Chapter Seven

 

 

December 16

Waltham Forest, East London

United Kingdom

 

Justin slithered through the dark night along the gray brick wall, leading his team toward their target. He looked over his shoulder for a split second; enough to ensure Carrie and Vale were right behind him. They had their weapons drawn and were following at a distance of four or five steps. They were clad in black, like him, and he could see only the whites of their eyes and their cold breath in the air.

He returned his gaze to the back of the two-story yellow-painted house where al-Nueimi and a group of jihadists were rumored to have been staying for the last couple of days. Carrie’s source had confirmed al-Nueimi had been in the house as of thirty minutes ago, and hopefully was still there. Dolina and two agents from the London ECS station were advancing on the house from the other side.

“We’ve got movement,” Dolina’s voice came through Justin’s earpiece. “White van pulling to the front.”

“How many?” Justin whispered.

“Unconfirmed. Two, maybe more.”

“Ready to hit.”

“Waiting for visual on al-Nueimi?” Dolina asked.

“Negative. ERE, I repeat, ERE,” Justin said.

Extraordinary Rules of Engagement meant the teams were authorized to use deadly force at the first sign of a weapon, regardless of whether they were under fire or not.

“Copy that,” Dolina said.

Justin nodded. He glanced at Carrie and Vale. She gave him a quick head nod, while Vale made a thumbs-up sign with his left hand. Both Carrie and Vale were on the same radio frequency as Justin and would have heard his communication with Dolina. But Justin did not like to rely on technology more than needed, and always opted for double-checking whenever it was possible.

“We’re good,” Carrie said.

“In position,” Vale said.

“Roger,” Justin said.

He advanced another ten feet and came to the corner of the alleyway. The back entrance to the house was now fully visible. A tall skinny man was standing near the black wrought-iron door. Both of his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his orange jacket. His head was swiveling fast, as he was casting sweeping glances up and down the alleyway.

“Single watcher near backdoor,” Justin whispered.

“Unarmed?” Carrie asked.

“Unconfirmed. Stand by,” Justin replied.

He dropped to one knee but stayed behind the cover offered by the building’s corner. He aimed at the man with his Sig Sauer P229 pistol; it was equipped with a titanium and stainless steel sound and flash suppressor. Even if the watcher were looking straight at the weapon, which he was not, he would have barely noticed the suppressor with its diameter of less than an inch and a half.

Carrie dropped to his left. “So?”

“No movement.”

Justin closed his left eye and kept his weapon trained on the man’s head. “Sit rep,” he whispered on his mike to Dolina, asking for a situation report.

“Van driver sitting still. Front passenger on alert.”

“Copy.”

He drew in a series of small shallow breaths and felt sweat begin to form on his palms. He was glad for his non-slip tactical gloves, which absorbed any perspiration and molded well to his hands. Justin listened to his heart drumming hard in his chest, then a noise of screeching tires came from the left.

“What’s that?” Vale asked.

Justin leaned forward to peek around the corner. But his knee slipped on the moist ground. He tried to grab a hold of the wall, and he could not. He fell onto his side.

“Justin,” Carrie whispered.

“I’m okay.”

He began to roll back behind the corner, but it was too late. A small car’s strong headlights fell on him. A moment later, a bullet thumped against the wall, mere inches from his head.

“Shots fired, shots fired,” Dolina’s voice rang in his ear.

He crawled toward safety, as Carrie pulled him.

Vale stepped closer to them and fired his pistol. His bullets shattered the car’s headlights. The alley sank into darkness.

“Sorry,” Justin said.

“No worries. You’re okay?” Carrie said.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Good.”

She fired a couple of rounds at the car as well. Then she turned her weapon toward the back of the house.

Justin aimed his pistol in that direction as well.

The watcher was gone.

A shooter stood up and opened fire from the left side of the car. Justin fell back behind the corner as bullets from the shooter’s assault rifle hammered the other side of the wall. A hail of brick dust and fragments from the wall exploded around them. He turned his head to the other side, protecting his eyes.

Carrie swore at the shooters. She reloaded her pistol, then shouted, “Cover!”

Justin slid onto his stomach and rolled around the corner as Carrie bolted out of the alley and dashed toward the car.

He fired quick two- and three-round bursts, aiming at the last place he had seen the shooter. He was no longer there, so Justin concentrated his firepower on the car’s windshield, then at the tires. They erupted, and the car dropped.

“Reloading,” he shouted and slammed a fresh magazine into his pistol.

