Trigger Break

by Ty Patterson

  The restaurant was dark-glassed and upscale. Bwana and Roger checked it out thoroughly, Roger using the opportunity to flash his smile at the women waiting for Susan.

  ‘All clear,’ he told Susan when he returned. He cocked his head at Zeb. ‘Maybe I should be inside. Keep an eye, you know?’

  ‘Keep an eye on what?’ Bwana muttered under his breath.

  Zeb waggled his fingers in acceptance. Having a person inside would help, and for all his show, Roger never got distracted when on a mission. Zeb did a mic check. Paul and Liam were at the rear of the restaurant, the delivery and staff entrance. The third vehicle was in the square, circling Nelson’s Column.

  The square was named after the Battle of Trafalgar, in which a British Naval force led by Lord Nelson had vanquished thirty-three French and Spanish ships. The attacking fleet had suffered heavy losses, and the battle had thwarted Napoleon’s plans to invade Britain.

  Zeb donned his shades and climbed out when Roger and Susan disappeared inside the restaurant. He had parked illegally on the curb, having Alex Thompson’s assurance that they wouldn’t be troubled by any traffic police.

  To his left was the Admiralty Arch, a grand building that connected the Mall and Trafalgar Square. He could see bikers lining up, revving their engines, all clad in black, wearing various regiment colors on their shoulders.

  The Mall was a ceremonial road that ran from the arch to the Queen Victoria Memorial, which was right in front of Buckingham Palace. It was red in color to give the appearance of a giant red carpet, just over half a mile long. Visiting heads of state were welcomed by riding in a state carriage on the Mall. National celebrations were conducted on it.

  History. Britain has a lot of it.

  Traffic diversions were in place when Susan’s lunch ended. The new route took them around St. James Park and up Birdcage Walk, where they stopped at a set of lights for the bikers to come off the Mall and dissipate into the city.

  The sound of throbbing motors filled the air for several moments, and all they saw was a river of helmeted riders as they streamed in front of them.

  Zeb searched for the following vehicles in his mirror. Didn’t find them. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Uh, five vehicles behind,’ Paul answered. ‘This diversion set us back. The other one is even further back. We’ll catch up.’

  A bike came up to his Zeb’s right and idled. Another rode up to his left. Neither helmet turned in their direction. There was a third motorcycle at the rear, and behind it were lines of vehicles, waiting patiently. The British had patience in abundance.

  All three bikers had pillion riders. Black leathers. Visors gleaming. Hondas, Zeb noticed—the makes of the two vehicles alongside. He adjusted his mirror to focus on the one behind, but couldn’t make out its model.

  There were no pedestrians. No foot traffic. He craned his head and saw a sign that diverted foot traffic, too. Just two lanes on Birdcage Walk. One going in his direction, the other opposite. No dividers.

  Zeb didn’t know what made him do it. He turned on the inconspicuous camera at the rear of the vehicle. It scanned license plates of vehicles. Their Range Rover was connected to Werner through a built-in, always-on router.

  Werner had access to several national and international databases. One of those was a police database in the UK. One that listed stolen vehicles.

  Two things happened simultaneously.

  Werner announced that the bike on their tail was stolen.

  The riders on all three vehicles started moving.

  Pillion riders, Zeb corrected himself. Rising. Rear one’s got something like a tube. The Range Rover was armor-plated, had resistant glass and run-flat tires. It could take rifle and small-arms fire.

  It isn’t designed to withstand a rocket launcher.

  ‘Down!’ he roared and didn’t need to look back to know what would happen. Roger would grab Susan and shove her to the floor mats. He would lie on top of her. Bwana would open concealed firing ports on the sides of their ride.

  The pillion riders on either side were almost upright, with what looked like assault rifles in their hands.

  Both bikes close enough to touch.

  The shooter at the rear was straightening his tube.

  No one on the road had noticed the happenings yet. No alarms raised. No police in sight.

  ‘Under attack!’ he called out to the MI6 vehicles.

  He shoved the shift into reverse and floored the pedal.

