Nine Lives

by Tom Barber

  ‘His name is Dominick Farha. We don’t have much on his background. Our files suggest that he’s related to the leader of some big drug cartel in the Middle East. But that’s irrelevant right now. What’s important is that he’s the one who commands the cell. He’ll be deciding the targets. We need to find this guy first; he takes priority.’

  There was a pause. Simmons stared straight into the camera.

  ‘Director Cobb, I spoke with the Prime Minister before we began this call. We want you and your team to track down Number Nine. Farha. The leader. Take him in, or take him out, it doesn’t matter. We just need you to find that man as soon as possible.’

  Cobb glanced at the Prime Minister for his approval. ‘Sir?’

  On the screen, the PM nodded. ‘You have my complete backing, Director. Use whatever force you deem necessary. That’s authorised. But for God’s sake, do it before it’s too late.’

  Cobb nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  The next moment, the screen went black.

  The call had been ended.

  Which meant it was time to go to work.

  At that moment four thousand miles away, another man was having the worst day of his life.

  Or, more accurately, the last day.

  He’d just woken up in a strange place. He opened his eyes, blinking. Confused.

  Where the hell am I?

  He was lying on the floor, staring up at a white ceiling. Through a roof-light, he could see clouds in the clear blue sky above him. I must have nodded off, he thought. There was a bizarre feeling coming from underneath him. The ground felt as if it was moving, rocking side to side, almost like a baby’s crib; it was making him feel nauseous. Wiping sleep from his eyes, the man went to stand up.

  He couldn’t.

  He looked down. His feet had been looped through the holes of a concrete cinder block. The gaps in the rectangle had been filled with cement, packed tight against his ankles and lower calves. He tried to wiggle his toes, but they were jammed solid. The cement had been pressed around his feet, locking seventy pounds of unmovable weight to the end of his legs. What the hell? He reached over to try and loosen his feet. As he did, he suddenly realised he was being watched, and turned.

  A fat man in a beige suit was standing one side of him, grinning from ear to ear. Short and obese, he had a sun-burnt bald head and small dark eyes like a shark. Behind him were two other men. They were enormous, each of them six-foot-five and over two hundred and fifty pounds easily. The man on the floor looked over at them, confused.

  Then he remembered where he’d been before he fell asleep.

  And who these men were.

  And fear washed over him, drenching his body.

  ‘Having a nightmare?’ asked the fat man, grinning. The smile pushed the fat on his face around the collar of his shirt so it bunched and spilled over the starched fabric, nowhere else to go. He suddenly turned to the two big men and nodded. They moved forward. Grabbing the man lying on the floor under each armpit, they hauled him to his feet and in the same motion, lifted him in the air effortlessly. It was a brutal display of strength. They walked through a door, carrying the man with the concrete on his ankles. Looking around, he suddenly realised what the rocking was.

  They were on a yacht. Around them, there was nothing but clear blue water as far as the eye could see. No other boats or ships, no sign of a coastline. High above, the Middle Eastern sun pounded the water below, giving off a blinding glare as it caught the ripples from the surface of the sea. Either side of him, the two giants didn’t stop. The man between them saw that they were carrying him to the edge of the white deck.

  Towards the water.

  Suddenly realising what was coming, the man started thrashing desperately, trying to force his way free from the vice-like grip. It was hopeless. The cement block had dried solid, plus he had over five hundred pounds of muscle gripping him tight. He saw the crystal clear water ahead of him, as far as the eye could see. Clear, deep and still. He started pleading, begging, screaming. Behind him, he could hear the fat man laughing gleefully.

  ‘So long asshole,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget to hold your breath.’

  The man begged, one last desperate plea for mercy, like a child.

  And the two enforcers threw him into the sea.

  The moment he hit the water, the weight around his feet pulled the man down like a bungee cord in recoil. He entered the water with a splash and suddenly vanished under the surface, mid-scream.

