Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  “It’s possible, sir. Not much we can do other than wait for now though. They’re monitoring it at the moment, and I’ve given them mine, and your, mobile numbers. They said they’ll call us immediately they get a chance to ping the phone, day or night.”

  “Well done, Gary. You’d better get off home, get some rest. Not much we can do tonight until we get a positive location on Petrov.”

  “See you tomorrow, sir.”

  “Night, Gary.”

  ...

  Sergei was getting impatient. He knew that Charlie York had told him that it would take 2-3 days to prepare his passport, but the longer that he stayed secreted in the office block, the greater the chance that the police would locate him.

  He checked his watch. It showed 7am. I’ll hurry him up a bit, Sergei thought. He took out his phone, switched it on, and went to the messages section. There were no new texts, so he sent one to York.

  “Is the passport ready yet?”

  He waited, hoping for an immediate answer, but after ten minutes with no reply, he turned off his phone to save battery power. I’ll try again later, he thought.

  ...

  It was early morning. DS French had been in the MIR about 30 minutes when he received a call on his personal phone. After a brief conversation, he called out to DI Peterson, who was in his office.

  “Boss, we’ve got it!”

  Colin poked his head around the office door. “Got what, Gary?”

  “Petrov turned on his mobile at 7am, less than half an hour ago. It was on for 10 minutes, and then went off again. The guys monitoring it pinged the device and got its location. It didn’t move during those 10 minutes so he seems to be stationary at the moment.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging, Gary, where’s the location?” asked Colin.

  “I’m just gonna check it. They only gave me the coordinates.”

  Pulling a map of the city from a desk drawer, Gary began cross-referencing the numbers that he had been given.

  “There we go. It looks like it’s somewhere in this disused complex of warehouses and engineering workshops,” he said, pointing at the map.

  “That’s always assuming that it was Sergei who switched on the phone, and assuming he hasn’t changed location after the phone was pinged,” said Colin, playing devil’s advocate. “And, of course, assuming that the original intelligence was correct, and it is actually Petrov’s number and not some other random person’s. There’re a lot of ifs involved.”

  Gary’s joyful enthusiasm at receiving the good news had started to dwindle as his boss reeled off the list of potential problems.

  Colin continued, “However, this is all we have to go on, so let’s check to see if Petrov is there or not.” Gary’s smile returned. “To start with, make sure that the people monitoring the number continue to do so. If they ping it again, we can confirm the location, and confirm that the suspect hasn’t moved.”

  “Already done, sir,” replied Gary.

  “Next, I want as much information on that industrial estate as possible – maps, building blueprints, everything.”

  “I’ll get someone to contact the council.”

  “Find out if there is any CCTV in the area (although I doubt it, as it appears rundown).” Gary took notes.

  “What I’d really like are eyes on the plot. Have we got anybody trained to do undercover obs (observations) on our team? I’d do it myself – I’m trained from my time in the Met – but my face is known to Petrov, so I can’t risk it.”

  “Well, I could do it, sir,” answered Gary, enthusiastically. “I’ve done the course.”

  “OK, but be careful. If you get spotted, pull out. I want you on covert comms, and keep a distance, just watch and report what you see. No heroics, OK?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gary could not get the smile off his face.

  Chapter 29

  Gary French was no more!

  With the careful application of a greasy wig, dirt and grime to his face, and dressed in an eclectic mixture of dirty, baggy, and worn-out clothing, he had transformed into a person of no-fixed-abode, one of the many homeless that frequented the city streets.

  Carrying his bundles of blankets and with a thick woolly hat pulled down low to conceal his covert earpiece; he shuffled along the road leading towards the disused industrial estate and warehouse complex. It was mid-afternoon, but it might just as well have been midnight. The overcast sky had diffused the light making it dark, dank, and desolate.