Vale had turned his attention to the house. Someone was shooting at them from a second-story window. More muzzle flashes lit up another window, this one on the ground floor. Vale returned fire methodically, single rounds, alternating between the two positions of the incoming fire.

Justin stepped out on the street, looking for Carrie. She was crouching behind the concrete steps leading to one of the houses and reloading her pistol.

A gunman popped up near the back of the car. He fired a quick burst at Carrie, but she was well-protected by the steps. The gunman then noticed Justin and turned the rifle toward him. Justin squeezed off a couple of rounds that struck the gunman in the chest. He collapsed against the car, then fell to the ground.

Bullets shattered the window over Carrie’s head. She jumped over the stairs and crawled to a new, safer position on the other side.

Justin glanced at the house. No muzzle flashes. He pointed his pistol at the previous two locations from which shooters had poured torrents of bullets, but no one fired from there. “Vale, I’m advancing to Carrie, then clearing the car,” he said into his mike.

“Roger that. I’ve got the back of the house,” Vale replied.

Justin dashed toward Carrie as a couple of rounds struck the wall behind him. He fired in the direction of the house, uncertain of the shooter’s position.

Carrie also squeezed off a few rounds, covering Justin’s advance. “Ground floor, second window to our left,” she said when Justin dropped next to her. “I think I got the shooter.”

Justin pointed his pistol at that target. He waited for someone to materialize in his pistol’s sight, but that did not happen. “Maybe you did get him.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“The car.”

“Yes. Grenades?”

“I’ve got one.” Justin pulled a grenade from one of his bulletproof vest pouches. He held it in his right hand and reached for the ring.

“Ten seconds?”

“Yes, that’s good.”

Carrie peeked around the steps and fired a few rounds that shattered what was left of the car’s windshield and side windows.

Someone returned fire from the back of the car, and bullets splintered the door a few feet away from Carrie’s face. She kept double-tapping her pistol for another moment, then shouted at Justin, “Now!”

Justin had already pulled the grenade’s ring and had counted down to five seconds. He jumped to his feet and hurled the grenade. It bounced over the car’s roof and fell on the other side. “Down, down!”

They knelt back behind the steps.

An instant later, the explosion rocked the area.

Justin stood up and aimed his pistol at the car, which had turned into an orange ball of fire. Flames were leaping toward the building next to the car. No one was firing back or moving around the car. “Stepping out,” he said to Carrie.

“Got your back,” she replied.

He took a few careful steps toward the burning wreck. The bodies of two men were lying face down on the street. The smell of burning flesh, diesel, and plastic assaulted his nostrils.

Lights began to turn on in the surrounding houses. A couple of loud voices cursed and wailed in Arabic. Rushed footsteps came from all directions. The predominantly Muslim neighborhood had seen a flurry of religious extremist activities during the last few weeks. Protests, attacks on non-Muslims, open calls for Sharia Law in London and elsewhere in Britain. Justin would not be surprised if their teams fell under another attack. In fact, he was expecting it.

He turned on his heel and checked all sides, covering all angles. Silhouettes of men and women, but as far as he could see, none of them were carrying weapons. But he did not like the odds. “We’ve got to move,” he called to Carrie. “The house.”

“Got it.”

He circled the car and came to the body of a third man. He was also lifeless, his bloodied face staring upwards. Justin shook his head. The man was very young, maybe not even twenty. What drives such young boys to cut their lives short in such a horrible way?

Justin said, “Car’s clear. Approaching the back of the house.”

“Roger,” said Carrie.

“Roger,” Vale’s voice boomed through Justin’s earpiece.

He dashed toward the house. Just as he reached the back door, a white truck zipped through the intersection. The driver swerved hard to the left, then he straightened the wheel and sped away.

Before he could inquire about the truck, Dolina said, “Three gunmen in the truck. Heading south.”

“Al-Nueimi with them?”

“Unconfirmed.”

Justin cursed the fleeing gunmen, then jogged toward the intersection. A black Jaguar sedan zoomed from the opposite direction, turning sharply to avoid hitting the truck. Justin stepped onto the sidewalk, hid partially behind the streetlight, and pointed his pistol at the sedan. He fired a warning shot, aimed higher than the Jag, with the intention of convincing the driver to stop.

The driver stepped hard on the brakes, and the Jag came to a screeching halt a few feet away from Justin.

“Get out, get out! Now!” he shouted at the driver while keeping the gun pointed at the windshield.

The driver—a young blond man shaking in his boots—exited with his arms high in the air. “Don’t shoot, don’t kill me. No!”

