Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (31 page)

Baker residence

North East London
 

The cold, blue glow bathed his features as he watched the frenzied picture on the screen before him. His thumbs drifted this way and that as he guided the MPUAV through the smog-laden air over London, its sole target weaving in and out of the throng of people below.
 

'Package approaching door, say again, package is approaching door. Zero sightings.'
 

Static buzzed in his ear as he heard the radio squelch coming in from his compatriots at street level.
 

'Watcher One, pulling drone for recharge and damage check. T.T.O.R fifteen minutes.'
 

Another squelch of static filled his ear as he guided the quadro-copter back to his rooftop nest, letting it land with a soft whistling whine on the foam-padded case to his right. He snapped the charger into place and watched the digital counter slowly begin to climb into the green.

****
 

'Watcher Two, Tango sighted, west of my position, red building, third floor, second window from right. Confirm.'
 

His earbud buzzed as he stared down the scope of his rifle, the cross hairs sitting tight on his target's chest as he waited for confirmation. He watched as the barrel rose above the lip of the window. His gaze flicked down to the four-inch monitor to his left, the high-resolution image of the front of Derek and Janet's home drawing his attention as the door swung open.
 

'Belay confirmation, Tango has eyes on package, weapon in play.'
 

He squeezed the trigger, the rifle bumping into his shoulder as he absorbed the recoil; he watched the figure in the window jolt as the bullet tore through their chest, dragging bone and tissue with it.
 

'Tango is down, need to confirm, but shot was good.'
 

A figure appeared in his sights a minute later, hand waving over their head, fingers splayed apart. Pressing the rubberised pad on the stock of his rifle, he sent a reply. A heavy, aged voice filled his ear a second later as the figure slipped away from the window.

****
 

'Drone in play and tracking; Watcher Three, do you have eyes on?'
 

The line danced with the hiss of white noise and static as Watcher One waited for a reply, the muffled sounds of his own breathing filling his ears as he watched the screen flicker slightly.
 

The infrared beacon hanging from the strap of Janet's shoulder bag blinked and blipped as she wove through the throng of people cluttering the pavement around her.
 

'Six, swing drone four to task, drone two moving to sector six, Watcher Three is not responding.'
 

The carbon fibre blades sliced the air as the drone banked sharply to port and swung out over the traffic-choked road and headed in the direction of the silent watcher.
 

Ridgmont watched as the drone drifted silently across the rooftops. The radio controller next to him softly beeped as it cycled through myriad of frequencies that blanketed the air around him. A widening grin spread over his features like wet mud over a stone as a soft beep filled the air.
 

The controller sat, cold and heavy in his hands as he let his gaze drop to the screen; his thumbs danced over the twin joysticks as the drone swung backward towards One. The auto loader clunked as it dragged a shell into the shotgun's chamber, the barrel rising into place as the drone swung level with One's position.
 

'What the fuck is going on here?' One smashed his fist into the side of the controller as the screen shifted, his moving form filling his vision as One turned to stare at the hovering drone. 'Oh, bollocks.'
 

The blast echoed across the milling throng below, making them squeal with fright as the drone jolted slightly with the recoil of the twelve-gauge round detonating.
 

The hot lead pellets tore into One's bomber-jacketed form. The clacking bolt lent a lilting rhythmic cadence to the chugging thump as, one after another, the smoking black casings fell to the rooftop below.

****
 

Janet's head swivelled at the sudden sound as the man twenty feet behind launched himself forwards, pinning her to the floor. The air left her lungs in a rush, the heavy smell of sweat and cigarettes filled her nose as she struggled to draw a breath.
 

'Stay close.'
 

The man's hand curled into her coat as she was hauled to her feet, a matte-black pistol appearing next to her face as she was pulled back towards her front door.
 

'Keep your head down and move it.'
 

Janet stumbled, struggling to keep her feet beneath her as he pushed her up the steps and into her home. Janet jerked her shoulder from his grip as she stumbled forwards. 'Get the fuck off me. Who the fucking hell do you think you are?'
 

He spun to face Janet as the door slammed shut. Striding forwards, he shoved her deeper into the house. 'I'm Sergeant Thomas Martin, Special Boat Service. Stay down, stay quiet, and you'll stay alive.'
 

The sound of footsteps filled the air as Martin spun, his aim snapping to the top of the staircase as his eyes slid along the cold polymer slide as the sights aligned.
 

Siobhan stared at him, eyes wide with fear as she clutched Maria to her shoulder. 'I ... I ... I heard gunshots; what's going on?'
 

Martin snagged Janet's sleeve and hauled her upstairs, pushing her into Siobhan as he herded both of them towards the back of the house. Maria began to whine as the noise and confusion soaked into her tiny form.
 

'Shut her up and get in there.'
 

He pushed the trio towards the empty box room at the far end of the corridor. Spinning on the balls of his feet, Martin sped down the corridor to the staircase. With a grunt of exertion, he vaulted the stairs, leaping to the floor below as the front door began to swing open.

****
 

The echoing crack of a nine-millimetre pistol filled the hallway as a hooded form slipped past the gloss black door. The scent of burnt cloth and blood filled the air as Martin slid into the heavy oak panelling of the door.
 

Wet gurgling greeted his ears as he pushed himself to his feet. A heavy twinge of pain skittered across the base of his back as he levered himself upright. He stared at the man as blood soaked his chest, the ragged hole in his neck oozing as he stared through water-hazed eyes at Thomas' advancing form.
 

