Seven Degress (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 2)

by Lewis Hastings

  “Hello ladies, the B Team are just clearing the cellar. All quiet on the western front.”

  The fourth member of the team had joined them on the staircase with a tactical ladder. Green was the most experienced with this type of risk-laden search, and so had volunteered to go up and into the void.

  Downstairs, a second unit had indeed cleared the basement.

  “Boss, cellar is clear.”

  “Roger.”

  Green took over the comms again. “Boss, entering the loft. Stand by.”

  Woods did as he was asked.

  Heinz flipped the loft hatch, pushing it up and into the empty space in one fluid movement.

  He nodded to Green and corroborated with a clear and definite thumbs up.

  Green rapidly climbed up the FDS lightweight ladder, its nylon slides making it all but silent. He had purposefully checked the safety catch on his MP5 – no point in having an actioned weapon if he couldn’t use it. The weapon was longer than he would have liked, but it provided greater safety in the form of its attached Maglite torch.

  The pinpointed beam of the torch illuminated the hidden recesses of the loft area. These areas normally provided problems to the search teams as they were a veritable dumping ground of much-loved treasures; Christmas decorations, books and dust-laden suitcases. This one, bar a galvanised water tank was completely empty.

  Green poked his light into the types of places he would hide and where history had shown that desperate people would also seek sanctuary. Nothing.

  And then he saw the void in the adjoining wall.

  “Shit.”

  “You OK, Gaz?” asked Heinz.

  “I am, but the skipper is going to be livid. There’s a friggin’ hole up here big enough to squeeze an elephant through. I’m going up. Get someone round to the next door property! Stand by on that.”

  He shone his light into the hole.

  “The hole continues through to the next few properties. Looks like it’s been like this since the Queen was a girl.”

  O’Neill transmitted the good news to his boss and prepared to follow his colleague up the ladder.

  Green stopped. The smallest hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He shuddered involuntarily. Less than a foot from his head, and behind him, strapped to one of the joists, was the improvised device. A gift from Constantin Nicolescu. It required no glittery red bow but was delivered with genuine love.

  As Green conducted a secondary sweep, the basic analogue counter diligently subtracted precious seconds from the time that Constantin had dialled in.

  “Hang on, Pete. Something’s not right. See if we can get the boys to do a recce on the other properties in this block. He’s got to be in one of them.”

  He thought quietly to himself, ‘this is all we bloody need.’

  He kept one eye on the hole and scanned the roof space with the other. He paused, leaned further into the darkness, holding his weapon in his right hand as he gently brushed the decaying loft insulation to one side. There was something there, it was new, out of place. Foreign.

  “Jesus H Christ on a bike!”

  O’Neill had started to climb up the ladder but retraced his steps rapidly when Green began to exit the loft, almost landing boot-first onto his fingertips.

  “Go, go, go! Bomb!”

  O’Neill didn’t need any more encouragement and slid the rest of the way down the ladder in one balletic movement. The other team members mirrored his actions, double-backing down the main staircase.

  Three.

  Two.

  Green was almost out of the hatch, one hand on the wooden frame when the device detonated. The timer had reached its mark.

  One.

  Constantin was far from a master bomb maker but he knew more than enough to cause chaos – and the more he experimented, the more he fell under the spell of his new mistress. He loved how she captivated him, drank the air out of the environs with ease and dusted physical things to one side, slapping them away as a horse’s tail might swat a fly. But most of all, he adored her authority, and her best was yet to come.

  All he needed to do with the simple device was shape a small amount of plastic explosive – his homeland was awash with it – locate it in a place that would cause the desired demolition effect and consider the size, shape and configuration of his intended target.

  His intentions were even simpler: create space, create time.

  Any injuries to his pursuers were a consolation prize.

  Green would later state that he saw the flash before the bang. He could taste the chemicals in the air and smell the metallic signature of his own blood. The detonation was flawed, its maker had hoped for more, but all it achieved was a dramatic splintering of the wooden roof joists where it had been located. And dust. An inordinate amount of dust.

  The abrupt explosion had caused an immediate and intense flame which vanished in a micro-second. It had the dual function of ripping the end of Green’s finger clean off – for the record, his right index finger – his favoured and infamous trigger finger. The most-feared in all of southern England. Apparently.

  The secondary function of the high-intensity heat was that the flash cauterised the wound, searing it and sealing it, like a tender eye fillet steak, served blue and dropped onto a ravenous diner’s plate.

  Not normally one afraid of using profanities Green was unable to utter a word for a few minutes. He lay on his back looking up at the partially demolished loft entrance. Processing his surroundings. The high-pitched whistling in his ears was a temporary distraction from the overly present and invasive sound of his heartbeat.

  His specialist headgear had partly dislodged, enabling him to be a part of the conversations that had commenced around him. His team had recovered from their own awe, stunned by the explosion and now operating in a fight versus flight manner. One member had already rammed the ladder back through the void – completely against his professional instinct which told him, yelled at him, that there could be a secondary device.

  But he wanted that bastard.

