Dark Forces (46 page)
Shepherd frowned. ‘Ambulances?’
‘For the casualties. They’re badly injured and they need to get to hospital immediately. They’ve just opened the gates to let them in.’
Shepherd’s frown deepened. He turned towards the window, brought the sniper scope up to his eye and focused down at the stadium.
The bout was still going on, the Russian and the Brit were trading punches, toe to toe.
‘They got here fast, the ambulances,’ said Shepherd.
‘They were probably on standby,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
Shepherd aimed at the VIP section, packed with the famous and wealthy. He tracked to the far end of the stadium where two ambulances were moving at walking pace, blue lights flashing.
‘On standby outside? Does that make sense?’
Green and yellow flashed through his scope. It was an ambulance. There was a paramedic sitting in the driver’s seat wearing a green uniform. The man was Asian and Shepherd focused on his face. The breath caught in his throat as he recognised the man from the passports Yusuf had shown him in Turkey. The man was muttering to himself and there was a glazed look in his eyes. Shepherd swore. He pushed the dead sniper off the table and lay down, bringing the stock of the rifle against his shoulder.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Jihadists in the ambulances,’ hissed Shepherd. ‘Suicide bombers!’
Willoughby-Brown’s jaw dropped but he reacted quickly. ‘Wendy, patch me through to Bow Control Centre, now!’
Shepherd had the ambulance in his sights again. He focused on the man in the driver’s seat, knowing he’d have to fire at least twice. The windscreen would shatter but almost certainly alter the bullet’s trajectory. He’d need at least two shots to be sure of a kill. He pulled the trigger, felt the stock kick into his shoulder and saw the windscreen explode into a shower of cubes. In less than a second he aimed and fired again. This time he saw the man’s face implode into a red mush.
He brought the rifle around, looking for the second ambulance.
Superintendent Enfield’s direct line rang and he picked it up. It was Wendy Aspden, who asked him to hold, then put Willoughby-Brown through. ‘Superintendent, it’s all turning very nasty at the stadium,’ he said.
‘Yes, I’m just talking to my inspector. Five wounded and our helicopter has just crashed.’
‘Superintendent, I’m told you have undercover armed officers on duty at the stadium.’
‘Several. Including an undercover SAS unit.’
‘You need to tell them to take out the ambulances. We believe they are bombs being driven by jihadists. They need to move now.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘Superintendent, you can either be a hero today or you’ll take the blame for one of the biggest terrorist atrocities this country has ever seen. The gates have been opened to allow the ambulances in but they are Islamic State terrorists. Get your men over to the ambulances now and tell them to do what has to be done.’ Willoughby-Brown ended the call.
Shepherd focused his scope on the second ambulance, which had just come to a halt towards the middle of the stadium. The man’s face centred on the scope. It was another of the men given a Syrian passport by Yusuf. The man was holding his right hand up and Shepherd could clearly see the trigger. He went to chamber a round but his magazine was empty. He yanked it out, grabbed a full magazine by the cushion and slammed it in. He chambered a round, his heart racing. He resisted the urge to rush his shot. He aimed, he controlled his breathing, and he slowly squeezed the trigger. The windscreen exploded. He chambered a second round and fired again, catching the man in the throat and severing his spine. The head lolled to the side and the hand holding the trigger dropped. Shepherd held his breath but there was no explosion.
He took his eye away from the scope. Almost unbelievably, the bout was continuing. The two boxers were exchanging punches and the crowd were roaring, many of them on their feet.
Another ambulance was moving slowly in his direction but as he watched the stadium roof blocked it from view. Another had come to a halt close to a podium from which two TV cameras were broadcasting the fight.
‘There are armed cops down there,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘They’d better move quickly,’ said Shepherd.
He put his eye to the scope, focused on the remaining ambulance he could see and immediately recognised the driver. He aimed at the head, held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The window exploded and he ejected the cartridge and rammed home another. Aim. Breath. Squeeze. The head imploded and jerked back. Shepherd looked at Willoughby-Brown. ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he said. ‘It’s up to the cops now.’
Kuznetsov had Hughes up against the ropes and was hitting him hard and fast to the ribs. Hughes was grunting but taking the punishment as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then he bobbed left and hit the Russian with a devastating right uppercut that rocked him back.
