First Response

BRIXTON (2.05 p.m.)

Ben Peyton gripped the handle above his head to steady himself as the tyres of the BMW X5 screeched against the tarmac and the vehicle swung to the left. He would have preferred to be driving but he was SAS and a guest of the Met so he had to sit in the back, grin and bear it. There were two armed officers in the car and so far they seemed decent enough guys, though both admitted to never having fired a shot in anger. Even their range time was minimal compared with what passed for normal in the SAS. Peyton couldn’t even begin to count the number of rounds he fired during training in an average year. Twenty thousand? Thirty thousand? It would be several hundred rounds each training session, and when he wasn’t on active duty he’d often train twice a day. The cops trained but they tended to do it without actually pulling the trigger, which, to be fair, was the way they went about their work on the streets. The whole point of the Met’s armed police seemed to be geared towards not firing a shot. If shots were fired and anyone was hit, the officer was immediately suspended pending an investigation, which, more often than not, seemed to assume that the officer was guilty of a crime.

It was a set-up that Peyton found difficult to understand. In the SAS he was trained to kill, then sent out to do just that. In fact, he would be doing a crap job if he didn’t kill people. He had killed a fair number during the ten years he’d been in the SAS, and he could remember every single one. But the guys he was riding with had never killed, never wounded, and in all likelihood they never would. There were two of them. Phil Hall was a sergeant, thirty-something, as bald as a cue ball but with a spreading moustache. Hall was in the front passenger seat, handling the comms and the satnav. The driver was Tom McGuirk, a few years older than Hall but still a constable, albeit one with more than ten years’ experience. Both men were dressed in black fireproof coveralls. They had put on their bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets before getting into the SUV.

Peyton was wearing jeans and a black denim jacket. He had a Glock in a nylon holster on his hip and the cops had lent him a flak jacket and a helmet.

‘The phone’s in Wiltshire Road, next to Max Roach Park,’ said Hall. ‘We’re assuming it’s in a vehicle. We’re coming in from the north. Trojan Two Five One is approaching from the south. We’re going straight in. We don’t have time to fuck about. Ben, get the guns ready, will you?’

Peyton unhitched two SIG Sauer 516 assault rifles from their rack. He left the third where it was. He preferred to stick with his Glock because it was clearly going to be up close and personal.

‘Two minutes,’ said Hall.

They weren’t using lights or sirens but it was a marked car so McGuirk had no problem cutting through the traffic and they had been lucky with the lights. A woman with a pram was getting ready to use a zebra crossing but McGuirk flashed his lights and beeped his horn to let her know he wasn’t stopping. From the look on her face she was cursing him something rotten and McGuirk mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ but kept going.

‘One minute,’ said Hall.

Peyton had the rifles on his lap. Hall took a quick look over his shoulder. ‘Okay?’ he asked Peyton.

Peyton nodded. ‘Good to go.’

‘We’re going in hot, there’s every chance he’ll have explosives.’

‘Understood,’ said Peyton.

‘Not quite the same as Afghanistan,’ said Hall.

‘Not as much sand here,’ said Peyton.

McGuirk took a quick left, the tyres screeching.

‘Almost there,’ said Hall.

The SUV turned right. There was only one vehicle parked in the road by the park — a white van. Hall was already on the radio, reading out the registration number as McGuirk brought the car to a halt. Hall put his hand up to his earpiece, then nodded. ‘That’s the van that dropped the bomber at the Camberwell location.’

The second ARV came around the corner ahead of the white van and stopped with a squeal of brakes.

Peyton was out of the SUV first and handed the rifles to Hall and McGuirk before pulling his Glock from its holster. He followed the two cops as they headed towards the van, shuffling forward with their rifles shouldered. He kept to the right, making sure that neither of his companions crossed his line of fire.

Three armed cops fanned out of the ARV ahead of the van, guns at the ready.

‘Phil, maybe move to the left a tad,’ said Peyton.

Hall and McGuirk crossed the road to the pavement, taking themselves out of the other group’s field of fire. Peyton followed them.

There were no pedestrians in the vicinity and any traffic would be held up by the police SUVs parked across the road.

Peyton peered at the offside mirror. He couldn’t see anyone in the front. He was about to tell Hall but then he flinched as something went bang, but it was a reflex and his trigger finger stayed where it was. The bang hadn’t sounded like a shot, more like a car backfiring. But one of the armed cops from the other vehicle didn’t agree and yelled, ‘We’re under fire!’ He immediately fired a shot at the van and the windscreen exploded in a shower of glass cubes. His two companions also started firing and within seconds dozens of rounds were slamming into the vehicle.

‘Hold your fire!’ shouted Peyton, but the armed cops couldn’t hear him.

Rounds continued to slam into the white van. One by one the tyres burst and the van lurched from side to side as it settled. Eventually the three officers stopped firing.

The stench of cordite drifted over and Peyton’s eyes watered. Hall motioned for them to move forward and McGuirk and Peyton followed him to the rear of the van. The only sound now was the barking of a dog in the distance and the trickling of water from the ruptured radiator. People were starting to emerge from their homes and most of them were taking video with their smartphones.

Hall reached the rear of the van and stepped to the side as he pulled open the door on the right. McGuirk and Peyton rushed forward, their guns covering the van’s interior. It was empty, except for a mobile phone lying on the floor along with several number-plates.

The three cops from the other van ran to the side doors and pulled them open, then stepped back. ‘Shit,’ said one.

‘I heard a shot,’ said another. ‘I swear to God, I heard a shot.’

‘It was a car backfiring,’ said Peyton, as he holstered his Glock. ‘Easy mistake to make.’