they sped down the street, the South African man beside him at the wheel. ‘What the hell went wrong?’
‘They moved just as we fired,’ Grange explained on the call. ‘The blond cop pushed the woman and black guy out of the way. We kept firing but couldn’t put them down.’
‘Are you kidding me? Where are you?’
‘Heading for the R iver. We already changed the plates. The cops won’t find us.’
Beside him, the South African turned onto another street. Peering ahead, the Middle Eastern man looked into the car park of the ARU headquarters and saw flames and smoke billowing out from the destroyed upper level.
So far, so good.
‘Wait a minute,’ the South African said, frowning and peering closer, the car slowing to a halt. ‘What the hell?’
‘What?’ the Middle Eastern man asked, interrupting his conversation on the phone.
‘Front door.’
They both saw people being helped out, several being carried but others managing to walk with assistance.
As they watched, a woman was being lifted out between two paramedics.
Both men stared in disbelief as they recognised the female analyst they’d chosen so carefully for the bomb vest. She looked in bad shape, suspended between the two men who were supporting her, but she was obviously still alive. Given the amount of explosives that had been strapped to her, she should have been pure vapour by now.
‘Holy shit,’ the South African said. ‘How the hell did she survive?’
The Middle Eastern man didn’t reply, his mood darkening by the second as he watched the woman get lowered face down onto a blanket on the ground, some waiting paramedics immediately tending to her.
‘Finchley and Portland must have screwed it up,’ he said quietly. ‘They didn’t lock the vest on tight enough.’
Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes, taking a breath to try and stay calm through a thumping headache. Then he returned his attention to the call.
‘Both of you, get off the street,’ he ordered. ‘Fall back to the safe-house right now and stay put until I get there. And you’d better hope the boss hasn’t seen the news.’
A moment later, he ended the call as the South African put his foot down and they headed off down the street, taking the next right turn and leaving the burning police building behind as they disappeared out of sight.
FIFTEEN
In Hendon, Archer, Marquez, Josh and Fox walked past Wally into the sitting room where a four-man Forensics team was gathered around Ibrahim Payan’s corpse.
The Slovakian was slumped forward in a chair, his arms and ankles taped to the wooden frame, the room smelling unpleasantly of sweat and the contents of his vacated bowel. Dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a sweat-stained t-shirt, blood was spattered on the white wall behind the dead man from a gunshot wound to his forehead. A solitary shell casing was lying on the carpet to the right, a small copper shape on the carpet. The investigators were taking photographs of the scene, inspecting the dead man’s body and checking for trace evidence before they moved him onto the waiting gurney to take him to the lab for analysis.
‘What happened, guys?’ Fox asked as they joined them.
One of the pair who was studying Payan’s body rose and turned to the newcomers, his partner continuing her work.
‘Most of it’s pretty clear,’ he said. ‘Single shot to the head, from about half a foot away. Shell casing’s from a .22 handgun.’
He knelt down, indicating the angle.
‘Shooter was up close. Neighbours didn’t hear a thing, so the weapon must have been suppressed. At that calibre, the shot would have been so quiet that someone upstairs in the house wouldn’t have heard it. ’
‘What about other wounds?’ Marquez said.
The man lifted a gloved hand to the back of Payan’s head. ‘He suffered blunt force trauma to the back of his skull, but it didn’t draw blood. Clean blow. He’s got a bump here the size of a small egg. Whoever subdued him
‘They moved just as we fired,’ Grange explained on the call. ‘The blond cop pushed the woman and black guy out of the way. We kept firing but couldn’t put them down.’
‘Are you kidding me? Where are you?’
‘Heading for the R iver. We already changed the plates. The cops won’t find us.’
Beside him, the South African turned onto another street. Peering ahead, the Middle Eastern man looked into the car park of the ARU headquarters and saw flames and smoke billowing out from the destroyed upper level.
So far, so good.
‘Wait a minute,’ the South African said, frowning and peering closer, the car slowing to a halt. ‘What the hell?’
‘What?’ the Middle Eastern man asked, interrupting his conversation on the phone.
‘Front door.’
They both saw people being helped out, several being carried but others managing to walk with assistance.
As they watched, a woman was being lifted out between two paramedics.
Both men stared in disbelief as they recognised the female analyst they’d chosen so carefully for the bomb vest. She looked in bad shape, suspended between the two men who were supporting her, but she was obviously still alive. Given the amount of explosives that had been strapped to her, she should have been pure vapour by now.
‘Holy shit,’ the South African said. ‘How the hell did she survive?’
The Middle Eastern man didn’t reply, his mood darkening by the second as he watched the woman get lowered face down onto a blanket on the ground, some waiting paramedics immediately tending to her.
‘Finchley and Portland must have screwed it up,’ he said quietly. ‘They didn’t lock the vest on tight enough.’
Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes, taking a breath to try and stay calm through a thumping headache. Then he returned his attention to the call.
‘Both of you, get off the street,’ he ordered. ‘Fall back to the safe-house right now and stay put until I get there. And you’d better hope the boss hasn’t seen the news.’
A moment later, he ended the call as the South African put his foot down and they headed off down the street, taking the next right turn and leaving the burning police building behind as they disappeared out of sight.
FIFTEEN
In Hendon, Archer, Marquez, Josh and Fox walked past Wally into the sitting room where a four-man Forensics team was gathered around Ibrahim Payan’s corpse.
The Slovakian was slumped forward in a chair, his arms and ankles taped to the wooden frame, the room smelling unpleasantly of sweat and the contents of his vacated bowel. Dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a sweat-stained t-shirt, blood was spattered on the white wall behind the dead man from a gunshot wound to his forehead. A solitary shell casing was lying on the carpet to the right, a small copper shape on the carpet. The investigators were taking photographs of the scene, inspecting the dead man’s body and checking for trace evidence before they moved him onto the waiting gurney to take him to the lab for analysis.
‘What happened, guys?’ Fox asked as they joined them.
One of the pair who was studying Payan’s body rose and turned to the newcomers, his partner continuing her work.
‘Most of it’s pretty clear,’ he said. ‘Single shot to the head, from about half a foot away. Shell casing’s from a .22 handgun.’
He knelt down, indicating the angle.
‘Shooter was up close. Neighbours didn’t hear a thing, so the weapon must have been suppressed. At that calibre, the shot would have been so quiet that someone upstairs in the house wouldn’t have heard it. ’
‘What about other wounds?’ Marquez said.
The man lifted a gloved hand to the back of Payan’s head. ‘He suffered blunt force trauma to the back of his skull, but it didn’t draw blood. Clean blow. He’s got a bump here the size of a small egg. Whoever subdued him
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