Fifty Two Weeks of Murder (29 page)

Chapter 12

Anders paused for a moment to work out her strategy. They had to get Buckland to Scotland Yard and secure him.

“Duncan, Barry, get Buckland to the car. We’ll ride in the middle, armoured van in front and behind. Barry, you’re driving. Take a wide route, not the direct one.” They hurried through the house as Anders gave her orders to the armed units. Normally, they’d secure the house and have it made safe for evidence collection, but their priority was to get Buckland to the safety of Scotland Yard.

Anders hung back for a moment as they raced through the house to the cars. Taking her phone out, she quickly dialled Cassie, having not used her phone to view the site. The line was dead and she sighed heavily, knowing Cassie must have been looking at the website on her phone. She tried Aaron’s. He had an old Nokia that wasn’t connected to the internet. She’d told him he could have a smart phone when he was older and he’d always been fine with that. When you have nothing, getting anything is a blessing. He answered on the second ring.

“Hi Bumble,” he said, happiness in his voice at her calling him.

“Hey there Aaron,” replied Anders. “How are you?”

“I’m ok. I’ve been making cookies with Cassie. I made one with extra chocolate for you.” Anders smiled and hated herself for not being able to be there with them.

“That’s great honey. I look forward to eating it. Is Cassie with you?” There was a sound of conversation in the background as Cassie took the phone.

“Hey, wassup?” she said.

“Are you at home?” Anders asked, keeping the urgency from her voice.

“Yes. Why?”

“Keep Aaron away from the news. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in. Do not leave that flat, you hear?” Cassie suddenly sounded worried.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice tight with fear. Anders sprinted from the house, knowing that she had held everyone up.

“No time to explain. Just stay in the flat and keep the door locked. Don’t let Aaron see your phone either.” She hung up just as she burst from the flat and sped to the car as Barry folded himself into the driver’s side.

Running from the house, Buckland was pushed into the back of the patrol car, his handcuffed arms bending painfully as he sat on them. It didn’t affect his mood and he grinned at his escort.

“This is fun,” he said. “So much more fun than I thought it would be.” Duncan sat next to him in the back and told him to keep quiet as Jesse gave them a quick update.

“Fires in Brixton, Camden and Croydon. Rioting has started already. I’m looking at the feed now and they’re not taking anything, just setting stuff on fire. Hang on, you’ve a large group heading your way. I can see it on the website. Get out of there and hang right.”

Barry reversed quickly and gunned the engine as he waited for the lead van to exit the gate. Jesse had linked their radios to the same frequency and they listened in as he gave directions. Speeding from the courtyard, Anders could see an angry mob sprinting towards them. They were hurling abuse and throwing stones at the vehicles. There were men and women of all ages and types, but they all shared one common factor. Anger and rage.

“Not sure if they want to kill him or set him free,” muttered Barry as a large rock cracked a window, making Duncan jump nervously. Jesse started reeling off a list of cities around the world where rioting had started. Barry negotiated his way round the traffic with skill, following the path set by the police van in front, the rear vehicle following closely behind. Anders turned to Buckland and spoke to him through the mesh that separated them.

“What have you done?” she asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it. He smirked at her, his patronising aloofness grating.

“It’s been a busy month Miss Anders.” He leaned forward, his eyes cold and full of menace. “The poor. The disaffected. The abused, spurned and the lost. People from all walks of life who feel let down by their standing in the world. All they needed was a cause. I gave them one.”

Anders recalled the London riots in twenty eleven. What had started as a protest at the death of Mark Duggan had turned into simple looting by those who wanted what they felt should be theirs, regardless of whether they had earned it or not. The true cause of the protest had been lost amidst the looting, but Anders was well aware of how a simple spark could spiral out of control. Buckland had provided a spark and created enough unrest that it would catch fire all too easily.

“In every major city around the world, they’ve been waiting for my signal. They believe, Miss Anders. They believe most passionately.” She gave him a contemptuous look.

“But you don’t.” He shrugged, neither denying nor defending his beliefs.

“Maybe not Miss Anders, but this sure is fun.” Just then, Barry and Duncan’s phones chimed. It seemed that Duncan had been checking out the site on his phone as well. His eyes widened in fear as he saw a message scroll across the screen. It showed the convoy making their way through the early evening traffic, the images being screened live via the drone overhead, guided by someone unseen. Above the feed, scrolled a simple tag.

One Hundred Million Pounds For Anyone Who Rescues Lord Buckland From The Oppressors
.

