Red Station

TWO

‘ Fuck!’ Maloney’s curse registered deep shock. ‘Where the hell did he spring from?’ All approaches to the area were supposed to have been shut off one hour ago. Any sooner would have alerted the traffickers that their plans were blown.

‘What’s happening?’ Parrish again, and by the catch in his voice, Harry knew that the firearms officer was about to make a move.

‘Hold your position!’ He turned to focus on the approaching car, gripping the hard outline of the gun and gathering his legs beneath him. Either someone had stuffed up the security cordon or the informant had lied about the smugglers’ plans.

He used his radio. ‘Red Three, this is Red One. A vehicle just arrived. What the hell’s going on out there?’ Red Three was another MI5 officer — a floater — operating the outer cordon with the local police. He should have warned them about the car’s approach.

‘Red Three?’

Silence.

‘Shit!’ He pounded his fist into the soft ground. What else could go wrong?

The Land Rover slid to an untidy stop ten yards short of the jetty, throwing up a spray of ground water. Both doors opened and a man sprang from behind the wheel and ran round to the passenger side. He appeared to be urging the passenger — a young woman in a floaty dress — to stay inside, but she had already slid from the car’s high seat, followed by the heavy beat of hip-hop music.

Christ, no, Harry thought, hardly able to believe his eyes. This is all we fucking need…

As the driver tried to turn the girl back inside the car, he glanced at the boat ghosting into the jetty, its crew of three illuminated by the car’s lights, and lifted a hand towards them.

But the girl didn’t seem to understand.

‘Hey, baby,’ she cried plaintively, her voice slurred. ‘Whassup? What’re you doing?’ She ducked past him and peered at the incoming vessel. ‘Who’re they?

As the boat brushed the jetty, the man with the dreadlocks moved forward on the deck, bouncing the pole up and down on his shoulder. Behind him, the figure on the rear platform got ready to jump ashore, a glint of something stubby and metallic in his free hand.

Harry Tate felt a kick of anguish deep in his gut.

‘Don’t…!’

Afterwards, he never was sure what he’d intended to say — something more definite, for certain — and nothing like the single, useless utterance which came out of his mouth. He pushed himself to his feet, muscles cramped after too long in the same position, and brought up his gun. It was a long shot for a handgun but doable; he’d managed under worse conditions before now. His instincts told him Maloney was still somewhere to his right, also ready and willing to mix it if he had to.

‘Stop! Police! Don’t move!’

It was Parrish. Shouting and running forward along the bank, faint in the reach of the car’s headlights, he was swinging his Heckler amp; Koch in the air, the barrel aimed at the night sky. Harry couldn’t tell if it was bravado or stupidity, but the gun was pointless if he wasn’t going to use it.

And he was running across his colleagues’ direct line of fire.

‘Get down, you prick!’ yelled Maloney.

Too late.

The man with the dreadlocks looked at Parrish, then turned back to the Land Rover and screamed in defiance. He swung the pole down from his shoulder, catching it with a solid smack in his other hand. The car headlights glinted off dark metal.

Shotgun.

The muzzle-blast ripped the night apart, and the driver of the Land Rover was punched off his feet. The girl screamed as he was torn from her grasp, and her legs sagged. She whirled round to see what was happening, incomprehension on her face. Then a stutter of automatic fire came from the man at the rear of the boat. It ripped into her, shredding the floaty dress and sent her spinning to join her companion.

Without pause, Dreadlocks swung his gun and pulled the trigger again. The heavy charge knocked Parrish over backwards. The helmsman shouted a warning and hauled on the wheel, surging away from the bank with a howl of engines. Taken by surprise, Dreadlocks grabbed for the side rail but missed. He sprawled headlong on the deck, while the man on the stern platform danced off-balance for a moment before grabbing the side bar and holding on tight.

Harry cursed. Whatever was housed below decks wasn’t a standard engine, but something bigger — possibly twin diesels. The boat was already on its way out and would soon be gone for good if it wasn’t stopped.

He took aim and squeezed the trigger, a controlled double-tap followed by another, then a third. He was aiming at the helmsman; stop the driver and the boat would go nowhere. The volley of shots was lost among the roar of the engines, and puny in contrast to the stunning blast of the shotgun. But a section of glass windshield exploded and the helmsman ducked as a chunk of moulding blew apart alongside the wheel.

Maloney was up and running, tracking the boat along the bank. He began firing steadily at the charging vessel, now nose-up as it increased speed, the wash flashing white against the sloping mud walls on either side.

At the stern, the man with the machine gun was trying to bring his weapon to bear, but was thrown off balance as the boat bounced and swayed in the narrow inlet. Dreadlocks, however, had regained his feet. Gripping the rail with one hand, he raised his shotgun and lined up on Maloney, barely thirty feet away and with nowhere to hide.

‘Bill, down!’ Harry bellowed, and as Maloney threw himself to the ground, still firing, he emptied his clip at the gunman.

Shots from both guns caught the man high in the body, flipping him overboard.

Seconds later, the boat had gone, leaving in its wake three bodies on the shore and a fourth bobbing in the cold, black water.