by Conrad Jones
“Hey, did you hear about the nonce they brought in?” The man lowered his voice so that the other prisoners couldn’t hear what he was about to say. “One of the screws told me that the bloke that kidnapped the twins from the Lake District, you know the ones that have been all over the telly, well, he told me he was in the nick with us.”
“Really?” Alfie tried to sound surprised. It was obvious that he was going to be tarred with the same brush as Jack Howarth. The cons and screws would think that he was a nonce, a pervert, a ‘child taker’.
“Straight up, that’s what he told me. I’d like five minutes alone with the bastard, wouldn’t you?”
“Too right, I would,” Alfie tried to sound convincing. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Images of being locked up in jail, surrounded by hundreds of convicts that wanted to kill him, and being protected by prison officers that wanted to kill him too floated past. There would be nowhere to hide once he reached prison.
The bus turned a corner and Alfie could see a cricket ground through the window. The road was unlit and lined with trees on both sides. He was familiar with the tree-lined dual carriageway, as he’d driven along it many times before. It was the road to Risley, no doubt about it. There was a remand centre there, which would be ideally situated to accept a busload of refugee prisoners. The bus slowed as it approached a roundabout, and then the driver had to slam on the brakes as a small saloon car pulled out of the junction. The brakes squealed and the bus fishtailed and threatened to turn over. Alfie was flung forward and cracked his head against the Perspex. There was a chorus of profanity hurled from the prisoners in their tiny cells as they were tossed about like ice cubes in a cocktail shaker. Alfie touched his face and felt a lump rising on his forehead immediately.
“For fuck’s sake, can today get any worse!” He moaned as he glanced out of the window again. His mouth opened in shock as he saw a huge yellow JCB digger hurtling out of the trees. It was headed towards the stationary prison bus at full pelt. Alfie closed his eyes and waited for the impact.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Major was standing in the kitchen at his daughter’s house. It was the only room where he could think clearly. The house seemed cavernous and empty without the twins in it; their two tiny forms had left a huge void behind them which simply couldn’t be filled. He could hear their laughter echoing around his mind, and everywhere he looked there was something which reminded him that his grandchildren were missing and in terrible danger. The bedrooms upstairs smelled of the twins, stuffed toys lurked in every corner, discarded dolls and cars acting as both memories and trip hazards. Hayley wouldn’t allow anyone to pick them up: she wanted everything left as it was the day they had left for the Lake District. The strain was taking its toll on her, and the pressure on the marriage had been too much for her to cope with. The front of the house was still besieged by paparazzi, and so the curtains were closed against the prying camera lenses. The kitchen was the only safe haven.
Hayley appeared in the doorway, and the Major could tell that his beautiful daughter, the apple of his eye, his sunshine and his rain, was deteriorating fast before his eyes. Once a keen hockey player and athlete with attractive muscular curves, she now looked more like an anorexic teenager. He’d managed to get her to eat some fruit and hot soup, but the trauma was sapping the life from her. Her face was gaunt, her cheeks were hollowed and dark circles were entrenched beneath her eyes. Prior to the abduction, Hayley was always smiling but now the corners of her mouth seemed to be pointing down permanently. She was carrying a bundle of dirty laundry, and she tried to smile as she entered the kitchen, but she couldn’t hide the pain that was in her eyes.
“Why don’t you have a rest, Hayley? You look exhausted.” The Major stepped forward and took the washing from her.
“I’m fine, Dad, please don’t fuss,” Hayley frowned, and opened the washing machine door. There was a load already in which was ready to be dried and she began pulling at it frantically. “I’m better off if I keep myself busy.”
“Have you heard from Karl?” The Major made a clumsy attempt at changing the subject.
“Yes, he called this morning.” She stuffed the clean load of washing into the tumble dryer as she spoke.
“Where is he staying?”
“At his brother’s house in Chester.” She slammed the dryer door closed with much more force than was required.
“What, with that woman? Isn’t that a little bizarre, bearing in mind the reason why you told him to leave?”
“What, more bizarre than screwing your brother’s wife, you mean?” She slammed the detergent drawer closed angrily.
“You know what I mean, Hayley.” The Major was embarrassed by his daughter’s turn of phrase, but he couldn’t really blame her for being angry. Her children had been kidnapped by a seasoned paedophile, and her husband had left the family home and moved in with the woman he was accused of having an affair with. “What on earth is going through the man’s mind?”
“You tell me.”
“What has Steve had to say about it?”
“His brother thinks that the whole thing is a figment of my imagination, and that I’m cracking up,” she laughed bitterly.
“Is there a chance that you’re mistaken?” The Major asked calmly.
“Not you as well. The bastard is fucking his brother’s wife!” Hayley shouted.
“I believe you, but I don’t need to hear that language from my daughter,” he scolded her gently.
“I’m sorry, Dad, but I’m finding it hard to cope.” She stopped and tears flooded down her cheeks. The Major put the washing onto the kitchen top and held her tightly. “I want my babies back, Dad.”
“The police know where they are now, it’s only a matter of time until they find the vehicle that they’re in,” he spoke softly in her ear as he rocked her gently. His mobile phone buzzed in his pocket, and Hayley wiped her eyes and stood back from him.