  The other team members were summoning further medical help and securing their colleague, ensuring his long-term recovery. None commented on Green’s injury, which looked significantly worse than it was.

  The fall from the hatch had driven the air out of his lungs and for a while he lay, gently moving his toes, then his lower legs, moving upwards, each inch revealing hope as he proceeded towards his back and neck and eventually down his arms where he was able to wiggle his fingertips.

  He chinked his wedding ring against the breach of his rifle and thought of his wife of ten years.

  It was then he felt the intense pain in his other hand. Actually, it wasn’t his hand; it was his finger, his right index finger to be precise. It was at this point that every other ache, pain and contusion he had suffered diminished rapidly. He felt as if his entire body was experiencing the agony of a hundred lifetimes through the microscopic median nerve that ran along the outer edge of his finger; that is, what was left of it.

  Now, as he lay on his back on the threadbare carpet, his A-beta nerve fibre was carrying messages at an alarming rate up his arm, via the spinal column to his brain.

  The A-delta nerve fibres were what made him suffer the exquisite pain.

  Woods’ radio hissed into life, announcing an incoming message.

  “Skip, Sharkey’s been blown up!”

  The vastly experienced sergeant looked to Cade, then Roberts, then the sky before saying “Oh for…Great, just super.”

  He then keyed the microphone and replied.

  “Received. Status please – I need more than blown up…” His broad Kentish accent appeared almost sarcastic and vaguely disappointed.

  “He’s lost his right-hand boss, some bruising too, and he’s struggling to sit up properly…and his clothes are a bit torn…”

  Woods thought the latter comment was unusual and could hear some commotion in the background. It was his senior man.

  “…st
ruggling to fuckin’ breathe? Bruised? I’ll have you know I’ve just been blown to bits by Al-bloody-Qaeda and all you can say is I’ve got a wardrobe malfunction. It’s a wonder I can stand up…I despair I really do…If I’d still got my trigger finger I’d bloody shoot you.”

  He paused again, clearly suffering from shock. Then questioned his team.

  “Well, go on, who has got it then?”

  The team members took turns to shrug, shake their heads and deny ownership until Steve Heinz tapped the outer pocket on his one-piece overalls.

  “All safe, Sharkey. I’ve wrapped it in plastic just like they taught us on the first aid course. Best we get you and it re-united at hospital.”

  Woods sensed great relief. He knew that Green would be able to survive this but was unable to cut back into the conversation, which continued for all to hear.

  His team mate ‘P-O’, who was skilfully steering him away from the subject matter continued,

  “Yeah, well you haven’t stood up yet ‘ave you Sharkey. I mean, you only got blown up a minute ago. And another thing, the least you can do is stay lying down until the ambulance guys get here. He was scanning the roof void and watching his partner for any change in his vital signs, knowing that all black humour aside from shock could kill in an instant.

  “I probably saved your life, you ungrateful bastard – and – more importantly if I don’t look after you, your Charmaine will have my bleedin’ guts for garters. I mean look at the state of your trousers…”

  Green lifted his head slightly and noticed that somehow the crutch of his one-piece overalls had been completely torn out during the blast, revealing what he artfully called “The Right Honourable Member for Kent.”

  It was lying to one side, slightly grazed, bemused almost. However, having carried out its own post-blast assessment, it had declared itself fit for future purpose.

  Green started to laugh. His body also began to shake as his system pumped Epinephrine around his veins. Heinz also started to laugh, as did O’Neill who pointed to Green’s hand.

  “You’ll have to get someone else to pick your nose, kid. Come on, let’s get you sorted, I reckon our man has long gone.”

  “Oh, you reckon do you? Let me at him, I can shoot with any of my other fingers you know…seriously, get me up that ladder…”

  It was all he could manage before laying his back onto the frayed carpet and closing his eyes.

  Woods was finally able to get back onto the conversation thread, ensuring that the team were able to function and advising that a paramedic was on the way as part of Galvin’s team, being better trained for such incidents than most conventional medical staff.

  He knew that his own team would strap up Green’s arm until higher-level support arrived. His radio hissed a message again.

  “Boss, we’ve found a female at number 28, Indian lady. In a bit of a state but she reckons our man ripped her clothes off her and escaped wearing them. Sometime before she heard the explosion. Might be worth getting our eye in the sky to check back over their footage for him. Other than that, all I can say is he’s carrying a pistol, looks like an Indian bird and likes curry. Over.”

  Woods leant back against a garden wall and vigorously rubbed his scalp with his fingertips. He clicked the radio key twice indicating he had understood.

  “Gentlemen, feel free to go to the house. I’m just going to have a little cry then I’ve got a phone call to make and I suspect there will be a smorgasbord of Anglo-Saxon language present when I’ve explained that we’ve got a multi-cultural, cross-dressing terrorist and food critic at large in our county. I’ll catch up in five.”

  Cade nodded to Roberts.

  “Come on Jas, let’s go and see what we are dealing with, I think Mac’s got enough to do.”

  Roberts followed and added, “Jack, just what the hell are we dealing with here?”

