Snake Pass, page 15
There was movement in a window on the top left. A curtain twitched, then the glass was broken from inside. Two shots rang out, the muzzle flash illuminating the frame and sill. Both rifles swung up and left. Three shots each in quick succession. A good spread. Accurate. The gunman in the window was blasted backwards into the darkened room. The rifles scanned the rest of the first floor windows. Clear.
The second group had swarmed past the garage ramp. Two rifles and two handguns. This time the rifles hung back at the top of the ramp to cover the handguns as they approached the side wall. The only window on the ground floor was the toilet with the louver slats that Grant had removed to climb through. There was a landing window above it. The rifles covered the landing. One handgun concentrated on the toilet window. His colleague covered the garage door.
No more shots were fired. The initial barrage had either broken the will of the defenders or shot, wounded, or killed them all. Grant reckoned it was the former. The opening salvos had been about shock and awe instead of targeted firing. There might have been some casualties inside, but more from stray rounds and ricochets than individual shots.
Swirling snow hung a lace curtain across the scene. It was only the brightness of the security lights that allowed Grant to see what was going on. His angle was low beneath the shelter of the truck, but he saw the first group approach the kitchen door at the same time as the second group rounded the corner to the front door. There was no resistance. There was a crash from the front of the house as the porch door was breached. The kitchen door was kicked open, and all four went inside.
The entire action had taken less than five minutes. The helicopter blades had spun down to nothing. The engines were quiet. After the cacophony of gunfire, the night fell silent again. Deep snow and the swirling blizzard sucked the last echoes out of the battle, and the night settled back into a snowstorm at an all-night truck stop and diner.
Grant blinked and let out a deep breath. Until then he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. His heart raced. He felt Hope’s stillness beside him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Hope blew out his cheeks as he let out an explosive sigh. Grant could feel the tension humming through Hope’s body. Grant hit the pressure-relief button.
“Well, that’s fucked plan A.”
Hope snorted a laugh, and the tension eased. “I’d say that’s fucked everything.”
It was hard to argue with that. Any idea of getting away clean after rescuing the maiden from the dragon had been kicked into a cocked hat. The dragon had just been defeated, only to be replaced by a more vicious dragon. The maiden was in even greater peril. Wendy Rivers could be a casualty or even dead. Grant refused to accept that. The last time he’d seen her, she was being dragged under the garage door. That placed her in the basement when the assault took place. None of the gunfire had targeted the basement. She was safe. He had to believe that to justify what he was going to do next.
“It doesn’t change the basics.”
Hope turned to look at Grant, his face the picture of disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
Grant shook his head. “She’s still in there. Bad guys are still armed. And we still need a diversion.”
“A diversion? We need the SAS.”
“I was in the SAS.”
This time Hope’s expression bordered on awe. His jaw dropped open and his eyes grew wide. The teenage probationer looked like he’d just met Elvis, except he was probably too young to remember Elvis. The snow continued to drift out of the night sky. The gusting wind formed it into swirls and eddies.
“The SAS?”
Grant met Hope’s questioning look with a level gaze. “Not exactly. Kind of a subsidiary.”
Hope let out a breath that was all steam. “I thought you said you were a typist.”
Grant smiled. “I did some typing. Point is, I know what to do next.”
Hope let the weight of those words sink in for a moment. He scanned the snowscape and the blizzard and the house. He glanced towards the helicopter sitting like a squat bug behind the parked trucks. When he turned back to Grant, his face asked the question but he kept quiet.
Grant held him with steady eyes and lowered his voice.
“It’s just gonna be a bit more dangerous than before.”
05:40 hours
Ten minutes later Grant disappeared into the blizzard, keeping out of the brilliant white halo surrounding the house. The security lights were a necessary evil. In an ideal world he would have shot out the bulbs and plunged the exterior into darkness, but seeing what the invaders were doing was just as important as them not seeing him. He paused in the shadows and scanned the house again.
Things hadn’t changed since his final evaluation from under the truck. The lights had gone on upstairs, but the activity was limited to a quick search and rounding up any strays. He’d seen that through the windows. There appeared to be just one extra man, apart from the one who’d been shot, posted in the bedroom, and he was herded down to join his colleagues. Most of the other activity was in the kitchen and hallway. The rest was hidden from view in the basement garage. Grant paid particular attention to the comings and goings through the wood-panelled door beneath the main staircase.
Looking at the house from a different angle gave him a view of the front. It confirmed what he’d seen from the truck.
The upper floor had been secured, then vacated. Any threats from up there had been neutralized. Any threats from outside would come at ground level. The goods the intruders had come to acquire were in the subbasement. They weren’t expecting any more trouble from the bedrooms. The bedrooms were empty. So that was where Grant was going to force entry.
He glanced over his shoulder towards the turnaround. The three square shapes were barely visible through the snow. The helicopter beyond them was just a distant shadow. Grant checked his watch. 5:40 am. Timing was going to be a problem. Once he was inside there was no way for him to signal Hope, so they’d synchronized watches and agreed on a time. Six o’clock. If Grant hadn’t secured Rivers by then, he was in deep shit anyway.