Chapter 13

Darren Snow rode passenger in the lead truck. He was sweating nervously. In the dimming light of the evening, he could see an orange glow lighting the sky, black smoke coiling around the throbbing light in sinuous menace. The group of men and women at Kensington had scared him more than he thought they would, but the constant images beaming to his phone of his convoy had him panicking. Every turn they made, an overlay on the map changed, indicating possible routes back to the Yard. And possible ambush points. Next to him, Frank rode through the traffic, sirens blaring and ignoring traffic signals. They were making good time back to the safety of Scotland Yard, but every street and corner seemed to hold danger, roadblocks disrupting their progress, projectiles hurled at the windows. The glass held firm, but they all twitched nervously at every noise, loud in the confines of the van. London felt like a war zone.

He clutched his Glock tighter and jumped when his phone chimed. Frank gave him a worried look as he read out the new message.

“Jesus,” he said in his thick Scouse accent. “We’re going to have the whole damn city after us.” Darren wiped sweat from his brow and looked again at the phone, mesmerised by the convoy he was part of. Ahead, at Chelsea, the rioting had started and the roads were blocked. Frank avoided a car that swerved straight for them, narrowly avoiding being rammed off the road. The street ahead became jammed as the car skidded past and crashed into a lorry, causing it to dovetail across their path. On the radio, Anders’ voice guided Frank.

“Head for Battersea, we’ll have to go across Tower Bridge and circle round. Keep changing direction, don’t stop, don’t indicate and don’t slow down.” Frank followed her commands, smashing through one road block and speeding across Battersea Bridge on the opposite side of the road, Darren holding on for dear life. His eyes kept going to the screen on his phone.

One Hundred Million Pounds.

He could do a lot with that. Maybe his girlfriend would stop moaning at him about his gambling debts. A hundred million would shut her up. Actually, screw her. With that kind of money, he would just leave. See how she liked him then. He’d get loads of women. Go to Vegas.
Always wanted to go there
, he thought. A screeching brought him back to focus as a large truck was parked across the road and Frank hit the pavement to avoid it, honking his horn and desperately trying not to hit any civilians.

Anders’ voice came through the radio, calming and soothing, giving them the confidence that they would get through this. Darren couldn’t understand why everyone liked her so much. Sure, she was fit, but she was a fucking transsexual. What the hell did
he
know? They were just mincers pretending to be women. He’d come across loads on the beat and most of them were rotters. Mingers, the lot of them. He looked at the screen on his phone again and saw Anders leaning out of the car and taking aim, not caring about the traffic hurtling around her. She fired a shot at the drone and the image on the screen went blank.
She was pretty badass though
, he thought as a new image came on the screen from another drone.

One. Hundred. Million. He looked over at Frank. He was an arse. Always looking down at Darren, always giving him grief.

Anders was guiding them back across the river, over Tower Bridge. The huge towers in the middle looming overhead as they crashed through the barrier and started making their way across just as the two sides were rising. Frank gunned the engine and crossed to the other side, wheels bouncing over the narrow yet widening gap.

One Hundred Million.

Darren made his mind and steeled himself. Switched the safety on his Glock to
off
.

“Sorry Frank,” he said and shot him through the temple, blood spattering the windows, the noise shockingly loud in the small cab. He grabbed the wheel and twisted, hoping to stop Anders’ car and get Buckland out, but misjudging the speed of the van. It flipped at the sudden turn, spinning through the air as it rolled and landing with a sickening crunch.

Chapter 14

Barry crossed the gap a split second after the lead van. All three vehicles were riding within a metre of each other to make sure they crossed the gap over the river and stayed together. Before Barry could widen the distance between the vehicles again, the van ahead turned sharply and flipped. Too close to avoid the change in direction and sudden loss of speed, Barry drove straight into the side of the van, knocking it further and causing the tail end to spin and hit their own car, flinging it sideways. The rear van crashed into the first one and they both spun.

Anders lost sight of the vehicles as their safety bags burst open and cushioned their impact as the car bounced into the blue steel railings at the side. They held firm and the car wrapped itself around them in violence and fury, the car absorbing the impact and buckling under the stress as it was designed to do. 

The world blanked for a moment as the windows shattered, covering them all in glass. The sound of shearing metal eased and was soon replaced by a buzzing in the ears as Anders pulled herself from the wrecked car, amazed that she wasn’t badly hurt. Barry fell out behind her and they rushed to the back to check on Duncan. He was reeling from a cut to the forehead but his eyes were clear and his focus sharp.

