Hard Landing
Stephen Leather
Former SAS trooper Dan Shepherd, now a detective in an elite undercover squad, is at the center of these hard-hitting, high-action thrillers from Stephen Leather. Scalpel-sharp suspense and as gritty as the genre gets.Dan Shepherd is used to putting his life on the line. Working for an elite undercover squad, he's lied, cheated, and conned in order to bring Britain's most wanted criminals to justice. But when a powerful drug lord starts to kill off witnesses to his crimes, Shepherd has no choice but to go undercover in a high-security prisona world where one wrong move will mean certain death. As Shepherd gambles everything to move in on his quarry, he soon realizes that the man he's hunting is far more dangerous than the police realize. And that he's capable of striking outside the prison walls and hitting Shepherd where it hurts most.Shortlisted for the CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award for Best Thriller of the Year.
Hard Landing Dan Shepherd [1] Stephen Leather
Thriller
Praise for Stephen Leather
'Stephen Leather should be nestling in your bookshelves alongside Frederick Forsyth and Jack Higgins' Daily Mail
'Exciting stuff with plenty of heart-palpitating action gingered up by mystery and intrigue . . . Leather is an intelligent thriller writer' Daily Mail on The Tunnel Rats
'As high-tech and as world-class as the thriller genre gets' Express on Sunday on The Bombmaker
'A whirlwind of action, suspense and vivid excitement' Irish Times on The Birthday Girl
'Atmospheric suspense' Daily Mirror on The Eyewitness
'Stephen Leather's novel manages to put a contemporary spin on a timeless tale of revenge and retribution . . . Leather's experience as a journalist brings a sturdy, gritty element to a tale of horror . . . which makes The Eyewitness a compelling read' Evening Herald, Dublin
Also by Stephen Leather
Pay Off
The Fireman
Hungry Ghost
The Chinaman
The Vets
The Long Shot
The Birthday Girl
The Double Tap
The Solitary Man
The Tunnel Rats
The Bombmaker
The Stretch
Tango One
The Eyewitness
Spider Shepherd Thrillers
Hard Landing
Soft Target
Cold Kill
Hot Blood
Dead Men
Live Fire
Rough Justice
Fair Game (July 2011)
Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thrillers
Nightfall
Midnight
To find out about these and future titles, visit www.stephenleather.com.
About the author
Stephen Leather was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. Before that, he was employed as a biochemist for ICI, shovelled limestone in a quarry, worked as a baker, a petrol pump attendant, a barman, and worked for the Inland Revenue. He began writing full-time in 1992. His bestsellers have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as London's Burning, The Knock and the BBC's Murder in Mind series.
HARD LANDING
Stephen Leather
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to Ian West and John Newman who helped me to understand what it's like to work in the prison system and I am grateful for their help and advice. Any errors of fact are mine, not theirs.
Alistair Cumming was invaluable for guidance on police matters and Sam Jenner gave me his expert advice on matters military.
I was lucky enough to have Denis O'Donoghue on hand to cast his professional eye over the manuscript and to have Hazel Orme's editing skills on the case.
It was a pleasure to work with Carolyn Mays at Hodder and Stoughton again and Hard Landing is a better book for her creative input and unwavering support.
Trish Elliott ran her hand across her stomach for the hundredth time since she'd left the doctor's surgery. It didn't feel as if there was a new life growing inside her - it was far too early for any movement or kicks, for the baby to make its presence felt. But Trish had known straight away this time, after years of trying, she was pregnant. The third pregnancy test had confirmed what her body had been telling her.
She hadn't said anything to her husband and she'd left it another month before seeing her doctor, but now there was no doubt. 'Pregnant'. She whispered the word to herself as she parked the car at the side of the road, relishing the sound of it. 'I'm pregnant,' she said softly. 'I am having a baby.' She wanted to run down the street and tell everybody, shout it to the sky, phone every friend and relative she had. But she also enjoyed having such a delicious secret. She knew. The doctor knew. And that was all. For a while, at least, the baby belonged solely to her.
