Fallen Duty 6l2d3s

Fallen Duty

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Harry Harris

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

FALLEN DUTY

First edition. July 24, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Harry Harris.

Written by Harry Harris.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

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For K & F with love and thanks always.

And thank you to R for their help and .

1

No matter what happened to her, London always looked beautiful. Deep in the old, ragged scars and craters caused by gunfire and bombs, plant life flourished. It was as if the shrubs were reclaiming the ground. The lush foliage allowed sunlight to filter through, so the ground danced with light and shade. Birds sang and gulls screamed as they swooped and circled the sky above the river. Declan Cahill appreciated the vista as he walked slowly along the South Bank of the River Thames, his arms behind his back, enjoying the winter sun’s fading warmth. He breathed in deep the river breeze. It didn’t smell too bad anymore. Other than the birds, there wasn’t much else to see. But that wasn’t unusual these days. Not since the riots. He soaked up the peace and quiet. Most of the residents of London had either gone, or they were at work in the factories. It was just what he needed to clear his head and re-familiarize himself with the geography of the area. Tonight would be different, though—the peace and quiet would be ruined because it was Halloween. Cahill was already dreading it. Not just the madness of Halloween night, but the thought of pulling on his brand-new patrol officer’s uniform. The last year had been one of the hardest in his life. But at least now he could return to duty. He shook his head. Stopped by an ivy-covered derelict pub that was once called The Old Thameside Inn, and rested his elbows on the railings. Looking out over the filthy brown river, his gaze was drawn to the rubbish flowing by, until a screaming gull startled him as it dive-bombed the flotsam and jetsam for scraps of food. Cahill felt the thirst come over him, the familiar pang lancing through his guts like adrenalin, causing him to start salivating. Smacking his lips, he circulated sour spit around his mouth, then popped a mint in and started sucking. A grim look appeared on his tough, tanned face. Shaking his head, he spat the white

sweet far out and down into the fast-flowing water. Then he pulled out a slim pewter hip flask from his inside pocket and took a slug of the fiery Irish whiskey that lived in there. The grimace left his face as the spirit lifted him. Just a little drop now and then would help him get through it. A bang! ruptured the peace. A gunshot. He had heard that noise too many times to mistake it for anything else. As the sharp crack echoed into silence, the sun seemed to hide behind a ing cloud, and the birds scattered in fright. Cahill’s instincts kicked in. His heart beat strong and steady. His hearing and vision sharpened as he scanned the surroundings, searching for danger, trying to see where the gun fire had come from. There they were. Gangbangers. They burst into view just a hundred yards ahead of him, and he immediately recognized them from their colours and how they were dressed. The Nail Dem Crew took off and sprinted west, toward Southwark Bridge, their rubber soles slapping on the concrete. Cahill chased after them— following the danger, as always. He needed to find out what they had done. Movement caught his eye as he ran. Cahill just managed to lurch to his right as a man with black skin staggered from an opening to his left. He was dressed just like the gangsters, but he was clutching his left upper arm, blood seeping through his fingers, dripping onto the path. “Call the cops!” The wounded black man stumbled forward into Cahill’s arms. “I’m a cop.” Cahill laid the man on the ground, wondering why a gangbanger was so keen to want the police involved. He shrugged and pulled out his phone to dial 999. It looked like his first duty in over a year had started early.

2

One year earlier... Cahill was seriously in need tonight as he strode through the crowds, and it wasn’t just for a drink, either. No, that would be for starters. What he really needed was a line or two of something far more powerful. And after that, he would indulge himself with a night of pleasure. He loved it here in the alleyways of Soho, where the whole place sparkled like a black diamond in the moonlight. The streets were damp from a recent downpour, and bustled with punters looking for chemical relief from the tedium of their existence. He smiled to himself as he went. It wouldn’t be long until he could medicate his own pain away. Not long until he could blank out all those thoughts he didn’t want in his head. You could get it all here—sex, drugs, booze, and contraband of every description. The rows of dingy shops displayed their illegal wares on filthy tables out front, while the traders called out the prices to the ing tide of customers, like grocers selling potatoes. He enjoyed the aromatic smells as he ed each stall, his desires coming to the boil. London had changed beyond recognition. He had policed her streets long before the riots, so he knew exactly how she used to look, but he had been away a long time. He had been away, working undercover when she fell. When the struggling walls of the dam could no longer cope with their burden. He wished he could have been there. Maybe he could have made a difference. Even one man could have helped to bolster the thin blue line. His smile dropped as he ed the aftermath of the riots. Only the working classes had suffered. Not the rich. No, they had been shrewd and strategic, as always. They had seen it coming, and had moved out and created business hubs in the surrounding green belts, all buying a slice of heaven in the country, having been handsomely compensated by the Company.

The Company has a lot to answer for. But even he could see his own hypocrisy, because the Company paid him his wages. This global organisation had identified an opportunity to make trillions of dollars from the fall of the once-great capital. A conglomerate of dozens of companies from around the world, so complicated in structure that it was simply known as the Company. The Company had indeed rebuilt London after the riots. Yes, they were benevolent indeed. He laughed to himself as he thought about the hundreds of factories, like the Victorian workhouses of old, that had been built so the poor could toil in them to pay for their own existence. Then there was the next problem—the gangs. They refused to work, and they became strengthened in numbers, welcoming the droves of refugees from the factories. The gangs prospered, and the dark corners of London became pitch black. With the advent of the London Police District (LPD), a new type of law and order was founded. Its job was to take control of the so-called factory zone. This private police force had a specific task, and that was to ensure that the workers worked, and the gangs were kept at bay. It was a thankless but necessary task, and one Declan Cahill was damn-good at. But then, he should have been. He’d been at it for twenty years now, and his work was everything to him and his worst enemy at the same time. It was the job that had cost him everything. Cahill couldn’t help it. It was his eternal shame. And only his vices kept his memories suppressed. Her beautiful smile was always a thought away, followed by the terrible pain. After they lost their little girl, his wife lost him completely to his work. Wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just one of those things. Little Isabelle’s heart didn’t develop properly, and she didn’t survive her birth. The hole in her heart was so tiny, it was missed. Just one of those terribly sad things. They buried Isabelle and tried to get on with their lives. For Cahill, that was

immersion into work, volunteering for every case he could get his hands on. For his wife, Jasmine, it meant slipping deeper into depression. And at the time she needed him most, he wasn’t there. Their marriage crumbled around them. Cahill was at his peak at work, taking down the bad guys, whilst Jasmine was at her lowest, taking down pills to end her pain, and eventually her life. His mind pushed through the agony that took him to that graveside for the millionth time. He felt his eyes stinging and his nose running. He tried to focus on the two headstones before him. Overwhelmed, he collapsed into the dirt, his knees sinking into the mud the reality soaking into his body and punching him in the guts. His initial answer was to run even further away. But the undercover program found him. It was just what he needed, and he found he could seek solace in the luxury of living the life of another person. One that didn’t have the horrendous guilt his real identity carried. This had been perfect for him, and he excelled in the role. He was a good operative, one of the best, and he enjoyed years of success in the field. The bad guys never saw him coming. It wouldn’t be forever, though, because even the best of the best needed to slip back into their own identity, even if it were just to keep their sanity. His psychologist thought the same, and recommended that he take a break. He kicked and screamed because he loved his job, but management had spoken and there was no changing their mind. It was for his health and safety, so he had no argument. He didn’t want to go backward, only forward. And because London Police had changed after the riots, there was something new out there for him. The newly formed London Police District gave him the opportunity to start fresh. It would do Cahill nicely. The LPD welcomed Detective Sergeant Cahill with open arms, and was glad to have his tenacity and experience on their side. Posted initially on the South Sector, he was a relief detective ing the patrol officers. But his results

soon meant he was promoted to the Central Crime Squad. He began to reclaim his old life, shrugging off the shroud of his undercover life, letting this invisible armour trail behind him. But with that protection gone, the old burden of guilt once more began to engulf him. His old scar throbbed and ached as if his heart had been broken all over again, taking him once more to that wet graveside. So now he sought his regular escape and left the main drag, slipping into an even darker, smaller street, the noise fading as he went deeper into her bosom. He started to salivate, and swallowed down the juices as he got closer to his goal. Mickey’s bar was like every other bar in Soho. It could get you what you needed —booze-filled oblivion, the thrill of cocaine, or the euphoric blanket that is heroin. Whatever your poison. Anyone over five-foot-ten-inches tall had to duck to enter Mickey’s. Once through, you took the worn stone steps down to the bar, where you would usually find Mickey himself—a sixty-year-old ex-heavyweight boxer with a nose as flat as a pancake, and ears puffed like perfect cauliflower florets. A truly hard man. Perfect to run the t. Cahill pushed the door open and ducked as he entered. The familiar and comforting smell of stale booze, dirt, and smoke hit his nostrils as he descended the stone steps, his eyes adjusting to accept the gloom in this palace of oblivion. It was getting busy as he went to his usual place at the battered bar, the regulars already propping up their own spots. Mickey stared into space as he polished a pint pot with a filthy bar towel. He looked over and nodded at Cahill, and started pouring him a pint of thick black stout. He left it to settle once it was threequarters full, then pointed to his left, where a stained red velvet curtain was drawn, covering an opening to the right of the bar. Cahill nodded back and approached the bar, where his pint was settling. Ready for the final stage, Mickey topped the glass up and placed it back on the bar. Cahill grabbed the glass and tipped it up to his eager lips. The stout went down in one go, and a look of bliss sparkled in his eyes as the cold alcohol raced through his body, embracing it like an old friend. “Better?” Mickey said. Cahill savoured the moment and licked the foam from his top lip.

“It will do for starters, Mickey.” The bar owner again gestured to the red curtain. “They’re through there when you’re ready. Tommy is looking after things, as usual, so let him know what you need...Detective.” A smirk appeared on his tough old face. Cahill’s features hardened, and he stared straight into Mickey’s watering, faded blue eyes. “Do you want me to be a detective? Is that what you want?” “I’m kidding with you, Declan. You know I’m just playing. Come on!” Mickey recoiled from Cahill’s failure at a sense of humour. “Whatever, Mickey. Just get me another pint.” Cahill looked away, smacking his lips at the thought of another alcohol hit. “With a whiskey.” “Of course, Declan. It’s on me, so it is!” Mickey busied himself pouring another stout, and drew a neat shot of Irish from the bottle behind him. The devil on Cahill’s shoulder was fully awake now, and as the whiskey flooded into his bloodstream to bolster the pint of stout, it was just the top-up he needed from lunchtime. He placed a crumpled bank note on the bar and nodded at the bottle of whiskey. “Is that enough for the rest, Mickey?” “That’s grand, Declan. Enjoy!” Mickey smiled as he placed the open bottle in front of Cahill. The thought of what lay behind the curtain popped into his head, sparking an aching need in his loins. He knew everything he was doing was wrong, and that he could get in deep trouble for it, and for what he was planning to do. In just a few minutes, he would plunge through the red velvet curtain, get a gram of

cocaine and a whore from Dirty Tommy—pimp and dealer extraordinaire—then finish that bottle of Irish until he ed out cold. Tomorrow he would do it all over again. What the hell. It was time, so Cahill swished through the red curtain that led out back, and found Tommy snorting a fat line of cocaine through a straw from a fast-food restaurant. He saw Cahill, grinned, and waved the straw at him. “Ha-ha! Hello, Dec. I’m loving it!” Tommy held his ribs as he laughed at his own joke. Cahill sneered back. He didn’t really like Dirty Tommy. Cahill looked the scrote up and down. He was exactly how he sounded—a scrawny, dirty, violent drug dealing pimp. He provided the girls in the back of Mickey’s bar. Micky took a cut of all the action. Plus, the girls got their gear, too. So everyone was happy. “What can I do you for?” Tommy said. “Gram of the usual,” Cahill replied, without engaging in Tommy’s shit joke, and handed him a bunch of crumpled bank notes whilst taking a small paper wrap from the dealer with his free hand. “Is Roxy in tonight?” Tommy paused and seemed to be thinking. “No, mate. Sorry, she’s not well. But I’ve got a new girl for you.” “New girl?” Cahill liked Roxy. He knew everything about her. If anything ever went wrong, he knew exactly where to find her. But tonight, he needed this bad. Fuck it. “Alexis is a stunner, mate. New to the game, but she’s my cousin’s girlfriend, so I trust her like family.” “Which room is she in?” “I knew you’d see sense. Go on, enjoy her. She’s in the Honeymoon Suite. First on the right.” Tommy smiled and pointed to a corridor of bedrooms. Cahill was excited. He could feel the delicious buzz of doing something illegal

burning in his chest and stomach. He loved it, that anticipation. It was like the undercover work—dangerous and exciting, with the chance that he could get caught at any moment. He found her in the Honeymoon Suite, draped across a stained bedspread. Alexis was stunning—long blonde hair, voluptuous in red underwear, with matching lipstick. “Hello, sailor,” she purred, as Cahill entered the suite. He smiled and felt himself stiffen. Showed her the wrap of coke, and she licked her lips, writhing on the bed in anticipation of a free line of the goodness. He noticed Tommy leering through the door from the corridor, watching Alexis on the bed. So Cahill closed the door, depriving Tommy of his voyeuristic pleasure. Cahill looked at her on the bed. Every part of his body was alive with anticipation. He took a huge gulp of the whiskey and tossed the delighted Alexis the powder. This was exactly what he needed.

3

One year later... The LPD’s headquarters was tall, white, regal, and situated in the building that used to be New Scotland Yard, in Cannon Row, on the banks of the River Thames. The Metropolitan Police had been disbanded when the LPD was formed. Some of those assets ed the new National Police Service (NPS), a t UK Constabulary that operated around the rest of the country, in the tradition of a British police force—the neighbourhood bobby on the beat. Community-based policing, and a good old-fashioned Criminal Investigation Department. The rest applied to something new, a private law enforcement company. Parliament anointed the officers of the London Police District with the powers of a constable, but that was where the similarity ended. The role of an officer on the LPD was to serve the Company to make sure the factories stayed open. There was a simple command structure—patrol officers, detectives and their sergeants. They all reported to the Company and took their instructions from them, too. On the occasions that crime arrests occurred for conventional offenses such as assault, rape, and murder, the detectives investigated and processed. But then the case was handed over to the National Police Service for prosecution. Most of their work on the LPD’s four sectors—north, south, east, and west—was keeping the peace on the streets between the gangs, and to respond to disorder and other petty crimes in the factories. One other thing the Company replicated from the constabularies was the discipline code. However, the Company didn’t like controversy, so the tolerance for misconduct was higher, and the quality of investigation into it was lower. Sir Stuart Cullimore had been the chief constable for Avon and Somerset Constabulary prior to the NPS, and had been headhunted as director of the LPD.

