Текст книги "Just Another Day"

Автор книги: Steven Clark

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

She’s going to break a few hearts in the future thought Mark as he smiled back at her. She might be only nine years old, but she was bright as a button. She had taken quite a big step along the road of maturity in enduring and accepting today’s events and he had no doubt that Chloe Jones was going to grow up into a questioning and thoughtful teenager. The lads will have their hands full with you he thought as he waved and blew her a kiss.

The Range Rovers powerful engine pressed him back into his seat as the three litre V8 Turbo Diesel gunned them up the hard shoulder towards the motorway slip road.

Chloe sat back in her seat and folded her arms, not in anger this time, as she looked across at her Dad. She had a twinkle in her eyes and a very large smile across her face. ‘Wait till I see Mary Willis at school Dad, Have I got a story to tell her.’

‘You certainly have sweetheart, you most certainly have.’ said Dad as he picked up speed, indicated, and joined the flow of traffic back onto the Motorway.

As he watched the Range Rover disappear, whatever it is, thought Fred to himself, I hope it works out OK. He thought about all the people out there who put themselves in harms way for the benefit of others. For the most part, he would never know when that was happening and he let out a long sigh as he looked across at Chloe. She was busy looking out of the window deciding how she would tell the tale to all and sundry in about half an hour’s time. As for his boss, well, whatever her sarcasm when he got into work later, today, her words would mean nothing. He would smile at her pettiness, keep his head down and just get on with his work. It might be just another day to her of bullying behaviour and snide comments. No matter, today, he would rise above it all.

Today, something far more important was taking place and although Fred was not a particularly religious man, he knew a silent prayer would not go amiss.

Chapter 9

The powerful Range Rover gathered speed fully crewed once more with Superman Swift rubbing his battered and bruised thighs. All were aware by now that Dave Watkins was driving the wagon and that although no one knew how badly he was injured, he seemed OK. The two response vehicles and the control rooms had been listening to Dave’s conversation with the gunman since Swifty had attached the listening device to the back of the cab. Audio was being fed back to the Forward Command Post very clearly and there were no signal interruptions as the wagon continued its journey.

‘I don’t know if you were aware of any of this Mark,’ said Lee Evans. ‘But Dave Watkins saved your life out there a few minutes ago. Your legs were about half a second away from being dragged under the back wheels of the trailer. I can’t tell you how close you came to being flattened. If he hadn’t swerved the lorry, half of you would have ended up under the wagon and the rest of you would have been bouncing along the middle lane mate. He nearly took out the Armco barrier on the hard shoulder to try and give you as much room as possible.’

‘Nah, you’re just exaggerating boss. No problem. I’ve been practicing me swallow dive for weeks now.’

‘Needs a bit of work mate.’  Said the quiet voice sat alongside him in the other passenger seat. ‘I’d only give you five out of ten for technical ability. I think your technique could do with a little fine tuning; yep, there’s definitely room for some improvement in that area.

‘Now, if I was to mark you for entertainment value, I’d have to give you twelve out of ten. Your breaststroke impression, as your legs disappeared through that window, now, that was something else. Absolutely fucking hilarious buddy.’ With that, he started doing a frantic swimming motion and gesticulating with his lips like some type of balloon fish from a Disney cartoon.

The blacked out windows and soundproofing of the armour plated vehicle prevented other motorists from seeing or hearing what was going on but, inside, the four ‘highly professional’ officers, were roaring with laughter as Mark waved his ventilated boot in the air, the flapping sole slapping against the leather and the range Rover rocked from side to side.

The quiet man, Ged Duggan, was an absolute star and was well liked by all who came into contact with him. A gem of a lad to work with. He never said much. He didn’t need to. Sometimes his silence spoke volumes. But, when the shit was about to hit the fan, you had no doubt that he would be there when required.

Ged and Mark had been good mates ever since joining the force together and doing their basic training in what seemed a lifetime ago.

After basic, they had gone to different Divisions and for a few years their careers had developed in different directions. Mark had gone to the Criminal Investigation Department for a two year attachment and Ged had spent four years in the Drugs Squad. Now and then, their paths would cross professionally as there was sometimes an overlap of responsibilities.

What might have started out as a drugs job became a C.I.D. enquiry and vice versa. Lots of criminals would come to the attention of both departments and there was often an informal rivalry over whose job it was and which department took the credit for locking up the villain and sending him down. They always kept in touch. Respected each others professionalism and over the years became great friends.

