Honour Bound (31 page)

-55-

At
the same time Gavin Nash fired his first shot, Norton was sitting in the Ford
just over half a mile from the warehouse and a mile from the motorway studying
a map of the local area he had bought in the newsagents next door to the cafe.
When the phone in his pocket started beeping, he put the map on the passenger
seat and answered the call.

"Norton."

Jamie
Stewart's voice was rushed and sounded close to panic. "Sam you were
right, something's gone wrong with the bullion convoy. They've stopped
and..."   

"Whoa,
calm down Jamie." Norton interrupted. "What's happened?"

"The
emergency beacon on the Bank's convoy has been activated. It's under
attack."

"Where
is it?"

"
It's
two hundred and fifty yards west of junction 2e on the
M4. You said something might happen before it got right into town."

"Jamie,
I'm close to that junction. Keep me informed of all developments, I'll be on
the same number. I'll go and see what I can do."

"Wait!
Wait! Don't hang up."

Norton
was about to speak when Stewart came back on the line.

"The
beacon's just stopped."

"What
does that mean, are they moving again?"

"No
Sam, not moving. It means the computer and the uplink in the truck have been
knocked out. Sam, for God's sake try to help them."

Norton
terminated the call. "Shit," he said, "somebody up there is not
on my side."

He
started the car, executed a swift three-point turn and headed towards the
motorway. He got as far as the soon to be redeveloped warehouses when he heard
the crack of a high velocity rifle. The car slewed to a halt as he stood on the
brakes, coming to a rest in the middle of the road. He flicked the button to
open the window and listened. A gun battle seemed to have started in the
direction of the motorway, the crack of the shots reduced to mere pops over the
distance.

Another
shot rang out, very loud and very close.

He
looked up. "That's got to be coming from the roof."

Seeing
nothing, he slammed the gears into reverse, smoke erupting from the tyres as he
steered the car on to the forecourt of the old warehouse. He got out and took
the shotgun from the boot.

A
raised platform ran along the front of the warehouse giving it the look of an
abandoned railway station. From a quick glance, he could see there was no way
in from this side. All the entrances along the front were sealed, all that
remained were grey breezeblock squares that offset the dirty brown of old
weather beaten bricks.

He
jumped up onto the cracked and decaying platform and ran along the wall in the
direction of the motorway, looking for a way to get in. As he turned the
corner, another shot rang out. A small avalanche of grit fell from the roof
landing a few feet to his left. He looked up once again. The edge of the roof
drew an innocent line against the cloudless sky.

A
short distance along the wall, a corrugated iron sheet had been bent back from
one of the few remaining
windows,
he went to it and
climbed through the gap into the cool, dim interior. The ground floor was one
vast chamber. Mounds of junk, old tables and piles of bricks were scattered
over the dust-covered floor along with dozens of splintered packing crates. A
pair of forlorn looking ladders lay on the floor near the wall as if forgotten
by the previous occupants, who seemed to have taken everything else of value
when they left.

Huge
steel girders, supported by rows of Doric style pillars supported the first
floor. In places, the ceiling had fallen in, allowing the light from the holes
in the roof to stab through to the floor, like so many sunny daggers. It
reminded him of the moonlight shining among the trees he had walked through in
the early hours of the morning.

He
looked around, paying attention to the corners of the vast room, and the dark
areas behind the pillars of sunlight. The barrel of the shotgun made the same
manoeuvre like a third, but lethal eye. A rickety set of wooden steps, clinging
defiantly to the wall, led up to the first floor. Norton took them two at a
time, stopping at the top. This floor was a copy of the one below, just a
little lighter due to the holes in the roof. Another set of equally rickety
steps led up to a closed manhole sized trap door, the access to the roof.

There
came a sound of scuffling feet, very close, directly above. Moments later, he
heard a muffled voice and the trap door opened, catching him in a beam of light
as if he was the star player on centre stage.

"Who
the fuck-" were the last words Norton heard before the sound of two shots
crashed around the walls. He felt a single impact in the centre of his chest
then an unseen force propelled him backwards. He tripped on the uneven floor
and landed on his back in a cloud of dust. He lay there for several seconds
while his brain reoriented itself after the sudden shock.

Fuck
me they do work
,
was the thought that passed through his mind when he
realized the bullets had not penetrated the ceramic insert in his body armour.
His only discomfort was a sharp pain in his chest that peaked every time he
inhaled, he wondered if his ribs might be broken.

He
had little time to consider his injuries, because through half closed eyes he
saw a man's legs come through the trap door. As the man negotiated the wooden
steps, he balanced himself with his left hand on a wooden banister while his
right kept a tight grip on a Browning pistol.

The
pain in Norton's chest was beginning to subside, just a dull ache now and he
was able to control his breathing. He closed his eyes to the barest of slits,
watching the approach of his would be killer.

The
man stopped and kicked Norton's leg. Norton kept perfectly still, biding his
time. The man came closer, knelt down and reached forward with his free hand,
probably to check for a pulse. Norton's left hand shot out like a piston and
grabbed the man's gun hand, yanking it down and twisting it around so the
barrel was aiming at the wall. Completely off balance, the man pitched
forwards. Norton rammed the barrel of the shotgun into his assailant's solar
plexus and pulled the trigger. The man flew backwards with the force that
punched through his body, smashing through the banister and rolling over in the
dust before coming to rest in a crumpled heap against the wall.

Norton
quickly racked the action and fired another shot at the trap door before
scrambling to his feet and half ran, half slid down the stairs to the ground
floor. He winced as pain flared in his chest at the sudden exertion.

