Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

‘You sure they’re not cops?’

  Mark laughed. ‘Do they look like bloody cops? One’s pissed himself. They’re just cleaners. The Professor screwed up.’

  ‘Keep them covered,’ said Mickey, putting away his gun. ‘If they move, shoot them in the legs.’

  Shepherd knew Mickey was bluffing. The cleaners were no threat – they had no weapons and wouldn’t be able to identify them because they were all wearing masks.

  Wilson had already cut the chains on four of the trolleys and pulled the doors open. He was reaching into one and pulling out plastic-wrapped parcels of twenty-pound notes, which he was handing to Yates. ‘Come on,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve got four and a half minutes to go.’

  Shepherd put his gun in its sling, went to one of the opened trolleys and grabbed at packages of money. Each was the size of a briefcase. He took half a dozen and sprinted for the hole. Yates was already ahead of him. They ran to Mark’s Land Rover, stacked the packages in the boot area and raced back to the hole. They passed Mickey who had eight packs in his arms. Wilson appeared at the hole with an armful. He gave it to Shepherd, who ran back to the vehicles. His arms were hurting and his chest was burning. He was used to running in boots with a rucksack full of bricks, but the weight in his arms was straining a whole new set of muscles. Sweat was pouring down his face under the ski mask, but he ignored the discomfort. He passed Mickey again and the two men grunted at each other.

  Shepherd dropped the packages on top of the previous batch, then sprinted back to the hole. Black and Wilson ran out carrying money and Shepherd ducked through the wall as Mickey was coming out. Mark was still covering the two cleaners with his gun.

  As Shepherd ran to one of the trolleys he looked up to see a battery of CCTV cameras covering the whole money-storage area. ‘The cleaners can’t do anything, mate!’ he shouted to Mark. ‘And they already know we’re in. You might as well leave them and help us with the cash.’ He grabbed at packages containing ten pound notes.

  Mark looked over his shoulder, then up at the CCTV cameras. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said. He ran to one of the trolleys, put his shotgun in its sling and picked up some packages. The two cleaners stayed where they were, faces down, too terrified to move.

  Shepherd clutched seven packages to his chest and ran to the hole. Yates was about to come through but he stepped to the side to allow Shepherd through first. He clapped Shepherd on the back as he went by. ‘Well done, mate.’

  ‘Three minutes to go!’ shouted Mickey, as he passed Shepherd.

  Shepherd ran to Mickey’s car and put the money on top of the unfired RPG. His lungs were burning and his clothes were soaked with sweat beneath the boiler-suit.

  Mark appeared at the hole with a bundle and ran towards the vehicles, while Black and Wilson followed Shepherd back into the storage area. One of the cleaners was getting up. Wilson swung up his gun and screamed at the man to stay down.

  Shepherd grabbed more packages and ran for the hole, closely followed by Black.

  They passed Mickey who was tearing back to the building, panting. ‘Bloody hell, we’re earning our money today,’ he gasped.

  The back of Mickey’s Land Rover was packed with cash and he had pulled the tarpaulin over it. Shepherd took his load to the Jeep and stacked it in the back. As he jogged across the field, Mickey yelled they had two minutes to go. Time for two more trips, so long as they kept up the pace.

  Shepherd collected another pile of packages, then raced neck and neck with Black to the Jeep. They threw in the money and dashed back to the depot. Mark thrust five packages of cash into Shepherd’s hands, all fifty-pound notes. Shepherd ran back to the Jeep, threw his burden into the back and stepped aside for Black to do the same. He pulled the tarpaulin over the money as Black climbed into the driving seat, than ran to Mickey’s Land Rover. Mickey was loading cash into the rear of Mark’s. ‘Everyone out?’ Mickey shouted at Shepherd. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Time’s up.’

  Shepherd did a quick headcount. Black and Yates were in the Jeep, Mark was running towards Mickey with an armful of money, Wilson just behind him. ‘All clear,’ shouted Shepherd.

  Mickey and Shepherd ran to their vehicle and climbed in. Mickey started the engine a fraction of a second after Mark, and the two Land Rovers pulled tight turns and raced back towards the ditch. The Jeep followed, blue smoke belching from its exhaust. As they reached the middle of the field the horses centered away, heads tossing, tails down.