  Slipping through the unlocked wire-mesh gate, he entered the compound, slowly sidling up to the first building’s wall. He silently scouted the perimeter, checking doorways, gently pushing windows, testing to see which were open and which were locked shut. He looked around, scanning the uppermost parts of the structures, searching for CCTV cameras. There were none.

  Like a ghost, he moved from building to building, getting a feel for the lay of the land, noting possible entry/exit points, and listening for telltale sounds of the Russians hiding within. Anything of interest - partly opened hoardings, fire escapes, smashed windows – were unobtrusively photographed. To all intents and purposes, he was simply a person looking for somewhere warm to lay his head overnight. Nobody would take a second glance at him.

  ...

  Returning to the police station, still disguised as an itinerant, he joined DI Peterson as he explained what he had discovered. The firearms tactical commander was there, as were other members of the CID department, all studying maps and diagrams of the industrial complex.

  “So, Gary, what can you add to the picture, you having actually been there?” asked the DI.

  “First off, there’s no CCTV anywhere nearby,” Gary began. “I couldn’t locate any signs of Petrov, or his mates either. This building is a massive four-storey warehouse...” He pointed to the sketch map. “...and these are single-storey workshops, all derelict and secured. This building at the front looks like it used to be offices. There was a door that looked like a panel had been freshly levered open.” He showed a photo of the doorway and indicated its exact location on the diagram. “There are possible entry points here, here, and here,” Gary continued, “and the rear of the compound is fenced off with barbed wire on top. There’re residential streets running off on three sides, should they choose to escape in that direction.”

  “Thanks for that, Gary,” said the DI. He was just about to say something else when Superintendent Mitchelson barged through the door into the MIR.

  “What’s going on here then?” he demanded. “Why haven’t you kept me updated if you’re holding team meetings? I ought to be the first person you talk to, Inspector. What’s changed?” Mitchelson was angry. He thought that his team had chosen to bypass the chain of command, discussing tactical operations without his input.

  Colin spoke to him, “Sorry, sir, I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day, but you’ve been tied up in meetings.” The Superintendent looked sheepish, suddenly realising that this was true. Colin then updated him on developments, and what his next course of action was to be.

  “We’re waiting to see if we can get a second trace on the mobile phone in order to confirm its location. But regardless of that, I’m planning an armed assault on the industrial estate for the early hours, tomorrow. I’ve sent a request to the Chief Constable as I couldn’t get hold of you earlier, sir, and we’re just waiting on the go-ahead from him.” The Superintendent looked even angrier on hearing that Colin had gone over his head to get permission for the raid. “I’ve got a helicopter on standby, and a dog unit. I just need to arrange for uniformed police support to contain the neighbouring streets, just in case they escape.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got everything covered,” said the Superintendent. “I’ll chase up the Chief Constable’s permission. Keep me in the loop, Inspector.” With that, he left the room, his mobile phone in his hand, deep in concentration as he thumbed a text message.

  Colin returned to his meeting, catching Gary’s eye as if to say, that went bette
r than expected. “OK, Jason (the firearms tactical advisor/commander), can I leave you to brief your own team?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” he replied. “How would you feel if I asked your DS to return to the area, undercover? If he has already been seen by the suspects, then they won’t be spooked by his presence. It would be good to have eyes on the ground immediately before we go in.”

  “Gary? What do you think?” asked the DI.

  “Yeah, that’s fine by me, sir.”

  “OK then, but remember, you’re unarmed, you’re not to engage the suspects, it’s passive obs ONLY. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Guv.” Gary had his smile firmly planted on his grubby looking face again.

  “I’ll brief all of the other units just before we kick-off. Everyone will be wearing full ballistic body armour, and I can’t emphasis enough the safety of unarmed officers. We don’t want any heroes, right?” added Colin. “Good luck, everyone.”

  Chapter 30

  05:30 hours.