Not for his forward-thinking leadership—because he didn’t have any. He was recruited for his terrible reputation as a yes man. “Sir Stuart, this next case is one of gross misconduct,” said Assistant Director Claire Buchannan. Stuart sat at the head of a large table in the bright and spacious boardroom of LPD HQ. On his right sat the brilliant Claire, destined for director. And on his left, three deputy assistant directors. He looked down his nose at them all, aware that they probably thought he was an arrogant arsehole, but he didn’t really give a shit. If they did their jobs and didn’t embarrass him or the Company, he would tolerate them. On his left was Amina Azikwe, ex-chief of the South African Police Service; Sabine De La Tour, ex-top Parisian Cop; and Fujio Nakamura from the Japanese National Police Agency. The LPD prides itself on its diversity. Sir Stuart cleared his throat and read from the sheet of paper before him. “Right. Detective Sergeant Declan Cahill, Central Crime Squad. Okay, the charges are in relation to drug use and prostitution.” “Yes, sir,” Claire replied, in her cut-glass accent. “It looks pretty straightforward to me. But the decision will be the ’s, not mine.” Sir Stuart smiled his smarmy smile at the of three deputies to his left. “Is DS Cahill here today?” “He’s in the waiting room with his union rep, and he’s very keen to get this over with.” “I bet he is, Claire. He’s been suspended for a year. He’s been in rehab, for substance and alcohol issues?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, let’s get him in here and put him out of his misery.” Sir Stuart’s smile was spread across his face like butter, his eyes just slits.

“Erm, excuse me, sir. I don’t see this as anything like straightforward.” Amina leant forward, smiling back at the director. She paused whilst Sir Stuart’s buttery grin melted. “The operation to ensnare DS Cahill was flawed,” she continued. “Flawed, you say? How does that change what he did! He was arrested at the scene. He had just had sex with a prostitute, and he tested positive for cocaine. Close the case, Deputy!” Sir Stuart felt his cheeks burning. He knew they were bright red, and that pissed him off even more. He stared at the calm and collected deputy. “Partly correct, sir. But we have a problem with the case, in that the undercover officer took as much cocaine as DS Cahill, and she willingly had sex with him.” Amina sat back, her arms folded, and glared at her neighbour Sabine. “The prostitute, Alexis, was an officer?” Sir Stuart said, in a ginger tone. “I didn’t see that in the report.” He felt his self-preservation senses kick in, his mind racing to work out how he could distance himself from this catastrophic fuck-up. Sabine said, “That was my fault, monsieur. Professional standards is my portfolio, and that part was redacted to protect Alexis.” Sir Stuart slammed his hand onto the table. “Madame, I don’t know how you did things in , but this company cannot have such controversy! We do not protect undercovers when they break the law.” Sabine shrugged. “Then we are back to square one, Sir Stuart.” “Damn it!” He sat back down and looked at Claire. “Did you know?” Claire looked down at the table. “Amina mentioned some irregularities with the case.” Sir Stuart shook his head and stared at Sabine. He noticed a sly glint in her devious eyes. Nothing ever stuck to this bitch. She was made of Teflon.

Fujio raised a hand, and Sir Stuart’s hopes improved, as Fujio was always steady. “May I make a suggestion?”

***

Cahill paced up and down the waiting room, wearing a black suit and tie. Very fitting. The perfect look for a funeral. The last year had been tough. But rehab had been a gift. He’d needed the intervention. Though he wouldn’t have itted it back then, he now knew it had been for the best. Cahill felt his face warm with embarrassment as he ed what had led to this moment. Then surprisingly, he felt a brief stirring of arousal as his mind saw Alexis open her legs to him. How they rode each other hard, climaxing loudly, riding the crest of their ion and the pulsating pleasure of the powder. He took himself out of the memory. He didn’t want to, but he needed to leave that shit behind. He shook his head, thinking about how they’d set him up. Dirty Tommy was a grass. He had bought Alexis in, and he’d set Cahill up. No doubt, professional standards had something on the poor prick. But they had reached new depths, paying a prostitute to do their dirty work. His union rep, Clara Hennessey, sat quietly in the corner, clutching the case file. She watched Cahill pacing the room, and made no effort to calm him. “It shouldn’t be too long now, Mister Cahill.” She looked at her watch. “It will likely be dismissal for gross misconduct. And I would expect a referral to the National Police Service for prosecution, too.” “Thanks for your , Clara. I’ll look forward to a visit from the NPS.” “You’re welcome.”

A loud knock at the door broke the spell. Cahill stood to attention in front of the LPD’s director, Sir Stuart Cullimore. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was amiss here. The director looked perturbed. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as people said. Maybe he didn’t like punishing his staff on behalf of the Company. Yeah, right. Assistant Director Claire Buchannan stood behind the director and addressed Cahill. Clara sat quietly at the side of the room, now looking at her phone. “DS Cahill?” Claire said. “Yes, madam.” Cahill stood rigidly, his hands behind his back. Sir Stuart cleared his throat and applied his squinting smile. “DS Cahill, thanks for your attendance today at this disciplinary hearing, and apologies for the wait. However, it is now my duty to deliver the verdict of the .” Cahill looked at the three smartly dressed figures lined up on Sir Stuart’s left. He had no idea who they were, and it didn’t look like he was going to be introduced to them, either. There was a beautiful dark-skinned lady with the whitest teeth he had ever seen, and she beamed a lighthouse smile at him. Second was a cute, diminutive lady, but too serious. And lastly, an emotionless Japanese man who nodded curtly at him. Cahill’s guts were flip-flopping, and his nerves were beginning to show. Sweat rolled down his head, and for the first time in months, he could have really done with a drink. “It is the recommendation...” Sir Stuart said, but Cahill’s mind drifted, thinking about that drink, about anything except his future in the LPD, because he knew it was fucked. “...that for the charge of gross misconduct, the finds you guilty.” Guilty... Cahill’s mind focused with a bump, and an icy chill cooled the sweat on his face. He knew it would be guilty because he was. But the shock still hit him. It was then that he realized the director was still talking.

“However, the has also looked at your service record, which, as you know, is exemplary. The LPD cannot afford to lose an officer of your ability, but your actions cannot go unpunished.” “No, sir,” Cahill said. “It is the decision of the that you will be reduced from the rank of sergeant...” Cahill’s mind started to race with hope. That wasn’t too bad. He could handle that. Who cared about rank if he could still put the bad guys away. ...to that of patrol officer.” Sir Stuart squinted up at him, waiting for a response. “Sorry, what did you say?” Cahill replied. “Don’t you mean, to detective? I’m an investigator, sir. I’ve not been a patrol officer for eighteen years.” Sir Stuart frowned. “No, Officer, you heard me correctly. You are reduced to patrol officer. It is that, or dismissal. Do you understand?” “Why, though?” Cahill was too angry to his place. “Because we can’t trust you anymore, Cahill. You need strict supervision, and the uniform means you can’t go sneaking off to do God knows what.” Cahill was rarely speechless, but the shock had driven him to silence. His mouth hung open as Sir Stuart continued. “You are to report to logistics and collect your uniform and equipment. They are expecting you after this meeting. As for your new posting...you will parade at South HQ, at ten p.m., on the thirty-first of October.” Clara at last reacted and ushered Cahill from the room before he could regain his senses and do any real damage. She smiled at Sir Stuart. “Thank you, sir. Mister Cahill understands, and you won’t hear another word. Thank you.” Clara shut the door on Sir Stuart’s red face and Cahill’s old career as a detective.

4

Cahill paused outside the LPD’s South Headquarters, which stood squat in the heart of South London, its walls lit by the inadequate streetlights of Renfrew Road and Kennington Lane. He ed that originally, the building had been a Metropolitan Police section house called Gilmour House. He had managed to get some sleep in the afternoon following his unplanned intervention in a shooting earlier in the day. In fact, he had been surprised at how uninterested the patrol officer was, who had turned up about a half-hour after he’d dialled 999. “Did you see what happened?” the stumpy scruffy cop had said. “I heard it, and saw them run off toward Southwark Bridge,” Cahill had replied, expecting the cop to follow-up his first question with some basic investigative inquiries such as, what time did it happen? Did you know them? Would you recognize them again? But instead, “That’s a no, then.” The scruffy cop went to turn his back, but a look on his face told Cahill he wasn’t finished. “Aren’t you that detective sergeant that got busted for shagging a Tom?” The cop wore a smirk on his unshaven face. Cahill was not in the mood, and noticed that the EMTs had arrived and were prodding the victim about. “Fuck off,” he said. “Right.” The scruffy cop wandered over to the ambulance crew, who had finished their prodding and were already loading the gangster into the back of their vehicle. He knew South HQ well. It was a fortress of a building cast in solid stone, with

narrow shuttered windows and thick security doors, and there were just three ways to get in. The first was technically a way out. But nevertheless, it was door —albeit, a fire escape— heavily fortified, and it was situated on the main road on the north side of Kennington Lane. The second egress was the main entrance at the centre of the building on Renfrew Road. Covered by a grill, the outer door led into a shop front counter which was open between 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m., for the public to report crimes, missing persons—the usual stuff. The doors at the rear of the counter, which allowed you into the building, were armoured, too. Finally, the third entrance was the thick gated archway set into the far end of the building, that lead to the small yard where the LPD kept their few vehicles, and was also the way prisoners entered the custody suite. Rear access to the building was impossible, as it was cut off by a high, smooth wall. The building was only three-stories high, with a single central staircase and a basement. The ground floor housed the guts of the building. At the front counter at the middle entrance, if you went through the door into the building, you would first be faced with the wide central staircase that could take you up and down the floors. Then, if you turned left, the first room on the left was the briefing room. Second on the left was the control room. And last, the third room was the breakroom. All situated on the street side of the building, with the corridor at the rear, on the right. If you turned right at the front counter, you would find Human Resources and a stationary store on the right. And on the left, at the end, was the only room that wasn’t on the street side of the building—the custody suite. On the first and second floors, you could find more office space, a computer room, and some rooms that were still designated as sleeping quarters from the days when the building was section house accommodation. And down in the basement, you would find the gym, the locker rooms, the property store, and the armoury. It was Halloween, and deep in the locker room tonight, it was humming with activity. It was 9:30 p.m., and the night-duty shift was arriving to take responsibility for the shit- and blood-covered streets of South London. Halloween was notoriously one of the deadliest nights on the calendar for the

gangs. And unfortunately, the cops, too. South London had become gang infested. The north, east, and west sectors had gangs, but the south had the monopoly, and they were constantly fighting over their turf. Men and woman were dying over yards of paving stones and tarmac in some pointless war that no one understood. And that was without the internal battles that each gang had with the next potential leader having to destroy the old leader to win his place on top of the shit-pile. Cahill had no doubt that the earlier shooting was one of those battles. The UK still had some of the strictest gun laws in the world. There were the illegal markets, as there always have been. But guns in the hands of the gangs were few and far between. There were enough out there for the LPD to worry about, but it still hadn’t got to the stage of routine arming. LPD Patrol Officers were all trained in firearms, but only carried when ordered to do so by the director. And since he didn’t like controversy, he rarely ordered it. No number of dead cops would seem to change his mind. Cahill was buzzed in through the vehicle entrance by the control room staff, and headed down to the locker room. He was aware that wafting in with him was a cloud of whiskey fumes fragrantly announcing his arrival. A few heads turned to stare. Two tics of the second hand was how long he held their interest. Then the buzz grew louder again as they went back into their pre-work routine, strapping on body armour, Taser, pepper spray, batons, and handcuffs. This decision had almost been too much for him. He’d badly wanted to tell them to fuck off and keep their lousy job, but there was still a part of him that needed it, needed to keep going. For him to leave law enforcement now, after all he had lost from the curse of it, would have destroyed him and the memory of his dead wife and baby daughter. No, he had to persevere. And not just because of that— he was a bloody good cop. He still had work to do, so just a little bit of whiskey would take the edge off. Cahill searched for his locker, his very own little part of this hellhole. He doublechecked the number on his locker key and found it stuck in a far corner that stank of sweaty socks, and had piles of old paperwork wedged up against its battered door. He dumped his backpack on the deck and began his own pre-work routine.

Placing the uniform on was hard. It was failure to Cahill. It was a different one to what he had started in twenty years ago. This one was based on the American style—black tros, black shirt and tie, with the LPD logo emblazoned on his left breast pocket. He looked at his reflection in the cracked mirror inside his locker door as he strapped on his utility belt, filling the pouches with his equipment. He carried two friction lock batons, the steel types you had to rack out with force; two sets of cuffs, one rigid, one chain link; and a Taser with plenty of cartridges. He didn’t like or carry pepper spray, as he had seen too many cops blind each other with that shit in a fight. He shrugged his black leather patrol jacket on and placed his pewter hip flask in the left inside pocket next to his pocket notebook and lucky pen. He would collect his radio on the way out of the building. “Be quiet, the lot of you. Calm it down. Sit down and shut the fuck up.” A spray of spittle exited veteran Police Sergeant Andy Smith’s grizzled mouth as the room did what it was told. Cahill kept his head down and took a seat at the back of the briefing room. It stank of stale coffee and cigarette smoke. The smoke must have drifted in from an open window at some point earlier, as they were all shuttered closed now. Jesus. Cahill’s his attention was taken away from the windows and directed toward the man who stood at the front of the room. He realized then that his bad day was only going to get worse. Sergeant Andy Smith was the patrol sergeant for A-relief on the South Sector. Cahill’s instincts knew this was bad. That was the section he’d worked on when he first came to the LPD. He had made no friends on A-relief. He’d lost count of all the arguments that he and Smith had. The detective sergeant was senior to the patrol sergeant when it came to crime investigations. Smith was a bully and the top dog on Patrol. He hadn’t taken kindly to Cahill ordering him and his team about, despite the necessity at major crime scenes. This would not be good. Cahill came out of his reverie and found that Sergeant Smith was looking straight at him with his dark, shark-like eyes. His smile started to spread slowly

as he spoke. “Everyone, we are honoured today with the presence of a new patrol officer. Some of you will know him.” Smith chuckled. “Those that don’t know him, let me be the first to introduce you to ex-Detective Sergeant Declan Cahill.” He felt his face redden as the section all turned to stare at him with contempt. Fuck ’em all. He smiled and waved at them. “Hello, team,” he said, through his grin. He was ignored, but he could see that he had pissed off the old sergeant. “Right, everyone,” Smith continued. “It’s Halloween, our favourite night of the year.” He paused for the groans to subside. “Quiet! Look, I’m sure things won’t be as bad as last year, because I’m pleased to announce that this year’s gun amnesty was a huge success. We’ve got a ton of guns and ammunition down in our armoury. Those weapons can’t do us any harm out on the streets, locked away down there.” The room buzzed again, and this time Smith waited for them to quiet down. “Only one extra item to add to the intelligence bulletin, which I’m sure you’ve all read. Tunde Adeyemi, street name Soldier, was attacked earlier today. It looks like someone is vying for leadership of the Nail Dem Crew, and took a shot at Tunde. They must have been a shit shot, though, because all they did was wing him though the arm, and failed miserably to end his existence.” Smith paused for laughter. “So be aware they may be a bit lively tonight. Also, their main rivals, the Triple C, may take advantage of the coup and take the Nail Dem Crew on themselves.” Smith confirmed Cahill’s earlier suspicions. More murmuring around the room as patrol officers took in the information. Any bit of information could help you make the right decision when things got on top. Smith continued. “Postings. Listen up. Tom and Danny, you two are on the Fast Car.”

