'Of course,' said Shortt.
'How big?'
'How big have you got?'
'I've got hand-helds that can block all signals up to a hundred feet,' said Knight.
'Bigger,' said Shortt.
'There's a model just in from Hong Kong that can shut down all signals in a building, pretty much.'
'Bigger,' said Shortt, grinning.
'Jimbo, why don't you just tell me what it is you want shutting down?'
Shortt's grin widened. 'You don't want to know, Alex, but let's say it's the size of a football stadium.'
Knight went back behind his desk and tapped away on his computer. He frowned, and tapped again.
Shortt continued to walk along the shelves, picking up the occasional box and examining its contents. Some of the equipment Knight had was so cutting-edge that even Shortt wasn't sure what it was supposed to do.
'What frequencies?' Knight asked.
'UK only,' said Shortt.
'Sale or lease?'
'I was hoping you'd lend me one, Alex.' Knight raised an eyebrow, and Shortt laughed. 'I'll need it for a couple of days.'
'I can let you have one for a week at five grand, but I'm going to need a deposit. This is expensive kit. When do you need it by?'
'Yesterday,' said Shortt.
Shepherd was in the corner of the exercise yard doing vigorous press-ups when his name was called. It was Hamilton. He got to his feet and went over to him, brushing his hands on his jeans. 'Legal visit,' said Hamilton.
Shepherd followed him off the spur and along the secure corridor to the visitors' centre. Hamilton said nothing during the long walk and Shepherd didn't want to start a conversation. He hadn't requested a visit from Hargrove. If the superintendent had discovered what had happened to Liam, it was all over. Shepherd forced himself to relax as he was shown into the glass-sided room.
Hargrove shook his hand. 'How's it going, Spider?'
Shepherd sat down. 'Slowly.'
'Hadn't heard from you for a while so I thought I'd drop by and see how you were.' Hargrove took his seat. His briefcase was on the floor.
'Soon as there's something to report, I'll be on the phone.'
'Are you okay?'
'I'm fine.'
'You look a little tense, that's all.'
'I'm in prison, for fuck's sake,' Shepherd snapped. He saw the look of concern on Hargrove's face and held up his hands. 'Sorry,' he said. 'It's just that being Bob Macdonald twenty-four seven isn't easy.'
'Anything I can do?'
Shepherd shook his head.
'Anything taped we can use?'
'I'm only wearing the recorder when there are officers around. That way he can't start searching me if he gets suspicious. Problem is, with the officers around he's not going to say much. I want to get him talking in his cell but I'm not in there often.'
'We need something, Spider. You know how important this is.'
'I can't push it any more than I'm doing or he'll back off.'
'And he hasn't said anything we can use?'
'He's not stupid,' said Shepherd. 'He's in here because he was set up by pros, and he's keen not to make the mistake again.'
'You don't think he suspects anything?'
'I'm being careful.'
'Carpenter's got a remand hearing in a couple of days. Might give you something to talk about.'
'I'll give it a go. He's not going to get bail, is he?'
Hargrove grinned. 'Not a snowball's chance in hell. He might have torn holes in our case but the judge is aware of what's going on and he's a safe pair of hands.'
'I'm doing my best,' said Shepherd.
'I know you are, Spider. Do you want me to go and see your boy?'
'Best stay away until it's all over.'
'You sure?'
'I'm sure.'
Hargrove stood up and adjusted his cuffs, picked up his briefcase, then held out his hand. Shepherd stood up and shook it. He hated lying to Hargrove, but he had no choice. There was nothing the superintendent could do to get Liam back. It was all down to Major Gannon and his team.
Jimbo Shortt brought the van to a halt about a hundred yards from the prison wall. Armstrong and Mitchell were in the back. O'Brien twisted round in the front passenger seat. 'Okay, let's get to it,' he said. 'From the moment we go in, we'll have eight minutes, maximum. If we're unlucky and someone calls it in, that's how long it'll take SO19 to get here.'
'Assuming there isn't an armed-response car driving by,' said Mitchell.
'Let's look on the bright side, shall we?' said O'Brien. 'This time of night, that's not likely.'
