices of the men with the Uzi’s, above the sound of the wind as they started in her direction. One of them was talking into a headset with a level of animation in his voice she did not like. She flipped her APS back from Auto mode and attached the silencer that had been in her jacket pocket. She would need to be quick, ruthless and above all silent. They were closing fast, although they still had not seen her, but her dark silhouette would soon be standing out like the proverbial sore thumb against the white stone walls of the Hot Rocks.
Uzi’s were not the kind of gun she liked to mess with, even in the hands of the outright amateur, who would struggle to hit an elephant in a barn from ten paces with a normal handgun, the Uzi would transform them into a deadly killing machine. And these boys were no amateurs.
A strong gust of wind whistled in from the sea, rattling the shutters behind her.
The sudden sound and movement were enough for the trigger happy killer of defenceless dog walkers, who let out another burst of sub machine gun fire. It rattled into the wall directly behind the spot Ulyana had been hunched at only seconds earlier. She had moved almost as swiftly as the wind that had rattled the shutters and was up and round and behind her targets before they knew what was happening.
She took out the trigger-happy one first with a single shot to the back of the head, the second whipped his head round to meet her but his arms had not quite managed to move with the same alacrity. There was a split second of realisation followed by the panicked, jerky attempt to bring his weapon up and round but he was already too late. He hit the ground beside his partner, the blood and rain already mixing together in a puddle of red.
She did not hesitate for a second, they had been in contact with someone and that someone would not be far away; she turned on her heels and fled flat out towards the main road. As if to verify what she already knew to be true, a shot rang out from somewhere behind her, she ducked instinctively but keep running, zigzagging as she went. There were more shots, she could hear them scudding off the ground, close, but none met their mark.
Ahead she could see the red tail lights of a car heading east, but there was no other traffic. She was across the road and into the car park behind the Bournemouth Pavilion. It was full of neatly parked cars, no doubt something interesting on inside, and she was grateful; the cars provided the sort of cover she required. She was already down and behind the first of them and from there it was a simple matter to keep her head low and weave her way through the hotchpotch of shinny metal. The sharpshooter had stopped for now, but he would not be far away.
“Sir, we have reports of gunfire down at the Pier. Unconfirmed reports of casualties Sir. Request permission to engage.”
Sam Holt pushed the earpiece further into his ear, the noise from the train that was just pulling into the station was drowning out the voice coming through, but he was pretty sure what he had just heard.
“Repeat McClintock. Please repeat, I am having difficulty hearing you.”
“Sir, there are reports of shooting at Bournemouth Pier. Multiple people down. Requesting permission to engage sub team Beta sir.”
Holt knew only too well how the land lay on this one. He already had too many men staking out the station, hell if the old glass Victorian roof could have taken the weight he would have had a team up there as well. He had been well briefed on me, the girl, and the likely S.V.R. involvement, and if the gunfight at the OK Corral was already kicking off, then it could only mean one thing. Still they could not afford to get into a pissing match with the Russians, Thomson had made that clear. He would handle it himself, McClintock was a hot head and there would most likely be an international incident before midnight if he let him loose.
“Permission denied. Stay at your post. Repeat stay at your post McClintock.”
“But Sir.....”
“But Sir nothing. You have your orders.” Holt was already on the move; his priority was the girl and she was in danger. He sprinted from the station and jumped into an idling Black Audi Q7 that was sitting by the kerbside, looking every bit like a car whose occupants were up to no good. “Get your foot down. We need to get to the Pier. ASAP.”
“What about the intercept Sir.”
“Hodge will take over. We’ve got a delicate one to deal with.”
The big Audi stormed through the tight streets looking menacing and angry and most likely to run over anything that dared get in its way. The 1.3 miles to the Pier were also been driven by someone who was determined to cover the distance in half the normal time, transforming the big Q7 into a raging bull.
At around the same time a dull as dishwater taxi cab, with yours truly in the back, was driving into Bournemouth at a speed more fitting to Miss Daisy than the lunatic MI6 operative at the wheel of the scary 4 x 4.
