To Kill Or Be Killed (13 page)

The passengers
passed through the barriers a coach at a time with Police checking
tickets and ID and McKie and Beaumont watching, searching each
face. They were down to the last coach when they heard a shout and
two shots.

Spencer,
rucksack on his back and loaded weapon in hand, had opened the door
and spotted by a sniper, who called out to stop, had fired a round
at the voice, then dropped off the train, his dropping so quickly
meant the sniper missed. Police marksmen with Enforcer rifles and
those with Heckler-Koch MP5 sub-machine guns opened up as he ran
down the track, zig zagging.

By the ticket
barrier the people panicked, but were shouted at to calmly continue
through the barriers. David looked past the crowds and saw the
muzzle flashes. There were clangs, zipping noises and then a call
to cease fire.

Spencer stood
in the middle of the track, no less than nine rifles trained on
him, hand with his weapon, still held tightly, at his side. He had
to decide; capture or death. He ran through his mind the
possibilities; the shouts to drop the weapon came thick, fast and
with urgency.

The detective
nearest McKie had a crackling voice from his receiver, someone
breaking radio silence.

“We’ve got your
man.”

“I’ll be the
judge of that.” David’s voice came out stronger and more directed
than he himself had intended and his customs confidence surfaced.
He had a badge and an office. The police here had been called by
his boss, the man who sent him. Authority surged through his mind
and pushed his shoulders back. David called Beaumont and they
pushed through the crowd and onto the train. The two of them walked
down the train, but were stopped by two armed police just opening a
door via the emergency handle. David looked out the window nearest
to him at the figure of Spencer, near enough dead parallel standing
below on the track, his hand instinctively reached inside his coat
to pull the SIG P220 Rail from its holster, but Beaumont’s hand
gripped his wrist. David looked around sharply and saw the warning
in his partner’s wise eyes. He nodded and pulled his hand out
empty.

“Is that him?”
The policeman asked.

On the track
Spencer steeled himself. Perhaps he could drop and roll under the
train he thought. A dive under the train seemed futile, but it
might give him time to think. He looked to his left at the train
and saw a door open two metres forward. He looked direct left
straight into David’s eyes. He read David’s lips.

“That’s
him.”

As McKie spoke
Spencer swung his right arm round and up aiming straight for the
door, two shots sped through the space where the ducking armed
officer’s head had been and into the woodwork, David and Beaumont
watched stunned as all nine rifles hit their target and jolted
Spencer like a puppet; in the bright white light fine mists of
blood and ripped skin surrounded him for a second as the Enfield
Enforcer sniper rifle rounds tore through him.

After the
gunfire there was a brief silence and the two armed police in the
doorway dropped out and approached Spencer’s awkwardly felled body
machine gun barrels to the fore, fingers twitching.

David watched
from the window as they kicked the weapon away and one officer felt
the pulse on Spencer’s bloodied neck. He was still. McKie turned
and exited the train on the platform side; passengers were being
let through without checks and taken through the cordon to waiting
coaches. As he walked back to the barrier McKie’s peripheral vision
registered one handler and one dog entering the train.

“You shouldn’t
have got on the train!” The detective was annoyed.

“What?”

“Not until we’d
checked for booby traps.”

David pulled
his badge. “Read that. I’m government.” He pulled back his jacket
showing the SIG 220 in its shoulder holster. “See that I walk
around this country armed. I go where I want. You’re supporting
me.” McKie turned to Beaumont. “We’d better call in.”

“I’ll do it
David.” Beaumont turned to the detective. "Sorry my friend’s wound
up, but there are three more of these men out there and one of ours
is missing presumed dead.”

“Then it looks
like it’s one all I’d say.” The detective said flippantly.

McKie heard and
turned around. “You think you’re funny?”

The detective
blanched and swallowed.

