I spot that first glint through the swirling smoke, train my sights on it, confirm that it is my opposition. Tactical glasses on the back of a man's head, as he faces the wrong way. I drop the barrel sharply down a degree, then right a degree, and squeeze off one shot. The target pitches forward. The bullet will have hit low in the shoulder blade, exiting right at the top of the chest. Not a kill strike, by design. A put-down strike. I don't want to murder all these guys if I can avoid it. They may not know what they have got themselves into.
The smoke lifts a little, and I see two more men, turning to see their fallen comrade. As they turn, I tag them both, aiming roughly for the same spot as the first. They both go down, although I can't confirm exactly where they were hit thanks to the smoke. I'll worry about that later.
Thick smoke from directly above the explosion begins to descend from the ceiling and settle thickly around me, at the end of the corridor to the front door. There's a ping and whizz of return fire, over my head, but I don't feel the whistle of a bullet so it mustn't have been that close. I hug the left-hand corridor entrance with my shoulder, keeping my eye firmly down the barrel. A couple more bullets ping off, but they seem random, without clear purpose. They are unsure of what to do, although I know there must be more armed police down there, and with the smoke receding, I should be able to see them.
The wall around my head cracks angrily, plaster and wood splitting a halo around me, and I drop to my knees. Nearly saw me off, that. Tighten up, Ben, come on. The debris spray was at such an angle that the shooter could only be to my right, back by the lift. I gamble on his position in the smoke, remembering the open doorway to the restaurant, catch sight of a shape in black and fire three quick shots in rapid succession. At least two of the shots hit home and he falls backward immediately, but I know I might have killed this one. That's half of the bottom team out of action, which ain't bad going. But the smoke screen is lifting, and I can see that further down the corridor, there is a lot more cover behind which to hide, and certainly a lot more chance of me getting shot going down it.
If I was going on foot, I'm sure that I'd be getting close to five stories down now, so I retreat back to the lift, where Amina is on her knees with her hands over her ears. To the right of the lift, is the entrance to the stairs, which is where the team from above will suddenly emerge. I reach into the lift and grab Amina by the hand, dragging her towards the kitchen.
'How are we doing?' she asks.
'Quiet!' I whisper harshly.
We run across the threshold, into the spacious white dining room, half-eaten breakfasts still on the tables, to see the last of the diners scurrying through the rear kitchen doors - when a hand grabs my throat and squeezes with clawing fingers. Amina screams - I think - and it hurts like all hell. There must have been two in the dining room, hiding behind the door frame. Stupid, stupid Ben. I can almost feel my trachea being ripped from its muscle housings, the tendons ripping stringily, but I sail my left elbow back into my assailants ribs as hard as I can. If this move connects well, the target should have the air forced right out of him by the harsh impact, and I assume that happens given that it elicits a spluttered cough from the man gripping my throat. The pressure on my neck reduces a touch, so I throw my head back at top speed, which both rips my neck free from the grip but cracks the back of my head off my adversary's forehead. I see stars, no joke - they pinwheel from one side to the other - and I think I split the back of my head open.
I right myself instantly, when I see the second OSU team appear in the destroyed lobby. I squeeze off a few rounds down into the space, scattering them like roaches.
'Run, to the kitchen,' I gurgle, my throat struggling to recover, and Amina starts sprinting, as my immediate opponent recovers enough to throw a right hook. I grimace, instinct initiating autopilot, and before I know what I have done, I've caught the swinging wrist, twisted it and driven my right shoulder through the elbow joint, snapping it the wrong way. That's him done.
He flops backward, and doesn't go down immediately, which stops any of his colleagues returning fire straight away. It gives me the second I need to dive over the nearest table just as it gets shot to pieces, raining glass, cutlery and scrambled eggs in all directions. I hope Amina made it.
I crawl immediately back under the table I just jumped over, beneath the long white table cloth, and poke the gun barrel through the draped cloth on the other side. I see legs moving into the door way, and spray an even burst of gunfire into the group at shin height. Three more men fall, bullets smacking their legs from under them. I turn again, and crawl out, staying low, and making a break for the kitchen door, which I see Amina scamper through. I make it, just as gunfire erupts again by the kitchen door.
I'm through, into a broad kitchen space, that is already empty save for Amina, who is already moving between gleaming worktops through to the back.
'This way!' she shouts. 'There must be an exit.'
I waste no time in following and, as I run past the commercial ovens and hobs on the right hand wall, I twist all the hobs on fully.
'Help me,' I shout, and Amina duly comes back to switch on the remaining hobs. Twelve industrial hobs in total, pouring gas into the kitchen. The telltale smell is almost immediate. 'Find the exit and I'll hold them off.'
Amina runs into the recesses of the kitchen again, and I turn back to the door, hoping I don't have to fire and expend the gas stores I am building up too soon. On the closed kitchen door is a porthole window, in which a man's head wearing a black helmet appears, and I raise my weapon at him to spook him more than anything. He drops out of sight.