Armstrong slotted a magazine into his AKM and adjusted his black ski mask. Armstrong, Mitchell and O'Brien were wearing black fireproof overalls, ski masks and sneakers. They had black leather belts on their waists with spare ammunition, a handgun each and a radio transmitter nestling in the small of their backs. There was no need for the ballistic jackets or helmets - there wasn't a single gun inside the prison. The only risk of firepower was from the Metropolitan Police's SO19 armed-response teams. Shortt was the only member of the team wearing civilian clothes. He had on a leather jacket over blue overalls and a New York Yankees baseball cap.
'And again, if we do come up against armed cops, defensive fire only,' said O'Brien. 'Understood?'
Armstrong and Mitchell nodded.
'Fire over their heads and get the hell out,' said O'Brien. 'The cops aren't used to taking automatic fire. Okay, let's get to it.' He pulled on his mask, climbed out of the van and jogged round to the rear, his Polish short assault rifle strapped to his back. Armstrong and Mitchell opened the doors and pushed the wooden box towards O'Brien, then helped him lower it to the ground.
Shortt hefted the briefcase-sized phone jammer on to the passenger seat. He had already disabled the local BT sub-station that handled the landlines from Shelton. The jammer would take care of any mobiles in the vicinity.
'Check comms,' said O'Brien. 'Alpha on air.'
The men had on microphone headsetsundertheir masks, wired to the receivers on their belts.
'Beta on air,' said Mitchell.
O'Brien gave him a thumbs-up. His voice had come over loud and clear through the earpiece.
'Gamma on air,' said Armstrong. O'Brien nodded.
'Delta on air,' said Shortt.
O'Brien knelt down and opened the wooden box: a Russian-made 7V rocket-propelled grenade launcher nestled in a bed of polystyrene balls. Mitchell nodded approvingly. 'Nice bit of kit,' he said.
'Oh, yes,' said O'Brien. 'The Somalis used one of these to bring down that Blackhawk. Accurate up to three hundred metres with a moving target, five hundred if it's stationary.'
'Makes a change from friendly fire,' said Mitchell.
O'Brien took the metre-long launcher from the box and hefted it on to his shoulder. He walked a few paces towards the prison entrance.
'Sure you've got it the right way round?' asked Armstrong.
'Aye, fuck you too,' said O'Brien. He looked at his watch, then knelt down on one knee and sighted on the main gate, a hundred metres away. 'Are we all set?'
'Mobile signals are down,' Shortt said. 'All signals blocked. Rock and roll.'
O'Brien took a deep breath. His heart was pounding as adrenaline coursed through his system. He'd fired RPGs before, more than a dozen, but there was always the risk that something might go wrong and it blew up in his hands.
In the distance the occasional car drove down the motorway but all they could see were the headlights carving through the darkness. The prison had been shielded from the road by landscaped hills and trees so that the sensibilities of law-abiding citizens in north London wouldn't be offended by high walls and surveillance cameras. The hills would block any sign of the explosion, and the most that would be seen from the road was a flash of light.
The four men stared at the prison walls, which were thirty feet high, as was the metal gate, the only way for vehicles to enter the prison. No CCTV ca
meras covered theexterior - therewas no wayeven for theofficers inside to see outside. As Major Gannon had pointed out several times during his briefing, the prison had been purpose-built to keep six hundred unarmed men confined in specific areas. Every security measure was directed inwards. Four armed men who knew what they were doing should, in theory, be able to bring the place to its knees.
'Stand clear,' said O'Brien. Armstrong and Mitchell jogged to the far side of the van. O'Brien braced himself and pulled the trigger. The grenade whooshed from the launcher, leaving a plume of white smoke in its wake. It arced through the air and hit the door, dead centre. The explosion was a dull thud that O'Brien felt as much as heard, and then the massive metal door crashed to the side, twisting off its opening mechanism.
Shortt revved the engine. O'Brien tossed the launcher to the ground and ran to the passenger seat. Mitchell pulled the rear door shut. Shortt stamped on the accelerator and the van sped forward, towards the shattered gate.
Shepherd squinted at the luminous dial of his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning and he'd been awake all night. Lee had switched off the television just after midnight, and by half past one there had been silence on the landing. The spyglass had opened at two thirty and the next check wasn't due for another half-hour.
