Reflex Action

by Andrew Heasman

  As they did so, Sergei could hear a rapid padding sound approaching. He could hear panting getting nearer. He turned to see what it was, only to come face-to-face with a huge German Shepherd police dog, its teeth barred, charging towards him. He fired a single shot in its direction, and its legs seemed to crumple beneath it as it dropped to the floor, squealing and yelping in pain.

  Without a second thought for its wellbeing, he slammed the door shut behind him, and began barricading the inside, piling desks and lockers against it. Once secured, he looked around the room. He was trapped, cornered in the final room of the building. How was he going to escape? he wondered. There was only one way out; a window. Whether the police were waiting outside to detain him, he had no idea. There was only one way to find out...

  “Roman, smash that window. Use that chair over there,” he ordered.

  Roman did as instructed and the glass shattered after three or four impacts with the metal-framed chair. They both climbed through the gap, dropping to the ground a couple of meters below them. They were in a narrow alleyway between two buildings. It was dark and littered with industrial sized rubbish bins, and it stank of cats! The sudden cold air took them by surprise, both stopping to catch their breath. They were disorientated, unsure which way led to safety, but on seeing a glimmer of light at one end, they headed toward it.

  ...

  In the corridor, the firearms unit stacked up on the room’s doorway. They had stepped over the still squirming and yelping body of the police dog, its handler scooping it up in his arms and retreating back down the corridor to safety. It was badly wounded, but not dead.

  “SITREP...” said the squad leader over the radio, “...two tangos barricaded into a room at the end of the corridor. Police dog has been wounded. Effecting an entry to the room now.”

  Beyond the barricaded doorway, the unit commander could hear the smashing of glass. “Control from Firearms Team #1, I can hear glass being shattered inside the room. They may be making an escape through a window to the rear. Could you get Firearms Team #2 to investigate from outside, please?”

  “Received. Firearms Team #2, did you receive the last?”

  “Yes, yes. Firearms Team #2 making way to the rear.”

  Making good use of the Big Red Key and a bit of brute force, the door was opened. The room was empty; the broken glass an indication of the escape route taken by the Russians.

  Chapter 31

  Still sitting in the PSU van, Colin listened intently to the messages being passed over the police radio. He knew better than to interrupt at such a critical moment.

  “Firearms Team #2 from control? Suspects believed to be on foot to the rear of target building.”

  “All received. On plot, 200 yards away,” came a breathless reply.

  During a break in transmissions, Colin radioed the police helicopter that was circling a couple of miles away. “NPAS-23 from DI Peterson? We have runners; can you help in locating them?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be above you in less than a minute.”

  The helicopter arrived within seconds, and hovered above the industrial estate. Using its thermal imaging cameras (TICs), the crew scanned the dark buildings below.

  “All ground units from NPAS-23; we’ve got two heat signatures crouching behind bins in an alley to the rear of the target building. We’ll shed some light on the matter for you.”

  With that, the helicopter pilot illuminated the powerful searchlight. As they hovered, they adjusted the beam until it was shining directly onto the hidden suspects from above.

  ...

  On the ground, Sergei saw, and heard, the arrival of the helicopter. As it hovered above him, its downdraft created a billowing dust cloud causing him to cover his eyes in an attempt to stop grit entering them.

  Still cloaked in darkness, he and Roman hunkered down behind the bins, peeking around the ends, looking for the arrival of armed police officers. Suddenly they were blinded! A light from the Heavens, far brighter than anything that they had experienced before, shone down on them, highlighting their position.

  “Bollocks,” cried Sergei. He looked towards Roman who was stood upright, one arm across his eyes trying to shield them from the light, the other aiming his handgun towards its source.

  BANG – BANG – BANG.

  He fired a few rounds skywards. Whether he hit anything was unclear, the light obscuring everything beyond its perimeter. He crouched to reload his weapon.

  ...