I start pacing backwards, knowing that there's no way any of them will burst in here while I've got such an obvious upper hand. The smell is very strong now, and not far off being uncomfortable and over-powering.
'Got it!' Amina shouts. 'Back here!'
I run to her, where she stands by a service exit, haloed by sunlight. I turn as I get closer, and fire one shot back into the kitchen, at a bank of chrome work services. The ricochet licks a spark, which ignites the entire kitchen. I am blasted the rest of the way, barreling through the door. I land at Amina's feet out on the pavement, spluttering and crunching hard onto the asphalt. I feel as if my eyebrows are singed and I've got that sunburnt skin buzz.
'Do you still have it?' I ask Amina, hauling myself up.
She checks her pocket, and confirms 'I do'. But I see her eyes wander down the street behind me. As I turn, I finally get a sense of where we are - out on The Strand, looking down towards the recessed entrance to The Savoy. And turning out onto the pavement, running determinedly, are a handful of OSU officers in hot pursuit.
'GO!' I bellow, but before I can go myself, a car screeches to a stop immediately next to us. I raise my gun, assuming this is the arrival of another hostile, but the open driver window frames a familiar face.
'From one serviceman to another, GET IN,' commands William Grosvenor.
I stand, rooted with indecision. Wasn't it he who -
'That's an order from a superior officer,' shouts Grosvenor, making my mind up for me. I have to give this a chance. Running around London with an automatic weapon was never going to be the best means of escape. I usher Amina in first, who seems relieved and amazed at how lucky we appear to have been, and I hop in next to her.
Grosvenor guns it, the running OSU officers become an ever-receding forlorn sight, and I breathe a long sigh of relief.
19
Two hours and eighty five miles later, we pull into the grounds of a beautiful country estate, as the car tires bite and crunch into the gravel of the driveway.
Grosvenor sped from London and didn't look back, and spent the entirety of the journey on the phone via Bluetooth earpiece. He was business-like, unflustered and confident - even when he had a conversation with the Secretary of Defense herself. I would have loved to hear the conversation. He gave nothing away at all, fended off her questions and told her to calm down. He told her, in no uncertain t
erms with voice laced with bite, to take a long, hard look at herself. After the conversation, he threw the phone sim card out of the window, took out a second mobile, and made more calls.
The car itself is a black Mercedes, beautiful in a functional way, with a minimalist class to its interior, not to mention it flies like shit off a shovel. Grosvenor handles it deftly.
He had arranged us some accommodation, in the shape of the entirety of a small hotel, which I suppose is where we have arrived to, all under a false name. He seemed to use some kind of protocol when booking, which opened metaphorical doors fairly easily for him. Kind of like a code which alerted the listener of some other secret directions.
Amina sat quietly at my side, collecting herself. Fifteen minutes into the journey, she reached for me. I presume she needed an anchor, something familiar to bring her back from the terrible places and scenes I have taken her. She grabbed onto my left wrist and held on. I guess she couldn't bring herself to hold my hand. I'd have held her if she'd have let me, if it made her feel better. I feel supremely guilt for involving her, now more than ever, but I know I need her help with the stuff we carry. And with what I've got in mind, her role isn’t played out just yet.
I just tried to get some rest. I haven't worked out whether to trust Grosvenor, and if I do extend that trust, how much I afford him, but he undoubtedly saved our bacon back there in the city. It helped when he tossed that sim card aside. Nobody can track a sim card that's minus phone in a hedge somewhere, even if you are the Ministry of Defense. I think that a modicum of trust has been reciprocated my way, and for now it seems we are on the same page.
All I know is that we were heading north east of London, following signs to Cambridge, until those signs were replaced with other places I hadn't heard of before. Last sign I saw, just a mile prior to turning into the estate, was a 'Welcome to Elveden' sign. I saw no village, just a turn off for a Centre Parcs holiday retreat. And now we are here.
The driveway opens out to run parallel to magnificently surgical gardens, on the edge of a rolling meadow brushed with deeper, near mystical forests. What a spot… At the end of the garden, stands a mighty period home constructed with sandstone and redbrick, with an arched porch, expansive bay windows and high chimney tops. I feel a little underdressed for this.
Grosvenor pulls the car to a stop in front of the raised porch, where a man is already running down the steps to great us. Grosvenor jumps out with a 'let's go, you two' directed at the pair of us on the back seat. We do as he says, and my legs sing at me in their stiffness, reminding me that it's been a big few days.
The man shakes Grosvenor's hand, and smiles at him with a warmth hog-tied by urgency. 'Always good to see you, William, however the circumstances,' he says, clipped.
'You too, John. You too. And thank you again. You manage to shift your guests?' replies Grosvenor, heading to the front door.
'The Olde Mayor Inn down Elveden way was only too happy to have them,' says John, grinning.
'Well, either way I'm sorry for the inconvenience.' Grosvenor turns to us. 'This is Dr Amina Ridgewell, and the other one is… well, damned if I really know.'
