by Tom Benson
Scotland
Annabel had a panoramic view from her tree. Only an occasional bird blotted the blue sky, and the breeze was hardly strong enough to move the leaves on the trees. On the previous day, Annabel had cleared a few small overhanging branches because they were obscuring her view. She sat with her back against the bough of the large oak with her legs straight out on a sturdy branch. Her Sako rifle was lying across her thighs, loaded and scope zeroed.
When Max called in that Xray-Victor had turned north, it was a relief. Annabel would still have been able to cover the next phase by changing location, but it would have been a close thing. She acknowledged the call from Max and heard Slash and Toolkit checking-in. Everything was in place.
The twin headlights on Rachel’s bike stood out at a fair distance even in daylight— use of headlights on a bike for safety was also useful for Annabel’s sighting. Her protégé was pushing every ounce of power from her machine. There were few occasions in covert operations when the job could be enjoyable, but Rachel would have surely enjoyed racing from her roost in the rocky crag, to cover so many miles rapidly to reach the location for her next task.
Annabel used binoculars to watch the transformation and preparation of the scene in both directions. Rachel was unaware she was being observed and assessed on her performance throughout the mission.
When Rachel arrived at the required spot, she slowed and pulled over, into a small track behind the hedgerow. For a few minutes, she was alone. She had to adjust quickly from her road-racing mindset to a very different scenario. Having only seen this location on the map, Rachel had to make a rapid assessment before getting underway with the next phase. There was little time to consider the ‘what if’ factor.
Slash and Toolkit arrived. Further back along the road, Wyatt and Errol were setting up a unique road sign. The bikers might all have been mistaken for being high on something because they were all working with a smile on their faces.
Dawes checked his mirrors, and as he came around the next bend, he slowed. “What the fuck?” He applied the brakes.
A short distance away, two motorbikes were lying on the road, and the riders were lying beside them. Between the approaching white van and the bikers was a figure wearing a white helmet with a narrow black and white cheque band around it, and a yellow high-visibility vest with a chequered band around it.
“Fuck the copper,” Linwood said. “If he gets in the way, fuckin’ hit him.”
“I’d have to go over one of those fuckin’ bikes as well,” Dawes said and braked harder. It occurred to him the police bike must have been on the scene rapidly. The other two bikers were still lying on the road. It didn’t make sense.
On the police officer’s white bike, the blue light was flashing on top of the short pole on the rear, and there were two yellow Day-Glo side panniers, complete with chequered stripes. There were Day-Glo stripes along the fuel tank too.
The police officer stepped out and waved the van and other traffic to stop.
“Fuck it,” Linwood said. “Stop, and I’ll shoot the interferin’ bastard.”
Dawes stood on the brakes, and the van skidded to a halt a few metres from the uniformed figure. The dark visor was pulled down on the copper’s white safety helmet. Dawes reached down between the seats to grab his gun, but Linwood was already out of the passenger door.
“Fuck you,” Linwood said as he strode towards the figure standing in the road in front of him. He started to raise his gun as he continued forward, but his weapon didn’t make it into the aim. A hole appeared in the right side of Linwood’s head, just above the ear. His body jerked once in spasm before it fell to the floor, lifeless.
Dawes had his gun in his right hand, which he rested on the open window of the door. He saw his associate fall, and as he pushed the driver’s door open, he took three bullets. The one in the centre of his forehead came from the Sako sniper rifle which claimed Linwood. The second and third shots came from a Browning 9mm held by Sparky. He was still ten metres away and striding up to the back of the van. He’d stopped and fired two rapid shots from a standing position. Yes, the two-handed grip was as good as Hawk had suggested.
At two-hundred metres in both directions, the traffic had already been held back by police-style accident signs, erected and backed up by leather and denim-clad bikers with whom no sensible regular driver would argue. They might have argued if the bikers in both locations didn’t have handguns and grins to accompany their request for drivers and passengers to stay still—and keep their hands in sight.
Real police would not be turning up at the scene. A few minutes earlier, Annabel had called 999 to report an armed siege near Fort William, which was to the southeast. One minute after her call, Phil called 999 to report a suspect device seen beside a railway track at Inverness, situated to the northeast.
The nearest available police car or motorcyclist was thirty miles away, and the only helicopter had already been deployed to check the railway line in Inverness. One police officer was in a remote barn, tied to a wooden post, naked.
He’d responded to a call about a naked female motorcyclist on farm tracks, but when he found the lone bike and gone inside the barn, he had been greeted by four male bikers, who all had guns. The report of his stolen bike and uniform was going to be challenging to write.
The two dead gangsters’ bodies were hurled into the back of the van with their load. Toolkit pushed his Triumph down the track into a prepared area in the nearby woodland. Rachel threw the white helmet and hi-visibility gear into the bushes and pushed the stolen police bike into the bushes. She spread a camouflage sheet over Toolkit’s bike and the police bike.
The two ‘injured’ bikers got up from their positions on the road surface, put away the guns they’d had under their bodies and then lifted their undamaged bikes.
