Hunted (Detective Mark Heckenburg Book 5)

by Paul Finch

  Full darkness had fallen by now, and the team in the OP were allowed to approach the windows. For the first time that day, Heck surveyed the Heart of Stone. It was an innocuous, two-storey building of red brick, with frosted, ornately etched ground-floor windows. A typical London street-end boozer, no doubt with a U-shaped bar inside, polished woodwork, crimson upholstery, and glinting brasses. Apparently DS Brogan was acting landlord and DC Bernetti, having recovered from the brief beating he’d suffered earlier, one of his barmen.

  Several times in the past, Heck had been involved in breaking up armed robberies; it was potentially one of the most dangerous jobs any law-officer could undertake, though these days in the UK, with Specialist Firearms Officers present in strength, the police usually had the edge both in terms of firepower and training. The hoods themselves seemed to know this, because it rarely finished up in a gun battle, though resistance did happen on occasion. This time, given the reputation of the Snake Eyes, that felt more likely than not.

  Heck’s eyes strayed up and down the adjoining streets, scanning for anything even vaguely suspicious: vehicles prowling slowly, blokes hanging around without clear reason; blokes more heavily dressed than seemed normal on a hot, muggy night like this. Of course he didn’t expect to see anything so obvious. Even the blaggers were more professional in the twenty-first century.

  ‘It’s all about speed with this lot,’ Hunter said quietly, as if reading Heck’s thoughts. He adjusted his night-vision goggles and peered along Wickham Road, focusing on various entries and alleyways. ‘They’re in and out like lightning. That’s why they come team-handed, so they can get the whole plot under control quickly. Still a bunch of cowboys though. They always put a clock on the job – two minutes and they’re out. But they fire warning shots, they clobber people. Anyone gets in their way, it’s goodnight.’

  ‘Time they were put out of action,’ Heck replied.

  ‘That’s the plan. We catch ’em at it tonight, especially with Manko in harness, we can nab the entire cartel. It’ll be the goal of the season.’

  Heck glanced at his watch. Half-ten had stolen up quickly; the show officially went live – as in the raid was deemed imminent – from quarter to eleven, though by now the pub ought to be occupied solely by undercover police. He crossed the room and sat down alongside Gail, who looked stiff and wary, hair still damp on her moon-pale brow. Theoretically it should be cooler now, especially as Hunter had allowed several window panels to be opened, but the room remained stifling; its atmosphere reeked of sweat.

  ‘You all right?’ Heck asked.

  Her mouth crooked into a half-smile. ‘It’s ridiculous … I’m nervous as hell.’

  ‘What’s ridiculous about that?’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to be in the firing line, am I?’

  He shrugged. ‘We want things to work out. It’s only natural.’

  ‘I don’t need words of wisdom, Heck. I’ve told you – I’m not a rookie.’

  ‘So you keep saying.’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed wearily. ‘Look, I’m sorry, okay? All this is new to me. I’ll not deny it; but don’t keep mothering me. Makes me even more jumpy.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘And stop being so bloody understanding as well. I prefer it when you’re snappy.’

  ‘You’re a right headcase, you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s partly a compliment. That’s what Gemma always says about me.’

  ‘Gemma Piper, is that?’

  ‘Yeah. Head honcho back at SCU.’

  ‘She must be a tough cookie to hold that job down.’

  ‘They don’t call her “the Lioness” for nothing.’

  Gail regarded him curiously. ‘This is the one who used to drag you into bed?’

  ‘It was more of a two-way thing, to be honest.’

  ‘Funny … didn’t have you down as a ladies’ man.’

  ‘I’m not, but …’ Heck smiled, ‘she can be as demure and elegant as any woman out there, but there are times when the last thing you’d call Gemma Piper is a lady.’

  ‘I think that’s a case of too much information.’

  He chuckled. ‘I mean she can be a right tough nut – like you said.’

  ‘Roger, received!’ came Hunter’s voice as he took a message through his earpiece. He glanced around at his team, little more now than featureless outlines in the gloom. ‘All collaterals are definitely off the plot. Everyone stand by.’