“There are
three more like this one and as far as you know that corpse on the
track may have notched up other bodies. Now you times that by four
because they’re all like this one. I watched him die, but he died
trying to kill and escape, against all odds. That’s not
natural.”

“Alright.”

“Somewhere out
there three more men, who arrived this morning, are armed and ready
to murder one person in this country and they’re prepared to kill
innocent people and risk death to get to that person. That’s the
job we’re on now friend. Pray it’s not anyone you know they come
across and need to get out of the way or at least pray our people
find them first.”

McKie turned
and stared at the train, a movement up the platform had caught his
eye. The dog handler emerged from a door on the next carriage up.
The dog was excited, barking wildly and it seemed to be leading him
down the slope of the platform and away down the track, south.

For a second
the handler looked up and his and David’s eyes met. David
registered dark blue, almost black eyes, black hair under the cap
and a wiry goatee beard and moustache, then the man was gone at a
run up the track the dog barking wildly, seemingly distraught.
David thought he the saw a gun small chunky, almost invisible in
the large hand.

David stared,
his senses suddenly alert. Custom gave you pure focus when it came
to body language. The shoulder’s were stooped, the cap down, too
much shadow. Something from the Inverness ticket footage of Spencer
was struggling to make itself known; he frowned and squinted as the
figure seemed to disappear up the darkened track. What else
bothered him? Yes! There had been a handgun, but it wasn’t a
regulation police model. David began striding as quickly as he
could along the train up the platform, he heard the dog barking,
then there was a pained canine shriek and then there was silence.
He stood at the end of the platform staring. Back down the platform
there was a shout for help from inside the train.

A voice called
“Someone’s killed Mickey and his dog’s gone.”

McKie pulled
his hand gun from the holster and faced out into the dark. He
called out.

“Up here!”

Seeing him at
the end of the platform the detective and two armed men ran to his
side.

“A man dressed
as a dog handler went up the track….there was a howl and the dog
stopped barking.”

They all stared
into the darkness.

“I thought we
got your man. Who was that?”

“I don’t know,
but he’s killed you dog handler right?”

“How did he get
the dog to go after he killed his handler” was all the detective
could say “they live together. They’re practically psychically
linked.”

The detective
looked back to the train. A body in white underwear was being
lifted off the train.” An officer joined him running to his
side.

“Mickey’s dead,
shot through the heart and we found this.” He held up a needle.

“He gave the
dog a shot of something, LSD or some such. It’s a historically
documented way of dealing with watch dogs, not just drugging to
sleep, but sending crazy, making them a nuisance not a help,
buggering up their senses.” McKie spoke quietly not taking his eyes
of the darkness in front of him.

“What kind of
psycho would do that?”

“A well trained
one and one who came equipped for just such an eventuality.”

“My god and
there are three more out there.”

“We’d better
get some lights and search that track. You better get a helicopter
or two searching this area.”

Beaumont was
suddenly by his side.

“What’s going
on?”

“It could just
be a coincidence, but I don’t believe in them. There was a second
one on the train.”

Beaumont looked
down the track and back at the train.

“Let’s leave
the police to sort this out. The press will be here soon, TV
included and we don’t want to be seen. There’s a guy called John
McFarlane, he’s DIC Perth for the area round here. Jack gave me his
number. I called. He’s just four streets from here. Let’s get our
bags and go.”

David stared
down the track.

“David!”

“Sorry. There’s
a dead dog on that track down there.”

“Okay. Put the
gun away.”

“Artillery and
ships have guns, this is a pistol.”

“What?”

“It’s what
you’re told by an army dad when you were playing soldiers.”

“I see. I need
a drink.”

Overhead two
helicopters chattered onto the scene, hovering, one with a
spotlight, the other using thermal imaging. Armed police moved
forward, more dogs arrived and torches slashed at the darkness.

Back up the
platform McKie and Beaumont passed the two covered corpses.

