Shadow Kill: A Strikeback Novel

by Chris Ryan

  ‘Thirty seconds, lads,’ said Dave Kemper, a thickset SO19 officer with a harsh Essex accent. ‘Get ready. And remember, as soon as we’re out of that door, we go silent.’

  Their destination was a three-storey townhouse set a hundred metres down Stradbrooke Road, directly opposite a DIY superstore. According to intel, the leaders of one of Europe’s most feared drug smuggling networks were currently holed up inside the townhouse. Sami Hoda and his brothers Berat and Bekim had risen to become the biggest distributors of cocaine and heroin in the south of England. The brothers used a Lithuanian food import business as a front to bring their product into the UK, smuggling the drugs inside the panelling of lorries belonging to the company. Once across the border the drugs were unpacked at a warehouse before being distributed across London in company-branded delivery vans. From there the drugs were diluted down and sold on to dealers on a consignment basis. These dealers then pushed the product on the streets of some of the most deprived estates in the country. The Hoda brothers had maimed, tortured and murdered their business rivals and made tens of millions in profit from getting people hooked on scag.

  Now they were about to go down, big time.

  Scotland Yard had been running surveillance on the Albanians for the past few months, gathering evidence until they had enough to put Sami Hoda and his crew away for life. Two days ago, they got a lucky break. One of the Hoda brothers’ associates had tortured a dealer they suspected of skimming off a slice of the profits, and left him for dead. But the dealer survived. He spilled his guts to the cops and led them to a lock-up in Hackney registered in the name of Berat Hoda. The cops executed a warrant and discovered bank safes inside the lock-up filled with a hundred kilos of cocaine, fifty kilos of heroin, cutting agents and half a million quid in cash. Now they were moving in on the brothers before they found out about the garage raid and skipped town.

  Surveillance teams had been observing the house for the past twenty-four hours, getting a mark-one eyeball on the targets and noting their movements. The plan was for a multi-floor assault on the property, with three teams moving into position silently before making a hard arrest. From start to finish the op would take sixty seconds.

  There were good reasons for going stealthy. The Albanians were believed to have access to some heavy-duty weaponry and the planners at Scotland Yard didn’t want to take any chances. If everything went to plan, Sami Hoda and his mates would all be wearing silver bracelets before they could get a chance to fight back.

  Which is where Bald and Porter came in.

  Thirteen months ago the two Regiment men had succeeded in taking down a Serbian war criminal who’d masterminded an attack on SAS Selection. Now they were working for MI5 and MI6 full-time on a joint retainer basis, running surveillance ops and snatching targets off the streets and taking orders from a greasy pole-climber in a Savile Row suit called Clarence Hawkridge. The guy ran the Counter-terrorism desk over at Thames House, and he was a first-class prick. Twelve hours ago, Hawkridge had learned about the op to arrest the Hoda clan.

  Eleven hours ago, Hawkridge had reached out to Bald and Porter.

  Unbeknown to the Met, Sami Hoda had been double-dealing with the Firm for the last two years, supplying MI5 with int on the big hitters in the drugs business, in exchange for protection. It was an arrangement both parties were happy to make. The Firm got intelligence on some of the most wanted crime bosses in the country, and Sami Hoda got to stay out of trouble. But if the police took Sami Hoda into custody and he spilled his guts, the whole operation would be blown apart.

  ‘If that happens, chaps, heads will roll,’ Hawkridge had informed them at the briefing the previous evening. ‘The media would have a field day if they learned that Five had been helping a bunch of sadistic Albanian criminals to stay out of trouble. We can’t let that happen, obviously.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Bald had asked.

  ‘There’s only one solution,’ Hawkridge replied in his silvery smooth voice. ‘Sami Hoda has to go. Permanently.’

  Bald and Porter had been placed on the team to make sure that Sami Hoda went down. Now the seconds were ticking down until the op kicked off, and Porter was suffering the effects of the hangover from hell.

  ‘Ready for this, mate?’ asked Bald.

  Porter nodded. ‘I’m fine, Jock.’

  Bald arched an eyebrow. ‘You sure about that? Christ, fucking look at you. You’re shaking like a dog shitting razor blades.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Porter growled.

