Through Crystal Palace and north to Gipsy Hill. Doing well. She looked at O’Shea who was struggling to stay awake. The warm air and heated seats didn’t help and the sheer exhaustion was still taking its toll.
As she entered Dulwich she saw a change in the housing, Victorian, double-fronted, with gardens. The sort of place she would like. Tree-lined streets, nice cars, healthy kids.
The polished satnav voice told her to turn left onto Alleyn Road and continue towards the A2199. The houses were even more attractive now, bigger cars, large gardens, even the trees were more substantial. She imagined attractive women, working out in their home gyms, keeping their swimsuit bodies in great shape for the summer and their city-dwelling husbands.
She looked in her rear-view mirror, then ahead. Reading the road, suddenly alert, switched on. Trying not to wake O’Shea.
An Audi Q7 had joined them. Gunmetal grey, new model, LED lights, three on board. Coming in fast. Towards O’Shea, straight at Petrova.
Threat.
Initial action.
Accelerate.
The owner of the white Mini Cooper was as innocent as they were but there had to be a victim here. O’Shea woke with a start, saw the Mini approaching, its driver’s door flailing in the breeze, a perfect target.
“Elena!”
She hit it hard, tearing the door from the solid hinges, fishtailing her car along the normally quiet street, leaving the buckled door in her wake and into the path of the Audi.
Now she was alive again in a high-powered car that didn’t belong to her. She looked, saw the driver swerve. It was a great effort; she gave it a seven. But he was too slow. The door caught the underside and began to grind along the road surface, slowing them, then stopping the car a hundred metres behind.
She kicked the BMW down a gear and ignored the hazards. It was them. She knew the signs and felt it deep within her sixth sense that had served her so well, and besides, people in Victorian, double-fronted streets with six-pack nannies did not drive like that.
“Carrie, ring Jack. Press redial.”
She was already doing it.
Chapter 51
“Jack. It’s me. We’ve been compromised. An Audi. Grey. Dulwich, we are somewhere in Dulwich. We need help.”
She looked in her door mirror; the Audi was moving again. The passenger was talking on a cell phone. The bald-headed man on the other end of the line laughed. A cackle, mid-range, visceral – haunting.
“Wonderful. Go and get them. Drive it like you stole it. Force them off the road. Kill the passenger with your bare hands, watch her gasp as you choke her to death. This is war and no one will even notice in a city where neighbours don’t speak to each other. But leave the driver for me. We have some things that we need to talk about.”
They were expendable. Three young men in a nice car, living what for them was an upmarket and unexpected lifestyle, and one with a promise of money and continued employment. But they were expendable. They wanted the money, but what they really craved was the tattoo and the sense of brotherhood that it provided to a group of otherwise lonely and isolated men.
Petrova braked hard, locked up slightly, off the brakes then left, and a right, trying to stay calm, looking for the Audi. Shuffling the leather-clad steering wheel expertly through her hands. It was then she saw the blue BMW 535. Same ardent faces. Two this time, but she knew they were from the same region. She gestured to Carrie.
“Yep, seen them.” She shifted in her seat, trying to get a better view of what lay ahead and what might be screaming up behind them. She’d been here before, years before, in a police vehicle, lights flickering, sirens wailing, people pointing, moving out of their way, but he was going too fast. Should have known better. They all said so at the inquiry. At least it wasn’t an inquest.
Her heart was racing, her mouth dry, tainted with a hint of aluminium and her skin was clammy, cold. She was back there, a passenger, helpless, young and desperate to escape. The difference this time was that she was older and wiser and she trusted the driver.
“Jack we’ve got more company. Any chance of some help?” She sounded calm and that was a good thing.
“On its way.” He dropped the phone into his lap and keyed the microphone, calling for air priority. They all heard it. Out on the ground, in the stations, on radios attached to body armour, and in the hub of Op Orion Dave Francis spun round in his office chair. It was good to be back in action.
“Hear that boss?” He had, and he was already heading to the car park with two others.
Daniel called after Roberts. “I’ll come with you.”
“No JD you stay here, run things for me, you’ve had enough fun for one day.”
They ran down the stairs; it was quicker than waiting for the lift. He called up on the force radio and asked for any available unit to head south. Then listened as each one failed to respond.
“Cutbacks. I hope the bloody PM is listening to this. Come on boys, the three of us can make a difference, let’s go and kick some Eastern European arse.”
“Jack we are on…” She looked for a road sign. “We are approaching a crossroads. Stand by.” It was typical of a high-speed vehicle-borne conversation where the speaker got frustrated with a lack of information as much as the listener.
She was also back in the saddle, saying the right things. Adrenaline-fuelled but back and it felt good.
“Jack we are heading north, satnav says Croxted Road.” She repeated it. Cade did the same.
“Carrie. Get onto force radio! I’ll monitor. Help is on the way.”
It was so obvious she could have kicked herself. In the main glovebox was the handset, already dialled into the Met Police VHF channel. She keyed the mike and started talking.
“Air priority. O’Shea. Op Orion staff. I have no idea of our call sign. This is an urgent call for back-up.” She repeated their location. “Under a railway bridge, Shell petrol station, right-hand side. Speed six zero.”