She switched off the engine and shuffled across to sit in the passenger seat. Her husband loved to drive. It wasn't a macho thing, or that he didn't trust her at the wheel, it was just that he enjoyed it so much that she was happy to let him do it. Trish thought that she was probably the better driver. She took more care, followed the Highway Code religiously, checked her mirrors constantly, and was always happy to let other motorists get ahead of her. Jonathon - well, Jonathon drove like a man, there was no getting away from it. She sat in the passenger seat and waited for him to leave the office.
That was something else that would change, she thought, with a smile. Jonathon had promised that when they had a family he'd get a desk job. No more late nights, no more weeks away from home, no more putting his life on the line. He'd take a regular job, with regular hours, and he'd be there for her when she needed him. Someone else could take the risks and have the glory. He'd be a husband and father. A family man. He'd promised, and she would keep him to it.
She saw her husband walking along the pavement towards the car and waved. Jonathon got in and kissed her cheek. Trish slipped her hand round his neck and pressed her lips to his, kissing him deeply. He kissed her back, with passion, and slid his hand down to cup her breast. 'That was nice,' he said, as she released him.
You deserve it,' she said.
'For what?' He started the engine and revved the accelerator, as he always did, boy-racer style.
'For being such a good husband.' She stroked his thigh. She wasn't going to tell him yet, not until the time was absolutely right. The food was in the boot, all the ingredients for his favourite meal, and a bottle of wine. She'd only have a sip to celebrate and that would be the last alcohol she'd touch until the baby was born. She wasn't going to do anything that might remotely jeopardise the health of her child. Their child. The child they'd been waiting for for almost three years. Their doctor had insisted there was no medical reason for her inability to conceive. She was fine. Jonathon was fine. There was no need yet for intervention, they just had to keep trying. They were young, fit and healthy. Jonathon's job meant he was under a lot of stress, but other than that all they needed was lots of sex and a bit of luck. They'd had lots of sex, all right, thought Trish, with a smile. It had always been great, from the very beginning.
'What are you smiling at?' asked Jonathon, putting the car in gear and driving away from the kerb. He pushed his way into the traffic without indicating, and waved a careless thanks to a BMW that had had to brake sharply to let him in.
'Nothing,' she said. She wanted to tell him there and then, but she wanted it to be perfect. She wanted it to be a moment they'd both remember for ever.
'Come on, come on,' muttered Jonathon. There was a set of traffic lights ahead. Jonathon groaned as they turned red. 'See that?' he said. 'Now we're stuck here.'
'There's no rush,' she
said. She looked across at him. He was so good-looking. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mop of black hair that kept falling across his face. Perfect teeth- a toothpaste-advert smile.
He grinned at her, the grin of a mischievous schoolboy who had never grown up. 'What is it?' he asked.
'What?'
'You. You're smiling like the cat that got the cream.'
She wanted to tell him. She wanted to grab him and kiss him and hug him and tell him he was going to be a father. But she shook her head. 'Nothing,' she said.
A large black motorcycle pulled up next to them. The pillion passenger leaned down so that he could look into the car. For a moment Trish thought he wanted to ask directions. Then she saw the gun, and frowned. It was so unexpected that for a few seconds it didn't register. Then time seemed to stop and she saw everything clearly. The gun was a dull grey automatic in a brown-gloved hand. The pillion passenger wore a bright red full-face helmet with a black visor. The driver had a black helmet, his visor also impenetrable. Men without faces. The driver revved the engine. The passenger held the gun with both hands.
Jonathon turned to follow her gaze. As he moved, the gun kicked, the window exploded and cubes of glass splattered across Trish's face.
The explosion was so loud that it deafened her and she felt rather than heard the next two shots. Her face was wet and she thought she'd been cut, but then she realised it wasn't her blood: her face and chest were soaked with her husband's and she screamed as he toppled forward on to the steering wheel.