The diversion would be massive. Bigger than a few bullets in a frying pan. More destructive than a few broken windows. Big enough to guide the ARVs in even without Hope’s help. Because Grant was about to do what he’d spent six months telling his probationer not to do. Go charging in waving his warrant card without a radio or backup. He hoped the enemy would cease and desist, otherwise he’d simply have to shoot them.
Grant crossed the snow in a crouch, keeping close to the tree line that ended six feet from the front porch. The door hung at an angle from its damaged hinges, but it was the window above it that concerned him. The one he’d climbed out of nearly three hours ago.
The one with the broken lock.
Grant slid the window closed and resisted the urge to tap the snow off his shoes. The bedroom hadn’t changed. The double bed was still against the back wall, and the en suite bathroom was still a gaping black rectangle with the door open and the lights off. A thin line of yellow light showed under the landing door. The room was as quiet as the grave. Even his breath and heartbeat were dimmed to silence.
He crossed the room and put one ear to the door. He could hear voices and movement from downstairs. Nothing violent. Nothing angry. This was the calm that followed the battle, a far deeper stillness than the fabled calm before the storm. If Grant got this right, they’d be one and the same because he was going to bring on a shitstorm.
Not yet, though. First he needed to find Wendy Rivers. She would no doubt be held with the Ukrainian prisoners. Judging by the movement he’d seen through the windows, they weren’t being held in the kitchen or living room. The most sensible place to keep your captives secure was in the midst of your own forces. Since most of the enemy personnel were underground, that meant Rivers was either in the garage or the subbasement. A lot of armed men to get through. Almost impossible to survive a one-man assault against superior numbers. A frontal assault would achieve nothing except a few men dead, the rescue aborted, and Wendy Rivers still in custody.
Softly, softly, catchee monkey.
Under circumstances like that, there was only one sure way of getting to the heart of the enemy position, and that wasn’t trying to shoot your way through. It was to get invited in. Just like the vampires in all those old Hammer films he used to watch at Moor Grange School for Boys. The only people invited to the inner circle were the ones being held captive in the basement.
Grant prepared to give himself up. He checked that his supplies were in place, then took the gun out of his pocket. He released the magazine to make sure it was the one with the most shots fired, then rammed it back into the base of the grip and dropped the gun back in his pocket. It pulled the orange windcheater down at one side. He patted the crotch of his trousers to make sure the second gun was securely hidden. Even professional police officers tended to avoid groping another fella’s wedding tackle during a custody search. He hoped these guys were no different.
He took a deep breath to calm himself.
His heart rate slowed.
Then he opened the bedroom door and stepped out onto the landing.
The stairs didn’t creak. The carpet muffled his footsteps. Nobody heard him come down the staircase. It was embarrassing. Here he was, trying to surrender, and nobody even realized he was there. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs in a bright orange windcheater with his arms held out like Jesus on the cross, and nobody noticed him.
He’d been right about the enemy activity. It was centered on the wood-panelled door beneath the stairs. One man came up and went into the kitchen. Two men came out of the living room and went down the narrow staircase. Grant heard the kettle switched on and the clink of teaspoons in cups. Somebody was making a bunch of hot drinks. If the pecking order was the same for drug dealers as everywhere else, then the person making the drinks was at the bottom. Like the office tea boy or the new probationer on the shift.
The ideal person to accept Grant’s surrender.
Better be careful, though. New staff could be the jumpiest. Grant kept his hands away from his sides and walked into the living room. He glanced at the table. The chair hadn’t been moved. The previous owner of the orange windcheater was still under the table flap. That boded well for Grant’s plan. These fellas hadn’t cleared the room as well as a military assault team would have done. In his army days, whoever missed checking the table would have been canned first day of training.
He crossed the room to the kitchen door. It was open. The tea boy was ladling coffee into six mugs on a serving tray. One side of his heavy winter coat hung lower than the other. Same as Grant’s. He could easily sneak up behind him and snap his neck before the gun could be drawn. That wasn’t the plan, though. Grant moved slowly. He didn’t want to startle the guy into taking a snap shot.
Keeping his arms out and hands open, he stepped through the door.
“You missed one.”
The tea boy didn’t jump at first. He glanced at the mugs on the tray to see if he’d missed putting coffee in one of them. Grant felt embarrassed for him. Then the penny dropped and he spun round, snatching for his gun.
Grant waved both hands in a calming gesture.
“I come in peace.”
Grant expected the gunman to be young and fresh faced but was surprised to see the acne-scarred face of a thirty-year-old. The olive skin and dark eyes of a South American. Somewhere like that. Once the gun was drawn, it was handled expertly. Once the surprise wore off, he seemed confident.
“Where you come from?”
“Originally? Or just now?”
The man’s tone didn’t change. “Where you come from?”