  But the truth was, he was a long way from fine. A long fucking way. Porter had managed to avoid the drink after transferring from Hereford to the British secret services. Staying off the booze had been a condition of his continued employment with the Firm. But then Diana had served him with the divorce papers. They had been living separately for a couple of years by that point and the divorce didn’t come as a major shock. The real bombshell was in the small print. Diana wanted full custody of their daughter Sandy. The judge agreed. Said Porter didn’t provide a stable home environment. Now he was only allowed to visit Sandy once a month for an hour, with a social worker present at all times. Just like that, Porter’s world fell apart. First his life in the Regiment had been taken away from him. Then the courts had taken his daughter away from him too.

  When you’re a hardened alcoholic, all you need is an excuse. And I’ve got plenty of them, thought Porter. He started sneaking in a few crafty cans after the gym each day. One or two beers quickly became a dozen. Soon he was hitting the bottle. A few slugs of Bushmills in the morning to loosen himself up. Then he’d finish the bottle in the evening and wash it down with several tinnies. Porter knew he had a problem, but he tried to keep it a secret from Bald and his handlers at the Firm. He steered clear of the few off-licences close to his flat and bought most of his drinks from a Turkish supermarket in Kentish Town, always paying in cash and dumping the empty bottles in a bin a few streets away from where he lived. If he needed a drink on the job he’d fill a plastic water bottle with vodka and help himself to the occasional sip. But in spite of his best efforts, Porter knew Bald could see right through him. He was sure of it.

  You can hide the smell on your breath and the empty bottles in the rubbish. But no matter how well you cover your tracks, you can’t hide that glazed look in your eyes.

  The pounding inside Porter’s head grew louder. His right hand trembled. He was sweating hard under his layers. Jesus, he needed a drink.

  Just get through this op. Then you can get back on it. All you’ve got to do is get through the next few minutes without being killed.

  Suddenly the Transit slowed to a crawl. The driver shouted at the guys in the back. That was the signal for the team to debus. Kemper reached forward and grabbed the sliding door handle, then yanked it open. Porter and Bald jumped down from the van to the rain-slicked tarmac. The SO19 guys quickly followed. As soon as the last guy had debussed Kemper pulled the door shut and banged his fist on the side of the Transit. Then the driver pulled away, accelerating east down the street for fifty metres before hanging a left into the DIY store car park. The Transit was a vital part of the team’s cover. Anyone observing the scene would have assumed that the driver was a tradesman pulling in early doors to the local DIY joint. It meant the team could make their approach without arousing the suspicion of anyone bottled up inside the townhouse.

  ‘Fucking move it,’ Bald said.

  The two Blades led the way across the road towards the townhouse, twelve metres away. The street was eerily quiet. A cordon had been set up at either end of the road to cut off traffic, and in the distance Porter could see a bunch of police cars and ambulances parked beyond the tape. On the left side of the road stood the DIY store, surrounded by an ocean of concrete. Opposite the store there was a long row of grimy three-storey townhouses, with a parade of shuttered shops further along. The townhouse belonging to the Hoda brothers stood at the end of the terrace. Porter and Bald moved towards the house, their Timberlands
pounding against the wet concrete. All the lights in the townhouse were turned off, Porter noted. Dirty white curtains had been pulled across the ground-floor windows. The place looked dead.

  Two metres from the porch now. Dave Kemper threw up a hand and ordered his team to a halt. He pointed to Bald and Porter.

  ‘All yours, fellas,’ he whispered.

  The SO19 guys hung back while Bald edged through the gate and crept towards the front door, with Porter close behind. The two Hereford men were the entry team on this op. Which meant they were in charge of picking the lock on the front door and leading the rest of the guys into the stronghold. Once inside, the six SO19 guys would divide into two three-man teams and move into position on the ground and first floors. Bald and Porter would head to the second floor. As soon as everyone was in place they would rush into the rooms, disarm the suspects and drag them away to the reception team waiting outside the police cordon. The intelligence briefing stated that Sami Hoda’s bedroom was on the second floor. Which meant that Bald and Porter would come crashing through his door at the exact moment the SO19 guys were busy sweeping through the lower floors. They would have around fifteen seconds to drop Sami Hoda before the cops came charging up the stairs.

