by Ian Andrew
Libby hadn’t even broken stride as the call came to her. She went through the door and moved to her left, knowing without looking that the remainder of Bravo and Charlie Squads were following close behind her.
Her eyes swept over an interior that could have comfortably accommodated a football pitch and her mind processed the scene, looking for targets and threats. Since her very first live operation she’d never ceased to be amazed at the phenomenon that occurred when she stepped into a threat environment. It was true for her that time dragged into slow motion. She found the rapid assimilation of scenes and movement was achieved almost effortlessly.
To her far left, along the long wall, were a series of openings that separated into four distinct blocks. At the opening nearest to her was a young girl, Libby assessed her as probably no older than twenty, just stepping out into the main space. She was wrapped in a towel with another wrapped around her head. The vents that ran along the length of a false ceiling had steam rising from them. Libby’s mind registered it as a shower block. Nil threat.
To her rear right quarter she heard shouts of ‘Armed Police. Stand Still.’ But they were of no concern to her, she had her own area of responsibility. Her eyes, moving left to right from the shower block, took in a broad sweep of half-height cubicles that filled the main expanse of floor. Young women, in various states of dress, were standing at random points throughout the space. Each block of cubicles had clear laneways running in a grid pattern throughout them, giving free access to the whole. She could hear some screams, high-pitched, terrified. A few of the women that had been visible were beginning to drop out of sight. Libby thought it looked a little like one of those fairground games where the gophers ducked before you could hit them with a mallet.
As her eyes swept past the cubicles she saw, in the third laneway, a man with a blond ponytail standing still, his hands raised. A shoulder holster visible under his open jacket.
She began to move directly for him, “ARMED POLICE. PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES. DO IT NOW.” Her sights were on the central mass of the target she knew had been designated Thor but her peripheral vision was still searching left and right.
Thor complied with her shouted instruction almost in time with her words.
“Charlie, from Bravo Two, confirm you have Thor,” she called, knowing that the large number two painted in Day-Glo yellow on the rear of her helmet and back of her flak jacket would identify her whereabouts to the members of Charlie Squad coming behind her. They had been tasked with the securing of any prisoners.
“Bravo Two, Charlie Five. I have him, you’re clear.”
Libby moved past Thor, leaving him kneeling in the laneway as she moved deeper into the space. She didn’t look behind, knowing that her back was covered. To her left she saw Bravo Three moving forward in line with her and beyond him, Bravo Four. To her right was a large gap that should have been filled with Bravo Five and Six but further over was Bravo Seven and Eight.
As she passed each cubicle she could see two single beds, topped and tailed into the space. A couple of cheap drawer units doubled as bedside cabinets to separate the sleeping spaces. In most cubicles the young women were crouching down beside, or hiding under, the beds. As she passed one space two boys, maybe in their late teens and dressed in sweat pants and singlets, were huddled together on the floor.
Moving quickly she was now almost halfway to the rear wall. It was host to about fifteen doors and presumably was the area that housed the video rooms they had been briefed about.
A sound of a shot, rapidly followed by two more came from way behind her to the right and the high-pitched screams of the women, which had been lessening, increased in their intensity again. Libby’s heart rate spiked. Almost simultaneously she had movement to her immediate front left and right.
With all her training Libby knew that rapid movement meant one of two things. Both of which were initiated by an evolutionary desire to survive.
The first type of movement was to flee. But it took speed of thought and an ability to process events quickly. That meant it was much less common than she had first thought when starting out with SCO19.
Hence, out of all the women visible when she had entered the building, very, very few had dropped down inside the first three seconds. Most took much longer to react and some, by virtue of them still standing and screaming even now, almost half a minute later, would have, in by-gone days, been trampled by a mammoth.
The second type of rapid movement in an emergency situation was much more of a concern for Libby. It showed a speed of thought and reaction that was honed by either training or a naturally gifted predatory instinct. At worst, both things combined. In by-gone days these were the people that had brought down the mammoths.
