Bad Soldier: Danny Black Thriller 4 (47 page)

‘Barker, Connor, what the hell are you doing?’ The men stopped. The voice was behind them, but Barker recognised it well enough. Wallace Conlin, when Barker turned to face him, had a face like a thundercloud. ‘I thought I told you I wanted you in position.’

Barker and Connor exchanged a sidelong glance. A glance that said: should we tell him what we think?

Barker stepped forward. ‘Boss,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve found a weak spot.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The priests. They need to be searched. They could be hiding anything under those . . .’

His voice trailed away as he saw the expression on Conlin’s face.

‘The priests,’ Conlin said, ‘are as white as you or me.’

‘Boss, we
know
there are white IS sympathisers. It’s not just about skin colour—’

‘I thought I told you,’ Conlin interrupted, and his voice was dangerous, ‘to leave the thinking to the people who know how to do it.’

‘Boss, I’m just saying . . .’ He blinked. What
was
he saying? A thought crystallised very clearly in his mind. ‘Boss, the people who are most likely to bring a device into the abbey are the people who’ve had access to it for weeks, months.’ He looked back towards the entrance. ‘No member of the public’s going to get an IED in here today. Not with all this security.’

‘All this security?’ Conlin cut in. He waved one finger around, vaguely indicating the security personnel all around the abbey. ‘You know
why
there’s all this security, Barker? Because of you. We had a direct lead to a UK-based IS cell, and you two idiots killed the fucker with a badly placed fist. Now you seem to think you have a better handle on what’s going on here than the combined brainpower of the UK security forces? I promise you, gentlemen, that you don’t. So do us all a favour, leave the fucking vicars to fondle the choirboys and get the hell back to your positions before I have you both RTU’d.’

Barker and Connor both glanced towards the vestry.

‘
Now!
’ Conlin said.

They didn’t have a choice. Barker returned to his place in the front pew. Connor took up position on the other side of the aisle.

Time check: 0925.

T minus thirty-five minutes.

Time check: 0927.

Danny and Spud had watched members of the public entering the grounds without exchanging a word. Danny estimated that there were just shy of 100 people. The visibility was appalling: mist as thick as soup made it hard to discern individual figures. Nevertheless, he had used the rifle scope from his bag of gear to focus in on every member of the public as they passed through the west gates. Old ladies, mostly. A few younger couples with kids. A handful of toddlers. Several babies in prams. Woollen hats and heavy coats.

Danny’s vision went blurred. All the faces merged into one. He shook his head. Snapped out of it. Focussed in on individual faces again.

Not a single face that looked remotely Middle Eastern. Not a single person who Danny could even begin to think might be the animal who had his daughter.

Until now.

He was a tall man. Broad-shouldered. Dark skin. He wore a black beanie hat. Black gloves. A navy Puffa jacket. But it was the man’s scarf that jumped out at Danny. He could just make it out, despite the mist. The man was not wearing it in any of the usual ways: two tails hanging down, or knotted under the Adam’s apple. The thick woollen material was very precisely wrapped. Swaddling the neck. As though it were hiding something.

‘That’s him,’ he hissed.

Spud inhaled sharply. ‘Are you sure?’

Danny cursed. His hands had gone shaky. Probably just the cold. He realigned his sights so they were fixed on this new target, who had raised his arms and was being scanned by the security guys at the gate. The guy held out a rucksack, which one of the security guys looked through.

‘He had a scar on his neck,’ Danny muttered to himself, still watching. ‘A bad one . . . He’d want to hide it . . .’

‘Mucker, what are you talking about?’

Danny let out a low hiss. ‘Watch – he’s not following the others to the church. He’s heading in this direction . . .’

And he was. The guy was looking over his left shoulder, checking that he wasn’t being observed by the security guys on the gate. They were too busy searching a few new arrivals, however, and the guy easily slipped towards the treeline and out of Danny’s sight.

He lowered his scope. ‘I’m going to find him,’ he said. But his voice suddenly sounded slurred, and Spud was looking at him in a curious way.

‘Mate, I’m not fucking with you . . . You don’t look—’

‘Just keep eyes on the latecomers, check for anyone suspicious.’

Danny backed carefully out of the clump of bushes that formed his OP, rifle in hand, the freezing cold metal almost burning his skin. At least, he thought to himself, the mist was also obscuring him and Spud. Standing up, he hid the suppressed weapon under his long coat. And once he was fully clear of the bushes, he stood very still. Here, among the trees, his sense of hearing would be just as important as his vision. His target had entered the treeline fifty metres north of their position, at a bearing of approximately thirty-five degrees. Danny estimated that he’d cross his line of sight in approximately one minute, before heading north to meet the road that led from Sandringham House to the church. Camouflaged by the thick trunk of an old oak tree, he waited for the telltale sound of footsteps shuffling through the forest.

They didn’t come.

He peered out from behind the tree trunk and immediately discerned movement, thirty metres distant. The mist meant he couldn’t quite make out the figure, but he had a sense of someone picking their way east, but slowly. Like a pro. Danny moved swiftly, cutting noiselessly from tree to tree, stopping behind each one to check he wasn’t observed. His target was moving well, but Danny was moving better, closing the gap quickly. When it had closed to fifteen metres, he removed his rifle, pressed the butt hard into his shoulder and aimed it directly at the moving target . . .

The target stopped with his back to Danny. Distance, ten metres. Danny could see clouds of the man’s breath condensing in the cold air. He showed no sign of knowing he was being followed. He pulled his rucksack off his back, knelt down and started removing unseen objects from the bag. Danny heard the gentle click and clunk of items being slotted together. A sound he knew well . . .

Very calmly, and quietly, he spoke.