  Rocket launcher guy was expecting the Range Rover to flee. He would follow and send his missile up its bottom. His fellow shooters would rake the vehicle from the sides.

  None of them expected the reverse move.

  The heavy vehicle had to move just ten feet before it smashed into the rocket launcher’s bike. Metal crunched. Bodies fell off.

  Teeth gritted, Zeb kept reversing, forcing the Range Rover to mount obstructions.

  Susan screaming. Bwana firing shots methodically.

  The bikers at the sides taking corrective action. Reversing back. Firing back.

  Their rounds pinging metal and glass. No immediate damage.

  A swift look at the rear. No bike in sight. The Range Rover felt sluggish, but it was responding.

  Cars and vehicles honking at the rear. Bikers at the front turning their heads. None of them threats.

  I want at least one alive.

  The bike to his right came abreast.

  ‘Take over!’

  Zeb flung his door open. Its side caught the pillion rider’s thigh. The riders swerved.

  Zeb’s Glock appeared over the top of the door. Fired continuously into the two body masses.

  ‘Under!’

  He dropped to the road, using the door as a body shield. Rolled under the high clearance of the Range Rover. Fired another burst of shots at the right side bikers, from beneath.

  Felt Bwana clamber and settle into the driver’s seat, Roger still on top of Susan.

  The driver door shut. Zeb fired at the bikers on the left, from under the vehicle. They didn’t have time to react. Their angles were bad.

  Quick mag change.

  ‘They’re down.’ Bwana in his ear. Cool. Calm. Exactly how a top-notch operative should sound. ‘Down, both sides.’

  Zeb waited for a moment, then rolled out from underneath the vehicle, his Glock blazing at the two riders on the left.

  Came to his feet. Crouching. Both bikers down.

  That was all that mattered.

  ‘Go!’

  Bwana went, rubber burning, tires squealing.

  No Range Rover now. No cover. Bikers to the right were still, their vehicle fallen.

  He looked at the rocket launcher bike. Movement. He fired. The riders stilled.

  And then a bike sounded. He dropped to the street. The one on his right, who had been still. The riders were still alive. Just about. The driver got the vehicle upright, and the pillion rider got on its back with difficulty.

  Zeb raised his gun, then lowered it. He wanted them alive.

  The bike wobbled, but its driver managed control. He revved. The pillion rider fell off.

  Six or seven feet separating Zeb and the bike.

  It started picking up pace, its driver hunched over its tank. Still unsteady, but alive.

  Zeb burst to speed. Prone to full stride in a flash, just one thought in his mind.

  ‘Capture them.’

  The pillion rider, now on the street, twitched. His rifle moved. Zeb shot him.

  Two more strides. Four feet separating him from the bike, which was yet to pick up speed.

  He reached out with his hand. Forced his body to go faster. His hand scrabbled over plastic. Rear light.

  Move.

  He dove. Hands outstretched. Right grasping the Glock, left making contact with leather.

  Clamping down on the rider’s shoulder. Letting his body’s weight do the rest.

  He fell. The rider came off the bike. The rider struggled.

  A sudden gr
owl.

  That’s…

  Another bike flashed past. Going in the opposite direction. A hand rising. Something at its end.

  Zeb reacted instinctively. Grabbed the fallen rider’s body. Used it as cover.

  And felt the rider jerk as rounds thudded into him.

  The last he saw of the shooter was his helmet craning to look back. A gloved hand raised mockingly before he vanished in traffic.

  Zeb shoved the shot rider’s helmet aside and felt his neck. No pulse. Eyes glazed.

  He thrust the body away, curbing the surging bitterness inside him. Got to his feet.

  And was surrounded.

  ‘Hands in the air!’

  Chapter 21

  Armed police officers aimed their guns at him, the air tight with tension. Zeb knew any false move he made would result in their cutting loose.

  He dropped his Glock and raised his arms. Slowly. Nonthreateningly. Two police officers crabbed forward. One retrieved his weapon and the other handcuffed him. The onlookers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when the officers shoved him inside a police van. They secured his legs to its floor and hands to rails.

