Archer, Jeffrey - Hidden in Plain Sight

‘Tonight, we have a chance to strike a blow against these vile individuals, by capturing one of the most prominent of their leaders, Assem Rashidi, and closing down his empire, which stretches from one end of London to the other. Let’s put this monster behind bars for the rest of his life.’

Everyone rose to their feet and cheered, and William was reminded why he’d always wanted to be a copper. It was some time before the commander was able to continue.

‘If our operation goes to plan, we will also arrest his four closest acolytes, preventing the hydra from simply replacing its lost head. And finally, we will permanently shut down the drugs factory where Rashidi’s deadly wares are prepared before they’re released onto the streets.’

Once again, the commander was held up by the eager response of his troops.

‘If we succeed, you will be able to tell tales of heroic deeds performed tonight that will become part of police folklore. Many of your colleagues will claim they were members of the Capital Gang, when drug barons became drug serfs, when our young were freed from being victims of these cynical predators. But you yourselves will never talk of the role you played, other than to those who stand by your side tonight.

‘As the one chosen to lead you into battle – for a battle it will surely be – this is unquestionably the high point of my career. So now let’s go about our task, and in the great tradition of the force, let’s make a difference.’

The Hawk stepped down from the stage to a storm of cheers that only died down after he had climbed aboard the battle bus to join his inner team, who had spent so many months preparing for this moment.

‘This wouldn’t be St Crispin’s Day by any chance?’ said William, suppressing a grin when the commander joined them on the top deck.

‘If it is, let’s hope we achieve the same result as Henry the Fifth,’ replied Hawksby as he took his place in front of a command centre that looked capable of delivering a man on the moon rather than just a couple of dozen armed officers to the top floor of a tower block in Brixton.

‘Time to discover just how efficient this piece of kit is,’ said the commander, tuning in to a frequency that would keep him in touch with everyone on the ground, although they’d all been warned to maintain radio silence once the convoy was on the move.

Danny sat astride the Trojan horse, stirrups ready, impatient to spur the beast into action, while Lamont, William and Jackie remained by the commander’s side. Paul was in position on the lower deck, determined that he would be the first off the bus the moment they drew up outside the entrance to the tower blocks.

The commander checked his watch, pressed a button on his two-way radio and said, ‘Let battle commence.’

The number 118 bus led the troops out onto Brixton Road, with its well-ordered convoy following closely behind. No flashing lights, no sirens, no screeching tyres. At various prearranged points along the way, other vehicles peeled off to disappear down unlit streets and await further orders.

A mile from the target the Hawk said, ‘Time for you to leave us, DS Warwick, and begin directing operations on the ground. Don’t report back until the job is done.’

‘On my way, sir,’ said William, who ran down the spiral staircase to join Paul on the lower deck, where the assembled troops were waiting impatiently for the order to move. One young officer, chosen because he could run a hundred yards in under ten seconds, was standing next to the conductor waiting for the starter’s pistol to sound. Paul hadn’t told him that he was determined to reach the lift ahead of him, and personally take out Donoghue before he could press the alarm button.

One step behind the sprinter stood two squat square-shouldered men, who played in the front row of the scrum every Saturday afternoon. They would only be a few yards behind, and their orders were clear: play the man and not the ball, because there wouldn’t be any referee giving penalties for foul play.

The two rows of seats near the back of the bus were occupied by eight young officers in tracksuits and trainers, whose sole purpose was to disarm the four lookouts before they had a chance to warn the gatekeeper. In the next three rows were a dozen officers from the Specialist Firearms Command, hydraulic kits strapped to their backs, who once they’d leapt off the bus would head straight for the stairs, determined to reach the twenty-third floor in under seven minutes. Bets had already been placed as to who would make it to the front door first.

In the front rows sat a larger group of men and women who were in no particular hurry. Trained specialists from the drugs unit, their job was to meticulously gather the evidence and bag it up before sending it to the lab for analysis. It would be their evidence that would decide the length of the sentences, not the courage of the foot soldiers.

Scattered at random among the other officers were a number of WPCs, of whom the Hawk had said, they also serve who only sit and wait . William had smiled when he heard his boss misquote Milton.

The carpenter was already in position near the walkway on the twenty-third floor of Block B, ready to put up his own personal no-entry sign the instant the order was given, so that one line of escape from the factory would be completely cut off.

The tactical firearms team was out of sight, but Hawksby was confident that, like unwelcome guests, they would appear the moment they were least expected.

So far, everything had gone like clockwork, but the Hawk knew only too well that you can’t plan for the unexpected. On that, at least, he would be proven right. The bus continued its steady progress along Coldharbour Lane carrying a silent group of non-paying passengers on their way to work. Danny had carried out two dry runs the previous evening, so he knew how long every red light took to change, where the pedestrian crossings were located, and where the road narrowed, making it impossible to overtake or be overtaken. He drove past puzzled and irate clusters of would-be passengers at each stop, ignoring their insistent waves. Would they work out why he hadn’t stopped when they read their morning papers?

‘Five minutes from the target,’ said Hawksby, breaking radio silence for the second time. William could see that the passengers who would be getting off at the next stop were now poised tensely on the edge of their seats, waiting for the command, go, go, go!

The sprinter was already set, desperate to burst out of the blocks and be on his way with his two heavier colleagues following close behind. Paul, still determined to reach Donoghue first, had ditched his ticket machine and peaked cap, and was unbuttoning his jacket. Leaping off the bus had been endlessly practised to make sure no one would trip or bump into each other.

‘Three minutes,’ said the commander, as they rounded the next bend and the two tower blocks came into sight for the first time.

William could feel a rush of adrenalin flood through his body, accompanied by a moment of fear and apprehension, as they inched closer and closer to their target.

Hawksby checked his stopwatch, a thumb poised on its button, aware that a few seconds either way could spell the difference between success and failure.

Two minutes, Red. ‘Board them up,’ said the commander.

The carpenter stepped out of his overnight accommodation, having completed all his preliminary work during the day. He rested three thick wooden planks up against the wall, then took a battery-powered drill and a handful of screws out of his large kitbag. He placed the first plank across the door. A perfect fit. He inserted the first screw into its prepared hole and set about his task, confident that no one on the other side of the heavy reinforced metal door would be able to hear him going about his work.