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“Time to discover just how efficient this piece of kit is,” said the commander, tuning in to a frequency that would keep him in touch with everyone on the ground, although they’d all been warned to maintain radio silence once the convoy was on the move.
Danny sat astride the Trojan horse, stirrups ready, impatient to spur the beast into action, while Lamont, William, and Jackie remained by the commander’s side. Paul was in position on the lower deck, determined that he would be the first off the bus the moment they drew up outside the entrance to the tower blocks.
The commander checked his watch, pressed a button on his two-way radio, and said, “Let battle commence.”
The number 118 bus led the troops out onto Brixton Road, with its well-ordered convoy following closely behind. No flashing lights, no sirens, no screeching tires. At various prearranged points along the way, other vehicles peeled off to disappear down unlit streets and await further orders.
A mile from the target the Hawk said, “Time for you to leave us, DS Warwick, and begin directing operations on the ground. Don’t report back until the job is done.”
“On my way, sir,” said William, who ran down the spiral staircase to join Paul on the lower deck, where the assembled troops were waiting impatiently for the order to move. One young officer, chosen because he could run a hundred yards in under ten seconds, was standing next to the conductor waiting for the starter’s pistol to sound. Paul hadn’t told him that he was determined to reach the lift ahead of him, and personally take out Donoghue before he could press the alarm button.
One step behind the sprinter stood two squat square-shouldered men, who played in the front row of the scrum every Saturday afternoon. They would only be a few yards behind, and their orders were clear: play the man and not the ball, because there wouldn’t be any referee giving penalties for foul play.
The two rows of seats near the back of the bus were occupied by eight young officers in tracksuits and trainers, whose sole purpose was to disarm the four lookouts before they had a chance to warn the gatekeeper. In the next three rows were a dozen officers from the Specialist Firearms Command, hydraulic kits strapped to their backs, who once they’d leaped off the bus would head straight for the stairs, determined to reach the twenty-third floor in under seven minutes. Bets had already been placed as to who would make it to the front door first.
In the front rows sat a larger group of men and women who were in no particular hurry. Trained specialists from the drugs unit, their job was to meticulously gather the evidence and bag it up before sending it to the lab for analysis. It would be their evidence that would decide the length of the sentences, not the courage of the foot soldiers.
Scattered at random among the other officers were a number of WPCs, of whom the Hawk had said, they also serve who only sit and wait. William had smiled when he heard his boss misquote Milton.
The carpenter was already in position near the walkway on the twenty-third floor of Block B, ready to put up his own personal no-entry sign the instant the order was given, so t
hat one line of escape from the factory would be completely cut off.
The tactical firearms team was out of sight, but Hawksby was confident that, like unwelcome guests, they would appear the moment they were least expected.
So far, everything had gone like clockwork, but the Hawk knew only too well that you can’t plan for the unexpected. On that, at least, he would be proven right. The bus continued its steady progress along Coldharbour Lane carrying a silent group of nonpaying passengers on their way to work. Danny had carried out two dry runs the previous evening, so he knew how long every red light took to change, where the pedestrian crossings were located, and where the road narrowed, making it impossible to overtake or be overtaken. He drove past puzzled and irate clusters of would-be passengers at each stop, ignoring their insistent waves. Would they work out why he hadn’t stopped when they read their morning papers?
“Five minutes from the target,” said Hawksby, breaking radio silence for the second time. William could see that the passengers who would be getting off at the next stop were now poised tensely on the edge of their seats, waiting for the command, go, go, go!
The sprinter was already set, desperate to burst out of the blocks and be on his way with his two heavier colleagues following close behind. Paul, still determined to reach Donoghue first, had ditched his ticket machine and peaked cap, and was unbuttoning his jacket. Leaping off the bus had been endlessly practiced to make sure no one would trip or bump into each other.
“Three minutes,” said the commander, as they rounded the next bend and the two tower blocks came into sight for the first time.
William could feel a rush of adrenaline flood through his body, accompanied by a moment of fear and apprehension, as they inched closer and closer to their target.
Hawksby checked his stopwatch, a thumb poised on its button, aware that a few seconds either way could spell the difference between success and failure.
Two minutes, Red. “Board them up,” said the commander.
The carpenter stepped out of his overnight accommodation, having completed all his preliminary work during the day. He rested three thick wooden planks up against the wall, then took a battery-powered drill and a handful of screws out of his large kit bag. He placed the first plank across the door. A perfect fit. He inserted the first screw into its prepared hole and set about his task, confident that no one on the other side of the heavy reinforced metal door would be able to hear him going about his work.
One minute, Blue. “Prepare for landing.”
The carpenter was screwing the second plank into place when a Gazelle helicopter appeared out of the clouds, banked steeply, and hovered above the roof of Block A.
Thirty seconds.
The carpenter finished screwing the final plank into place, and stood back to admire his handiwork. Anyone who was thinking of leaving the slaughter by that route could think again. He picked up his bag, and whistled as he began making his way down the stairs. He’d told his wife he might be a little late for supper, but hadn’t told her why.
Fifteen seconds.
Danny began to slow down as he approached the bus stop; CI Scott Cairns leaped out of the helicopter and fast-roped down onto the roof. Another officer was only seconds behind him, while two more waited impatiently to join them.
Danny put his foot on the brakes when he reached the entrance to Block A.
“Go, go, go!” said the commander, finally releasing his troops from the Trojan horse. He was painfully aware that the game was no longer in the coach’s hands, and he would have to remain on the touchline while the players determined the final outcome.
Paul and the sprinter flew out of the blocks together and began running flat out toward the lift, with the two front row forwards doing their best to keep up, while at the same time, eight tracksuited young constables moved swiftly in four different directions toward the lookouts.
