Hard Landing (46 page)

He pressed the gun into the small of her back. ‘Who else is on the spur?’

‘Healey,’ said Lloyd-Davies.

‘Where is he?’

‘Should be on the ones.’

‘Anyone else?’

She shook her head.

‘If you’re lying, you’ll be putting their lives on the line.’

‘Just the night staff. Three of us.’

He took the gun away from her back. ‘Stay on the ground, keep your eyes closed and this’ll be over before you know it,’ he said.

Lloyd-Davies shut her eyes. ‘You’ll never get out,’ she said.

The man pushed the barrel of his gun against her neck. ‘You’d better hope we do or I’ll be putting a bullet in your head,’ he muttered. ‘Now, shut the fuck up.’

O’Brien tossed Mitchell the keyand told himto go and get the prison officer on the ground floor. Mitchell left the bubble and unlocked the barred door that led to the landings. He peered over the railing through the wire-mesh suicide net. A large West Indian was walking slowly towards the far end of the spur. Mitchell put the key into his pocket.

He crept along to the stairs, his gun at the ready, past a cell where rap music was playing. He kept his eyes on the officer below, ready to duck at the first sign that he was turning round. Rock music was coming from another cell. Mitchell imagined the prisoners lying on their bunks, listening to their stereos, with no idea of what was being played out beyond their doors.

He reached the top of the stairs and crouched, his attention fixed on the West Indian. The officer reached the end of the spur. He was swinging his keys on a chain as he stood reading a notice pinned to a board. Mitchell waited. The man was unarmed but he had a radio clipped to his belt, and Mitchell didn’t want to give him the chance to call for help. He took a quick look at his watch. Almost two and a half minutes had passed since they’d driven in through the shattered gateway. If he waited for the West Indian to walk back down the spur that could take a full two minutes at the speed he moved.

Mitchell took a deep breath. He took the stairs two at a time, on his toes to minimise the noise. The West Indian continued to swing his keys and read the notice. Mitchell reached the floor and sprinted down the spur, keeping his breathing to a minimum.

The West Indian began to turn. Mitchell sprinted across the linoleum towards him, his assault rifle clutched to his chest.

Armstrong looked up at a clock on the wall above the CCTV monitors. It was several minutes slow and wasn’t even showing three o’clock. He saw movement on one of the monitors. It was Mitchell, running hard and fast along the spur towards a fat West Indian officer. As Armstrong watched, the man turned and saw Mitchell running towards him. His mouth opened and his hands went up to defend himself, but before he could do anything Mitchell had slammed into him.

The West Indian must have been twice Mitchell’s weight but Mitchell had the advantage of momentum. He hit the man with his left shoulder, and the officer spun then crashed into the wall, face first.

Mitchell lashed out with his foot, kicking him just above the knee. Then, as he slumped forward, he hit him across the back of the neck, open-handed, a stunning blow rather than a killing one.

Mitchell stood back as the guard fell to the ground. Then he rolled him over and dropped on to one knee to bind his wrists and ankles.

Jimbo Shortt looked at his watch. He gunned the engine, keeping up the revs. If anything went wrong they’d have to move quickly. If SO
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headed their way, running was their only option. It was one thing to break one of their own out of prison, quite another to shoot at cops. O’Brien was right: even the specialist armed police units weren’t used to serious firepower, but Shortt wasn’t convinced they’d duck for cover at the sound of automatic weapons. And what then? The van they were using was a workhorse and the police would have high-powered cars, motorbikes and helicopters. Shortt chuckled as he pictured himself, O’Brien, Mitchell and Armstrong standing in the dock at the Old Bailey. The Four bloody Musketeers. How would they explain themselves? They’d broken into a high-security prison because a friend needed their help. Would a judge understand that? Would a jury? Shortt understood it. He’d fought alongside Spider Shepherd, and seen him take a bullet in the shoulder. It had been Shortt who’d stemmed the bleeding and got Spider to a medic before he’d bled to death. He had saved Spider’s life then, but he knew that Spider would have done exactly the same had their roles been reversed. The bonds formed in combat were like no other, but there was no way Shortt could explain that to someone who hadn’t been through it themselves. He hadn’t hesitated when Major Gannon had phoned him. Spider was in trouble, that was all he needed to hear.

