The Half Truth. Sue FortinЧитать онлайн книгу.
simultaneously standing up. Seven pairs of eyes focused on him.
‘Here we go, lads,’ he said, the calm air in his voice belying the adrenalin rush that kicked at his heart rate. ‘And lasses,’ he added noting the raised eyebrows of his female colleague, Jackie.
John hiked his gun harness onto his shoulders, clipping it in place. He gave the Glock 26 snuggled in the holster a reassuring pat. An action born of habit; a subconscious reassurance.
There was a scuffling of chairs and flurry of action as the specialist organised crime- fighting unit scrambled. Primed, eager and hyped for what could be a particularly nasty encounter with the gang of armed robbers they had been tracking for the past six months.
The black BMW and 4x4 Range Rover sped swiftly through the dusk of the London streets, leaving a deserted headquarters behind them. They wove their way through the rear lights of the bedraggled tail end of rush-hour traffic, homing in on their target with stealth- like silence. No roaring engines, no flashing blue lights, no sirens. Purely an assured confidence in their training, experience and trust of each other.
John had been handpicked to head up this elite unit that operated loosely within the boundaries of London City’s Met. They had been working together as a team for six years now. Faces rarely changed. Once you were in, you stayed in. They likened themselves to a marriage, the unofficial motto between them of ‘Until death us do part.’ And in two cases, it had. John pushed the black-dog memory of Neil Edwards’ death away. Another reaction that had become a habit. He needed to stay focused on the task in hand. He wasn’t going to lose another member of his team.
John headed the unit in the BMW, his partner and close friend, Martin Caslake, at the wheel and two more officers in the back seat, another four in the vehicle behind.
A text message alert sounded from Martin’s pocket. He shifted in his seat, pulling out the phone and glancing at the screen. Reading the message, he cursed quietly to himself before tapping in a reply, all the time keeping one eye on the road ahead.
‘I don’t know why these private banks can’t keep normal hours like the British ones. It would make our hours much more civilised,’ said Martin.
‘It’s ten minutes before closing, the bank staff will be relaxed, on the wind-down for the weekend. It’s the best time for the gang to strike,’ said John.
‘They are a week early.’
‘Do you want to mention that to them?’ said John. True, the original intel had said next week, but the update when he had gone into work that morning was that it was all happening tonight. He looked over at Martin. ‘You got trouble?’
‘I promised Maxine I’d take her out for dinner this evening. I forgot to let her know I wouldn’t be able to make it after all.’
This provoked some jibes from the lads in the car. Mentions of ‘hen-pecked’ and ‘under the thumb’ banded about.
‘Fuck off, you lot,’ said Martin. He jabbed at the keyboard with his thumb.
‘That was a long text just to say you were working,’ said John, fighting to keep the smile from his face. ‘You’re very conscientious all of a sudden.’
More ribbing from the lads ensued.
‘Well, some girls are worth it,’ said Martin. ‘Not that any of you would know, with your chuck-away, disposable love lives.’
‘Sounds serious,’ said John.
Martin shrugged in response without commenting. John didn’t push for an answer. Personal relationships in the police force were difficult enough to maintain. Relationships within this specialist unit even more so. Hence why most of them were either single or divorced, John falling into the latter category.
As a car in front of them unexpectedly made a sharp right turn, causing Martin to swerve violently to the left, a tirade of comments on the other driver’s Highway Code knowledge, or lack of it, followed. Martin’s love life quickly forgotten. Subject matter no longer of any consequence.
‘How long?’ said John, checking his watch. The traffic was heavier than expected into the City.
‘Less than five,’ said Martin.
‘Make that less than three,’ said John.
Martin’s reply was to downshift the gears and accelerate, overtaking the cars queued at the lights. Flashing his headlights, he bullied his way through, ignoring the tooting car horns protesting at the move.
John took a look over his shoulder to check that the Range Rover was still with them. It was.
The ambush was quick and efficient. The tip-off had come at the eleventh hour, but John and his team were prepared. Each knew their role. Screeching to a halt outside the private bank in Knightsbridge, John was out of the car and exchanging shots with the getaway driver before Martin had even cut the engine.
John and his team rushed to the entrance to the bank, the armed robbers meeting them in the foyer. Rapid exchanges of fire rang out throughout the hallway. Bullets bounced off walls and took nips and chunks out of plasterwork.
One of the robbers was taken out almost instantly whilst another took cover behind the reception counter and a third raced back up the marble staircase. The sounds of screams coming from the upstairs banking room and a rapid tap, tap, tap of gunshots followed.
John was huddled behind a marble pillar, Martin on the opposite side in a doorway.
John indicated to Martin that he and two others would go upstairs whilst Martin and the others gave them cover and dealt with matey behind the counter.
Covering gunfire gave John the chance to race through the foyer and up the stairs. He recognised the sound of a semi-automatic going off. The armed robbers’ weapon of choice. The bullets rattled over his head, embedding themselves in the plasterwork. Ducking low, John ascended the staircase with speed. He heard the yell and groan of one of his team.
Taking a quick glance behind him, he saw Jackie sprawled on the steps, her hand clasping her leg, blood seeping through his fingers already.
‘I’m okay! Go!’ she shouted.
Another cry and as John’s eyes swivelled in the direction of the counter, he caught a glimpse of the robber stumbling out from behind the counter. His finger closed over the trigger, gunfire spraying the foyer like a water sprinkler.
The next second a bullet shot through his forehead, exploding the back of his skull open. He was dead before he hit the floor.
John didn’t waste any time. He sprinted up the remainder of the stairs and into the banking hall, his gun sweeping the room. Staff and customers were huddled together in one corner. Someone gave a small scream of alarm. Another whimpered.
Standing in the middle of the hall, the third gunman held a young woman in front of him, a gun at her head.
‘I’ll shoot her!’ The gunman yelled through his ski mask.
‘No you won’t,’ said John, steadying the Glock. ‘Put the gun down.’
‘You’re not going to shoot me.’ It was a jeer.
John weighed up the situation. The hostage was a good three inches shorter than the robber. It gave him just enough clearance above her shoulder.
‘Are you going to do what I think you are?’ It was Martin’s voice behind him.
‘Yep,’ said John, his eyes fixed firmly ahead. ‘You going to do your bit?’
‘Yep. Already clocked her name badge.’
‘Well, do you want to get on with it?’
‘Alisha,’ said Martin, his voice calm and low. ‘Listen very carefully. You are going to be okay. I promise. All you have to do is stay very still. Do you understand?’
Alisha gave a small sob and eked out a sound of acknowledgement.