  And then it was silent. Peaceful. The only sounds in the air were the water lapping against the side of the yacht, and the call of a seagull somewhere in the distance. Across the deck, the fat man in the beige suit smiled to himself as he pictured the man screaming silently below, plummeting toward the ocean bed and his watery grave. Turning, he shot his cuff, checking the time on a golden Rolex that was clamped to his chubby wrist.

  ‘Back to the bay. I’ve got a plane to catch,’ he ordered.

  TWO

  The layout of the briefing room at the Armed Response Unit’s headquarters was simple. It was about the size of a rectangular school classroom. As you walked in, to your left was a table pushed against the wall. On its desktop, an aluminium coffee machine took pride of place, surrounded on either side by a big box of tea bags, stacks of polystyrene cups, and some packets of biscuits dumped on the countertop. The other end of the room looked more like the classroom it was shaped after. There were around fifteen chairs scattered expectantly in front of a noticeboard and projector. However, this morning, only three of the seats had occupants so far. They were the officers who’d arrived first after receiving the call from Director Cobb. Behind them, the other seven guys were starting to trickle in through the door one by one, like a drip-feed.

  By the drinks stand, a good-looking young blond officer poured himself a cup of tea as he stifled a yawn. His name was Sam Archer, and he was the youngest member of the task force. He and the other guys had been given the week off for Christmas on the condition that they stayed on call the entire time. Archer’s phone had rung at 8:15 am. He’d made it up here in twenty minutes. Unlike some of the older men, he didn’t mind the constant commitment and unpredictability of the hours. After all, it was what he’d signed up for. He'd only been with the Unit ten months, the best ten months of his life, but then again at twenty-six years old he was still a kid in policing terms, fresh and eager, but inexperienced. When he’d told his colleagues at his old station at Hammersmith and Fulham that he was applying for the ARU, most of them had laughed in his face. Good luck with that one, they’d said.

  But they weren’t laughing now.

  He had crushed the fitness and marksmanship tests, adept with both pistol and sub-machine gun. Despite his age, he’d already put in over four years on the street. It had got to the point where the brass weren’t considering the reasons why the young officer couldn’t join the Unit, it was why not. Whenever he was asked in the interviews if he thought his age would be a problem, he gave the same response every time. If you're good enough, you're old enough, he’d said.

  And he believed it. His whole life, the only thing he’d ever wanted to be was a policeman. His Dad was a Sergeant in the NYPD across the Atlantic. Although they hadn’t seen each other in over ten years, Archer had grown up idolising his father. For anyone who knew the boy, it came as no surprise that the man had ended up with his own badge and gun twenty years later. Archer came to work every day ready and raring to go, voices reminding him how inexperienced he was echoing in his mind. He was desperate to get out there and shake off the label, but he knew that would only come with time.

  Across the room, there was a commotion by the door which caught his attention. Archer turned and smiled when he saw what it was. He’d signed up at eighteen to join the police and had met his best friend the first day of basic training. That person, Chalky, had just entered the room.

  He was four years shy of thirty, like Archer, and was of similar physical stature, both of them six feet t
all and solidly built at a hundred and eighty-five pounds. However, that was where the similarities ended. Archer’s blond hair and blue eyes were a stark contrast to Chalky’s dark, almost Mediterranean complexion, an irony given his nickname. Sipping his tea, the blond officer grinned as he saw the condition his friend was in, his eyes bleary, his feet unsteady as he shuffled into the room. The squad had been given the week off, but Officer White liked to burn the candle at both ends. While Archer liked a beer, he was typically in the sack before one. Chalky, however, figured that being asleep before four equalled a pointless existence. When he went out drinking, he drank hard.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you look hungover,’ Archer said, as his friend approached. ‘Where the hell did you end up last night?’

  Chalky grunted a response as he arrived by the drinks stand. Grabbing a polystyrene cup, he poured himself a thick coffee. Black, three sugars. He paused for a moment, thinking, then added a fourth. Archer winced.