“Go, go, run!” Justin shouted at him.

Carrie had already gotten to the car. “I’ll drive,” she said and slid inside the Jag.

Justin jumped in the front passenger seat. “Giving chase,” he said on his mike.

“Roger that,” Vale said. “I’ll help clear the house.”

“Almost done,” Dolina said, “but can still use you.”

Carrie jerked the steering wheel, spinning the car around. It climbed over the sidewalk and hit one of the garbage cans set there. The side of the Jag missed the streetlight, and Carrie jerked the wheel again. “We’ll catch up to them in no time.”

Justin nodded. He checked his magazine. Almost empty. “Extra mags?”

“Just one.” Carrie reached for her holster.

Justin slammed the fresh thirty-round magazine in his pistol. He cocked the weapon and got ready for the coming firefight. “Where did they go?”

Carrie peered ahead, then to the left. “There, right there. Hold on!”

She yanked the wheel. The Jag fishtailed and drifted over the sidewalk. The back scraped the wall, and Justin was thrown against the door. He held onto the handle, then looked through the windshield. The truck had disappeared.

“Where is it?” Justin asked.

“Just turned right.” She gestured with her hand.

Carrie floored the engine. The Jag roared and picked up speed. They came to the turn, and Carrie stepped on the brakes. She turned the wheel and barely missed a van that was coming from the other direction. As they made the turn into the next street, they saw the brake lights of a white truck about fifty yards ahead.

“It’s them,” Justin said.

As if to confirm his words, a hail of bullets struck the windshield. It erupted in a million small pieces, showering their faces. Carrie slowed down and wiped her face with the back of her hand. She blinked rapidly, then cursed at the glass.

“You okay?” Justin asked.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She cursed the shooter this time.

“You want me to drive?”

“No, I can do it.”

She brushed her eyes and face again, as she began to gain on the truck, which kept going straight. No more bullets rained down on them, and Justin was holding his fire until they were closer.

A moment later, the truck veered to the left and disappeared around a turn.

Carrie slowed down, so they could make the turn too at a safe speed. But just as the Jag came around the corner, a volley of bullets peppered the car. They broke off whatever glass was left from the previous barrage. A few rounds bounced inside the cabin.

Carrie lowered her head to a couple of inches above the steering wheel. She hit the brakes, then the front of the Jag hit a wall.

The onslaught continued. Some bullets pinged against the front of the car, lifting metal pieces. Other bullets struck the car’s frame, but missed them.

Carrie shouted, “We need to get out.”

“No, drive to them.”

Carrie shook her head. “We’re outgunned.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He locked eyes with her, and gave her a look full of confidence. “We’ve got this.”

Carrie nodded reluctantly. “All right. Let’s do it.”

She threw the Jaguar into reverse. The car coughed for a moment, undecided whether it wanted to start or not. But to their surprise, it did. Carrie turned the wheel, and the Jag moved forward.

“Faster,” Justin said.

He fired a few rounds straight ahead, at the last position where he had seen the truck. It was suppressive fire, and it produced the desired effect. The barrage eased up, just for a moment, sufficient for Carrie to look up and check in front of the car. “Targets at one and three o’clock,” she said and stopped the Jag.

Justin threw his shoulder to the door. His move caught the shooters’ attention. Bullets pounded the other side of the door.

He drew in a deep breath, then sat up in his seat. He aimed his pistol at the coordinates Carrie had given him, then double-tapped the trigger. Justin planted a bullet in the chest of the gunman firing from the back of the truck. He dropped his assault rifle and collapsed backwards. Two more bullets hit the chest of the second gunman firing from a position about four feet to the right of the truck. He was dead before his body hit the sidewalk.

It was all quiet for a moment.

Carrie looked up, as Justin fired a couple more rounds aimed at the driver’s door. There was no one there—as far as Justin could determine by looking at the dark window—but he hoped the bullets might still find the elusive target.

“One o’clock,” Carrie said.

She fired a quick burst.

Justin also pulled his trigger.

Their bullets cut through a gunman who had dived out of the truck’s backseats. In his last twitch, he was able to squeeze off a round, which thumped against the front of the Jag, reminding them it was not over until it was over.

Justin drew in a deep breath and remained vigilant. “The one in the truck bed; I put one in his chest, but not sure if he’s dead.”

“Let’s see.” She put the car in gear.

They drove slowly and stopped when they were about ten yards from the truck.

Justin stepped out and looked at the truck. He aimed his pistol at the truck, expecting the wounded man to come out with a gun blazing. There was a low scraping sound, followed by a moan and a curse in Arabic. “Drop your weapon,” Justin shouted in Arabic.