  Porter crouched beside the wall next to the door, his right hand resting on his Glock holster while Bald dropped to one knee beside the front door and angled his head so that the Petzl tactical light was directed at the lock, washing it in a bright red glow. Then he retrieved a standard lock-picking kit from his jeans pocket and set to work. The previous day one of the guys on the surveillance team had taken a photo of the lock using a long-range camera lens, so Bald and Porter knew exactly what type of lock they were dealing with. It was a pin tumbler mechanism, a common lock on older houses. Easy enough to break, for a Blade. The Regiment had its own lock-picking wing. Its guys were often called out by the Met to crack open various doors and lock-ups.

  Bald took out the tension wrench and a titanium pick rake from his kit. He slid the tension wrench into the key hole and applied pressure to the wrench, bending it slightly to force the driver pins inside the lock to rise above the shear line. Then he inserted the pick rake into the top of the lock and started jamming the rake back and forth repeatedly into the keyhole.

  ‘Hurry up, Jock,’ Porter said under his breath as he scanned the street.

  ‘Doing the best I fucking can, mate.’

  ‘Just imagine there’s a pair of tits on the other side.’

  Bald glared at his mucker. He worked the lock some more, scrubbing the rake back and forth until all the pins were set in a line. After a few more twists there was a distinct, soft click as the plug fully rotated and the lock released.

  ‘We’re in,’ Porter whispered over the comms mike.

  Bald slowly pushed the door open, careful not to make any noise. Then he edged stealthily into the hallway. Porter shadowed him, drawing his Glock 17 and scanning the scene in front of him, his ears pricked as he listened for any sound coming from within the house. The place reeked of ganja and sweat. There were takeaway cartons and beer cans all over the place. Porter stilled his breath and stepped deeper into the hallway, eyes gradually adjusting to the half-light. Two metres ahead of him he could see the staircase leading up to the upper floors. The hallway carried on past the stairs into the back of the house. Porter stopped at the foot of the stairs, looked past his shoulder and indicated to Bald: This way. Bald nodded. Behind him, Dave Kemper motioned for the first three-man team to enter the house.

  Porter turned and crept up the stairs, gritting his teeth against the monstrous hangover brewing inside his skull. The treads groaned under his weight. Halfway up he stopped momentarily to glance down at the front door, checking on the other teams. Kemper was leading the ground-floor team towards the bedrooms at the rear of the property. MP5 carbine stocks tucked tight to each man’s shoulder, torch attachments burning on the fore grips. A few steps behind them the second three-man SO19 team was moving into the hallway, six metres behind Bald. Porter faced ahead and continued up the stairs. Another two steps and he hit the first-floor landing. He traced the Glock across his line of sight, searching for the slightest movement.

  Nothing.

  Clear.

  One floor down. One floor to go.

  Porter and Bald inched across the landing and headed for the second flight of stairs, watching their step and taking care to avoid brushing against the crap strewn all over the place. The Hoda brothers might be multi-millionaires, thought Porter, but they lived like scum. Everywhere he looked he saw piles of rubbish, rotting chicken wings and pizza slices, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. In another couple of strides he reached the stairs and climbed towards the bedroom on the top floor. Bald at his six o’clock, the second three-man SO19 on the first-floor landing and moving towards the first closed door.

  In his earpiece Porter heard Kemper saying, ‘Team One ready.’

  Porter and Bald were four steps away from the second-floor landing now. A second voice crackled in his ear. Officer Steve Crabb. The leader of the team covering the first floor. ‘Team Two ready.’

  In the next moment Porter hit the landing. He moved towards the bedroom door and pushed himself against the wall to the left. Bald stopped by the wall on the other side of the door. Both had their weapons drawn.

  ‘Team Three ready,’ said Porter.

  There was a long pause of silence. Two seconds, maybe three. Porter blocked out the pounding headache and tightened his fingers around the Glock 17’s polymer grip. Kemper came back on the comms. ‘Stand by . . . stand by . . . go!’

