Tread Softly, page 22
“Right, while they’re busy, I’m having a look at what’s going on indoors.”
Kev checked out the route. Jase slipping through ten metres of trees, over the ditch and a sixteen-metre stretch of moonlit tarmac unseen in radioactive trainers? No way.
“Swap shoes. This is one hell of a sacrifice. Your feet have plagued me worse than any Afghani insurgent ever could. If you’re not wearing Odor-Eaters, I’ll kill ya.”
Tyler took point, Kev followed. Neither checked Jase. His feet might be rank but he could be trusted to do a proper job. The situation was risky. No doubt the suits were busy round the back, but if one of them popped back to check the coast was clear, he and the lads were unarmed and as vulnerable as rabbits. Rabbits in white trainers.
As they reached the stream, Kev nudged Tyler and pointed to his feet. “I’ll dip these in the ditch, see if a bit of mud will help.”
Tyler’s head scanned the area like an owl. He crouched into the scrub and Kev spotted a glint of metal in his hand. “Be quick, then. I got you.”
Kev slid down the bank into the blackness below. His feet hit mud and instantly the cheap trainers absorbed water. Typical. Kev focused on dirtying his footwear, revolving his ankles to attract maximum muck. As he turned to yank himself out, his left foot caught on some weeds. He pulled again, trying to release himself and looked back at whatever was holding him. Dark fronds wrapped his ankle. He lifted his leg and the fronds came with him, dragging behind them a human head.
Chapter 39
“Where are you from, Señor Aguirre?” Matthew’s authoritative tone caused everyone to turn, even Tomas.
Aguirre’s eyes hardened as he turned to face the tired, pale and bedraggled man who Beatrice loved more than anything in the world.
The jut of his jaw made Beatrice simultaneously swell with pride and cringe in dread. Matthew, powerless, vulnerable and faced with armed, violent men had chosen to pick a fight.
“I would have assumed you were Spanish, until now.”
Aguirre’s voice was quiet, but still carried the marks of an orator. “Spanish is a big word. Each Spaniard has a complex identity, based on his country, his region, his language, his community, his family. You should be able to understand that, Professor Bailey. Being British used to mean something. Being Spanish still does.”
“True. The essence of Spain, I would suggest, is about honour, about pride. You have a sense of loyalty, despite the divisions and rivalries between the various regions, to the concept of Spain. Rather like The United States. Which is why I find you as an individual rather an anomaly.”
In a second, Beatrice caught up. Matthew may not have carried a SIG Sauer or a flick-knife, but his intellect and comprehension of the enemy had already exceeded hers. He stepped into the role of toreador, with every intention of baiting the bull.
Something flickered in her peripheral vision. Both the high walls to her left and right had windows at the top, presumably to permit natural light. At that time of the evening, internal light and external darkness made it impossible to see anything outside. But high up above Tomas’s head, there was a movement. Someone was out there. Her heart pumped faster and she tried not to stare.
Aguirre laughed. “That is because you are a snob. A typical British snob. You are offended by my business proposition, which is to give people what they want. Do you want to tell me the British are unhappy with my wines? That is ridiculous. They will drink anything, if it has the right label and reputation.”
Ana leant into her, applying pressure to her shoulder. She looked up and right as if stretching her neck, then returned to her previous position. Beatrice waited a second before looking in the same direction and forced herself not to jump. A face, streaked with dark marks, looked down at them. At that distance, she couldn’t recognise him, but whoever it was, that was army camouflage.
“I’m afraid I disagree, Señor Aguirre. If, as I believe to be true, you export a blend of various whites and call it Rioja, how are you furthering the image of Spanish wine? I wholeheartedly applaud your successes in your domestic market, but by selling an inferior product to your chief importers, you are an embarrassment. To your vineyard, to the Rioja region and to Spain. As for you personally, you should be ashamed.”
