The three collided. Pickers took down the male with a tackle that an England rugby forward would happily celebrate, Zeus hit the male with everything he had, thirty kilos of lean muscle and a set of teeth so white and polished that they easily glided through any limb that they met.
Biting at anything that moved, including Pickers. Pain first. Then bleeding, made worse by the coldest day in years. Retired Police Constable Pickers held onto him with a grip so tight the other male could barely breathe. Face down in the grass, the smell of damp and cold soil and rotting leaves striking his olfactory system. It was surreal. He’d remember that later when they stitched him up. That, and the sight of the black pistol lying in the cold, well-kept grass.
Pickers was joined by his modern human equivalent who wrestled Zeus from his prey. All was as quiet as a pile of badly mauled men could be.
Two hundred metres away the silver BMW had slowed. There and then, in the high street where people were suddenly sitting up and paying attention. Some lifted their cell phones like clones and just filmed.
Who were these people?
There were two waves in town. The Seventh and the bluer one.
The Q7 was racing towards them now. Petrova accelerated, so fiercely the rear tyres smoked. It was a lighter car and with fewer people on board had the edge. She was a hundred metres ahead now. And then she braked. Hard.
O’Shea did as she was told and gripped the door and her seat.
“Here they come. Hold on.”
She brought the car to a halt, changed gear, into reverse and powered the car back along the road.
O’Shea bellowed, “No!”
The Q7 driver was ready, he knew the greater weight of his car would give them the advantage.
“Go faster!” The passenger yelled. “Hit them!”
They were now nose to tail, at speed, as the London-bound traffic queuing in the opposing lane could only watch and try to film, social media feeds buzzing with the amateur footage within moments.
The traffic stopped, creating a gap, occupants watching, open-mouthed.
What they saw next shocked them.
The police vehicle was accelerating violently. Petrova twisted in her seat, one hand on the leather-rimmed wheel the other on O’Shea’s seat, looking backwards and steering the car expertly. Thirty metres away from the Audi she swung her car in a pendulous curve, ramming into the door pillar between the driver and rear passenger with pinpoint accuracy.
The Audi airbags inflated in milliseconds as the men inside were trying to get out. The driver was incapacitated and bleeding, his head having struck the green-tinted autoglass and coloured it bright red.
Petrova shoved the gear lever into first, drove forward, fifty metres, slammed the brakes on then back into reverse. The rear bumper was gouging the road surface. But only one thing mattered now.
O’Shea’s cell rang. She ignored it. Praying for the whole episode to end.
They careered back along Norwood Road, this time aiming for the passenger side. The front seat passenger was half out of his door, pistol in hand and deciding which of his three options to take. Stay in the car, shoot or run.
He chose the latter. At twenty-nine he was fit, and wearing street gear and trainers he thought he would easily outpace the lumbering silver car.
Petrova drove at the door, pushing the accelerator deep into the carpet just as her instructor had taught her when she was young.
“If you commit my dear, then commit. There is no place for half-hearted attacks upon your enemy.”
He would have adored this one.
The already-battered rear of the five series BMW struck the solid grey door of the Q7 and smashed it against the male’s upper legs and chest. Her aim was not as honed this time, allowing one of the rear occupants to scramble from the car, falling to his knees and only able to watch as she repeated the move, forward, back. The rear of the car hit him as he tried to stand, upper body and head, forcing him into the bodywork of the Audi. He heard his own bones and ligaments breaking – a sound like a deep bass-like popping candy going off in his head.
He was now on the floor, lying on the cold tarmac and breathing his last. The sheer power of the collision had caused his sternum to collapse. They called it blunt anterior trauma. If you survived.
For the black-haired thirty something it was later written as his cause of death.
It had taken a minute; maybe two. She had taken control. On the busy urban road lay men in various forms of decay, crushed, battered and bruised. One had run, over the fence and was being feasted upon by a large black dog. One remained.
