Verity, turning in his seat.
'Right, Ted,' called George, then slapped his forehead theatrically. 'Shit, I forgot already.'
'Very funny,' said Verity. He pulled a sawn-off shotgun out of his bag and flicked off the safety. 'Remember, we go in hard - hearts and minds. Don't give them time to think. They sound the alarm and we've got less than six minutes before the blues and twos arrive and we're up to our arses in Hecklers. Everybody set?'
The six men in the back nodded.
'Masks on,' said Verity.
They took off their baseball caps and pulled on black ski masks with holes for eyes and mouths. Verity nodded at PJ and the West Indian drove forward. Verity's heart raced. No matter how many jobs he did, no matter how many times he'd piled in with a gun, the fear and excitement always coursed through him like electricity. Nothing compared with the high of an armed robbery. Not even sex. All his senses were intensified as if his whole body had gone into overdrive. Verity pulled on his mask. He connected an earphone to the scanner, then slipped it on under his mask. Just static.
PJ turned sharply to the right and pulled up in front of the warehouse. Verity swung open the door and jumped down, keeping the sawn-off close to his body. His earpiece buzzed. A suspicious passenger in the arrivals terminal. An IC6 male. An Arab. Good, thought Verity. Anything that drew attention away from the commercial area of the airport was a Godsend.
Owen pulled back the side door and jumped out. He had stuck a revolver into the belt of his overalls. The rest of the team piled out and rushed over to the warehouse entrance. There was a large loading area with space for three trucks but the metal shutters were down. To the right of the loading bay there was a metal door. The men stood at either side of it, weapons at the ready.
Verity walked up to the door and put his gloved hand on the handle. It was never locked, even at night: there were men working in the warehouse twenty-four hours a day, but only a skeleton staff at night. Four men at most. Two fork-lift truck drivers, a security guard and a warehouseman. Four unarmed men in charge of a warehouse containing the best part of twenty million pounds' worth of goods. Verity smiled to himself. Like taking candy from a baby.
Verity pulled open the door and rushed in, holding his shotgun high. To the right of the door he saw a small office containing three desks and wall-to-wall shelving filled with cardboard files. A uniformed security officer was sitting at one of the desks, reading a newspaper. Verity levelled his shotgun and motioned with it for him to stand up. Eddie rushed past and pressed the prongs of the stun gun to the guard's neck and squeezed the trigger. The man went into spasm and slumped to the floor. Eddie dragged him behind the office door. He took a roll of duct tape from his overall pocket and used it to bind the man's hands and feet as the rest of the gang fanned out, moving through the warehouse. It was about half the size of a football pitch with cartons of cardboard boxes piled high on wooden pallets. Most were marked 'Fragile' and came from the Far East. Japan. Korea. Hong Kong.
An orange fork-lift truck reversed round a stack of boxes. Doug ran up to it and jammed his pistol against the neck of the operator, a middle-aged man in white overalls. He grabbed his collar and pulled him off the vehicle, then clubbed him across the head with the gun.
Verity could hear the second fork-lift whining in the distance and pointed in the direction of the sound. Fred and the Glaswegian ran off, their trainers making dull thuds on the concrete floor.
Doug rolled the fork-lift driver on to his front and wound duct tape round his mouth, then bound his arms.
Verity motioned at Macdonald and Owen to start moving through the stacked pallets. They were looking for the warehouseman, weapons at the ready. Macdonald looked at his watch. 'Plenty of time,' whispered Verity. 'Radio's quiet.'
The second fork-lift truck stopped, and there was a bump as if something soft had hit the ground hard. Then silence.
The three men stopped and listened. Off to their right they heard a soft whistle. Verity pointed and they headed towards it.
The warehouseman was in his early thirties with receding hair and wire-framed glasses. He was holding a palm computer and making notes with a small stylus as he whistled. He was so engrossed in it that he didn't see the three masked men until they were almost upon him. His jaw dropped and he took half a step backwards, but Verity jammed his gun into the man's stomach. 'Don't say a word,' hissed Verity. 'Do as you're told and we'll be out of here in a few minutes.'
