Fortress

1

The target’s hands hovered each side of his head, shaking so much that they looked like they were about to fall off. Callum’s forefinger curled round the trigger of his Heckler & Koch MP5SF, his right eye studying the target’s wide-eyed grimace down the night sight. The man, IC6 — Middle Eastern, early thirties, six one, well built — stood framed in the Transit’s open passenger door, lit by the glare of the halogens from one of their 5 Series ARVs.

‘Name?’

All that came back was the high-pitched whinnying sound of the man, who was either a terrified van passenger or a wannabe suicide bomber.

‘Name, now!’

‘Still no DSO,’ shouted Vic from the car, his headset mic flipped down, mobile pressed to his ear. But it didn’t matter at that stage. Even if they hadn’t lost radio contact, SCO19’s designated senior officer back in the control room at Scotland Yard couldn’t see what they were seeing. Soon they would have cameras on helmets, but not yet. Right now they were on their own, the choice theirs: to kill or not to kill. Callum was the lead; it was his call, his neck if they fucked up.

‘No wheelman.’

Cook, who’d taken off after the driver had done a runner, had given up the chase, his words pushed out between gasps of breath.

Even though it was past two a.m., the hottest day of the year was showing no sign of cooling. A short, sharp shock of rain had merely covered the street with a sticky slick of gloss that was now steaming the place up. Vic was dripping with it and even Callum who, a few lives back, had seen service in hell-hot Sierra Leone and, even further back, had had a few sweltering holidays with his gran in Jamaica, was feeling it.

His brain scrolled through standard procedure.

Target should drop like liquid. Aim for the head to avoid triggering explosive devices attached to chest or waist: tick. Confrontation to be made in secluded location to avoid risk to personnel or public: tick. Prepare to fire multiple shots at the brain stem to minimize the risk of detonation. Brain stem? Who wrote this shit? This wasn’t keyhole surgery.

The man’s mouth moved. ‘Suleiman.’

At last, a name.

‘Suleiman what?’

‘Suleiman, sir?’

You had to laugh.

‘The rest of your name.’

‘Nazul. Suleiman Nazul.’

Callum could hear Vic’s fingers dancing over the laptop, then an agonizing pause.

‘Negative on that. No form coming up.’

The sweat pouring down Suleiman’s face was being blotted up by the T-shirt under his padded gilet. Who wears a fucking padded gilet on a night like this? What’s in it? Duck down or Semtex? One of his wobbling hands strayed close to his streaming head.

‘Hands back up! Up!’

There had been no warning, no build-up, no plan. Fresh intelligence from a trusted source, the control room had said. Scramble. The Transit, white, 02 plate; contents on board reported to include syringes, latex gloves, clamps, drills, aerosols and a generous quantity of hydrogen peroxide. Someone fitting out a hairdressing salon? Right. And a .380 starter pistol converted to fire live rounds. The passenger, believed to be a British jihadi recently returned from Syria, nom de guerre: Abu Salayman de Britaini; given name unknown. Was this him?

Callum nodded at Wren beside him. Wren moved towards the rear of the van, tried the door, opened it a bit, then wider, then both doors.

‘Negative.’

Wrong van?

Wrong man?

Callum adjusted his stance and lifted his head an inch above the sight so he was looking at the man eye to eye. He was fresh from his annual requalifying at Gravesend, stuffed to the gills with the latest guidance, essential if he was to keep his firearms ticket.

‘Okay, Suleiman, here’s what’s going to happen. When I say so, you’re going to keep your hands as high as you can while you get down on your knees, then, keeping your arms stretched, lower them to the ground and lie face down. You got that?’

He nodded eagerly. Maybe he thought his life wasn’t over after all.

‘Okay: one, two, three…’

On three, two things happened. Callum heard the crack of a round passing him at supersonic speed, followed by the thump of a weapon’s report. Suleiman spun round as if someone had cut his strings and dropped — like liquid — to the ground in a cloud of pink mist.

‘— the fuck?’

Callum wheeled round, leaped behind the car for cover and scanned the building behind them. Less than half a second between the crack and the thump meant a firing point less than a hundred and fifty yards from the target. An oblong slab of flats, unlit, deserted, awaiting demolition.

In seconds, Vic was at Suleiman’s side with the emergency kit, rolled him over and cradled his head, the half that was still intact. He looked up at Callum.

Nothing to be done.