Grant pointed his right hand at the ceiling. “Front bedroom. In the shower.”
The man shouted towards the wood-panelled door in Spanish. Two short bursts, urgency dripping from his voice. A few moments later, the two men who had just gone down came back up again. There was a brief exchange of words, then the gunman waved his spare hand at Grant’s coat pocket.
“Take out the gun, my friend.”
Grant took the gun out, holding the butt between finger and thumb. One of the others took it, then stepped back. They covered Grant while the tea boy patted him down. A cursory search. Checked Grant’s pockets and felt the sides of his body, arms, and legs. Nowhere near his groin. There was nothing to find except his wallet. He flipped it open and saw the West Yorkshire Police warrant card. It wasn’t as impressive as an American cop’s shield, even a South American cop’s shield, but his eyes widened.
“Policia?”
The other two stiffened. The tea boy held the warrant card out. “Policia?”
Grant nodded but didn’t answer. The tea boy got the message. “Why are you here?”
Grant shrugged and kept his tone light. “Because the Ukrainians are criminals, and I’ve come to arrest them.”
The tea boy smiled. “Then you have come a little late.”
“So it seems.”
The tea boy seemed to ask everything twice. “Why are you here?”
Grant let out a sigh. This was going to be hard work. He lowered his arms and pointed to the wood-panelled door.
“Take me to your leader. I’ll explain everything.”
The tea boy tilted his head to one side as he considered that. Time was ticking by. Grant couldn’t afford to waste too much standing in the kitchen. He was about to say something else when the tea boy nodded the other men towards the basement stairs. He said something in Spanish. Then he spoke in English.
“Go with them. I must finish coffee.”
The two men urged Grant forward, and he ducked beneath the wood-panelled door. As he headed down the narrow staircase, he could hear the clink of a teaspoon stirring hot water into the mugs.
05:50 hours
The garage was a hive of activity. It had a completely different tempo to the last time he’d been down here. It seemed that tonight Grant was destined to visit everywhere twice. He came out of the narrow door at the bottom of the stairs with his hands held out and a gun in his back. More proof if it were needed that these weren’t professionals. Best way to get disarmed is to stand too close and stick a gun in your captive’s back.
The two South Americans followed Grant into the garage and told him to stand still. Grant obliged, using the time to catalog the changes since his last visit. He stood with his arms held out like a cross and began with the things that hadn’t changed. The barrels of fuel oil were still in the corner. The workbench and metal cupboard were still up against the back wall. The generator still hummed. The grey Mercedes still took up half the floor space.
Those were the constants. Everything else had changed. Instead of a group of armed Ukrainians standing in front of the up-and-over door, there was a gang of swarthy South Americans busily stacking cardboard boxes at the top of the subbasement steps. The bodies of the Ukrainians had gone. Petrol fumes and sweat overpowered the smell of cordite and gunfire. The South Americans were working hard. All except one. An older man with greying temples stood apart from the rest, overseeing the drug seizure. He turned when Grant was nudged forward. Hard eyes examined the latest captive and took in the distinctive orange windcheater and short-cropped hair.
“You are the other driver?”
Grant caught a flicker of orange through the subbasement door. The other two truck drivers, also wearing orange windcheaters. Good. That meant Wendy Rivers must be down there with the other prisoners. The man repeated the question.
“Are you the other truck driver?”
Before Grant could answer, he heard the clinking of cups on a tray behind him.
“He’s a cop. I caught him sneaking through the kitchen.”
An exaggeration that told Grant something else about these people—or at least one of them. The tea boy was keen to impress. Judging by the look on the older man’s face, it wasn’t working.
“Did you search him?”
The tea boy grunted something at the man behind Grant. The man held Grant’s gun up for inspection by the butt. The older man came over and took the gun. He nodded at the second man.
“Search him again.”
The tea boy looked crestfallen. He wasn’t trusted and that seemed to hurt. He walked around Grant and placed the tea tray on the workbench, then watched as the second man began a more thorough search. Starting at the top, then working down. Using both hands in concert, he felt along Grant’s left arm from wrist to shoulder. He did the same with the right. He scrunched up the windcheater’s collar, then ran his hands down both sides of Grant’s body. He felt Grant’s back from shoulder blades to waist. He did the same with the front.
Nothing.
The man dropped to a crouch and started on Grant’s legs. Same procedure as with the arms. Both hands together running up either side of each leg. From ankle to thigh. Left leg first. Then the right.
Nothing.
Grant felt a wave of relief when the man stood up. It was short lived. The man felt Grant’s buttocks, pinching the back pockets of his trousers. Finally he showed no embarrassment as he squeezed Grant’s groin and stopped. He tapped the hard metal hiding down the front of Grant’s trousers. Glanced over his shoulder at the older man, who gave a curt nod.
The man didn’t ask Grant to hand the gun over. He tugged Grant’s belt out and shoved his hand down the gap. He came up with the second gun and stepped back. The older man took it from him.