Lee was snoring softly, but he woke with a start as Shepherd climbed down from the top bunk.
'What's up?' he said sleepily.
'Did you hear something?'
'Like what?'
'I don't know. Outside, on the landing.'
Lee swung his feet to the floor. 'What time is it?'
'Three.'
'It'll be one of the guards doing his checks.'
'I heard an explosion.'
'Bollocks.'
'What if there was a fire somewhere in the block? Would they let us out?'
Lee sniffed. 'I can't smell anything.'
'I didn't say I smelt smoke, I said I heard a bang.'
Lee walked to the door. Shepherd moved to the side to let him pass, then grabbed him from behind. Lee could barely grunt before Shepherd had his neck in a tight lock. Shepherd squeezed as Lee tried to twist round. He held him tight, and for more than a minute they shuffled backwards and forwards. The head lock applied pressure to the carotid arteries, cutting off the blood supply to Lee's brain. All Shepherd had to do was hang on and keep applying pressure to the sides of Lee's neck.
When he felt him go limp, he dragged him over to his bunk and rolled him on to it. He pulled the laces from Lee's trainers and used them to bind his wrists and ankles. Then he ripped a strip of material off the sheet and used it as a makeshift gag. He checked that the laces were secure, then went to the door. He switched on the light and started stretching, loosening his muscles for what was to come next.
3.00 a.m.
The van screeched to a halt in front of the gatehouse. The back door flew open and Armstrong and Mitchell jumped down. They both fired short, controlled bursts. The 7.62mm bullets ripped through the door and shattered the lock. The two men stepped to the side and O'Brien jumped out of the van, ran at the door and kicked it, hard. It crashed to the side and he ran into the gatehouse, his submachine-gun in front of him.
There were two prison officers behind the glass panel, one in full uniform, the other in short sleeves. The one in uniform had a phone to his ear, his hand on the keypad. Both men were staring at the shattered door, their mouths open.
'Get down!' shouted O'Brien. They stood where they were, too shocked to move. O'Brien gestured with his Onyx short-assault rifle. 'Get down, now!' he yelled.
The officers dropped to the floor. O'Brien fired a short burst at the security glass. It wasn't designed to take the impact of an assault rifle at short range and it shattered into a million shards.
Armstrong vaulted over the counter, his gloved hand crunching on the broken glass. He put his foot on the back of one of the officers and shoved the barrel of his gun against the other's neck. 'Just stay calm and no one gets hurt,' he said. The man he was standing on had a long keychain on his belt and Armstrong ripped it off. He tossed the keys to O'Brien, who caught them.
Mitchell looked through the doorway and Shortt gave him a thumbs-up. He had turned the van so he could see through the doorway. Outside the prison, everything was in darkness.
'Come on, come on,' said O'Brien. 'Get the doors open.'
Armstrong bound the arms and legs of one officer with a plastic tie, then dragged him to his feet.
Access to the prison was through two security doors that could not be opened at the same time. The gap between them was effectively a quarantine area and the second door wasn't opened until the identity of those entering or leaving had been checked. O'Brien and Mitchell walked up to the first security door. Armstrong shoved the muzzle of his weapon under the man's chin. 'Open the outer door,' he hissed.
The officer, trembling, stabbed at a button. The gate slid open.
O'Brien and Mitchell moved into the quarantine area.
'Now close it,' said Armstrong.
He stabbed at another button.
Once the outer door had clicked shut, Armstrong jabbed the gun into the man's chin. 'Open the inner door.' The officer was already reaching across the console to press the button.
O'Brien and Mitchell rushed through the gap and sprinted away. Armstrong tied the officer's wrists behind his back with another plastic binding. He watched on the monitors as O'Brien and Mitchell ran across the second courtyard to the door that led to the secure corridor.
'Which button opens the door?' asked Armstrong.
The officer nodded at the console. 'The red one.'
Armstrong pressed it. 'Gamma, door is unlocked.'
'Roger that,' said O'Brien, in his earpiece. 'Alpha and Beta going in.'
'Delta, outside is clear.'
'Roger that,' said O'Brien.