Buckland had dislocated a shoulder as his cuffed hands had yanked and pulled behind him. Barry felt little remorse as he dragged him from the car, Buckland groaning in agony at the pain. Anders moved to the trunk and leaned in. The boot had been torn clean off, but the contents were still in their straps. She pulled the Heckler and Koch out, the attachments on the weapon giving the stubby rifle an air of menace, brimming with ill intent.

She ducked down as she heard the ricochet of bullets from the concrete around them. Barry had dragged Duncan round the side of the car and he peered over to see who was shooting at them.

“One of the armed unit guys,” he called, looking calmly around. The bridge behind them was now raised at too steep an angle to climb so they were effectively trapped. Anders peeked over the car and saw one of the officers striding towards them, rifle raised to his shoulder and firing wildly. He would be there in seconds. She tossed her gun to Barry and he caught it deftly.

“On my mark,” said Anders. “Three, two, one.” She leapt out from shelter, sprinting across the road and catching Darren’s eye. He turned his rifle to her, tracked her movement briefly and pulled the trigger.

Barry’s gun fired first and Darren’s bullet missed Anders as he spun with the impact of Barry’s shot. The bullets tore through his chest, fragmented against the ribcage and shredded his heart. Darren was dead before he hit the ground.

Anders kept sprinting, moving quickly to the two vans that were strewn across the bridge, just before the barriers leading to the North side of the Thames. To their left was the Tower of London and on their right sat a squat, ugly hotel. On the other side of the barrier, people were getting out of their cars to see what was happening. Some, sensing an opportunity to make some money, started moving towards the accident. The truck that Darren had flipped lay on its roof. The van was warped and twisted and she could see a pile of bodies lying on the ground, broken limbs and torso’s a sickening sight. A few of the officers started to move and she yelled at them to get clear. She could smell petrol and saw it leaking from the tank, a jagged tear along its edge. The engine had cut when it had crashed, but she didn’t want any stray sparks to set it off. 

The other truck was on its side, the back flush against the edge of the bridge. She saw movement in there as the men inside started hammering at the door, trying to get out. Anders turned to see Barry heading towards her. He tossed her a belt with clips, spray and baton attached and passed her a Glock. Duncan was dragging Buckland across to them.

Shouts sounded from across the barrier and she sensed that the crowd there was building up the courage to do something rash. As Buckland was pulled to her, she passed Duncan her speedcuffs and told him to cuff Buckland’s ankles, effectively immobilising him. She leaned down to him and grabbed his chin as he lay resting against the railing, a pale sheen on his face at his dislocated shoulder.

“You try and run, you go off with anyone trying to collect your pretty little reward and I will kill you.” Buckland looked at Anders and felt real fear, saw death in her bright green eyes. She held his gaze a moment longer before turning away.

“Duncan, get a crowbar and open the door on top of that truck.” She pointed to the one on its side that was jammed against the railing and started to run towards the one with the leaking fuel tank. It had taken the brunt of the crash and several bodies both inside and out weren’t moving.

The noise on the bridge was deafening as the crowd ahead of them gathered its courage, much like an old Saxon shield wall. Anders had seen it before in New Orleans. A few of the bravest would make the first move and the others would follow, emboldened by the stupidity of the mob. She knew that she had moments before something happened and needed to get everyone off the bridge fast. 

The world slowed then. She saw it but couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t quite believe it. Arcing through the air was a bottle with pale brown liquid inside and a strip of cloth stuffed down the neck. The end of the cloth was lit and it hurtled towards the van before Anders could get there. She turned and yelled for Barry, just behind her, to get down as the bottle hit the van and exploded, droplets of flaming petrol covering the vehicle and igniting the exposed petrol tank.

The explosion knocked Anders from her feet and she was flung backwards, landing painfully on the floor. A sharp jab in her rib told her she may have cracked it and another pain in her arm lashed her with agony as a shard of metal pierced the flesh. Her head swam and her vision blurred. It didn’t stop her hearing the screams though, as the men inside the van were roasted alive, black, acrid smoke broiling from the vehicle as metal and flesh popped and cackled.

She felt Barry drag her to her feet and leaned on him momentarily whilst she cleared her vision. Her arm bled freely. The metal shard had torn right through and Barry quickly ripped his shirt and tied it round her arm, tight as he could manage. She flexed her hands and tested her movement, giving him quick thanks. She checked on Duncan, seeing him crouched on the side of the van, pulling with his crowbar to open the door so the other team could get out.

Beyond that, she saw a stream of men and women climb over and under the barricade and start sprinting to the van. Their faces were contorted in anger and bile having worked themselves into a frenzy and built up enough courage to come and claim their reward. Some looked like believers, a hint of fanaticism about them. What really chilled Anders was how varied they were. Office workers mingled with Goths who ran with builders. United by one purpose. There seemed to be hundreds of them, but most were simply filming the attack on their phones or cowering from the rage. A few had blanched at the smell and violence of the burning van and turned away.