Petrova had pulled forward. Stopped. Got out.
Cold and calm. Now her training was coming to the fore.
“Nine Eight the female driver is out of the silver BMW. Occupants of the Audi are trying to decamp. We need more units to the scene. Female passenger is also out of our car. Repeat two out.”
“They are doing what?” Cade yelled at the speaker on his dash, changed to third and accelerated as hard as the conditions and traffic would allow. He was now doing what police called making progress. Basically weaving in and out of standing traffic, balletic, highly organised and technically very illegal as he was no longer a police officer.
Kids waved. Mothers sheltered their kids. Cars, and buses and lorries moved or stayed put, depending on what Cade indicated he was going to do next.
Ten minutes behind him Roberts and the team were doing the same. There was truly nothing like haring through standing traffic – every metre or so avoiding a collision.
Behind them two more patrol cars, weaving snakelike through one of the most built-up cities in the world.
Cade checked his watch. Ten minutes away. Ten, long minutes. Go faster.
Use the pavements, wrong side of the road, force people out of the way. Dominate. Take control. Part the waves.
God, he missed the thrill.
O’Shea was out of the car. She’d heard gunshots. The throb of the helicopter. The screech of tyres. The dull, metal-on-metal collision. Then her heartbeat. Then nothing at all. Her hearing was the first sense to evade her. It was common in high-stress situations.
This was all way too soon. She’d been in a hospital bed less than an hour ago. And now she was standing on a freezing busy urban road trying to decide what to do next. She looked and saw Petrova walking towards the Audi. There was a real purpose to her walk.
She decided that behind her was probably the safest place to be. She knew the helicopter was watching, relaying live imagery back to the control room. Surely the frontline would be here soon?
She walked. Gently at first, then feeling exposed by the distance between the two cars she got quicker, shaking off the last hints of her recent experience on that table in that hell-hole that was to have been her morgue.
She froze. Unable to go any further. All she could do was watch and learn and admire.
Petrova was so much quicker. Running, stopping, picking up the pistol, kicking the passenger door hard against the man who had tried his best to recover. Her sole aim to find the fourth and put him out of his misery.
On board India Nine Eight, the former Army Air Corps pilot had seen enough. He knew they were relaying the live feed back to the people that made decisions – that gathered and gave evidence.
He had seen enough in his time to know that what he did next was for the right reasons; he was sick of protecting the guilty. With a less than subtle shift of the cyclic and the collective, he had turned the aircraft on a sixpence.
“Just need to reposition. Winds are stronger than they look.”
Petrova was firm up against the bodywork of the Audi, waiting to be shot at. She could hear the one remaining occupant preparing to leave, racking his own weapon. He had been far too slow. She stepped into the doorway and fired. Not for her an arduous risk assessment or verbal challenge. Step, aim, fire.
Two shots. Finger on the trigger, push, don’t anticipate, let the round go – and there she goes
, thwack, and again, reset the trigger, one harmonious action, a slight jolt of the front end, the master hand doing its thing. And a second round, same place, drilling through his outer body and into his lungs.
She hit him in the central mass just as she and most tactical shooters had been taught. Tempting as it was to follow up the serial with one to the head, she wanted him alive. His own weapon dropped onto the deep black carpet as he slumped back into the buckled driver’s side passenger door.
Now gripping his stomach and lower chest, he tried to breathe. She looked at him through lifeless eyes.
“Stay.”
O’Shea saw it all.
“Elena!” she yelled.
“It’s OK. We are safe. Stay here. Police will come soon. You will be OK.” She walked away, back down the road, looking at the blue BMW and the brown van. Led with the weapon, watching for signs of life. What a mess. And she had caused most of it. She smiled. She allowed herself to relax for a second.
The forty-two-year-old front passenger of the old brown van had played dead. Now, he was out of the vehicle and moving towards Petrova, unseen.