  The helicopter pilot could hear a faint metallic pinging sound from outside his cockpit.

  “Control from NPAS-23, we’re taking fire from below. No damage received. We’ll maintain searchlight coverage from a greater height.”

  “All received NPAS-23.”

  As the helicopter repositioned, the searchlight beam traversed the compound below leaving Sergei and Roman momentarily in darkness again.

  Taking advantage of this brief opportunity, they ran out of the alley, turned right, and sprinted towards the next building, a gigantic monolith of a warehouse. Beyond the structure, they could just make out the faint outline of a tall wire-mesh perimeter fence, the deadly barbed wire on its top shining as the helicopter’s searchlight touched it. Sergei knew that there would be no escape in that direction.

  With the helicopter’s engine noise as a deafening backdrop, Sergei could hear muffled shouting coming from the far side of the open compound.

  “STOP – ARMED POLICE.”

  Looking into the darkness, his eyes rapidly adjusting, he could just about see a number of black shapes, human shapes, taking up defensive positions with their rifles trained in his direction. Sergei and Roman ducked behind some packaging crates and opened fire on the shadows opposite. The police firearms team reciprocated, their leader calling over the radio, “Contact made. Rear compound. Two armed tangos.”

  With the distraction of bullets flying in both directions, Sergei glanced backwards, noticing a ladder fixed to the side of the warehouse, leading to the roof. He began climbing into the darkness above. Roman saw his boss, and continued to give covering fire in an attempt to keep the police officers’ heads down. It seemed to work. Nobody was shooting at Sergei anymore; they were solely focused on him. He glanced over his shoulder. Sergei was over halfway to the roof; time for him to start his ascent. He began climbing, the helicopter’s searchlight illuminating both men as they got higher and higher.

  “X-Ray-Three-One. I have a clean shot on Tango 1. Permission to fire?” radioed one of the police marksmen.

  “X-Ray-Three-Four. I have a clean shot on Tango 2,” came a second response.

  “From Tac Advisor; hold your fire unless fired upon first - rules of engagement.”

  Both officers kept their targets firmly centred in their gun sights, waiting for the opportunity to squeeze the trigger.

  As Sergei clambered over the parapet at the top of the wall, ducking behind its protective ramparts, Roman swung his gun towards the police officers congregating in the compound below him. Clutching the ladder’s rung in one hand; he opened fire with the gun in his other. With incoming rounds, the police marksmen had their permission to shoot.

  BANG!

  A single bullet penetrated Roman’s chest. He dropped his weapon to the ground, lost his grip on the ladder, and fell. His left foot caught in the rungs, and he dangled upside down, his blood dripping from his chest, down his arms, and pooling at the foot of the ladder.

  “Tango 2 down. One suspect on the roof of the warehouse,” reported the squad leader.

  The helicopter’s searchlight refocused on Sergei as he ran across the flat roof. He leapt over horizontal lengths of pipe and ducting, ducked under metal steps, and hid behind small electrical circuit boxes, but there was nowhere to go, no escaping the light from above.

  He spotted the only large structure on the roof. It was the size of a small room, square and boxlike. He recognised it as a housing, a form of shed, covering the top of an internal set of stairs. He headed straight fo
r it. He gave the padlock on the entrance door a sharp kick and it clattered to the floor. He opened the metal door and entered the safety of the stairwell, climbing down the steps to the floor below.

  “Control from NPAS-23; suspect has entered a stairwell on the roof. Lost sight of him inside the warehouse. Will continue to monitor the roof in case he doubles back on himself.”

  “Received, NPAS-23. Did you copy the last, ground units?”

  As the firearms unit forced entry to the large barnlike double doors of the warehouse at ground level, Colin called over the radio, “Containment units move in. Surround the warehouse. Control from DI Peterson? I’m moving onto the plot, containment position one.”

  “Received, sir.”

