Bombshell (AN FBI THRILLER) (34 page)

A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

FROM CATHERINE COULTER

I’ve got a surprise for you—a new series of crime thrillers featuring American-born, UK-raised Nicholas Drummond, a tough, focused chief detective inspector with Scotland Yard. Think James Bond—dark and dangerous, with a quirky sense of humor and a no-nonsense view of the world. A Brit in the FBI series kicks off with
The Final Cut
, an international crime thriller.

Everything changes for Drummond when the Koh-i-Noor diamond is stolen from the Queen Mother’s crown while on display in a special exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum in New York City and his former lover, in charge of the jewel’s security, is found murdered.

Drummond teams up with the FBI in New York, as well as Savich and Sherlock, to solve the murder, find the thief, and recover the missing diamond.

What follows will blow your socks off.

Welcome to my new series, written with renowned author J. T. Ellison.
The Final Cut
will catapult you into a reading adventure that will keep you turning pages so fast you won’t even stop for ice cream.

For a first look, turn the page.

—C
ATHERINE
C
OULTER

The Final Cut

London

January 2013

Very early Thursday morning

Nicholas Drummond lived for these moments. His hands were loose, warm, and ready inside thin leather gloves. He could feel his heart beat a slow, steady cadence in his chest, feel the adrenaline shooting so high he could fly. His breath puffed white in the frigid morning air, not unexpected on an early January morning in London. There was nothing like a hostage situation to get one’s blood pumping, and he was ready.

He took in the scene, as he’d been trained to do, complemented by years of experience: shooters positioned on the roofs in a three-block triangular radius, sirens wailing behind shouts and screams, and a single semiautomatic weapon bursting out an occasional staccato drumbeat. The streets were shut down in all directions. A helicopter’s rotors whumped overhead. His team was lined up behind him, waiting for the go signal.

His suspect was thirty yards away, tucked out of sight, ten feet from the left of the entrance to the Victoria Street Underground, and not being shy about letting them know his position. He’d been told the guy was a nutter, not a surprise, given he’d been wild-eyed in his demands for money from a second-rate kiosk at dawn. Instead of making a run for it, he’d grabbed a woman and was now holed up, shooting away. Where he had found a semiautomatic weapon, plus enough ammunition to take out Khartoum, Nicholas didn’t know.

At least he hadn’t killed his hostage yet. She was a middle-aged woman, now lying on her side maybe six feet from him, trussed up with duct tape. They could see her face, leached of color and terrified. He could imagine her screams of terror if her mouth weren’t taped.

No, she wasn’t dead. Yet. That presented a problem—one wrong move and a bullet would go into her head.

Nicholas glanced over his shoulder at his second, Detective Inspector Gareth Scott, tucked against the curb, his expression edgy, a flash of excitement in his eyes. He clutched his Heckler & Koch MP5 against his chest. His Glock 17 was in its shoulder holster.

The suspect stopped firing his weapon, and there was sudden, blessed silence. Nicholas didn’t think the guy had run out of bullets. Had the gun jammed? They should be so lucky. What was he thinking? Planning?

Nicholas dropped down beside Gareth. “We have ourselves a crazy. Tell me what else you know about him.”

“We have a photo, taken from the eastern rooftop. It’s blurred, but facial recognition did their magic. The guy’s name is Esposito, out of prison only a month. I guess he woke up real early and decided he needed some excitement in his life and went on this little rampage.”

“What set him off?”

“We don’t know. He took four quid out of the kiosk till, all the guy had at this hour of the morning, and grabbed the woman when the police showed up.”

Esposito raised his weapon again and blasted half a dozen bullets into the foggy morning air.

Nicholas saw a brief glimpse of the man’s head, but the angle made it impossible for the snipers to take him out. He wouldn’t give them permission to fire, anyway, not if there was a chance of hitting the woman. He had to make a decision; time was running short.

Nicholas glanced at his watch. Five-sixteen a.m., an ungodly hour in winter, barely enough light to see. At least it wasn’t raining, but clouds were fat and black overhead. That was all they needed.

Esposito continued shooting, then stopped midblast and shouted, “You stupid coppers back off or she’s dead, you hear me? I’ll let her go as soon as I’m clear!”