Cahill looked at Tom Harris. His smug face returned the look as he fist bumped his partner, Danny Cox, who was almost a clone of Tom, and almost as smug. “Teri and Shanice, you’re on the van.” Teri Taylor and Shanice Day were the next senior patrol officers on the team after Tom and Danny. They were two tall, tough girls. They were clearly chuffed to be together, and on the van. “Patrol car one is Sarah and Mikhail. And Patrol car two is Jay and Carly. Okay, that’s it, you scum bags. Grab your gear and get out there. But do me a favour...be careful. Cahill, come and see me.” Smith waltzed out of the briefing room, clutching his clipboard to his chest. Cahill shook his head and stayed where he was. Jay Patel was a good guy, as was Carly Evans, but they had obviously been given the same script as Sergeant Smith, as they both gave him the stink eye as they left the room. As did the usually smiling Sarah Doyle, and the stern Russian, Mikhail Ruslanovich. With himself and Smith, that was just ten cops on duty this night. That was all the people of South London got, because at night, the factories were closed and guarded by rent-a-cops with big dogs. And during the darkness, the working citizens of this ex-metropolis kept a curfew of their own making and locked themselves in their flats and houses. That was because at night, the gangs owned the streets. Andy Smith was waiting patiently by the control room door as Cahill emerged from the briefing room. “I assume I’m with you tonight, Sarge?” Cahill neared the stony-faced Smith. “Dream on, Cahill. You don’t think I waste my time driving around the streets, do you? Nope. My place is here in the control room, making sure all the resources are poured into the right shithole, at the right time. And speaking of the right shithole, I’ve got something special for you tonight.” He flashed his yellow nicotine-stained teeth at Cahill. “Go on. What have I got to look forward to then?” He tried to sound

disinterested. “You’ve drawn the short straw, Cahill. Tunde needs babysitting. So seeing as you’ve already met him, you can get your arse up to the hospital and make sure no one comes back to finish the job.” Cahill looked into Smith’s eyes and realized how right he was earlier to think he was in a bad place. “I take it I’ve got authority to draw a firearm?” he said. Smith laughed. “You have got a sense of humour, Cahill. Your demotion and complete humiliation hasn’t taken that from you. No, you haven’t. But I’d stick on some body armour if I were you, because we have intel that his gang, the NDC, will be back to finish him off. Or as I said, the Triple C might have a pop, too. And they are dangerous clowns, that lot. Literally!” He was pleased with his joke, and laughed again. “And listen carefully.” He wasn’t laughing now, and closed in on Cahill. “Don’t be calling for any fucking backup if it comes on top for you tonight. Because I’ve already told my lot that they will be too busy. Do you understand?” Cahill stared at Smith. This was next-level bad. Smith had thrown him to the wolves. “I understand, all right.” Cahill turned away and took a radio from the storage next to the control room, and left the building. He knew all about the gangs on the LPD South Sector. As a detective sergeant on the LPD’s Central Crime Squad, he had been responsible for running surveillance operations on the many gangs out there. The Nail Dem Crew were one of the old school traditional South London street gangs. Born out of the broken homes and poverty of the inner London streets, these gangbangers bonded to form their own family group. For years, they had robbed and fought for survival, protecting their corners, where they peddled crack, brown, pills, and weed. On the plus side, being one of the bigger selfsufficient gangs, they didn’t cause any problems for the factories.

Cahill had heard of their leader, Soldier, but had never dealt with him before, so this would be an interesting night, to say the least. The Triple C was something completely different. Just before London fell to the chaos all those years ago, the circus was in town. In Clapham Common, to be exact. The huge, colourful big top had drawn the crowds in all summer. But when the deluge of violence swept through London, it was abandoned. During the fighting, gangs of rioters took to squatting in the massive tent. When the order was given for civilization to withdraw out to the suburbs, those rioters holed-up in the big top became the Clapham Circus Crew, hence the Triple C. This wasn’t a traditional gang. This was pure chaos. They took to dressing as clowns. The bright makeup on their faces was tattooed on, not painted. Their leader dressed in a red coat and top hat like some post-apocalyptic ringmaster. They were unpredictable, and posed a significant threat to the factories. Cahill ed a case where the Triple C burned a factory to the ground. They sent a crew of fire eaters to scorch the place. Spat flames at the building, like demons from the abyss. Then afterward, ran back into the night, howling. The Triple C was just one of many new-wave gangs out there. There were plenty of other crazy collectives like them—no discipline, no real purpose, other than violence and living a hand-to-mouth existence. You had the London Transport Killers. They lived in the bus depot in Streatham, and cruised around in old double-decker buses, looking for trouble. Next up were the All-Stars. These guys had taken over a sports superstore up in Surrey Quays, and used all the equipment from the store to attack other gangs in raids for food and home comforts. Unlike pretty much all the other gangs, these guys abstained from booze and drugs. You had the Battersea Barbarians, based at the old dog’s home, from where they struck out to forage for contraband, food, and anything else they could get their hands on. This crew were also suspected of having a decent firearm collection— a rarity in London—but this had never been corroborated. Arguably the most feared gang, even more so than the Triple C, were the BangUp Crew. Formed of former inmates from notorious jails in South London, Wandsworth, Brixton, and Belmarsh, these guys were all about rape and murder.

When London was abandoned, the prison governors ordered the cells and gates to be unlocked as the bosses and screws evacuated. This awful decision put thousands of offenders on the streets. Fortunately, most of these escaped with the rest of London, as many were from outside the capital and had no wish to stay. The rest setup home in their abandoned jails, but soon linked up with their brothers and sisters, where they raided across London, raping, murdering, and leaving a trail of debris in their wake. There were dozens of other gangs across the capital, but these were the ones that caused the most problems for the LPD South Sector. Cahill wondered if the Bang-Up Crew would bother getting involved with Tunde’s situation. He doubted it. And he didn’t think the Triple C would care too much, either. Yes, it was probably just the NDC that would come for him. Cahill wondered what he would do if that happened. Would he risk his neck for some violent thug? He doubted it. Outside in the yard, he saw the two girls loading up the van for their night shift. “Hey, Teri!” shouted Cahill. Teri elbowed her wing girl in the ribs, and both Amazonians turned to face him, their hands on their hips. Shanice was a dark-skinned woman of African origin, while Teri was lighter skinned, from the Caribbean. But both were Londoners through and through, and had the foulest language you’ve ever heard. “What the fuck do you want?” Teri said. “A lift down to the hospital. I’ve copped guard duty.” “What do you reckon, Shanice?” “Fuck him. Let him walk.” Tom and Danny were loading the Fast Car, and noticed Cahill’s exchange with the girls. Wanting to stir the situation, they walked over to in. “No, go on girls. Give the poor old geezer a lift to the hospital. It’s the best place for him when those gangbangers come for Tunde.” Tom laughed and slapped Danny on the shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s a good point, Tom. Jump in the back...Patrolman.” Teri laughed along with Tom and Danny. Cahill shrugged and went to get in the back of the van. Tom thrust his arm out and grabbed Cahill by the shoulder and whispered into his ear. “You are a dirty no-good drunk who deserves all you get. You should have got sacked for what you did. And believe me when I tell you, no matter how bad it gets, no matter how much you scream for help on that radio tonight...we aren’t coming. Do you hear me?” Tom released his shoulder and moved backward, refusing to break eye . Cahill held his gaze. He was afraid of no man. Never had been. His mind raced through all the things he could say to Tom, but he said nothing. He just turned and hopped in the back of the van.

5

Cahill had never seen the brand-new waterfront Royal Thameside Hospital near London Bridge, so he looked it up on his smartphone and read about it en route. It was a gleaming twenty-story towering building with a rooftop annex that had been blessed with state-of-the-art medical equipment. Despite the mass abandonment of inner London, the Company was smart enough to realise that medical care would be vital to keep the factories open. The gangs were not welcomed for care here, but they would gain ission by claiming to be factory workers. Or like Tunde, they were brought there by the LPD, so the hospital had no choice but to treat them. Accident and emergency covered the ground floor, with the busy mortuary in the basement, he read. Floors one through to four were the training department. The Company paid for state-of-the-art medical training. The lessons were taught by military surgeons experienced with battlefield injuries, which was extremely valuable in the factory zone. Floor five housed the restaurant and hospital catering. From the sixth floor up to the tenth, all treatments and surgeries occurred. The hospital was equipped for any medical procedure from an amputation to open-heart surgery. The eleventh floor up to the twentieth were reserved as the recovery wards. It wasn’t a good idea to send patients home to get better since they lived in awful conditions, so the hospital only sent them back to work once they were fit and healthy. These floors were constantly full. London was a dangerous place to live. The rooftop annex sat on top like an oblong glass box—an isolated ward for special patients such as Tunde, and provided with its own security force. The van entered the hospital approach road, which ran from London Bridge, up an elevated section of road where the main railway station used to be, then swept down in a gentle curve toward the main hospital entrance. Shanice pulled the van up one hundred yards short of the main entrance, where the car park and gardens started.

Cahill looked out the van as they drew nearer. He noted that the main hospital doors and ambulance bays were guarded by security, and he could see that the entrances, including the vehicle bays, had an airlock system. This meant that as you entered a sterile area, where the exterior door was secured before the interior door lock was released. It seemed like a good system, but it had never been tested. Cahill wondered if tonight was the night. How much did they want Soldier? The van stopped. “Get the fuck out my van, Cahill!” Shanice shouted, from her driver’s seat without even looking back as she released the locks to the rear door. Cahill watched the van drive off into the night. As it approached the corner, the blue lights and sirens wailed into life as they went off to their first call of the night. He wondered if they would come if he called. He surveyed the front of the sheer glass tower block, and took note of the regular security patrols that were covering the exterior. He nodded at two guards that wandered near the entrance, but neither felt inclined to come over and see what he wanted, so he buzzed the intercom on the main door. “Security,” a female voice shrieked, in response to his buzzing. “Cahill, LPD. I’m here for the protected patient in the annex.” There was no reply, just a green light and the sound of an electromagnet releasing the lock on the exterior door. He moved through the airlock and stepped past the interior door, finding the security office across the lobby in front of him. He was greeted by a five-foot-tall Chinese female security guard. She was cute, her long black hair tied back tight in a ponytail, and she smiled at him. “Hi, I’m Lin Tse, the night manager, I’ll take you up to the annex.” She handed him a small radio. “You’ll need this to talk to me and my team in here. By the way, your radio won’t work up there. This building blocks radio and phone signals, so if you need to use your radio or your phone, get out on the roof. You’ll get a signal there.” She looked up at him in iration. “Thanks, Lin, but I haven’t really got anyone to phone, and I don’t plan on calling anyone on the radio, either, as I’ve got you to keep the bad guys out

down here.” Her face flushed, and she giggled. “This way, Officer.” “My name’s Declan. Declan Cahill.” A&E was packed to the rafters. Its huge waiting room was full of the walking wounded. They wailed like the tormented souls in Dante’s poem. These souls were on their very own guided tour of their own inferno, slowly winding down into the inner circle of hell. Beyond the waiting room was the treatment area—a throbbing entity of bloodsoaked bodies traveling along a conveyer belt of broken bits and pieces. This was where the serious trade that the ambulances brought in with sickening regularity were dealt with first. Despite the soundproofed cubicles, their screams of pain could still be heard. Lin and Cahill byed the agony and misery on their way to the south lobby lift that would take them up to the highest level of the hospital. There were two ways up and down the building for the general public—the south lobby, where Cahill currently was, which had lifts and stairs. There was a further set of emergency stairs, known as the north stairwell, on the river side of the building. In the centre of the building were two larger commercial lifts that took patients from A&E, down to the mortuary, or up to the operating theatres. These were not accessible to the public. Another guard was on duty at the south lifts. Lin greeted him with a wave, and he pressed the up button for them. Maybe it’ll be okay. The security seemed to be adequate, and by that, he meant the physical security of the entry systems—CCTV coverage, and the plentiful human security. The elevator doors swished shut, and Lin pressed the button with the word Annex next to it. The silence was awkward as Lin shifted from foot to foot, trying to think of something to say. “So Declan, what has this guy done to deserve being babysat by you this

evening?” “He’s done nothing I’m aware of, other than get shot.” “There must be better things for you to do out on the streets, seeing as its Halloween.” “Yep. But unfortunately, we think they might have another go at our friend.” Lin’s face fell. “You mean, they might come here tonight?” “Well, yes, it’s a possibility. That’s why I’m here.” Lin’s face stayed dark. “With respect, Officer, what the hell do you think you’re going to do to stop them? We should have been told.” “I’m sorry, Lin. Yes, you should have been told. If it helps, I’ve looked at your setup here on my way through. It’s pretty good. It would take an army to breach your doors.” They stood in silence until the doors swished open with a pneumatic gasp. “This way.” It was all business now as Lin showed him the way. The annex’s ceiling was made of glass, and through it, Cahill could see up into the blackness of the night sky, studded with pin-prick stars of light. “You will find your man through the ward. He’s in one of the two private rooms at the end, on the left side. Help yourself to tea and coffee. If you need anything, just use the radio.” With that, Lin opened the lift door and went back down to the ground floor. Cahill watched the lights flick down the display until they settled on the ground floor. He felt bad that his information had upset her, and he hoped he could cheer her back up before the end of his duty. That would be good. He turned his thoughts to the business at hand. He needed to scope out the annex, just in case. The lift was the start point, and next to it was the stairwell. Like the ceiling, the exterior walls were glass and lined both sides of the lobby. About ten-twelve feet across from the lift was a set of double doors. Through