Libby saw two men rise up in front of her, almost exactly positioned at her eleven and one o’clock positions. The one on her left was Illy Sultanov. Seemingly spurred on by the gunfire that had just sounded he was turning away and making to run. To her front right was a tall, well-built man probably about the same age as she was. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt his physique was impressive. He wore a shoulder holster but it was hanging empty and the pistol it had been home to was in his hands. The muzzle was rapidly coming round to Libby.
Pavel Ivanovich Leshev was a gifted soldier who had physically survived the Crimea and Ukrainian campaigns as a member of the elite GRU 45th Spetsnaz Regiment. A born fighter with natural aggression he was very proud of his marksmanship. Clever and quick he had survived many an engagement by being aggressive and accurate. He had joined Illy’s security on the recommendation of his cousin who had worked for the gangster, as Pavel thought of Illy, for about five years. Enjoying some post-operational leave from his latest trip into the Ukrainian border region, Pavel had come to visit his cousin in London the previous year. Impressed with his cousin’s fancy car and fancier apartment he decided that money, cars and girls seemed like a better reward for work than being shot at by Ukrainians. It took him a while to resign and another couple of months to get a fake passport sorted. He’d joined Illy’s team just six weeks ago. His body had left the Spetsnaz but his mind was still firmly in the combat zones that surrounded the Sea of Azov.
As the first shouts had reached his non-English understanding ears he had done what any good operator would do; taken cover and observed.
He’d seen his employer running and sliding into the space just across the open laneway from him. Pavel had signalled for him to be quiet.
Through the gaps in the cubicle walls he had seen blue-clad combat soldiers moving into the warehouse. He’d watched as they had quickly overpowered one of his comrades who, with him, had guarded the whores in the warehouse. Then he’d watched them take the surrender of the little prick with the ponytail who was Illy’s personal bodyguard. Pavel thought that was disgraceful. He had given up without even a slight effort. Pavel hadn’t worked for the gangster for long but his military mind said the gangster was in charge. That meant he was the Officer running the show. He would be loyal to Pavel. Every Spetsnaz Officer had sworn his life to die for his troops. Pavel was sure Illy would do the same. Of that Pavel had no doubt and so Pavel would be loyal to him. Regardless of how short a time he had been here.
As the seconds ticked by Pavel assessed his options. He could see only two. One was not acceptable to him. The Ukrainians were rumoured to torture and execute any Russian Special Forces prisoners. He peered out through the gaps and watched the line of blue soldiers moving forward. He saw, far in the bottom corner of the warehouse, his cousin rise up. He heard shouts and saw his cousin fire a shot at one of the enemy soldiers. Then two more shots sounded and he saw his cousin’s head spray a crimson cloud into the air.
Pavel signalled to the gangster to get ready to run. He raised three fingers up, then two then one, then signalled for Illy to go. At the same time he stood up and prepared to buy his commanding officer time in the face of an enemy attack.
Libby’s eyes were sig
hted along the barrel of her MP5, yet she could see above, below and to the sides of it as her field of vision seemed to expand in the threat environment. She saw the dense, black metal of a pistol muzzle come through the last degrees of travel toward her. She saw in high definition the fractional movement of the physically impressive man’s hands as he began to squeeze the trigger.
At a distance of fifteen feet she fired once and observed a hole, neat and precise form instantly in the middle of the man’s forehead. A puff of red bloomed behind him. Life left his eyes like a switch had been flicked.
She registered another four rounds hitting the man’s wide torso as her colleagues to right and left engaged a fraction of a second later. With still no break in stride Libby continued moving through the space.