It was Swifty who had first suggested to his Skipper three years ago that Ged’s quiet manner in a crisis and ability to weigh up a situation instantly would be a good candidate for the squad. Ged sailed through the assessment centre and Skip Lee took an instant liking for ‘the quiet man’ and nicknamed him after the character in the film portrayed by one of his film heroes, John Wayne.

Whilst all the team members were required as a matter of course to be excellent marksmen and each had to re qualify on a regular basis, Ged, was justly regarded as the best shot in the unit. His stats on the firing range were always impressive and never fell below nine out of ten centres every time.

‘It’s all in the breathing Mark. Get the breathing right and you’ve cracked it mate. Deep breath, slowly exhale, squeeze the trigger gently.’ Mark followed his technique and definitely improved but he was not in the same league as Ged. They each had their own strengths as Ged in return was well aware, he could never attain the athletic prowess of his buddy.

The uniformed traffic bobby in his high visibility coat stood alongside his car, blue lights illuminating the gloom, near to the exit slip road  directing traffic as it left the motorway. Neither Dave nor the officer acknowledged each other in case the gunman noticed any glances between them.

‘Bit unusual aint it to have Traffic cops for a blocked motorway?’ said Johnson, accusingly.

‘Not really,’ said Dave. ‘If it’s a serious or fatal accident, it takes them a long time to do all the photos and the investigation work and takes a fair while to clear the backlog of traffic, especially when it’s rush hour like this. In that case, they will try to put extra patrols out to assist in getting stuff back to normal as quickly as possible.’

Dave hoped he sounded convincing as Johnson growled his acceptance of the explanation and looked ahead. Although the control rooms were listening to Dave’s conversation, it was important to let him know that things were moving. He knew that the traffic car was for his benefit and he hoped that the end game was being worked out by the strategists in the command centre.

‘Tango Uniform Four Four to control receiving?’

‘Receiving you loud and clear, go ahead.’

‘Looks like Dave Watkins is a bit banged up. He has an injury to his shoulder and forehead but looks okay otherwise. Not able to determine how many other persons are onboard. Unable to see the gunman.’

‘Roger thanks. Standing by.’

The control room planners had been looking for a suitable place to try and direct the wagon to without drawing attention to that fact.

Dave looked in his passenger side mirror as he left the motorway and saw the two black vehicles following a short distance back.

‘How about if I pull into that Industrial Estate up ahead while we look at the maps to see how we get to wherever it is you need to go.’

The gunman looked at Dave. ‘What are you, a fucking mind reader? Do it, but pull up at the far end of those factory units. I don’t want any nosey fucker taking any unwanted interest in us.’

Dave drove forward for a few hundred yards until they were well clear of the last of the units. He couldn’t give a shit about further directions as he knew whatever was going to happen would take place here. The senior Commanders would not allow the wagon to leave this location. From a police perspective, it was an ideal location as there was no other way out and the support officers would quickly block off the service road that Dave had driven up a short time ago and ensure that the lorry could not force its way out. He had noticed a few other lorries nearby with the drivers sitting in their cabs drinking tea or reading the paper. His colleagues would quietly, but quickly, commandeer those vehicles and place them in a position to form a road block.

Within a few minutes of the wagon being halted, officers were evacuating the industrial units and putting in place the police cordon.

Dave felt the tide was now beginning to turn in favour of the police as the wagon was safely away from the public and he smiled slightly to himself as he thought, no matter what happens to me bollocks, you are going nowhere from here.

‘Keep both your fucking hands on the wheel while I have a look at this map okay?’

‘No problem’ said Dave as he stretched his hands out and leant his head down on his arms as the fatigue overtook him.

The sky shout system from the police helicopter suddenly boomed loud startling both Dave and the gunman.

‘You in the wagon. Throw down your weapons and give yourself up.’

Johnson instinctively jumped into the bunk area and, pushing himself back into the corner as much as possible, screamed abuse, not particularly at Dave.

‘You bastards, back off, back the fuck off or he’s a fuckin dead man.’

The voice from the sky boomed again.

‘There is nowhere for you to go. The exits are blocked off. This can all end peacefully if you throw out your weapons. Be advised that firearms officers have been deployed.’ The helicopter was hovering about a hundred metres above the wagon.

‘You can have me gun’ shouted Johnson. ‘I’ll give you me fucking gun alright.’ He leaned out of the bunk and through the smashed window of the passenger door, pointed the shotgun skywards and fired one barrel of the shotgun towards the helicopter.