these, Cahill found himself in a six-cubicle ward, three beds either side, all empty. At the end of the ward was another set of double doors that took him into a narrow-walled corridor with two solid doors on either side, and at the end of the corridor was the roof access, via a glass door. The first door on the left was the kitchen—a small room with basic facilities—and the first door on the right was a locker room turned storeroom. The last two doors on either side at the end were the two private rooms. The right side was empty. The left side was Tunde’s room. Cahill entered the room. He could see the night sky, and also the flickering lights in the dark streets below. The head of the bed was against the glass wall opposite the door. To the right was another glass wall through which he could see the rooftop covered in various vents and small structures and twin raised rails that, as far as he could see, seemed to bend around the edge of the entire roof. On the left side of the private room were built-in cupboards, and a single chair was situated against the wall next to the door to a small bathroom. Lying on his back, motionless on the bed was the reason he was here, Tunde Adeyemi aka Soldier. His left upper arm was bandaged and in a sling. His upper body was raised on pillows, so he was sitting almost upright, with his lower body covered by a blanket. His stomach rose and fell, as if in a deep sleep. Cahill studied him, wondering how this man became the leader of a street gang. Wondered what terrible things he had done to stay alive in the abandoned shitfilled gutters of London town. Cahill felt his nerves jangle just a little bit, but enough for him to reach for his pewter hip flask freshly filled with his favourite Irish whiskey. He unscrewed her cap and savoured the potent liquid as it warmed his jangled nerves. Not too much. Just a liquid hand on his shoulder, to keep him calm. “I hope you’ve got some of that for me?” Tunde’s eyes were wide open now, and he grinned at Cahill, pleased to have startled him. “Jesus! I thought you were asleep.” He tried to calm his racing heart. Tunde chuckled, his laugh deep. “You don’t me, do you?” Cahill’s brow furrowed. “It was me you stumbled into earlier today.” “No, no—well, yeah, but no. Before today. Granted, it was about fifteen years

ago, when I was a juvenile. But you nicked me.” Tunde carried on smiling as he waited for Cahill to . His mind raced. He couldn’t place him. “What did I nick you for?” “Crime of the century, Officer. But it doesn’t matter now.” Tunde laughed. “Fifteen years is a long time ago. My memory is becoming selective as time es.” “We’ve moved on a bit, haven’t we?” Tunde said. Cahill was becoming irritated. “Look, I really don’t you.” “You may not me, but I you. Because it was the first time I was ever nicked. I was scared, and you made it okay. And here you are again, to look after me.” Cahill softened, and even felt bad for being shitty with him. “I dealt with a lot of juveniles back then, but I always treated prisoners well.” “I won’t forget it,” Tunde said. “Didn’t do you any good, though, did it? Didn’t deter you from a life of crime.” Tunde’s smile disappeared. “No, it didn’t.” Cahill paced around the room, then grabbed the chair by the bathroom door and placed it at the end of the bed. He shrugged and sat down. He looked at Tunde, still not able to dealing with him. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. What difference did it make? The last thing he needed was to be reminded of the past. Because fifteen years ago, he still had Jasmine, still had a future. The hip flask called out to him, but he wouldn’t let Tunde see him drink from it again.

Tunde broke the silence. “So what time are they coming, then? “Who?” “You know, witness protection?” Cahill’s head spun, and it wasn’t from the whiskey. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Witness protection, on their way! Christ, this was even worse than he’d thought. And his thirst was screaming loud inside his head, like a baby crying hard for a warm bottle. “No, I don’t know, Tunde. You’d better tell me.” “I can’t give you details, but I spoke to the National Police a few hours ago.” “The NPS was here?” “No, a detective from the Company was here, getting my statement. He called them, and I spoke to them.” “Start from the beginning, because I know nothing about this. If I did, there would be armed guards here, not just me.” Tunde took a deep breath. “My boy Nico was acting weird, right. He’s my second, and I sensed a coup, so I fronted him out. He denied it. I’ve now got a problem because I’ve called him out, and now I know I’m right. So I followed him. Heard him plotting with his boys. I needed to deal with him, but he saw me coming. He put a bullet in me, and I just about got away. I ran into you down by the river earlier, and here I am.” “My briefing was that there may be another attempt on your life. For what, a coup d’état?” “Partly, yes,” Tunde whispered. Cahill moved in closer. “They told me not to tell anyone.” Tunde looked away. “I can’t help you if I don’t know why Nico is still coming for you.”

“Nico wants leadership. Therefore, he needs to take me out.” “That’s bullshit. Why not just wait for you to leave the hospital?” “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone else. I’ve got to think about my family.” “Something’s wrong here.” “If it gets out what I’m doing, every gangster in London will be coming for me.” “You’re talking in riddles, Tunde. I want to know why the NPS is so interested in you telling tales on Nico for attempted murder. With respect, you aren’t worth the paperwork.” “The Nail Dem Crew is the premier street gang in London and the oldest. We’ve been bringing the goodies into town for years. We’ve got the tightest routes, the best hiding places, and the best distribution networks. We look after the Triple C, the Bang-Up Crew, the Transport Killers...you name them, we supply them.” Tunde smiled in satisfaction at Cahill, then sat back on his pillows. “And you’re going to give them everything?” Cahill said, shocked. “I’m going legit. The gang’s funds are stashed in various hiding places. I give you the goods, including the cash, and I get to set my girl and babies up in the suburbs. I’m leaving this behind.” “And you think Nico suspects you’re talking to us?” “I’ve been here all day. I’ve had an LPD detective visit me, and now I’ve got a uniform guarding me. Nico isn’t the smartest gangster I know, but he will suspect something is going on. I wouldn’t take the risk. Coup d’état or talking to the feds—either way, I’d take me out.” “You’ve put us bang in it, Tunde.” Cahill shook his head. “The risk is worth it for my family. I grass up the gang, I get paid. I’m going to be rich, legitimately rich. And wit pro will move me and my family to a safe place to enjoy it.”

“You are some piece of work, Tunde. I need to call this in.” Cahill pulled out his cell phone and stormed out of the room to find a signal on the rooftop. He pushed the glass rooftop door open and crunched onto the gravel-covered roof. Once free of the building, the noise of London greeted him —bangs, crashes, screams, and the ever-present wail of sirens reached his ears. The wind whipped around him as he unlocked his phone. This is going to be a long night. He dialled the direct number for the South HQ control room. He felt his heart beating strong in his chest. Then felt it speed up as he heard the engaged tone. His eyes watered as the wind buffeted his face, his mouth dry and in need of the lubrication that only whiskey could give it. He wiped his eyes and forced saliva around his needy mouth. He clenched his fists. This is going to be a long night.

***

The night manager was still annoyed with Cahill as she furiously typed up her activity log on her computer in the security office. If the truth be known, Lin was annoyed at herself because he was about the bestlooking man she had bumped into for ages. She had done her best smiling and eyelash fluttering, flirting with this tall, handsome cop, and it was going well until she had to bite his head off. She couldn’t help herself sometimes. Her temper was well-known, and it had often got her in trouble because she could snap like that at the drop of a hat. Fretting over him and her behaviour wasn’t going to help their situation, though. She had more important things to think about. An injured gang member sat on the top floor of her hospital, and he was a problem. This was a dangerous situation, and as the night manager it was up to her to keep the building safe. It was Halloween. The ambulances were maxed out. The wailing butcher’s wagons conveyed the blood-soaked victims in to see the eager surgeons. The

patients were itted, and the wagons were sluiced out with disinfectant before they headed back out onto the battlefield. Lin’s thoughts were interrupted by a colleague. Christine the office manager looked nervous. “So the officer said that whoever shot our patient up there in the annex might be back?” “We don’t know anything for certain, Christine.” “Sean just called in. He was patrolling the river path side of the building, and he says he’s seen some activity a couple hundred yards away.” “What sort of activity?” “Erm, he said there was a clown watching the building, holding a balloon.” Adrenaline shot through Lin’s guts, but she forced herself to calm down. The clown could be nothing. But then again, it could just be the start. “Christine, listen carefully. Call 999 and tell them we have a potential gang incursion. A possible code thirteen for them to investigate. Repeat back.” Christine’s mouth opened, but no words came. “Christine! Repeat back.” Christine flinched. “Tell them we have a potential gang incursion.” “That’s right. A possible code thirteen.” Lin watched her dial the three nines, then grabbed the radio and called for Cahill.

6

Nico waited patiently in the old Windmill Pub and Car Park on the Common, his heart tap dancing in his broad chest. This was literally bandit country for him. He was standing on Triple C turf, but he should be safe tonight because he had arranged what was about to happen. Nico saw them, six figures walking toward him from the darkened road that surrounded Clapham Common. They were four large, muscled men, and two statuesque women. They wore grubby denim jeans with blue denim shirts. Some had them tucked in. Some, tied around their shoulders. The half-dozen of the Bang-Up Crew carried a variety of weapons—wicked-looking steel shivs, heavy metal coshes, and bike chains. The implements were all well used. Nico liked what he saw. Then he heard an engine, and a smoke-belching, graffiti-covered London double-decker bus chugged into the car park of the burnt-out and derelict pub. Six of the London Transport Killers decamped from their vehicle stood and watched the Bang-Up Crew approach, the tension twitching in their scarred necks. This crew of murderous killers wore clothing that bore the old circular symbol of London Transport—engineer’s overalls, a bus inspector jacket, filthy shirts and jerseys. Some wore driver’s peaked caps, and others sported filthy bandannas. Like the Bang-Up Crew, they were all tooled up with blades and coshes. But this group had a sawed-off shot gun. The biggest member held it in the air as a warning to the approaching ex-cons. Nico wasn’t bothered by the Transport Killers show of strength. The shotgun probably isn’t even loaded. They drew up level with him. If they had to fight, they would. But it wouldn’t come to that today, because today they were here to meet his crew and the Triple C. The now dozen-strong band of gangbangers walked line abreast across the muddy common. Nico led the vanguard toward the big top strewn across their path.

He couldn’t work out the way Triple C operated and lived out here. It was crazy their big tent had originally been brightly coloured and well-lit with dozens of light bulbs, like a Christmas tree. Now, it was unlit and stained by smoke, mud, and blood. A tall man stood in the wide entranceway. He wore a filthy red coat with tails, and a battered top hat that increased his height by at least another foot. He began to clap rhythmically. The approaching twelve gangsters all looked at each other with furrowed brows, but then they noticed the clowns. Nico stood away from the twelve, forced there by the tension they suddenly radiated. They appeared from the nooks, crannies, and crevices surrounding the massive tent materializing out of the shadows to appear like phantoms conjured by the mind of someone playing a sick joke. Nico’s skin crawled. “Welcome, welcome, my brothers and sisters! Welcome to the circus.” Ringmaster gave them a toothy grin that sent the shivers up and down Nico’s hardened gangster spine. A smile full of horror and decay radiated at him as the head clown beckoned them all inside the big top with a flourishing bow. Inside the massive tent, roaring naked flames crackled from torches that illuminated the old circus ring with flickering red and orange. Clowns wandered around, trancelike in the gloom. The strobe effect of the unsteady firelight made their tattoo-covered faces come alive with a demonic quality. Nico wrinkled his nose at the stale sweat-laden air inside the canvas big top. He followed the twelve gangsters as they walked toward the centre of the ring, his eyes adjusting as he came to a halt. Ringmaster ed them and swept his arm in a showman-like way toward the rear of the tent. Nico squinted into the dark and saw another six gangsters approach the ring of fire. This was his gang, the oldest gang in London. They wore an array of hooded tracksuits with matching bottoms and designer training shoes. Ringmaster cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, here at the big top for one night only, I present to you the Nail Dem Crew, the London Transport Killers, the Bang-Up Crew, and of

course, last but not least, the Clapham Circus Crew.” One clown laughed maniacally, as another repeatedly honked an oversized bulb horn, whilst the others clapped as an acrobat in torn tights cartwheeled across the front of the gathered gangs. Nico patted Ringmaster on the arm as he went to take centre stage. “Thanks to the Triple C for letting me use their base to have this meeting. And thanks to you all for keeping to the six rule. I’m Nico, leader of the Nail Dem Crew.” He scowled as he looked at the group. “I know the leader of your crew,” said Road Man, leader of the Transport Killers. “So who the fuck are you?” “That is exactly why we’re all here,” Nico said. “Soldier has become a liability, and I think he’s talking to the feds.” “So fucking what?” Road Man spat, over the top of the jeering crowd. “Clear your own mess up.” Nico chuckled. “Typical short-sightedness. Listen dickhead. If Soldier is grassing, he’s giving up our supply lines into London. Where are you going to get your sweeties, then?” Road Man’s face dropped when he realized, when they all realized, that Soldier could cut off London’s drug supply. Okay, they would eventually sort out new lines. But that would take time, and money they didn’t have. “The next big blowout in London will end us completely,” Nico said. “Next time, they won’t send in the military. They’ll just destroy the city with air strikes.” Despite the gangs, the factories still churned out enough to satisfy the Company, and in turn, the government. They put together circuit boards and chips for the phone industry, and sewed clothes templates for the textile industry. London had effectively become a giant sweatshop. But if there was another great explosion, another bout of self-destruction in the capital, there would be no rebuild this time. The whole town would be removed from the face of the earth. They all knew it.

Soldier had to be stopped. That, they all realized. Big Al, leader of the Bang-Up Crew, said, “So what do you need?” Nico smiled and nodded at him. “Nice one, brother. We need to mobilize. The Triple C has been keeping an eye on Soldier. He’s under LPD guard, at Thameside Hospital. We need to get down there and take him out. And we need to get there fast to protect our business.” “I can get at least twenty soldiers down there, all tooled-up, ready to fight,” Big Al said. “Cool, cool! Nico said. “What about the Transport Killers?” “We can match Bang-Up Crew’s twenty,” Road Man replied. “I’ve already sent my boys and girls down there,” Ringmaster said. “Clowns and fire eaters. It’s going to be the best show we’ve ever put on.” He cackled, ed again by his honking accomplice. “We’ll have over a hundred soldiers at our disposal once my crew arrives,” Nico said. “Once we’re ready, no one is to do anything until I give the order. And only I get to kill that no-good grass. Is that agreed?” “Once this is all over,” said Road Man, “and I speak for us all here, we expect some heavy discounts on our next orders.” “Yeah. What he said,” Big Al chimed. “I’ve already thought of that. Your next delivery will be on the Nail Dem Crew. Listen, it’s Halloween, and the streets need some violence and mayhem on them. Let’s get up to that hospital and fucking smash our way in. If anyone gets in our way, we take them out. Just get me to Soldier, and I can end this.” Nico’s eyes gleamed. “Ha-ha-ha! Let the show begin,” said Ringmaster.