  Heck glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes to eleven. With a succession of clicks and snaps, magazines were slotted into place and safeties removed as the handful of Squad members in the upper room pulled on their caps and filed downstairs to their final assault position, which was just inside the front door to the electronics shop.

  Hunter checked his Glock before sliding it back into his holster, though as OIC he’d be remaining here, supervising from a position of good vantage – unless of course it all went to hell.

  And no less than five minutes later, it did.

  ‘What the fuck …’ Hunter said disbelievingly.

  Heck and Gail had now joined him at the window with night goggles in hand. They were equally amazed by the sight of a large heavy goods vehicle – an artic, eight or nine tonnes at least – pulling up on the double yellow lines just to the right-hand side of the pub, completely blocking the alley in which the first gunship was installed.

  ‘That’s a delivery lorry,’ Heck said. Even from up here, even over the throbbing of the HGV’s massive diesel engine, he could hear the multiple clinks of crated beer. The artic’s trailer was open at either side, and one of its green tarpaulin hangings inadequately fastened; it had rustled backwards en route, revealing stacks of gleaming bottles.

  Hunter lowered his goggles. ‘At this fucking hour?’

  ‘What if it’s the Snake Eyes?’ Gail said.

  The same thought occurred to Heck and Hunter. Had the gang hijacked a wagon and brought it here as their own Trojan horse? Down below, a couple of officers disguised as bar staff, one of them DC Bernetti, had emerged from the premises, and could only stand there bewildered as the artic’s engine was switched off and the driver and his drayman clambered casually from its cab, pulling on heavy-duty gloves. The plain-clothes men engaged them in a swift conflab, though whatever was being said, the new arrivals were having none of it. The driver shook his head adamantly and strode inside the premises, his workmate and the undercover cops tagging behind. A split second later, Bernetti reappeared in the doorway. His voice came crackling over the air.

  ‘What are we going to do about this, guv? The driver says he’s behind on his schedule, but that this is his last load and we have to take it off his hands. He absolutely won’t take it back to the brewery.’

  ‘You sure he’s kosher?’ Hunter responded. ‘The driver, I mean?’

  ‘What? Yeah … I think. He’s an older fella. Nowty bugger too.’

  Fleetingly, Hunter looked frozen with indecision.

  Bernetti’s voice came through their earpieces again. ‘They’re asking for the bloody landlord now. I think they’ve clocked that we’re not staff.’

  ‘Bob, we’re out of time,’ Heck advised. ‘This crew always arrives at eleven. It’s bang on that now. Call the job off and close the pub.’

  ‘And lose the whole bloody thing?’ Hunter retorted.

  ‘Better that than it kicking off with civvies on the plot.’

  ‘No!’ Hunter shook his head. ‘They know pubs don’t close that early – they’ll suss they’ve been grassed and our man inside’ll be wearing his bollocks for earrings.’

  From somewhere nearby, possibly at the far end of Wickham Road, there was a loud and prolonged screeching of tyres.

  ‘Shit,’ Gail said under her breath.

  ‘Bob, you’ve got to act now,’ Heck said. ‘Lock the pub up.’

  ‘Sod that – lock the driver up!’ Hunter barked into his mouthpiece. ‘And his mate. Get them out throug
h the back door, pronto.’

  ‘Bob, it’s too late for that,’ Heck warned.

  But even as he spoke two vehicles came hurtling into view from opposing directions, a BMW 1181, and a Vauxhall Insignia, two high-performance cars, both no doubt stolen to order earlier that evening. They skidded to a halt one to either side of the triangular paving in front of the pub.

  Hunter still looked glazed, as though he couldn’t believe how quickly he’d lost control of the situation. This was a Flying Squad OIC’s worst nightmare – civvies caught in a shoot-out. And it would be his fault; he should have asked the landlord if any tradesmen were expected to call later in the day, and he evidently hadn’t.

  Seeing Hunter’s inertia, Heck grabbed the radio and shouted: ‘All units, go! Hit ’em on the pavement! Don’t let ’em enter!’

