Hunter Killer (24 page)

Danny kept his eyes on the main entrance. Distance: 35 metres. There were lights on in the lobby, but so far nobody had entered or exited. He was aware of Spud walking along the far side of the plaza, before disappearing along one edge of the building. Two minutes later he heard his mate’s voice in his earpiece. ‘Goods entrance at the back. Main gate locked. For now at least.’

‘Roger that. Keep eyes on.’

Time check: 06.15. Danny’s every sense was on high alert, his lack of sleep pushed to a far corner of his mind. He looked at the left-hand side of the building. It faced on to a one-way street, but there was no traffic and hardly any pedestrians walking that way. He craned his neck so that he was looking at the top of Hertford Tower. The shard of sunlight that had lit up the building had been an anomaly. Now the clouds had rolled back in again. The penthouse level was still visible, but shrouded in a murky haze. His eyes focused as best they could on the top floor. Was Abu Ra’id up there, hiding in plain sight in the heart of the financial district? It seemed too obvious a location, but so did any location when you knew what it was concealing. Just look at Bin Laden.

‘Where the fuck
are
they?’ Spud said over the radio.

Time check: 06.21. Danny suppressed a surge of frustration. This was taking too long. They should have come here earlier, under cover of night, barged in on the fucker while he was sleeping . . .

He looked up again. The sky was empty. There was nothing to suggest that this was anything other than an ordinary day.

He felt for his weapon under his jacket. Not that he needed it yet. It was just good to know it was there. Then he turned his attention back to the atrium of the tower. The human traffic in and out became more frequent. City types, mostly, suited and barking into their phones as they hurried out of this expensive residence. Almost exclusively male. But nobody suspicious. Nobody . . .

He blinked. Fifteen metres away, to his ten o’clock, standing just by the fountain in the centre of the plaza with two broad-shouldered men flanking her on either side, was a woman he recognised. Black hair, grey roots. As Danny looked at her she was blowing her nose into a piece of tissue, which she then shoved into the sleeve of her dark overcoat.

Their eyes met. Victoria Atkinson said something to her two bodyguards, then walked over towards Danny.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Danny demanded. ‘This could go noisy. And if anyone recognises you, you’ll blow the whole thing.’ He avoided eye contact, even though he knew it was ridiculous. If anyone was watching them, their RV would have been noted.

‘I’m relying on you,’ she said. Her northern accent sounded full of cold. ‘Abu Ra’id
cannot
leave that apartment alive. He’s extremely clever. He’ll try to talk his way out of it, and on past performance he’ll probably succeed. If he leaves this building alive, the victims of these bombs will
never
have justice.’

Movement in the street along the left-hand side of the building. An unmarked Transit van had just pulled up. Danny felt his face twitch. ‘Get back to Bill and Ben over there,’ he said. ‘And stay clear of the building. The Regiment’s here.’

Victoria looked anxious. She swallowed hard, then scurried back to her two bodyguards. Danny spoke into his radio.

‘The workmen are on site,’ he said cryptically. ‘Repeat, the workmen are on site. Making contact in thirty seconds.’

A double-click of the pressel was Spud’s only reply.

He was alongside the Transit now. He made no eye contact with the driver, but walked round to the back and knocked three times on the rear doors. They opened immediately. Danny slipped inside.

It was crowded. Seven men in black ops gear: dark trousers and T-shirts, ops vests laden with their radio equipment, and weaponry: frags, flashbangs and ammo. Three of them already had balaclavas over their heads, the remaining three were just about to apply them. Danny recognised Ripley’s face and gave him a nod. It felt like weeks ago that he’d last seen him, not four days. Each of the guys had their assault rifles strapped to their bodies by a piece of cord. Ripley handed Danny an ops vest, rifle and balaclava of his own. He pulled off his jacket and got kitted up, discarding the earpiece that kept him in touch with Spud and inserting a new one. In less than thirty seconds they were ready to move.

Danny spoke into the new radio. ‘This is work party one, do you copy?’

A momentary pause. Then Spud: ‘Loud and clear. Work party two online.’

‘Entry in forty-five seconds.’

One of the guys banged on the back wall of the Transit. The vehicle immediately pulled away, accelerating sharply. There was a violent bump as it mounted the kerb, a swerve and then a screech as the Transit came to another abrupt halt.

‘
Go! Go! Go!
’ Danny shouted.

In an instant, all eight of them spilled out of the back of the Transit. Danny took a second to absorb his surroundings. They had stopped ten metres from the front entrance to Hertford Tower. A second Transit was facing theirs and another eight men were swiftly debussing. Danny recognised Spud not by his face, which was now also covered with a black balaclava, but by his civvies – like Danny, he was the only one of his eight-man team not in full black ops gear.

He turned his attention to the foyer of Hertford Tower. A man in a suit had been walking through the main door, but at the sight of the special forces unit just metres ahead of him he was standing frozen, staring at them. Danny ran towards him. ‘Get back into the building!’ he roared. ‘
Now!
’ The man dropped his briefcase and fled back into the foyer.

Danny pointed at four of his team. ‘Mark the exits,’ he instructed. They instantly took up positions, fanning out three metres apart and dropping down onto one knee in the firing position. As Danny ran to the entrance, he was aware of the sudden commotion the arrival of a heavily armed Regiment unit had created in the plaza. Pedestrians were running to the edges of the square, congregating in groups as if that made them safer. Some twats were, predictably enough, holding up mobile phones to take photographs – hence the balaclavas. There was some shouting on the edge of Danny’s awareness, and one woman even screamed. He segregated himself from those noises as he burst into the foyer.