7

Lin was getting nowhere fast, and she had bitten the side of her fingernail redraw, grimacing as she pulled the skin and tugged a sliver of skin free. Christine worked the desk phone. “It’s still engaged,” she said. Lin had watched her ring 999 a few times since she had asked her to, and she could see tears welling up in Christine’s eyes. How could the emergency number be engaged? This was getting ridiculous. Lin paced the office, holding her radio to her ear. Her calls to Cahill remained unanswered, too, as had the phone in the protected patient’s private room. “Anymore news from the mobile patrols?” Lin said. “The clown with the balloon is still there, and we’ve had reports of another one on the approach road.” Christine cleared her throat. “This one is on a unicycle.” Lin stared at Christine’s red-eyed face. “Listen. , Christine,” she said, in a soft, steady voice, “if they come, they are coming for that man up in the annex, not us. I shouldn’t be saying this, but we are not going to get in their way.” Christine sniffed and nodded. Lin smiled at her friend and colleague. Why should they risk their lives to protect a gangster? A man with blood and death staining his hands? But she knew that cop up there would put his own life at risk to protect the gangster and, she wasn’t one hundred percent sure she wouldn’t do all she could to help him. Maybe she didn’t mean what she had just promised her friend. She would just have to see how she felt when the time came to make that choice.

***

Cahill had given up trying to call the control room, and he wasn’t getting any joy on the radio either. Maybe he would call Lin on the hospital radio. He patted his tro and duty jacket pockets, and realized he had left it in Tunde’s room. His searching hands touched his hip flask, and immediately the juices flowed under his tongue. Cahill took a long draught of the Irish whiskey and exhaled with satisfaction as he felt the intimate warmth of the liquor caress his system. He went back into Tunde’s room. “Someone’s been calling for you on that radio, and the phones been ringing.” Tunde was smiling and pointing at the handheld radio on the floor. He must have left it behind when he’d grabbed the chair earlier. “Security, this is Officer Cahill. Were you calling? Over.” “Declan, it’s Lin. I’ve been trying to call. Pick up the room phone. Calling now. Out.” The phone next to Tunde’s bed began to ring. “Cahill speaking.” “We have a problem. Patrol has just reported that a couple clowns are watching the hospital. I think they’re coming, Declan. The Triple C, the others, and I think they’re after your man.” Cahill felt a shot of adrenaline in his chest. He knew the security guard’s instincts were probably right. “Maybe it is worse than I thought earlier,” he said. “Listen, I’m breaking protocol, Lin. But you need to know this...the patient is going to give up some major intelligence to the National Police. The cash, the drugs, and the whole network. He’s doing a deal.” “We’ll just let them in, then,” Lin said. “Let them do what they need to do, and

stay out of the way. Please, Declan! Give me the word, and I’ll open the doors.” Cahill tapped the phone against his head, thinking. “Lin, what you’re saying makes sense, and my advice to you and your team is to do exactly that—stay out of the way. But I would rather you didn’t just let them in. You need to give me a fighting chance.” “Declan, you can’t be serious. You’ll be torn apart with him.” “Just because a couple of the Triple C are hanging around and giving your guys the horrors, doesn’t mean we’re going to be attacked. It’s easier for them to wait until Tunde is transported outside, and then grab him. This building has good security. We’ll be fine in here.” “Declan, those clowns are out there for him.” “I’m here to do my job, and that’s to guard that man until the morning, until I’m relieved.” “No job is worth that, Declan.” “I can’t afford to screw this up. Not after what I’ve done.” “What are you talking about?” “This is my chance to put things right.” Lin’s silence told Declan that he had probably said too much, and that she wasn’t comfortable to push matters. Tunde must have heard, too, as Cahill noticed him raise his eyebrows. “I hope you’re right, Declan,” she said. “I hope I’m just being paranoid, because I can’t get through on the three nines, or any other number, either. When did they say reinforcements would get here in the morning?” “I can’t get through either,” Cahill said. “Did you go on the roof?” she said. “You’ll get a signal there.” “That’s where I was when you called. And my calls are going unanswered in the

heavy radio traffic. It’s busy as hell out there tonight. I’ll keep trying, but I’m not holding my breath.” “We’re on our own, then?” “For now.” Cahill put the phone down, a feeling of guilt burning in his chest. He should have told her that his team wasn’t going to help him. That they hated his guts for what he had done. And that was the real reason they were on their own. “So, boss, what’s the plan?” Tunde said.

8

Dev Gill hadn’t been on the team long, but he had been there long enough to have worked out that Sergeant Smith was a horrible bully. Dev could feel Smith’s gaze boring into his back from his dark corner at the back of the control room. Dev was a control room operator and was directly supervised by the lovely Sam Delaney, who sat next to him on the desk in the centre of the control room. He felt sweat on his brow as he tried his best to placate desperate callers on the phone line, then add their requests for help to the growing list of jobs. He and Sam could have done with twice as many operators. Two of them was a joke, but typical of the Company. Dev risked a glance behind him and saw Sergeant Andy Smith sat with his back to him. Phew! His gaze lingered on Smith’s screen that displayed the long list of calls that he and Sam sent to him so the sergeant could prioritize them and then send them back to appear on their screens in the correct order. Then he and Sam could dish the jobs out over the radio. Dev groaned internally as he tried to count the list on Smith’s screen. Tonight was incredibly busy, and that list was building by the minute. He knew they had minimal resources available on the night shift. Dev noticed that Smith was monitoring the radio channel on a speaker that sat on his desk, which was tuned to the same channel that he and Sam worked on. Dev concentrated on his headset as he heard Cahill’s voice calling for Sergeant Smith amongst all the chatter. Dev looked at Sam and elbowed her arm. She gave him a filthy look back and shook her head as she answered a question from the boys on the Fast Car, over her headset. This wasn’t right, but Dev knew Cahill wasn’t getting any help tonight. “You did you hear that, didn’t you, Sam?” whispered Dev. She sighed, pushed her earpiece off her ear, and leant in toward her neighbour.

“Yep. Of course I did. Cahill has been calling to speak to Sergeant Smith about the hospital guard.” She flicked her long hair out of her face. “Shall I send a patrol car there to check on things?” “Not if you don’t want him on your back for the rest of your life, Dev.” “Suppose he needs help?” “He would put up an urgent assistance, wouldn’t he? Just wait for the sarge to tell us the score. I was told earlier that Cahill came under a huge cloud, and we weren’t to be too lively responding to him.” “Whatever you say, Sam. But I don’t think that’s fair. If he sounds desperate, I’m putting the call out.” Sam turned to him, and he felt a chill in his soul as she looked deep into his brown eyes. “If you like your job, do as the sergeant says. That way, you can’t go wrong.” Dev turned back to his screen, keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself.

9

Callum had worked with Roy at Thameside Hospital since it opened. They worked together, played darts at their local pub, and were a good pairing at the pub quiz, too. As a team, they now patrolled the exterior of their domain. This included the Thames path between the building and the river, and all the surrounding approach roads, grounds, and car parks. Callum had always wanted to the Army, but his health hadn’t allowed this career path. So the next best thing was the security game. The hospital gig was about the best you could find in the zone, as the gangs only came there to get stitched up, not to cause carnage. He was proud of his uniform, which was smart- and military-looking—black gleaming boots, black combat tros, a black jumper with reinforced patches on the elbows, and epaulettes that had Security tabs inserted onto them. And he wore a black beret with a silver badge and the letters H and S, which stood for hospital security. Hospital security staff weren’t allowed any weapons, so the only things he and Roy carried were radios, a whistle, and a large metal torch which would doubleup as a blunt instrument. Callum knew he was lucky, and he loved his job because it kept him out of the shit and allowed him to keep his family in a slightly better manner than the poorer workers in the factories. He was barely better off, but it was as good as anyone could wish for in the zone these days. “It’s Halloween again. Roy,” he said to his partner. “Yep.” “You down the pub Friday?” “Yep.”

They continued strolling along the river path, comfortable in their silence, the result of their long partnership. Something strange caught Callum’s eye about fifty yards in front, and caused him to halt. He placed a warning hand on Roy’s arm to stop him walking. Ahead, he could see a clown pedalling in circles on a squeaking unicycle, laughing to himself, his face ugly with dirt-covered tattooed clown makeup. His clothes, once bright and silky, were now matted with indescribable dirt. And he grasped a long, blood-stained blade. Callum stood transfixed by the impromptu circus show unfolding in front of him. From behind the unicycling clown, Callum saw two female figures appear, dressed in tight black leather or PVC. It was hard to tell, as they were both as decrepit as the clown. They were each carrying what looked like a large black cotton bud. They were smiling, and both had greasy hair tied back in ponytails. The pair stopped either side of the clown and put a hand on each of his shoulders, bringing him to a stop. The clown seemed to be staring straight at the blank-minded security officer as he produced a lighter, lit it, and proceeded to light each of the girl’s oversized cotton buds. The flash of flame startled Callum as the accelerant that covered the buds woofed alight. He regained his senses as the show girls started striding toward him and his partner, with their torches burning bright in the night. At last, Callum grabbed his radio. “Control, Control. We’re under attack. River path. River...” The show girls puffed their cheeks as they blew into their torches. Fuel ed the flames, spraying him and Roy in an orange arc of hot death. Callum threw his arms up in a pointless defence as the inferno engulfed his and Roy’s bodies. His last thought was that his own scream was eerily high-pitched, as he writhed in the red-hot spitting flames that now enveloped him. At last, he dropped to the path and twitched and squirmed next to his best mate as they continued to burn in the fire.

***

Lin listened with horror as she heard Callum’s report over her handheld radio. She looked over at her office manager. “Christine, bring up the river path camera. Now!” Christine tuned into the cameras at the rear of the hospital that lined the river path, just in time to see their two colleagues on the ground, each a motionless bonfire. Lin watched the screen, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Then, from behind the flames, she saw twenty or thirty of them coming, armed with hammers, pipes, and blunt instruments. A balloon bobbed above the melee. As the clowns started to beat at the toughened glass, Lin felt a wave of panic wash over her. Her fear had become a reality. She grabbed the radio. “Officer Cahill, are you receiving? Officer Cahill?” “Go ahead, Lin.” “They’re coming.”

10

When his bar was quiet, Mickey liked to sit in the small box room from where he controlled his sleazy empire, and catch up on his favourite thing in the world —voyeurism. Each of his sex suites recorded sound and video. Deep inside his sanctum, Mickey decided to take full advantage of the peace and quiet, and began to rub himself through his tros as he watched the action on the monitor that sat on his cluttered desk. His breathing and pulse quickened as he strummed the lump in his tros and began to feel the pleasure rising. On the screen was someone Mickey was thinking about blackmailing. His name was Jones, or something like that, and he was a factory boss with a penchant for regular sex with prostitutes. Mickey’s rubbing became quicker, and his breathing ragged as he watched Jones fucking Roxy from behind. Roxy was squealing with delight, and he loved the way she pushed back with each thrust from the factory boss. Mickey was nearly there. Just a bit longer. He bit down hard on his bottom lip as the warmth of his impending climax built, ready for the grand finale, just as Tommy crashed the door into the back of Mickey’s chair. “Tommy! For fucks sake, I keep telling you to knock.” Mickey let go of his groin, grabbed the desk and pushed his lap farther under it to stop Tommy seeing the lump in his tros. “Sorry, boss.” Dirty Tommy held his arms wide open. “Find something to do, you lazy little shite!” Mickey shouted. “That’s why I’m here, Mickey. I’ve just had a call from my cousin Jez. He’s down in South London, and he reckons he’s seen the girl that caused all that grief.” Tommy beamed at this revelation.

“What are you on about?” Mickey said, his urges now all but forgotten. “Alexis. That blonde my cousin introduced us to. Do you her?” Mickey did. He wished he still had the recording of her, the gorgeous Alexis. He felt himself stiffening again and hoped Tommy would go away so he could finish the job off. “Yeah, of course I do,” Mickey replied. “She lost us one of our best customers. I thought she was your cousin’s bird?” “Yeah, that’s her.” Tommy’s face clouded over in seriousness. “Jez said she went missing just after the cops pinched Cahill here that night. And when she left, she lifted some gear and cash.” “How much fucking gear are we talking about?” Mickey was now equally as serious as Tommy. “She took an ounce of coke, and two of brown.” Tommy’s voice shook. Mickey’s face went purple, and he gritted his teeth. “An ounce of coke, and two ounces of that top heroin!” Mickey shouted at the recoiling Dirty Tommy. “When the fuck was you going to tell me?” “I was going to, Mickey. Especially because she took a few hundred quid in cash, too.” Tommy winced, afraid he was about to be struck. “Jesus, Tommy, how have you been getting our supplies?” “I had an arrangement with my man. We’re good customers, so he lets me have our stuff on bail, and I pay him when it’s sold. Costs more, but it suited our lack of funds.” “Jesus Christ, Tommy. That Alexis owes us big time. You better get down to South London now and find her. Bring her back here if you need to, so at least she can start working off her debt.” “I’ll bring her back, all right, Mickey. She will be worked red-raw by the time we’ve finished with her.”

“You’ll need a few supplies.” Mickey squeezed past Tommy, into the hallway, and went to the old wardrobe. Inside of which was an array of weapons confiscated over the years, from unruly punters in the bar. Mickey only ever used his fists to keep the peace, and anyone with weapons in his place was dealt with severely. He always kept their weapons as trophies, and it was from this collection that he allowed Tommy to arm himself. He watched a delighted Tommy grab a wicked-looking cosh made of sprung steel, and a long metal bayonet that sat in a black leather sheaf. Tommy inserted the cosh into his inside jacket pocket and strapped the sheaved bayonet to his belt. Mickey nodded his approval, knowing far too well what it was like in South London, with all the gangs. Tommy would need all the help he could get. “I fucking hate South London.” “It’s a proper shithole, so it is, Tommy. Don’t take any shit from them down there. Just grab that bitch and bring her back here.” Mickey saw him off into the grimy Soho night. Tommy threw his leg over the saddle of his trusty push bike, pointed it south and began his squeaking journey. Mickey shook his head as he watched Dirty Tommy weave down the road.

