'What's wrong?' asked Shepherd.
'More officers in the corridor, from Block A.' O'Brien glanced at Mitchell and pointed down the corridor, then held open the door for Shepherd. He carried Carpenter through and hurried across the courtyard, Carpenter's feet banging into his thighs.
Armstrong scanned the monitors. O'Brien was holding open the door from the secure corridor. Mitchell was racing towards Block A. Shepherd was coming towards the gatehouse with Carpenter on his shoulders. And Shortt was gunning the van engine.
No cameras covered the outside of the prison so he had no idea what was going on beyond the walls. For all he knew armed police units were already stationed there. He said a silent prayer that Major Gannon was right and that even if they knew what was going on it would take SO19 at least eight minutes to get to the prison.
There was movement on another of the monitors - the secure corridor outside Block C: three prison officers, two male and one female, were running from the bubble.
'Gamma, three more guards in the corridor,' said Armstrong. 'Time to call it a day.'
'Alpha, roger that,' said O'Brien, but he stayed where he was, keeping the corridor door open.
Mitchell stopped running. He could hear booted footsteps round the corner ahead of him. He stood with his left leg slightly forward, ready to absorb the kick of his AKM-63. He took no pleasure in shooting at unarmed men, but he had to show them he was capable of using his firepower.
The two men reached the corner first. One was short and dumpy, the other tall and lanky. The tall one yelped when he saw Mitchell, the other ducked and tripped over his own feet.
Mitchell was amused by their confusion. 'Get down on the floor!' he yelled.
A female prison officer came round the corner. She swerved to avoid falling over the officer on the floor and slammed into the wall.
Mitchell fired a short burst into the ceiling above their heads. A light shattered and ceiling tiles showered down on them. 'I won't tell you again!' he shouted.
The overweight guard and the woman dropped on to the floor next to the other.
'Link your fingers behind your neck!' ordered Mitchell.
They did as they were told.
'Anyone follows us, I won't be firing warning shots,' he shouted. 'Tell your friends - they come after us, they're dead.' He turned and ran back to O'Brien.
'Nice speech,' said O'Brien.
'What can I say?' said Mitchell. 'Winning friends and influencing people.'
O'Brien held the door as Mitchell ran into the courtyard, then chased after him. The door clicked shut. Hopefully, with the gatehouse disabled, no one would be able to follow them out of the secure corridor.
Shepherd was breathing heavily by the time he'd reached the gatehouse. Carpenter was still groaning, but his body was limp. The interior door was already open and he ran through it. To his left Armstrong was cradling his automatic rifle. He acknowledged Shepherd, then went back to studying the CCTV monitors.
The second door, leading to the outside, was shut. Shepherd stood in the holding area and waited.
O'Brien and Mitchell ran in from the courtyard, rushed through the interior door, then turned to check that no one had come after them. The courtyard was clear.
Armstrong hit the button to close the security door. Seconds ticked by as it shut. O'Brien and Mitchell turned to the second door. 'We haven't got time for this,' said Mitchell, levelled his gun at it and let loose a short burst. The glass shattered.
Armstrong vaulted over the counter and ran out into the courtyard.Shepherd raced after him, his trainers crunching over shards of broken glass. Armstrong jumped into the back of the van and held out his hands to heave Carpenter in. O'Brien and Mitchell were running towards them. They turned and faced the gatehouse, weapons at the ready as Shepherd clambered into the van. 'We're in!' he shouted.
O'Brien and Mitchell ran together, jumped in and Shepherd pulled the door shut.
'Go, go, go!' screamed O'Brien. Shortt stamped on the accelerator and the van shot towards the gate.
The van swerved and Shepherd's head smacked against the side. He put out a hand to steady himself. O'Brien and Mitchell sat with their backs towards the seats, cradling their weapons. Shortt was keeping just below the speed limit as he pulled a series of tight turns. It was important to put as much distance between themselves and the prison as they could, but there were speed cameras in the area and they couldn't risk being photographed.
Armstrong scratched his chin under the ski mask as he stared down at Carpenter, who was lying on his back, his eyes shut, breathing heavily. 'Doesn't look like much,' he said.
'Worth twenty-eight million,' said Shepherd.
