Ambush

by Nick Oldham

  This was not going to be a stalking job. It was going to be a run down and ram, and Flynn knew he had the speed, strength and stamina to bring this second guy down.

  The man ran, but Flynn came up on his flank and was glad to see this one had already discarded the machine pistol he’d run off with.

  Flynn was about three metres to one side of him when the man looked at him again but in so doing ran straight into a branch at head height, which was about as effective as being hit across the head by a baseball bat, saving Flynn a job.

  His head stayed where it was, but his legs ran on and then he fell flat on his back.

  Flynn moved in quickly. He was reluctant to give this man a similar punch to the one he had just landed on his accomplice, so he dragged him, moaning, over to a slim but strong tree, made him hug it and then cuffed his wrists. Flynn patted his head, then turned to find the third escapee. He had lost sight of him, but as he looked around he saw the guy had made it all the way through the copse and was sprinting away across the fields. Flynn let him go.

  ‘See you soon,’ Flynn said to the man who was attached to the tree; his head was lolling loosely.

  Flynn then heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire from the direction of the farmhouse.

  Hunkered down behind a tree that had fallen diagonally against another, he peered through the leaves at the farmhouse.

  Two armed officers crouched down behind their vehicle. The other vehicles in the police convoy had rapidly reversed back down the track and were still in a line about 200 metres from the gable end of the house. Flynn had no idea what was happening on the opposite side of the building. From what he could deduce it seemed that the first ARV had drawn up outside; the officers had presumably alighted and immediately been fired on from one of the windows. They had dived for cover behind their car – which, as they would be only too acutely aware, was no guarantee of safety. Bullets easily travel through cars.

  Neither appeared injured, though.

  Flynn saw a shape at a ground floor window, the glint of a gun barrel, then ‘crack-ack’ as two rounds were fired at the ARV and the instant clunk as at least one of them ripped into the bodywork and another ricocheted off the ground, sending up a mini-eruption of grit.

  The officers crouched and so did Flynn. He was in the firing line if any misaimed shots came his way. He kept very low.

  The two officers had drawn their Glocks and were babbling urgently down their radios, words Flynn could not hear because his radio was tuned into a different channel. This was undoubtedly the first time they had ever been under real fire and it was suddenly a very scary world.

  Another shot.

  Flynn ducked, the armed officers cowered, but this time the shot had been fired not from a window at the front of the house, but from the gable end that faced down the track. Someone inside the farmhouse was firing at the remainder of the convoy, who had retreated to what they had thought was a safe distance.

  Flynn guessed the make and model of the weapon being fired. Experience of having been pinned down a few times by enemy fire had made him fairly expert in being able to recognize the type of gun being used to blow your brains out. It was a useful bit of knowledge in a battle, knowing exactly what you were going to be facing.

  This time Flynn recognized the gun being fired at the convoy as a Czech Škorpion machine pistol set on single shot. Though not massively accurate at 200 metres, if it hit you it killed or seriously wounded you.

  The officers milling about down the lane all hurled themselves down or behind their vehicles as the shooter from the house loosed off more rounds at them.

  Cops held down at the front, cops pinned down at the side and, Flynn assumed, cops held down at the back of the house where the second ARV had gone.

  He was sure things should have been the other way around. It was the villains who should have been on the back foot.

  The people inside the farmhouse had responded very quickly to the situation and it was clear this was all going to end up very messy. In that moment, as Flynn crouched in the bushes, he could not have guessed just how messy.

  He saw flickering flames and plumes of smoke at the bedroom window at that moment. The whole bedroom was suddenly engulfed by fire, something whooshed inside like a bomb and the whole window frame was blown out of its casing and came hurtling through the air in front of the explosion. It spun like a huge death star and embedded itself in the side of the armed response vehicle with a crash.

  Flynn ducked but the force of the blast still rocked him, hot air shrouding his face as well as bits of grit.

