Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  “Do you know what she needed to say?”

  “No, Sorry. But it was important. She said she could kill him. I took that as a casual, throwaway line. I say it about my missus all the time.”

  Roberts rubbed his eyes vigorously. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually slept. He could easily kill someone too.

  And he could murder a cup of tea.

  Cade was being escorted down into the corridor system. He flagged for the three people behind him to stop. The only noise they could hear was the constant straining of the tide against the building. It sounded like a hurricane, trying to suck the air out of the place, pushing, pounding, wilful.

  “Where does this go?”

  “Each pier is given a letter – A to K. Bigger than they look up top, aren’t they?”

  “Much. Where would you head – to cause the greatest damage?”

  “The middle two, my friend. That’s where the greatest pressure is.”

  “Come on, let’s go. I’m right alongside you.” He showed the Glock to the Nigerian immigrant who had learned to love his adopted city.

  The very black man stopped in his tracks. He’d seen death before, but not for years and never in his place of work.

  In a recess that housed myriad pipes and lights, a man was slumped against the wall. A pool of blood surrounded him, trailing back to where he had been killed. It was dark red, almost black, aging and no longer able to sustain life. He had at least three gunshot wounds.

  Cade lowered himself down, lifted his head. He knew the face immediately. So did O’Shea.

  “One down. All we need to know now is if he was a friend or a foe.”

  They moved on, passing two more bodies, both with their throats cut.

  “Professional job Jack.” Francis had seen plenty of bodies, and all in his place of work.

  “Yep. And I suspect it is the work of a friend, not a foe.”

  The Nigerian shook his head. “I am not going any further. Over to you guys.”

  The newspaper headlines were set in place.

  ‘STORM SURGE.’

  ‘CITY UNDER SIEGE.’

  But one journalist had a different headline ready to release.

  ‘THE SECRET IS OUT.’

  The demand finally arrived in the form of a sentence within a web page.

  A COBRA analyst found it, tried to retrace the steps, but failed. The amount was ludicrous and the nature of the threat implausible.

  ‘Transfer the money. Provide immunity to the following people.’

  The analyst briefed those present.

  Many of the names were lower-level criminals, but all had a common link. He continued to quote from the demand.

  ‘Do this by fourteen hundred today.’

  “High tide, sir. I can’t think of any other reason.”

  ‘Do all of this without announcing a word to the outside world – or we will release the final part of the most damning media report in British history. It will make all other conspiracy theories appear feeble.’

  “I’m not sure what that part means, sir.”

  So the secret wasn’t entirely out.

  ‘Failure to comply will see countless lives lost and the destruction of the reputation, economic stability and respect of the City of London.’

  “This part is beyond question, sir.”

  Cole whispered to Lane. “Well? What are your bloody people doing to stop this?”

  “Everything. Everything they can, sir. You have my word.”

  “And Halford?”

  “As good as dead.”

  She stepped out of the room. Dialled a number.

  “Do whatever it takes, DCI Roberts. You have my blessing and the backing of the government. I will personally brief your Commissioner that a higher-level security threat to the city is being dealt with, and that for now, that is all he needs to know. Either way, it won’t go down well.”

  “Like a leaden fart, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure if I knew what you meant I’d laugh Mr Roberts. Now go and sort this out. Please. And if any of your team leak this to the press, I will re-open the Tower of London. No en-suite. No free paper. And absolutely no mini bar.”

  McGee was in place. She knew better than to let her heart rule her head. So wait it would be. She had all day. All night if necessary.

  Hewett was close too. He had the rest of his life. What he knew kept him going, drove him. He had risked his own life once, twice actually and was most willing to try once more. Someone had once talked of a dish of revenge being best served cold. He liked his slightly warm; it tasted better that way.

  He checked his watch. A new one, a Tudor Pelagos, another to add to the collection. Silver strap, black face, a dominant luminous ‘snow flake’ on the tip of the hour hand. Would be useful later, when the sun went down, which at this time of the year was soon.

  He sat and watched the second hand sweep around the face. Lost himself for a minute. Wondered why he was sat, alongside the river waiting for a man he hardly knew to give him one opportunity to stamp him into the ground.

  Another minute passed.

  Cade moved forward. He wished O’Shea had stayed behind with the Nigerian. Nice and safe. But he also knew to ask her to do so was likely to be far more dangerous. Francis was an old hand at this game. His actions told Cade that something had clicked, that he had found himself once more.

  Beneath the surface the noise was becoming unbearable, pounding water mixed with hydraulics, steel clashing against steel, unidentifiable hisses and deep bass sounds, echoes in some far-flung corner.

  Cade imagined what it would be like to explore the place without light. He’d searched an old mental hospital as a junior police officer once. At first it was exciting, then, later, when the lights faded and finally went out, the place took on a different persona. Dark corridors, half-open doors, staircases. Old medical apparatus left in situ, waiting for an apparition to return to it. Scary shadows, arcane noises, voices.

  This was different. This was the Industrial Giant versus Mother Nature.