Toolkit climbed into the driver’s seat of the van and set off escorted by four bikers. The other bikers released the traffic that had been backed up for five minutes. Less than eight minutes after Dawes had been shot, there was no sign of anything untoward, and a large group of bikers were ensuring Toolkit’s safety.
“Good work, team,” Annabel whispered. She was already preparing her gear to climb down from her perch.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Eva strolled along the main road, and then at the track that led up to Fitzpatrick’s place, she hesitated and looked around. There were two short flashes of light from among the trees on a nearby hill. If there had been a problem, there would have been a single long flash. Ian was content that Simpson was not in the gatehouse.
When Eva approached the gatehouse, she took out a car aerial from her pocket and extended it. She held it loosely between finger and thumb at arm’s length, and so that the tip was close to the ground. It was a simple technique for locating trips.
She watched for other possible alarms, but there was nothing. Eva made a rapid circuit of the building before making short work of the front door lock. Once inside, she remained still for a few seconds to listen.
Upstairs there were four monitors. Three were switched on, and the fourth was blank. Eva buzzed Phil and enabled video and loudspeaker on the video phone he had given her. She started to stream the information to the laptop Phil was using in the hotel.
“Four monitors,” Eva said. “Only three seem to be in use, and as you’ll see, they are showing the floors and areas of the main building.” Eva filmed each monitor and selected all available views in turn. The information about the inside of the building was invaluable, and Phil made rapid, brief notes about each floor layout.
Eva said, “I think I’ve found the issue with the fourth monitor.” She fiddled around with the controls. “I’ve got it sorted now. The fourth monitor had the screen blacked out. It gives various views of the bedrooms, but there’s nobody in any of them.”
Phil said, “Let me have a better look at that cellar monitor again Eva.”
The y
oung operative turned to focus the video camera on Monitor Three. “This is the cellar rooms, and there are multiple views again. It looks like there’s a pond down there, which is peculiar.” She changed cameras and in rotation gave Phil views of the main cellar with the large pond, bridge, and the arrangement of doors with sliding bolts, like prison cells.
“I’ll try to get other views,” Eva said and flicked the control on the monitor. One cell was empty, except for a stone bed. Two of the cells had stone platforms for beds, and both of these had bloodstains on the walls. The next had a young woman kneeling on a platform with her dress lifted onto her back. Behind her, standing away from the bed, a big, naked bald man stood. His clothing was in a pile beside him on the floor.
The man paused. Something had caught his attention, and he looked around, but he didn’t look towards the cell door. He stared at the camera lens and squinted. He nodded slowly and smiled as he winked at the camera. His left arm moved, and the screen went blank.
“I got that,” Phil said. “Get out of there now Eva.”
“Oh my God,” Eva said as she tried the room door, but it wouldn’t budge. “I’m trapped, Phil. There is a small red light flashing above the door of the monitor room. Either the place is wired to blow, or there is a self-locking device.”
“Arm yourself, Eva,” Phil said. “Don’t hesitate. Shoot to kill if he comes back.”
“Roger,” Eva said and switched off her equipment.
Phil considered the options and the overall strategy. He would not allow Jake to take part in the assault without target intelligence. Phil buzzed him on the radio and described the castle layout rapidly, floor by floor as if entering the front doors.
At Jake’s request, Phil then related entry as if from the roof. Jake suggested a slight change of plan.
37. Trojan Horse
.
Crathie, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Rachel pulled over into the large open carpark opposite Crathie Church. Although small, she knew the church was used by British royalty whenever they stayed nearby, at Balmoral Castle. At one end of the carpark was a Tourist Information Office.
Immediately behind Rachel on her bike was Toolkit in the van, followed by a group of bikers. The assistant in the tourist office stood close to a full-length window staring down onto the carpark. When a couple of riders waved, the woman moved further back into her domain.
Sparky and Wyatt parked their bikes and climbed into the back of the van. Rachel paid for two tickets for the parked bikes and then jumped onto her Kawasaki. The strange convoy set off again. The woman up in the tourist office returned to the window.
Wyatt radioed from the back of the van.“Hullo Zero, this is Wyatt. I am now with Sparky, and Toolkit.” He paused. “Xray-Victor due at RV in ten—that is, one-zero minutes, over.”
“Zero roger, out.” Phil was the only call-sign to acknowledge, but every member of the operation with a radio understood it was time for the next phase.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Phil used his mobile to contact Ian. He explained Eva’s situation and asked Ian to text Jake with the same information. Phil used the radio to give his final call before leaving. “Hullo, all stations this is Zero.” He paused. “Trojan Horse in fifteen—that is, one-five minutes, out.”
The radio was slipped into the right side of Phil’s camouflaged smock, on the opposite side to his Browning 9mm. He closed the laptop and looked around the room before leaving.
One minute later there was a squeal of rubber on the tarmac as an Audi left the hotel forecourt. Three minutes later the same Audi slewed into a parking area at the side of the road. A white Transit van pulled in as Phil locked his car.
Toolkit was shifting gears before Phil had the passenger door closed.
At Fitzpatrick’s grounds, men were deployed to the entrance of the two tracks at the back of the building, and the others were kept nearby to assist with getting the merchandise indoors as quickly as possible. Even without communication, Fitzpatrick knew the van was due within a short time.