  Mickey pulled off his ski mask and grinned. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Perfect.’ He beat on the steering-wheel with his gloved hands.

  Shepherd took off his ski mask and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his boiler-suit. He felt his mobile phone in his pocket and tried to quell the guilt in the pit of his stomach.

  Chaudhry was driving the removal van and Kundi was in the passenger seat. A hundred yards ahead Bradshaw was in the Ford Mondeo, and fifty yards behind Talwar and al-Sayed were in the Volvo. The three vehicles were driving in the inside lane at just under the speed limit. Chaudhry was used to driving delivery vans but this one was far bigger than anything he’d had before. It was nothing more than a large rectangular box on wheels but it was difficult to turn, requiring constant touches on the wheel to keep it in a straight line when there was even the merest hint of a cross-wind.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Kundi.

  ‘I’m fine, brother,’ said Chaudhry.

  ‘Scared?’

  Chaudhry flashed him a tight smile. ‘Nervous,’ he said, ‘but not scared. What we are doing we do for Allah, so He will protect us.’

  Ahead, in the sky, an airliner was descending towards Heathrow.

  Mickey slowed the Land Rover to just over thirty miles an hour and squinted at the GPS. ‘Give Mark a call and tell him to catch up. We’re almost there,’ said Mickey.

  Shepherd fished out his mobile, tapped in Mark’s number and relayed the message. Two minutes later the Land Rover appeared behind them, with the Jeep a hundred yards or so back.

  Mickey indicated left and the three vehicles turned into the industrial estate. ‘That’s the one,’ said Mickey, pointing at a unit with a sign on it saying, ‘Advanced Electrical Suppliers’. Parked outside was a Series Seven BMW and a white Transit van in which two young Asian men were sitting. ‘And there’s Pinky’s motor.’

  ‘Pinky?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Pinky Patel, our laundryman.’

  Shepherd filed the name. It was the first time Mickey had identified the man who would be cleaning their money and putting it into the banking system.

  Mickey brought the Land Rover to a halt. ‘Bang on the door, mate, let him know we’re here.’

  Shepherd climbed out and jogged to the main entrance. There was an intercom and he pressed the button. After a few seconds the electric door rattled open. Mickey drove in, followed by Mark. As Shepherd followed, yates and Black arrived in their Jeep. The gate closed behind them.

  Pinky Patel was a big man in a grey suit that flapped around his legs as he walked. His head was almost perfectly round and his mahogany-brown skin was baby-smooth, but his hair was thinning and he had a comb-over, held in place with lashings of hair gel. His moustache, though, was luxuriant. He grinned as Mickey climbed out of his vehicle and walked over to him with his arms outstretched. ‘Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,’ he said. ‘My favourite customer.’

  ‘Pinky, you sweet-talking sod,’ said Mickey, ‘I bet you say that to all the blaggers.’

  The two men hugged. ‘Everything went well, I assume,’ said Pinky.

  ‘As always,’ said Mickey. He released Pinky and introduced Shepherd. ‘This is Ricky, our new recruit.’

  Pinky shook hands with him. He had a large opal ring on his little finger, which bit into Shepherd’s hand. ‘You have joined a very successful operation, Ricky,’ he said.

  ‘Just take good care of my share and I’ll be happy,’ Shepherd replied.

  Mickey grinned at Pinky. ‘He’s a bit suspicious,’ he
said.

  ‘It’s a lot of money,’ Shepherd said to Pinky, ‘and I don’t know you.’

  Pinky grinned good-naturedly. ‘I would not risk betraying your trust or Mickey’s,’ he said. He gestured at his enormous waistline. ‘I am a big target, if ever anyone should decide to shoot me.’

  Mark slapped the Indian on the back. ‘We’d never shoot you, Pinky,’ he said. ‘Not with a gun, anyway. A harpoon’s the only thing that’d bring you down.’

  Pinky roared with laughter.

  Yates and Black were unloading the money from the back of their Jeep and piling it on the table. ‘These are all twenties,’ said Yates. ‘Each pack is a hundred grand.’ He dropped ten of the plastic-wrapped packages on the table. A million pounds. Black put a similar pile next to it.

  ‘We’ve got tens and fives,’ said Mark. ‘Plus a few packs of fifties.’

  Wilson held up a plastic pack of fifty-pound notes. ‘Got to love the fifties,’ he said.