  He stopped. Dead. And so did his team. A door was opening ahead. They looked for cover; they were in No Man’s Land. Cade held his pistol out, punched in front of him in a reactionary move. O’Shea had mirrored his every move, over his shoulder. Damn, it would get noisy if they started a gunfight.

  Ahead, the barrel of a pistol appeared. Then arced, to the left. A hand followed. The body behind it spun, and the weapon was up and facing Cade. He called first.

  “Armed Police. Put down your weapon. Do it now!” It was muscle memory.

  “And if I don’t?” A voice that displayed no fear at all. Foreign, with a double helping of sensual.

  “Then you know what I will do.”

  “I think we all know you don’t have the guts.”

  O’Shea interrupted. “Can we save the flirting till another time? Please.”

  Elena appeared. She looked cold, but as dynamic as ever. She lowered her weapon.

  “So Cade, have you worked it out yet?”

  “The meaning of life?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. Have you worked out why Alex is here? Who he really is?”

  “Well, I know he says he’s your father. And I guess he’s here because he wants to play the big scary international criminal who can do whatever he likes, piss the world off, then escape into the sunset without so much as a leaving party. Close?”

  “Nowhere near close. But we don’t have time. I need to find him. Will you help?”

  “One team, one dream?”

  “Again Cade, no idea what you are talking about.” I think he is this way.”

  “Elena, two questions before we go.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Perhaps later. One, who do you think Alex is, really? And two, where is the nice young detective that was supposed to be looking after you?”

  “OK, I answer. One I know who he is, I just need to talk to him one last time. Two, he was a boy.
And as you know Jack, I only play with big boys.” She tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows, in a move that instantly reminded Cade why he found her so attractive and pissed off O’Shea at the same time.

  “Oh, please.” O’Shea probably meant it to be heard.

  “Carrie. He’s yours. I was only a…summer plaything. Like a sand castle, beautiful, surrounded by seashells, then washed away on the next tide. I have the big fish to fry.”

  She turned, and soon a fast walk became a run. They reached the door to Pier K.

  Roberts and Daniel were also making progress in another direction.

  “This a good idea, John? We have so many specialists that are actually trained for this shit.”

  “Oh, come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “JD, when was the actual last time you fired a weapon in anger?”

  “1989.”

  “Exactly. And what was that all about?”

  “I shot my partner. He was irritating me.”

  “After you, sir.”

  In the gate, strapped to a length of steel, Alex finally found what he was looking for. He held it aloft, up into the light as a new father might hold his son.

  “I told you we would find it.”

  Constantin was the more relieved of the two men. They moved slowly towards the grey light that indicated their future.

  “Is it all dry?”

  “Uncle, they say these cases can float. Of course it is dry.”

  “Good. Do guns still fire if they are wet too, Alex?”

  “Yes, of course, you could fire it under water if you wanted to. Why?”

  “Because I feel we are not just going to walk out of here without a fight.”

  Across the Thames Halford adjusted his gaze, refocused, then watched again. His chosen observation point allowed a clear view of the pier and the men as they began their exit from the gate. He ran his finger over his phone, teasing the screen.

  “Have you ever read a book, that takes ages to get going, then suddenly you find yourself there, at the end, shaking with adrenaline, hoping it doesn’t end and wondering how you managed to read a hundred pages in ten minutes?”

  “No boss, can’t say I have. Do you recommend it?”

  “No. But it reminds me of now. Talking of which you need to go. Fifteen minutes to go. Look after yourself out there.”

  The PPO walked a short distance to an anonymous saloon car, opened it with the key and drove off.

  Alex and Constantin slipped, grabbed hold, waded and made their way to the opening. Alex held the Pelican as if their lives depended on it.

  “What about the phone, Alex? We need the phone.”

  “Not now. Leave it. Now we have this, we wait five minutes, then we make our move. They will come soon.”

  He looked across the river, scanning the horizon. The sky was so dark the tower blocks had started to light up, one office after the other, street lamps followed and the safer drivers illuminated their headlights.

  Only a few paces away, the main access door opened.

  And there he was. The Bushman. Mack the knife. Call him what you will.

  And he was in perfect range.

  Alex pointed to him and hissed. “Shoot him!”

  Constantin levelled the weapon and fired. Had he have aimed, he would have hit the soldier. First mistake. He fired again, giving away their position. Second.

  McCall fired back with relentless accuracy, on the move, five rounds straight at the gate. They heard it in the control room. They heard it in the corridors. They heard it across the river. They heard it over the roar of the river.

  The bullets struck the huge metal structure, shattering and striking anything that got in their way. A piece of shrapnel hit Constantin in the hip, drove deeper into his muscles and tendons, detaching them from the bone. He let out a pitiful scream. Then dropped.

  Alex dragged him to cover. He pointed his index finger at him, gained his attention.

  “You will be OK. Keep shooting back, one shot every twenty seconds. Let me make a move. I will come back. I won’t leave you here.”

  Constantin did as his nephew asked. McCall knew he was also pinned down. He heard a bang, quieter than a gunshot, but it was near.