  He rolled to one side as a shard of glass shaped like an axe head struck the tree trunk in front of him. A foot to the left and it would have cleaved through his skull and split his brain into two perfect halves, left side, right side.

  He looked up through the stems of grass, saw the front door of the farmhouse open and two armed men burst out side by side, firing into the ARV. The two cops dropped to the ground behind it, terrified.

  The men were well armed: both had machine pistols with magazines taped back to back so that when the first one clanked empty it was simply a case of reversing them and slotting the fully loaded one in place.

  They were on single shot now, but firing rapidly.

  Flynn raised his head. Neither of the two was Brian Tasker, which meant he was still inside the farmhouse, as were Davenport and the baby boy.

  The first floor fire seemed to be taking hold and raging. Flames spewed out of the bedroom window, reaching up to the wooden eaves above, which also caught fire quickly.

  The two armed cops were still crouching low, their guns drawn, having a heated discussion over the radio and with each other.

  ‘Shoot back,’ Flynn thought.

  Then movement caught his eye on the gable end of the farmhouse – the opposite end from where someone had been shooting down the farm track. A ground floor window opened, then a leg appeared. A man scrambled out, dropped low and paused dramatically, almost like a pantomime villain.

  It was Tasker, and he was armed with a handgun. Flynn expected him to turn and assist the girl and baby through the window but he did not, something which gave Flynn a bad feeling.

  Instead, Tasker sprinted away across what had once been a farmyard, vaulted a low fence and dropped into a field.

  At the front door, the two gunmen continued to pour rounds into the Ford Galaxy, which was now mortally wounded.

  Upstairs, flames whooshed out of the space where there once had been a bedroom window.

  Flynn started to run after Tasker, keeping his head down as he crashed through the undergrowth, transmitting to Craig Alford down his radio, ‘Tasker’s on the move, done a runner from the ground floor window out of your line of sight, and he’s armed.’ He included Tasker’s direction of travel. ‘I’m after him.’

  Alford acknowledged him. ‘Be careful, Steve.’

  Tasker ran, still at a crouch, heading north across the fields, then across a narrow track that dissected Cookson’s Plantation before turning right in a north-easterly direction and into the next field, heading towards Many Pits Wood. If he got into that it would give him cover.

  He had not spotted Flynn who, keeping his own cover in Cookson’s Plantation, was tracking him like a leopard on a warthog.

  He broke cover just behind Tasker in the field.

  Tasker was constantly checking his shoulder, but it must have been a bit of a shock to see Flynn suddenly burst out of nowhere and bear down on him.

  Tasker spun, fired on the run, a wild shot from a pistol that recoiled crazily in his hand.

  Flynn dropped to one knee instantly, even though he realized the bullet was going nowhere near him.

  Away in the distance behind them the bang of gunfire could still be heard from the farmhouse.

  Tasker fired wildly again, missed and ran on.

  Flynn rose up and after him, cutting the distance between them easily but also knowing that by doing this he was increasing the c
hance of getting shot. He knew, however, that hitting anything while running with a handgun was a hard thing to do unless the shooter was trained and very fit.

  He guessed that Tasker was neither, but nevertheless he only had to get in one lucky shot.

  Tasker reached the perimeter of Many Pits Wood and dived into the treeline about thirty metres ahead of Flynn. He disappeared instantly into the undergrowth.

  Flynn powered on relentlessly and entered at exactly the same point, a tiny piece of woodland much darker and more densely packed than Cookson’s Plantation. He was immediately enshrouded.

  If he had been Tasker he would have waited for his pursuer to come in behind him, dropped into a kneeling shooting position and taken him out as soon as he entered the woods.

  Bearing this in mind, Flynn dived sideways once he entered the woods, just in case that was what Tasker had done. And indeed it was: he had lain in wait.

  He had hidden himself and fired twice, but missed as the cop went sideways. This gave Flynn a brief advantage because, although he could not see Tasker, he saw the double muzzle-flash in the half-light which pinpointed Tasker’s exact position.