  ‘Sooner we join the euro, the better,’ said Mark. ‘That five-hundred-euro note has got to be a robber’s dream. You’ll be able to shove enough in your back pocket to buy a Ferrari.’

  Patel went to the table to inspect the money. ‘Mickey, what happens to the stuff we leave behind?’ asked Shepherd. ‘The stuff in the warehouse we stayed in last night, the Land Rovers, the gear we were wearing?’

  ‘All part of the Professor’s package,’ said Mickey. ‘As soon as we’re out of the country, he sends in a clean-up crew.’ He took a cigar out of his case and lit it. ‘They don’t know us. All they know is that they’re cleaning up. Even if they talk, they know nothing.’

  Shepherd’s phone vibrated. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was the Major. Shepherd walked away and pressed the green button to take the call. ‘Both phones are on, and they’re close to Heathrow,’ said the Major. ‘They’re to the east of the airfield, which is where landing traffic approaches from. Near Boston Manor, close to the M4.’

  ‘They’re active,’ said Shepherd, flatly.

  ‘I’ve asked for a chopper from 27 Squadron at RAF Odiham and they’re ten minutes from the Knightsbridge barracks,’ said the Major. ‘As soon as it gets here I’ll send a troop out.’

  ‘Have you told the locals?’

  ‘I don’t want to muddy the waters,’ said the Major. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Not far from Heathrow,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Can you get there?’

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and walked over to the Land Rover he’d been riding in. He reached under the passenger seat and pulled out his sawn-off shotgun.

  Mickey and Mark were talking to Patel and didn’t look around as Shepherd walked up. He cocked the shotgun and pointed it at Mickey’s head. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘Change of plan.’

  Bradshaw adjusted the binoculars to focus on the third plane in the queue to land. It had the livery of BMI and it was a small airliner, probably a commuter plane coming in from Manchester or Glasgow. Bradshaw spoke into his mobile. ‘No targets on approach yet,’ he said. He knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted a British Airways plane and he wanted it to be a Boeing 747. That would be worth waiting for. From where he was sitting he could see the removals van parked in the lay-by, underneath the flight path. He could see al-Sayed in the passenger seat, staring fixedly ahead. The vehicle didn’t look out of place. The hole in the roof couldn’t be seen from the road and there were no houses nearby overlooking it. Anyone driving past would assume that the men inside were taking a break. Only at the last moment would the tailgate come down and the missile be fired.

  Mickey stared in disbelief at the shotgun in Shepherd’s hands. ‘Don’t piss around, Ricky. Didn’t your mum never tell you not to point guns at people?’

  ‘I need the keys to the Land Rover, Mickey,’ said Shepherd, keeping the shotgun levelled at Mickey’s face.

  Mickey’s frown deepened. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Give me the keys!’ bellowed Shepherd.

  Pinky Patel backed away, his hands in front of his face, muttering to himself. Yates and Black looked over from the table where they had been counting the money. ‘What’s going on, Mickey?’ shouted Yates.

  ‘I don’t have the time for this,’ said Shepherd. ‘Give me the keys.’

  He heard the click of a gun being cocked behind him. ‘Put down the gun, Ricky,’ said Mark.

  Shepherd moved quickly, stepping to the side. Mark was about twenty feet away, standing next to the Jeep. ‘Stay where you are, Mark,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just let me get out of here and no one gets hurt.’

  ‘Put down your gun or I’ll shoot you,’ said Mark.

  ‘Yeah – well, from where you’re standing you’ll hurt me, but I’m so close to your brother that there’ll be nothing left of his head. So you’re the one who’s going to have to drop his gun.’

  ‘Ricky, what the hell’s going on?’ said Mickey. ‘Are you ripping us off?’ He sounded more irritated than afraid.

  ‘I need the Land Rover, that’s all.’

  Mickey reached slowly into his pocket and took out the ignition keys. He held them out. When Shepherd tried to take them, he snatched them away and held them tight in his fist. ‘You’re not going to shoot me, Ricky. It’s not in your nature.’

  Shepherd pointed the shotgun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. Bits of tile crashed to the floor and a fluorescent light fitting shattered. Glass and metal tinkled around them. Shepherd pumped the gun to reload and pointed it at Mickey again. ‘Give me the keys,’ he said. He turned to Mark. ‘You take one step closer to me and I’ll do your legs.’