The two control rooms heard the gunfire as, almost simultaneously, the pilot of the ‘chopper’ shouted, ‘Shots fired, shots fired. Gunman has fired on the aircraft, moving away. No damage. No injuries at this time.’

The ground patrols saw the helicopter turn swiftly away to a safe distance approximately half a mile to the rear of the wagon. There was a few minutes silence as though both sides of this Mexican standoff were considering the next moves.

‘Start the wagon. Do it. Do it now.’

The gunman was screaming in Dave’s ear; the fear and adrenaline was pumping in both of them.

‘Do it, or I’ll blow your fuckin head off where you’re sat. C’mon, get this fucking wagon out of here.’

Having seen the ‘milk tray’ man diving off the back of the unit earlier, Dave was aware now that the control rooms and response vehicles could hear the conversation in the cab. He started the engine and turned the wagon round facing the service road that he had first entered. Both he and the gunman saw the two black range rovers facing them.

The rear doors of the Armed Response Vehicles were open and Dave could see the officers taking cover behind the armour plated panels of the doors. He could clearly see the muzzles of the firearms officers pointing towards him.

In normal circumstances, a person would be terrified of seeing several high powered rifles with telescopic sights pointed in their direction but Dave took great comfort in this fact as he knew the object of their attention would be the gunman and not him.

As the lorry built up speed, he did not hear the shots but, suddenly, there was a loud pop and hissing noise as the bullets tore through the steel and rubber casing of the two front tyres of the wagon. The two marksmen ejected their spent shells and similarly deflated the four other tyres that made up the driving force of the tractor unit.

As a consequence of his injured shoulder and the six flat tyres, Dave had little control over the steering and he braked hard. The two front tyres shredded and ripped away from the steel rims, the sharp edges bit into the tarmac of the road surface bringing the lorry to a sudden halt. The possibility of smashing through the police cordon had now just disappeared and the gunman screamed more obscenities.

‘Want to play fucking games do yah, I’ll show you fucking games. He’s a fucking dead man.’

Dave had both hands on the steering wheel. Johnson lowered the shotgun and pulled the trigger. Both barrels erupted as the steering wheel shattered and the cables and plastic casing of the steering column disintegrated. The little finger of Dave’s left hand was blown off and smashed into the tachograph. Momentarily, it stuck to the glass window of the instrument and then, because of the angle of the glass, it slowly slid to the floor smearing oily blood as it fell.

All that remained of the finger was the nail and the first two joints. Dave was initially too shocked to scream as he looked alternately at the hole in his hand, where a few seconds before his finger had been, and the mangled mess lying on the oily floor of the cab. Then, the pain erupted in his brain, and the blood began to flow freely from the little finger socket and he screamed in agony.

The noise of the blast and Dave’s agonising cry reverberated around the control rooms, the helicopter and the police vehicles.

Johnson jumped from the bunk behind Dave, ejected the shells from the shotgun and reloaded almost instantly. He stooped to the floor, picked up the shattered remains of the finger and screamed at his pursuers.

‘What bit of him d’yah want next boys; How about the whole fuckin hand eh?’, as he waved the finger in the direction of the armed response officers.

The voice in the earpiece was measured and calm.

‘If you have a shot, take it.’

‘That’s a negative’. said the recipient, ‘No eyeball on the target, Dave Watkins in line of fire, repeat, no shot at this time.’

Ged Duggan was breathing hard but controlled and his heart was beating like a drum. At the first opportunity, he would take out the gunman. Gold Command had been directing the pursuit and had given the green light to any of the marksmen to shoot the gunman and end the siege. Johnson had upped the stakes considerably in the last few minutes and there was now significant threat to life.

Dave Watkins vomited violently and uncontrollably and the gunman looked at him in disgust.

‘Get some fucker over here now. I want to talk.’ The gunman was beginning to regain control of his emotions and his anger subsided. He popped two pills in his mouth and quickly jumped back up onto the bunk and pulled the curtain across to hide him from the marksmen. The amphetamines would ensure that he remained awake and alert but Dave, now staring at the gunman with a mixture of horror and disbelief knew they would also make him more volatile and unpredictable.

Johnson knew that he was a dead man if they could pinpoint him in the wagon. He also knew that If Dave Watkins died, they wouldn’t have anything to wait for. Once his hostage was dead, the siege would be as good as over and they would blast him. He had to buy himself some time whilst he considered his options.

He saw the two armoured shields approaching him and the steel helmeted officers protecting another male behind. When they were about twenty yards away he shouted.

‘Okay, that’s close enough. Stop there and I’ll speak to you.’