  Tasker fired twice more. Flynn scuttled around on all fours, feeling the whap of air above him from the shots just as he dropped full length behind a fallen log.

  Flynn counted up. Tasker had fired six shots, which meant that if he had started with a full magazine he could possibly have nine or up to eleven bullets remaining, but he doubted Tasker would get as far as the last bullet.

  Flynn bobbed as Tasker double-tapped, revealing his position again but – more importantly – missing Flynn’s head.

  Then he heard the sound of Tasker running away, crashing through the vegetation. Flynn rolled up on to his feet and, keeping down, weaved behind him, seeing fleeting glimpses through the trees as Tasker ran to the far edge of the copse.

  More gunfire from the farmhouse. This time Flynn recognized the sound of Glocks being discharged. The police were shooting back. He gave a silent hooray and dipped under a branch, coming round wide on Tasker in a one-jawed pincer movement.

  Tasker burst out through the edge of the woods, scrambled over a low fence and then was in the next field.

  Flynn came out twenty metres to his right and both were in the open again.

  Tasker ran fast; the man obviously did not wish to be caught but, Flynn decided, he would be.

  Flynn powered up, vaulted the fence easily and came diagonally at Tasker just behind his right shoulder, a place he hoped would be similar to a driver’s blind spot.

  Tasker was noticeably flagging.

  Flynn wasn’t.

  It was only as Flynn came within touching distance that Tasker saw him and turned.

  He was too late to bring the gun around.

  Flynn was on him, smacking the gun sideways as he smashed into him, a full body charge, grabbing the gun hand at the same time. Tasker pulled the trigger, fired, but Flynn had control of his hand and wrist. As they toppled over, Flynn hit him with an uppercut from his left fist, jarring his jaw.

  It wasn’t Flynn’s best punch but had the desired effect and, in an involuntary spasm caused by a brief explosion of his brain synapses, Tasker dropped the gun.

  Flynn saw it, rolled off Tasker and grabbed it. He did another sideways roll, using the impetus to come back up on to his knees with the gun already in his right hand and, supported by his left palm, pointed it steadily at Tasker, who groaned, sat up and grinned lopsidedly at Flynn.

  ‘Let me walk and there’s a million in your bank account tomorrow,’ he said, panting.

  ‘Wow, let me see,’ Flynn said mock-seriously.

  ‘If not, you’re a dead man walking and your family is dead, too,’ Tasker said, wiping his face with his hands.

  ‘Oh, it’s the money, then,’ Flynn said. ‘Obviously.’ He let the gun swing on his finger.

  For one moment Tasker actually believed him.

  FIFTEEN

  ‘The two guys who came out of the farmhouse all guns blazing just dropped their weapons when they were empty and stuck up their hands in surrender. Even though the cops did return fire – eventually – no one was injured in the shoot-out, which was amazing, but it just goes to show how hard it can be to shoot someone.’

  Flynn was talking to Santiago.

  It was the morning after and they were having breakfast on the rear deck of Flynn’s boat in Santa Eulalia harbour.

  She had fallen properly asleep at the point where Flynn had described Tasker’s arrest in the middle of a field and the ineffective attempt to bribe him with a million pounds.

  Flynn, too, had dropped off then, but had resumed the story over breakfast when Santiago asked what happened next.

  He told her some more about the two men with the guns.

  ‘It had been their job to provide cover so Tasker could get away – y’know, give him a few more minutes’ grace … unfortunately they didn’t know I was in the woods – obviously.’ Flynn paused. ‘So they dropped their guns and were arrested without a fight … subsequently it turned out they were the team who’d sprung Tasker from our custody when he was being transferred from the hospital to the police station. The taxi driver was in on that, too.