  Firearms Team #2 were reunited with their colleagues, Firearms Team #1, and both began the highly dangerous process of searching the warehouse, floor by floor, from the bottom upwards. It was only a matter of time before they located their suspect.

  ...

  As Sergei entered the top floor of the warehouse, he was faced with a cavernous open area. Whatever had been contained there in the past had been removed, leaving a vast empty space with spindly concrete pillars evenly positioned throughout. At the far end, there was a small single-storey concrete office, the only form of protection in which to hide.

  Hearing the shouts of the firearms teams on the floors below, Sergei ran towards the office, his boots splashing through the many puddles that littered the floor. As he neared it, he saw that the structure had been completely vandalised. All windows had been smashed, anything of value inside had been destroyed, and every surface sprayed with graffiti. He dived through the open doorway, crawling to the left as he took up a crouched position to the side of one of the window spaces. He looked through the gap. He had a perfect field of fire across the entire open expanse of concrete flooring. For the police to get at him, they would need to conduct a frontal assault. He would kill as many of them as he could before he was taken. He checked his weapon, reloaded it, and counted the number of spare magazines that he had with him. There were plenty; he could do a lot of damage before he died. The wait began...

  Nearly half an hour later, the police units reached the top floor. They entered through the doors furthest away from the office area, and fanned out to the left and right, hugging the external walls of the warehouse. Their torch beams flew around the room, light bouncing off pillars, highlighting the smashed glass that covered the floor. Each officer held their rifle into their shoulder, staring down the sights, ready to fire at any hostiles that appeared before them. The room was silent apart from the echo of heavy boots as they steadily advanced down both flanks. They moved slowly, methodically, patiently.

  BANG – BANG.

  Sergei fired off two rounds towards the police officers, one ricocheting off a pillar.

  “Contact dead ahead. Target firing from the office complex, top floor, northern end,” called the squad leader.

  The firearms officers moved forward, pillar to pillar, using whatever cover was available to them, their weapons trained on the concrete blockhouse at the far end of the room. As they got nearer, Sergei fired off a few more rounds from behind his protective barrier. One of the armed officers unfastened a stun grenade; a grey metallic cylinder with stencilled writing and figures on its surface. He readied it, and, at a silent command from the team leader, threw it through the open window of the office.

  Inside, Sergei was busy reloading his weapon, leaning with his back against the front wall, crouching beneath the window space. He heard a metallic noise, like a tin can having been thrown, followed by a sliding and rolling sound. What was that? he thought. In his peripheral vision, he saw something move, rolling towards the back of the office. Before he realised what it was, there was a blinding white flash, and he felt as if he had been lifted off the floor and flung backwards against the wall. His ears were ringing from the deafening explosion, and he felt as if the room was spinning. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was disorientated. He attempted to stand up, staggering forward towards the rear wall, using it as a support to steady himself.

  As he turned to face the doorway, he was blinded yet again, as torchlight shone in his eyes, swinging wildly from side to side as men charged towards him. Through the high-pitched buzzing in his ears, he could just make out someone shouting orders at him:

  “DROP THE WEAPON.”

  “ON YOUR KNEES - NOW.”

  “STAND STILL.”

  He was confused, shocked, still stunned from the proximity of the explosion. What should he do? Fight? Surrender? He could not decide. He realized that his gun was still in his hand. He brought it forward, trying to level it, ready to shoot, but he sensed shadows all around him, surrounding him, closing in on him.

  From behind, someone grabbed the gun, ripping it from his grip. He felt a shove in the centre of his back, his knees buckling, as he was forced onto the ground face first, dust being snorted into his lungs as he struggled to breathe.

  He heard a voice screaming into his ear, “HANDS ON YOUR HEAD – INTERLOCK YOUR FINGERS.”

  He did as instructed, and one at a time, each arm was twisted behind his back in a stress position and both wrists fastened together with plasticuffs. They were overly tight, cutting into his skin, but he thought now was not the time to complain.

