Shadows of Good Friday (Alex King Book 3)
Page 21
Grant walked to the front of the tiny Peugeot and looked back at O’Shea, who was leaning against the wall. O’Shea turned away, ignoring his gaze, and watched the Mondeo assume the lead and drive out of the courtyard. Grant slipped down into the passenger seat and had barely closed the door, when Sean accelerated away.
The two vehicles bounced and weaved their way down the lane, avoiding the larger potholes by occasionally mounting the grass verge. Ross swung the Mondeo out into the road and accelerated quickly out of the blind corner. Sean pulled out, copying the manoeuvre, the little hatchback’s front wheels spinning briefly as it met the damp tarmac. Then, gaining traction, it soon caught up with the larger Mondeo.
***
King waited until he heard both cars join the road and accelerate into the distance. Satisfied that they would be out of sight, he started the van’s engine and drove the twenty-metres or so down the muddy lane, then pulled out onto the road.
With dawn breaking, and optimum visibility, King was in a difficult situation. He was not equipped with the tracking device and laptop, which had made his job so much easier during the past few days. Instead, he would have to rely on visual surveillance, which in the gathering light and without other traffic to act as cover, would have been difficult, with even a team of vehicles. However, he knew their destination. He was not simply following into the unknown.
King accelerated hard, taking the van’s gears to maximum revs, in his anxiety to confirm his first visual. As he rounded the second corner, he caught sight of the Peugeot. He eased off the accelerator and let the distance increase to approximately three-hundred metres.
***
Forsyth stubbed his half-smoked cigarette into the over-flowing ashtray and kept his eyes on Holman’s property. Several lights had flicked on and off over the past ten minutes, indicating that the people within the building were probably getting themselves ready. Now that the lights were switched off, Forsyth could swear that he heard the sound of a heavy door closing. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was six o’clock, if the plan had held, then King would already be in transit, following both vehicles towards Kempton Park racecourse.
***
Alex King had just passed the small town of Ripley and joined the A3, keeping his distance at the maximum possible for visual surveillance. The going was much easier, now that they had joined the larger and faster-moving dual carriageway. He had been able to let two vehicles overtake him and travel between the Peugeot and himself, giving him the cover that he needed to remain undetected. With any luck, the drivers of the Peugeot and the Mondeo would have no cause to become suspicious.
***
Sean glanced in his rear view mirror. There were two cars directly behind him, although he was sure that nobody had followed him from the farm.
“Problem?” McCormick asked with concern, as he leaned forward between the two front seats. “You seem a bit edgy, mate.”
Sean shook his head. “The car behind,” he said, squinting into the rear-view mirror. “A Ford Sierra, I think. It pulled out of a turning and has been behind us ever since.”
“Should be alright.” McCormick turned around casually and stared at the vehicle in question. “I checked for the first three miles and didn’t see a thing.” He turned back to Sean and grinned. “Most probably on his way to work.”
***
King eased his speed, letting a minibus overtake him, then pull back into the inside lane further down the road. He increased his speed once more, happier now that there were three vehicles between the two targets and himself.
The traffic was increasing in both directions, which cut both ways. It would enable him to assume sufficient cover to draw attention away from his own vehicle, yet it could also develop into an infuriating barrier that could make him lose sight of the target vehicles altogether.
***
Forsyth watched Danny Neeson pull the Saab out of the entrance of Holman’s property and drive carefully down the quiet road, followed closely by Jason Porter in the glistening Porsche. Both men were alone in their vehicles. Either Frank Holman was not involved in the operation at this stage, or he would be following later in a car of his own. Either way, Forsyth would have to find out later. For now, though, the most important person to keep track of was Danny Neeson. He waited for both vehicles to reach the end of the street and disappear from sight, then switched on the laptop. The specialised software came on at once, indicating Neeson’s position on the road map at a distance of approximately four-hundred-metres northwest. Forsyth calmly switched on the Rover’s ignition and gently pulled away.
The Saab turned on to the A24, then headed south towards Leatherhead. Forsyth could only guess that the Porsche was still following, and he would gladly have bet any amount of money that it was.
***
It was a clear day in the town of Sunbury. The traffic was reasonably light, but as they approached the racecourse, it began to grow steadily in volume. King kept his eyes strained for the Peugeot, five vehicles in front of him.
The Ford Mondeo pulled into a space on the side of the road, two-hundred metres from the main gates, and waited. The Peugeot pulled across the road and slipped into a narrow gap, twenty-metres closer to the entrance.
King cursed. With only five vehicles in front of him, he had to get off the road quickly, or drive straight past them and run the risk of being detected. For all he knew, they might have become suspicious of the periodic presence of the white Ford Escort van.
He quickly pulled into a narrow side road, which looked as if it was the entrance for a series of lockup garages. A few metres into the turning, a small pull-in space had been made to allow vehicles to pass each other in the narrow thoroughfare. King manoeuvred the van into it, switched off the engine, then quickly got out and jogged towards the entrance. He glanced at his watch: six forty-five a.m. They should still be in the cars, waiting until the last minute.
