Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  “Jason. How are you?” His voice was hollow.

  “I’m chipper, my old mate. You?” Adrenaline-fuelled.

  “Keeping my hand in. You all OK over there on the southside?”

  “Well, I’ve had quieter days. I’ve got a SOCO on the way and a couple of the team to try to seal off the area. It’s like the Wild West over here.”

  “Can’t be any worse than here, mate. I’ve got three…” He looked up to see O’Shea holding up another finger. “I’ve got four bodies over here.”

  Roberts asked the obvious question.

  “Stefan and two of what turned out to be his team. All came to an abrupt end at the hands of our overseas team member.”

  “I knew it. I said that goggle-eyed bastard wasn’t to be trusted. Didn’t I Jack? Eh?”

  “Yes, you did. And you were right. It turns out blood is thicker.”

  “Three guesses about this side. Go on, have a go, you’ll never get it.”

  “Can I phone a friend?”

  “Who would you phone?”

  “JD.”

  “Well, that’s not fair he’s stood right alongside me. Go on, tell me who I’ve got lying on the ground here and who else is in the back of a car with a severely broken arm?”

  “With any luck, Constantin is screaming in pain from a peculiar injury. But I’m stuck at that point. Enlighten me.”

  “Halford. He’s been shot, Jack. Dead as the proverbial nail. Hewett was here too, and Bridie. Bridie didn’t do it, as much as she might have wanted to. And Hewett left before we got back to the scene, it was all Agatha Christie until JD took a call.”

  “Who from?”

  “Hewett.”

  “Nice, leaves the scene of the crime then rings in, all concerned, he’s always been a great actor.”

  “A little less subtle, Jack. He said that he didn’t kill Halford. Reckons another round hit him. The only person there was him, so it’s a case of his word and all that. But he was adamant it was a high velocity round. Kind of explains the noise we heard. JD looked at the entry wound. I know you’ll hate me for saying this, Jack, but the minister was hit from your side of the river.”

  “Sniper?”

  “As good as. At least someone who could shoot in these conditions and make it count. Fuck me Jack, the police minister has been shot during our operation. The Home Secretary will have my balls for a bacon sandwich.”

  “Not sure about that, she hated him too, and from memory she’s a vegan.”

  “Pescatarian. I don’t think Sassy Lane is capable of firing one round, let alone one at a target hundreds of metres away in a Force Ten gale.”

  “I grant you that. But she could have ordered it. You believe Hewett?”

  Roberts paused. “Yes, for some reason I do.”

  “Then we may never know. What’s the river like over there?”

  “Wet, brown, flowing upstream just the same as your river.”

  “Arsehole. It seems to be calming a little over here. It will subside once the tide turns again. We may have been lucky for once.”

  Roberts was distracted. His hearing had always been his finest sense.

  “Jack. What’s that infernal bloody racket in the background?”

  “A million tonnes of water, a hurricane and a rather irate Yorkshireman?”

  “No, that screaming sound? It’s like a high-pitched bark.”

  “Oh, that’ll be someone screaming Jason. Down in one of the gates, Gate Kilo to be precise.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “He calls himself the Jackdaw. Europe’s most-wanted criminal. Nasty piece of work by all accounts. He’s more like a cormorant at the moment, knee deep in river water and has no way of getting out. The ultimate caged animal.”

  “You know you actually should sound a little more concerned about him, don’t you?”

  “I should?”

  “So other than a captive and very pissed off sea lion, is everyone else alright?”

  “Yep, the whole team came through. Sorry, hang on a moment. He’s gone quiet.” Cade looked around, down at the water, which was beginning to calm. Then he looked at the people he considered colleagues and friends.

  “I think he’s gone, Jason. Put up a hell of a fight, though. I’d have preferred a one to one with him like they do in the films. Oh, Christ!”

  “Jack? Jack?”

  “What’s happening?” Daniel asked, muscles tensing.

  “No idea. Hang on. Jack!” He yelled down the phone.