There was return gunfire, and Esposito screamed, “Do that again and I swear I’ll kill her. Back off. Back off!”

Nicholas shouted, “We’ll back off. Don’t hurt the woman.”

Esposito’s answer was a bullet that flew a couple of feet over Nicholas’s head.

“Enough,” Nicholas said. “Let’s get him.”

“You want him alive?”

“We’ll see,” Nicholas said. “We need a better angle. Follow me.”

They duck-walked across the street, then flattened, faces to the ground, when a fusillade of bullets kicked up gravel two feet away from their earlier position. Gareth cursed. “At least the guy’s a lousy shot.”

Silence again, except for their fast breaths. Nicholas didn’t think Esposito had seen them move. “Keep still and stay down,” he whispered. They were only twenty yards downwind now, sheltered by the construction in front of the station’s façade. A good spot, though if Esposito turned, he might very well see them and they’d be dead.

Almost as if he knew what they were doing, Esposito grabbed the woman, held her in front of him as a shield, and dragged her fifteen feet before pulling her down behind a big metal construction bin. Now Esposito was facing away from them, a good thirty feet from their position. He was squatted down behind the bin, leaning around the side to check for threats, ready to fire.

And Nicholas thought,
This is surely a gift from the Almighty.
He was staring at the bottom of the construction bin. Its base was at least three inches off the ground. He smiled as he smoothly rolled onto his belly and pulled his Glock 17 from his shoulder holster. He aimed at those three precious inches on the underside of the bin, sighting carefully. The guy had big feet in shiny white Nikes, a bull’s-eye target if there ever was one.

Nicholas squeezed the trigger. The man yelped and hopped away from the bin, stumbled and went down hard on the pavement.

“Take him now,” Nicholas yelled into his shoulder radio. He jumped to his feet as he spoke. “And do mind his weapon, people.”

His team rushed to surround Esposito, who’d fallen five feet from his hiding place behind the bin. He saw them running at him and slammed his weapon to the ground, threw his arms up in surrender, and the standoff was over. Just like that. And no one was dead, or even badly hurt.

A metallic horn rang out signaling the engagement was over.

Gareth clapped his boss on the shoulder. “Nice one,” he said, then called out, “A Team, to me.”

A smattering of applause made Nicholas turn, but before he could holster his Glock, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “Detective Chief Inspector Drummond. You have broken the rules of engagement, and are hereby disqualified. Report to me immediately.”

Gareth shook his head. “Penderley does not sound happy, Nicholas. And all you’ve done is show some above-average imagination.”

Esposito limped over, his face twisted, so mad Nicholas wondered if he would throw a punch. But he simply squared off; his thick finger stabbed the air for emphasis, and he yelled, “You shot me in the bloody foot, you bloody sod!”

Nicholas couldn’t help it—he grinned. “You were so scrunched together I could have gotten you in the arse, but those big Nikes of yours were waving flags at me.”

“Yeah, have a big laugh. I’m serious, Drummond. I’m going to limp for a week. You weren’t supposed to shoot me; you were supposed to capture me unharmed. Those were the rules, but no, you had to show off. Those rubber bullets hurt.”

“A woman’s life was in the balance. I had to act, not negotiate. You shouldn’t have made yourself such a target. Next time, pick a bin that hugs the tarmac.”

Gareth laughed and Esposito turned on him, gave both men a fist shake, and limped off. Nicholas didn’t doubt there’d be payback at some point—the rubber bullets did hurt, he knew that firsthand—and Esposito was tough and smart, he’d come up with something that would make Nicholas want to weep, but that would be tomorrow or next week. Penderley was now.

“He’ll get over it,” Gareth said. “Buy him a pint at The Feathers tonight and he’ll soon forgive you.”

Not a chance,
Nicholas thought and went to see his boss, Hamish Penderley, Detective Chief Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police’s Operational Command Unit, a stiff-necked old buzzard in his early sixties who’d played by the same set of rules for forty years, and would take those same rules to the grave with him. Penderley was self-made, public-school-educated, the third son of a barkeep in Coventry, and proud of it.