Cade was a minute away. Two local traffic units were even closer, approaching from different angles both were being advised by their colleagues in India Nine Eight. Three ambulances were closer. Holding back until Nine Eight could confirm the ground was safe.
As Cade sped along Norwood Road, away from the city he looked at his speedo: Ninety. Fast enough to get there, slow enough to allow people to die.
He saw the gun before he saw the man. A short-barrelled shotgun was suspended from the van passenger’s hand and with no attempt to cover its presence the male deliberately walked towards Petrova. He knew who she was, he’d seen her picture on his phone. It was how he had been briefed. Jackdaw has said bring her in alive. But he had watched how she had systematically killed his colleagues, and he would risk the wrath of his boss to wipe the smile off her face.
Up on his toes, oblivious to the cacophony of the sirens approaching from all angles, grey clothes, grey hat, dark grey weapon, he blended well. Now, raising the weapon up into the aim he moved along the road and between the cars.
“India Nine Eight for the information of all ground units, we have a male carrying a firearm. All grey clothing. Has left the brown Bedford van over.”
The first local area car stopped on the next road to Norwood and allowed the armed response car to pass, it was far better to yield to their firepower and experience and go home that night.
Cade was five hundred metres away, slowing, sirens off, blue lights still flickering. He looked along Norwood, heard the broadcast, could see the carnage and saw O’Shea standing in the middle of the carriageway as if she had been struck down with fear. He saw Petrova, stepping away from an Audi, unarmed. And then he saw the ultimate grey man.
Risk assessed. Decision made. He looked to the left as he shot through the wide junction, saw the marked armed response vehicle, swerved and then drove straight at the male.
The man knew the difference between the steady background noise that accompanied them and the different, high pitched scream of the car engine. He turned slightly, keeping an eye on the female, but it was too late. Stepping right, he walked into Cade’s path and as his knees buckled he was scooped up and over the windscreen, hitting his head on the solid, dense glass. To a bystander it sounded like a ripe watermelon hitting concrete from a second-storey window.
At that speed he cleared the roof, collided with the rear boot and then collapsed in a pile of broken bones twenty metres further down the road. His body faced the wrong way to his head, his arms twisted and his left lower leg distorted.
The weapon skidded across the road surface and stopped under a small modern white hatchback, its driver holding her cell phone in shock.
Cade stopped. He was unarmed. He held his hands aloft as he heard the scream of a firearms officer, tucked behind the wing of his Volvo, pointing the G36 rifle straight at him.
“Stop armed police! Down on the ground. Do it. Do it now!”
He did.
The officer’s partner did the same, pointing a weapon at Petrova and O’Shea. Scanning the scene, sweeping his weapon in an arc, checking, covering down, scanning, finger off the trigger, safety off and weapon loaded, ready to fire.
“Female next to the Audi. Show me your hands!”
They repeated the drill until all had been considered safe. Cade yelled back. “Police. We are police.”
Roberts’ car pulled up into the junction. Engine hot, brake discs crackling. He was out in seconds. His two staff too.
“DCI Roberts. Operation Orion. The two females are with us.”
“Sir. We need to clear the vehicles.”
“Yes, of course. Go ahead. But for Christ's sake don’t shoot my people.”
The blue BMW, the old brown van and the Audi were cleared. The two surviving occupants of the Audi were cuffed, for safety’s sake, allowing the paramedics to approach.
Cade was allowed to stand. He held his hands in a position that said, ‘I’m on your side.’ He walked towards Petrova.
“You OK?” He smiled the best he could.
“Fine. Absolutely fine. It was good fun.” She shrugged her shoulders. Not a sign of stress. He actually believed her.
“Looks like you have done their job for them.” He nodded back to the uniformed armed staff.
“It was what I was trained to do, Jack. I guess there will be paperwork now?”
Now he smiled more. “I guess. Well done, Elena.” He paused. “Your mother would have been proud of you.”