On one of the monitors, Armstrong watched O'Brien pull open the door and Mitchell run into the secure corridor. O'Brien followed him. Then Armstrong pushed the officer to the floor and tied his feet together. When he straightened up, he scanned the monitors: O'Brien and Mitchell were running down the secure corridor, automatic rifles clutched to their chests.
3.01 a.m.
Lloyd-Davies sipped her coffee and flicked through the observations book. It had been a quiet day - a couple of minor scuffles, a racist remark that had been reported to the governor, and a new arrival on the ones - he had been crying so much he'd been taken to the medical wing. Tonight her colleague in the bubble was Paul Morrison, a former landscape gardener who had only been in the prison service for three months. He was a few inches shorter than she, and although he was only in his early twenties he was losing his hair. He was keen, and had made a special effort to learn the first names of all the men on the spur. Lloyd-Davies hoped he'd maintain his enthusiasm, but she knew that, after a year on the job, most officers became hardened. The lies, the occasional flashes of violence, the boredom changed even the most altruistic soul. She closed the observations book and took another sip of coffee.
As she put down the cup she heard rapid footsteps and turned to look down the secure corridor. Her eyes widened as she saw two figures running full tilt towards her, holding automatic rifles close to their chests. She stared at them in disbelief, then gasped and grabbed her radio. The men rushed up to the barred door. One shoved the barrel of his gun through it. 'Put that down!' he hissed. 'Now!'
Morrison whirled around. He and Lloyd-Davies were transfixed.
'Down!' the man repeated. 'Put the radio down.'
Lloyd-Davies did as she was told.
Morrison got to his feet, trembling. He looked across at Lloyd-Davies. 'It's okay, Paul, stay calm,' she said.
'Shut the fuck up,' hissed one of the masked men. 'Lie down on the floor, face down.'
The second man had a key on a long steel chain and unlocked the barred door.
'What do you want?' asked Lloyd-Davies.
'Just get down on the floor. Now!'
Morrison dropped to his knees, then put his hands on the floor.
The man with the key pulled open the door, then aimed his gun at Lloyd-Davies. 'Down!' he said.
They looked like SAS troopers, thought Lloyd-Davies. Black ski masks, automatic rifles. Black uniforms with equipment hanging from black leather belts. But why would the SAS be storming a prison? It didn't make any sense.
The man with the key stepped forward and grabbed Lloyd-Davies by her ponytail. 'We're not fucking around here!' he hissed. 'Now, get down on the floor.'
Lloyd-Davies realised that she wasn't scared. She was angry, but she wasn't frightened. If the men had intended to shoot them, they would have surely done it straight away. Whatever they were up to, they weren't there to kill anyone. She went down on her knees, her eyes never leaving the man's face. She was trying to memorise as many details as she could. The colour of his eyes. Brown. His height. Just under six feet. One of his canine teeth was crooked. He was right-handed. Slightly overweight.
'On the floor!' repeated the man.
Lloyd-Davies did as she was told. The other man was fastening a plastic tie round Morrison's wrists.
The man with the key pushed her down and she lay still as he pulled her arms behind her back and tied her wrists together. She turned to look at him but he put his gun to her forehead. 'You keep staring at me and I'll give you something to remember,' he hissed. He had an accent, but it was hard to identify. Irish. Or Scottish, maybe.
He pressed the gun into the small of her back. 'Who else is on the spur?'
'Healey,' said Lloyd-Davies.
'Where is he?'
'Should be on the ones.'
'Anyone else?'
She shook her head.
'If you're lying, you'll be putting their lives on the line.'
'Just the night staff. Three of us.'
He took the gun away from her back. 'Stay on the ground, keep your eyes closed and this'll be over before you know it,' he said.
Lloyd-Davies shut her eyes. 'You'll never get out,' she said.
The man pushed the barrel of his gun against her neck. 'You'd better hope we do or I'll be putting a bullet in your head,' he muttered. 'Now, shut the fuck up.'
3.02 a.m.
O'Brien tossed Mitchell the keyand told himto go and get the prison officer on the ground floor. Mitchell left the bubble and unlocked the barred door that led to the landings. He peered over the railing through the wire-mesh suicide net. A large West Indian was walking slowly towards the far end of the spur. Mitchell put the key into his pocket.
Hard Landing Page 34