  ‘We’re good. We are at the safe house,’ said Roger, speaking in his earpiece, amused. ‘Heard you got arrested. Paul and Liam are talking to the cops. I’m sure Alex will intervene and get you freed. Till then, enjoy the warmth.’

  The van set off with no words spoken to Zeb. Two officers in its cab. Two more with him in the rear. Both staring at him with hard eyes. No warmth there.

  Zeb couldn’t contain himself. His lips twitched. ‘You realize I was protecting Susan Thompson? Sir Alex Thompson’s daughter. I didn’t start the shooting.’

  The men didn’t respond. They didn’t melt into a puddle of warmth.

  Zeb settled back against a slab of cushion that lined the side of the van and closed his eyes. It’s different here.

  He was taken to a police station in Paddington, searched, the earpiece removed and examined, and led to a cell. A burly sergeant came along and took his details. ‘You killed six gunmen? All by yourself?’

  Not all by myself. Bwana plugged a couple.

  Zeb didn’t respond, however. Silence was the best option in another country. He had learned that the hard way over the years.

  He sat on a hard bench and let his reaction set in. He didn’t tremble or shake. No sweat broke out. Swinging into action and coming out of it was a just a state of mind for him.

  He hadn’t been like that on his first tour, which was far back in the mists of time. Years of combat experience and mental training had shaped him.

  He didn’t fear dying. When he’d dropped out of the Range Rover, a part of him had known he could die that day. Death too was another state of mind. He remembered his master drilling that into him, in Indonesia. He could still smell the rain in the air and the drops of water that glistened at the end of his master’s beard.

  That long break, in Japan, Indonesia, India, Malaysia, several South Asian countries. He had needed it. He had been a broken man after that horrific event that had destroyed his family. Training with masters in those countries had healed him. They had built him back up, brick by mental brick. They had restored his chi. They hadn’t had to work much on his attitude to death.

  He had died the day his family died.

  He rose, turning over the assault in his mind. Six bikers. Not one alive. Not the result I wanted. That seventh biker. Was he the one watching me at night?

  Zeb hadn’t been sure whether there would be an attempt on Susan’s life. The attack proved that his thinking was on the right track.

  What he hadn’t expected, however, was for it to happen so soon. Any significance in the timing? He looked at the two killings and the attacks from different perspectives. He tried to put himself in the perpetrators’ shoes.

  He gave up finally and went into a semiconscious state. Eyes open. Mind alert. Body relaxed. The beast would alert him if there was any threat.

  He got released after three hours. The same sergeant handed him his Glock and all his belongings. ‘You Americans.’ He shook his head as if that said everything. The sergeant took him through a rear entrance. ‘TV and newspapers. They’ve camped in the front,’ he explained over his shoulder.

  Paul and Liam were waiting for him, grinning, the dark-haired man unable to contain a chortle. ‘How’s Her Majesty’s hospitality?’

  ‘We tried to explain, but we didn’t get far. Shooting in London. So close to Buckingham Palace. I’m surprised they didn’t riddle you with rounds.’ Paul was more restrained, but he too couldn’t control the laughter in his eyes.

  ‘Anything?’ Zeb asked them, and that sobered the MI6 men.

  ‘No. That biker got away. No one got even his number plates. No identification on the bodies. Come on. Sir Alex is waiting.’

  Alex was at the safe house Bwana and Roger were holed up in, along with Susan Thompson. The safe house was an apartment in a building in Angel. Several of the building’s residents were ex-SAS men and former police officers. Any attack on the building would bring out an overwhelming response.

  The Agency had several such safe houses back in their country as well as in international cities. The twins were responsible for identifying the houses and managing them.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Alex replied, seeing Zeb’s expression. ‘Still in shock, but she’ll recover. She didn’t see anything. Your man Roger covered her. She’s now heard all the details. From TV.’

  He gripped Zeb’s hand hard and patted it. The tightness around his mouth showed the iron control he had on himself.

  ‘Who?’ Zeb asked, knowing it was a futile question.

  ‘No idea.’ The MI6 chief shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘We know as much as the TV people.’