  It was a quick reaction, but the blaggers were quicker still. Six of them, masked in balaclavas and bulked up in black flak jackets, had spilled from the cars, three from each, and were galloping towards the pub’s main door. The Squad’s response was hampered. Firstly by an unfamiliar voice giving them orders – which caused momentary hesitation, and secondly because the first gunship was still trapped in the side alley behind the artic.

  Though it later transpired that the team had disembarked from the alley gunship swiftly and efficiently, there was insufficient room for them to sidle their way past the lorry, even on foot. In one fell swoop, this had reduced police numbers on the ground by a third. It also meant that the other two assault teams, one bursting out from the door to the electronics shop, the other leaping from the gunship in the north-west entry, were at a disadvantage as the attempted containment would be open on its east side. As Heck had hoped, the pub door slammed closed in the blaggers’ faces before they reached it, and they found themselves with nowhere else to go.

  Though this still left them with one deadly option.

  The night was already filled with loudspeaker cries of ‘Armed police!’, ‘Drop your weapons!’ and ‘Get on your knees!’, but these were lost in a hail of echoing cracks and staccato blasts of light as gunfire was exchanged in every direction.

  With a deafening ptchuuung!, a nine-millimetre soft-point ricocheted from the wall close to the window where Heck and Gail were standing. There was a protracted metallic rattle, accompanied by strobe-like bursts, as someone opened up down there with a submachine gun. It was one of the robbers, a lanky goon who was drilling rounds at the second gunship; he clearly wasn’t used to handling such a weapon – it jerked all over the place, spraying lead across the entire junction, hitting no one in particular, though the officers who’d poured out of the second ship and had the longest distance to advance had now gone to ground, one behind a bollard, others diving and rolling or sheltering behind their shields, all returning fire. With a shrill squawk, the lanky guy dropped his weapon and fell onto his side, clutching his groin, from which blood was suddenly geysering.

  The getaway driver in the BMW bottled it and hit the gas, swerving the motor around in a reckless U-turn, causing the team from the electronics shop to scatter, though they emptied their pistols into the vehicle as it passed them by, perforating its bodywork, sending it slewing sideways, black smoke boiling from under its crumpled bonnet, until it slammed into a kerb with such force that it tipped and rolled, demolishing a shop window.

  The pub door was yanked open again, and a muzzle appeared. Two rapid shots followed, both from an MP5, dropping a second blagger in his tracks; he hit the deck like a sack of spuds, a fount of dark liquid pumping from what looked like a severed artery in his neck. In the OP they were forced to duck again as another stray shot hit its window dead centre; the pane shattered in front of them, a million shards cascading to Earth.

  Everything seemed to be happening at a thousand miles an hour, and yet despite the intrusion of the delivery wagon the Squad were on top of things. Two of the robbers were now down, and a third and fourth, who’d apparently flung away their weapons as soon as the opposition appeared, had collapsed to their knees with hands raised and heads bowed, cowering in the midst of the crossfire. A fifth blagger, this one armed with a sawn-off, stumbled back towards the Vauxhall, ratcheting and discharging like a madman, only for a cherry-red dot to pinpoint his left shoulder. With a BOOM from overhead, a rooftop sniper spun him like a top. Somehow he stayed upright, but another sniper-round struck his right shoulder, spinning him back the other way. The pump flopped down to his side, his hand still locked around its pistol-grip, his finger discharging the weapon a final time – straight into his own right foot, which blew apart like a hunk of raw beef.

  While all this was happening the front passenger window of the Insignia shattered outwards, and a Webley six-shooter was thrown clear of the vehicle, indicating that the second getaway driver had also had enough. This left only one of the blaggers in action, and armed officers were advancing on him from all sides, weapons levelled. But this last one had no intention of surrendering. He pegged off two more shots from his handgun – by its volume and recoil, Heck fancied it for a Smith & Wesson, the famed Magnum .44 – and veered away towards the artic’s passenger door, reaching into his jacket with his free hand and drawing out a long, shiny blade.

  ‘Manko!’ Heck breathed.