Tomas looked up at Aguirre, evidently judging by the tone of Matthew’s voice that a challenge had been issued. Aguirre caught his curious expression and glared, pointing an impatient finger at the bottle. Tomas filled the glass and lifted it to Matthew’s lips once more, with a compassionate pat of the shoulder. Matthew swallowed, gagged and retched, but kept it down. His eyes were wet. Ana nudged Beatrice, using her eyes to indicate the doors. Beatrice frowned. She could hear nothing and see even less. Ana sighed, shifting in her seat and indicated once more with her eyes. Tomas’s knife, beside Beatrice’s foot.
The trouble with this generation was watching too much James Bond. If Ana thought there was any chance of retrieving and concealing the knife without raising suspicions, she was deluded. And in any case, Beatrice was far too concerned about Matthew sticking his head in the lion’s maw.
Aguirre had not moved. His eyes, locked onto Matthew’s, seemed oddly devoid of life. His voice creaked, as if an ancient gate had opened.
“You know nothing of shame.”
Kev pressed back against the warehouse, feeling the tension in Tyler and Jase either side of him. Three heads twisted left, observing the preparations.
They watched as the older man walked away from the petrol-soaked vehicle towards an outdoor tap above a drain and gave an order. One of the sharp suits started slamming the car doors shut, while the other one picked up the empty cans and headed in their direction. Kev spotted the opportunity and whispered his instructions.
“OK, Tyler, while he’s got his hands full. Go!”
Tyler, smooth and noiseless, timed his attack to perfection. He waited till the man had almost drawn level with their vantage point. Any second now, he’d see them. In two long strides, Tyler broke cover, grabbed the man by the chin from behind and pressed a knife to his throat. The petrol cans hit the ground. Kev acted fast. In his experience, a hostage was not always the best bargaining tool. He knew nothing about this bunch and their loyalties. All he knew for certain was that they were armed. Whether they’d give up quietly or sacrifice their mate – he decided not to take the risk.
He ran to Tyler’s side, located the pistol tucked into the man’s belt, threw off the safety, twisted and crouched. Jase remained in the shadows, their secret weapon.
They took their time. When they finally rounded the corner, the older bloke’s timing worked in their favour. He was lighting a fag, the stupid bastard. The young one’s reactions were slow. He saw his mate, took in Tyler’s knife, then made for his gun before he spotted Kev, who knelt, arm steady, aiming the SIG Sauer at his head.
“Me cago en la puta!” he swore as he raised his hands to head height.
So Kev was right. The bloke with the blade against his windpipe and the curser looked close enough to be brothers, but the latter had still reached for his weapon. Seems blood wasn’t all that thick.
Jase slipped out from the recess and with practised skill, removed both their guns and a vicious-looking knife from the old fella’s boot. The plastic ties he found in the younger bloke’s suit pocket came in handy and in under ninety seconds, he’d tied all three men’s hands behind them, attached them to each other and had them facing the wall.
“Nice work, Lance Corporal. And that was a bloody classy jump, Tyler. You’ve still got it.”
“Still got it? Bollocks. I just keep getting better. What do we do with the Reservoir Dogs while we tackle the warehouse?”
“Leave ’em here. We’ve got to get in there as soon as poss because whatever they ...”
Jase hissed. “At the ready, Sergeant. Three, armed, incoming at one o’clock.”
Kev saw them. Three figures in night gear, emerging from the trees with no attempt at stealth. Jase and Tyler aimed their weapons at the approaching men while Kev scanned all other directions.
“Two more at eleven o’clock, two more at twelve. All carrying,” he reported. They were surrounded.
As Kev watched, the man leading the first group raised his hands. He still held his gun but the gesture was conciliatory. He kept walking until he was close enough to be heard.
“Police. Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Drop your weapons, please. What are you doing here?”
They each engaged the safety and allowed the guns to fall to the ground. Kev answered the question.
“A friend of ours asked us for help. She and three others are tied up and held at gunpoint inside that warehouse.”
“A friend? Detective Stubbs, I assume. Are you also police?”
“No, we’re British Army officers.”
He came closer. “I thought there must be some kind of training involved. That,” he nodded his head at the row of backs, “was a very impressive ambush. But I must ask you to stand down now. This is a police operation and we can take it from here.”