Half a mile
away, having crossed South Inch Park at a sprint, Stanton squatted
by the river, his pistol wrapped in a plastic bag, he waded in and
swam down river towards the motorway, a map of the town in his
head. His target was the M90 motorway to hitch lift.

TV crews and
journalists flooded the town centre as Beaumont knocked on a black
door on Wilson Street. It had been a short walk for the two DIC
men, but David, couldn’t keep his hand from dipping into his
jacket; every shadow and recess held the unnerving spectre of the
second assassin.

When John
McFarlane finally shuffled to the door, his Scottie dog barking
shrilly, McKie couldn’t help but imagine the door being answered by
the escaped hired killer. Beaumont showed his badge. John let them
in. He bolted the door and put the chain on.

He looked into
their tired faces and David’s ‘jungle ready’ eyes.

“You two look
like you need a whisky. Have a seat.” He waved them into the
lounge. BBC 24 was on the screen and straight away they saw the
scene they had just left.

Chapter
39

London

Hampstead

Midnight

A tangle of bed
ruffled long blonde hair spilled out across the top of a thick
plush purple duvet cover. As the phone rang Sternway’s head
surfaced from the undulating silk waves and the blonde hair sank
beneath them with a groan.

“Yes.”

Stella curled
up foetal dreading the not unknown night phone calls. Sternway
listened to the voice on the line, put the phone down, unfolded
himself from the bed and donning dressing gown and slippers
descended first to his kitchen, putting the kettle on, and second
to his lounge, flicking the television on with the remote. He
flipped through the sky guide with practised ease and found his way
to BBC News 24.

Having made a
cup of tea he sat down on the mahogany brown leather sofa, put his
feet up on the pouf and took reflective sip of tea. It was just
after midnight.

On the screen
he watched the unfolding drama of the post shooting scene at
Perth.

“What exactly
are the authorities saying Tom.”

The journalist,
outside the station, flashing blue lights behind him, drizzle
sparkling in the haze, paused to hear the satellite delayed
question.

“It seems that
there was an organised trap for as yet unknown assailants on the
train. The train was stopped and armed police were waiting. The
train was being emptied when it seems one of the wanted men got
onto the track and there was a shoot out with police. He was killed
by the police. His partner it seems was hidden on the train and
killed a dog handler; the dog was drugged and the second man,
disguised as the dog handler, fled up the platform, shooting the
dog just out of sight of the station. Police helicopters have been
searching over head and the police are checking the river, which is
just over that way the other side of South Inch Park.”

“Was anyone
else hurt Tom.”

“It seems not.
The passengers have been taken on in coaches and Scotrail staff
members are now at a nearby hotel waiting to be interviewed.”

“Is there any
indication of who these men were?”

“Not yet, but
we are expecting a statement from the chief constable sometime
soon.”

The view
returned to the studio with the insert of the scene top right.

“Tom Harris
there at the scene of a police shooting Perth Railway Station and
other breaking news tonight is that of a double murder at the
Mersey marina. Police called there apparently by security services
found two bodies, one of them is thought to be the night
watchman.”

Sternway turned
off the TV. He picked up the phone. Thirty metres away in the next
door garden an uncomfortable DIC operative listened carefully,
glancing around nervously, the gun mike signal coming and going.
They couldn’t tap Sternway’s phone for sure.

“Do you know
who was shot Joe?”

“Our reports
say it was Marco Spencer.”

“That’s
embarrassing one of our ex operatives.”

“Yes.”

“What about
this Marina business?”

“It looks like
a DIC operative has been murdered.”

“These men are
leaving a lot of bodies behind.”

“Yes sir.”

“Still DIC look
like they’re being put to the test and I can’t say that makes me
unhappy.”

“No sir.”

“Okay I’ll see
you first thing and you can brief me properly.”

In the bushes
the cold and hungry DIC operative sighed heavily. It was teasingly
close to Sternway showing knowledge, but vague enough for it to be
a natural interest on Sternway’s part in terrorist activities in
the UK.