Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

“Evening gents I’ll brief you on the way.” A senior police officer greeted them at the waiting car.

They sidled into the back seat and the police car light flashing and siren blaring rushed them to Perth, down the 94 from Pitroddie, the Perth Road, into the city centre across South Street Bridge, round Marshall Place and finally through a police cordon into Leonard Street.

In the car they had been told that there were armed police surrounding the station, staff at the station had been evacuated and the signals were red from Perth on so that the train’s automatic systems wouldn’t let it move. The police were going to take over the engines, staff would be asked to leave first and the speaker system would explain that there was a fault with the engine and people had to get off. There were police in Scot rail uniforms, some in boiler suits with luminous vests, on the platform ready for each door to open, but they were going to empty the train a carriage at time in single file. There were snipers on roofs and a dog handler ready to sweep the train when the passengers were off if they didn’t find their man and in case of booby traps.

It was all in hand.

David nervously checked his weapon, but he needn’t have worried, he wasn’t allowed to the front and in the open. He and Beaumont were standing at the gate ready to spring and call if Spencer got past the police.

The station was lit up clearly and everyone tensed, radios crackled and went quiet as the train slowly cruised gleaming into the station’s stark lights, it was eleven fifteen. In well timed movements the disguised police manned the doors, the men allotted to the engines swung into action and the drivers were the first to leave. At the barrier they passed McKie and Beaumont.

On the train there was a stunned silence, followed by a babble of complaints and annoyed groans when the instructions to detrain were given including instructions to have a ticket ready to be examined at the gate. The staff came out of every door of the train and passed the DIC men, the first in what was to be a long line.

In the toilet Stanton finished his disguise with a frown. He felt sure that the engines were fine. He walked into the corridor and looked out of a window. On the platform there were a lot of staff, too many. He looked at the boots and knew they were police. Hasty disguises didn’t always include the foot wear and men of action liked their sturdy comfortable boots. He didn’t know that they weren’t looking for him, but now with a disguise and identity that didn’t match the name on his ticket he didn’t fancy his chances. He went back to his sleeper and sat down.

Spencer had been asleep. He was muzzy headed. He too looked out the window. He was sure it was a trap. He decided to get out the train on the track side, using the emergency opening. He’d alert them, but it was a chance he’d take. He knew he’d get caught for the taxi driver once they took his prints and there were other kills besides. He didn’t fancy thirty years in prison.

The passengers passed through the barriers a coach at a time with Police checking tickets and ID and McKie and Beaumont watching, searching each face. They were down to the last coach when they heard a shout and two shots.

Spencer, rucksack on his back and loaded weapon in hand, had opened the door and spotted by a sniper, who called out to stop, had fired a round at the voice, then dropped off the train, his dropping so quickly meant the sniper missed. Police marksmen with Enforcer rifles and those with Heckler-Koch MP5 sub-machine guns opened up as he ran down the track, zig zagging.

By the ticket barrier the people panicked, but were shouted at to calmly continue through the barriers. David looked past the crowds and saw the muzzle flashes. There were clangs, zipping noises and then a call to cease fire.

Spencer stood in the middle of the track, no less than nine rifles trained on him, hand with his weapon, still held tightly, at his side. He had to decide; capture or death. He ran through his mind the possibilities; the shouts to drop the weapon came thick, fast and with urgency.

The detective nearest McKie had a crackling voice from his receiver, someone breaking radio silence.

“We’ve got your man.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” David’s voice came out stronger and more directed than he himself had intended and his customs confidence surfaced. He had a badge and an office. The police here had been called by his boss, the man who sent him. Authority surged through his mind and pushed his shoulders back. David called Beaumont and they pushed through the crowd and onto the train. The two of them walked down the train, but were stopped by two armed police just opening a door via the emergency handle. David looked out the window nearest to him at the figure of Spencer, near enough dead parallel standing below on the track, his hand instinctively reached inside his coat to pull the SIG P220 Rail from its holster, but Beaumont’s hand gripped his wrist. David looked around sharply and saw the warning in his partner’s wise eyes. He nodded and pulled his hand out empty.

“Is that him?” The policeman asked.

On the track Spencer steeled himself. Perhaps he could drop and roll under the train he thought. A dive under the train seemed futile, but it might give him time to think. He looked to his left at the train and saw a door open two metres forward. He looked direct left straight into David’s eyes. He read David’s lips.

“That’s him.”

As McKie spoke Spencer swung his right arm round and up aiming straight for the door, two shots sped through the space where the ducking armed officer’s head had been and into the woodwork, David and Beaumont watched stunned as all nine rifles hit their target and jolted Spencer like a puppet; in the bright white light fine mists of blood and ripped skin surrounded him for a second as the Enfield Enforcer sniper rifle rounds tore through him.

After the gunfire there was a brief silence and the two armed police in the doorway dropped out and approached Spencer’s awkwardly felled body machine gun barrels to the fore, fingers twitching.

David watched from the window as they kicked the weapon away and one officer felt the pulse on Spencer’s bloodied neck. He was still. McKie turned and exited the train on the platform side; passengers were being let through without checks and taken through the cordon to waiting coaches. As he walked back to the barrier McKie’s peripheral vision registered one handler and one dog entering the train.

“You shouldn’t have got on the train!” The detective was annoyed.

“What?”

“Not until we’d checked for booby traps.”

David pulled his badge. “Read that. I’m government.” He pulled back his jacket showing the SIG 220 in its shoulder holster. “See that I walk around this country armed. I go where I want. You’re supporting me.” McKie turned to Beaumont. “We’d better call in.”

“I’ll do it David.” Beaumont turned to the detective. "Sorry my friend’s wound up, but there are three more of these men out there and one of ours is missing presumed dead.”

“Then it looks like it’s one all I’d say.” The detective said flippantly.

McKie heard and turned around. “You think you’re funny?”

The detective blanched and swallowed.

“There are three more like this one and as far as you know that corpse on the track may have notched up other bodies. Now you times that by four because they’re all like this one. I watched him die, but he died trying to kill and escape, against all odds. That’s not natural.”

“Alright.”

“Somewhere out there three more men, who arrived this morning, are armed and ready to murder one person in this country and they’re prepared to kill innocent people and risk death to get to that person. That’s the job we’re on now friend. Pray it’s not anyone you know they come across and need to get out of the way or at least pray our people find them first.”