  Downstairs, everything went real noisy, real fucking quick. The dead stillness was broken as the two SO19 teams crashed into the rooms on the lower floors. Through his earpiece Porter could hear the sharp crack of doors being kicked in, followed by several angry shouts, Dave Kemper yelling at someone to stand still, Steve Crabb shouting: ‘Armed police!’

  As it swung open Porter charged through the door ahead of Bald, his index finger tense on the Glock trigger as he swept his weapon in a broad arc from left to right, eyes scanning the room for any sign of Sami Hoda.

  The room was four metres by four. A street lamp burned outside the window, throwing murky orange light over the interior. There was a TV in one corner of the room with a stack of DVDs and a PlayStation next to it. Bottle of Stolichnaya vodka on the coffee table, plus a couple of joints and a few cans of Tyskie lager. Clothes spilled out of a bin bag stashed in the opposite corner. The bed against the back wall had the sheets pulled back, revealing a stained mattress. The decor was somewhere between student digs and crack den. Whatever Sami Hoda was spending his wonga on, it wasn’t home furnishings.

  Sami Hoda stood next to the bed, dressed in a vest and a pair of boxers. He had a dazed look in his eyes. The guy stared at Porter, a look of confusion playing out on his acne-riddled face. By now Bald had pushed through the doorway. He stood at Porter’s shoulder, his Glock trained on the Albanian.

  ‘Police, police!’ Porter shouted, loud enough that the guys on the other assault teams would pick up his voice over the comms. ‘Stand still! Stand still!’

  Sami Hoda did as he was told. His eyes darting between Bald and Porter. Through his earpiece Porter could hear one of the suspects shouting at the cops in his guttural foreign tongue. Another twenty seconds, he figured, and the other two teams would have their targets secured.

  Porter nodded at Bald. The Jock nodded back. Let’s do this.

  Porter holstered his Glock and rushed over to Sami Hoda. Bald stood just inside the doorway, keeping the business end of his pistol aimed at the Albanian. Hoda kept looking from Bald to Porter and shaking his head. Like maybe if he shook his head enough times, his problems would magically disappear.

  ‘You can’t fucking do this,’ he said. ‘This is a big mistake.’

  Porter ignored him. He brushed past the Albanian and dropped down beside the bed. According to the Firm’s briefing, the guy kept an illegal
weapon in a shoebox underneath the bed. Porter thrust an arm under the bed and found a shoebox shoved way back. He grabbed it, pulled it out and lifted the lid. Nestled inside was a stainless-steel pistol that Porter recognised as an old Czech CZ 75 semi-automatic. Nine-millimetre, twelve-round mag, hammer-forged barrel. Solid but unspectacular. As you might expect from the nation that designed the Skoda. He tugged back the slider, saw a round glinting dully in the chamber. Then he shot to his feet and turned to face the target.

  Sami Hoda glanced over his shoulder at Porter. He caught sight of the CZ 75 in Porter’s grip and his eyes went so wide they looked as if they might pop out of his skull. ‘That’s not mine. I don’t know how that shit got there.’

  ‘Hands behind your back,’ Bald demanded.

  The guy stopped protesting and fell silent. He sighed and faced forward, presenting his wrists to Porter. Like this was no big deal. Like he figured that in a couple of hours he’d get on the blower to his source at MI5 and walk away free.

  He figured wrong.

  Porter manoeuvred so that he was standing just behind and to the right of the Albanian. He flipped up the safety lever on the side of the CZ 75 receiver with his thumb and raised the weapon. Lined up the wall half a metre to the right of Bald between the front post and rear notch sights. Relaxed his forearm, tensed his shoulder muscles.

  Squeezed the trigger twice.

  The room lit up. The CZ barked. The muzzle flashed. Two rounds exploded out of the pistol snout. The sound was deafening. Porter felt the CZ recoil in his grip as he fired. The first bullet struck the wall roughly twelve inches to the right of Bald, embedding itself in the brickwork. The second round hit the doorframe less than six inches from Bald and tore a chunk out of the wooden frame, showering him in needle-like splinters. Bald instinctively flinched. It took him half a second to shift his firing stance. Then he lined up Sami Hoda’s head between the sights on his Glock. Porter jumped back from the guy, stepping out of the killing zone.