He moved closer into the light and holstered his weapon. Something odd about his face made Kev uneasy. It wasn’t till he stepped into the floodlights that he saw what it was. The Spanish copper only had one eyebrow.
Matthew groaned and coughed. Tomas jumped backwards, just in case. He showed the bottle to Aguirre. It was two-thirds empty. This seemed to satisfy Aguirre, who jerked his head towards the doors, turned and strode off towards the main building. Tomas shoved the bottle into his pocket and bent to retrieve his knife. Then several things happened at once.
Matthew threw up a violently colourful shower, just as the door in the delivery shutter opened. Two men, dressed in black, dashed in, aiming their weapons at Tomas. Aguirre had almost reached the far door leading to the main plant when it burst open, admitting two more dark-clothed men. In a second, Aguirre ducked behind the stacks of cardboard boxes and a shot was fired, making everyone on the makeshift bench, with the exception of Matthew, jerk backwards in alarm.
Beatrice looked for Tomas but he had disappeared. However, a box on the corner had sprung a leak and white wine trickled out, staining the cardboard. The whole room held its breath.
Milandro entered from the delivery bay and shouted something. Beatrice only understood the word Policia, but understood the tone.
Ana muttered a translation. “Give yourselves up, no point in any further loss of life, the entire building’s surrounded and your associates are already in custody.”
“Further loss of life? Oh God. If Kev or the boys got hurt ...”
She sensed Ana and Adrian staring at her and assessed the situation. Four sitting ducks in the middle. A ruthless criminal, ready to go down firing, hiding in a stack of boxes to her right; his henchman, with nothing to lose, on her left. There was someone missing.
“Where’s Rosado?” she asked.
Adrian was chewing his lip. “He went into the main building. His head was bleeding. Is this really the police, Beatrice, or should we be worried?”
Ana spoke. “God knows.” She bunted Beatrice with her shoulder. “Get the bloody knife. I’m not sitting here while they shoot it out.”
Tomas’s knife lay in a pile of fresh vomit, which consisted of alcohol, fish and tomato skins. Matthew’s head hung forward, a thin strand of drool hanging from his lips. He couldn’t help, even if he wanted to. Beatrice shuffled closer and stretched her foot out over the pool of puke. Using her heel, she scraped the knife towards her, shoving it under the bench and behind them. Ana arched backwards, a Tchaikovsky swan, and scooped it up. She twisted sideways towards Beatrice’s bound hands.
A loud rumbling began and the first shutter began to rise. Beatrice watched as the tarmac came into view and was surprised to see no flashing lights, no police vehicles, no Kev. But at least ten crouching figures, all in night combat gear. Another shot startled them all, including Ana, who accidentally stabbed Beatrice’s thumb.
The shot came from behind the opposite wall of boxes. Aguirre had taken aim at the men outside. A gun battle was more than likely to erupt, with the four of them sitting like fairground targets. Beatrice breathed deeply, imposing an artificial calm on herself. Shaking hands would make Ana’s task all the harder.
The sound of shattering glass and hoarse male shouts resonated from the main building. Bullets rained through the delivery bay, horrifically loud, punching into the metal doors. Aguirre was not going to run, but fight like a cornered beast. Beatrice could only hope he’d forgotten his hostages. Ana manipulated the slimy knife between Beatrice’s wrists, adding the pain of nicked fingers, hands and forearm to the increasing stiffness in her shoulders. Eventually, she found purchase on the plastic tie, slicing through it in a second. Relief spread across Beatrice’s upper body as she took the knife and returned the favour.
Shots could be heard from the other side of the building as she cut Ana loose and handed her the knife to free Adrian. She turned to the wretched creature on her right.
“Can you stand, Matthew? We really must get out of the firing line. Can you hear me? Matthew?”
He turned his head but did not lift it. His eyes remained closed. He looked like a blinded war horse, responding to a familiar voice. A burst of agonising empathy suffused Beatrice.
“Ana, give me the knife! And you two take cover. We’ll be right there.”