  “It’s like that scene in Love Actually Jason. Elena’s gone in. I’ll ring you back.”

  By the time he had thrown the phone back at O’Shea she had disappeared beneath the surface. The river was hostile at the best of times, but in flood, in the dark and alone, it was lethal.

  “What the actual bloody hell?” O’Shea had joined Francis and McCall at the safety barrier.

  The Yorkshireman was dialling a number on his phone.

  ‘Not today. I’m nearly bloody well retired! Not today. Do you hear me?’

  McCall was ripping his trousers down and off, his jacket too.

  “No, Scott! No. You do not go in there.”

  “Jack. I don’t take orders from you, and besides, I have to. I think this was the reason I came. OK.” His look said please, his physical stance said ‘Don’t.’

  “No, Scott, the reason you came was because you wanted to purge your soul. Stay here. I’ll get the Met to send a boat.”

  “Jack, she’ll be dead by then.” It was O’Shea. “God alone knows why she’s gone in, but Scott’s right. At least let’s get some life belts in there.”

  She threw one over the rail, only to watch it spin out of sight, into the dark. She threw another.

  “Lady, will you just wait till you see someone before you hurl all my bloody life preservers over the side!” The Yorkshireman’s day had just got worse.

  “Jack, she hasn’t come up yet.” Francis had a torch, commandeered from the Yorkshireman. He was pointing it over the side, scanning the water. “Nothing.”

  “Then I’m going in. Give me that.” McCall grabbed the torch and the belt, tied it to his midriff and leapt over the side. It looked like another day at the office for the Kiwi.

  It was a hell of a jump. He hit the surface hard, then dipped beneath and was gone.

  She was at the entrance to the gate. Trying to open her eyes, clinging to the rails with all the strength she had left. It was freezing. The sheer cold was crushing her. Where was he? She hit the rails with her hand.

  He could hear her. Banging on the rail. She was there. She had come back, he knew it was her. He reached out, automatically, but without hands he was useless. He had two choices. Leave the air pocket or take a chance. He couldn’t even shoot himself. He had never felt so desperately alone. Pazardzhik seemed like the Hilton in comparison.

  She was fighting now, losing air rapidly. Then she felt something. A limb, it was him. She grabbed it and started to pull. She opened her eyes, and he was in front of her, floating, his own black eyes staring back. He had a look of realisation, of panic. A haze of red surrounded him.

  The tide was dragging them away from the gate, turning them around, disorientating them, draining every last ounce of oxygen from their lungs. She saw Cynthia, drifting by, helpless. Then she saw her mother. An angel in the water. Lighting the path.

  For Elena, it was time to make a decision. Let go and save herself or try to save them both, father or not, she still had some questions for him. She tried to kick to the surface, but it was impossible, bubbles left her mouth, she could hear herself screaming. He was too. The Jackdaw was yelling something under the water. It was a blur, the noise of the water and her heartbeat and sheer blind terror.

  She began to float upstream with the tide. Wave after wave battered her. The Thames had never been so turbulent.

  Then, from somewhere, she was snatched from the jaws of the final wave. A tanned male hand, strong from years of training, fighting and s
urvival pulled her towards an equally strong torso. The faceless figure held her tightly, then kicked, and kicked and kicked, gaining a few inches with each stroke. She clung to the person as if her life was in resting in his hands. She was seconds away from life.

  She was back, on the empty road in New Zealand – Godzone the locals called it. She was back, in the car, on its roof, trapped, alone and dying. Watching the blood drip from its wound; drip, drip, drip, each droplet splattering in nine different directions. She watched each one.

  She was watching the Fantail too, with its curious flight and inquisitive face. Hearing the cubes of safety glass popping on the highway, smelling the metallic tang of fresh blood.

  The voice spoke to her again.

  “It’s OK, miss. Truly.”