There were eight of them in the minibus, all wearing blue overalls, training shoes and baseball caps with the logo of the pest-control company above the peak. As the minibus stopped at the gate a bored security guard with a clipboard waited until the driver wound down the window, then peered at the plastic ID card clipped to his overall pocket. He did a head count and made a note.
'No one off sick tonight, then?' On a bad night there'd only be four in the squad. Eight was a full complement and, with the company barely paying above minimum wage, they were usually at least one man short. No women. The work was unpleasant and physically demanding, and while sex-discrimination laws meant that women couldn't be refused a job, few made it beyond the first night.
'New blood,' said the driver. 'Still keen.'
The security guard shrugged. 'Yeah, I remember keen,' he said wearily. He was in his late twenties but looked older, with hair greying at the temples and a spreading waistline. 'Okay, gentlemen, hold your ID cards where I can see them, please.'
The men did as they were asked and the security guard shone his torch at the cards one by one. He was too far away to check that the faces of the men matched those on the cards, but even if he had studied them he would have seen nothing wrong. Time had been taken to ensure that the ID cards were faultless. The van was genuine, as were the overalls and baseball caps, but its original occupants were in their underwear in a disused factory in east London, gagged, bound and guarded by another member of the gang. He would stay with them until he was told that the job was done.
The faces that looked back at the security guard showed the bored resignation of men about to start eight hours of tedious night work. Three were West Indian, including the driver. The rest were white, all aged under forty. One of the youngest yawned, showing a mouthful of bad teeth.
The security guard stepped back from the minibus. He waved across at his colleague and the white pole barrier with its STOP sign rose. Two uniformed policemen, wearing bullet-proof vests and cradling black Heckler and Koch automatics, were standing at the gatehouse. They watched the minibus drive by, their fingers inside the trigger-guards of their weapons. The driver gave them a friendly wave and drove towards the warehouses. Overhead, a British Airways 747 swooped low, its landing gear down, wheels ready to bite into the runway, engines roaring in the night sky.
The man with bad teeth ducked involuntarily and one of the West Indians laughed and slapped him on the back.
'Don't fuck around,' said the man sitting next to the driver. He was wide-shouldered, in his late thirties, with sandy brown hair cropped close to his skull. He scanned the darkness between the warehouses. He wasn't expecting trouble: virtually all the security was at the perimeter of the airport.
In the rear of the minibus, the men were pulling sports bags from under their seats.
'Right, final name check,' said the front-seat passenger. His name was Ted Verity and he'd been planning the robbery for the best part of three months. 'Archie,' he said. He opened the glove compartment, took out a portable scanner, switched it on and clipped it to his belt.
'Bert,' said the man directly behind him. His real name was Jeff Owen and he'd worked with Verity on more than a dozen robberies. Owen pulled a Fairy Liquid bottle out of his sports bag. He sniffed the top and wrinkled his twice-broken nose.
Verity took a second scanner from the glove compartment, switched it on and placed it on the dashboard.
'Charlie,' said the man next to Owen. He was Bob Macdonald, a former squaddie who'd been kicked out of the army for bullying. Verity didn't know Macdonald well, but Owen had vouched for him and Verity trusted Owen with his life. Macdonald pulled a sawn-off shotgun from his holdall and slotted a red cartridge into the breech.
'Doug,' said the man next to Macdonald. He shoved a clip into the butt of a handgun and pulled back the slider. He was the youngest of the West Indians, a career criminal who'd graduated from car theft and protection rackets to armed robbery after a six-month stretch in Brixton prison. That was where Verity had met him and spotted his potential.