‘Hands in the air, you piece of shit.’

The target froze. He didn’t raise his arms, but looked over his shoulder. Dark, hooded eyes widened. Then his arms shot up into the air.

‘I’m approaching,’ Danny said. ‘Don’t make a fucking mistake.’

‘I wanted to find the best place for a shot,’ the target muttered.

I bet you did, you piece of shit, Danny thought as he took a couple of paces forward. But all he said was: ‘Take your scarf off.’

The target hesitated.

‘Take it off,’ Danny repeated.

The target slowly lowered his arms. His hands were trembling. He slowly started to loosen the scarf. Three winds, and it was off.

‘Drop it. Then put your hands on your head and stand up.’

The scarf coiled to the floor. The target followed his instructions and got to his feet.

‘Turn round.’

He turned.

‘Let me see your neck.’

Danny knew immediately, from his target’s expression of confusion, that he’d made a bad mistake. The guy loosened the top of his coat and raised his chin to display his neck. There was no marking. Just a little downy stubble. Danny looked at the ground. The gear that he’d been clicking together was camera equipment.

‘Who are you?’ Danny growled.

‘Ph – photographer,’ the guy stuttered. ‘P – paparazzi. I just wanted to . . . Look, I can leave now . . .’ He stepped back.

Instinct took over. Danny surged forward, lowering his weapon as he moved. This guy obviously thought Danny was part of the royal security team. If he twigged that he wasn’t, all hell could break loose. Danny needed to silence him. Quickly.

One hit was all it took. A solid, sharp blow to the neck. Not enough to kill him, or even to cause permanent harm. But enough to put him down, unconscious.

The guy crumpled heavily to the ground. Danny was suddenly sweating badly. Breathing heavily. He looked around, checking for threats. He was suddenly dizzy.

Exhaustion. Cold. Panic. It was all catching up with him. He staggered towards a tree trunk and supported himself against it. The same nausea he’d experienced the night before came rushing back on him, only twice as bad this time.

His knees weakened. He crouched down.

Maybe if he just closed his eyes for ten seconds . . .

No
—

He opened them again. But everything became a blur: bare, wintry trees . . . dark evergreen bushes . . . and were there figures, moving at a distance through the forest?

Danny’s eyes rolled. He felt his head against the tree trunk. Everything was dark.

He saw a motorcade trundling slowly along the road. Two black cars. Eight or nine people walking alongside. Shrouded in mist. Yellow Seven was there. And Violets One, Two and Three. And Tony. Suddenly, from the far side of the road, five figures appeared. They wore camouflage fatigues, balaclavas, black and white
shemaghs
. They brandished rifles. They looked like they had walked straight out of the badlands of Iraq, not emerged from the forests of Sandringham.

One of them was holding a baby. It was screaming. A shrill, desperate scream that pierced everything. Nobody seemed to pay it any attention. Danny didn’t understand it.
Why was nobody helping the child? It was weeping blood 
. . .

The militants opened up. A choking thunder of automatic rifle fire. The motorcade windscreens shattered. The rounds ripped twisted holes into the metal. Blood spattered over the tarmac as the walkers hit the ground . . .

There were more screams. More automatic fire. But above it all, the constant, horrible, desolate wailing of the baby . . .

Danny’s whole body started. He was still crouched down by the tree. The mist was surrounding him like a blanket.

He forced himself to his feet. Mastered the exhaustion again. He looked over to check that the photographer was still down. He was.

Then he realised he could hear something. A car engine. Maybe more than one. Quiet. Moving slowly. North-east of here. Hard to tell the distance, because the mist and the trees were messing with the sound.

Time check. 0946 hours.

Shit. The royals’ motorcade.

He picked up his weapon. Inhaled deeply. Checked his surroundings. No sign of movement.

The road was thirty metres through the trees. Danny crashed through the forest, cold sweat dripping into his eyes, breath billowing all around him. He reached the edge of the treeline ten seconds later. Kept himself hidden behind a thick tree trunk again. A grey figure in the all-encompassing mist, he knew he would be invisible to those not looking for him. And from here he finally had eyes on the royals.

The motorcade was thirty metres from Danny’s position, and it was moving very slowly. Almost like a funeral procession. In his hallucination there had been three vehicles. In reality there were two, one behind the other. He predicted that the front vehicle would be security. The senior royals would be in the car behind. At the front of the motorcade was a TV camera guy, walking backwards with a camera on his shoulder, filming the convoy. Trailing the second car were all those who had decided to get to the church on foot. Danny instantly picked out Violet Two and his missus. Violets One and Three were walking in a little group on the far side of the vehicle. There were three CP guys – the unnecessary sunglasses gave them away. And Yellow Seven, trailing at the back, with Tony beside him. Tony was the only security guy not wearing shades. He appeared to be in deep, flamboyant conversation with his new royal buddy, but Danny – who had been trained to notice such things, and who now zeroed in on him with his scope – observed that even though he was making a show of paying attention to Yellow Seven, his eyes were darting all over the place. Into the trees on the left and right. Up, down, straight ahead. And while he gestured with his left hand, his right was constantly resting by the buttons of his suit jacket. He was ready to grab his sidearm if the situation called for it.

Tony was on high alert. No question.

Danny too. The weakness he had felt since arriving in the UK had fallen away. Everything seemed crystal clear. He had failed to locate the terrorists’ shooting position. Now he only had one choice.

Wait for them to shoot. Then follow the line of fire.

He turned his attention from the motorcade towards the trees on the other side of the road. They were dark, gnarled shapes in the mist. Easy to hide in. Difficult to penetrate. If there was a shooter waiting, or more than one, Danny was still sure that they would be using the tree cover by the side of the route to hide.