He grabbed the man's collar with his left hand, swung him round so that he was facing in the direction of the office, then frogmarched him towards it with the gun pressed into the base of his spine. 'There's no m-m-money here,' the man stammered.
'I said, don't talk,' said Verity. He rammed the barrel into the man's back for emphasis.
When they reached the office the two fork-lift drivers were lying on the ground outside the door, gagged and bound. Owen was standing over them, his gun in one hand, the Fairy Liquid bottle in the other.
Verity pushed the warehouseman to the floor next to them. He rolled on to his back and his glasses fell off, clattering on the concrete. Verity pointed his gun at him. 'The Intel chips,' he said, through gritted teeth. 'The ones that came in from the States this morning.' Voices buzzed in his earpiece. A Police National Computer check on the Arab, name, date of birth, nationality. Iraqi. 'Bastard ragheads,' muttered Verity.
'What?' said the warehouseman, confused. He groped for his spectacles with his right hand.
Verity nodded at Owen, who sprayed the contents of the Fairy Liquid bottle over the three men. Macdonald frowned as he recognised the smell. Petrol. The fork-lift drivers bucked and kicked, but the warehouseman lay still in shock, clutching his spectacles.
Owen emptied the plastic bottle, then tossed it to the side. He took a gunmetal Zippo from the pocket of his overalls and flicked it open. 'You heard what the man said, now where are the chips?' He spun the wheel of the lighter with his thumb and waved a two-inch smoky flame over the three men.
'Archie, what the hell's going on?' shouted Macdonald. He took a step towards Verity. 'No one said we were going to set fire to anyone.'
'You've got a shotgun in your hands, this is no different.'
'Have you seen what third-degree burns look like?'
Verity levelled his weapon at Macdonald's legs. 'Have you seen what a kneecapping looks like?'
Macdonald raised the barrel of his shotgun skywards. 'Just wished I'd been fully briefed, that's all.' He shrugged. 'You're right. In for a penny . . .'
The warehouseman scrabbled on his back, away from Owen. Owen followed him, bending down to wave the flaming Zippo closer to his legs. The warehouseman backed against the wall of the office, his hands in front of his face. 'I'm not sure how close I can get before you go up in flames,' said Owen. 'The Intel chips,' he hissed. 'Where are they?'
'I'll have to check the computer,' stammered the warehouseman. A dark stain spread down his left trouser leg.
Owen clicked the Zippo shut, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the office door. Verity followed. The earpiece buzzed and crackled. There'd been a car crash outside the departures terminal. Two minicabs had collided and the drivers were fighting. Verity grinned under his mask. The more distractions, the better.
Owen threw the warehouseman into the office. 'You've got ten seconds, then it's barbecue time,' he snarled. He pushed him down on to a swivel chair.
The man's hands trembled over the keyboard. 'I have to think,' he said. 'I'm only the n-n-night man.'
'Remember this,' said Owen, lighting the Zippo again and waving the flame close to the man's face.
The warehouseman shrieked. 'Okay, okay, wait!' He stabbed at the keyboard. 'I've got it.' He wiped his sweating forehead with the arm of his coat. 'Row G. Section Six. Twelve b-b-boxes.'
Verity turned to the office door. 'Fred, Doug!' he called. 'Row G. Section Six.' The earpiece buzzed. Despite the clean PNC check, the Arab was being taken into custody.
Owen closed the Zippo and used duct tape to tie the warehouseman to the chair. 'I d-d-did what you wanted, d-d-didn't I?' asked the man fearfully. Owen slapped a piece of tape across his mouth.
Verity pointed at Owen. 'Tell Harry to get the minibus ready,' he said, then jogged towards Row G.
'I'll do it,' said Macdonald.
