The tension was mounting in the back of the armed response van as it sped towards its destination.
Officer Barry Noble’s mouth had gone dry and his heart was thumping against his ribcage. He didn’t doubt that the other members of the seven-strong team were just as nervous as he was. But then they had every reason to be as they prepared to confront members of one of London’s most notorious gangs. They were taking part in a series of coordinated pre-dawn raids across the capital, targeting a major drug-dealing network. More than a hundred officers were descending on fifteen addresses south of the River Thames, and Noble knew that they could never tell just how much resistance they’d encounter.
This was the second operation in just over a week that he had taken part in. The first raid, on a flat in Lewisham, had been hugely successful. No shots were fired and three significant arrests were made. The team also recovered a large haul of Class A drugs and an arsenal of weapons, including a sawn-off shotgun, two Beretta pistols and a Kalashnikov assault rifle.
This morning’s target was a house in Balham that had been under surveillance for several days. An Afro-Caribbean man named Warren Fuller was renting it. He was one of the gang leaders responsible for the huge rise in violent crime across London during the past year, which included over a hundred and forty murders.
Officer Noble was all too familiar with the grim statistics. He was reminded of them every day at Scotland Yard briefings and when he read the papers or tuned in to TV news programmes. It was a sad state of affairs all right, and there was no sign of the situation ending any time soon.
As a Londoner it filled him with sadness. And as the father of two children it scared him shitless. The streets were no longer safe; youths as young as twelve were carrying knives and running drugs, and some inner-city council estates were fast becoming no-go areas.
‘We’re approaching the property,’ the team leader announced suddenly. ‘So brace yourselves and be ready to expect the unexpected.’
Noble felt an instant jolt of adrenalin. He sucked in a silent breath and tightened his grip on the assault rifle he was carrying.
Less than a minute later they turned into a quiet residential street that was lined on both sides with parked cars.
The van came to a stop in the middle of the road about thirty metres short of the mid-terrace Edwardian house, and three support vehicles pulled up behind it.
Warren Fuller and several other people were known to occupy the property. The surveillance team weren’t sure exactly how many there were because a number of men and women had been seen coming and going. At least one had been identified as a guy who was wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of a rival gang member. For that reason the team had been warned to expect fierce resistance.
Noble and six other officers exited the van and with cool professionalism moved onto the pavement and jogged towards the house. The sun had yet to rise so their dark, padded vests and visored helmets were like shadows against the low walls and hedges.
There were no lights on in the house, which Officer Noble hoped meant that the occupants were still in bed and would therefore be less alert and responsive.
As they moved through the small front garden, Noble noticed it was paved over and held only a selection of wheelie bins. The team had been instructed to force open the front door with a battering ram and charge right in and, as he watched from the relatively safe distance of a few men back, he saw they wasted no time getting on with it.
Within seconds the door was off its hinges and they were piling inside. The three officers at the front moved along the narrow hallway to check the ground-floor rooms, while Noble and three others started up the stairs.
Noble was the first to reach the landing, and just as he did so a door to the right was wrenched open. A man wearing boxer shorts and a startled expression stood there. Noble recognised him instantly as Warren Fuller.
‘Don’t move,’ Noble screamed as he pointed the rifle at him. ‘Just stay there and put your hands behind your head.’
But Fuller ignored him and quickly stepped back into the darkened room, pushing the door shut behind him.
Noble rushed forward, twisted the door handle, and pushed it back open. As he entered the room, Fuller charged at him and grabbed the barrel of his assault rifle, which he tried to rip from his hands.
Noble’s finger was poised on the trigger, and the sudden movement caused him to squeeze it unintentionally. The gun exploded and a split second later a cry rang out as the bullet claimed a victim.
But the victim wasn’t Warren Fuller.