  Alex had thrown the case, out into the open and now it sat, waiting to be claimed. The single most important set of documents in living memory were now in a plastic case on a windswept deck next to an angry river.

  The RIB appeared, skating across the flooded Thames. Black, with black superstructure, a cockpit, of sorts up front, the blisteringly white logo on the side. MP10, they called her. One of the Met Police’s fast boats and used by its specialist units. Today it had one occupant.

  It swung in a wide arc across the water, with no other river traffic it had a free reign. McCall heard it. Smiled to himself. ‘The cavalry are here.’

  Then he heard a noise behind him, purposeful, but friendly.

  “Scott. Lower your weapon.” Cade knew McCall was a threat if cornered or surprised.

  “Boss. How’s it going? Bit pinned down here, not used to working alone. By now my team would have ripped those bastards a new arsehole.”

  “Nicely put. You’re the tactician, what do you suggest?”

  “Can’t smoke ‘em out. No flashbangs. Plenty of bullets. They may have too. I’ve had a quick look. They are stuck in one of the gates, also pinned down. The Jackdaw is wanting to leave. He’s got a case. And somewhere I can hear a RIB out on the water. We need to identify that. Should be one of yours?” He looked at the group.

  “No idea. So we wait?” O’Shea didn’t know the answer either.

  While they planned their attack Alex was out, and running.

  The RIB swung violently, the driver, dressed in a black one-piece was cutting across the wild water that churned and twisted, powering up and out of the base of the gates which had now been eased open, just enough to reduce the pressure.

  The rain was hammering into his face, sideways, cutting through him, to the bone. He fought against the flow, powered into tempest, backed off, then waited, accelerated, then carried out the whole activity again.

  He pointed to the river, making it clear that today, there was no other option. Alex waved wildly, the wind buffeting him, clawing at the case.

  There was no way. He simply couldn’t go into the water. Regardless of the weather, the flood, his reputation as a hardened and unpleasant criminal, Alex, the Jackdaw, could not swim. It may have explained his unrelenting fascination for drowning people.

  He ran, back along the rails, back towards the gate, away from where he needed to be. Like an indecisive and headless chicken.

  He climbed back in as McCall fired again. He was safe. But for how long?

  “Brother…my uncle…I need you to help me. I cannot go into that river. You can swim. You escaped from these people once before, remember?”

  Constantin flashed back, beneath London, in an old river outlet not so far away, under water, unable to see, leaving behind that girl, tied to the fence, dead.

  “And what must I do?”

  “Get to the boat. He will take you away, to safety, they won’t touch you. Take the case, give it to the man. This is bigger than both of us now. Go and don’t look back. I will get away from here. You know I always do. A Jackdaw has more lives than a cat.”

  Seeing the RIB arrive on the water was the signal. The driver was struggling to get to them, not even close.

  He nodded, exhaled deeply, then hovered his finger over the iPhone, then hesitated. He tapped the same finger onto the dashboard of the luxury car, waved it across the screen, adjusting his Bailey Nelson art deco glasses onto his nose, clarifying everything.

  Then he chose his favoured track, which announced itself with gusto via the Meridian sound system.

  The tenor sang his heart out, sheltering him from the rain and the wind and everything that threatened to ruin his day.

  Leather seats, walnut dashboard, deep pile carpets. He l
eant back in the driver’s seat and closed his eyes.

  Of thunder and of brimstone should they perish,

  Anyone who would flee the glorious place,

  When our land or our mother, with a sorrowful heart,

  Will ask us to cross through swords and blazing fire.

  He thought of the men and women who had spurned him, the people that had talked behind his back, mocked him, despised him, and the country that had discreetly adopted him and the one that he called home.

  Could he really do it to them?

  Absolutely.

  He ran his finger across the phone, allowed the device to read his index print, piece by precious piece, until the whole pattern had formed. He had arches on his fingerprints, rare, only about five percent of the population had them. He held it for one more second as the signal left the phone, went to a server, was processed, then returned to its recipient in a microsecond.

  Should he?

  Absolutely.

  Cade gathered everyone around him. “Right, the way I see it the fewer people we expose to danger the better. Scott, you in?”

  He nodded, smiling.

  “Right, that’s that sorted then.”

  “Whoa, hang on here, what gives you the right to charge off into the night like Butch and Sunset?”

  “It’s dance ma’am.” McCall gave her his best smile, tanned, five o’clock shadow, piercing eyes and a look of complete control. His clipped southern hemisphere accent was evident. “Look, the boss here makes total sense, reduce the odds. If we get taken out then by all means, you can follow us. I don’t see the boys in the black pyjamas zip-lining down from helicopters. Do you?”

  “And what about me?” Elena was defiant. “I have not come all this way to watch. I am here for a reason.” She pushed herself forward, edging O’Shea out of the way.

  “I have to take your place, Jack. I am trained. She is not. Look at your hands, they are ruined. You cannot shoot like that. I can.”

  He looked at both of his hands. She was right; they were ripped to shreds, still bleeding and way beyond being able to control a weapon, let alone fire it.