Police Constable Henry Christie’s eyelids drooped shut and he fell asleep, his chin lolling forwards. Too many disturbed nights caused by a newly-born daughter who refused to sleep were taking their toll on him.
An elbow from his partner, PC Terry Briggs, jolted him awake.
‘ Ugh!’ Henry rubbed his eyes and made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Shit,’ he breathed, and pulled himself into full consciousness.
Not for the first time in his life he was wondering why the hell he had volunteered to become an Authorised Firearms Officer. It had probably been some stupid macho impulse fuelled no doubt by the diet of cowboys and Indians he had ingested as a youngster. He had truly enjoyed the two-week intensive training course with the handgun — Smith amp; Wesson Model 10, 38 calibre, four- and two-inch barrels — down the shooting range at Headquarters and out on the Army range at Holcombe Brook… but three armed operations and a Conservative Party conference later — actually carrying a gun in public, actually waiting for armed robbers to appear or the IRA to assassinate him — had made him realise what a jerk he was.
Firing down the shooting range, however intensive and lifelike, was a doddle compared to even just having a gun strapped on in public. The responsibility and implications sometimes overawed him like a tidal wave.
And here he was once more, waiting for a man known to carry firearms to come back to the stolen car he was using on a job. Henry looked at his partner — all Firearms Officers worked in pairs — who was leaning back in the driver’s seat of the Cavalier looking cool, relaxed and unflustered.
Bastard, Henry thought. Why can’t I be like that?
Then he put it into perspective. There was very little chance that Crane would make it as far as the Sierra Cosworth. The full Firearms team was actually at the back of the Building Society, waiting for him to make his exit. As soon as he set foot outside the premises, four guns would be pointed at him.
Henry and Terry, as Authorised Firearms Officers and not actually members of the Firearms team, were on the outer ring of the operation, well away from the main action, well away from danger.
‘ OK, let’s go.’ Crane’s voice grated as he stuffed the last bundle of notes into the bag. He grabbed it from the man who was holding it, goose-necked it tightly closed and ushered his mates ahead of him.
Jake always looked sleek and composed, as befitting one of Lancashire Constabulary’s most successful manhunters operating in the Force at that time. He was young, cool, keen, highly trained, hardworking… and above all had a set of fangs which he loved sinking into the flesh of villains.
That night he was raring to go.
His handler pulled him back to check his enthusiasm and Jake obeyed the command immediately, settling on his haunches, but unable to control a quiver of excitement. His ears were pricked and pointing forwards. His sharp eyes pierced the gloom of the car park behind Blackburn police station, searching the darkness for any movement. His heart thumped quickly and he was ready for action.
He tensed as his handler shouted out the familiar warning: ‘If you do not come out, I will release the dog. This is your last chance.’
The semi-circle of police officers waited for a response. None came.
With a smooth flick of the lead, Lancon Jake, the four-year old German shepherd dog, leapt into action, darting eagerly between the nearest two cars.
The handler followed, confident that if there was anyone there to be found, Jake would do it quickly.
As Crane’s two colleagues ran out into the back yard of the insurance broker’s, arc-lights snapped on, swathing the scene in brightness and highlighting a ring of armed cops, crouching in combat positions, accompanied by a cry of ‘Stop — armed police! Get your hands on your heads. Do it now!’
But Billy Crane was already at the front door of the insurance broker’s, the sawn-off pump-action shotgun he’d been carrying over his shoulder throughout the burglary now in his hands. He blasted the lock off the door using Hatton Rounds — cartridges — purposely designed to take out door locks and hinges — booted the door outwards, and burst out on to the street unopposed.
Head down, money bag in one hand, shotgun in the other, he sprinted across the road, ducked into an alley and vanished, leaving his two companions to face arrest.
It took less than a minute for Jake to strike. A howl of human anguish, coupled by one of canine glee, went up simultaneously. The figure of a man rose from behind a police van and set off running, dodging around vehicles whilst a wide mouth, jam packed with sharp, dangerous teeth, snapped at his backside.
The man did not get far.
Propelled by strong back legs, Jake powered himself across the short gap between himself and his victim. He sunk his teeth into the back of the man’s thigh, bringing him down at the same time as tearing out a chunk of flesh. The man screamed in agony and tried to free himself from Jake who, with a certain degree of deliberate pleasure, placed his mouth around the man’s right biceps and squeezed gently. He looked up at his prisoner and blinked his big brown eyes benignly.
Jake was a very intelligent dog.
He knew when he had won.
As often happens, when it all goes to rat shit, police officers can lose their cool over the radio.
‘ There’s one gone out the fuckin’ front door,’ a voice screamed, jolting Henry Christie and Terry Briggs out of their complacency. ‘All patrols to be aware. PCs Christie and Briggs have you received that? He could be coming in your direction. Received?’
‘ Y-yes,’ Henry stuttered, acknowledging for both himself and Terry.
They were parked at the top end of a narrow cul de sac from where they had a view across to the alley into which Crane had earlier backed the stolen Cosworth. If he was intending to use the car as his getaway, Crane had no choice but to drive out past Henry’s police car — but Henry did not want to give him that option. It could result in a chaotic chase and no arrest.
‘ Let’s see if we can bag him before he gets in the car,’ Henry said. He jumped out of the Cavalier, and with Terry close behind, ran across to the alley entrance, cursing under his breath about not having had the foresight to disable the car when he had the chance.
Breathing heavily already, Henry slammed himself on the wall by the alley entrance and paused. His hand went down and touched the handle of his revolver which was strapped in a holster at his right hip. Terry slid in behind him.
Henry gritted his teeth and prepared to take a peek into the alley to make sure the coast was clear. He intended to disable the car now, even with something as unsubtle as lobbing a brick through the windscreen; it would at least slow Crane down.
The moment he spun into the alley, a couple of things happened simultaneously. A belated radio message announced, ‘Patrols beware, suspect is armed, suspect is armed.’ And Henry saw that Crane had already reached the driver’s door of the Cosworth, which was open.
About twelve feet separated the two men.
Crane instinctively jerked the shotgun up. The cartridge which was now in the breech was not for punching holes in doors; it was meant to blow away other human beings, as were all the remaining shells.
Henry saw the gun rise and threw himself to the ground a split second before the discharge. Even though Crane missed, Henry felt the whoosh of the shot blast past him. He rolled behind the cover of the opposite wall whilst fumbling desperately for his own gun, painfully aware that he had never yet drawn it in anger.
Then Terry moved into the alley, his gun drawn, in the classic combat position.
Henry wanted to shout, ‘No, you stupid git!’ The words stuck in his mouth as Terry screamed, ‘Armed police! Drop your weapon!’
Crane sneered, pumped the action and swung the shotgun towards Terry.
Both weapons roared as one. Both parties were flung backwards.
Terry’s gun flew out of his hand as he stumbled, clutching his left shoulder, then fell over, hard. Disregarding the possible danger from Crane, Henry’s first instinct — and act — was to leap up and run across to his friend,
