courtyard to the door that led to the secure corridor.
'Which button opens the door?' asked Armstrong.
The officer nodded at the console. 'The red one.'
Armstrong pressed it. 'Gamma, door is unlocked.'
'Roger that,' said O'Brien, in his earpiece. 'Alpha and Beta going in.'
'Delta, outside is clear.'
'Roger that,' said O'Brien.
On one of the monitors, Armstrong watched O'Brien pull open the door and Mitchell run into the secure corridor. O'Brien followed him. Then Armstrong pushed the officer to the floor and tied his feet together. When he straightened up, he scanned the monitors: O'Brien and Mitchell were running down the secure corridor, automatic rifles clutched to their chests.
Lloyd-Davies sipped her coffee and flicked through the observations book. It had been a quiet day - a couple of minor scuffles, a racist remark that had been reported to the governor, and a new arrival on the ones - he had been crying so much he'd been taken to the medical wing. Tonight her colleague in the bubble was Paul Morrison, a former landscape gardener who had only been in the prison service for three months. He was a few inches shorter than she, and although he was only in his early twenties he was losing his hair. He was keen, and had made a special effort to learn the first names of all the men on the spur. Lloyd-Davies hoped he'd maintain his enthusiasm, but she knew that, after a year on the job, most officers became hardened. The lies, the occasional flashes of violence, the boredom changed even the most altruistic soul. She closed the observations book and took another sip of coffee.
As she put down the cup she heard rapid footsteps and turned to look down the secure corridor. Her eyes widened as she saw two figures running full tilt towards her, holding automatic rifles close to their chests. She stared at them in disbelief, then gasped and grabbed her radio. The men rushed up to the barred door. One shoved the barrel of his gun through it. 'Put that down!' he hissed. 'Now!'
Morrison whirled around. He and Lloyd-Davies were transfixed.
'Down!' the man repeated. 'Put the radio down.'
Lloyd-Davies did as she was told.
Morrison got to his feet, trembling. He looked across at Lloyd-Davies. 'It's okay, Paul, stay calm,' she said.
'Shut the fuck up,' hissed one of the masked men. 'Lie down on the floor, face down.'
The second man had a key on a long steel chain and unlocked the barred door.
'What do you want?' asked Lloyd-Davies.
'Just get down on the floor. Now!'
Morrison dropped to his knees, then put his hands on the floor.
The man with the key pulled open the door, then aimed his gun at Lloyd-Davies. 'Down!' he said.
They looked like SAS troopers, thought Lloyd-Davies. Black ski masks, automatic rifles. Black uniforms with equipment hanging from black leather belts. But why would the SAS be storming a prison? It didn't make any sense.
The man with the key stepped forward and grabbed Lloyd-Davies by her ponytail. 'We're not fucking around here!' he hissed. 'Now, get down on the floor.'
Lloyd-Davies realised that she wasn't scared. She was angry, but she wasn't frightened. If the men had intended to shoot them, they would have surely done it straight away. Whatever they were up to, they weren't there to kill anyone. She went down on her knees, her eyes never leaving the man's face. She was trying to memorise as many details as she could. The colour of his eyes. Brown. His height. Just under six feet. One of his canine teeth was crooked. He was right-handed. Slightly overweight.
'On the floor!' repeated the man.
Lloyd-Davies did as she was told. The other man was fastening a plastic tie round Morrison's wrists.
The man with the key pushed her down and she lay still as he pulled her arms behind her back and tied her wrists together. She turned to look at him but he put his gun to her forehead. 'You keep staring at me and I'll give you something to remember,' he hissed. He had an accent, but it was hard to identify. Irish. Or Scottish, maybe.
He pressed the gun into the small of her back. 'Who else is on the spur?'
'Healey,' said Lloyd-Davies.
'Where is he?'
'Should be on the ones.'
'Anyone else?'
She shook her head.
'If you're lying, you'll be putting their lives on the line.'
'Just the night staff. Three of us.'
He took the gun away from her back. 'Stay on the ground, keep your eyes closed and this'll be over before you know it,' he said.
Lloyd-Davies shut her eyes. 'You'll never get out,' she said.
The man pushed the barrel of his gun against her neck. 'You'd better hope we do or I'll be putting a bullet in your head,' he muttered. 'Now, shut the fuck up.'
O'Brien tossed Mitchell the keyand told himto go and get the prison officer on the ground floor. Mitchell left the bubble and unlocked the barred door that led to the landings. He peered over the railing through the wire-mesh suicide net. A large West Indian was walking slowly towards the far end of the spur. Mitchell put the key into his pocket.
He crept along to the stairs, his gun at the ready, past a cell where rap music was playing. He kept his eyes on the officer below, ready to duck at the first sign that he was turning round. Rock music was coming from another cell. Mitchell imagined the prisoners lying on their bunks, listening to their stereos, with no idea of what was being played out beyond their doors.
He reached the top of the stairs and crouched, his attention fixed on the West Indian. The officer reached the end of the spur. He was swinging his keys on a chain as he stood reading a notice pinned to a board. Mitchell waited. The man was unarmed but he had a radio clipped to his belt, and Mitchell didn't want to give him the chance to call for help. He took a quick look at his watch. Almost two and a half minutes had passed since they'd driven in through the shattered gateway. If he waited for the West Indian to walk back down the spur that could take a full two minutes at the speed he moved.
Mitchell took a deep breath. He took the stairs two at a time, on his toes to minimise the noise. The West Indian continued to swing his keys and read the notice. Mitchell reached the floor and sprinted down the spur, keeping his breathing to a minimum.
The West Indian began to turn. Mitchell sprinted across the linoleum towards him, his assault rifle clutched to his chest.
Armstrong looked up at a clock on the wall above the CCTV monitors. It was several minutes slow and wasn't even showing three o'clock. He saw movement on one of the monitors. It was Mitchell, running hard and fast along the spur towards a fat West Indian officer. As Armstrong watched, the man turned and saw Mitchell running towards him. His mouth opened and his hands went up to defend himself, but before he could do anything Mitchell had slammed into him.
The West Indian must have been twice Mitchell's weight but Mitchell had the advantage of momentum. He hit the man with his left shoulder, and the officer spun then crashed into the wall, face first.
Mitchell lashed out with his foot, kicking him just above the knee. Then, as he slumped forward, he hit him across the back of the neck, open-handed, a stunning blow rather than a killing one.
Mitchell stood back as the guard fell to the ground. Then he rolled him over and dropped on to one knee to bind his wrists and ankles.
Jimbo Shortt looked at his watch. He gunned the engine, keeping up the revs. If anything went wrong they'd have to move quickly. If SO19 headed their way, running was their only option. It was one thing to break one of their own out of prison, quite another to shoot at cops. O'Brien was right: even the specialist armed police units
