Cooper ignored the protestations of the local constabulary and continued strapping his IIIA polyethylene plate tactical armor over his torso. “Listen bub, if you’re not gonna help me, at least shut up so I can concentrate.”
“I will not shut up, you bloody Yank! Just because we’re not allowed to—” the red-faced Scotland Yard Investigator said.
“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard that before. The higher-ups won’t allow it, the red tape won’t allow it, custom won’t allow it…it’s just not done, old boy,” Cooper said, mimicking a British accent. “Excuse me,” he said, brushing the complaining investigator aside as he opened a range bag and extracted an M4 carbine from Danika’s gear. She’d been in place far longer than his nine hours in-country, and that meant she had gear already cleared through customs and security. It just took him a while to find it.
He lifted the rifle, pulled back the bolt and, satisfied the chamber was empty, released it with a clack while stuffing three loaded magazines into the pouches on his armor.
He knew he looked ridiculous wearing a business suit over a plate carrier, but he had no time to worry about fashion. The only thing he was truly concerned about was the fact that he wore business loafers instead of his tactical boots. But there simply wasn’t time to switch—he still had to find a way out of the building, commandeer a vehicle, and make it to 13’s location in time to offer assistance and potentially save the senator’s life.
Behind him, someone burst into the squad room and announced the gunfire had stopped, but the senator’s convoy had crashed a few kilometers away. The others, with cellphones to their ears appraising supervisors, shouted for more details.
“We don’t know!” replied the messenger, ducking back out of the door.
“Air unit is ready to take off—they’ll be on-scene in ten minutes,” someone called out from across the room, his hand over a cellphone.
“Ambulances dispatched. Expecting heavy casualties,” added another.
Cooper turned and looked at the man from Scotland Yard. “You gonna stand there looking like the kid who just got stood up at the prom, or are you gonna gear up and help me?”
“Dammit, man—” the red-faced investigator began.
“It’s Cooper,” he replied, brushing past.
“Angus!” the investigator replied. “Nice to meet you. But look here, you can’t—”
Cooper grabbed a squawking radio from the table next to him and clipped it to his web belt.
“Oi, that’s mine, mate!” one of the cops cried, turning from his phone.
Cooper leveled his gaze at the man. “It’s mine now.”
“Just where d’ye think you’re going?” the officer demanded in a thick accent. “We’re under lockdown.”
“To do the job that you assholes won’t!” Cooper snapped, starting for the exit. A pair of uniformed cops shot nervous glances at each other then stepped forward to bar his path. One raised a hand, the other on his billy club. “I’m sorry, but orders are orders, surely even a colonial knows that—no one gets in or out until further notice.”
Cooper grinned. “You know what? For a guy who does his job without a gun, you got some big hairy balls there, bub.” The smile vanished. “But the way I see it, I’m the one standing here with a fully automatic M4 carbine, and you’re the one with a stick. My partner and a United States Senator are out there fighting for their lives.”
“I’m no movin’, lad.”
Cooper took a step forward. “The fuck you won’t.”
The officer’s partner frowned and his face darkened. “Now you listen here, you sodding—”
Angus stepped in front of Cooper, placating the officers. “Look, lads, you’re up to high doh—we’re all on the same side here. Murtaugh, you haven’t read this bloke’s file.”
“So?” the bigger of the two uniformed cops said.
Angus glanced at Cooper. “Let him go, trust me.”
Cooper saw a moment of hesitation cross the officer’s face. He leaned around Angus and said, “I don’t want to hurt anybody. You need to listen to your friend—you two are not gonna to stop me.”
“He means it,” Angus warned.
As the cops stepped out of the way, albeit reluctantly, Cooper paused on his way through the sliding door. “Thanks, I owe you one.”
“Thank me when we’ve rescued your senator. Bloody Americans, always bollocksing things up…” muttered Angus.
Cooper laughed and jogged out into the street, ignoring the shouts and warnings from the bevy of police set up behind barricades that blocked off foot traffic to the parliament building. Police cars lined the street in every direction, parked haphazardly to impede vehicle traffic, blue lights flashing in silence.
“What’s the plan?” asked Angus as he trotted out the door behind Cooper, carrying a matching M4.
“You know how to use that thing? I thought all you guys use those little sticks over here or some shit…” Cooper said, his eyes scanning for a suitable vehicle to commandeer.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Angus said. “There’s no way we’re getting through to them in time! Your partner was right—there’s been roadblocks set up all through this sector of the city.”
Cooper nodded, mentally overlaying the map of Edinburgh in front of him. Damn, what I wouldn’t give to have those fucking AR glasses again…
He took off at a run, relishing the fact he didn’t need the damn knee brace that had hampered him for so long. His thick, solid loafers slapped the cobblestone streets making him wince with every step, but there was no way for him to move as quickly or as confidently without having his tactical boots. If he took the time to change into more appropriate attire, 13 and the senator might not see tomorrow.
Cooper and Angus sprinted down the first street and made a left down a side alley, taking the steep steps three at a time until they tumbled to a stop at the bottom and checked the corner.
“Expecting trouble?” Angus panted.
“You’ve got a concerted effort to kidnap and possibly assassinate a United States Senator. The opposing force has clearly shown they’re not against taking shots in a densely populated urban center.” Cooper took another look around the stone corner. “In short, yeah, I’m expecting some shit. Now come on,” he said, barely breaking a sweat. He rounded the corner and then stopped dead in his tracks. At the end of the alley, a large garbage truck blocked his path. Two men stood behind it, idly chatting away and smoking cigarettes.
“What the bloody hell—” began Angus.
Before he finished speaking, Cooper had his rifle up. The two men did not have the look of sanitation engineers. They shared a trait Cooper had seen every day in the mirror. The calm, confident stature of men used to violence and trained to inflict it upon their nation’s enemies. The two men stood there smoking, coiled like springs yet when they turned, they moved with the natural grace of a warrior. They dropped their cigarettes, reached behind them, and their hands emerged with pistols. Cooper pulled the trigger twice on his M4, shifting his aim between trigger pulls, and dropped them both with center mass three-round bursts.
Over the deafening noise of the rifle cracking like thunder in the confined alley, he heard Angus scream.
“Christ!” the Scotland Yard investigator exclaimed. He fumbled at his radio and brought it to his lips. “This is 21 to base,” he announced, “I’ve got shots fired down Watchmen’s Close, two suspects armed with—”
“No time for that bullshit—let’s roll!” Cooper called, wedging himself between the building and the side of the idling trash truck. He ignored the stench and climbed into the driver’s seat, only to find that he was in the passenger seat. “Fucking foreigners,” he muttered, sliding behind the driver’s wheel on the right side.
Angus appeared at the driver’s door, saw Cooper had already occupied the throne, and ran around the front to squeeze into the passenger side. “Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”
Cooper grinned as he shifted the trash truck in the gear. “Didn’t I tell you? We’re the cavalry.”