rifle strapped to his back. Armstrong and Mitchell opened the doors and pushed the wooden box towards O'Brien, then helped him lower it to the ground.
Shortt hefted the briefcase-sized phone jammer on to the passenger seat. He had already disabled the local BT sub-station that handled the landlines from Shelton. The jammer would take care of any mobiles in the vicinity.
'Check comms,' said O'Brien. 'Alpha on air.'
The men had on microphone headsetsundertheir masks, wired to the receivers on their belts.
'Beta on air,' said Mitchell.
O'Brien gave him a thumbs-up. His voice had come over loud and clear through the earpiece.
'Gamma on air,' said Armstrong. O'Brien nodded.
'Delta on air,' said Shortt.
O'Brien knelt down and opened the wooden box: a Russian-made 7V rocket-propelled grenade launcher nestled in a bed of polystyrene balls. Mitchell nodded approvingly. 'Nice bit of kit,' he said.
'Oh, yes,' said O'Brien. 'The Somalis used one of these to bring down that Blackhawk. Accurate up to three hundred metres with a moving target, five hundred if it's stationary.'
'Makes a change from friendly fire,' said Mitchell.
O'Brien took the metre-long launcher from the box and hefted it on to his shoulder. He walked a few paces towards the prison entrance.
'Sure you've got it the right way round?' asked Armstrong.
'Aye, fuck you too,' said O'Brien. He looked at his watch, then knelt down on one knee and sighted on the main gate, a hundred metres away. 'Are we all set?'
'Mobile signals are down,' Shortt said. 'All signals blocked. Rock and roll.'
O'Brien took a deep breath. His heart was pounding as adrenaline coursed through his system. He'd fired RPGs before, more than a dozen, but there was always the risk that something might go wrong and it blew up in his hands.
In the distance the occasional car drove down the motorway but all they could see were the headlights carving through the darkness. The prison had been shielded from the road by landscaped hills and trees so that the sensibilities of law-abiding citizens in north London wouldn't be offended by high walls and surveillance cameras. The hills would block any sign of the explosion, and the most that would be seen from the road was a flash of light.
The four men stared at the prison walls, which were thirty feet high, as was the metal gate, the only way for vehicles to enter the prison. No CCTV cameras covered theexterior - therewas no wayeven for theofficers inside to see outside. As Major Gannon had pointed out several times during his briefing, the prison had been purpose-built to keep six hundred unarmed men confined in specific areas. Every security measure was directed inwards. Four armed men who knew what they were doing should, in theory, be able to bring the place to its knees.
'Stand clear,' said O'Brien. Armstrong and Mitchell jogged to the far side of the van. O'Brien braced himself and pulled the trigger. The grenade whooshed from the launcher, leaving a plume of white smoke in its wake. It arced through the air and hit the door, dead centre. The explosion was a dull thud that O'Brien felt as much as heard, and then the massive metal door crashed to the side, twisting off its opening mechanism.
Shortt revved the engine. O'Brien tossed the launcher to the ground and ran to the passenger seat. Mitchell pulled the rear door shut. Shortt stamped on the accelerator and the van sped forward, towards the shattered gate.
Shepherd squinted at the luminous dial of his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning and he'd been awake all night. Lee had switched off the television just after midnight, and by half past one there had been silence on the landing. The spyglass had opened at two thirty and the next check wasn't due for another half-hour.
Lee was snoring softly, but he woke with a start as Shepherd climbed down from the top bunk.
'What's up?' he said sleepily.
'Did you hear something?'
'Like what?'
'I don't know. Outside, on the landing.'
Lee swung his feet to the floor. 'What time is it?'
'Three.'
'It'll be one of the guards doing his checks.'
'I heard an explosion.'
'Bollocks.'
'What if there was a fire somewhere in the block? Would they let us out?'
Lee sniffed. 'I can't smell anything.'
'I didn't say I smelt smoke, I said I heard a bang.'
Lee walked to the door. Shepherd moved to the side to let him pass, then grabbed him from behind. Lee could barely grunt before Shepherd had his neck in a tight lock. Shepherd squeezed as Lee tried to twist round. He held him tight, and for more than a minute they shuffled backwards and forwards. The head lock applied pressure to the carotid arteries, cutting off the blood supply to Lee's brain. All Shepherd had to do was hang on and keep applying pressure to the sides of Lee's neck.
When he felt him go limp, he dragged him over to his bunk and rolled him on to it. He pulled the laces from Lee's trainers and used them to bind his wrists and ankles. Then he ripped a strip of material off the sheet and used it as a makeshift gag. He checked that the laces were secure, then went to the door. He switched on the light and started stretching, loosening his muscles for what was to come next.
The van screeched to a halt in front of the gatehouse. The back door flew open and Armstrong and Mitchell jumped down. They both fired short, controlled bursts. The 7.62mm bullets ripped through the door and shattered the lock. The two men stepped to the side and O'Brien jumped out of the van, ran at the door and kicked it, hard. It crashed to the side and he ran into the gatehouse, his submachine-gun in front of him.
There were two prison officers behind the glass panel, one in full uniform, the other in short sleeves. The one in uniform had a phone to his ear, his hand on the keypad. Both men were staring at the shattered door, their mouths open.
'Get down!' shouted O'Brien. They stood where they were, too shocked to move. O'Brien gestured with his Onyx short-assault rifle. 'Get down, now!' he yelled.
The officers dropped to the floor. O'Brien fired a short burst at the security glass. It wasn't designed to take the impact of an assault rifle at short range and it shattered into a million shards.
Armstrong vaulted over the counter, his gloved hand crunching on the broken glass. He put his foot on the back of one of the officers and shoved the barrel of his gun against the other's neck. 'Just stay calm and no one gets hurt,' he said. The man he was standing on had a long keychain on his belt and Armstrong ripped it off. He tossed the keys to O'Brien, who caught them.
Mitchell looked through the doorway and Shortt gave him a thumbs-up. He had turned the van so he could see through the doorway. Outside the prison, everything was in darkness.
'Come on, come on,' said O'Brien. 'Get the doors open.'
Armstrong bound the arms and legs of one officer with a plastic tie, then dragged him to his feet.
Access to the prison was through two security doors that could not be opened at the same time. The gap between them was effectively a quarantine area and the second door wasn't opened until the identity of those entering or leaving had been checked. O'Brien and Mitchell walked up to the first security door. Armstrong shoved the muzzle of his weapon under the man's chin. 'Open the outer door,' he hissed.
The officer, trembling, stabbed at a button. The gate slid open.
O'Brien and Mitchell moved into the quarantine area.
'Now close it,' said Armstrong.
He stabbed at another button.
Once the outer door had clicked shut, Armstrong jabbed the gun into the man's chin. 'Open the inner door.' The officer was already reaching across the console to press the button.
O'Brien and Mitchell rushed through the gap and sprinted away. Armstrong tied the officer's wrists behind his back with another plastic binding. He watched on the monitors as O'Brien and Mitchell ran across the second
