by Tom Barber
He walked over and dropped to one knee in front of them. They were both bulky, packed full. Curiosity got the better of him. Holding the rag and glass in his right hand, he reached forward with his left and pulled the zip of one of the bags open.
Tilting his head, he looked inside.
And in the same instant, he gasped, snapping upright and dropping the glass.
It shattered on the ground into a hundred fragments.
Outside the Emirates, most of the ARU task force officers were scattered amongst the crowd. They were helping the wounded and paramedics, organising the mass of people and most importantly, keeping an eye out for any further threats. The day had been wildly unpredictable so far and the last thing they wanted was another surprise. And there were still five terrorists out there somewhere. Across the tarmac, Fox appeared from the bowels of the stadium, Spitz and Mason jogging beside him. The sandy-haired officer pushed the pressel button on his vest as the three of them approached the gathered throng.
‘We checked the stadium, Mac,’ he said, his voice coming up over the ear piece in each officer’s ear. ‘There was nothing else. Place is clear, far as we can tell. We were too late.’
‘Roger that,’ came Mac’s voice. ‘Move into the crowd and help out’.
As the three men dispersed, Porter’s voice came up over the radio.
‘Mac, we’ve got another problem.’
‘What?’
‘I just spoke with Nikki. An emergency call just came into the Met. Two bags, left outside a bar in Angel.’
Helping a wounded man into an ambulance amongst the crowd, Archer heard this and turned. He spotted Porter, standing by their police car. His face was tense. ‘They sure it’s a threat, Port?’ Archer asked, pushing the button on his vest as he looked at Porter.
He saw the other officer nod, pushing the pressel on his own uniform.
‘A guy opened one of the bags,’ Porter’s voice replied. ‘Said it was packed with what sounded like C4 explosive.’
The radio went silent. From their positions all over the car park, each man froze as this registered. ‘The clock’s ticking, Mac,’ Porter added. ‘We need to get over there now.’
Mac’s voice responded instantly, his tone changed.
‘Right, First team, we’re going. Archer, Chalky get over to the car. Deakins, take over ‘til we get back.’
The three officers ran from their various positions towards Porter by the car who’d jumped into the front seat and was already firing the engine.
Back at St Mary’s, Gibbs put the phone back onto the cradle slowly. She was confused.
Every paramedic she knew made it a point of honour to always be contactable, no matter what the situation was. It didn’t matter if they were on duty or off, they were always near a phone. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but for some reason Gibbs felt an uneasy feeling seeping into the pit of her stomach.
Something wasn’t right.
She considered what could have happened. There was the possibility that the two of them were secretly an item, right now they could be holed up in a hotel room somewhere, the ambulance parked outside, the television off, no idea of the situation at the stadium. But as soon as she considered the idea, Gibbs frowned. That was tenuous at best, and highly unlikely. Even if they were together, neither would be that unprofessional. In her head, the cautious part of her mind was going off like a fire alarm. Something just didn’t feel right. Suddenly, she made a quick decision with the speed her training demanded. Better safe than sorry. Picking up the phone again, she dialled three buttons. The call connected.
‘Police please,’ she asked.
There was a wait as the operator transferred her. Then another voice appeared on the other end of the line.
‘Good evening. What is your emergency?’ the guy asked, from the Metropolitan Police call centre.
‘I’d like to report two people and an ambulance missing,’ said Gibbs.
NINE
Outside the N1 shopping centre, the black Ford carrying the four ARU officers screeched to a halt on Parkfield Street. Mac and his three policemen piled out of the car, slamming the doors and running to the entrance. Around them, civilians were running past as they evacuated the building. Word had spread about the atrocity at the stadium, clearly. But they weren’t getting out fast enough, Archer thought, as he raced towards the mall. The building was an open design, two levels, but with a courtyard serving as the central hub and no glass windows or any doors at the entrance. You could walk straight in. Even from here he could see scores of people still scattered inside, eighty of them at least, spread out over the two tiers. Many of them seemed in no rush to leave.
And to compound the problem, the evacuees were gathering in a crowd not fifty yards from the entrance to the courtyard. A handful of security guards were keeping them what they thought was a safe distance away, but they had naively underestimated the blast radius and power of true plastic explosive. Archer knew that if the bags inside were really full of C4, then without cover, all of these people would die, or be critically wounded in an instant if the bomb went off.
Inside the centre, a guard directing operations saw the four armed policemen arrive and rushed over towards them. Archer saw three stripes on his shoulder, denoting his rank. ‘John Pierce, Head of Security,’ the man said as he arrived, out of breath. Mac didn’t introduce himself, he didn’t have time.
‘Where are the bags, John?’ he asked quickly, as the five of them moved forward into the galleria together. Pierce pointed up and to his right.
‘On the Second Tier, outside the bar,’ said Pierce, talking fast. ‘Barman said he found them all alone, no one around, like they'd been left behind accidentally. Checked inside, saw a load of explosive and some wires.’
Mac nodded, looking up at the upper level. ‘Bomb disposal?’
‘I contacted them, sir. They said they’d be here in fifteen minutes,’ Pierce replied.