  The weather had taken a turn for the worse. There was an icy chill in the air, the moon was obscured by heavy cloud cover, and the breeze had started to pick up. The streets were deserted, the roads silent, everybody tucked up in bed, asleep. Even DS French gave the impression of being asleep as he huddled in a doorway, his blankets pulled up around his face. However, he was wide awake, scanning the front elevation of the industrial complex, watching for movement.

  A few streets away, DI Peterson was sat in the warmth of a PSU riot van, monitoring the police radio chatter. Parked next to him was a dog unit, the muffled growls of the specially trained firearms dog barely audible above the roar of the van’s hot air blowers. The radio began to buzz with the sound of other police units checking in with their commander.

  “Containment unit four, in position,” reported one of the unarmed police units.

  “NPAS-23, currently in a holding pattern two miles to your south, standing by,” called the pilot of the EC135 police helicopter.

  “Firearms units in position and waiting,” said Jason Hume, the firearms tactical advisor/commander.

  Everything was set, everybody was in their correct position, and all were awaiting the order to commence the operation. Anticipation was palpable, nervous energy was unmistakeable as officers waited, primed like coiled springs. Some paced back and forth while others twitched, or were overly chatty, or silent, each individual reacting differently.

  The clock ticked on, but time appeared to have been put on hold...

  ...

  Nervous energy was also present within the disused office buildings across the street, only for a different reason.

  Sergei could not sleep.

  He had not heard anything from Charlie York regarding his new passport, and his gut instinct told him that something was wrong. He had been waiting for over a day, and he was becoming increasingly impatient, not to mention, bored. Time was dragging, and the longer that it dragged, the greater the possibility that the police would stumble upon his hiding place. Maybe Charlie has sent a message since I last checked my phone, he wondered. He switched it on, noting the tiny battery symbol in the top corner (which was worryingly low). There was a message, but not from York.

  “Police coming for you after dark - Get out NOW.”

  Sergei checked the time that it had been sent. It was hours old. “For fuck’s sake,” he cried. “Ivan, Roman - wake up. WAKE UP,” he roared. “The police know where we are.”

  Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, both brothers slowly awoke and realized what their boss had just told them. In shock, Ivan burbled, “H...how? What...?”

  “Shut up,” shouted Sergei. “You, check the front door.” He pointed at Ivan. “Be careful. Just look through the gap. Don’t give us away.” All three men drew their handguns and waited nervously for Ivan to see if the police were outside.

  ...

  At that exact same moment, Colin’s mobile phone rang.

  “Hello. DI Peterson, here.”

  “It’s Jon. We’re monitoring a mobile phone number for you?” said the Technical Services operative.

  “Yes, go ahead,” said Colin.

  “It was switched on again two minutes ago. We pinged it, and it’s still at the same location as before.”

  “Bloody brilliant. Thanks mate.” Colin hung up.

  The radio silence was broken by DS French speaking in a hushed, almost whispered voice, “All units from DS French, I can hear movement inside the office building, Oscar-Charlie-zero-three, to the front of the compound – standby.” Gary listened and watched from his vantage point in the shadows on the far side of the street.

  A few seconds later, he continued, “I’ve got a visual. Entry point one, at the doorway. I’ve got one of the Karpov Brothers, looks like Ivan, peeking out of the damaged entrance.” He paused. “Confirmed, it’s Ivan. I’ve got a visual on a handgun. He’s armed. Did you receive the last?”

  “Yes, yes, armed suspect to entry point one,” said Colin. “Firearms, did you copy?”

  “Yes, confirmed.”

  “All units from DI Peterson, standby... Firearms units GO, Go, go,” he said calmly and clearly.

  ...

  With barely a screech of rubber on tarmac, two police vans pulled up on the road outside the compound. As their sliding side-doors opened, two squads of specialist firearms officers decamped, and stealthily entered the industrial estate in single file. One unit headed to the side of the office complex, the other stacked up either side of the entry point doorway.

  Each officer was dressed identically (a black ensemble comprising a combat helmet, heavy body armour, and protective goggles), and each carried an assault rifle with a narrow-beamed torch affixed to its barrel, their handguns tethered and holstered to their thighs.

