Whelan without luck. He turned to his supervisor and told him he was having trouble raising the two officers.
The supervisor came over to the desk and looked at the controller’s console.
‘They’re not on an incident,’ he muttered as he checked the screen. ‘Where is Whisky India, by the way?’ he asked.
The controller selected a sat nav screen which showed the exact location of the police car. ‘Two miles west of Feltwell.’
‘Who’s closest?’
The controller scanned the screen. ‘Boon and Manning.’
The supervisor straightened up. ‘Get them to check it out.’
The controller pressed the call button on his desk console. ‘Bravo Mike, control, come in please.’
In the bonded warehouse, Grebo continued to stare at Marcus. All Marcus could do was hold the American’s gaze and wait for something to happen. There were seven men in the room. Two of them, the American MPs. were armed. It was unlikely that Grebo would be carrying a weapon but he could have one in his desk draw. Marcus felt confident he could take care of one of the armed policemen, but he wondered who would take care of the other one.
Boon and Manning received the call to investigate why Whisky India was not answering the call from control. They were on their way within seconds of being directed to the sat nav location. Boon switched on the flashing blue warning lights and put the hammer down. Manning estimated it would take about ten minutes in their BMW to reach Whisky India’s Vectra.
It was Whelan who spoke first. ‘Whoever you are,’ he said to Grebo, ‘I think you should know that we are police officers.’ He lifted his hand up, keeping it open. ‘I’m going to get my warrant card out,’ he told Grebo.
Very slowly, Whelan pulled out his warrant card and laid it on the desk in front of the American. ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan. And this,’ he pointed to Iverson, ‘is Detective Constable Iverson.’
Grebo looked away from Whelan to Marcus. ‘And who is this?’ he asked.
Parker, Michael
A Covert War
Whelan turned slowly to Marcus. ‘He is a trainee police community support officer.’
Marcus wondered how Whelan could have come up with such a preposterous idea in such a short time.
‘Is he now,’ Grebo responded acidly. ‘So what are we going to do with you all?’
‘You’re going to do nothing,’ Whelan told him. ‘We are going to walk out of here now.’ He reached forward to pick up his warrant card.
One of the MPs put an arm out to stop him. He had a gun in his other hand.
Whelan stared at him with an iron hard look. ‘You be careful, sonny,’ he warned him and picked up his warrant card.
Grebo flicked a cautionary look at the American. Marcus could see the dilemma: Grebo could not afford a shootout, nor could he afford to let any of them go. There was also something else behind that look: like a rabbit trapped in the headlights.
Boon and Manning came up beside the Vectra. They peered through the windows of their car but could see no-one inside. Manning climbed out of the BMW and checked the police car. He turned round to Boon and showed him a pair of empty hands.
Boon pointed towards the side road and indicated to Manning that he would drive up there. Manning nodded and waved him forward, preferring to walk up behind him.
Boon turned into the side road and cruised slowly towards the curve in the road. Manning kept pace behind him.
Grebo was about to say something when the phone on his desk rang. He looked a little startled as he picked up the phone.
‘Grebo.’
He listened briefly then slammed the phone down. ‘There’s a police unit at the gate,’ he said in disbelief. ‘What the fuck are they doing here?’ For a moment Grebo looked like a man lost. Then suddenly he made up his mind. He pointed at Marcus and the two policemen.
‘Keep them here,’ he ordered and opened a desk drawer. He then pulled out an M9 hand gun and hurried out of the office.
The two MPs immediately waved their guns at Whelan and Iverson, pointing to the far side of the office. They shuffled across to the far wall. Marcus was told to join them. It looked like the execution wall in front of a firing squad and Marcus had no intention of moving over there.
He turned his head suddenly towards the MPs and was about to say something, hoping to distract them so he could get at them, when they all heard several shots ring out. The two MPs automatically turned in the direction of the shots. At that moment Marcus knew he had the window he needed and launched himself at the nearest MP.
He kicked the man’s gun from his hand as the other MP lifted his gun to shoot Marcus. But Marcus dived beneath the first MP and lifted him bodily into the air, holding him on his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. He then spun and dropped the man at his colleague’s feet, intending to knock the man off balance.
The man was still trying to get a shot at Marcus but was hesitating because he was afraid of shooting his colleague. The sudden opening gave him the chance, but at that moment, Iverson had thrown himself forward and lifted the desk, bringing it up as a shield and pushed it at the MP who was about to shoot Marcus.
The man saw it coming and turned and fired at Iverson instead. Now Whelan joined in the fray and came forward with the intention of grappling with the man who had been tossed to the ground by Marcus, but the shot aimed at Iverson caught Whelan on the arm. He cried out and fell on top of the MP, clutching his arm.
Iverson stood up and reached over the desk which was now on its side as the American swung the gun round to fire off another shot. He grabbed the collar of the second MP, swung his arm down on to the man’s gun hand and dragged him over the desk. On the way the MP dropped his gun. Immediately the lorry driver, who until now had been a spectator, picked up the gun and fired a shot into the ceiling.
Everybody stopped. Except Marcus; he gambled on the man not being a gunman and leapt over the top of Whelan who had collapsed and kicked the driver with a classic, straight leg right into the rib cage.
They all heard the sound of the man’s ribs crack, and he dropped into a heap letting the gun fall from his hand.
Iverson picked up the gun and walked round the overturned desk. He picked up the other M9 and handed one to Marcus.
‘Cover them, and try not to shoot anyone,’ he said. ‘I’m going outside to see what’s happened.’
Whelan staggered to his feet. His arm was bleeding from where he had been shot. He looked at the damage caused by the sudden explosion of violence and shook his head.
‘What a fucking mess,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God knows how we’re going to write this one up.’
He then leant down and searched the two MPs until he found his Sig Sauer handgun that had been taken from him outside the compound. He tucked it into his waistband. Using his good arm, he pulled the desk upright and dragged it away from the two MPs and the lorry driver until it was pushed up against the far wall. He then propped himself up against it and looked at the scene in front of him.
The lorry driver was lying on the floor nursing a cracked rib or two. One of the military policemen was lying on the floor too, but he looked as though he had been winded. The other MP was on his knees, but Marcus was standing well clear with the M9 pistol pointing at them.
Whelan took the Sig Sauer from his waistband and held it loosely in his good hand.
‘Marcus, see if you can give Yorkie a hand,’ he asked, ‘I’ll keep an eye on these three.’
Marcus was about to go outside when the door flew open and Iverson burst in. He looked devastated.
‘The bastard’s shot two coppers; one of ours and one of his own.’
‘Where is he now?’ Whelan snapped.