Shortt looked over at the gatehouse. He couldn’t see Armstrong, but he knew he was there. He couldn’t see O’Brien and Mitchell either, but he knew exactly what they were doing. And in five minutes it would all be over, one way or another.

Mitchell stood up. He yanked the officer’s radio off his belt and tossed it down the spur. He was breathing heavily but he wasn’t tired. So far it had been a walk in the park. ‘Beta, ground floor is neutralised,’ he said.

‘Roger that, Beta,’ said O’Brien in Mitchell’s earpiece. ‘Move back up to the first floor.’

‘Beta, on my way,’ replied Mitchell.

He ran back to the stairs, not caring now how much noise he made. The spur was secure, and even if any of the prisoners heard what was going on, they couldn’t see out of their cells.

He raced up to the first floor, nodding at O’Brien as he passed the bubble. O’Brien was looking at his watch. He moved quickly along the landing, glancing at the pieces of card with the names and numbers of the prisoners fixed to the side of each door. Major Gannon had said that Shepherd’s cell was the fourth on the left, but Mitchell checked all the doors as he passed them.

He reached the fourth. R. Macdonald, SN 6759. He pulled out the key and slotted it into the lock, turned it and pushed open the door.

Shepherd tensed as the door opened. It was only when he saw the figure in black standing there that he realised he’d been holding his breath. Even with the ski mask on, he recognised Geordie Mitchell. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said.

‘Your chariot awaits, m’lord,’ laughed Mitchell. He took a pistol from the holster on his belt and handed it to Shepherd. ‘Martin said you should have this.’

Shepherd reached for the gun but Mitchell tossed it on to the bunk. ‘Said you should wear these first.’ He took a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket and gave them to Shepherd, who pulled them on and flexed his fingers, then hefted the weapon in his hand. It was a Yugoslavian Model 70, a weapon he’d heard of but never fired. ‘You can thank the boyos for that,’ said Mitchell. ‘Carpenter’s on the top floor, yeah?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘Let’s get to it, then,’ said Mitchell. ‘Beta, moving to second floor,’ he said into his microphone. He headed back to the stairs. Shepherd followed.

O’Brien grinned as he saw Shepherd following Mitchell down the landing, holding the handgun they’d taken from the Real IRA arms cache in Belfast. Shepherd moved fluidly and easily, and was clearly as fit as the day he’d left the SAS. His years with the police clearly hadn’t taken his edge. As Shepherd reached the stairs he saw O’Brien watching him and waved.

Mitchell stood to the side to let Shepherd run up the stairs first. He ran along the top landing and stopped outside Carpenter’s cell. Mitchell put the key in the lock and turned it. Shepherd pushed open the door. Carpenter was asleep on his bunk with his back to the door.

‘If it wasn’t for your boy, I’d slot him now,’ said Mitchell, pointing his assault rifle at Carpenter.

Shepherd put a hand on the weapon. ‘Once we’ve got Liam back, we’ll take care of him,’ said Shepherd. He reached out and flicked on the light. Carpenter rolled over in his bunk, blinking and grunting.

‘What is it?’ he said, shading his eyes with the flat of his hand.

‘Get up,’ said Shepherd.

‘Bob?’

‘Get the fuck up,’ spat Shepherd.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘We’re getting out of here.’

‘What?’

‘We haven’t got time for this,’ said Mitchell. ‘Come on.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Carpenter, pulling his legs up to his chest.

‘You wanted out,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is out.’

‘You said the van was going to be ambushed,’ said Carpenter. ‘You said we’d break out on the way to court.’

Mitchell pushed Shepherd out of the way, grabbed Carpenter by the collar of his pyjamas and yanked him out of his bunk. He slammed him against the wall. ‘You’re coming with us.’

‘Fuck you!’ shouted Carpenter.

Mitchell smashed the stock of his Kalashnikov against Carpenter’s temple. Carpenter pitched forward, his eyes rolling up in their sockets, but Shepherd caught him before he hit the ground.

‘Carry him,’ said Mitchell. ‘We have three minutes and counting.’

Shepherd tossed Carpenter over his shoulder and followed Mitchell out on to the landing. Prisoners were banging on their cell doors and shouting obscenities. The houseblock echoed with screams and yells as the banging built to a crescendo.