Another scrape and a curse in a low throaty voice.

Justin held his position. He did not want to risk getting too near or climbing into the truck, in case the shooter had decided to blow up himself and everything else around him.

The man’s head appeared over the tailgate. He was bleeding from the left side of his face. He tried to put his left arm over the tailgate, but it slipped, and he almost fell back.

“Show me your hands,” Justin shouted.

“Don’t shoot . . . I . . . I’m unarmed,” the man replied slowly and with a lot of effort. “Help . . . help me.”

He placed both hands over the side of the truck.

Justin took a few careful steps toward the front of the truck. He checked the cabin. Empty. Then his eyes examined the back of the truck. No weapons near the man. Justin could not be sure if the man had tucked a gun underneath his black jacket.

Carrie walked along the other side of the truck. “I have him.”

“Good,” Justin said.

He climbed into the back of the truck and quickly patted down the man, who kept asking for help. Justin assessed the man’s wound as life-threatening, considering his weak state and the amount of blood he had lost. If taken to a hospital right away, and put in the hands of a skilled surgeon, the shooter would most likely recover.

“Help . . . I need—”

“You need to tell me where I can find al-Nueimi,” Justin said in a firm voice.

The man slowly shook his head. “I . . . I don’t know. I’m just a . . . courier.”

“Yes, but you know the safehouses, the places where al-Nueimi and others meet.”

“No, no, I don’t.”

“They left you to die, and you still protect them?”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Your choice. We don’t have to take you to a hospital. As far as I’m concerned, you died during the shooting.” Justin reached closer to the shooter’s ear. “And you will die in the next ten minutes, from your existing wound or a few new ones.”

The man began to shake his head, but Justin’s strong hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Listen, neither of us has any time to waste. Where is al-Nueimi?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s his other safehouse?”

“I don’t—”

Justin pressed his pistol against the man’s head. “Your last chance. Where is—”

Carrie shouted, “Justin, no, don’t do it.”

“Stay out of this.”

“Tell him or he’s gonna kill you.”

The man gave a slow but firm headshake.

Justin shouted at Carrie, “Leave us alone.”

“All right, all right, but I’m not okay with this. This is murder, Justin.”

“Yes, and he’s willing to die for the people who abandoned him. Now, where’s the safehouse?”

Carrie turned her back and moved away from the truck.

Justin said, “Where is it?”

The man’s breathing grew faster, but he did not say a word.

“As you wish.” Justin cocked his pistol.

“No, no, no, wait, wait, don’t kill me, don’t,” the man rattled off his words as fast as he could. “I know. I know.”

“Where?”

The man hesitated for a split second.

“Where?” Justin pressed the pistol harder.

“There’s . . . there’s a house on Tower Hamlets. I’ve . . . I’ve heard he goes there sometimes. But I haven’t—”

“Where in Tower Hamlets?”

“Tower Hill.” The man gave the address.

“Where else does he hide?”

“That’s all I know.”

“C’mon, you can do better than that.”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Before you knew nothing, but now you know something. What else are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m telling you all I know. That is the safehouse. You’ll find him there.”

Justin asked the shooter again for the address, and he repeated the same information. Justin said, “All right, if this all checks out, you’ll live. But if you lied to me—”

“No, I didn’t lie. I’m telling . . . telling you the truth.”

“We’ll see about that. Now stay down.”

“Are you . . . I need help.”

“It needs to appear like you’re dead, in case anyone is watching.” Justin cast a sweeping gaze at the nearby houses and apartment buildings. A few of them had lights on, and he could only guess how many watchful eyes were observing the scene from behind darkened windows.

“Oh, okay, I see.”

“And I’m going to fire my pistol. Twice. To give the impression I’ve killed you, which I would have done with pleasure.”

The man nodded.

Justin pushed the shooter back to the truck bed. Then Justin aimed his pistol about a foot away from the shooter’s body and pointed it at an angle, so that if the bullet ricocheted it would not inadvertently hit him or the shooter. Justin fired twice, while the man let out a low groan.

A moment later, Justin jumped out of the back of the truck. “Give me a hand,” he said to Carrie.

They dropped the tailgate and lugged the shooter to the back of their Jaguar. He acted all limp and did not make a sound. Still, Justin was worried someone had already overheard their conversation. But perhaps the execution looked real enough to at least buy the teams some time until they had checked the safehouse on Tower Hill and hopefully had found al-Nueimi.