Newman took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, taking a moment to centre himself. “Very well,” he said. “Standby for engagement.”
The Eclipse was moored with its stern facing the quay and its bow looking out into the river. To board it, they would have to traverse one of the seven narrow jetties that jutted out from the quay into the river, but doing that would make them visible to anyone on the boat who happened to glance ashore during their approach.
Newman knew they would only have a very short window in which to act, and if they didn’t do so decisively, taking control during those first crucial moments of the attack, there was a good chance that the safety of his officers would be compromised.
As he was about to give the command to engage, Jim Collier came over the radio, his voice suddenly full of urgency. “Standby, standby! All units from eyeball, the group on the deck have split up and two of them are now walking towards the jetty...”
“Shit!” Newman cursed under his breath, wondering if they had just lost the element of surprise.
“The tall, slim IC3 and the stocky shaven-headed IC1 with the pump-action shotgun are now walking along the jetty towards the quay…”
“Is the IC1 still carrying the shotgun?” Newman demanded.
“Yes, yes,” Collier confirmed. “It’s cradled in his right arm.”
“Lou, as soon as they reach the quay, B section is to engage them. If possible, give them a moment to clear the jetty so that we don’t get caught in the crossfire. A section will move straight onto the boat to secure the other males. Is that clear?”
“All clear,” Louise confirmed, her voice taut. “B section to engage the two on the jetty once they reach the quayside. A section will take care of the subjects on the boat.”
“Standby,” Collier said. “Both men now onto the quay. The one with the shotgun has taken up station and is now holding the shotgun in both hands. The IC3 is turning left, left, left and walking straight towards B section.”
That changed things. Newman had anticipated that they would either both stay or both leave, not split up. His mind ran through the options at lightning speed.
“B section from Newman,” he said breathlessly, “I’m changing the plan. You are to remain where you are. The IC3 is walking directly towards you and should reach your position in approx. thirty seconds. You are free to engage immediately upon establishing visual contact. I repeat, you are to engage upon visual contact. A section will move in and control the IC1 with the shotgun and the boat immediately upon receiving your contact signal. Please acknowledge my order.”
“B section is now to engage the IC3 male walking towards us immediately upon establishing visual contact, and A section will nullify the IC1 and storm the boat. Message received and understood.”
◆◆◆
As Deontay Garston rounded the bend in the concrete path leading away from the quay, head bowed against the brutal wind and hands tucked into his jacket pockets, he suddenly found himself being confronted by a group of sinister shadows pointing Heckler & Koch GS36 assault rifles at him.
“STOP! ARMED POLICE! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!” several officers shouted at once as they fanned out to cover him.
Garston froze on the spot, conscious of the ME38’s handle against his right hand in his pocket. A week ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated to draw the weapon and turn the situation into a Mexican stand-off, convinced that the soft British police wouldn’t open fire on him unless he started shooting at them first. Now, though, after what had happened with Errol – a man who didn’t even like guns – he wasn’t so sure.
“Take your hands out of your pockets nice and slow,” a woman was saying to him in a voice that brokered no argument.
“It’s all cool,” Garston said, removing his left hand from his pocket and making a point of doing so extremely slowly so as not to give them an excuse. For the time being, though, he left the right hand where it was.
From back in the direction of where the boat was moored, there were suddenly more shouts of “ARMED POLICE! DROP THE WEAPON. DROP THE WEAPON NOW!” followed by the deep boom of a shotgun and the harsher cracks of carbines being fired.
Taking full advantage of the distraction, Garston spun on his heels and darted into the thick foliage that bordered the path, ignoring the sharp thorns that scratched his face and snagged at his clothes as he fought his way through it.
“What the fuck…?” one of the officers cursed.
“STOP! GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!” Louise Richmond shouted, furious that he had given them the slip. She doubted that Newman would have allowed himself to be hoodwinked like that, the man was a war machine.
Garston ignored their shouts, confident that they wouldn’t dare shoot him in the back. That would be hard to explain, even with no witnesses. A moment later, he exploded out of the other side of the thicket into open grassland. Without breaking stride, he set off towards the road, hoping he’d be able to flag down a passing vehicle and hijack it.
With her weapon clasped tightly against her chest, Richmond had immediately set off in pursuit of Garston, flanked by two colleagues. As the trio attempted to force their way through the thick undergrowth, they were hindered by their equipment, which snagged continuously. In the end, they withdrew and ran along the outside until they found a patch that wasn’t as dense. The detour cost them precious seconds.
As they broke through on the other side, they could hear their quarry running up ahead. It sounded like he had opened up a healthy lead, not that they could see him in the total blackness of the night.
“STOP!” Richmond shouted, only to be ignored.
“Bastard!” one of her colleagues shouted as he tripped on a protruding root and tumbled to the floor.
As she ran, the darkness gradually started to become a