“ILLY KRASNOV, ILLY KRASNOV. STAND STILL. ARMED POLICE. STAND STILL OR I FIRE,” she yelled at the slightly overweight man who was running for the rooms at the rear. He didn’t slow but angled towards the door to the far left. Libby broke into a sprint. She thought about firing but he had presented no threat, she had seen no weapon and her rules of engagement didn’t allow her to just shoot a fleeing subject in the back of the head. Not unless she thought he was a suicide bomber and the rational part of her brain dismissed that as an option.
She was younger and much, much fitter so closed the gap to the man very quickly. He had opened the door, stepped inside and was trying to ram it shut when Libby hit it with her left shoulder. The wood flew open and the leading edge caught the Russian high on his brow sending him splaying backwards. Libby stepped in to the room in time to see Illy skidding back across the cheap linoleum floor. His already bleeding head cannoned into a video camera tripod positioned at the foot of a sagging double bed that was covered in a gaudy and cheap looking bedspread.
Keeping her weapon trained on the seemingly unconscious body she scanned the room. Cowering in the corner, between the bed and a long wall-mounted bench that held a printer, various small knives, scissors, cut-outs of photos and what looked like a stack of passports, was a middle-aged woman. Her eyes were heavy with dark bags and her mouth was drawn back in a silent study of terror. Yet Libby was mostly struck at how so out-of-place she looked in this room. From her hair and clothes she would have been more suited to a Woman’s Institute meeting rather than a video sex suite.
“PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD. HANDS ON YOUR HEAD NOW. DO IT NOW.”
The woman did as she was ordered.
Libby dropped the volume of her voice and asked the question she already knew the answer to, “What’s your name?”
“Brenda. Brenda Sterling.”
After a further ten minutes Libby walked out of the Judas gate back into the late evening sun. Her goggles down around her neck and her helmet in her left hand. The scene to her front showed Alpha Squad arrayed in front of a row of eight men lying outside the security block, their hands cuffed with plastic ties and a collection of assault rifles piled behind them.
In front of the loading dock, half of Charlie Squad were standing in front of a similar scene but with only six prisoners laid out on the ground. Illy was sat separately from them whilst a medic patched up the deep gash on his brow.
In the middle of the concrete apron five police vans were disgorging what looked to be about fifty uniformed officers. Their Sergeants calling them into groups to brief them on what they would be doing up at the warehouse. Libby squinted and wiped the sweat from her eyes with the back of her leather glove. Mark Stroller was coming up to her accompanied by the man and women who had met the assault squads in the woods.
“You okay Libby?” Stroller asked.
“Yes Gov,” she paused and considered what she had said. She knew there and then that she was completely okay. The killing of the man in the black T-shirt was justified. She had no doubt that he was going to kill her. So she had killed him. She looked between Stroller and the two civilians. The man, a large black guy with a gentle smile and soft eyes, held her gaze.
“Yes Gov. I’m fine,” she repeated more for herself than her boss.
“Good, Libby. Good,” Stroller said.
The black man nodded at her and the blonde woman patted her on the shoulder as she walked past.
Libby walked the short distance to the duty forensics supervisor and handed her firearm over, along with the other six members of SCO19 Bravo Squad who had fired during the raid. As she waited for the paperwork to begin she turned and looked back at Stroller and the two civilians. They had stopped just short of the Judas gate. As a member of Charlie Squad escorted Brenda Sterling out of the warehouse, Stroller stepped forward and introduced himself and his two companions.
Kara was hugging her brother and feeling truly thrilled at the outcome. She raised her head from his shoulder and looked around the command vehicle. Tony Reynolds was shaking hands with Moya Little, Matt Sexton was shaking hands with Tien, Craig Harrison was making his way down the line of console operators, congratulating each in turn. The atmosphere was relaxed and exuberant. But as Kara turned her gaze she suddenly felt flat. She stepped back from her brother and gave him a kiss on the cheek, “Thanks Bro. It was great working with you.”
“You too. Hey where ar-” but he stopped from asking her the question as he followed her movement and saw Zoe sitting at the table. The dancer’s poise was unbowed but tears were running freely down her face. David moved over to where Tien and Matt were.