'Dying is never pretty, is it? But fuck me, mate, you are ugly. Division Twelve is really scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel if you are what they're dishing out.'
 

He lifted aside the unzipped hoodie and began emptying out the dead operative's pockets. Martin pulled his hand from the inner pocket of the hoodie, his knuckles slick with blood, and flipped open the dead man's wallet. The MOD identification card stared up at him from the clear plastic panel, a dour, pockmarked face glaring back at him.
 

'Traitorous cunt.'
 

Curling his hand into the corpse's collar, he dragged it away from the door. He cast a glance at the slack, ashen features, a shiver of disgust snaking its way up his spine as he crossed the threshold and dumped the slowly cooling body beside the sink.
 

Pressing his fingers to the call pad on his throat mike, Martin opened a channel.
'This is Three, package is locked down, Tango eliminated, anyone eyes on, I need an update.'
 

The earphone bead in his ear hissed with a storm of white noise as he watched shadows dance past the kitchen window, their fluttering forms flirting with his eyes as he quietly moved towards the back door. The sound of booted feet on wooden planks rose through the tumult of panicked cries, lending a muted accompaniment to the drumbeat of death that pushed its way into his head.
 

'Well, isn't this just dandy? Three mags full of nine-mil hollow points, a deck full of psychopaths in high-end body armour with classified weaponry, and nothing but a doctor, a nursemaid, and a bloody baby as back up… oh, and a dead radio.'
 

His words echoed in the silent hallway as he made his way towards the stairs, hoping in vain to manufacture some kind of bottleneck. Once more, his fingers found the pad on his throat, the soft rubber-covered button clicking slightly as he pushed.
 

'This is Three, to all watchers, package is under threat, I repeat package is under threat, anyone in vicinity respond.'
 

****
 

Baker stared at the police tape covering the railings that bordered the carved stone steps. The flashing lights cast dancing spectres across the granite-hewn walls of his home. He watched with anger and fear-tinged eyes as, one after another, black sack-filled stretchers were wheeled forth. Their clacking wheels sent spears of ice into his heart as they made their way to the waiting ambulances.
 

The Sco19 officers that flanked the tape-lined steps moved to block him, their black gloved hands rising to clasp his shoulders.
 

'Touch me and I will rip your throats out with my teeth. Fucking move.'
 

The two men glared back at him from beneath their Kevlar helmets, their towering forms squaring up to him as a voice split the air around them.
 

'Bridge, Drapper, bloody move. You idiots wouldn't last thirty seconds against him. Don't you recognise the name on his damned jacket?'
 

Both men blanched as their eyes dropped to the patch on Derek's jacket, the embroidered red arrowhead inlaid with the queen's crown, his name in block white lettering beneath it.
 

Both men shrank visibly as they stepped aside heads nodding in the direction of the still open doorway.
 

'Baker.'
 

Derek paused and turned to glance at the Sco19 commander. 'She's fine. Shaken, but fine.'
 

Derek nodded as he brushed past the two officers and made his way up the steps to his front door. Baker's mind whirled as he stepped through the doorway. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils, the claret spattering standing clear against the cream walls of the staircase, photos lay discarded, the shattered glass stained crimson at the edges.
 

Derek knelt, picking the glass from the frame, his fingers tingling as he felt spear-like shards slide into his skin, droplets of claret liquid seeping through the pads of his fingers.
 

He stared at the picture his father holding his daughter with his wife standing next to the loving duo, a beaming smile on her face; although, what Derek now looked at was the charred hole where his wife's face had once been. Setting the shattered picture at the foot of the stairs, he stood, brushing the crystalline shards from his knees and stepped towards the chaos that was once his living room.
 

Siobhan sat, curled next to Janet, Maria held between them as the young woman sobbed into his wife's shoulder, her mouse brown hair draped over Janet's back as she shook with the violent exhalations of her own fear-drenched outpouring.
 

Derek's eyes cast their gaze around the room. The two paramedics, who knelt around the only person he didn't recognise glanced his direction as they began to pack their bags. Discarded latex gloves and empty packets quickly stuffed into a thin polythene bag before they made their way from the room, their dark-green uniforms a stark contrast to the pale skin of the topless man they had stood next to.
 

Baker made his way to the edge of the sofa, his hand settling on Janet's shoulder as he squeezed it gently, her head leaning into his hip. Eyebrows furrowed, Derek spoke, his voice measured and monotone despite the current of fear that pierced the baritone cadence that filled the room.
 

'Name and rank.'
 

The man looked up, a sharp snarl of pain skating across his face as he moved too quickly, the stitches in his shoulder tugging at the tender skin that walled the cavern carved through his shoulder. 'Martin, Sergeant, three-three-four-one-eight-nine-two-three.'

Baker nodded as he gently tapped Janet's shoulder before moving away, his eyes never leaving Martin's even gaze.
 

'Thank you.'
 

Thomas smirked, wincing as he did so, his hand reflexively moving to rub at the bandages covering his shoulder before he stopped short and set his hands in his lap once more.
 

'Don't be. "By any means" doesn't just cover ops, Major; you know that. We look after our own. You know you're still the poster boy at Poole. Hell, you're what every sneaky beaky, and sprog wants to be when they grow up.

'I should know, I was one of 'em, but that's old news. This was just something we do—once a Marine, always a Marine.'