The alphabetical roll-call continued. A to H. The young guy with the bad teeth was Eddie. He had a revolver in his right gloved hand and a stun gun in the left. He pressed the trigger of the stun gun and blue sparks crackled between two metal prongs. The high voltage charge was enough to disable a man without causing permanent injury. The tall, lanky West Indian next to Eddie was Fred. He had a twin-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. A thirty-something Glaswegian, with a shaved head and football tattoos hidden under his overall sleeves, was sitting on his own in the back cradling a pump-action shotgun. He was George and he had an annoying habit of cracking his knuckles.
The West Indian driver was Harry. Verity didn't know Harry's real name. Over five years he'd worked with him on a dozen jobs but had only ever known him by his initials, PJ. He was one of the best drivers in London and claimed to have been Elton John's personal chauffeur. Verity nodded at PJ, who brought the minibus to a halt.
'Anyone uses any name other than the ones you've been given and I'll personally blow their head off,' said Verity, turning in his seat.
'Right, Ted,' called George, then slapped his forehead theatrically. 'Shit, I forgot already.'
'Very funny,' said Verity. He pulled a sawn-off shotgun out of his bag and flicked off the safety. 'Remember, we go in hard - hearts and minds. Don't give them time to think. They sound the alarm and we've got less than six minutes before the blues and twos arrive and we're up to our arses in Hecklers. Everybody set?'
The six men in the back nodded.
'Masks on,' said Verity.
They took off their baseball caps and pulled on black ski masks with holes for eyes and mouths. Verity nodded at PJ and the West Indian drove forward. Verity's heart raced. No matter how many jobs he did, no matter how many times he'd piled in with a gun, the fear and excitement always coursed through him like electricity. Nothing compared with the high of an armed robbery. Not even sex. All his senses were intensified as if his whole body had gone into overdrive. Verity pulled on his mask. He connected an earphone to the scanner, then slipped it on under his mask. Just static.
PJ turned sharply to the right and pulled up in front of the warehouse. Verity swung open the door and jumped down, keeping the sawn-off close to his body. His earpiece buzzed. A suspicious passenger in the arrivals terminal. An IC6 male. An Arab. Good, thought Verity. Anything that drew attention away from the commercial area of the airport was a Godsend.
/> Owen pulled back the side door and jumped out. He had stuck a revolver into the belt of his overalls. The rest of the team piled out and rushed over to the warehouse entrance. There was a large loading area with space for three trucks but the metal shutters were down. To the right of the loading bay there was a metal door. The men stood at either side of it, weapons at the ready.
Verity walked up to the door and put his gloved hand on the handle. It was never locked, even at night: there were men working in the warehouse twenty-four hours a day, but only a skeleton staff at night. Four men at most. Two fork-lift truck drivers, a security guard and a warehouseman. Four unarmed men in charge of a warehouse containing the best part of twenty million pounds' worth of goods. Verity smiled to himself. Like taking candy from a baby.
Verity pulled open the door and rushed in, holding his shotgun high. To the right of the door he saw a small office containing three desks and wall-to-wall shelving filled with cardboard files. A uniformed security officer was sitting at one of the desks, reading a newspaper. Verity levelled his shotgun and motioned with it for him to stand up. Eddie rushed past and pressed the prongs of the stun gun to the guard's neck and squeezed the trigger. The man went into spasm and slumped to the floor. Eddie dragged him behind the office door. He took a roll of duct tape from his overall pocket and used it to bind the man's hands and feet as the rest of the gang fanned out, moving through the warehouse. It was about half the size of a football pitch with cartons of cardboard boxes piled high on wooden pallets. Most were marked 'Fragile' and came from the Far East. Japan. Korea. Hong Kong.
An orange fork-lift truck reversed round a stack of boxes. Doug ran up to it and jammed his pistol against the neck of the operator, a middle-aged man in white overalls. He grabbed his collar and pulled him off the vehicle, then clubbed him across the head with the gun.
Verity could hear the second fork-lift whining in the distance and pointed in the direction of the sound. Fred and the Glaswegian ran off, their trainers making dull thuds on the concrete floor.
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