‘Is the officer alright?’

John Walsh had been a police negotiator for fifteen years and had successfully negotiated the release of many hostages during that time. Most hostage situations tended to be domestic situations where partners, wives, husbands etc acted on the spare of the moment during some personal crisis. Whilst they were always traumatic for every one involved, they could more often than not be brought to a safe conclusion as the longer they went on without any blood being spilled, the more chance there was that the negotiator could talk the person round.

John was an excellent negotiator. Quiet with a strong, deep melodic type of voice, he never sounded patronising or condescending to his subjects. It was a golden rule never to rush any situation and he would successfully gain their trust over a period of time. Sometimes hostage situations would last for several days and at the end, he would be as shattered both physically and mentally as the hostage taker and he would have to be debriefed, counselled and analysed to make sure that he was also able to cope with the trauma.

‘You, behind the shield. Who are you?’

‘John, my names John and I’m here to talk to you.’

Okay. Now listen, and take this message back to your boss.’

Johnson held up Dave’s shattered finger and said, ‘This is a direct result of your fuckin boss’s stupidity. Tell him, if he wants to play again, I’ve got plenty of time and plenty of shells.’ He threw the mangled digit towards the shields and it landed halfway between the wagon and John.

There was a few moments silence and then John said, ‘Will you allow me to retrieve Dave’s finger?’

John knew this was an important first contact between himself and the gunman as a means of establishing a rapport between them. Also, this was the first time that the gunman had heard the name of his captive and John knew it was important to try and humanise him so his captor would think of him as a person and not a commodity.

Knowing Johnson for the animal that he was, he doubted whether or not he could appeal to him in any way. He didn’t have a better nature or any kind of compassion; but he knew he had to try.

‘What for. D’yah think it’s gonna be of any fuckin use to him now? You gonna use it to pick your fuckin nose or something?’

‘No’, said John, ‘I just think I should take it rather than leave it lying in the road. Its up to you, you’re in charge, but I would like to take it if you will allow me. I’m not armed in any way; I’m no threat to you.’

The two men looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. John could see that the gunman was thinking over his suggestion. Johnson looked away for a moment at Dave lying in his own vomit on the floor of the cab and then back to John.

‘I suppose so.’ said the gunman.

John breathed slightly easier and he knew that the next few moments would play a big part in gaining the trust of the gunman and to show him that he was not a threat. He had told him he was not a threat, now he had to demonstrate the same. Whether or not you could gain the trust of an animal like Johnson was another matter entirely. Dave’s finger lay some ten yards away from John and the sensible thing would have been to instruct his two protectors to move forward slowly with their armoured shields to allow him to pick it up in safety. It wasn’t just the sensible thing, it was the required thing. At no time was the hostage negotiator supposed to take any more risk than was absolutely necessary. John knew the rules full well.

He wanted to make a point of showing the hostage taker that he could be trusted implicitly and he stepped out from behind the protection of the five foot long heavy, bullet proof shields and stood next to the taller of the two officers who were identically dressed in protective boots, helmet, leg and arm protectors and flame retardant overalls. John had no protective clothing of any kind. Dressed casually and non threateningly in denim jeans and worn black leather jacket, he was completely at the mercy of the assailant.

Mike Hogan, the shield officer closest to John took a sharp intake of breath at his colleagues’ foolish act and took hold of him by the jacket sleeve quietly and forcefully without making a fuss, but also ensuring that John could not move forward.

He quietly whispered to his colleague, but at no time did he take his eyes off the cab of the wagon.

‘John,’ he hissed, ‘this is a bad fucking idea mate. Just stop and think for a second. We already know what an evil bastard we’re dealing with here. He could take you hostage as well. He might even just fucking shoot you John, just to make a point.’

John also never took his eyes off the cab of the lorry and replied just as quietly,

‘Mike, if I don’t try and move this along quickly, Dave Watkins might die from shock and loss of blood. I’ve got to try this.’ With a gentle tug, John broke free from his friends grip. He very much appreciated the words of wisdom from his protector; but he also knew that Dave was in a bad way.

Mike Hogan was well aware that John was breaking all the rules at this early stage of negotiations. He had worked with him on the successful conclusion of plenty of jobs in the past but he had a very bad feeling about the mental state of the nutter in the wagon. This course of action might be okay after talking with your subject for several hours and after having built up a reasonable amount of rapport between both parties, but after only a few minutes, ‘fucking suicidal’ thought Mike and he tensed as his colleague stepped forward.