‘Do you have CCTV installed?’
Pierce nodded. ‘Yes. The monitor room is this way.’ He raised his hand and indicated to a corridor to their left on the lower level. Mac turned to Porter, who was already moving forward.
‘On it, Sarge,’ he said, as he rushed off towards the room with Pierce.
In the left corner of the Lower Tier was a winding concrete stairwell, leading up to the Second Level. Mac, Archer and Chalky, now alone, moved quickly towards it, taking the stairs two at a time. On their way they had to dodge past people rushing down in the opposite direction. Navigating their way up, the three men reached the Upper Tier and started to fan out, each of their weapons tucked into the shoulder and aimed as they scanned the level.
It was mostly clear. The odd person was still rushing for the stairs, but the whole tier was pretty much empty, most of the remaining civilians downstairs on the lower level. But it was eerie as hell. In front of them was the dark foyer of a cinema. Archer could see boxes of popcorn and drinks that had been suddenly dropped, scattered all over the floor with their contents strewn on the ground, telling the story of how quickly people inside the building had fled. The three officers separated as they quickly checked the rest of the level, moving fast and silently as they searched for any other threats as yet undiscovered. But the rest of the floor was clear. After a few moments, they re-joined at the middle intersection of the level.
And together, the three of them looked over at the bar.
They could see the two black bags. They were leaning side by side against each other, seemingly harmless. To an onlooker, they looked just like luggage that someone sitting outside had carelessly left behind. Archer felt a brief moment of relief. Thank God the barman had checked inside. If he hadn’t, the centre would still have been packed with people and the contents of those bags would never have been discovered. Not until it was possibly too late. He shot his cuff, checking the time on his watch. It had just gone 6:08pm.
He looked around the level. There was no sign of the EOD, the bomb squad,
yet.
‘What do we do, Mac?’ he asked.
The older man was staring at the bags, his face grim, his eyes narrowed.
‘We wait.’
Four hundred yards from the shopping centre, the man who’d ditched the bags hadn’t yet noticed the evacuation taking place across the street. He was the other side from the main crowd, on Upper Street, so he was oblivious to the noise, commotion and also the arrival of the four ARU officers.
Now dressed in the lime-green paramedic’s scrubs, he’d climbed into the back of the ambulance. Completely ignoring the two bodies dumped there, he was kneeling before a package of bricks stacked neatly in a square. Wires ran from the stack, connecting into a mobile phone that was placed on top of the pile. In all, there must have been thirty bricks of plastic explosive underneath. The man allowed himself a smile. In the past, he’d always had to use home-made plastique mixed in his bathroom basin and bath-tub. The stuff was so volatile, he could never fully relax when he was in close contact or proximity to it. But Dominick Farha’s bank account had allowed for much greater quality in this operation.
And the boy had done good.
The C4 was a devastating weapon, ten times more potent than the home-made crap he’d been forced to use previously and a hundred times more stable. Combining explosive chemicals with a plastic binder to hold it together, the resulting putty was secure and durable, easy to both transport and mould. Once it was wired up, all the plastic explosive needed was a detonator.
He’d hooked up a mobile phone to a small blasting cap which was conjoining all the wires. When he called the phone the resulting charge would pass into the cap, triggering a small explosion. That was all the C4 needed to do its job and follow suit. The resulting chemical reaction of the nitrogen and carbon gases would expand at over twenty six thousand feet per second. The shockwave would be catastrophic and the explosion instantaneous. One minute, everything would be fine. The next, everyone and everything unfortunate enough to be within the blast radius would be vaporised or mortally injured as the explosives detonated into a huge fireball.
Taking up a set of pliers the man set to work. He had to finish cutting some last lengths of wire to connect the last two blocks of C4. And from the inside of the dark ambulance, he was completely unaware of the crowd of evacuees gathering this side of the shopping centre.
For now.
Inside the galleria, Mac and the two younger officers were trying to stay calm. They were still on the Upper Tier and there was still no sign of the bomb disposal team. Every second felt like a minute. Sweating, Archer looked over at the bags. None of them knew what exactly was inside, but they all knew they could explode in a heartbeat. Archer checked his watch again anxiously, looking around.
‘Shit. Where the hell are they, Mac?’
Beside him, Mac seemed calmer. But only just.
‘They’ll be here soon. Hang on. Ten minutes’.
‘We might not have ten minutes,’ Chalky muttered, looking at the bags. Beside him, neither man responded. They knew he was right.
‘This is bad,’ Archer said. ‘If those bags really are full of C4 and go off, we're done for. It'll turn this place into a crater.’
Mac nodded. ‘And kill everyone on the street outside,’ he added. He paused. ‘We hold, Arch. It’s not our job to defuse it.’
The younger man nodded reluctantly.
Suddenly, a noise came from behind them and Archer and Mac spun round, their weapons aimed.
It was just an employee rushing out of the cinema. He saw the police officers and the empty galleria around him and ran for the steps, his eyes wide with fear.
Watching him go, Archer turned to ask Chalky something.
But he wasn’t there.
He’d gone.