  ‘What we didn’t know until then was just how long Tasker had been in the north west. Long enough to put his business together, get a girlfriend and a baby. He’d set up with Braceford, but they’d had a huge fallout over money and percentages and skimming and Tasker thinking Braceford was a grass – he wasn’t. Braceford, our very own nasty, nasty local drug lord didn’t realize he’d got into bed with the devil going under the name of Brian Tasker.

  ‘Anyway, they all eventually went to trial and got their just deserts and Tasker’s evil was put on display for the world to see. He got … I can’t remember … five, six concurrent life sentences.

  ‘On his way down from court he stopped and pointed at each one of us who were in that photograph Jerry sent me. One of those very deliberate points, y’know? You, you, you, you, you and you – Craig, Jerry, Dave Carver, Jimmy Blue, Lincoln Bartlett and me.’

  Flynn chortled at the memory, recalling every word.

  ‘He paused when he got to me. “You’re all dead, you know, and I will never, ever forgive you … you all made me do it … and I will get my revenge, and it will be hot and sweet.” Then they dragged him away.’

  ‘Made him do what?’ Santiago tore a chunk off her croissant and placed it in her mouth.

  The fire service took over two hours to douse the flames in the farmhouse and damp it down enough for anyone to be able to enter the building. They had tried to get in while the fire had been raging but the intense, hell-like heat had beaten them back. It frustrated them because they knew people were trapped inside, but their brave efforts ultimately proved futile.

  Flynn watched from a distance, noting the passion with which they attacked the fire that had so quickly engulfed the farmhouse, spreading downstairs from the first floor. They had been brilliant, brave, but ultimately all they could do was extinguish the flames.

  All the while Flynn’s eyes had flickered to the child’s buggy parked by the front door which, as the fire service had tackled the blaze, was thrown aside, almost discarded, so as not to cause an obstruction.

  Flynn knew what would be found upstairs.

  His heart had been whamming throughout the incident, a cold rage in him, a numbness, as his eyes constantly looked at the buggy.

  A baby. A mother.

  Eventually the flames were extinguished and damped down. Several firefighters tramped out of the building removing their breathing apparatus, leaving black outlines around the perimeter of their faces. Their expressions were grim.

  There was little use for the two ambulances at the scene.

  The firefighters talked in a huddle, then with Craig Alford and the other high-ranking police officers who had materialized on the scene. Flynn was beckoned over by Alford and asked if he wanted to put on a forensic su
it and go in with him and a CSI.

  Flynn said he did.

  He had seen death in many forms, particularly during his years as a Marine and in the SBS. He had seen death on the streets of British cities and African jungles, but he had never become completely immune to the death of a child.

  In that farmhouse, the death he saw was as bad and as brutal as any he had witnessed, death caused simply as a diversion to facilitate escape.

  Both bodies had been roasted black. Smoke still rose from the corpses.

  It transpired that Ellie Davenport had been shot through the head before the bedroom had been doused with petrol and set alight. The baby had simply been left on a blanket on the floor and had died of smoke inhalation before being consumed by fire.

  Just so a man could evade justice.

  Flynn looked at Santiago, who was mesmerized by his retelling of these awful events. She had stopped eating her breakfast and drinking her coffee.

  Her eyes became moist.

  ‘Steve,’ she gasped.

  He was staring into space, recalling the scene.

  ‘A man with no redeeming features or qualities. I’ve come across some villains in my time. But Brian Tasker, psychopath …’ Flynn did not finish. He shook his head at the memory, which until that moment he had never discussed. It was usually locked away and internalized in a cellar room in his mind, a place where nut jobs were kept at bay, and the key was rarely found.

  ‘Steve,’ Santiago said, feeling useless.

  ‘Some images are with you for ever,’ he said. He sighed and looked at her. ‘It’s what you sign up for … the irony was, he blamed me, us, for forcing him down that path, but I guess that’s just the way his perverted mind works. That said, we treated him with professionalism and courtesy. He was questioned by me and others without emotion.’

  ‘So you never …?’ Santiago asked.