“She is proud of me, Jack. Every day. I am just not proud of me.”
“Well, you should be.”
“You don’t know me. What we had was brief, and wonderful. You thought I was dead, me too. And anyway, talking of dead, did you see where I led that lot?” She pointed over her shoulder with her right thumb.
“Away from any cameras. I have looked. No one was filming either.”
“You’re certain?”
“I am. Now go to Carrie. She needs you more than I do.” Dismissive.
She looked at him through bright green eyes, wiped her hands through her hair, allowed the adrenaline to dissipate through her body, let herself breathe, paced from foot to foot, then leaned against the Audi, looking at the two dead men and the ambulance staff working on the others, scissors clipping clothing away, bloodied pressure pads being placed and dropped onto the road. Bright red liquid trickling down the road and into the gutter. CPR being performed. Moans of the living, pitiful cries of the dying, the silence of the dead.
“Go on, Jack. Go. Our time is done.” Dismissed.
He wasn’t sure what she meant, but a suburban road was not the place for in-depth discussions.
He walked over to O’Shea who was squatting against the silver car; her back to the prying eyes of the now moving traffic and an arriving film crew.
“Hello Miss O’Shea. You did well. Better sort your mascara out, looks like the BBC is here to film it all for posterity. You OK?”
“Do I look OK? A balding, shattered wreck?”
“You look good enough to me. And besides, I like short hair.”
“Then take me home, Jack, before I wake up from this bloody nightmare.” She looked up, enormous tears about the burst their banks, swallowing hard, breathing shallow.
“Come on, you.” He pulled her into his chest as he stood her up, steadied her for a second and then led her to his car. “Best you don’t look, Elena is pretty ruthless.”
“Attractive and ruthless. What more could any man want?”
“I’ll settle for attractive.”
“Well, you had your chance.”
“I did. And I apologise. I’m here for you whenever you decide to give chance a second go.”
She sniffed a sound that was meant to show her disinterest but it failed. She wanted to hug him, felt lighter, lifted, almost normal.
“Jack?”
�
�Carrie?”
“The Home Secretary did say the cuffs were off, didn’t she? She said we needed to reclaim the streets, didn’t she?”
Cade offered a bemused look. “She did. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just something I need to do. Open that door would you?”
He clicked the large handle that sat among the bright red and yellow striped rear end of an ambulance. He opened the door and saw a paramedic busy finishing off the primary care of the first of two survivors.
Cade winked at the woman who was in her thirties and filled out her one-piece uniform nicely.
“Can we have a minute yet?”
“You can. Don’t be long, we need to get going soon.” She walked, stepped down and out onto the street. “Be my guest.”
Cade entered the ambulance, staring through the tinted glass back out onto the scenes of carnage. O’Shea followed.
“Over to you. I’m looking forward to hearing this.”
She leaned into the bed and spoke. “I know you understand English. So listen carefully. This is my city. I was born here, my mother too, and hers before her. Hitler failed to take it from us and I’ll be damned if you think you can stroll into town in your stolen car, with your cheap gold watch and sneering grin, stripping the city like a plague of locusts.”
He was doing a great job of ignoring her. Lying there, staring at the bright lights and anticipating his future.
“Fine. But I know you heard.” She removed his oxygen mask. “And for the record, whilst I can’t prove it, I know you were back there at the shit hole that you and that gap-toothed clown Constantin kept me in. So here’s some summary justice.”
Her actions caught Cade off guard. He had seen her balled fist as a measure of her anger, not a preparatory act. She pulled her arm back and followed through with one single punch – not a slap – straight into his mouth, splitting the top lip and shattering the enamel on his front tooth.
Then she just stared at him as he lay on the stretcher, cuffed and unable to react.
“Not nice, is it. Anyway, have a nice life.” She stood upright and walked to the door. “I’ll see you outside. I’ll wait in case you need a chat too.” She had left the mask off.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 50