“Answer it, Dad, it could be news,” she sniffled.
“Major Timms,” he answered the call. The number on the screen was withheld, which meant that it could be any of his team, or someone using the task force network.
“Can you talk?”
“Yes,” the Major recognised the brash tone as the Minister of Defence. He was the only member of the cabinet that knew roughly what the task force was doing at any particular point in time, and then he was only told the bare minimum. As long as the objectives were achieved and enemies of the state were neutralised then the politicians wanted to be spared the details. He shook his head at Hayley to let her know that the call wasn’t related to any progress in the investigation.
“One of your operatives is ruffling feathers, Major,” the Minister said abruptly.
“I see, can you be a little more precise?”
“The Chief Constable of Cheshire police is raising merry hell that one of our counter-terrorist personnel is interfering in his investigation into the kidnapping of the Kelly twins.”
“Ah, I see, Minister.”
“Why would one of your agents be interested in that case, Major?”
“It would appear that the people responsible for the kidnap are also involved in the movement of sophisticated weaponry and munitions to some of our more extremist friends,” the Major twisted the truth slightly.
“Really?”
“Yes, Minister, a Moroccan outfit working out of Marrakesh.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“We don’t want to interfere with the safe return of the children, Minister, but we want to follow up on the Moroccans’ business interests, and stop them operating within our shores.”
“Good show, Major, carry on,” the Minister ended the call as abruptly as he’d begun. The kitchen was long and fitted with upper and lower dark oak units. The Major walked to the coffee cupboard and opened the door, switching on the kettle with his spare hand.
“What was that about?” Hayley asked.
“John is making waves
and irritating people,” the Major smiled as he removed a jar of Nescafé.
“I bet that they don’t complain to his face, do they?” She tried a smile again.
“Not very often,” the Major smiled too. He grabbed two cups and held them up. “You want one?”
“Does he know where the twins are?” She folded her arms across her chest, holding herself for reassurance. She looked like she had as a young girl when her tortoise had died. The Major had told her that it had gone back to the jungle to visit its family, but she’d seen through the lie. Naturally, the Major wanted to protect his daughter from the pain, as any father would.
“No, Hayley, but I think that we can be assured that he’s trying his hardest to find out.” He looked at his mobile again thoughtfully. He opened the back door and stepped out into the night. “I’m going to call him, I’ll be two minutes.” The Major stabbed the speed dial number that would link him to John Tankersley, but the line was completely dead.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Prison Bus
Grace indicated and turned at the traffic lights, keeping a safe distance behind the Honda that they’d been following from the railway station. They’d waited patiently as the fire engines arrived and began to spray thousands of gallons of water into the burning building, creating towers of boiling steam which spiralled upward into the night sky. Eventually a white prison bus was allowed to leave the police compound, and the suspect motorcyclist had followed its progress.
The red, amber and green of the traffic lights were reflected in the rainwater that was pooling on the roads. The motorcycle was still tailing the white prison van, which was loaded with the prisoners from the police cells, and rainwater sprayed from the bike’s fat back tyre as it accelerated away. Tank pointed to a brown signpost that was fixed below the main road signs.
“The signpost said that Risley Remand Centre is four miles away. They must be taking the prisoners from the cells there,” Tank said.
“That would make sense,” Grace nodded.
“If they’re going to try to spring Alfie Lesner, then they need to do it soon,” Tank commented.
The prison bus had turned down a tree-lined expressway, and was approaching a small roundabout. The stretch of road was wide but unlit, and the trees offered a myriad of hiding places for a potential hijack. Suddenly the motorcyclist dropped the bike down a gear and twisted open the throttle, accelerating the machine at incredible speed, and overtaking the white bus. He guided the two-wheeled machine around the island and took off at speed down the right hand exit.
“The tail has disappeared,” Grace said.
“It could be show time,” Tank commented as he watched the motorbike roar off into the distance.
“This is the perfect place for an ambush.” Grace nodded and she slowed down and pulled the vehicle into the verge. They were five hundred yards behind the prison van as it reached the traffic island.
A set of headlights appeared from the first junction, and a small saloon car pulled out into the road directly in front of the van, blocking the exits. The brake lights illuminated as the prison bus slammed on the anchors, trying desperately not to plough into the vehicle on the roundabout. Grace switched the lights off and brought the Shogun to a standstill. Tank scanned the area with night sights, trying to second-guess what was going to happen next.
“There’s movement in the trees to the left,” he said, passing the sights to Grace.
“It’s a digger, and it’s headed straight for the prison van.” She pulled her Glock nine millimetre from its holster, and readied the vehicle for action.
“Wait a minute, Grace.” Tank put his hand on her arm and squeezed it gently. She looked surprised, as it was not like Tank to miss the opportunity for a fight.
“Someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble to spring Alfie Lesner. I vote we wait and see who it is, and where they’re going to take him. They could lead us straight to the twins.”