  He surfaced first, then her, then the life belt which shot out of the water behind them. He drifted on the current, guiding her to the guardian angel that had arrived in the form of a simple white circle. She grabbed onto it, cleared the water from her eyes.

  “You saved me again. You bloody crazy man. Crazy…”

  “I’m sure you’ll forgive me in the long run, miss.”

  “Elena, please,” she said, shivering violently. She looked up at the barrier, it was vast, dwarfing them. But she was safe. She was with him and she was safe. She leant back against him as he reached for another life belt, thrown by O’Shea.

  “Looks like they made it. I think she’s finally found her true knight.”

  “I’m glad.” Cade looked at her raised eyebrows and smiled.

  “No really Carrie. It wouldn’t have worked. She needs a younger man who can keep up with her endless advances.”

  “You sound envious.”

  “I’ve always got you.”

  “Oh, as chat up lines go, that’s up there with the best of the ones I used to get at the Friday night youth club.”

  “It’s a start. Take it or leave it.” Cade shivered, it was minus two and a mist was forming on the water. His teeth hurt. “We really should get them some help.”

  “Dave has already put the call in. He’s appeasing the guy from Yorkshire. Apologising for breaking his toys.”

  “Why do you think she went in? I told her Blake was her real father.”

  “Sometimes Jack you just don’t understand women do you?”

  “Next you’ll be quoting Mars and Venus.”

  “Next I’ll be giving you a bloody slap. Come on, let’s do what we need to do. The place will be crawling with uniforms in no time. I’ve had enough for one day.”

  Earlier, the man on the rooftop, across the water, lay prone in the cold night air. He had carried out his instructions, to the letter. The whole operation had taken days to plan. It was his turn to cleanse his soul, he asked for nothing from his client and expected nothing in return.

  This was a contract sealed with one man’s word to another. No meeting, no follow up, no chain of evidence. Nothing recorded and less written down.

  His eye met the black cup on the powerful scope. It didn’t steam up, his body was as cold as the weapon. A night shot, in conditions that were far from ideal he saw it as a challenge and an even greater opportunity. He came from the same stock as the man he now focused on. The difference was he had left the clan and joined the enemy – in his case the government. He’d risen through the ranks and had become an outstanding Intelligence Officer and one who had skills to burn.

  He had come to hate the government though when they turned upon him and sought to destroy him. And so he became nomadic, a mercenary who sought out opportunities to strike back at governments. He had connections aplenty. The problem was his connections were a web and latterly he had become the fly stuck in the middle.

  ‘This one job will clear you of all of your debts. To this country and your own. You will never have to look over your shoulder again.’

  It was that one sentence that drove him to climb the stairs to the top of the building where he found the right platform for himself and his weapon – a suppressed Lobaev M2.

  He had personally visited the factory, on Lenin Street, in the Russian town of Kaluzhskaya Oblast. They provided what he requested, and ensured complete discretion, naturally.

  He had purchased the rounds, just ten, from another old friend behind what had been for so long a curtain of iron. They were handcrafted. He thought of them as a work of art. The Lapua open-tipped, boat tailed rounds were beautiful, smoother than satin, intricately machined and deadly. He loaded each one, taking time to ensure they were seated perfectly. The magazine was quietly locked into place and a round chambered. He was as quiet as a barn owl.

  His gossamer leather glove stretched across his fingers then pressed down slightly onto the trigger, just enough to feel the tension, not enough to release it. He breathed, minimising the cold air that was trying to divulge his presence to another person who shared his art form.

  He scanned the horizon, allowed his night vision to settle, then ran the scope across the barrier. Saw the group trying desperately to raise the gate. Focused upon the man kneeling on the floor, holding his hands in pain. He nodded gently. Jack Cade. He’d recognise him anywhere now.

  Cade had become one of the few men he trusted. He allowed the scope to remain, the microscopic cross hairs sitting perfectly on his forehead. At eight-hundred-and-sixty metres a second. That was it. All it took for the boat tailed thing of beauty to leave the lightweight rifle, whip across the water, and end Cade’s life. In the time it took him to blink. In the time it took him to think about blinking.