  Cade smiled without turning, “I honestly don’t know Jason. But I think the next twenty-four, hours might be quite long and arduous, and you and I need to talk to our own cross-dressing source of information. Today. Ring Harrier.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Roberts had tried to contact Harrier – he reached the answerphone message and left a plea for an urgent response.

  With Green en route to hospital and the scene locked down, Roberts walked quickly to the back door of the target address.

  He joined Cade, looking around the terraced home. Their senses were filled with a blend of filth, blood and black powder. Knowing that a joint SOCO/CID team were en route they made the most of the chance to look around.

  “His pockets are empty, Jack” said a latex-gloved Roberts.

  “And the rooms are almost void of life, there’s odd signs of occupancy but sod all in the way of evidence. At least we know what our man is capable of. What do you think about the explosion?”

  “I’m not much of an IED expert mate, but this smacks of a diversion. If he’d wanted to he could have killed them all. Look what happened to the poor old bastard across the road…Jack?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You looked occupied, mate. What are you thinking?”

  “Jason. Since I arrived on the scene I’ve been surrounded by war, famine and bloody pestilence. I’m beginning to take this personally. Not that long ago I was coming to terms with the fact that my dearly beloved was an eager member of the swinging scene, and more than happy to entertain members of my own force, then, within weeks I take up the chance to work at an international airport and I meet…”

  “Petrov.”

  “Indeed. We get along like the proverbial burning dwelling, and she fills my head with a little too much information. I quickly heard the ‘tick, tick, tick’ of the roller coaster, dragging me up to the top of the first drop and honestly, I couldn’t get off. I didn’t want to. It was the diversion from reality I needed.”

  “Some would envy you, Jack. Pretty girls, car chases, mysterious Eastern European master criminals – all very Double O.”

  Cade snorted a small laugh. “Yeah, maybe, but this is not Hollywood and people are getting hurt, dying and suffering and I’m quickly becoming the catalyst. This is no longer about money – this is about revenge. And frankly, I’m worried who the next target might be.”

  Time had elapsed all too quickly. The pair continued their fruitless search for evidence, took a few photographs and headed back to an awaiting vehicle, shook hands with Woods, promised to stay in touch, asked him to pass on their best wishes to his team and left. They had made the prompt decision to return to London.

  The drive back up the M2 was quiet, pensive, and about to be shattered when Roberts dialled a number on his phone.

  “Well, butter my muffin top and soak it with strawberry jam, if it’s not my fave detective sergeant and his dishy boss!”

  Roberts had the phone system on hands free. As Cade accelerated past traffic on the expansive Medway Bridge, the conversation started in earnest.

  “Harrier, listen to me. We have a serious situation that requires your help…”

  “Oh, then if that’s the case sugar hips I’m just the woman to climb on board the Investigation Express…”

  “Harrier!”

  “What?”

  “Shut – the – fuck – up!”

  No one had ever spoken to her in that way – and meant it. And she knew that Roberts was being serious, so, for once in her somewhat bizarre and controlling life she listened.

  “Go on.”

  “Thank you. We are hunting for Constantin. We have to find him.”

  “What has he done this time? Another bank job?”

  “No, if only it were that simple. He’s moved on from blowing up ATMs – he’s left that to the other syndicates.”

  “Yes, I saw there was another one overnight in Essex. They seem to be moving away from the city. Must be your lot putting pressure on them. So go on, enlighten me Jason.”

  “We believe he has killed an old man, completely innocent, and today a younger mal
e.”

  “How?”

  “That isn’t important, Harrier.”

  “I need to know.”

  Roberts looked at Cade, who nodded.

  “The old man died in an explosion. A gas accident, to be precise. But the Fire Brigade investigators are one hundred percent convinced it was designed to look that way.”

  “But you think it was deliberate?”

  “Yes, sadly.”

  “My guess is, if he was even close by, then your old man had got in his way somehow. Constantin was a genius with all things chemical you know.”

  “I didn’t. How do you know this?”

  “Darling. Men talk when you have reduced their inhibitions. He could have been a chemist. He studied it when he was inside – prison that is. Read every book they had and then some. Reckoned there wasn’t a thing he couldn’t destroy given the opportunity. He told me once how his favourite things in the world were gasses, poisons and yours truly!”

  “Charmed, I’m sure.”

  “And the male – how young?”

  “In his twenties.”

  “Origins?”

  “Eastern European.”

  “Gay?”

  “I have no idea Harrier I never slept with him.”

  “Now who’s being flippant, Detective Sergeant?”

  Cade raised his eyebrows and continued north at speeds approaching ninety miles an hour. Any motorist who got in his way was reminded of his presence with a discreet flash of blue from behind the grill.

  “Sorry, not called for. To answer your question H, I have no idea, but yes, possibly.”

  “Thank you. Where did he die?”

  “He was shot. Twice in the chest, once in the forehead. Small calibre…”

  “Jason, my dear, you are not listening. I asked where. Be precise.”

  “Rochester.”

  “For God’s sake, be more specific.”

  The two police colleagues exchanged glances, shrugged shoulders and continued.

  “On the staircase of a terraced house. To be precise.”