The four children were unconscious, lying on trolley beds next to each other, oblivious to the fate that would befall them. They were stripped naked. Canning had put the presents he had given them in a box. They would be used later, for the next batch.
Canning wheeled each trolley, one at a time, into the adjacent room, containing two fully functioning theatres, separated by a plastic curtain on a rail. Canning would work in one. Stapleton, the other.
Stapleton was waiting, masked, adorned in a full surgical gown, standing next to the operating table, where he would perform the dissections and removals. Above, three massive LED circular lighting displays, emitting pure white colour. Around, four colour displays mounted on retractable pendants. Two scrub sinks. Utility columns. On a side unit, neatly arranged, a row of implements: scalpels, scissors, saws, forceps, clamps, chisels. Many others. In the strong glare of the overhead lighting, they glittered.
“You ready?” said Stapleton.
“Let me get changed, and scrubbed up,” replied Canning. “Five minutes.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
Canning left the theatre, back to the waiting room, and into a personal changing room, complete with shower. When he worked, he liked to wear a pair of fresh loose-fitting jogging trousers and baggy T-shirt, over which he would wear his surgical gown.
He looked in the mirror. The face looking back was clean-cut, delicate, intelligent. He took out his credit card and a small plastic pouch from his pocket, gently prised open one end, emptied the content on the unit beside the sink, and using the card, arranged it into a neat line, bent, snorted. He gazed again at the mirror, and felt invincible.
He gave his glowing smile. Tonight he’d make a ton of money.
And Canning loved money more than anything else in the world.
Drummond had to make certain assumptions. Worst-case scenarios. That Black was working with others. That Turner had provided him with key information – in particular, the location of the unit at the back of the hospital, where the children were placed. That Turner was dead. That Black would probably leave the car at some relatively close spot, and make his way by foot. Which was the biggest single dilemma. They were positioned in dense woodland, a mile from the main building, miles from anywhere else. Pointless in searching the grounds. Drummond had ten men at his disposal. If they spaced out, and combed the area, it would still be relatively easy for a well-disciplined enemy to creep through the gaps. Better then to adopt a siege mentality.
The building they were in was hidden away, surrounded by trees and bushes. One narrow road in and out. There was a small and exclusive parking bay on one side, big enough for a half-dozen cars. There was a single door at centre front. Heavy glass, with automatic locking system. There was floodlighting on each of the four exterior walls. Normally, they weren’t used. Now however, Drummond had them on. Illuminating the area like it was Christmas. There were no windows. The roof was flat, two storeys high, the walls were smooth cladding. Virtually impossible to scale. Even then, once on top, there was nowhere to go.
He grouped his men in simple straightforward positioning. Six men at the front door, and two at each of the front corners. Every man armed with a 9mm Glock 22, holding thirteen rounds. Complete with silencers, for obvious reasons. There were other patients in the main hospital building. Life still went on. If there had to be a firefight, he didn’t want panic. Panic brought its own problems. Including cops.
Drummond stayed in the interior, in the lobby between the front entrance and the waiting room. The operating theatres were just down the corridor. If things got bad, then the doctors were only five seconds way, to warn them and get them the hell out. Which was another headache. Drummond had never been happy with the design of the building, with only one exit, and no other means of escape. Stapleton had disagreed. It was secure, unwanted guests couldn’t get in, unhappy patients couldn’t leave. What could go wrong? He wanted Fort Knox, and he got it. Only trouble was, it was also a trap.
Such were the many thoughts running through Drummond’s mind, as he waited, Glock in one hand, radio receiver in another. His men were outside, as ready as they could be. They were trained, ex-military. Hard men.
He took a deep breath, his iron discipline dismissing the flutter of nerves in his stomach, and for the millionth time, cursed Stapleton for his arrogance. And stupidity. The operation should have been closed down, mothballed until matters settled, and they knew more about their enemy.
Drummond squinted through the front glass door. A beam of light. A voice cracked on the radio.
“There’s someone coming.”