  He scanned again, warmed up now. No risk of fogging up the glass. Five people, no six. One in the shadows, no, two. Six people, four visible, two in the shadows. One female, pretty, nice eyes, perfect skin, angry persona. She was an ally, too. He’d ignore her as she wasn’t a threat and more importantly, wasn’t his target.

  The males were next. The shadowy one was harder to identify, but the fact that he was hidden meant he was an ally. The two suited men were police, no doubt about that. They bled their professions.

  The crawling, fractured-smiled nomad on the concrete was Constantin.

  ‘Look at you, you despicable little bastard. I should use one of these rounds as a practice. Finish off that bitter and twisted smile.’

  He breathed again. Waited. Felt the wind buffeting him, watched in awe as nature took on the city. Watched the water pounding against the barrier. Waited. Exhaled. Fired.

  He didn’t need to make a call ‘It is done.’ He didn’t need to do anything. They trusted his word.

  He was moving before the target had dropped to the floor. He was supremely confident. The best rifle in the world had been matched with a highly capable operator. A match made in hell.

  Cade heard it. Kneeling there with his hands wrapped against the cold. He swore he heard it. A low-pitched whistle, different to the gust that battered them. It was man-made, rapid, a one-off. He heard it.

  When they had achieved what they had set out to do, he asked for a moment, a few minutes to just stand on the walkway and look out across the city. He reflected upon the events of the last few days, weeks and that one day on his past when the girl had entered his life. She had opened up her soul to him; he hadn’t even asked. Trust was a two-way street. He made her a promise, then broke it. Promised to care for her. To take the information she had provided and do something positive with it. It had cost Nikolina her life.

  Cade knew that the toughest operations came at a cost, financially and often in human terms too. He was, what his old sergeant had once called, eloquently a shit magnet. And he needed a break. Leaning against the railing, it would have been easy to tumble, to fall into the maelstrom and be at peace. But at what cost?

  He shook the thoughts clear, took one last look at the city skyline and began to walk away. He stopped when he saw McCall’s clothing. Bent down and picked it up. Wrapped the items into a ball and stuck them under his arm. If he hadn’t been so attuned to his surroundings, he would have missed the soun
d.

  Of glass onto concrete. Twice.

  He looked at the concrete with its anonymous surface and plain colours and saw a sparkling shape smiling back up at him. He picked it up, then the one next to it. They had stopped inches away from the edge. He ran them around in the palm of his hand. Surely not?

  He felt in the pocket of the trousers that McCall had discarded without a thought.

  “Well, bugger me.” Cade couldn’t help but smile. “You clever boy.”

  Chapter 64

  The Sanctuary, London

  Roberts had intended to gather the team at their usual pub on the day that weather records were set to be broken. The day that the Met Office had predicted could be the worst in history. However, Mother Nature held something back in reserve and the lions managed to hold their breath for another day, their Verdigris coating covered only up the eyes.

  The Metropolitan Police, London Fire Brigade and Port of London Authority control centres had been overloaded with calls. Try as they might the Op Orion team could not hold back the calls, for as much as they wanted the city and its people not to know it was far too obvious that Old Father Thames was having a dark day. The river was too important to be ignored by a city and its inhabitants, many of whom watched and prayed that the barrier would do its job.

  It did, and valiantly. The water levels had never been higher. Some localised flooding happened east of the barrier, a few boats were damaged, and insurance companies prepared for a deluge of their own.

  The storm and the tidal surge had lived to fight another day – the great city of London too. The surge returned back out into the estuary and washed down stream, along the Kent coast, whipping up waves and eroding sand banks and snapping at jetties.

  For many Orion staff the day extended and extended, some got home earlier the next day, some bunked down in the office, making a bed out of whatever they could find. It was typical with any police operation that just when you thought you were done, there was always another form to fill or a statement to obtain.