As he reached the end of the alleyway, he kept tight to the wall of the building, then cautiously peered out into the street. Both vehicles were parked with their engines switched off. From here he could clearly see the men sitting patiently, although one was staring nervously down the street out of the rear window of the Ford Mondeo.
He wanted to get closer, there were a few obstructions, and the distance was too great to identify the men individually. Across the street there was another alleyway which seemed to be offset from the road. It looked as if he would be able to observe more, yet still remain undetected. He watched the two vehicles closely, then satisfied that it was clear, he decided to make his move. He visibly jumped, startled as his mobile telephone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He hastily retreated back into the sanctuary of the alleyway, fumbled it out, and pressed the receive button. “Yes!”
“Alex, it’s Forsyth here, how are you holding up, old boy?”
King cursed under his breath, only Forsyth would call just minutes from the moment that the players were due to go in. He eased his head around the corner, keeping his eyes glued to the Peugeot. “The targets are in place, seems that they’re just waiting until the last moment.”
“Jolly good, looks like it’s a go then,” he paused. “More than I can say from this end; something very fishy going on here indeed.” King groaned inwardly, the last thing that he wanted was to have a full-blown conversation out in the field. He was used to radios, code words and the phonetic alphabet. Are you still there, old boy?”
“Yes, just concentrating on the players.”
“Jolly good. Now, where was I? Oh yes, something very fish-like. I’m following Neeson in his Saab and that chap Jason Porter is directly behind him in the Porsche. The thing is, they are absolutely nowhere near Sunbury. They’re heading in the opposite bloody direction. We’re on the A24, past Dorking and still heading South.”
King frowned. “I thought Neeson was going to cause a diversion for the police?”
“Exactly, bugger-all chance of that when he’s over thirty-miles away.”
“Oh, definitely. I risked a visual just a few minutes ago, the man’s up his arse like Liberace.”
King grinned. Forsyth certainly had a way with words. He glanced at his watch, and then double-checked the two vehicles. “Look, Ian, you will just have to stay with it, there is only a minute or two to go, and I have to get into position.”
“Oh sorry old boy, lost track of time. I’ll call later, bring you up to speed…”
King ended the call and slipped the mobile phone back into his jacket pocket as two hundred metres away, an unsuspecting steward opened the side gate.
***
The dot slowed dramatically, along with the sound of the incessant bleep that had started to plague his ears. The Saab had turned off the A24 and had taken a minor road, passing through North Holmwood. Again, the tracking receiver’s tone slowed, then suddenly ceased altogether.
Forsyth eased his speed then pulled in to the side of the road and crawled along until the distance between the target vehicle and himself was down to approximately four-hundred metres. He then parked the Rover on the tree-fringed roadside, switched off its quiet engine, and retrieved a pair of compact field glasses from behind his seat. To his left a broad grass verge and a line of beech trees segregated the road from a field of young corn. He stepped out of the car, then walked through the natural barrier and hopped over the fence into the field.
***
Neeson walked towards the glistening Porsche, as Jason Porter lowered the driver’s window. “Right son, are you clear on the procedure?”
“Sure, just as we did in practice.”
“Okay.” Neeson glanced cautiously behind him, then turned his eyes warily back to Porter. “Now, the others will be here in a while, just keep yourself calm, and whatever happens, stay in the car,” he ordered. “Don’t you dare bottle it on me, else I’ll find you and I’ll fucking kill you...”
***
Forsyth watched through the 6 x 48 magnification of the field glasses, as he rested casually against the wooden-railed fence, shrouded from either side by two hawthorn trees. He blended into the area, almost perfectly camouflaged, albeit in a country fashion, in his tweed jacket and mustard-coloured trousers. He used to wear similar attire in his youth deer-stalking on his family’s Scottish Highland estate, and he could always get close enough for a shot.
***
The doors of the Ford Mondeo opened and the three men casually stepped out into the street, and walked around to the rear of the vehicle. McCormick got out of the rear door of the Peugeot and held Grant’s door open. He shepherded Grant around the car, then opened the rear hatch.
Liam, Dugan and Patrick each swung a bag over their shoulders and glanced across the street at McCormick, who was holding the bag in his left hand. He nodded to the three men, then picked up his M16 assault rifle and held it as discreetly as possible down beside his right leg. The other three followed suit, holding their rifles as close to them as possible.
McCormick led the way, with Grant following, and the rest of the team closing tightly in behind them. He turned around, noticing how conspicuous they were all looking, like secret service agents minding the American president. “Keep it casual, lads.” He turned back towards the entrance, then glanced across the road, all the time keeping alert, making sure that nobody had noticed them.