  Most of the team trapped behind the HGV had apparently given up attempting to slide past it and had run back along the alley and circled the pub, as they were now appearing from its other side. Only one of them, a big, bearded guy, had thought to try and scramble underneath it. It was pure bad luck that as soon as he emerged and jumped to his feet he found himself nose to nose with the most dangerous member of the Snake Eye gang. Before the astonished cop could draw his Glock, Manko had struck with his machete, a vicious backhand blow across the throat.

  The cop dropped to his knees, shuddering. His gargling squeal was heard way along the street. Manko kicked him backwards and clambered up into the cab through the passenger door. The HGV driver must have left his keys in the ignition, because the vast vehicle now thundered to life.

  ‘Fucking shit!’ Hunter bellowed. ‘Contain that bloody HGV! That’s Julius Manko for Christ’s sake!’

  But most of the officers on the plot were busy, either cuffing the suspects who’d surrendered or applying first aid to those who’d been shot. The closest man to the lorry could do no more than drag his wounded colleague out of the way of its massive wheels as it juddered forward, fumes pumping from its exhaust pipe, and barged its way across the junction.

  ‘We need Wickham Road and Ashby Road blockaded at both ends!’ Hunter howled into his radio as he dashed down the stairs. ‘Now! Right now! Get me those ARVs …’

  Heck and Gail leaned from the window. The HGV was already heading west along Ashby Road, gusts of sparks erupting as it rammed and shunted parked vehicles. A divisional patrol car got too close, was sideswiped out of the way, and went clattering into a lamppost. Around fifty yards ahead of the lorry there was a rapid accumulation of spinning blue beacons; multiple other police vehicles attempting to form a barricade. Heck and Gail watched, breathless. The artic might succeed in hammering its way through; but again it might not. If there were armed response vehicles up there, there’d be another exchange of fire and this time Manko was outgunned.

  Perhaps thinking the same, the gang leader opted for avoidance, the HGV suddenly jackknifing left and plunging out of sight along a narrow ginnel, raking fresh showers of sparks from the concrete corner.

  Heck snatched a torch and shone it down on Hunter’s map, which was still spread on the planning table. ‘Bloody labyrinth!’ he said, pointing out a confusion of narrow, intersecting alleyways.

  ‘He’ll never get through that way,’ Gail said.

  ‘Unless he comes directly behind us!’ Heck jabbed his finger onto a single unnamed thoroughfare that was accessible from the side street Manko had taken, was broader than many of those around it, and after running parallel for some distance with Wickham Road connected with Geoffrey Road, which
connected in turn with Brockley Road.

  Heck threw the map down and dashed across the room to the door, alongside which there were three tagged keys hanging from hooks. Each one belonged to an unmarked car waiting in the yard at the rear. Heck snatched the first one, which looked like the key to a Ford. He vacated the room, but instead of clumping down the staircase to the front he followed the passage to the rear, and descended the back stairs.

  ‘Heck, what’re you doing?’ Gail demanded, stumbling after him.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Are you seriously stealing a car from the Flying Squad?’

  He reached the bottom and glanced up at her. ‘We’re pursuing a suspect. What’s so off-kilter about that?’

  ‘Heck – this job is none of our business.’

  ‘We’ve just watched a police officer get his throat cut. That’s totally our business!’ He hurried outside, indicating a Ford Escort in the corner of the yard, turning and tossing the key to her. ‘Why don’t you get her started?’

  ‘Heck, I just don’t think—’

  ‘If it’ll put you at ease, DC Honeyford, that’s an order!’ He ran out through the gate. Beyond it lay a maze of darkened back alleys. He worked his way through these as best he could, shouldering past dustbins packed with foul-smelling refuse, finally taking a cut-through to the unnamed road. He reached it just as the artic trundled past in a north-to-south direction. It couldn’t travel fast as it had to force its way, with much grinding and crunching, past innumerable parked vehicles. Both its front headlight clusters were already shattered. The tarpaulins on the rear trailer hung loose, the straps dangling where their buckles had snapped. Several crates had fallen out, cans and bottles rolling on the road, many of them broken, beer foaming into the gutters.