Kara sat, reached her hand onto Zoe’s arm and received a sad, forced smile in reply.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Kara asked quietly.
Zoe shook her head.
“I’m truly sorry Zoe.”
A small sniff and a smaller nod were all Zoe could manage.
“Would you like to go to Michael?”
Zoe shut her eyes, “Oh God Kara. What am I going to tell him?”
“Tell him your parent’s are alive and well,” Kara said trying to make her voice sound lighter than she felt.
“And then tell him they’re cheats and forgers? Tell him that they’ve been responsible for making the lives of hundreds of girls a tortured misery? That they’ve been lying to both of us since we were little kids?” Her voice was brittle, but in it was the beginning of the edge that Kara had noticed when she first met her. A strength, that once the tears stopped, would reassert itself, take control. Zoe brushed the tears away with her fingers. “How long do you think they’ll get?”
“I’m not sure. DCI Reynolds is probably the best person to ask but they’ll want your parents to testify, so there’s likely a deal to cut. I’m sure it’s your Uncle Illy they’d rather get.”
“I think we’ll drop the Uncle. We may just call him Illy the Bastard from now on,” Zoe said it quite politely and gave a little half-smile.
Kara reciprocated.
“To be honest, I don’t think my parents deserve a deal,” Zoe said.
Kara looked at her and had an intuition that it was unlikely Zoe’s attitude would mellow over time.
“When shall Michael and I come round to settle your fee?”
“Take your time, there’s no rush,” Kara said and thought that the whole topic of money would make an interesting conversation when the time came. She became aware that the background celebratory noises in the vehicle had quietened.
She turned to see Craig Harrison bending over the console mic, “Foxtrot One, say again.”
“Trojan Control from Foxtrot One, we have eyes on targets. Confirm Smirnoff and Penny are at the Fulham residence. Permission to intercept?”
“Roger that Foxtrot One. Proceed when ready.”
The tension returned to the command vehicle but it was relatively short lived. A full squad of heavily armed SCO19 operators was an overwhelming force for the two unprepared occupants of the Range Rover. Less than a minute had passed before the call came in.
“Trojan Control, this is Foxtrot. Targets secured. Nil force.”
Harrison, understanding the latest arrest had proceeded with no resor
t to firearms, authorised the last Police action of the operation.
“Echo Team Lead, from Trojan Control. Proceed when ready.”
Two and a half miles directly south east of the command vehicle the final squad of SCO19 operators accelerated their cars down Avey Lane and swung hard into Illy’s driveway. Dinger had a ringside seat for an almost textbook house assault. As Yanina, Mrs Beeton and Cinders were being led away, a Police Sergeant called him by name and Dinger stood up and stretched for the first time in days.
Kara texted Eugene that all was complete and he could keep his word.
It took Eugene another fifteen minutes to get back to his car and drive into Waltham Cross. He parked between the transit van and the light blue Mondeo. Swinging the rear doors of the van open he stood back while Anatoly stepped down.
“Thank you,” the Russian said as he took the offered car key.
“One other thing,” Eugene said. “We’re the good guys. Emilia’s not dead. She’s not even harmed but she and all the rest of Illy’s team are under arrest.”
Anatoly stared at him and Eugene wondered if the big man was contemplating hitting out in payment for the cruel subterfuge, but instead the Russian merely laughed.
“Ha, that is good. You did it well. Is Illy under arrest too?”
“Yes.”
“Shame you didn’t kill him for real. He is a bad man.”
Eugene considered that as he watched Anatoly drive away.
As Kara checked the text from Eugene confirming all was complete, Tony Reynolds came over to her.
“I need you to come up to Huntingdon with me now.”
“Now? Will tomorrow morning not do?”
“Not really. We can do this politely or I can have my DS there,” he indicated Moya Little who was currently talking to David, “place you under arrest. Which do you prefer?”