Armstrong watched on the CCTV monitors as Mitchell emerged from the cell and ran down the landing, followed by Shepherd, with Carpenter over one shoulder and a gun in his hand. They reached the stairs and headed down to the first floor.

One of the officers at his feet started to struggle so Armstrong kicked him in the ribs, not hard enough to break anything but hard enough to make him scream. He bent down and pushed the barrel of his AKM-63 into the man’s neck: ‘They’re not paying you enough to take a beating. Now lie still.’

The man did as he was told, and Armstrong straightened. On another monitor, Mitchell had reached the bubble.

Mitchell banged on the glass wall with the flat of his gloved hand. Shepherd came up behind him, breathing heavily. O’Brien nodded at Carpenter. ‘Tell me you didn’t shoot him,’ he said to Mitchell.

‘He was being uncooperative,’ said Mitchell. ‘I just tapped him.’

‘Let’s get out of here,’ said O’Brien. ‘Alpha and Beta are leaving the block with objectives,’ he said, into his microphone.

‘Delta, roger that,’ said Shortt, through their headsets. ‘All clear outside.’

‘Gamma, all monitors show zero activity,’ said Armstrong.

O’Brien headed for the door.

‘Bob, think about what you’re doing,’ said a voice.

Shepherd looked into the bubble. Lloyd-Davies was lying with her face towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Come on,’ said O’Brien. ‘Two minutes and counting.’

‘This won’t solve anything,’ said Lloyd-Davies. ‘They’ll get you eventually. Your fingerprints, your DNA, your picture, they’re all on file. If you run, they’ll lock you away for ever.’

Shepherd had a sudden urge to explain everything to her. That he wasn’t Bob Macdonald, career bank robber, he was an undercover cop and he wasn’t running away from a prison sentence; he was helping Carpenter to escape because if he didn’t his only son would die. But Shepherd knew he couldn’t tell her anything – and even if he did she wouldn’t believe him.

‘I’ve no choice,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

‘How can I trust you after this?’

Mitchell pointed his assault rifle at her. ‘Shut up!’ he hissed.

Shepherd reached out and pushed the barrel of Mitchell’s gun to the side. ‘It’s okay,’ he said.

‘It’s not okay,’ said Lloyd-Davies.

‘I told you, shut the fuck up and close your eyes!’ shouted Mitchell.

O’Brien patted Mitchell’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said.

Mitchell nodded, and followed O’Brien out of the bubble and into the secure corridor.

Shepherd gave Lloyd-Davies one last look. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re throwing your life away.’

Shepherd shifted Carpenter’s weight. ‘It’s my life,’ he said. He turned and left the bubble.

Armstrong scannedthe CCTV monitors. There were more than a dozen each divided into four views, with three showing full screen images. From where he was he could see the wall, the secure corridor, the offices, the hospital wing and interior views of all the blocks.

He watched O’Brien, Mitchell and Shepherd leave the bubble and run into the secure corridor. He could also see the white van, with Shortt at the wheel.

On one of the spurs on Block C, a female officer was walking along the top level, checking the spyhole at all the cells.

On Block D, two officers were standing on the ground floor, laughing.

O’Brien and Mitchell reached a corner of the secure corridor and waited for Shepherd to catch up.

Armstrong grinned: Shepherd was panting under the weight of the man on his shoulders. Then he saw movement on one of the monitors.

‘Gamma, hold your positions,’ he said, into his microphone. ‘We might have a problem.’

Lloyd-Davies rolled over so that she was facing Morrison. ‘Paul, are you okay?’

Morrison’s eyes were tightly shut, and his whole body was trembling. ‘Have they gone?’ he whispered.

‘Yeah. It’s over.’

Morrison opened his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘Jo, I think I’ve wet myself.’

‘It’s okay, Paul. I was scared too. There’d be something wrong if you weren’t.’

‘What did they want?’

Lloyd-Davies realised he hadn’t seen Shepherd and Carpenter leave with the men in ski masks, and that she didn’t have time to explain now what had happened. They had to sound the alarm.

She rolled on to her back and sat up. Her radio was on the desk but she doubted that she could operate it with her hands tied behind her back.

‘How did they get in?’ asked Morrison.