  A television, muted, was replaying the events over and over again. SHOOTING NEXT TO BUCKINGHAM PALACE, a banner shouted. MI6 HEAD’S DAUGHTER ATTACKED. SAFE. ALL GUNMEN DEAD. ONE SHOOTER IN CUSTODY.

  ‘What did you tell the police?’

  ‘The truth. That you were part of her security detail. They didn’t like it that you are American. I got them to suppress that bit. London hasn’t seen such an attack in quite some time. You can imagine how it’ll be for some time. The media, politicians, Joe Public…all of them will want answers. Yesterday!’

  Zeb did know. That reaction was no different in any country.

  Alex cast off his somber mood and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That panic room is a neat touch.’ He walked with Zeb down a hallway, past bedrooms and bathrooms, to the panic room.

  Susan poked her head out of one bedroom and whispered thank you to Zeb. She held her cell up to indicate she was on a call and ducked back inside.

  The panic room was attached to the last bedroom, its entrance through a set of floor-to-ceiling closets. It had a sliding concrete wall that cut off access from the main apartment. A small bed. A TV. A bathroom. Enough provisions to last two weeks.

  ‘I’m taking it over.’ Alex surveyed it. ‘Tell Clare. MI6 can do with such a safe house.’

  ‘It’s yours. Alex…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Susan is safe. In her apartment.’

  Alex was puzzled. ‘But she isn’t. Not in her apartment. She’s here.’ His face cleared. ‘Of course. You want that put out. You expect another attempt? This time, on her apartment?’

  ‘I don’t know what to expect.’

  * * *

  It came down to Paul. He was the closest in height and body type to Susan. They got him to wear one of her dresses, a large floppy hat that covered most of his face, and large shades, and bundled him into Zeb’s SUV.

  ‘Word gets out of this, I’ll know who to ask,’ he snarled as he glowered at them.

  ‘It’s for Queen and country,’ Bwana uttered solemnly, and Roger cracked up.

  The immediate neighborhood around Buckingham Palace was on lockdown. Zeb had to take several detours before they got to Marylebone. His eyes were on his mirrors.
The rearview camera kept feeding the dash screen.

  Liam and the second MI6 vehicle followed. No one reported any followers.

  They won’t be here. They’ll monitor the apartment.

  He circles around the apartment building. No real reason, except that if there were any watchers, they would expect him to be careful.

  There were no camera vans or reporters at the building. Understandable, since no one knew Susan Thompson lived there. Even her immediate neighbors didn’t know she was the daughter of the MI6 chief. He didn’t see any suspicious vehicles. His radar didn’t ping.

  He drove inside and found a parking space. He, Bwana and Roger surrounded ‘Susan,’ making sure her floppy hat and dress were visible from the outside, and walked swiftly inside.

  Bwana and Roger checked out the apartment. Clean. No bugs. No hidden cameras. No surveillance device planted in their absence.

  Bwana rummaged in the refrigerator and rustled up a simple dinner for them while they took turns watching from the windows. The windows had dark glass and were one-way. They could stand close to them with no risk of being spotted from the outside.

  Liam came up and relieved Paul. There was no need to spell Zeb and his team. They were used to working long hours of surveillance. They relieved one another throughout the night.

  Waiting for an attack that never came.

  * * *

  The assassin had stripped off his leathers and disposed of his bike in a friendly garage near Victoria, immediately after shooting the sole surviving killer.

  He washed his face and hands and stared at his reflection for a moment. That was a failure. My first.

  He hadn’t expected Carter to react so fast. So unexpectedly. Normally, if shooters targeted a vehicle, the vehicle fled. Carter had reversed and crushed two of his killers. Only swift thinking on the assassin’s part had saved the plot from unraveling. By killing his man, he had made sure no one lived to spill.

  It’s done.

  He wore a fresh set of clothes. A brown-haired wig went on his head. Shades to cover his eyes. A trilby to cover his head.

  He drove a Nissan, an old model, and headed back to the apartment building. The radio in his car chattered continuously, giving updates on the killings. He smirked when the police had nothing new to report. One man had been arrested. The assassin knew that was Carter.