11

Cahill clipped the hospital radio onto his utility belt. He had a feeling that he would need it. “Who’s coming?” Tunde asked him. “Security spotted clowns earlier. I wasn’t sure they were here for you, but the security boss reckons they are. And I’m minded to trust her instincts. Why would Triple C want you, Tunde?” “Nico has probably spun them a lie. Told them I’m a grass or something.” “But you are fucking grassing them up! Question is, though, how do they know that?” “They can’t know. That’s what I meant by Nico spinning a lie. If he’s got Triple C, he’ll have the Transport Killers and the Bang-Up crew, too.” “Including your crew, how many are we talking?” “A hundred? Two hundred? I don’t fucking know!” “Do you reckon you can move?” Cahill said. “What you got in mind?” “If we stay here, we’re dead.” “I’m not scared of those mugs. Let them come.” “No one is accusing you of that, Tunde. But if you’re planning on going ahead with your deal with the NPS, we need to try to keep you in one piece. What I’m suggesting is a bit of hide and seek.” “I like it, Officer. We can take a few of them out, too, if they get in our way.” Tunde’s eyes revealed a murderous gleam. “But is your head on straight,

Officer?” “What do you mean?” “I heard what you said on the phone, about you making up for what you’ve done. What have you done?” Cahill went through to the locker room he found earlier, and began to look for a change of clothes.

***

Lin belly crawled along, and then secreted herself behind a column on the ground floor, which gave her a view of the river path window. She felt the panic in her chest trying to take over her rational thoughts. No way would she lose it. She was the boss. Her first order was to call in all the mobile patrols back into the building. The second was for Christine to call the 999, and to keep calling until she got a response. Lin watched from her secreted position, her fingers trembling on the column, her eyes wide with fear and wonder at the sight unfolding in front of her. The clowns had reached the window and were bashing at the reinforced plate glass. The dull thuds were just audible through the thick soundproof plate. But just behind them, she could see the charred remains of Roy and Callum. Her heart broke, and tears streamed onto her cheeks. A lump formed in her throat as she tried to swallow. Her gaze followed the wisps of smoke that rose ghost-like from their corpses, and then disappeared into the night, as if searching for somewhere else to haunt. Lin forced her eyes back onto the problem at hand. She had posted her patrols all around the interior ground floor, watching for activity. But so far, the clowns at the river path window were it. “Lin, are you receiving? Over.” Cahill’s voice had gained an echo over the radio.

Lin grabbed hers. “Go ahead, Officer.” “Can you give me a sitrep?” “I’ve got about twenty clowns at the river path window, trying to break in. They aren’t achieving much. But if they keep going, they might crack it.” “So just Triple C so far? Any sign of other gangs?” “Just what I’ve told you!” Lin snapped. “I’ve lost two of my guys. Burned to death by Triple C fire eaters.” She went quiet. “I’m so sorry, Lin.” “I’ve pulled my team inside, and we’re covering the ground floor airlocks. I’ll let you know if anyone else turns up.” The radio went quiet again, and Lin watched the clowns thumping and bashing at the window. Behind her, the hospital carried on. Patients already inside were waiting in line to be looked at. And those carted in by ambulance lay in wait for their opportunity to be sewn up by the resident surgeons that walked about in a daze, with red-stained arms and white coats. Something else was wrong. Lin had told Christine earlier how numbers this Halloween were already up from last year. But since the clowns arrived, the walking wounded had stopped appearing at the airlock, demanding medical attention. And not a single ambulance had returned since, either. That wasn’t right. Lin couldn’t do anything here, so she decided to leave her post and head back to the security office to find Christine. She found her friend red-eyed and sobbing, the phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. From the doorway, Lin could just hear the phones engaged tone. “Keep trying, Chris. They have to answer at some point. —” “Yes, code thirteen. I !” Christine sobbed. “Roy and Callum are dead. How can you be so damn calm?” “Christine, it’s terrible. But all we can do is keep trying. Those clowns aren’t

making any progress. The doors are all locked down. And if they break through and get inside, we hide, we stay safe. Okay?” Lin looked deep in her friend’s eyes. A buzzing noise startled the pair of them, and a control displayed a red light flashing next to a small notice that said, Ambulance Bay One. This was one of four bays that had a vehicle-sized airlock. The control room would open the first gate into the sterile area. Once inside, the second gate to casualty reception would open. Lin went to press the release button for the outer gate, but snatched her hand back as if it were about to touch something hot. She looked at Christine, gesturing to the CCTV screens. Christine switched the screen to the camera covering bay one. There it was—the ambulance sat patiently. Lin could see the driver inside the cab, whistling a tuneless song to herself, tapping her hand on the door’s exterior. She reached over, and the buzzer startled them both again. Lin pressed the talk button to bay one. “It’s the security manager, Lin. We’re in the middle of a major incident here. You have to help us. We can’t get through to the cops.” The driver looked up at the camera and frowned. She leant forward and spoke near the intercom. “I’ll do whatever I can to help, Lin. But I’ve got a male with a partial amputation on board. My partner is in the back, literally holding this dude together.” “Right, sorry,” Lin said. “Please bring him in, and I’ll speak to you in casualty reception. You’re the only ambulance we’ve seen for a while.” She pressed the gate button. The gate swung inward, and once the ambulance had cleared the gates, they swung back in place. Lin sighed, realizing she had been holding her breath while the gate was open. No one had stepped in. She double-checked on the airlock CCTV to make sure no one had slipped in,

then pressed the inner gate, which was a roller shutter that rattled up into a space in the ceiling. Once more, the ambulance crawled forward, then parked in the space next to the hospital access and waited for the casualty reception team. Lin watched again, her nerves banging like a drum as the rear doors of the ambulance were opened by a blood-stained porter. Inside was exactly as the driver had said. Her partner was holding the patient’s arm in place at the shoulder. Embedded in the poor man’s shoulder was a fire axe that had bitten deep into him. Lin jogged from the security office, on her way to speak to the driver. She dodged past the porter as he wheeled the screaming axe-wound victim into the treatment area. The ambulance technician was kneeling on the trolley over the victim, holding his shoulder together. Lin noticed the driver leaning against her ambulance. She was slumped against the side door, her face sunk deep into her palms. Her body language was screaming exhaustion. “I’m Lin, the security manager. I’m really sorry to have to ask, but we need you to go and get us some help.” The woman slowly took her comforting hands away from her face and looked at Lin. “You need help, do you? Who’s going to help us? I’ve got jobs to go to, and as soon as my partner comes back, we’re back out in that!” She pointed out toward the dark streets beyond the hospital. Lin looked her straight in the eyes. “Yes, I understand. But understand this. If you don’t go and get us some help, you may as well not bother coming back. What’s your name?” “Kate.” “Listen, Kate, I’ve got a gang trying to smash their way in. The fucking Triple C just murdered two of my staff. Now get in that ambulance and go get some help!” Kate opened her mouth to speak, but Lin was already striding back to the control room.

12

Nico rode aboard the London Transport Killer’s ancient, but fully operational, route-master bus as it chugged north, along the A3, from Clapham Common to London Bridge. It wasn’t far from its destination. Thameside Hospital had been built on the site of the old private London Bridge Hospital. Guys Hospital just down the road had been burnt to the ground, and the whole area at the foot of the once beautiful Shard building was fenced off and abandoned. Not even the gangs wanted to go to the old hospital. Nico had heard the rumours of feral cannibalistic half-humans and wild dogs populating the site. These stories were legendary in the area, the locals claiming to have lost loved ones to the cannibals. True or not, it was trouble that the gangs didn’t need to have anything to do with. After all, where was the benefit for them? Nico looked around the interior of the graffiti-covered double-decker bus as they travelled. There were forty soldiers from the Transport Killers, Bang-Up and Nail Dem Crew. The clowns and other acts from the Triple C were already in the vicinity. Nico was on board because this was his show. In addition to the bulk contribution from the NDC, he was accompanied by his chosen boys—three of his closest allies that watched his back, and had just helped him with his coup against Soldier. Skins, Rocky, and Blade had been with him for years. They were all brought up together on the streets. He smiled at his trio of hooligans buzzing with adrenaline. They were going to storm the hospital. They would kill whoever stood in their way. Or whoever they felt like killing. These forty soldiers were just the spearhead. They had another eighty soldiers just waiting on his word. All he had to do was tell them where to be and what to do. The power coursed through his body. His fists and jaw clenched as he noticed the bus building up speed. Nico had noticed that the driver of the Routemaster was old for any gangbanger.

But he had apparently once driven these buses for real around the streets of London, and was therefore a privileged and senior member of the Transport Killers, although Albert had never killed anyone in his life. Nico had found this out when he had given the old gangster his instructions. But he was satisfied that the old man would carry out his wishes. Albert knew if he didn’t, he would die anyway. Nico watched Albert push his peaked driver cap clear of his eyes, and saw the concentration in his eyes reflected in the mirror. Nico took his crew to the rear of the bus to be nearest the doors, as Albert pushed the bus onto the approach road, dropping a gear to achieve more power, pressing the pedal down smoothly. Black smoke poured from the old bus’s exhaust. Its well-maintained diesel engine screamed with joy as she got faster and faster. Albert negotiated the sweeping bend in a perfect arc. He entered the car park at fifty miles an hour. It was now a straight run toward the pedestrian entrance airlock. On impact, the front of the bus was vaporized, exploding in a storm of reinforced glass and steel. And so was Albert, along with six assorted soldiers seated just behind him. Since Nico was at the rear, he was thrown just a short bone-juddering distance to the end of the bus, and survived, along with the remaining thirty gangsters that reeled in the debris on the floor, with varying cuts and injuries. Nico felt the hospital shake at its foundations as the bus forced its way into its interior, crushing the poor souls unfortunate enough to be in the way. This included three waiting patients and four of Lin’s security guards that had been in the way as the red missile tore its way in. They were unable to raise any sort of alarm, as steel and glass smeared them across the polished floors in long red streaks. Main fuses blew with a pop, and the softer emergency lighting flickered on to blink at the carnage and horror. In a cloud of swirling dust and confusion, Nico regained his senses. He could just make out that the entire front of the bus was gone, Albert along with it. He chuckled and thought how proud the old gangster would be, as his first and only kills would go down in the Transport Killer’s history.

***

Cahill had done well on his scouting mission, as both he and Tunde both pulled on the green hospital scrubs Cahill had found in a storage cupboard in the locker room. His Company police uniform would make him a massive target, and he realized that this simple measure would give him a few seconds while his enemies doubted who he was. Add a surgical mask and cap, and the two of them might just look like hospital medical staff. Cahill had found a rucksack in the locker room, too, and had stuffed his weapons inside with his uniform radios, telephone, and beloved hip flask. He was relieved that Tunde was able to get out of bed easily and dress in the scrubs, cap, and mask with ease. Although he wore designer training shoes that glowed white, they’d have to do, Cahill thought, as he watched Tunde stretch his injured arm, making sure he wasn’t restricted by the thick bandaging. He observed Tunde’s slow-motion shadow boxing, and could see the strength in his torso and arms, muscles coiled under his skin. Cahill approved, realising that they may just stand a chance of slipping through the gangs if they laid siege to the building and managed to get in. But if they did, he and Tunde wouldn’t wait here for the gangsters to find them. No, they would slide down into the recovery ward below and escape into the London night. Cahill heard the boom of the bus hitting the front of the building, just before he felt the earthquake rock the structure. Wide-eyed, he looked at the gang leader, and a split-second later they were running out onto the rooftop to peer over it. Cahill could see that a dust cloud was rolling up the side of the glass-sided tower. Glass and debris fanned out from the impact of the double-decker bus, which was stuck halfway in the building. The screams and wails below drifted up to them with the dust. “There. Look!” Tunde said. Cahill followed his finger as Tunde pointed at a crowd of fifteen shabby-dressed clowns stalking toward the battered bus, all streaming around from the rear of the hospital. Through the dust, he could just make them out as they began squeezing down the side of the bus and into the hospital. This changed everything.

With no time left to consider, they had to decide what to do.

***

Visibility on the ground floor was poor, and the strip lights flickered in the swirling dust. Lin struggled to see what was happening. She had been thrown to the ground when the bus hit. Luckily, she had only just entered the lobby from the ambulance bay, and had been sheltered by the crowds when the glass missiles flew. The front of the bus was so mangled, there was no chance of the driver opening their door. She could just make out the gangsters inside the bus as they were sorting themselves out and picking up weapons. The looks of grim determination etched on their muck-streaked faces, with no care given to the dead or injured, horrified Lin to her core. Life is cheap. If you aren’t strong, you’ll die. Move forward, never backward. This was gang life. Lin maintained a clear view of the bus as she lay prone under a row of seats in the lobby. She had pushed her way through the legs of a dead woman with a onefoot-long shard of plate glass through her back that had pinned her to the molded plastic seat. The rear doors of the bus started to shudder from being kicked inside, and eventually they gave way, releasing the angry horde into the hospital. Lin froze as the gangsters flooded past her hiding place, gripping their medieval weaponry. Just as she thought they had all gone by her, she saw the clowns squeezing down the side of the bus, with murderous smiles on their crazy faces as they trooped in. They marched into the building, searching for their target— the man at the top of the building. Lin thought of Cahill up there, all alone with the subject of their deadly intentions. She had lost her radio during the impact, so when the coast was clear, she got up and rushed into the security office.