  His full name was Danny White, but as long he could remember, everyone had called him Chalky. He’d once said that the only people who called him by his proper name were his mum when she was pissed off with him and Sergeant McGuire, their commanding officer. Archer had met him eight years ago on the first day of basic when they both signed up to join the police. After training, they’d been processed to the same division in the Met, and had decided to apply to the ARU together. Archer didn’t have much family left, but he quietly considered Chalky to be the brother he'd never had.

  ‘You left too early last night, blondie,’ Chalky said, rubbing his temples. ‘For a change.’

  Archer grinned, sipping his tea. The two of them had been with a group of women in a bar in Holborn. Archer had snuck off just after midnight and judging by his friend’s current condition he was glad he’d made that decision. As he went to answer, an officer in his mid-thirties entered the squad room. His name was Deakins, a barrel-chested, outspoken veteran. He saw Chalky’s condition and took his shot.

  ‘What’s the matter, Chalk, too many cocktails?’ he called.

  The hungover officer flipped him the finger as other guys in the squad room laughed. They all knew Chalky’s habit of putting the same amount of energy into his nightlife as he did into his career. A couple of them had done the same thing a few years ago when they were his age. However, he got away with it due to his ability in the field. It didn’t matter if he’d had one drink or twenty the night before, if a call came in, they all knew that Chalky would be standing there right beside them, ready to go.

  At that moment, a short, stocky man entered the room. His official name was Sergeant McGuire, though every guy on the team just knew him as Mac. Almost thirty years of frontline combat and policing experience had left Mac short of patience but full of candour. He was well known for sharing his opinions with his superiors as frankly as he did with his peers and subordinates. He didn’t talk much about the past, but Archer knew he’d done three tours in the Gulf, and had seen action in Bosnia and Iraq again after 9/11. He’d joined the police after he left the army in 2005, and had risen fast due to his obvious skills and leadership abilities. He had a quick temper, but one thing was for sure, whatever he may have lacked in charm, he more than made up for with loyalty. Everyone who operated with the Unit knew better than to mess with his men. And they all knew that he would die in a second to protect them.

  'Morning lads,' he growled, a voice battered by years of onslaught from cigarettes. Like Al Pacino would sound if he was English and Cockney, Archer thought, as he moved forward to sit in an empty chair. Mac went to continue, but he noticed Chalky’s condition by the coffee stand.

  'Jesus Christ Chalk, what time did you get home last night?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t, Sarge,’ Chalky said, sipping his coffee and taking a seat beside Archer. His friend glanced in the cup. The liquid inside was as thick as tar.

  ‘You could run a car on that,’ he told him.

  Chalky shrugged and took a big gulp, wincing as the liquid burned his tongue. The last person to enter the room was a slim, attractive young woman with dark hair and glasses. She walked in briskly and closed the door behind her. Her name was Nikki; in a world where everyone knew each other by either last name or nickname, she was the exception. And not just because she was female. She’d earned that respect. At only twenty eight, she was already the lead analyst within the intelligence team stationed next door. Cobb had plucked her from behind a desk at Hammersmith and Fulham, and he had struck gold. Forensically attentive and consistent, she served as the eyes and ears for the task force when they were out in the field. Along with Archer and Chalky, she epitomised the new generation of police, fast-tracked and blending in with those more experienced. It was something the Prime Minister had apparently demanded for the detail. He wanted it to be a unit that would be around for the future, long after he was gone. Archer knew Cobb had pissed off a lot of people by picking the three of them for the squad, but his faith had been rewarded as they had each proved more than capable and worthy members of the team.

  Nikki took her place beside Mac, dark-haired, delicate and petite beside his tattooed forearms and granite jaw-line. Including Mac, there were ten officers gathered in the room. Each man was dressed in off-duty clothes, jeans and sweaters thick enough to protect against the chilly air blowing in from the North Atlantic outside. There were also a few yawns being covered. If the call hadn’t come in half an hour ago, most of them would still have been in bed.