'Yeah, well, his money's not going to get him out of this,' said O'Brien.
Mitchell held out a hand. 'Hang on, now, boys. Let's at least hear what he has to say. I mean, Spider's one of the lads, but twenty-eight mill is a shedload of money.'
O'Brien thumped Mitchell's shoulder. 'Why don't you just go out and write one of those kill-and-tell books? Make some money that way.'
'Can't string two words together, me,' said Mitchell. 'Why don't we just hold him to ransom? He's got money. Let him pay for what we just did.'
O'Brien pointed a warning finger at him.
'Joke,' said Mitchell.
The van swerved again and the tyres squealed. O'Brien was monitoring police radio frequencies but so far no one had called in the raid on the prison. 'We're in the clear, Jimbo,' he said.
Shortt eased off the accelerator.
Carpenter rolled on to his side, and Armstrong placed a foot casually on his neck.
They drove to an industrial estate on the outskirts of Watford, close to the M25. O'Brien climbed out and unlocked a metal shutter, pushed it open and Shortt edged the van inside the building. It was a small warehouse, a bare space with metal rafters overhead and a small plasterboard office in one corner. There were no windows.
Armstrong and Mitchell opened the rear doors of the van and dragged Carpenter out as O'Brien pulled down the shutters at the entrance. Shortt got out, holding a bottle of Evian water. He unscrewed the cap and poured it over Carpenter. Carpenter coughed, spluttered and sat up.
O'Brien, Shortt, Mitchell and Armstrong stood in a semi-circle facing him, their submachine-gunsat the ready.
'Who the hell are you?' asked Carpenter, running his hands through his wet hair.
'We're the guys who pulled your nuts out of the fire,' said O'Brien, 'so a bit of respect is called for.'
Carpenter got to his feet. His lip was split and blood was dribbling down his chin. He grinned at Shepherd. 'I knew you'd be able to do it,' he said. 'You just needed an incentive.'
'I got you out,' said Shepherd. 'Now I want my boy back.'
'I think we should celebrate, don't you? It's not every day that you get to break out of a Category A prison, is it?' Carpenter laughed, but no one laughed with him. 'A friend of mine always made the same toast when he opened a bottle of bubbly,' said Carpenter. 'Champagne for our real friends, and real pain for our sham friends.' He moved quickly, stepping forward and grabbing the gun from Shepherd's belt. Then he flicked the safety-catch. 'That's what I want for you, Shepherd. Real fucking pain.' He pointed the gun at Shepherd and pulled the trigger.
In the confined space the explosion was deafening. Shepherd staggered back, clutching his belly. Carpenter grinned in triumph. He waved the gun at the men in ski masks, then frowned when he saw they were all laughing, guns at their sides.
Shepherd straightened. He held his hands up, palms out to Carpenter. No blood.
Carpenter stared at the gun in disbelief. He aimed at Shepherd's stomach and fired again. Shepherd stood where he was, his ears ringing.
'You stupid twat,' said O'Brien. 'You don't think we'd give Spider real bullets, do you?'
Carpenter tossed the gun away. 'Fuck the lot of you,' he said.
O'Brien aimed his gun at Carpenter's face. 'Why don't we just have done with it and slot hi
m now?'
'Do that and he'll never see his boy again,' said Carpenter.
'Where is he?' asked Shepherd.
'I don't know.'
Shepherd's jaw dropped. 'You what?'
'I don't know and I don't want to know. My guys have taken them somewhere. Once you've let me go, they'll let your boy and his grandparents go. That's the deal.'
'We can't trust him,' said Mitchell. 'After what he just did, we can't believe a thing he says.'
'You've no choice,' said Carpenter. 'There's nothing you can do to me to make me tell you where his boy is, because I don't know. And if you kill me . . .' He left the sentence unfinished.
'It's your call, Spider,' said O'Brien, scratching at his ski mask.
Shepherd picked up the gun. He stared at Carpenter as he tapped the gun against his leg. If he let Carpenter go, there was no guarantee he'd release Liam, Moira and Tom. Mitchell was right, there was no way they could trust him.
'Yeah, Spider,' said Carpenter. 'It's your call.'
'Your guys have mobiles, yeah?' said Shepherd. 'Throwaways?'
