massive police station on his right, he smiled, before turning east onto Frampton Street. Almost immediately, however, he hit the traffic caused by the roadworks on Lisson Grove itself. Since then, they’d taken almost fifteen minutes to crawl barely 500 yards.
In the back of the cab, Teleki ended his call and sat forward. Peering through the windscreen at the stationary traffic outside, he cursed loudly in Arabic. ‘Faster!’
Ryan looked at him in the rear-view mirror, gestured at the cars in front of them and shrugged.
‘Faster!’ the man repeated. It was just about the only English that the bastard seemed to know.
Ryan shrugged again.
Teleki tried to open the door, yanking on the handle, oblivious to the small red light signalling that it was locked. Cursing more quietly this time, he pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers and thrust a twenty-pound note through the small gap in the partition.
‘Stop now,’ he instructed.
Ignoring the money, Ryan put a confused look on his face. ‘We
are
stopped.’
‘I get out.’ Teleki pushed the note through the gap in the partition.
Ryan let the money fall to the floor.
‘Money,’ Teleki grunted. ‘Is enough?’
Ryan glanced at the twenty. His pulse was racing now; he was sweating heavily despite the cold, and he felt a migraine brewing at the base of his spine.
‘How much?’
Ryan looked at the meter and realized that he hadn’t switched it on.
‘Hey!’ Teleki banged on the partition with the palm of his hand. Twisting in his seat, he pulled at the door handle again, more vigorously this time.
‘Damn!’ Ryan felt that his heart was about to burst out of his chest. He fumbled under his seat for his SP-21 ‘Barak’ semi-automatic. Sliding his fingers round the grip, he flicked off the safety catch and pushed the silencer through the partition, pulling the trigger twice.
The first round shattered the cab’s rear window, missing the target completely.
The second shot hit Teleki in the neck, sending a spray of arterial blood right across the glass partition. Clutching his neck, Teleki fell across the back seat, screaming and gurgling at the same time.
Taking careful aim this time, Ryan put two shots in his chest and then another two in his head.
Teleki’s last living act was to void his bowels. The smell of shit and death immediately permeated the cab.
‘That is for Itay Kayal,’ Ryan shouted. He wanted the young soldier’s name to be the last words that this murdering terrorist bastard heard on this earth.
Teleki gazed at him blankly, the light fading from his eyes.
‘Itay Kayal!’
Teleki’s mouth opened but all that came out was a bloody bubble of air. His body twitched one final time and was still.
For the briefest moment, there was silence. It was followed by the angry sound of horns from the vehicles behind him. Ryan turned to see that the traffic in front of him was finally moving. Sticking the Barak into the waistband of his jeans, and concealing it under his Bon Jovi T-shirt, he pushed open the door of the cab and jumped out. Slamming the door behind him, he ignored the growing cacophony of horns and the shouts of angry drivers questioning his parentage, and jogged quickly away down a side street.
After he had travelled four blocks, Ryan Goya slowed to a walking pace. Pulling a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans, he dialled the only number stored in its memory.
Someone picked up immediately.
‘Job done,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Two down, two to go.’
Ending the call, he stepped into the gutter and dropped the handset down the grate of a nearby drain. Upping his pace again, he headed further into the London night.
FIFTEEN
‘I don’t care if I am causing the biggest traffic jam in the whole of bloody London, nothing is being moved from here until this scene has been processed properly.’
Adam Hall stood in the middle of Lisson Grove and watched the DCI from Traffic Police scuttle off, shaking
In the back of the cab, Teleki ended his call and sat forward. Peering through the windscreen at the stationary traffic outside, he cursed loudly in Arabic. ‘Faster!’
Ryan looked at him in the rear-view mirror, gestured at the cars in front of them and shrugged.
‘Faster!’ the man repeated. It was just about the only English that the bastard seemed to know.
Ryan shrugged again.
Teleki tried to open the door, yanking on the handle, oblivious to the small red light signalling that it was locked. Cursing more quietly this time, he pulled his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers and thrust a twenty-pound note through the small gap in the partition.
‘Stop now,’ he instructed.
Ignoring the money, Ryan put a confused look on his face. ‘We
are
stopped.’
‘I get out.’ Teleki pushed the note through the gap in the partition.
Ryan let the money fall to the floor.
‘Money,’ Teleki grunted. ‘Is enough?’
Ryan glanced at the twenty. His pulse was racing now; he was sweating heavily despite the cold, and he felt a migraine brewing at the base of his spine.
‘How much?’
Ryan looked at the meter and realized that he hadn’t switched it on.
‘Hey!’ Teleki banged on the partition with the palm of his hand. Twisting in his seat, he pulled at the door handle again, more vigorously this time.
‘Damn!’ Ryan felt that his heart was about to burst out of his chest. He fumbled under his seat for his SP-21 ‘Barak’ semi-automatic. Sliding his fingers round the grip, he flicked off the safety catch and pushed the silencer through the partition, pulling the trigger twice.
The first round shattered the cab’s rear window, missing the target completely.
The second shot hit Teleki in the neck, sending a spray of arterial blood right across the glass partition. Clutching his neck, Teleki fell across the back seat, screaming and gurgling at the same time.
Taking careful aim this time, Ryan put two shots in his chest and then another two in his head.
Teleki’s last living act was to void his bowels. The smell of shit and death immediately permeated the cab.
‘That is for Itay Kayal,’ Ryan shouted. He wanted the young soldier’s name to be the last words that this murdering terrorist bastard heard on this earth.
Teleki gazed at him blankly, the light fading from his eyes.
‘Itay Kayal!’
Teleki’s mouth opened but all that came out was a bloody bubble of air. His body twitched one final time and was still.
For the briefest moment, there was silence. It was followed by the angry sound of horns from the vehicles behind him. Ryan turned to see that the traffic in front of him was finally moving. Sticking the Barak into the waistband of his jeans, and concealing it under his Bon Jovi T-shirt, he pushed open the door of the cab and jumped out. Slamming the door behind him, he ignored the growing cacophony of horns and the shouts of angry drivers questioning his parentage, and jogged quickly away down a side street.
After he had travelled four blocks, Ryan Goya slowed to a walking pace. Pulling a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans, he dialled the only number stored in its memory.
Someone picked up immediately.
‘Job done,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Two down, two to go.’
Ending the call, he stepped into the gutter and dropped the handset down the grate of a nearby drain. Upping his pace again, he headed further into the London night.
FIFTEEN
‘I don’t care if I am causing the biggest traffic jam in the whole of bloody London, nothing is being moved from here until this scene has been processed properly.’
Adam Hall stood in the middle of Lisson Grove and watched the DCI from Traffic Police scuttle off, shaking
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