Nicholas came from wealth and an old name, and that rankled and galled some people he worked with. Thankfully, Penderley wasn’t one of them. His issue was Nicholas’s dual citizenship; he’d been born in the United States, and that made him less of a Brit in Penderley’s eyes.

Nicholas made his way through the obstacle course to Penderley’s position on the grandstand, thinking about the newly instituted mandatory training exercises that had everyone on edge. Actionable terrorist threats had been made against London—again—and as such, the Metropolitan Police felt it necessary to refresh the training all their officers received. Nicholas and his team had been to Hendon for surprise tactical weapons drills four times in the last six months. Requalifying with weapons, being dragged out of bed for real response exercise, like this dawn’s kidnap-and-hostage scenario, anything and everything; it didn’t matter, Penderley threw all of it at them.

Nicholas had argued, as he always did, that his homicide team knew their stuff cold, would be better utilized brushing up their profiling skills and forensic accounting, but might equaled right in Penderley’s world. Penderley’s
old
world.

Disapproval clung to him like a second skin. He was tall and skinny as a pole, standing on a dais with his hands on his hips, legs spread in a triangle, binoculars around his neck, a great view of the action. All he needed were jackboots. Safari leader or ranking copper? Close call. Nicholas kept his mouth shut. He knew he could only push so far before Penderley blew, and by the look on his face, Nicholas could tell the man was hovering at the edge.

“Sir.” Nicholas stood at attention in front of his boss, who, no dummy, had angled himself so the rising sun poured over his shoulders, right into Nicholas’s eyes.

“Drummond.” His name came out in an exasperated warning, the tone he so often used when addressing Nicholas. “You were not authorized to shoot Inspector Esposito.”

“No, sir.” He avoided continuing his statement. If a “but, sir” came out of his mouth, it would only send Penderley into hyperspace.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

No, there’s a whole lot I have to say, but I didn’t wake up stupid this morning; I took this training exercise seriously, and I didn’t want to see the hostage dead, and so I found the answer and brought down the nutter.

Penderley would have liked him to protest, Nicholas saw it in his eyes, and he was tempted to say something, just to make the old bugger huff and puff, but he didn’t.

“Yes, sir.”

Penderley drew himself up straighter, if that were possible, and pronounced from on high, “Then you are disqualified.”

“But, sir—”

Well, he’d done it now. The blow was coming.

Penderley’s body shifted, now blocking the sun from Nicholas’s eyes. He blinked the older man into focus.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Drummond. There are rules in this world. And when I delineate rules of engagement, you are expected to follow them. You will return to Hendon tomorrow morning, with your team, and try it again. And this time, you will do it my way. Do you understand?”

Back and forth. Every day it was the same with them, back and forth, Penderley pushing, Nicholas pulling, never seeing eye to eye unless the threat was real and Nicholas was needed to break the rules.

“I believe the object of the exercise was to neutralize the threat.”

He heard a hiss behind him and turned to see Esposito glaring at him, leaning against the edge of the dais, still rubbing his sore foot.

Nicholas ignored Esposito and turned back to his boss. “I neutralized the threat, and the hostage is safe. This is the outcome we all wanted.”

Penderley’s face turned red. Nicholas braced himself for the hammer, but it didn’t fall. Instead, Penderley sighed, shook his head. “You try my patience, Drummond. Tomorrow morning. Five o’clock sharp.” He smiled, a wolf with lots of sharp teeth, and added, his voice very precise, “Don’t be late or you’ll do it again the next day.” Penderley’s phone rang. “You’re excused.”

Nicholas stalked off, frustrated, wanting to kick something, but he headed straight for his car. One sore foot—surely that didn’t qualify as a bad outcome. What was the point of an exercise that didn’t accomplish the goal? In a real situation, his actions would get him more than a pat on the back.

Up at four o’clock tomorrow morning again.
Thank
you
, sir.

He’d just put his hand on the gearshift when Penderley came rushing toward the car, waving his hands wildly to get Nicholas’s attention.

Nicholas stepped out of the BMW. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Penderley was out of breath, or choked up, Nicholas couldn’t be certain which. He soon realized it was both.

“Nicholas,” Penderley said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Terrible news. It’s Inspector Elaine York. She’s been murdered.”