She opened the central glovebox. A small black box had all the bells and whistles she needed. It seemed bizarre, but why not? She switched on the sirens.
Elena’s face lit up. “This is so much fun. I have always wanted this moment!”
“O’Shea from MP – we have units trying to get to you. What is the registration of the vehicle you are pursuing?”
“MP. We are the ones being pursued!”
The Dispatcher looked at her nearest colleague, raised an eyebrow and then spoke. “So, whose are the sirens?”
“Ours MP. Trying to warn others. We are in an unmarked silver BMW.”
“Received. All units heading to Croxted Road be on the lookout for a silver BMW and a blue BMW. The blue is the target vehicle. Repeat blue is the target. Proceed with caution.”
Petrova looked into her mirror, gunned the throttle, overtook a bus that was pulling out from a stop, then shouted at O’Shea.
“Find a police station on the GPS.”
“Carrie you still there?” It was Cade.
“Yes, trying to juggle Jack.” She had at least four plates spinning precariously on their canes.
“OK. I’ll hang up, just keep heading north, lure them in towards us. I’ve got at least two Kent Police cars bearing down from the south and our boys are heading towards you from every other direction including above.”
In the blue BMW, similar conversations were being held. They were coordinating too. On the phone, looking at online maps.
The old brown van waited at the side of Norwood Road. Two up front, two in the back. Stolen quite easily the evening before, its owner ever-grateful that it had finally gone. Old, but it would serve a purpose.
The Audi was on the move again. The BMW a hundred metres behind the girls. To the casual onlooker both BMWs were police vehicles. It wasn’t unusual to see such events, and so everyone ignored them, got out of their way and carried on with their business.
“MP we are going to turn right onto Norwood Road, our aim is to get to Brixton police station
. Received?”
“Received. Speed and road conditions and class of driver please?”
“MP I don’t quite think you understand the nature of this job.” She pulled a face at the microphone. “As fast as conditions will allow. Traffic is heavy, and the driver doesn’t have a licence. But she’s doing really well.”
The control room inspector stood up from his desk and walked towards his staff member. “What?” He strutted towards the screen, looking at the even unfolding in the screen. He could see the headlines now.
“Abort this now!”
“O’Shea you are to abort. I repeat abort.”
“MP from Cade. Air priority.”
“Go ahead.”
“They abort, they get harmed. Your call.”
The inspector was young in service; he did everything by the book. He picked up the desk phone.
“Yes sir. Unmarked car. Being pursued. Not a police driver. Some operation called Orion which frankly you have as much of a clue as I do and be advised I will be asking some stern questions about this when…”
The voice cut him off. “Get armed units to that vehicle as soon and as safely as you can, inspector. Do it now.”
“But…”
“No buts. Put my name to the job if you have to. Have we got the air support team up?”
“Yes sir Nine Eight are en route as we speak.”
The silver car was navigating traffic at speed, the sirens helped, but they also allowed the blue vehicle to slip through the chaos. Sooner or later something had to change.
“Norwood Road. We are approaching Norwood Road. Jesus…no!” The urgency in her voice changed. The observer in the helicopter saw it. Watched it happen in real time; there was none of the usual myth that ‘everything slowed down’ – that didn’t happen in the real world, in real-time.
Cade heard it. The office heard it. The Control Room too.
The brown van was driving straight at them, through the red lights, at speed, from their right. The driver was actually smiling.
The BMW was approaching fast from the rear. Their mission had been pointed out in simple terms: Finish them off. The ante had been upped and Alex Stefanescu considered that he held the winning hand. ‘Me, cause chaos? You have no idea. I haven’t even started!’
“Carrie hold on tight.” Petrova didn’t look at her, gripped the wheel and stamped on the brakes. Ahead was an old wrought-iron fence and two long-established trees. To the right, the van. Behind the BMW.
“Go left! Go left!” O’Shea screamed.
“We won’t make it at this speed. Hold on!”
Above, circling in a Eurocopter, the rear observer looking down through geo-stationary binoculars and his colleague in the front seat recording live, linking back to the Control Room, zooming in on the action from a thousand feet, the pilot ever-watchful over London skies.
“India Nine Eight we are overhead. Standby! Crash, crash, crash! Junction of Norwood and Croxted Roads. Two vehicles, fire and ambulance to scene – plus ground units please.”
They all heard it but only four people saw it.
The brown van disintegrated, its rusting front end crumpling pathetically, built long before airbags, it stood no chance against the Might of Munich. What it did manage to do before its final journey was stove the driver’s door in and deploy the airbag, forcing the driver back and into the seat, unrestrained, his neck broke instantly. His passenger heard the snap of ligaments and bone, and somehow managed to live.
Petrova swung the silver car in an arc, scrubbing the speed off as quickly as she could. She came to a halt, hard up against the kerb, against the flow of the London-bound traffic.
She buried her right foot, causing the rear wheels to yelp in protest and the back end of the car to judder as it gained a hold on the cold tarmac.