  ‘Why do you want the Land Rover?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Give me the keys!’ shouted Shepherd. He jammed the barrel of the shotgun under Mickey’s chin.

  Mickey smiled tightly and tossed the keys to his brother. Mark caught them with his left hand, keeping the shotgun steady with the right.

  Shepherd kept the shotgun barrel pressed against Mickey’s throat. He looked at Mark. ‘Give me the keys or I’ll pull the trigger, I swear.’

  ‘He won’t, Mark,’ said Mickey. ‘He’s not going to do a damn thing.’

  Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  Yates walked up to Mark and stood behind him. ‘Come on, Ricky, relax. Just tell us what’s wrong.’

  ‘I want the Land Rover. Now, give me the keys!’ Mark grinned and put them in his pocket. Shepherd’s heart was pounding, but he knew that screaming at the men wasn’t going to do any good. They were armed robbers, they were used to loaded weapons and violence and the only way he could prove he was serious was by pulling the trigger.

  ‘There’s five of us here, mate, six if you include Pinky,’ said Black.

  The Indian threw up his hands. ‘Don’t involve me in this!’ he protested. ‘This is nothing to do with me.’ He backed away and crouched behind the Jeep.

  ‘Will you all calm down?’ said Mickey. ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’

  ‘Give me the keys!’ Shepherd hissed at Mark.

  ‘There’s five of us, and how many shells in the shotgun?’ said Yates.

  ‘You can’t shoot us all, mate,’ said Wilson, lining up next to Yates. He was also holding a shotgun levelled at Shepherd’s chest.

  ‘He’s not going to shoot anybody,’ said Mickey, quietly. ‘If he was going to shoot me he’d already have done it. He’s talking tough but he knows he can’t do it.’ He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Ain’t that right, mate?’

  ‘Mickey …’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Prove me wrong,’ said Mickey. ‘Pull the trigger, because if you don’t Mark’s going to walk over, take that gun off you and shove it up your arse.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Mickey,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Take the gun off him, Mark,’ said Mickey, as he stared intently at Shepherd. Mark walked slowly towards him, keeping his gun trained on Shepherd’s face. Shepherd in turn kept his shotgun pressed to Mickey’s thro
at. Mickey continued to grin as Mark got closer. ‘You can’t do it, can you?’ said Mickey.

  Shepherd gritted his teeth. Mickey was right. No matter what the provocation, no matter how high the stakes, he couldn’t shoot an unarmed man.

  ‘It’s over, mate,’ said Mickey. Mark placed the barrel of his shotgun against the side of Shepherd’s head. His finger whitened as it tightened on the trigger. ‘Put your gun down,’ said Mickey. ‘Because my brother isn’t as soft as you. You can trust me on that.’

  Shepherd cursed and took the shotgun away from Mickey’s throat.

  ‘You slag!’ shouted Mark, and he slammed the butt of his shotgun against Shepherd’s jaw.

  Bradshaw focused on the third plane in the landing sequence. It was a Boeing 747 but sporting the livery of one of the American airlines. As much as he hated the Americans, he wanted to bring down a British jet. He wanted to hurt his country. There would be time enough later to turn his hatred on American targets. Two miles behind the 747 a fourth plane was just a small black dot against the blue of the sky. And behind that, not yet visible even through his binoculars, was a fifth, and a sixth. Heathrow was one of the busiest airports in the world. It was only a matter of time before the perfect target came into view.

  Mark kicked away Shepherd’s shotgun and it spun as it clattered across the concrete. ‘You slag, pull a gun on my brother, would you?’ he said, aiming his gun at Shepherd’s legs.

  Shepherd rolled onto his back and sat up. The blow had stunned him but nothing was broken. He stared up at Mark. ‘Like Mickey said, I couldn’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘Yeah, and like he said, I bloody well can.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Mickey, taking control. ‘Pinky, get the bloody hell up off the ground, will you?’

  The Indian appeared from behind the Jeep, wiping dust from the knees of his suit.

  ‘Chopper, Davie, have a quick look outside,’ said Mickey. ‘Anything untoward and we might have to go out guns blazing.’

  Yates and Black jogged to the entrance and disappeared outside.

  ‘I’m going to blow his bloody legs off,’ said Mark. ‘Trying to steal from us, the thieving slag.’