***

The explosion had pushed Christine over the edge. Terrified and alone in the security office, she cowered in a corner, clutching at her knees, and sobbing. She could hear the screams outside, and she jumped at every noise. Her eyes stung from her tears, and snot bubbled out of her nostrils. She had never been so terrified in all her life. Lin told me to hide. Told me to stay out the way. She walked backward into the office, getting as far away as she could from the closed door. Then she thought that maybe she should leave the office, find somewhere better to hide. But then the door to the office swung open, kicked by a heavy boot. “Lin?” Christine tried to push back even farther when she saw who had entered the room, but the wall behind her prevented this. The man in front of her was disgusting, his fat hairy belly sticking out from his open dirty blue denim shirt. His arms and face were covered with homemade prison tattoos, along with a layer of dust and dried streaked blood. A wide-gapped toothy grin on his filthy face presented itself to Christine, who could find no more words as she gasped for air, her mind screaming. And then she saw that the man was holding a long twisted metal blade. She opened her mouth to scream. Death was certain. This beast was going to end her. But he placed his blade down on a desk, licked his lips, and unbuckled his tros. Christine slipped deeper into a new hell as she realized what would happen to her before she died. The beast pounced on her. Christine wriggled back as he grabbed her ankles and pulled her toward him. She felt herself slide along the floor as she hammered at his hands as she neared his gaping tros. “No, please!” She shuddered as her bladder gave way. Total fear froze her as the beast pulled her skirt down and off in one movement, keeping at least one hand gripping an ankle as he did so. He looked at her with deep carnal desire. His face was that of

a wolf about to eat a meal, his gaze drilling into her flesh. He reached out and grabbed her knickers at the waistband, ripping the wet material from her with a guttural grunt, drool spilled from his wet lips, down onto her nakedness. Nausea raced through her as her mind sent bolts of lights to strobe and flicker inside her brain, trying to protect her sanity. But it wasn’t enough. She opened her eyes, looking through the lights that roared in her vision, and saw the beasts face just inches from her, his fetid breath increasing her nausea, her bile rising. Then he stopped. Confusion on his face. Christine was braced for his onslaught when a gout of deep red blood gushed out of his open mouth, spilling all over her exposed body. The warm, thick liquid felt disgusting as she renewed her kicking to release his grip. She crawled out from under him just as he fell forward, and saw that his own long blade was sunk deep into his upper back. And then she saw it was Lin who had saved her. “Now fuck off out of my hospital!” Lin screamed, as she kicked his dead body for good measure. “Chris, are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Christine gulped in a huge breath. She had been saved, but couldn’t do anything but sob maniacally as she wiped the beast’s blood from her body with her ruined skirt.

***

Lin did an injury survey on Christine using her hands to check her over. Eventually, she was satisfied that Christine had no wounds. She had only just got there in time to save her friend from physical injury, but Lin wished she could have gotten there earlier, because the injury to Christine’s mind had already occurred. She briefly wondered about her own sanity. Lin glanced over at her desk, ing why she went into the office in the first place, and saw a handheld radio. Keeping an eye on her friend, she grabbed the radio and started to call for Cahill.

“Declan, are you receiving? Over.” Nothing. Lin busied herself, trying not to think about what she had just done. She had saved her friend’s life. But in doing so, she had also taken a life, and she had a dreadful feeling it wouldn’t be the last time tonight. She forced the memory of pushing the steel shank between the would-be rapist’s ribs out of her mind with a rapid shake of her head. She slid out into the treatment area, skirting the wailing, walking wounded patients that didn’t know what to do, and grabbed a set of green scrubs from the storage cupboard. She rushed back and threw a pair of the faded green tros over to Christine, who wriggled into them, at last able to cover her nakedness. She tried the radio again. “Declan, are you receiving? Over.” After a couple seconds, a voice crackled over the air. “Lin, I saw the bus and the clowns. Are you okay?” “They’re inside the building.” “We saw. How many?” “I don’t know. Maybe thirty. Maybe more? You need to hide. They’re on their way up.” “Don’t worry . Just get yourself and your staff out of the building, and get help. Somehow, get the police here!” Lin ed the ambulance. “Leave it to me,” she said. “Just stay out of sight.” “Roger and out,” Cahill said. Lin turned to her friend, who had stopped sobbing.

“Christine, we’ve got to go to the ambulance bay. There’s a driver there. She can take us to the police station. We need to go now!” Christine draped an arm around her shoulders, and they made for the ambulance.

***

Cahill stuffed the radio inside the backpack, grabbed his hip flask, and regardless of Tunde’s glare, took a long satisfying swig. He shook it—half-empty, or halffull? The way this day was going, he’d say half-empty. “Well, you heard her,” Cahill said. “We’ve got to hide ourselves until the cavalry gets here.” “Is that the same cavalry that hasn’t answered any of your calls on the radio?” Tunde said. “She said she would get help, and I trust her.” “That’s all well and good, Officer. But I also heard there were thirty or so of my old crew, and other gangs, in the building. It isn’t safe here. We’d be better off on the streets. The cops aren’t coming, and it’s Halloween. They’ll be up to their nuts in blood somewhere out there.” Cahill pondered Tunde’s wisdom as he paced around the private room. “You’re right. We would be better off out there.” “I know I’m right.” “We need to get out there. We need to get you to the South HQ. It’s one thing to attack a hospital. But they could never breach HQ. It’s like a fort.” “Sounds like a plan.” Cahill and Tunde left the private room and headed to the stairwell. Then Cahill changed his mind about having his weapons tucked in his backpack. Yes, the

scrubs would give them a few seconds advantage, but that would be it. He didn’t want to get caught struggling to pull out his Taser or baton, so he strapped his belt kit on and did his best to drape the baggy green shirt over it. And besides, it matched his black boots. At a steady jog, Cahill and Tunde approached the lift and the stairs. They pushed through the stairwell door and started a rapid decent. Cahill ed that below the annex were ten floors of recovery ward—plenty of ways to avoid with the enemy. They made good progress, when Tunde halted and cocked his head to one side, straining to hear. He shushed Cahill and peeked down the stairwell, looking over the handrail and down into the centre, where he could see the stairs disappear into the void. Cahill ed him. There—just a fleeting view, but it was there all the same—the arm of a running man. A muscled, tattooed arm. As Cahill stared and listened, he could hear the rapid footfall of more than one person, and they were closing fast, only four or five floors below them. He nodded at Tunde and pushed the door open, and the men dashed into the recovery ward on the twelfth floor. Wincing at the slam of the door echoing in the stairwell, Cahill sprinted toward the ward. The double doors banged open as they burst into the quiet place of recovery. A nurse shrieked and dropped a tray of medication all over the floor. Patients that could, sat up, startled as the big men in green bolted in. “There must be another stairwell at the end. A fire exit!” Cahill shouted back at Tunde, as he sprinted. Then he realized Tunde wasn’t behind him, so he stopped and looked back. He could see that Tunde had grabbed a padded chair with wooden legs, from near a patient’s bed. He lifted it over his head and smashed it on the floor, then levered the two front legs off to arm himself with a couple two-by-two-inch, foot-long batons. He stood and did a few practice swings. Again, Tunde impressed Cahill with his moves, demonstrating his expertise with the sticks. The thought was short-lived as he realized Tunde was waiting for the gangsters. Cahill started to jog back.

“What the fuck are you doing?” “I’m going to take these idiots out.” Before Cahill could answer, three heavy-breathing, sweating of the Transport Killers dashed into the ward. So much for avoiding with the enemy. Cahill searched his belt kit for a weapon.

13

The wheels on Tommy’s old bike squeaked like a mouse, undergoing regular cyclical torture as they turned along the dark streets of London. But he found the noise satisfying. He had always been odd like that. He ed that the tip-off had come from his cousin Jez, who had referenced Alexis to him for a couple grams of cocaine. So Jez had some explaining to do. That bird Alexis had been trouble from the beginning. She had seemed different, and there was something about her that made Tommy’s teeth itch. Plus, it was double-weird how she came to be in the bar that night—the night Detective Cahill was nicked. I mean, Tommy was no fan of the filth, but Cahill was okay. He lived on the edge, took no shit, and liked his coke and booze. One of the good guys. What made it even weirder was that Roxy got lifted by the cops on a warrant for non-payment of fines that day, and had been locked up for the night. Tommy had just got the good news from her, when the next thing he knew, Jez called him saying he was sending his bird over for some coke. It got weirder when she arrived, because she claimed she had no money and was happy to work on her back for it. Happy days. Tommy told her he would check out her services to make sure she knew how to satisfy the punters, but she was having none of it. Tommy was furious, but he needed her there. What, with Roxy letting him down. To be honest, he didn’t have any other girls. He had taken advantage too many times, and only Roxy’s heroin habit kept her there. Tommy had told Alexis that she wasn’t getting so much as a grain of coke unless she put out. And if that weren’t with him, it would be the next punter through the door. She agreed, and would you believe it, the next punter was Cahill. She was all over him. Shagged his brains out, and took half his Charlie up her nose. Then the old bill raided.

Tommy knew Mickey must have done a runner out the back of the bar when he saw the cops arrive. He must have seen them from where he was spying from. Tommy had always known that Mickey wanked off in his box room while watching all the sex action in the suites. Mickey must have deleted the hard drive before he ran, though, because Tommy looked for the footage afterward, but couldn’t find it. Tommy managed to escape by pretending to be a punter. The cops, having bigger fish to fry, let him skulk off into the night to observe the bar from a safe distance. They weren’t in there long, so they couldn’t have searched the place properly. And he saw them bring Cahill out in handcuffs. He waited after Cahill had been placed in the van and driven off, expecting them to bring Alexis out next. But they didn’t. It wasn’t right—Alexis had just vanished. This was when Tommy made a bad decision. His cheeks flushed with shame as he recalled the moment. What a great idea, he’d thought at the time. Why not steal the supply and a bit of cash? If it came on top, he could blame it on the cops, or on that Alexis. But by the time Mickey came back, Tommy was so high he forgot to declare the theft. Then, because he had cash and gear, he stayed high for a month, and he never told Mickey. He eventually realized that Mickey would never believe his story after all this time. But now it was coming on top. He had told Mickey part of the truth. He was getting the gear for the bar on bail, but he owed his man big time, and he needed to tell Mickey something because his debt was being called in. The call from his cousin was a gift from the Gods. He had spoken to Jez after the raid, accused him of introducing a grass into the bar, getting a good customer nicked. His cousin, of course, said he knew nothing, but would keep an eye out for her, because after that day, after the raid, she had just vanished in a puff of smoke. It just kept getting fucking weirder and weirder. Tommy squeaked across Waterloo Bridge. At last, he was in South London and had entered bandit country. He could already sense danger as he cycled along

farther and farther south. Movement caught his peripheral vision, but he knew better than to let on that he had seen it. But this wouldn’t be a long game. This would be a simple ambush. The bandits were on him fast, emerging from the shadows, clearly practiced in their art. One of them wrapped him in a bear hug and lifted him, while the other grabbed the bike—their prize—out from under him. Tommy’s adrenaline kicked in, and he started to wriggle violently, slipping down the grip of his assailant. He head-butted backward until he found his mark, which exploded his mugger’s nose. The agony forced him to let go and grab his ruined face. Tommy tucked into a roll as he dived forward to give himself distance. It also allowed him to grab his cosh as he came back onto his feet to face his attackers. His weapon was drawn just in time, as the bandit without the broken nose discarded the bike and lunged at him. Tommy whipped the steel-sprung cosh backhanded into the man’s face as he charged at him. The cosh found his attackers nose and destroyed it, so that it matched that of his conspirator. The failed bandits rolled on the ground, moaning and holding their ruined noses. The robbery had not gone to plan, and it was about to take a darker turn. Tommy placed his trusty cosh back into his inside jacket pocket, and then slowly drew his blade. This wasn’t the place to go easy on anybody. He knelt and sawed his bayonet clean through the neck of the first bandit before the man realized what was about to happen. He repeating the killing on the second robber, as quickly as the first. Tommy looked around and saw that the coast was clear. He wiped the blood off the blade of his long bayonet using the jacket of his last stabbing victim. He picked his bike up from the ground and flung a skinny leg over its battered frame. He soon resumed his squeaky progress toward his goal, one tortured wheel turn at a time. “I fucking hate South London.” He cycled onward to find the girl Alexis, who would save his own neck from Mickey before he found out the truth.

14

Hakan had owned the Tower Kebab restaurant for fifty years, serving the residents of Tower Bridge Road with the best Turkish kebabs they had ever eaten. Despite being seventy-five years old, he worked every day, and was always turned out immaculately in a white coat. But there wasn’t a great deal of food being cooked anymore, as one of the minor league gangs had taken over his restaurant and turned it into a gambling, drinking, and drugs den. But H thought that sounded worse than it was—he loved this gang dearly. They called themselves the Foster Kids because no one wanted them. The main gangs didn’t think they were worthy of the big leagues, so they left them to roam the few streets around Tower Bridge Road. They had grown up in H’s kebab shop, and had spent their teenage years there, hanging out and eating his amazing food. So despite the hostile takeover, they looked up to him and made sure he had a place to stay. And more importantly, somewhere to cook. The stainless-steel flame grill and kebab rotisserie was spotless because it hadn’t cooked a thing in years. When the city fell, the supply lines to small businesses like H’s were cut off. If you didn’t work for, or , the factories, you got nothing. H kept going as long as he could, until his deep freeze ran out. Then it became impossible to get the meat he needed. Even the black market had cut him off down in South London. Rumours were that in North London, the Turkish kebab shops were still up and running. Although, the source of their meat was a mystery that some did not want to solve. H wouldn’t be beaten, though, because he had a plan. Behind his restaurant was a decent plot of land. And up on his roof, he had a large terrace. So out in the back garden and up on his roof, he filled stacks of old tires with rich earth, and in them he grew potatoes—lots of potatoes. His deep fat fryer worked overtime, cooking hot chips for the Foster Kids. They were the best chips in South London, no doubt. Out the back of H’s restaurant was the Foster Kids office—the place where they

sold their wares. The big gangs sold heroin, crack-cocaine, the expensive Class A gear. But the Foster Kids couldn’t afford stuff like that, so they made do with low-rent product, which made it easier for H to accept. It was good enough to keep the demons away. Their bestseller was, of course, cannabis, weed, puff, green. Call it what you like. They all loved it. For those still in love with chemicals, they had some decent amphetamine sulphate, speed, Billy Whizz, the fast stuff, the poor man’s cocaine...the names went on and on. H could always spot the lovers of speed, as they were the ones with green rotting teeth from the sulphur eroding them to resemble a row of crumbling gravestones. The Foster Kids also did a roaring trade in booze. And of course, the oldest commodity—sex. Hakan’s was the local one-stop shop for all your needs. He laughed as he noted that he was still proud of his place, despite all the debauchery. The brothel was up the stairs from the restaurant. The lounge was spacious, clean, and comfortable. Plus it had a couple private rooms adjacent to it for the girls to ply their trade. H had a guest up in the lounge this evening. One he was fond of, and who was currently sitting in the wingback armchair by the window. Alice was a pretty girl with short, mousey hair. She wore a white shirt with most of the top buttons undone, revealing her ample bosom, barely kept in check by a lacy black bra. Her micro-skirt treated him to a glimpse of white skin above her black stocking tops. H was too old to become beguiled by such a beauty, but he loved that she still flirted with him. He wasn’t just there to chat with Alice, though. He was also keeping an eye on things in the lounge, because there was someone else in there this evening. Jez was a regular at the restaurant, and did business with the Foster Kids. Usually, he was as good as gold, but now H could sense an atmosphere between these two. So much so, he decided to sit with them. The tension had been thick as H walked in, and they both ignored him. But he noticed Alice looked worried as she drew heavily on a fat reefer and shrugged at the man sitting in front of her. “Listen, treacle,” Jez said. “I’m not blind or stupid. I know who you are!”