I shake John's hand, as does Amina. John seems to sense Amina's unease, and he puts a hand on her shoulder, ushering her towards the house with care. 'My wife Denise is inside, she's got the kettle on.'
I pause at the top of the steps, and take a look out at the lay of the land, the terrain and the exits. I need to know I can get us out of here with immediacy if necessary. I refuse to lead myself, Amina and Apex into checkmate, no matter how quaint things seem to be working out at the present time. Grosvenor seems to catch my drift, and appears alongside me.
'We are two miles from the nearest village, a mile and half from any other buildings at all. We are off the map, and with John's help, at his bed and breakfast we are off the grid entirely. Nobody knows about this place, and very few people on the planet know of John and my connection to him.'
'Who is he?'
'He was by my side when our unit attended the siege at the Iranian Embassy,' Grosvenor says, and I can't help my eyebrows from rising. 'But back then he didn't go by plain old John Smith. In short, you can trust him.'
'What does he know?' I ask.
'Nothing, but he knows enough about how these things work to know not to ask.'
'And we are safe here?'
'Our arrangement is a reciprocal one. I help him out from time to time, and he grants me the odd bit of assistance in return. I'm going to take the car around to the stables, not that I'm expecting prying eyes here, but one can't be too careful. Go inside, get some rest. I've got a few things to follow up on, and we'll meet late afternoon. Work out what we are going to do with this thing you have. I hope by entrusting you with looking after it here, that you see that as a gesture of good faith on my part. We are on the same side here. I think you are a good man in a really abysmal situation, and I trust a good servicemen like yourself much more than any of those scaly bureaucrats back in the capital. You've acted with Great Britain's upmost interest so far, and I see no reason to question your intentions now.'
'I'll say that for yourself too,' I say. 'I was worried you'd set me up back there.'
'And work with Kirsten? She’s the scaliest of the lot,' he says, with a slight grin, before he hops down the steps.
I can't help but smile myself, and enter the house.
*
I hear a door handle clunk softly , and I'm awake. I'm in a snug double bed in an olive guest room, with the curtains drawn. Sunlight glances around the curtain edges. I must only have been asleep a couple of hours. By the time I have looked to the door, it's closed again, and Amina stands there. She has half-changed, now twinning a navy jumper with those jeans, and her hair is wet. She looks showered, primed and action-ready.
'Couldn't sleep?' I say, croaking the words out, the last of the sleep fuzz going with it.
She sits on the edge of the bed. It's not even been 24 hours since I first met her, but this is the third time we've been in, on and around a bed together, and not once in the ways muckier minds might imagine.
'Not at all,' she replies, the bed creaking while she settles. 'I just keep thinking of how to end this, and get out of this with our lives and careers intact. I recognize that you must trust the people who have brought us here, but I need to know what's going on. You need to tell me everything you know, now.'
Her voice has become school-teacherly and firm. In the spirit that two heads are always better than one, I tell her everything, from what we know about Apex, my conversation with Grosvenor at The Savoy, about Kirsten and the scheduled auction. I go easy on the bit about the amount of international criminals who would love our heads on a spike if they only knew that we have Apex when we shouldn't. When I've finished, I sit up to face her directly.
'Any ideas? I could do with a little help,' I say, only half telling the truth. I do have the kernel of an idea, but we are a long way off from any fruition on that one yet.
'Any idea I have keeps reaching an invisible ceiling. I didn't know who was on your tail but government? You will never be able to outrun them - not in a million years. They will always find you.'
She speaks with the solemnity of someone who might have prior experience of such a matter, but, either way, her mind has obviously been very active in the intervening hours, and she now has rather a lot to say. She continues.
'And the longer we are in this position, with these people, with this substance, the less likely it is that we are going to get away from this cleanly, if at all. In fact, I'll be amazed if things go back to any remote semblance of the way they were before.'
I'm used to change. I'm used to my world being ripped from beneath me. But it pains me to acknowledge that Amina had hoped to have left such uncertainties well in her past. She has travelled from one end of Europe to the other to avoid it. She has built, what I can only imagine, is a picture-book life for herself, an amazing result considering how things were shaping for
her. Until I bulldozed it, that is.
'I think so much depends on the next few hours, and what we discuss downstairs. So far, it seems they want to talk to me, but I want you to have just as much involvement too. This concerns you just as much as me. I trust you completely -'
'Finally, she interrupts. I might flush at that but I'm not sure if I did or not.
'Well, either way… You are an expert in this field, or if you are not, at least you are a damn sight more knowledgable on this topic than any of us, or at least as far as I know.'
She smiles appreciatively.
'I think you are integral to how we go forward,' I say. 'But it's also hit me that we are in someone else's wheelhouse on someone else's dime. And we must acknowledge their position. I believe that Grosvenor does indeed have the best interests of the country and the public at heart. But I just… Can't for the life of me sanction a bidding war between criminal parties for a chemical weapon, never mind one that is as insidious as this one.'
Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 19