There were seven people here. Four men in suits, two women and a concierge in a uniform behind a marble counter. Danny looked over his shoulder. Four members of his team were there. He pointed at one of them. ‘Get the civilians on the ground,’ he ordered. Then he turned his attention back to the concierge. He was a young guy, mid-twenties maybe, with a thin moustache and dark skin. He looked utterly terrified, and his eyes were darting around as if he was looking for an exit.

He was in for a bad morning.

Danny covered the ten metres between himself and the concierge at a sprint, only half aware of the harsh barks of his team forcing the civilians to the ground at gunpoint. As he ran, he dislodged his Glock from his belt. He ran behind the marble counter and saw three black-clad members of the unit swarming to the far side of the atrium, each securing one of three exits at the back, the grey shutters of what looked to be a service elevator, and a door that led on to a flight of stairs going upwards. He grabbed the concierge by the front of his uniform and saw that he was dialling a number on the mobile in his right hand.

‘Drop it,’ he growled. The concierge did as he was told. The phone thumped to the floor.

‘Is there a separate elevator for the penthouse?’

The concierge’s nostrils flared. Danny could smell cigarettes on his breath and see sweat dampening his temples. He stuttered, barely able to get the words out. ‘N . . . no.’ He pointed nervously across the room towards the main elevator on the far side, 25 metres away. A large, verdant pot plant stood right next to it.

‘Is there a service elevator?’

The concierge nodded.

‘Does it go to the penthouse?’

‘N . . . no. Sir.’

‘Stairs?’

‘No sir.’

‘What’s the code for the penthouse?’

The concierge shuddered, but didn’t reply. Danny didn’t fuck around. With a single swipe of his arm, he cracked the concierge’s head against the marble counter. The concierge howled.

‘The code!’

The concierge was whimpering now. ‘Five Three Eight Nine.’

‘Who’s up there?’

‘I don’t know . . . I
swear
I don’t know.’

Danny gave it a moment’s thought. He didn’t trust this concierge. If Abu Ra’id had been hiding out in the penthouse of this building, the chances were high that the concierge was complicit.

‘You’re coming with me,’ he said. He dug his Glock into the man’s side, then manoeuvred him out from behind the counter towards the elevator.

Spud was already by the lift doors with two other masked men. Danny and the concierge were five metres away when the doors slid open. The lift contained a middle-aged woman with two young children. She screamed when she saw the armed men. ‘Get out!
Get out!
’ Spud barked at her. He yanked the panicked woman out of the lift, and she dragged her children along with her, all three of them whimpering. Danny chucked the concierge inside, then entered the lift with Spud and the two others. There was an electric panel on the side of the elevator. Danny pressed the touchscreen to take the lift to the penthouse. A numeric keypad appeared.

‘Type the code,’ he told the concierge. ‘If the lift doesn’t take us straight to the penthouse, you’re dead.’

Trembling, the concierge punched in four numbers. Five, Three, Eight, Eight. Different from the code he’d given Danny at the desk. But this was clearly the correct one, because the doors slid shut and the lift started to ascend.

The concierge was breathing heavily, but otherwise it was silent in the elevator as the Regiment men prepared for the doors to open. Danny stood at the back, his Glock still pressed hard into the concierge’s guts. The other three stood in front of them, with their rifles pointing directly towards the door, weapons set to semi-automatic, fingers resting lightly on the triggers.

Twenty seconds passed.

Tense silence in the elevator. None of them had seen a layout of the penthouse. They had no idea what would greet them when the lift doors opened. It was possible that they’d have a direct shot at Abu Ra’id the moment the lift stopped. They needed to be ready to take it.

Thirty seconds passed.

A gentle lurch of the stomach as the elevator came to a halt. Danny glanced at the line of lights above the door: the letter P was illuminated.

A pause that felt like it went on for ever.

The doors hissed.

Danny immediately assessed what was in front of him. The elevator did not appear to have opened inside the penthouse itself. Instead they were facing on to some kind of foyer or corridor. Five metres deep. Ten metres in length. A door at the end to their right.

And two men.

One was Middle Eastern, the other white.

Were they hostile? Abu Ra’id’s bodyguards? For a split second it was impossible to say. They clearly had no idea of the commotion that was going on downstairs. They were slouched lazily on a leather sofa four metres away against the wall of the corridor. One of them was reading a newspaper, the other twiddling with his phone. A look of sudden horror struck their faces at the sight of four masked men, heavily armed, facing them from the lift.

The white guy dropped his newspaper. His hand darted into the inside of his jacket. He was clearly reaching for his weapon.

Which was the last thing he ever did.

It was Spud who nailed him. A single shot to his chest which, from this close range, threw him back up against the wall and left a red stain on the paintwork when he tumbled forward. The second man tried to scramble over the side of the sofa, also pulling a weapon from inside his jacket: a pathetic, clumsy manoeuvre that was brought to a sudden halt by a second round. It hit him in the side of the face, splashing another flash of red against the paint, before the man’s dead body thumped awkwardly to the floor.

The lift pinged.

They stepped carefully into the corridor, Spud and his two companions covering left and right, checking that there were no threats they had missed from inside the lift, before giving Danny the nod. Danny pushed the concierge out into the corridor, then followed. Aside from the sofa and the two dead bodies, there was nothing here other than a large pane of glass at one end of the corridor which looked out over the Docklands, and the door on the opposite side to the lift, five metres to their right. Next to the door was another keypad.

Spud’s two companions ran to the door and knelt down on one knee, covering it. Danny grabbed the nearest dead body and chucked it over the threshold of the lift just as the doors started to shut. They hissed close, then made a clicking sound as they sandwiched against the bleeding body, opened up and then repeated their attempt to shut.

Hiss, click.

Hiss, click.

Danny turned to the concierge. ‘Have you been inside the penthouse?’ he demanded. ‘Do you know the layout.’ It put Danny on edge, entering a potentially hostile situation, without at least knowing the geography.