“Nine Eight the silver car is making off along Norwood. One out and running from the blue BMW, front seat passenger, blue fleece top, jeans, over the fence and into Brockwell Park. Can we have a ground unit to that location please? It’s a large expanse of parkland, he won’t get far.”
The only patrolling dog unit was the first to respond. Zeus his devoted land shark was already at fever pitch in the back of the blue and yellow Skoda estate car.
His handler picked him up and hoisted him over the railings. Called for the male to stop. Checked the surroundings. Then made the call to deploy the dog.
“Go get him Zeus!”
It was quite the most perfect location to deploy a dog – open ground and only one other person present, and he was running as if his lower leg muscles depended on it. They did, and soon, if he didn’t stop they would be flapping around the tibia in a gory, ruined mess, like the scene from an amateur barbeque, undercooked and bloody.
The streets were brought to life now. Sirens approaching from every angle. Engines being thrashed. Overhead the EC135’s blades were cutting through the freezing winter air. And all the while calm voices spoke on the radio, guiding, controlling and making sense of what for some was a two-dimensional landscape.
“Nine Eight we have another vehicle, grey Audi Q7, at speed, behind our vehicle. Norwood heading south. Any ground units heading north on that road?”
Silence.
“I have had enough of this Carrie. Trust me?” Petrova was busy multi-tasking but her training was evident. She had been here before, some other place no doubt, but she knew how to handle a car.
“Yes. Just get us somewhere safe.”
“No, no. This ends now. Either we do or they will. I know these people. These are not common thieves Carrie. These are Alex’s best men.”
“MP from O’Shea.”
“Go ahead.”
“Where is our backup?”
“Five minutes over.” It meant ten in the current urban traffic, the winter sun trying its best to finally burn off one or two stubborn patches of mist.
“We can’t wait that long. My driver is about to take control here.”
“Received. You are to continue at a speed that is safe until we can get support to you.” She turned to the inspector who had aged at least five years.
“What or who are they running from exactly boss?”
“That is the best question I have heard so far.” He picked up the desk phone again and began an animated conversation where he tried to take charge but lost.
Petrova had lost her trademark smile. “Hang on. We are going to take control. Or as Jack says, we are going tactical!”
O’Shea turned in her seat, grabbing the seat belt. “You are going to do what?”
She dialled Cade who was also busy forcing his way through traffic. Roberts too, although he knew he was quite a way from the action. God, he missed the old days and the thrill of the chase, that sense that you were literally living on the edge, that any moment now could be your last.
Red Mist they called it.
Chapter 52
The Audi was feet away now. They were ready, seatbelts off and willing to carry out their explicit instructions. Kill the passenger, grab the driver and try to make it to a safe location.
For them, whatever it was called the red mist had settled, and now, regardless of the consequences they were going to finish this off, in a busy street, in front of school kids and their mums and the watching world on CCTV, cell phones and the fractured memories of countless witnesses who would soon swear they saw six men, all armed, one with an eye patch, and yes, they all had beards.
The men they were witnessing were the new wave. Paid more, respected more. Worth more.
These were Alex’s foot soldiers. Well trained in the style of the military but only one had actually served and he was their leader, had spent time with the Jackdaw at Pazardzhik Prison. The others had just watched him – and learned. They were strong, fast and independently capable.
In the nearby park retired dog handler Andy Pickers was strolling with his new charge, a seven-month-old German Shepherd called Sultan, named after his beloved canine friend who had serv
ed him so well in his incredible days as a frontline police dog.
Pickers saw the male running. He knew the difference between a jogger and a runner. As in a runner from a car, or a burglary.
And the familiar thrum of rotor blades overhead and cacophony of sirens, squawking tyres and organised mayhem also told him the party was about to start all over again. God he missed it.
He held onto Sultan, tight at the lead, watching a jet black missile hurtling across the parkland, low, sleek and on target. The poor bastard didn’t stand a chance. Until he stopped, turned and produced a pistol.
Aiming it high, trying to steady his arm, his own veins pulsing with adrenaline. He pulled the trigger and missed.
A solitary puff of grey smoke on a greyer day in a leafless inner-city park.
India Nine Eight saw it. The handler saw it, heard it too, knew immediately that the only thing stopping someone getting harmed was Zeus’ instinct as a firearms dog.
The male fired again. And again. Now it was reckless. Firing round after round, and trying to run, instinct was also playing a huge part.
All the while Nine Eight hovered like a watchful mother and relayed.
For Andrew Pickers, a veteran of more chases than he could shake a stick at this was unfair. He wished he could deploy Sultan, but he was a pup, and too precious.
“Take him for me, love?” He pushed the lead into a passing jogger’s hand, then ran, as fast as his slightly-heavier-than-when-he-was-a-copper body would allow. It was risky, foolhardy almost.
“Nine Eight we have a member of the public assisting. Dog on the ground too.” He spun left in the seat. “Our car is braking.” He didn’t know where to look next.
Pickers hit the male in the midriff, hard, as hard as he could. He knew this was a one-stop-shop. The handler saw it too and screamed at his dog who was now committed in his own crimson-misted mayhem.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 49