  Sensing the imminent assault, and feeling vulnerable as he stood behind the doorway that was about to be breached, Ivan hastily retreated down the corridor, taking up a defensive position just around the 90 degree bend at the far end.

  A MOE officer brandishing a large metallic spike moved towards the partially boarded front door. At a silent nodded command from the squad leader, he levered away the wooden panelling to leave a gaping hole large enough for the firearms team to pass through.

  The firearms officers entered the building silently, crouching along either wall of the long corridor before them. With their torch beams scanning from side to side, they were quick to spot the many doors to the left and right, rooms that needed to be checked and cleared methodically. In the darkness, they slowly advanced past the first set of doors. Whilst the foremost officers knelt and aimed their weapons towards the bend at the end of the corridor, those behind, kicked the doors open, entering both rooms to shouts of:

  “ARMED POLICE – PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN!”

  “STAND STILL!”

  The rooms were empty, there was nowhere for anyone to hide, and so, within seconds, there followed calls of, “ROOM CLEAR.”

  Reforming into their teams, the armed officers advanced further into the depths of the building, stopping just beyond the next pair of doors. Again, in a practiced routine, the doors were obliterated; left splintered and hanging from their hinges, as the officers cleared the rooms on either side of the passageway. Still they had not discovered any hostile suspects. From the rear, just outside the entry point, an excited yelping noise could be heard. The firearms-trained police dog had arrived. His handler let him explore the cleared rooms behind the armed officers, picking up scent residue.

  Having cleared two pairs of rooms, the firearms unit was fast approaching the bend in the corridor. What lay beyond it was anyone’s guess. Sensing the excitement, and smelling the adrenalin, the police dog was brought to the fore, its leash unfastened, and it ran silently towards the darkened corner.

  BANG!

  An arm appeared around the wall to the right of the bend. It held a handgun which fired an un-aimed shot towards the police officers. Instinctively, they ducked at the sound of the explo
sion. “Contact made, corridor to the right,” one of the officers relayed over the radio. All weapons were aimed at the bend in the passageway.

  “PUT YOUR WEAP...” one officer began to shout. As he did so, Ivan poked his head around the wall attempting to aim his gun at his pursuers. There was a deafening barrage of shots as numerous police officers fired rounds at the armed man. In the moving light of their torches, the bulky Russian fell forward onto the ground, the gun clattering onto the concrete floor.

  “Contact. Tango down, first corridor,” someone calmly reported to control.

  The firearms team advanced to the bend in the corridor. One officer checked the body for a pulse. There was none. “Confirmed, one of the Karpov’s is dead,” he radioed.

  With other rooms still to clear behind their current location, the front officers held their position at the bend, their weapons trained down the new stretch of corridor to their right. At the far end, they could hear shouting, angry voices, then a single gunshot report followed by a squeal and some yelping.

  ...

  At the far end of the corridor, still inside their refuge, Sergei heard the chaos that was unfolding near the front entrance. He heard doors splintering, booming voices of command, and a single gunshot report followed by multiple shots in return. He could only imagine the carnage beyond the bend in the passageway.

  “We gotta get outta here. Come on, this way,” he called to Roman.

  “What about Ivan?” he replied.

  “Leave him!” Roman looked angrily towards Sergei. It was his brother, how could he just leave him behind? Looking into Sergei’s eyes he saw the answer – if he did not do as instructed, his boss would shoot him dead, there and then – he had no choice. Reluctantly, he made his way towards the room’s door, gun in hand.

  Sergei peeked around the doorframe looking into the darkness. He could see nobody. He entered the corridor turning left, away from the commotion at the other end. Jogging, he headed towards the back of the building, Roman close behind, both men looking nervously over their shoulders as they ran. They were running out of space. They could not turn back to face their pursuers, and ahead lay only one final room. They entered it.