Murray’s transceiver buzzed on his hip and he put his hand up to his earpiece. ‘Captain Murray? This is Superintendent Enfield.’
‘Murray, receiving,’ said Murray. Enfield sounded as if he was under pressure.
‘Terrorists have driven ambulances into the stadium, we think with bombs. You need to deal with them. Now.’
Murray looked around. One of his men, Rick ‘Country’ Lane, was about fifty feet from him. He was facing the ring but glancing from side to side, very much on alert. Murray waved him over.
‘Islamic State terrorists, do you understand?’ said Enfield.
‘Understood,’ said Murray. Off to his right an ambulance was parked close to the main stand. The windscreen had shattered and the driver was slumped in his seat, his chest wet with blood.
Lane joined him. ‘What’s up, boss?’
‘Terrorist attack, ambulances,’ said Murray, still looking around. Off to his left, another ambulance was moving slowly. ‘With me,’ he shouted, and ran towards it, reaching for his gun.
Pashtana Abdul brought the ambulance to a halt. He was totally calm, he had long ago come to terms with the fact that he was destined to be a
shahid
and take his place in Heaven at Allah’s right hand. He smiled to himself. ‘
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raaji’oon
,’ he whispered. To Allah we belong and to Him is our return.
He reached for the switch to activate the bomb and clicked it to the ‘on’ position. As he straightened up he felt all-powerful, knowing that all he had to do was to press the trigger in his hand and he would join Allah in Heaven. He opened his mouth to say, ‘
Allahu akbar
,’ but the words froze in his throat when he saw the two men pointing guns at him.
Kafir
s, infidels, were glaring at him with undisguised hatred. He didn’t understand what they were shouting, the words meant nothing to him, but he knew what they wanted. They wanted him to surrender, to give up his mission, to become a coward and not a
shahid
, but that wasn’t going to happen. He tightened his grip on the trigger but then the window exploded in a hail of bullets and he died instantly.
Willoughby-Brown and Shepherd walked out of the tower block. Willoughby-Brown’s driver was standing by his van, fiddling with his smartphone. He waved at Willoughby-Brown when he saw him, put the phone away and climbed into the vehicle.
‘That went better than I thought it would,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘It was a disaster,’ said Shepherd. ‘Two men died when the helicopter went down, and the sniper hit how many? Five? Six?’
‘Five. But they’re all alive and heading to hospital as we speak. Thankfully in genuine ambulances. It could have gone a lot worse, Daniel. The bombs were huge – just one of them would have killed hundreds. The four together …’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Thousands could have died. As it is, we killed the sniper, we’ve got six dead jihadists and two in custody. We got off lightly.’ He took his cigars out of his pocket and lit one. ‘It could have been so much worse.’
‘And if we’d arrested them when they collected the gun, no one would have been hurt.’
‘Possibly not. Except those massive bombs were primed and ready to go. If they hadn’t gone to the stadium, there would have been a fallback position and they would have detonated elsewhere. Four bombs that big going off in Central London would have been a game-changer.’ He blew smoke towards the block. ‘You did well up there.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I was lucky.’
Willoughby-Brown shook his head. ‘Maybe, in that you were the right person in the right place at the right time. Only you could have done what needed to be done. But what you did wasn’t down to luck, it was down to your abilities.’ He took another drag on his cigar. ‘If you hadn’t been a sniper in another life, a lot of people would have died.’
‘I guess.’
‘There’s no guess about it.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘You’re a bloody hero. I’m just sorry I can’t give you a medal.’ He turned and walked away, heading for the waiting van.
Shepherd watched him go. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Liam. ‘Hey, Dad, what’s happening?’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Not much. How are things with you?’
London is under siege.
Nine men in suicide vests hold hostages in nine different locations around the city, demanding that the government release jihadist prisoners from Belmarsh Prison.
Their deadline: 6 p.m. Today.
But all is not as it seems. The bombers are cleanskins, terrorists with no obvious link to any group, who do not appear on any anti-terror watch list. What has brought them together on this one day to act in this way?
Mo Kamran is the superintendent in charge of the Special Crime and Operations branch of the Met. With only hours to go, it is down to him to find the truth – before the capital explodes.