“We need to keep Duncan safe,” said Anders. “Try not to kill anyone, but do it if you need to. Stick together.” She turned to Barry and he gave her a steady look.

“I ain’t letting any of these punks get Buckland,” he said. His voice was calm and steady. Anders couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather have by her side right now.

They sprinted to close the gap, making sure they got past the van Duncan was on and give him time to get the men out from there. Barry fired some warning shots above the heads of the crowd and a few more faltered and turned. Anders saw another Molotov Cocktail being lit from the rear and fired her Glock. The bullet shattered the glass and covered the assailant in flames. His screams cut through the noise but Anders felt little pity for him.

A few more turned back, sickened by his burning torment, though there were still almost thirty men and women heading for the pair of them, covering the distance quickly. The first to reach Barry found the stock of a machine gun smashed into his face and went slack, tumbling to the ground as his momentum took him past the veteran soldier. The second was hurled backwards, causing those behind to stumble as Barry stepped forward, his massive fists beating them back further.

Anders opened her baton and swung quickly at the first to reach her, a woman in a business suit who snarled at her as she lunged forward. Anders’ baton smashed her temple and she fell, eyes rolled up in their sockets. A sharp pain coursed through Anders as the swing opened her wound further, but she ignored the pain and stepped forward, constantly moving, spraying and punching those who came near.

“On your six,” she yelled to Barry and he turned to meet an attack from the rear. They were being swamped by sheer numbers. Barry protected her right flank and she his left, but they were quickly being subdued. A brick flew over the group and crashed into Barry, the blow cracking his collarbone with a loud snap. He grunted, but his right arm was now useless, his flank undefended.

Another brick flew in, but he managed to avoid it, sweeping up the one that had hit him and clubbing an attacker. Anders knew they were beaten. There were too many of them. They hadn’t wanted to use their guns. The sight of two police officers mowing down civilians would be screened around the world for years. She had to hope that they had fought long enough to show that there was no alternative. They’d still lose. She would be killed on the street by an angry mob, but maybe they would suffer such loss that the attackers would flee. Or she would take as many out with her as she could, a flutter of wings as the darkness within her bared its teeth.

Two large men charged her at the same time. She stepped into the closest man and thrust upwards with the handle of the baton, cracking his chin. Spinning under his arm, she took her gun from its holster and aimed over him to the second man, finger on the trigger, safety clicked off.

A deafening roar of machine gun fire splintered the air as Duncan finally freed the men from the van and they clambered out, forming a solid line that walked forwards, firing an entire clip above the crowd, who disengaged and ran. Anders lifted her finger from the trigger and saw Barry lower his own weapon. He’d also reached the point at which firing his weapon may be the only way to survive. She ran back to the safety of the line and saw Duncan dragging Buckland behind them.

“Thank you,” she said, relieved at their rescue. She was breathing heavily, the pain in her ribs spearing her every breath with white agony, cuts and bruises from the attackers peppering her body with pricks of pain. She pointed to the barrier. “We’ll need to cross that and find transport. I can see a bus near the back. That’s where we’re heading. We’ll need a circle with Buckland and Duncan in the middle. I’ll take point. Barry, you good?”

He grunted in distain at her question and stepped to her side as the men formed around them. She grinned at him, exhilarated at their survival.

“Let’s go,” she said, and led them forward. They were attacked frequently, stones flew at them and all manner of projectiles, but they held firm, moved swiftly and with purpose. No one broke the line, held in place by Anders and Barry. The group bristled with machine guns and this stopped all but the most foolhardy from attacking them. Those that did were beaten off and left on the street, bloodied and bruised. They made it to the bus and clambered aboard, Anders taking the wheel and smashing her way down the river, London burning around them. Buckland’s acolytes had started the fires, but more and more had rallied as the night wore on, whether to loot or in the belief that the world order could be changed. A pall of smoke hung in the city air, besmirching the darkening sky, fire flickering up to greet the night.

As they approached Scotland Yard, Anders could see down the street to the Palace of Westminster. It was ablaze, the oldest symbol of democracy in the modern world a pyre to Buckland and his teachings. Anders hated the man even more in that moment, beyond what he had done to Mal. Hated him with passionate fury. It was all a game to him, teasing those in need, those in suffering, for his own sick fantasies.

She looked in the rear view mirror and saw him staring back at her, a smirk on his face. Even though he’d been caught, it was still going as he’d planned.