'Sure.'
'Okay, here's what you do. You call your guys and tell them to release Moira and the boy. They're to give them a mobile and let them go. As soon as they're safe, they can call me. We release you, and then you call your men to let Tom go.'
'Nice,' said Carpenter. 'That way the most you'll lose is your father-in-law.'
'He's my boy's grandfather,' said Shepherd. 'His life means more to me than a thousand of you. You hurt him- you hurt any of them - and you're dead.'
'Sticks and stones,' said Carpenter.
Shepherd raised his gun to smash it across Carpenter's face, but held himself in check. There was nothing to be gained from hitting Carpenter. All he wanted was to get Liam back safely. He lowered the weapon. Carpenter grinned. 'Give him a phone,' said Shepherd, pushing Carpenter into the van. 'Let's get the hell out of here.'
Fletcher was picking his teeth with a playing card when the mobile rang. He answered it immediately. Carpenter was the only person who had the number. 'Yes, boss.'
'I'm out, Kim. Free and clear.'
'Great news, boss.'
'How are they?'
'They're behaving. I had to give the old man a slap but they're as right as rain now.'
Neary looked over from the sofa where he was stretched out reading the latest Harry Potter. Fletcher flashed him a thumbs-up.
'Right, here's what we do. Let the grandmother and the boy go. Give them a mobile and get them to call this number as soon as they're away from the house. Keep the old man with you until I call you again. Then, assuming everything's still okay, leave him and come and get me.'
'No sweat,' said Fletcher. The phone went dead. Fletcher smiled at Neary and shrugged. 'We let them go,' he said.
Neary sighed. 'Good,' he said. 'I never like hurting women and kids. Doesn't seem right, you know?'
Fletcher nodded.
Carpenter handed the mobile back to Shortt. 'Next time that rings, it'll be to say that the boy and his grandmother are free,' he said.
Shortt took the phone. 'Why don't we just slot him?' asked O'Brien.
'Because if I don't call back in ten minutes to say I'm okay, the old man gets shot,' said Carpenter.
O'Brien shrugged. 'We slot you then we hit the redial button and tell your guys you're dead so they might as well knock it on the head.'
'They'll still take care of him, whatever you say.'
'Leave him alone, Martin,' said Shortt.
'Who are you guys, anyway?' asked Carpenter.
'They're friends of mine, that's all you need to know,' said Shepherd.
Carpenter ignored him and continued talking to Shortt. 'I could use a crew like you.' He gestured at Shepherd. 'I don't know what he's paying you, but I can give you ten times as much.'
'He's not paying us a penny,' said O'Brien.
'Skills you've got, you could be rich men,' said Carpenter.
'This isn't about money,' said Shortt. 'Now, shut the fuck up.'
Carpenter settled back in the van. They waited in silence until the mobile rang. Shortt gave it to Shepherd. It was Moira, sobbing.
'Are you okay?' he asked.
Through her tears she told him that she and Liam were safe but that she didn't know where her husband was. Shepherd told her that Tom would soon be with her. 'What's happening, Daniel?' she asked.
'I'll explain later,' he said. 'First thing is to get you all home. Where are you?'
Moira sniffed. 'There's a road ahead of us. I saw a bus go by.'
'Go to the road and find out its name. Call me back and we'll come and get you.'
'I'll call the police,' said Moira.
'No,' said Shepherd quickly. 'Don't do that.'
'We've been kidnapped, Daniel. They had guns. They said they'd kill us.'
'Moira, please, listen to me. Whatever you do, don't call the police. I'll explain everything, I promise, but there's nothing the police can do right now. Trust me.'
'Daniel . . .'
'I mean it, Moira. Wait until Tom's back with you and I can talk it through with you. Just get to the road and call me.'
'All right . . .'
'Can I talk to Liam?' He heard the phone change hands.
'Dad?'
'Are you okay?'
'They hit Granddad. With a gun.'
'It's over now, Liam. You're safe.'
'Who are they, Dad?'
'Just bad guys. Don't worry, it's all over now. I'm coming to get you.'
'Are you out of prison?'
'Yes.'
'So you're coming home?'
'Definitely,' said Shepherd.