  He was lifted to his feet, one police officer under each arm, and his head was pushed forward and down, a firm hand preventing him from head-butting anyone who got too close. He was marched off, down the many flights of steps, his feet dragging, but his weight supported by the fast-moving officers, until he reached ground level, where he was taken out into the chilly air. He vaguely remembered hearing an officer speaking on his radio, “Tango 1 detained. No further casualties.”

  The voice that responded sounded strangely familiar, but Sergei could not place where he had heard it before.

  “Received. Well done all units. Confirm - one in custody. DI Peterson, out.”

  Chapter 32

  The compound of the industrial complex was no longer deserted and silent; it was full of busy activity.

  Police vans and patrol cars were parked haphazardly, their headlights illuminating their surroundings. Armed officers were grouped in small huddles being debriefed by their squad leaders, whilst others were making their weapons safe. And police officers in fluorescent jackets were stood around looking lost, awaiting someone to direct them. It was chaotic, hectic, people milling around everywhere.

  DI Peterson was talking to DS French.

  “Gary, head back to the station and get cleaned up. I want the prisoner processed into custody, then left to stew for a while in the cells.”

  “Will do, Boss,” he replied.

  “I believe firearms have recovered a knife, handgun, and a mobile on Petrov. Can you get someone to rush them over to forensics? Let’s see if we can get some solid evidence to link him specifically to either of the murders. I’ll tidy up here, sort the removal of the Karpovs’ bodies, and then I’ll join you.”

  As Gary wandered off towards a waiting vehicle, Colin turned, just in time to see Sergei being escorted to the prisoner transport van parked adjacent to the warehouse doors. He had recovered from the initial shock of being arrested, and was stood with his arms fastened to the rear, his head bowed, staring at the ground. There were two burly police officers, one holding each of his arms, and they paused briefly as the rear cage doors were opened at the back of the van.

  Sergei looked a defeated man, all of the fight having left him. He glanced up, turning his head to look around, his last sight of freedom for a very long time. As he did so, he caught DI Peterson’s eye. They stared at one another. Colin could still see some defiance hidden deep within him, but there was something else, a flash of confusion, a moment of recognition. Sergei had seen the police officer before, but where? Then the penny dropped – London! He had seen him in London when his gang had beaten up the undercover cop, and he had pulled a gun on this one. His
jaw dropped. What was he doing here? Then a sneer slowly spread across his face. He knew him. He hadn’t been so tough the last time that they had met. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. A glimmer of hope ignited in his heart; maybe things were not as desperate as he had first thought.

  As Sergei was driven to the custody suite at the police station, Colin sent a quick text message to his friend, Matt Carmine.

  “Got him! - Petrov’s in custody - Speak later.”

  Chapter 33

  With the custody clock now ticking, Colin and his team were playing catch-up.

  Time was against them. Interviews needed to be conducted with the prisoner, and enough evidence found to either charge him with murder, or to obtain approval to extend his stay in the cells. With that in mind, Colin had asked Gary to conduct the initial interview to get a first account of Petrov’s involvement.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time that DS French strode into the MIR. He was now clean again, dressed in a formal pale-blue shirt with its collar unfastened and sleeves rolled up, dark tailored trousers, and with his ID lanyard hung around his neck. He looked stressed, worried, frustrated, as he threw his pile of interview notes onto the desk with a loud bang.

  As he grabbed a coffee from the dispenser, Colin asked, “How’d it go, Gary? Need I ask?” He knew that Gary’s bad mood was a direct result of the interview that he had just conducted.

  “He chose not to have a lawyer present, which I thought was a bit odd seeing how serious the charges are,” Gary said. “Then he just sat there with a fucking smug grin on his face the whole time, going ‘NO COMMENT!’ I didn’t get anything out of him at all.”

  “Hmm, that’s no real surprise though, is it?”

  “No, sir, but it’s still bloody frustrating. It does my head in.”