As the group neared the gate, a steward wearing a yellow vest stepped out onto the pavement, his hands cupped around a cigarette that he was attempting to light with a somewhat uncooperative lighter. The man looked briefly at the five men, then returned his attention to his cigarette, before suddenly realising what he had just seen. He looked back at them in sheer terror, then turned to run, but misjudged it and collided with the wall. He stumbled backwards, corrected himself, and made a frantic dash for the gates.
Patrick lunged forward, with considerable speed and agility for such a large man. He raised the butt of the rifle and brought it crashing down onto the base of the man’s skull. The steward fell forward and hit the pavement hard. He was out cold.
“Right, cover your faces!” McCormick shouted, catching hold of Grant’s collar and pulling him towards the gates while Patrick and Liam pulled the steward inside the grounds, and dropped him beside the wall. McCormick looked at Grant, who was staring at the steward lying motionless on the ground. “Alright, genius. Let’s do this thing!”
29
McCormick kept his grip on Grant’s collar, pushing him into a run and guiding him towards the main building. Grant turned his head just in time to see Patrick pounding the butt of his rifle repeatedly into the steward’s face. He turned back, watching his steps, forcing himself to keep the bile from his throat. The steward would surely be lucky to survive the unnecessary beating.
Patrick caught up with the rest of the group, panting breathlessly. “He’ll have a bit of a headache when he wakes up!” He laughed. “If the fucker wakes up, more like!”
They reached the glass-fronted door and came to a halt. Dugan, Liam and Patrick fanned out, professionally guarding their rear. Grant examined the door, then turned to McCormick. “It’s locked! Bolted from the inside!”
“So?” McCormick looked at him, bewildered. “That’s why you’re here!”
“So, I can’t unbolt a dead bolt from the outside!” He shouted, looking at the alternatives, of which there were very few. “If you can take...” He was suddenly cut off prematurely by the sound of half a dozen gunshots fired in quick succession.
Liam aimed and fired again. This time, the bullets found their mark. The unsuspecting security guard who had merely wandered into view fell to the ground as the bullets cut into his lower body. He scrambled to his hands and knees, and struggled to get away, crawling towards the relative safety of the next building. Patrick quickly stepped around Grant and released a short burst of automatic fire. This time, the security guard fell to the ground and lay still.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” McCormick shouted. “We’ve lost our element of surprise!”
Patrick pushed forward and aimed his rifle at the glass door. “This won’t fucking matter then!” He squeezed the trigger and fired a heavy burst at the glass. It shattered instantly, spraying glass shards and splinters of wood into the empty room. Patrick ejected the empty magazine onto the ground and quickly replaced it with a new one. “Come on then, don’t waste any more time!”
McCormick dragged Grant roughly across the debris and into the building. “Right, get going! Left, then up the stairs!”
Grant ran for all he was worth. He was in a daze; his heart was pounding and his ears felt muffled and sung a high pitched whine from the gunfire. The whole moment was simply a haze of confusion.
McCormick pulled Grant back as the two men neared the top of the concrete stairwell. He held his rifle firmly between both hands, then cautiously edged his way up the last three steps. He scanned the main area through the rifle’s sights, then lowered the weapon. “Right, come on, it’s clear.” He waited for Grant to reach the top of the stairwell. “Okay, catch your breath, we’re bang on time.”
Patrick pushed past Liam and Dugan, then trained his weapon at the top of the stairs. “Come on Matt, let’s get the job done!”
McCormick nodded. “Just checking it was clear.” He dropped the bag, then turned to Grant. “That weighs a ton! What have you got in there?” He quickly picked the bag back up, this time slinging it over his other shoulder.
Grant stared at the bag, then looked at the other men’s loads. “Nothing, I only had three...” he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “There are four bags. You each have one. I only had three bags of equipment.”
“So what?” Patrick shouted at him.
“Three bags, then we dump it all and fill the bags with the money.”
“So we’ve got more bags,” McCormick said. “Big deal.”
***
Sean glanced at
his watch, then started the Peugeot’s engine. He took out his Nokia mobile phone and kept his eyes on his watch. He silently mouthed down the second hand until it hit the twelve. He scrolled down the contacts list and pressed the dial button. He could see the signal indicator and heard the dial tone. Without looking at it anymore, he put it on the seat beside him and moved out slowly into the road.
***
Grant stared at the other men in anguish. “It’s not my bag! This is bullshit! Besides, I don’t need anything that heavy, just tools and incendiaries, thermal cutters and microphones!” He shook his head in bewilderment, then stared at the bag curiously as it emitted the muffled sound of a telephone ringtone. He pushed past Dugan, sending the small man sprawling onto his knees. Patrick tried to grab hold of him as he ran, but Grant was quicker, side-stepping, then lunging for the stairwell.
McCormick frowned in bewilderment at the sound of the ringing telephone, then glanced down at the bag in desperate recognition of what was actually happening.
The pre-ignition took them first, followed by the instant heat, which sucked the air from around them like a vacuum, then ignited it into a brilliant white flame. They were dead before the shock wave ripped their bodies apart. Dead before anyone outside would hear a sound.