I had urged my driver to put his foot down on more than one occasion but got myself the full lecture on the dangers of speeding in built up areas and the percentage survival rates for impacts at varying speeds (many of which I was convinced this clown had never seen). He was either one really sad taxi driver who played far too much trivial pursuit, or one who spent far too much time sitting in the queue waiting for his next fare reading and believing everything Wikipedia had to say on the subject of driving. Either way, I was getting extremely agitated; my plan to avoid the welcome party only really had a chance of working if I could get there ahead of the train I was supposed to be on.
Yet even as the thought entered my mind, in an almost perfectly timed coincidence, the 19.09 South West Train’s Waterloo to Bournemouth service was about to pull into its destination, currently minus its most popular passenger.
Holt was barking orders at the three men with him in the vehicle as they tore through the quite Bournemouth streets. “We need to extract the girl. There are hostiles, most likely S.V.R. and they will be armed and dangerous. There have been casualties, but we are under orders not to engage with them. Strict orders.”
“Jesus Sir, how are we supposed to do that?” came a voice from behind Holt’s head.
“Find a way,” replied Holt, who really did not know how this would play out if they came under fire.
“And the girl?” came a second voice.
“Not liable to come quietly, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The second voice was about to tell the first that there was no way on god’s earth he was going to let some commie bastard use him for target practice without retaliating when the big 4 x 4 screeched to a halt.
“This is it boys. Keep it tidy and do not engage. Good luck.”
The passengers spilled out of the South West carriages onto the platform, and although the train was not overly busy, there were enough of them to provide that single moment of confused panic; the one that grips at your stomach, all mixed in with adrenaline, as for an instant you think you have lost the target, that somehow they have slipped unseen from the train and are currently working their way along the track on their hands and knees just waiting for the moment to break for the embankment and escape for good. And then you realise that your target is not there and then suddenly your mind is in one hundred places at once.
Hodges was currently in that mind set and he did not like it; he was scatter gunning orders in all directions:
....“You two, check the carriages.”
....“Morton, seal the exits. No one gets in or out.”
....“Davidson, take two men and check the track east.”
....“Wilson, take two and check west.”
This was supposed to have been a piece of cake; intercepting a civilian who was supposed to have had no clue that they were waiting for him. Christ, they had half an army in position. And he was nowhere to be seen. Hodges could already feel the size ten that was soon to be planted in his nether region. How could this have gone tits up?
The entire station, the train, and half a mile of surrounding railroad land and property would be turned inside out in the next ten minutes
and not a trace of yours truly would be found. The passengers that had been travelling to Bournemouth that night were shepherded into the station waiting room at gunpoint where they remained for the next four hours and must have thought the world had come to an end.
Mrs Tilley, a dear old lady who was on her way to visit her daughter, suffered a massive heart attack as a result of the pandemonium and would be dead long before anyone noticed.
She would however not be the last casualty of what was set to be a very long night indeed.
Thomson sat in his usual chair; he had arrived ten minutes ahead of the planned meeting time with Mac Howison and was pleased to see the American oil giant had not managed to get there before him
He ordered a large Jack Daniels and Ginger Ale for his soon to arrive guest, and a Macallan’s with ice for himself; he would not allow himself to drink much tonight, rather provide the illusion that he was keeping pace, whilst only allowing himself a few sips until business was done.
He could hear Mac Howison before he could see him
“Ya’ want to take my hat? I can’t wear it in the study? Do ya’ know who I am? What is your name anyway sonny? Ya’ want my hat? Go on take it, why don’t ya?’”
Thomson shook his head at the sound of Mac being Mac; he had been at the club on many occasions and each time he would come wearing his god damned ten gallon hat and then kick off as he was told to remove it.
“Ah, there you are old man. What is it with all tha’ stuffy rules in this place? Ain’t no one seen a good old ten gallon before? You wanna’ get that seen to George old man, ya’ really do.” Mac had walked into the room all guns blazing but with a wry smile on his face that said he knew it was all just pantomime.
“So good of you to make it Mac. Please have a seat. I took the liberty of fixing you with a Jack Daniels. That was right wasn’t it?”
“Surely to goodness is; nothin’ finer than some good old sippin’ whiskey.”
Mac was in danger of laying on the old, ‘I was brought up on a farm’ routine a bit thick. Thomson reckoned the closest Mac had ever been to living off the land was sitting on a deck chair watching the pumps go up and down, as they pulled the precious black stuff out of the countless acres of real estate that he owned.