Fitzpatrick, Mental Mickey and Henderson stood together at the main door.
“Go and open the trophy room please Peter,” Fitzpatrick said when he saw the white van approach slowly along the track. “I want to know why these two fuckers haven’t been reporting in.”
Henderson was glad he wasn’t one of the two in the van. He smiled at his boss and headed indoors. Henderson was delighted to be working with the man who intended to rule every drug and arms deal in Scotland.
Gordon Fitzpatrick had explained his plans on the previous night over dinner, and he told Mental Mickey and Henderson that it would be necessary to have a couple of trusted men at his side. Now, as Fitzpatrick stood side by side with Mental, they watched the van spin around ready to reverse back to the doorway.
The van began to reverse, but over the engine noise, there was loud engine revving along a track at the rear of the building. Engines were being revved in the other woodland tracks, and then the van sped towards the front doors. Fitzpatrick and Mental exchanged a glance.
Fitzpatrick detailed the gunmen to hold their station. The four at the entrance pulled out their pistols and stepped slightly apart. Two pairs were already advancing along the tracks to check out the disturbance.
The van stopped suddenly, and as the back doors flew open, the lifeless bodies of Dawes and Linwood flew out as if propelled. They landed on the ground with dull thuds and rolled. All four of the armed sentries reacted by staring in disbelief for several seconds before they looked up.
Three of the large wooden statues inside the van fell forward uncovering two leather-clad bikers who were kneeling behind them. There were eight aimed shots from inside the van, fired in four rapid sets of two. The gunmen fired four random harmless shots between them.
Sparky and Wyatt had agreed their tactics before the van had stopped. They both fired at an outside man and then aimed inward to take out the other two. At less than five metres, there was no need for more than one shot per target, but they’d been taught to ‘double-tap’ their weapons—so they did. Fitzpatrick lost four armed thugs.
“Clear!” Wyatt cried, but by then Phil and Toolkit were already at the back of the van.
“Well done,” Phil said as he assessed the situation. “You three guys get down to the gatehouse. Eva’s in trouble.”
Before Phil had reached the side where he’d seen Jake approach, Sparky, Wyatt and Toolkit were running down the main track, as if their lives depended on it. On lesser mortals, jeans and leather jackets would be an encumbrance, but not for bikers.
Phil pulled the Velcro fasteners on the canvas bag he’d been carrying. A folded black device was lifted out, and on the press of a clip, the closed black arms opened into four hooks. The base of the device had a long knotted rope attached.
As Phil spun the grappling hook to throw, Jake was nearby on one knee, Browning at the ready, watching for anything untoward.
It took Phil forty-five seconds to climb to the battlements, where he then covered Jake as he climbed. He ascended faster than Phil. They left the rope on the off-chance it might be required. They had no fears of any of the X-rays being capable of climbing.
When the Transit was captured at the fake accident site, it had been the cue for the riders still on the other side of the mountain range to prepare for the next phase. The unmistakable sound of a group of motorbikes travelling together at speed echoed along the glens.
The riders tackled the narrow, winding mountain roads with relish, employing their skills to lean into the bends when required to maintain speed. They travelled in close, single file, overtaking other vehicles in a rapid snake-like manoeuvre.
One old soldier who was driving along sedately in his Rover remarked to his wife, “They’re reminiscent of a pack of Spitfires dropping out of formation to join the fight.”
It was an impressive display of fast riding, an
d thanks to the noise, and view in their mirrors, most other road users paid heed to the line of headlights, by slowing and pulling in closer to the nearside. The bikers received more respect than often shown to emergency services.
At the castle, along the first of the two rear tracks, the two armed sentries made their way towards the pair of bikers seated on their machines, engines running. Pedro and Butcher both had their hands down in front of them, resting on the fuel tanks.
When the two sentries were ten metres away, they both reached inside their jackets.
The bikers lifted their hands and aimed their automatics in a two-handed grip.
Pedro said, “Do you two boys want to die?”
The two hoodlums exchanged a glance, smirked, and simultaneously gripped the breech slides of their weapons. Failure to complete such a simple action earlier would prove their undoing.
Pedro and Butcher both double-tapped two rounds into their respective targets. The bikers’ guns were cocked and ready to fire. It made the difference between life and death.
“Wanker,” Pedro said, shaking his head.
“What?” Butcher said as he looked forward. “I got him with both shots.”
“Yeah,” Pedro said, “but one is in his fuckin’ throat.”
“Well, he’s just as fuckin’ dead.”
“Wanker,” Pedro repeated a few minutes later, as they dragged the bodies of the sentries into the trees. When the track was clear, the two men rode along to the castle.
In the other track that Fitzpatrick had hoped to use as a possible escape route, two other sentries came across Paddy and Ginge. The riders were both sitting astride their machines. A similar scenario played out, to the first track, with the exception that all of the bullet holes were in the sentries’ foreheads.
Eva stood two steps away from the inside of the door upstairs in the gatehouse. At first when the red light had started flashing it could have been any one of several things. The place might be wired to blow, or it could be a local explosion affecting only the room and equipment. It could be a bluff.
