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He swivelled his eyes, until they landed on a chunky bunch of keys hanging on a wall hook. He marched over, grabbed them and jammed them in the pocket of his cargo pants. He hefted the Mossberg again into his shoulder, and set off for the corridor.
The lights were low in the corridor, which stretched towards a solid wooden door with a heavy lock and a spyhole in the upper centre. He approached carefully and ignored the cell door, instead making for an opening in the opposite wall that was covered by a shower curtain. He whipped back the curtain, only to find an empty and dry shower tray. He let out a soft breath, listening to the sounds of Chico and Piotr clearing the rest of the property with a rising sense of unease. They’d taken out the two cop guards, but where was everyone else? Where was Craigie, and Calder? Had they gone somewhere else? A hotel, maybe, and just left Hardie in the cell with no one other than the now dead guards? It didn’t add up.
Droopy advanced slowly and cautiously towards the cell door, and briefly put his eye to the spyhole. The bed was covered with a new-looking duvet, and there was a body shape under it, at least six feet in length, with the feet poking out of the bottom, clad in a pair of brand-new slip-on gutties. He looked again at the footwear, noting that it was the type given to detainees so they didn’t have laced shoes in the cells. He had no choice; he’d have to enter.
He picked out the keys from his pocket, and selected the simple iron key amongst the others, which were all brass or chromed steel. He slotted it into the hole, and it turned, easily and smoothly.
Leaving the key in the door, Droopy’s hand reached for the handle, and turned it. The door swung inwards on well-oiled hinges. He raised the Mossberg to his shoulder again, feeling the adrenaline surge as the door continued on its path into the cell.
As soon as the bed was visible, he fired. The buckshot slammed into the duvet, the shotgun’s report roaring deafeningly in the confined space, and the duvet almost immediately turned red with blood, which sprayed from the body in a shower of gore. He racked again and fired once more. The shredded duvet flew up with the blast, revealing a ripped trouser leg. Blood splattered all over the cell, decorating the painted brick wall. Droopy roared with delight, an almost primeval victory cry, as the mess slid down the wall behind the bed.
He lowered the shotgun and moved towards the bed, took hold of the duvet and ripped it away.
A shredded mannequin torso was on the bed, the type used in first aid to practise CPR, the abdomen tucked into a pair of grey joggers that had been stuffed with something and jammed into the gutties. A mangled plastic bag that was spilling deep red blood slid from the bed and onto the floor with a wet splat. Panic surged in his chest, and he reached for his pressel. ‘Exfil, exfil. It’s a set-up,’ he screamed into the mic that was clipped to his tactical vest.
59
‘WHAT THE FUCKis going on?’ said Piotr as they all arrived back at the office.
‘Report?’ said Droopy.
‘Whole building’s clear, no one anywhere. There are beds set up upstairs, but no trace of anyone. What happened in the cell, did you shoot him?’
‘No, I put buckshot into a fucking mannequin that someone had set up under the covers, even with fake blood, or some kind of animal blood. What the hell has happened? Has Frankie escaped?’ Droopy’s mind was racing.
Chico went to the window, and peeped through the Venetian blinds, looking up and down the street. ‘All clear outside, come on, let’s get the fuck out of here,’ he said.
‘You guys took out both guards, yeah?’ said Droopy.
‘I pumped five rounds into that Lexus, you saw me firing, bro,’ said Chico.
‘Same in the BMW. I saw the body flinching and jerking, come on. Maybe someone’s rescued him, and he’s gone,’ said Piotr.
Droopy stood there, still cradling the Mossberg, trying to make sense of it all, but he just couldn’t. ‘Okay, let’s go, straight to the car, and we get the fuck out of here. Piotr, you go first, and clear the outside, Chico you take the rear exit, and then we just sprint like hell to the car and get moving.’
All the men looked at each other and nodded. ‘Okay, go,’ said Droopy,and they all went, sprinting for the doors, and bomb-bursting out of the tiny police office. They made as fast as they could across the pavement and jumped into the car. Droopy reached for the keys that he’d left in the ignition.
They weren’t there. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the empty slot. He roared with rage-filled frustration.
‘Droopy, what the fuck, man? Get moving,’ yelled Chico.
Suddenly there was a deafening explosion, and a figure appeared in front of the car, a shotgun raised at his shoulder as he pumped what Droopy knew were tyre-disabling Hatton rounds into the tyres of the Mondeo.
And then there were laser sights dancing around the car interior coming from the war monument a few metres away, and a figure popped his head over the bonnet of a car parked opposite.
‘Armed police, stand still and raise your hands,’ he roared, the shape of a carbine pointed straight at Droopy.
‘Armed police!’ came another demonic yell from the other side of the low wall that was in front of the police station.
‘Fuck this,’ yelled Droopy, feeling utter, total and complete rage gripping him, his face suffusing with blood and pounding between his ears. He reached for his holstered Glock. Years of anti-hijack training, and operations in Afghanistan and other war zones kicked in, and he began firing straight through the door of the car, the high-powered 9mm round smashing through the thin metal towards the figure crouched by the monument. It was no contest. Pistols against high-powered carbines being fired from cover will only end one way. What felt like a hammer blow caught him in the side of his shoulder followed by another that struck him in the neck, then another pierced the skin of the vehicle and entered his body, into the ribcage and lodging in his lungs. He felt no pain, no panic and no regret. Droopy always knew that it would end this way, he cackled softly as mayhem raged around him. Suddenly, there was a massive, overwhelming, and devastating impact into the side of his head, and then there was nothing but deep, impenetrable, inky blackness.
60
IT TOOK ANOTHERtwenty minutes for the backup to arrive in the form of two armed response vehicles, an unmarked police CID vehicle occupied by a DS and a DC, and two prisoner transport vans that had been summoned.
The two surviving prisoners, neither of whom had uttered a single word since being dragged out of the car, were prone on the cold ground, their wrists secured with zip ties. They’d surrendered immediately after challenge, unlike Droopy who was still in the car, slumped over the steering wheel his Glock pistol still in his hand. His eyes were open and vacant and yet somehow still full of the rage he’d displayed whilst firing the Glock through the door of the car. They hadn’t performed any first aid on him; once the prisoners were secured, there was little point. Whilst the wound from the bullet that had entered the side of his head was small and neat, the exit wound was the size of a tennis ball. Bone and blood were congealing on the windscreen, and also on the hair, face and clothes on one of the prone prisoners who was currently shivering on the tarmac, next to his cohort with several firearms still trained on them by the newly arrived ARV crew.
Max, Janie and Danny were sitting on the wall outside the police station, all the energy sapped from them after the adrenaline rush of the ambush. Jim emerged from the police station clutching a tray laden with steaming mugs and a pack of biscuits.