  ‘Right, morning lads,’ Mac started. ‘Sorry about calling you in like this. I know you all had a few days off, especially you, Chalky. But this one’s come straight from the top. So listen up.'

  Beside him, Nikki clicked on a projector. A slide appeared on a white screen in front of the group. It showed nine photographs, each one accompanied by a name and a number printed above in bold lettering.

  ‘Take a good look, boys,’ said Mac. ‘Because these handsome fellas are our new best friends. All nine of them are planning to bring in the New Year with their very own firework displays, but unfortunately for us, they’re planning to use some very different things that go boom. Like home-made explosives, nails and bits of glass.’

  He paused, letting each man in the room observe the mug-shots projected on the wall.

  ‘GCHQ had eyes on this lot, but apparently they got wise and scarpered into the city. Now they want us to clean up and bring the ugly bastards in before they go and do something stupid.’

  Chalky pointed at the wall, at Number Nine.

  'The bloke on the right doesn't look that ugly, Mac.’

  Mac smiled. 'Well today's your lucky day, Officer White. Each unit has been assigned a different target. And he just so happens to be ours. Maybe when he's in custody, you can interrogate him over a candlelit dinner.'

  Everyone laughed.

  'Who is he, Sarge?’ Archer asked, staring at the guy’s photo. ‘He looks different from the others.'

  Nikki answered him, reading from a page in her hand.

  ‘His name is Dominick Farha. There’s not much about him on file. It looks as if he may be linked with some big drug cartel in the Middle East.'

  'He's also the leader of this lot,' added Mac. 'So I guess we should feel honoured. Now the most recent surveillance says he’s been staying at a flat in Knightsbridge. And that's our first stop, lads. And if he’s not there, we tear the place apart and don’t take a break until we find him. Our day doesn’t end until all nine of these mugs are in custody or out of the picture for good. Understand?’

  The men nodded. Deakins raised his hand.

  'Use of deadly force, Mac?' he asked.

  'Use discretion,' Mac replied, candidly.

  A sandy haired officer, Fox, interjected. 'Can you elaborate on that?'

  'Well, let me put it this way,’ said Mac. ‘If we kick in the door, and he's sat there in his y-fronts eating corn flakes, then there's no need to use your weapon. But if you walk in and he's got a bomb strapped to his chest, then you ma
ke an intelligent decision.’

  He paused.

  ‘And make sure I'm standing behind you when you make it.’

  The room laughed. 'Any questions?’ Mac asked. There were none. ‘Alright, lads. Get your kit. Chalky, drink some water. I want you all outside in ten.'

  He turned and strode out of the room. Director Cobb was outside waiting for him, and together, they walked to Cobb’s office to talk alone. Nikki moved to the door to return to her desk in the ops room. But before she left, she dumped a stack of papers on a table by the doorway.

  'Take one of these before you go,' she told the team, from the doorway. 'Photocopies of the slide. All nine guys.'

  She departed. The remaining officers in the room rose, draining their coffee and heading towards the door, tossing the empty cups into a rubbish bin beside it. Archer remained where he sat, staring intently at the projection on the wall. Beside him, Chalky groaned, rubbing his temples.

  'Can't believe this. It’s derby day, Arsenal-Spurs, and I'm stuck here doing this shit,' he grumbled. Chalky was a lot of things, but one of them was a big Tottenham Hotspur fan. Later on that afternoon, his team were playing one of their biggest games of the season against arch-rivals Arsenal.

  Archer didn’t reply. Turning, Chalky saw his friend’s eyes were fixated on the projection.

  'What? Arch? What are you looking at?'

  Archer frowned, then turned.

  'Nothing. Number Three looks familiar, that's all.’

  Finishing his cup of tea, Archer rose, patting his friend on the shoulder.

  'Drink up Chalk. Its game day,’ he said with a grin.

  Turning, the young officer walked to the door and grabbed a photocopy, moving out of sight as he headed downstairs to get changed into his gear. Chalky rolled his eyes.

  Finishing his coffee, he climbed to his feet with a groan and followed him.