Grace was uneasy with allowing the situation to progress unchecked but she could see the sense in what he was saying. The twins were the priority, and so she unwillingly slid the pistol back into its holster and watched events unfold. A huge yellow JCB trundled out of the trees onto the road and its giant back wheels spun in the mud as it dropped onto the tarmac. The gigantic metal bucket, which was attached to the front of the digging machine, began to rise as it neared the side of the prison van, and it smashed into the passenger side in an earth-shattering broadside. The metal teeth that lined the edge of the bucket sliced through the driver’s cab and the rear container simultaneously. The force of the impact rocked the prison bus onto two wheels. It shook violently and almost tipped over completely. There was a second or two of silence before the digger reversed slightly, readying itself to ram the prison van a second time. The sound of men screaming drifted to them on the night air, as the prisoners inside the bus began to panic. They were pinned inside their Perspex prisons, with nowhere to run.
“Are we just going sit and watch this?” Grace asked. She was itching to stop the attack.
“We need to follow Alfie Lesner to the Moroccans, as long as no one gets hurt, then we shouldn’t get involved,” Tank said.
“What about the prisoners in that bus?”
“They’re not our priority, Grace, what’s the matter with you?”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, and he carried on watching through the night sights. Two men were getting out of the saloon car that they had used as a roadblock, and they started running to the back of the prison van. A huge gaping rent appeared in the side of the prison container as the JCB struck again, and the vehicle tilted dangerously, threatening to tip over. The driver of the prison bus opened the door and jumped out of the stricken vehicle, trying to avoid the deadly metal teeth that were piercing the cab. His face was bloodied, cut by shards of flying glass. He was not a real police officer. He was a community police volunteer, employed by the police department to drive vehicles to and from mechanical services, and body repair shops. With most of the force deployed to Delamere Forest in search of the twins, he’d offered to drive the prison bus to the nearby remand centre. He staggered as he ran away from the scene as fast as his legs would carry him, but he couldn’t outrun a bullet. A volley of automatic gunfire rang out and the part-time police officer dropped onto the road, mortally wounded. Two fat nine-millimetre slugs had punctured his back, splintering his ribs and ripping lung tissue to shreds. He managed to get up onto all fours, crawl a short distance, desperate to escape with his life, but a second volley stopped him in his tracks, and his body collapsed twitching in the gutter. Blood pooled around him and began to wash away with the rainwater down a storm drain.
“Now we have to get involved,” Tank shook his head at the cruel shooting. The part-time police officer was unarmed and running away from the scene. He was no threat to the hijackers, and his death was unnecessary. Tank felt a tinge of guilt for reacting too late, and he could tell from the look in Grace’s eyes that she thought so too.
Grace flicked on the lights and gunned the engine, and the vehicle lurched forward. Tank lowered the window and leaned out, aiming his nine millimetre as they hurtled towards the stricken van. Raindrops crashed into his face, feeling more like small pebbles than water droplets because of the speed. The men from the saloon were firing their weapons at the rear door lock, and jagged holes appeared in the white metal as the bullets ripped through the prison bus. It appeared to Grace that they were not too concerned who was on the other side of the metal as the bullets drilled through it. They were so taken with their own task that they didn’t see the task force vehicle approaching until it was too late. One of the men grabbed at the rear door and wrenched it open while the second man tried to scramble inside. Tank closed one eye and lined up the sights. He squeezed the trigger twice and the Glock kicked in his hand. The first bullet ricocheted off the prison bus, and sparks flew through the air. The shot alerted the two bandits to the presence of the speeding vehicle, and
they turned towards it a split second too late. Tank’s second shot smashed into the chest of one man, lifting him from his feet and slamming him into the prison bus. He slid down as his legs buckled, leaving a red smear on the white metal. His colleague aimed his nine-millimetre Uzi sub machinegun at the Mitsubishi. It was the weapon, which was used to slay the volunteer police officer. Tank squeezed the trigger again and the bullet smashed into the bandit’s right eye. The back of his head exploded like a ripe melon, spraying the bus with grey matter and bloody mucus.
“The prisoners are escaping,” Grace shouted as she approached the traffic island. They could see arms and legs clawing at the jagged split in the bus, ripping the hole wider and wider so that they could scramble out of it.
“Get me around the other side of the van,” Tank shouted back to her. The heavens opened and rain hammered down against the windscreen. The road was wet and shone in the headlights as they speeded past the prison van. Grace had to swerve violently to avoid the saloon car, which was still blocking the road. A prisoner dropped from the shattered bus onto the road, directly in front of the speeding Mitsubishi. Grace stamped on the brake. The tyres squealed and the rear end slid across the wet road as the black Shogun went into a spin. Grace twisted the steering wheel full lock to try to stop the skid, but the momentum was too great. The Mitsubishi slammed into the kerbstone with a sickening bump, and Tank was thrown against the dashboard. His head cracked off the plastic and his Glock was thrown into the foot well.
“Are you okay?” Grace glanced at him. There was a deafening roar and she twisted around to see where it was coming from. The huge yellow JCB had disengaged from the attack on the prison van, and it was reversing across the traffic island at speed.
“Move it!” Tank shouted, as he realised what the JCB driver had in mind. The yellow digger stopped and there was an audible crunch as the driver selected the forward gear. “Now, Grace.”
