events, just in case any of the channel’s viewers were too dense to grasp what they were seeing.
“The two men were recorded by the security system as they broke in through the locked gates, carrying heavy hammers and other tools. Once inside, they made straight for this bulldozer and caused several thousand pounds’worth of damage to the engine and controls, according to the company’s owner. Sky sources have positively identified this man”—the image shown on the screen returned to the still picture of Bronson’s face—“as Christopher John Bronson, a police sergeant living in Kent. The identity of his companion is so far unknown, but—”
Mike clicked a button on the remote control. The recorded program vanished and the live news feed was displayed. He pressed another control and the sound was immediately muted.
“When I first met you,” Mike continued, his tone conversational, almost friendly, “I thought you could be an undercover cop, but then I decided I had to be wrong, because not even the Metropolitan Police would be that stupid. Well, guess what? They really are that stupid, and now here you are, up shit creek without a paddle. Or even a canoe, for that matter. You’ve got no way out of this, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Bronson snapped.
“You got that right,” Mike sneered.
Bronson’s mind was racing, figuring the angles as he tried desperately to find some way out. The only asset he had was the Llama pistol, tucked into the rear pocket of his jeans and under his leather jacket. Nobody had searched him, probably because most British police were still rarely armed, and even undercover officers seldom carried weapons. But to get to the pistol he needed at least one of his hands free, and right then he didn’t see how he was going to achieve that.
What he did know was that there would be no point in appealing for mercy. From what little he knew of theman, Bronson guessed that compassion wouldn’t be very high on Mike’s list of qualities. If indeed it featured at all.
He hadn’t had the radio switched on in his car when he drove out to this rendezvous, the time and location specified in a telephone message from John Eaton, and neither Curtis nor anyone else at the Forest Gate police station had called his mobile. He’d walked into the situation cold.
“So, Mr. Policeman, now we have to decide what to do with you.”
Bronson said the only thing he could think of that might turn the situation around.
“You said the Metropolitan Police force was stupid,
Mike
. Well, from where I’m sitting, the only stupidity being shown in this room is what’s coming out of your mouth.”
Mike crossed the room in three quick strides and smashed his fist into Bronson’s face.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk when we put the screws on you. Until then, just keep quiet.”
Bronson’s cheek was numb from the blow, but he still seemed to have all his teeth, which was something.
“Do all your thinking with your fists, do you?” Bronson asked. “Easier to hit than use your brain?”
Mike spun round and raised his right hand again, but then a single voice cut across the office and he stopped instantly.
“Wait.”
Bronson had not even noticed the man until he spoke, probably because he was sitting in a chair against the farwall, rather than standing in a group with the other men. He had a thin, pinched face and a somewhat straggly beard that seemed barely attached to his chin, like some badly applied theatrical prop. He was slightly built, and although he was sitting down Bronson guessed he was well under six feet tall. But despite his unimpressive appearance, he exuded authority and seemed to be the dominant personality of the group. Certainly, his single word of command had stopped Mike in his tracks.
“You’re not going to listen to him?” Mike snapped.
“Sit down and shut up,” the seated man said, his eyes never leaving Bronson. Mike
“The two men were recorded by the security system as they broke in through the locked gates, carrying heavy hammers and other tools. Once inside, they made straight for this bulldozer and caused several thousand pounds’worth of damage to the engine and controls, according to the company’s owner. Sky sources have positively identified this man”—the image shown on the screen returned to the still picture of Bronson’s face—“as Christopher John Bronson, a police sergeant living in Kent. The identity of his companion is so far unknown, but—”
Mike clicked a button on the remote control. The recorded program vanished and the live news feed was displayed. He pressed another control and the sound was immediately muted.
“When I first met you,” Mike continued, his tone conversational, almost friendly, “I thought you could be an undercover cop, but then I decided I had to be wrong, because not even the Metropolitan Police would be that stupid. Well, guess what? They really are that stupid, and now here you are, up shit creek without a paddle. Or even a canoe, for that matter. You’ve got no way out of this, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Bronson snapped.
“You got that right,” Mike sneered.
Bronson’s mind was racing, figuring the angles as he tried desperately to find some way out. The only asset he had was the Llama pistol, tucked into the rear pocket of his jeans and under his leather jacket. Nobody had searched him, probably because most British police were still rarely armed, and even undercover officers seldom carried weapons. But to get to the pistol he needed at least one of his hands free, and right then he didn’t see how he was going to achieve that.
What he did know was that there would be no point in appealing for mercy. From what little he knew of theman, Bronson guessed that compassion wouldn’t be very high on Mike’s list of qualities. If indeed it featured at all.
He hadn’t had the radio switched on in his car when he drove out to this rendezvous, the time and location specified in a telephone message from John Eaton, and neither Curtis nor anyone else at the Forest Gate police station had called his mobile. He’d walked into the situation cold.
“So, Mr. Policeman, now we have to decide what to do with you.”
Bronson said the only thing he could think of that might turn the situation around.
“You said the Metropolitan Police force was stupid,
Mike
. Well, from where I’m sitting, the only stupidity being shown in this room is what’s coming out of your mouth.”
Mike crossed the room in three quick strides and smashed his fist into Bronson’s face.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “You’ll have plenty of time to talk when we put the screws on you. Until then, just keep quiet.”
Bronson’s cheek was numb from the blow, but he still seemed to have all his teeth, which was something.
“Do all your thinking with your fists, do you?” Bronson asked. “Easier to hit than use your brain?”
Mike spun round and raised his right hand again, but then a single voice cut across the office and he stopped instantly.
“Wait.”
Bronson had not even noticed the man until he spoke, probably because he was sitting in a chair against the farwall, rather than standing in a group with the other men. He had a thin, pinched face and a somewhat straggly beard that seemed barely attached to his chin, like some badly applied theatrical prop. He was slightly built, and although he was sitting down Bronson guessed he was well under six feet tall. But despite his unimpressive appearance, he exuded authority and seemed to be the dominant personality of the group. Certainly, his single word of command had stopped Mike in his tracks.
“You’re not going to listen to him?” Mike snapped.
“Sit down and shut up,” the seated man said, his eyes never leaving Bronson. Mike
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