"Colin,"
a voice called, uncertain, "what the fuck is going on?"

"Colin's
had an accident
arsewipe
," Norton shouted.
"
You coming
down to play?"

The
answer came in the shape of a .50 calibre bullet. It punched through the
ceiling, letting through another small shaft of light, before ricocheting off
the concrete floor and buzzing like an angry bee along the length of the
warehouse. It smashed into the wall at the far end with a dull thump and all
again was quiet.

Norton
looked around the warehouse. The ladders caught his attention and he grinned as
an idea formed in his mind. He took off his jacket, laid it on the floor and
put the shotgun on top of it. He touched the two holes in the outer cover of
his body armour and smiled as he saw the dust from the fractured ceramic plate
on his fingertip. Nice grouping for a snapshot, he thought, I hope the other
bugger's not as handy.

He
picked up the ladders, and keeping to the deepest shadows, leant them against
one of the supporting pillars. The top of the ladder only reached half way up
the pillar, Norton frowned,
it
had to be enough. He
drew the Sig from its holster and slowly climbed, testing every rung before
putting his full weight on it. Six feet from the floor, and looking through a
hole in the ceiling, he saw a pair of feet appear through the trap door,
quickly followed by their owner carrying a snipers rifle. Norton, half way up
the ladder and slightly off balance, fired six rapid shots as the man's feet
made contact with the steps. Two bullets gouged useless holes in the brickwork
while the other four impacted squarely into his upper body, slamming him back
against the wall. The man paused for a moment, like a diver about to leave the
high board, then plunged head first from the
staircase.     

The
wooden floor at the base of the stairs had suffered over the years with dry rot
and neglect, and was far too weak to withstand the sudden impact of the
lifeless body. A large area collapsed with the sound of a whiplash. The corpse,
along with lumps of crumbling timber and plasterboard, crashed down onto the
concrete below. Norton looked on dispassionately as a swirling cloud of dust
descended from the ceiling and formed a delicate film on the upturned face of
the killer.

***

Prior
to Colin Lyle's radio message the
Skycrane
had been
flying a figure of eight over the Old Deer Park, to the north of Richmond in
Surrey. It was a risk using the park as an aerial staging post, but one that
had to be taken. As Harvey had pointed out during the planning sessions, it was
impossible to hide a helicopter during the day in a city, so they had decided
not to try. A helicopter hovering anywhere would be certain to attract
attention, especially one so big and with such an odd shape, so emblazoned in
large white letters on the thin section of the fuselage beneath the rotors was
the name, KENWOOD FILM CO. It was a household name belonging to an American
film company, noted mainly for its adventure films. That name would hopefully
stall any hand reaching for a telephone to report the low flight to the police.
It was a risk, but a calculated one, and so far, it seemed to have worked.

Minutes
after the call the helicopter thumped across the Thames at Brentford
Ait
, just north of Kew Palace. During the flight, Leach
reaffirmed to himself that he disliked helicopters. The nightmare of Army
flights had returned to haunt him. Something deep within his subconscious kept
forcing his feet from the floor as the tops of trees brushed passed beneath
them. He knew they were flying low to stay below the approach radars at
Heathrow, to stay in the ground clutter, as Harvey had put it, but despite
that, he could not stop himself from doing it. He likened it to a car passenger
pressing an imaginary brake pedal when he thought the driver had failed to see
the brake lights of the car in front. He would be glad when today's flight was
over, when he was back on terra firma. No more sphincter clenching flights for
him, this was definitely the last. Sailing, that's something pleasant and
relaxing, he thought, I'll take up sailing.

The
helicopter left the trees behind, and from his elevated position, he could see
the diversion had worked. The West bound side of the motorway was completely
devoid of traffic for as far as he could see. He looked at his watch,
estimating that the police would not have had enough time to clear the hoax
bombs. Because of the codeword, they would be expecting real ones, so they
would implement every time consuming safety precaution in the book.

A
smile that had crept onto his face faded, and his stomach rolled sourly, as the
helicopter banked sharply to the left and followed the concrete snake of the
motorway. It took less than ten minutes from leaving the Old Deer Park, to
reaching the carnage on the eastbound carriageway. A queue of stationary
traffic, rippling and glinting in the heat haze, stretched far into the
distance from the scene of destruction below.

Harvey
rotated the helicopter through a half circle to point the nose in the direction
they had come from. He activated the load bay camera, and by watching the
monitor on the control panel, lowered the helicopter to within six feet of the
armoured truck's roof. His attention focused intently on the screen as the
winch, operated by Leach, snaked into view and the green jacketed men on the
ground set about attaching the harness to the
truck.             

Like
a prisoner suddenly abandoned by his guards, a tongue of yellow flame poked
cautiously out of the shattered computer on the trail car's dashboard as though
sniffing the oxygen of freedom. The flickering tongue, urged on by the howling
gale forced through the shattered windscreen from the
helicopter's
down draft, began to lick greedily at the plastic casing surrounding the
computer. Within a minute, the interior of the car was a raging inferno. Thick
acrid smoke escaping from the doomed vehicle was swirled instantly into a mad
frenzy by the thumping rotors, sending most of the reeking cloud to encircle
the assault team. Men began coughing as they attached the harness, their
nostrils assaulted by the stinking odour of burning plastic and rubber. To the
men nearest the burning vehicle, the acrid stench was joined by the nauseous
smell of burning flesh, as the bodies of the crew succumbed to the heat and
flames.

"Airlift
from load," an urgent voice in Harvey's earphones, "she's yours, take
her up quickly, the car behind is ready to blow. Go, go,
go
."