He cut the connection and held out the phone to Carpenter. 'Okay, now let my father-in-law go.'
Carpenter grinned. 'That's not how it works, Shepherd.' He held out his hand. 'I'll need some money for the call-box.'
O'Brien tossed him a handful of change.
'You screw me over and I'll hunt you down and kill you,' said Shepherd.
'Of course you will,' said Carpenter.
Armstrong and Mitchell opened the rear door of the van. They'd parked in a side-street a short walk from Brent Cross tube station. Carpenter climbed out. He turned to Shepherd. 'Be lucky,' he said, then jogged down the road towards the station.
Armstrong scratched his ski mask. 'Didn't even thank us,' he said.
'He's probably going to write,' said Mitchell.
'A card would be nice.' Armstrong pulled the door shut. 'Or flowers.'
Even though the road was clear behind the Rover, Stan Yates still switched on his indicator before pulling over to the side. Force of habit. Twenty-seven years as a professional driver and never an accident - not even a speeding fine - but what did he have to show for it? A clean driving licence and a one-bedroomed basement flat in east London, and somewhere up north an ex-wife and two kids who didn't know him. Didn't need to know him, either, not now his ex-wife had her fancy-man solicitor with his detached house and his yacht moored in Portsmouth.
Yates wanted a cigarette but the Rover was a smoke-free zone. His boss was a stickler for it and no amount of air-freshener would get rid of the smell. He made do with a stick of foul-tasting nicotine gum.
He ran his hands round the steering-wheel, enjoying the feel of the leather. As soft as a young woman's skin, he thought. Not that he'd touched many young women over the past few years, but all that would change soon. He'd quit his job, sell the flat, and move to the Philippines. He'd heard great things about the Philippines. How a man could live like a king, even on a government pension. How the women were soft, pretty, accommodating . . . and available. Yates's smile widened: he'd be arriving in the Philippines with more than his pension.
He stretched out his arms and arched his back. The Rover still smelt new. It was less than six months old and had done only three thousand miles. Ray Mackie didn't travel much - the car was more of a status symbol than anything else. A badge of office to show
that he'd climbed the slippery pole and was now master of all he surveyed. Head of Drugs Operations. Mackie would be retiring with a real pension, thought Yates bitterly, and he earned real money. Not the pittance that HM Customs paid him.
Yates reached out and touched the gleaming wooden veneer around the car's instruments. Real craftsmanship, he thought.
A car pulled up behind the Rover. It was a BMW, a nice motor, the five series, thought Yates, but it didn't have the quality of the Rover. The BMW was a car to drive but the Rover was a car to be driven in. It was a crucial difference. Long before he'd become a professional driver, Yates had been a car salesman and had spent a year selling Rolls-Royces in a Mayfair showroom. He'd always been able to spot a serious buyer because they'd get into the back of the car, not the front.
Yates watched the BMW in his rear-view mirror. The headlights flashed. Yates frowned. Normally they came to him. He twisted in his seat. The men stayed in the BMW. He frowned. What the hell were they playing at? He switched off the engine and climbed out. The BMW's headlights flashed again.
Yates walked to the driver's side. The window wound down and Pat Neary grinned up at him. 'Stan the man,' he said.
'What's going on?' asked Yates. 'I'm not supposed to see you until next week.'
'Change of plan,' said Neary.
'There's no plan to change,' said Yates. 'I give you information on HODO's movements, you give me a brown envelope.'
'Our boss wants a word,' said Neary.
Kim Fletcher was in the passenger seat. He grinned. 'He'll make it worth your while, Stan.'
Yates looked up and down the road. There were headlights about a mile away but the car turned off to the left. 'What does he want to talk about?'
'He wants to pick your brains.'
'About what?'
'That's why he wants to see you, Stan. Says he doesn't want to work through me on this.'
Yates licked his lips. 'How much?'
'Didn't want to tell me, Stan, but he said he'd make it worth your while.' Fletcher sighed. 'Look, if you're not interested just tell me and I'll pass the message on.'
'I'm not saying I'm not interested,' said Yates hastily. 'It's just I've always worked with you.'
'And I work for him,' said Fletcher. 'It's his money you're salting away.'
Hard Landing Page 36