“Here.”
She clasped the sticky handle and turned to Matthew’s wrists.
Then the lights went out and everything stopped.
She felt her way carefully down Matthew’s arms, trying not to tremble. She heard the stealthy movements of Adrian and Ana retreating into one the many cardboard corridors behind them.
“Beatrice, this way! Run!” Ana’s hoarse whisper carried urgency. Beatrice caught hold of Matthew’s jacket and attempted to haul him to his feet. A dead weight. He keeled to one side and Beatrice knew they would be running precisely nowhere. Instead, she rolled him onto his back. He didn’t protest. A stack of wooden pallets could hide a comatose Classics professor until the action was over. Feeling her way, she half-rolled, half-dragged him to the back edge of their makeshift bench and clenched hold of his clothing. As she shoved him over the edge, she broke his fall by holding on as hard as she could. He’d be bruised, but that couldn’t be helped.
Ana’s angry voice came again. “Beatrice! Get out of sight!”
“Nearly there ...” She spent several more seconds placing Matthew in the recovery position, then hurried to join Ana.
“Where’s Matthew?” Adrian whispered.
“He couldn’t move. I’ve left him behind the pallets. He’ll be safe enough there.” She wasn’t even convincing herself.
They hid behind the first section of boxes. Like a corridor, the path between the stacked wines cases stretched almost the length of the room. As far as she could tell, Aguirre had darted behind the stacks along the right-hand side, but by now, he could easily be at the other end of their bolthole. It was impossible to see in the blackness. Tomas must be somewhere in the left-hand stacks. There was a sizeable gap between their stacks and his, so he’d be unlikely to break cover. Ana and Adrian pressed their backs against the far wall, Beatrice as close as she dared to their left. That way, she could just see the spot where she’d left Matthew. The three of them stood in the darkness, listening.
More shutters clattered upwards, exposing the warehouse and its contents. A cry of pain pierced the air, Beatrice couldn’t tell from which direction, followed by more gunshots. A silhouette dashed through the nearest doorway and disappeared into the shadows.
“Beatrice Stubbs!” She recognised Milandro’s voice. “You and your friends, stay where you are. Don’t move.”
Ana whispered. “Do we trust him?”
“We don’t have a choice,” said Beatrice.
Police vehicles rumbled into the car park, turning to train their headlights into the warehouse. Visibility improved but the horizontal angle threw deep shadows across the concrete floor. However, Beatrice could see well enough to be sure that no one else was lurking in their corridor.
A megaphone screeched into life and a male voice addressed Aguirre. Even without the distortion, it was impossible for Beatrice to understand.
Ana began translating. “There is no way out apart from surrender. They’re telling him to throw his weapon into view and ... what the hell is that?”
A small light had appeared halfway along the corridor, bobbing along the floor towards them. A torch. The light swung upwards and illuminated a face. Angel Rosado. He held the torch at arm’s length to show he was unarmed then shone it back at the floor to illuminate his path. They froze and watched as he came closer. He waved the torch briefly over them, then stopped, shining it up at his own face. The blood on his temple and the ghoulish uplighting did him no favours.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I can help, I can get you out. There is a gap halfway along here and we can get into the bottling plant. Follow me.”
Beatrice stared. “Why should we trust you? The police told us to stay put.”
“The police don’t want you to move in case my father-in-law shoots you. But if you come with me, he won’t even know you’ve left the warehouse. Please. I want to help. This has gone too far.”
“It’s almost over. They’re telling him to surrender,” said Adrian.
“He’d never do that. It goes against all his principles of honour. He’ll stick this out to the end. I know him.”
Ana spoke. “Have you got a gun?”
Angel hesitated. “Yes. Hold this.” He handed Ana the torch and reached behind him to bring out a stubby pistol, which looked like a Beretta Tomcat. He offered it to them.
“Fair enough.” Ana took it. “We keep the torch and the gun and we’ll follow you.”
“Not me,” Beatrice said. “I have to stay with Matthew. But I think you two should go. Just be very careful.”