Archer swivelled round, and caught sight of his friend.
He was thirty yards away.
And walking towards the bags.
In the same instant, Mac saw him too. He swore, as he and Archer moved in opposite directions to take cover.
‘Chalky!’ Archer shouted. ‘Chalky! Get back here!’
Across the tier, Chalky ignored him. Mac took up make-shift protection behind a concrete pillar, and leaned round, bellowing at Chalky.
‘Officer White, get back here! That’s an order!’
Chalky disregarded them both, walking slowly and coolly towards the bar. He was now only five feet from the two black bags.
The pair of them sat there malevolently, waiting for him to arrive.
On Upper Street, the man in the ambulance gently finished fixing one last wire to a remaining brick of explosive. He carefully connected the other end to the detonator and leaned back, inspecting his work. It was perfect.
It was ready.
Stepping over the two dead medics, he climbed back into the front seat. As he did, something caught his attention to his left across the street. He saw a crowd gathered outside the shopping centre, being held back by some security from the building. He cursed. They found them already? He was pissed. He figured the bags wouldn’t have been noticed for at least another ten or twenty minutes, giving him plenty of time to get clear of the area.
Stepping out of the vehicle and slamming the door, he walked around the back of the ambulance for a better look. He’d left the package only fifteen or twenty minutes ago, but the place was already being evacuated. He’d planned to detonate the bags when he was on his way. He re-evaluated.
And decided to do it right now instead.
Behind the ambulance, he figured he’d be safe from the blast. Or if he wasn’t, everyone else would get a second surprise on the street, when the explosive contents of the ambulance reacted to the shockwave. He wasn’t planning on dying tonight, but he didn’t really mind if he did, just as long as he took a hell of a lot of people with him.
He pulled a phone from the pocket of the medical scrubs.
And started dialling a number.
Inside the mall, Chalky was by the two bags. He stood over them, staring down. He could feel his heart racing, adrenaline pumping through his body. To his left, the pub had been completely deserted. Half-empty glasses of beer and wine were scattered on tables everywhere, chairs and bar-stools knocked to the floor. Above the bar, he saw a line of televisions showing muted footage from outside the stadium. The place was silent and unnerving, like the building was holding its breath, as if something terrible was about to happen.
He knelt down in front of the bags. Across the Tier, Mac and Archer were shouting frantically at him, but to no effect, he’d tuned them both out.
They didn’t have time. Chalky could sense it. He shouldn’t have been here anyway. He should be dead, his head blown off in the house earlier in the day. But for some reason, fate didn’t want him to die today.
So he decided to make the most of it.
He tucked his MP5 behind his back on its strap. The barman had left the first bag open. Chalky reached forward to pull open the two sides of the zipper.
He looked inside.
Outside, the man by the ambulance was half-way through dialling the number. A pedestrian walking past saw the ambulance. Saw the man standing there. Wearing his green medical scrubs.
‘Oi mate, shouldn’t you be up at the Emirates?’ he offered, in a Cockney accent.
The man holding the phone snapped his attention to the bystander, his eyes burning with hatred. Startled, the other guy took the hint and averting his eyes, he walked away, feeling the medic’s gaze scorching into his back.
Inside the galleria, Chalky peered inside the first bag.
‘Holy shit.’
It was packed with faded yellow bricks of C4, ten of them at least.
Reaching with his hand he felt inside the holdall, feeling carefully amongst the bars and wires. His fingers brushed the contents, but he couldn't seem to find a detonation device.
He turned his attention to the second bag. As he did so, Archer ran to the edge of the tier, facing Parkfield Street.
&nbs
p; ‘Get them back!’ he shouted to Pierce’s team, pointing at the crowd. It had grown, there must have been close to a hundred people down there.
Across the tier, Chalky unzipped the second bag.
This one too was packed full of C4. However, this time a phone was nestled on top of the bricks. He could see that it was duct taped to a wire that separated and disappeared into the explosives. The detonator. He could see the display on the phone. T-Mobile. Good signal. Four bars.
He reached for the phone.
In trial runs, the man by the ambulance had seen the blast radius and sheer power of an explosion like this. Cover made all the difference. He knew the thickness of the ambulance should technically save his life.
One thing many people misunderstood about an explosion was what the most lethal aspect of it was. Most assumed it was the resulting fireball, like the ones they’d seen in the movies. But the terrorist holding the phone knew it was the shockwave. Whenever an incendiary device exploded, the chemical reaction released an obscenely powerful ball of energy. When that energy came into contact with a person, it hit the inside of their body like a thousand small sledgehammers with knives taped to the end. All the blood vessels in their lungs would rupture, and they would drown in their own blood. Shock-lung, the Americans had called it. It was an horrific, slow and agonising way to die. He could see why Hollywood preferred the fireball.
However, he figured the ambulance was solid enough to protect him from the explosion and blast wave. Moving behind the vehicle, he raised the phone, the number dialled in.
He took a deep breath.
And his finger moved to Call.
Inside, Chalky had the phone in his hands.
Outside, the terrorist smiled.
And he pressed the button.
‘Boom,’ he whispered.