***

Her heart fluttered with panic. She was fucked. “I keep telling you, mate, my name’s not Alexis. And I’m a South London girl. I’ve never worked the west end.” She needed to stick to her story. Her trouble was that she was Alexis. But now she was going by the name Alice. In hindsight, this hadn’t been her smartest move. But when you were deep undercover, nothing was simple. It was always wise to have a pseudonym close to your real name in case you bumped into someone who knew you in your own life. Or someone who knew you were really Alexandria McDonald, an LPD cop from the Central Crime Squad. That at least gave you a fighting chance if your target overheard someone shout out your real name in front of them. But then, Jez shouldn’t have been in South London. He operated in West London. She had met him once before. Not for long, but long enough for her to persuade him to introduce her to his cousin Dirty Tommy. They had pushed her hard to get her to entrap Cahill. As the new girl on the unit, she was the only choice for the job because she had never met the man, the legend that was Declan Cahill. Her moral com had already been defective before the job had even started. Sent way off course before she ever met Cahill in Mickey’s bar. Working covertly in the factory zone would do that to you. So when she was briefed about Cahill’s nasty habits, she wasn’t fazed. Who cared if he liked a drink and do a little sniff. And who didn’t crave some dangerous sex? My God...she did. That had been the problem that night. All she had to do was get him to solicit her to have sex, and the bonus would have been for him to offer her Class A drugs. And that night, in the first few minutes, Cahill had committed those offences. She should have called in the arrest team. But she was intoxicated in other ways. She closed her eyes and took herself back to the moment she first met Cahill.

When he walked in with a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a wrap of cocaine in the other, and she felt a tidal wave of desire roll through her. She felt it all over again as she ed. It wasn’t just because he was a handsome lump of a man. No, it was his charisma. The way he smelled, the way he walked. She fancied every pore of his body and wanted to have him there and then. So she did. She writhed in ecstasy under him giddy from his very being as they made love, riding the powerful zooming rush of the powder in their bloodstream. She didn’t want it to end then, nor did she want the memory she was reliving now to end either. It did end, though, when the professional standards team, tired of waiting for her to press the panic button, decided to crash the t. The memory of the raid jolted her out of her dream, and as her recollection moved on from her recalled ion, her breathing began to return to normal. Afterward, when her bosses realized the extent of what she had done, they reacted badly, and she knew she was in big trouble. Then they realized that they now had even better evidence against Cahill. So they decided to withhold that it had even been an undercover operation. She had been saved at his expense. Deputy Assistant Director Sabine de la Tour towered above her, making her feel like a little kid being told off by her mother. “Detective Alexandria McDonald,” she had said, in her heavily accented way. “Do you enjoy your role on the undercover unit?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Then you will keep the operation against Mister Cahill in secrecy.” “Yes, ma’am.” “If not, you will be removed from your unit, and face demotion to patrol officer. Is that clear?” Fuck that. She kept her mouth shut.

She never knew what happened to Cahill. One day, she would track him down and tell him how sorry she was, and how she really felt about him. Her mind drifted back to her current situation. Yeah, she would love to reacquaint herself with the gorgeous Declan Cahill, but she had to survive this day first. “Alice, is it?” Jez said. “I’ve told you. Yes, its Alice. I don’t know you, your cousin Tommy, or some fucking cop.” “We’ll see then, sweetheart, because my cousin Tommy is on his way here now. And when he recognizes you, I’ll know I’m right, wont I?” Jez sat back on the leather sofa and folded his arms, his gaze wandering down to her where her skirt ended and her stocking tops started. The awkward silence ended as H, who had crept in the room just moments before, broke the atmosphere. “Hey, you two. How about I make you both some hot, fresh fried chips?” “That would be awesome, H?” She smiled. Saved by the fries.

15

The ambulance was exactly where Lin had left it, but the driver was nowhere to be found. Neither were the keys. A sudden agonizing shout somewhere near to casualty reception made Christine yelp and slip out of Lin’s grip. Flopping to the ground, she melted into a dark puddle of despair. There was too much going on for Lin to look after her friend as well. She had gone through an awful experience, and she wouldn’t be well again without help. But that would have to wait until they could get somewhere safe. “Chris, come on, darling, get up. I’m going to put you in the back of the ambulance. Lock the door and hold tight.” Christine’s eyes were open wide as she slowly emerged from her puddle. Standing on rubber legs, she allowed herself to be led to the back of the ambulance. Lin helped her inside and gave her a comforting press of the upper arm, then stepped out and shut the door. She nodded to herself as she heard the deadbolt close. No one could get in there, with or without the key. It was a safety system for the crews. An instant panic room, and Christine would be fine in there while she did what she had to do. What the hell that was, Lin wasn’t sure, but she had an overwhelming urge to go to Cahill’s aid.

***

The trio of Transport Killers fought to get their breath back, their chests heaving from the exertion of running up twelve flights of stairs. From their brows, rivers of sweat streamed down onto their gang colours. They marched into the ward,

having at last found their quarry. Cahill was still behind Tunde, who was closing in on their hunters fast. The gang leader didn’t seem to notice or care that they carried bats and blades, which they swung as they lurked toward them. He showed no fear. In fact, it was clear that he was looking forward to the fight. The patients in the first beds were no strangers to gang warfare, as they lived amongst it every day, with only the walls of the factories and their locked front doors to protect them. Out on the streets, they could turn the other way, run to safety. Here, they were a captive audience. Injured or ill, they were stuck in bed with nowhere to go. The woman nearest Tunde could see what was about to unfold, and pulled the blanket over her head and whimpered. Cahill doubted that would help. In front of him, Tunde twirled the sticks in each hand, as an Escrima stick fighter would do, bouncing on his toes in anticipation. Cahill started to feel sorry for what the gangsters were about to receive. The first killer moved in swiftly, swinging his bat, his lips drawn back over his teeth. The staggering blow missed Tunde as he swivelled aside, too fast for the attacker. Tunde struck back, simultaneously hitting high and low with the wooden batons, cracking skull and rib at the same time. He pivoted out of the way as the killer dropped unconscious onto the recently cleaned linoleum floor, landing face first. Tunde stamped his bright white foot forward and down onto the back of the killer’s neck. At first, there seemed to be resistance. And then the neck gave way with a pop. The other two moved in together, one with his machete above his head, while the other held carving knives like daggers, in each fist. Tunde stepped off the dead gangbangers neck with a squelching twist of his foot, the sticks still moving, spinning with deadly intent. Cahill was mesmerized by the speed and ferocity of the fight, and by how quickly Tunde killed the first man, and even now was moving on to the next two without hesitation. Then clarity hit him like a bullet to the head. He couldn’t hold back. He had to be like Tunde if he was going to survive this night. He, too, would have to kill.

Cahill drew his Taser with his one hand, his telescopic metal baton with the other, and ed the fight, adding his own war cry to the screams and shouts on the ward. Tunde was already rattling the machete-wielding killer with a series of bonebreaking impacts from his makeshift batons, his co-killer looking for the opportunity to stick one of his blades deep into Tunde. Cahill shot his Taser at close range into the face of the double-knife carrying killer, the two stainless steel prongs stuck deep in his pockmarked cheek. Keeping his finger pressed down on the trigger, an arc of white voltage flashed between the prongs. The killer was rigid, his muscles contracted as he fell to the polished floor. “Finish him!” Tunde yelled, as he parried the machete away from his cheek. A wave of adrenaline coursed through Cahill as the realization smacked him in the guts—this was it. He released the trigger and pulled the spent cartridge from the end. He then drove the weapon back down and pressed the empty muzzle, which housed the electrical s, to the killer’s chest and re-applied the trigger, delivering a crackling fifty thousand volts direct to his heart. He held it there until the flesh burnt. He wouldn’t let up, not until the killer was finished. As he died, his bladder released its contents onto the floor, and Cahill skipped back to avoid the piss, and holstered the hot Taser. He swapped the baton to his other hand and flicked the short metal weapon down, causing it to extend out into a weapon. His brain was already pushing the images of his first kill to a dark place at the back of his mind. A place he had created, where his demons now formed an orderly queue. Tunde was toying with the last killer, as if he were waiting for Cahill to get involved. Cahill didn’t disappoint. He moved in hard to kick the killer in the guts while he was distracted, and extracted his blade from Tunde’s sticks. With a grunt of escaping air, the killer flew backward, winded by the massive impact of Cahill’s foot. Cahill put a hand up at the side by his temple, his right fist above his shoulder, still holding the baton, his elbows jutting forward. The killer was trying to regain

his feet as Cahill delivered a knee strike under his chin, knocking him backward again. The killer’s arms dropped as the fight left him. Cahill knew he couldn’t leave an enemy in his wake. To get out alive, he had to end his opponent. He finished the killer with a vicious blow on the top of his head, the steel baton opening his skull and turning his world red. He looked over at Tunde, seeking approval. He had just proved he could kill, too. He had shown him that he was brutal and had skills. Tunde rewarded him with a nod and a smile. Cahill tried to lever his baton out of the top of the dead killer’s head, but it was stuck, so he abandoned it there like a teaspoon sticking out of half-eaten boiled egg. He had a spare. He went to Tunde, aware that his brain was filing more dark thoughts away for the future. Tunde and Cahill padded back through the double doors to the stairwell. Peering down the centre while gripping the railing, Cahill angled his keen ears down into the void. In his hands, he felt vibrations through the railings, and then he heard the pounding of feet on the stone staircase. Then he saw them coming fast—at least six, maybe more. He kept watching until he could see what gang they were. As they got closer, he could see a couple Clowns, a few Bang-Up Crew, and two or three more Transport Killers. No Nail Dem Crew. Tunde seemed transfixed by the new threat, and stared down the stairwell. “Now, mate! Run. Let’s have you!” Cahill shouted, his features contorted. At last, the gang leader looked up. Cahill noted that he did not look happy at all. What’s going on in his head? But there was no time to question as they sprinted back through the ward, once more scaring the patients that quivered under their sheets. Cahill and Tunde bolted through the twelfth-floor recovery ward, as if the devil were on their tail. And he was. In the form of a murderous mixture of gangsters. Cahill approached the far end of the floor, where there was a door marked Fire Escape. Through it, he found a concrete staircase that led from the ground floor, all the way up to the twentieth floor, on the north river side of the building. Once

again, he cocked his head to try to hear what was coming their way. And once again, he heard feet, many feet, trampling up toward them. The pair turned and sprinted back into the ward. They were trapped like rats.

16

Officer Shanice Day could feel the heat of the flames and had to blink, as her eyes were irritated by the smoke that billowed out of the upstairs windows of the ramshackle terraced house just off The Cut at Waterloo. The fire crews were coming, but they were still some distance away. And like all the emergency services in London that night, they were stupid busy. The ground floor window of the burning house was smashed open, its gaping wound showing the world the degradation inside. The smoke inside the hovel drifted and swirled enough to reveal a man who was dressed as a zombie. With one arm, he had a young woman in a headlock. In his other hand, he held a kitchen knife, its sharp tip pressed into the soft flesh of her throat. Their Halloween party had not gone as well as hoped. Shanice and her partner Teri Taylor were poised outside the blazing house, leaning through the smashed window. She continued to strain her eyes through the shifting smoke, watching the zombie’s every move, just waiting for the right moment to pounce from their vantage point. Shanice looked at her partner, and they gave each other a knowing nod as they drew their Tasers, keeping them low and hidden behind their legs. “Mister Mason, put the knife down, please!” Teri shouted, into the smoke. “No. She’s a fucking slag. She’s got to die!” Mr. Mason screamed, through his tears and zombie makeup. The call had come in earlier that evening. It should have had a ten-minute response, but it was madness tonight. Halloween was in full swing, and it had taken over two hours to get to the Masons’. What had been a report of a domestic assault, with the known offender still at the scene, had escalated into hostage-taking, with attempted murder and arson. “Now!” Teri ducked to her left.

Shanice leapt to her right. The girls aimed and fired their Tasers through the smashed window. Shanice targeted the victim, and Teri the zombie-costumed Mr. Mason. A crackle of electricity sparked down the thin lines of the micro-cable, delivering fifty thousand volts. At that range, the voltage that made it to the target was about twelve hundred volts. But that was more than enough to lockup body movement by disrupting the messages from the brain to muscle. Both victim and perpetrator fell stiffly to the floor. Shanice dashed forward and kicked the front door to the house open in one go, followed by Teri, and they dragged their prisoners out into the street. They rolled them onto their fronts and applied handcuffs to both. Rolled them again, this time into a sitting position up against a parked car. Disorientated, the couple started to come around, coughing from smoke inhalation. “Why have I been nicked?” the victim said, between coughs and splutters. “Because you are a fucking slag!” the zombie replied. “Shut up, the pair of you!” Shanice said. “You’re both under arrest for arson. Tell your story to the detectives. We really don’t give a shit what you have to say.” The girls loaded the prisoners into the cage in the back of their van, which was parked just outside the house they had just stormed. The house was burning fierce now, and the neighbours had started to appear on the street, forced out of their homes by the dense smoke that had spread along the ancient brick terrace. They wandered the street with no clue what to do, shrugging hopelessly at each other. A few called out to the two tall female officers. Shanice heard them, but ignored their pleas for help. The neighbours gave up trying as she looked away from them, ignoring their vulnerability, and just climbed into her van and slammed the door. She picked up the mic for the van’s main set radio and switched it on. The

speaker buzzed with non-stop radio traffic, and she struggled to find a gap to update the control room to let them know they had two prisoners to deposit at HQ. Then they heard it... “Can I have a unit available to attend Thameside Hospital? We’ve had a call from a erby that a double decker has crashed into the building.” “I thought all calls to the hospital were banned?” Shanice said. “That was that new boy Dev, I think,” Teri said. “He must have some sort of death wish.” “Smithy will kill him, all right.” Shanice chuckled. “We could have a quick look at the hospital,” Teri said. “You know, drive back that way?” “It’s not as if we can do anything with the two prisoners on board, so we could give our eyes a treat.” “Smithy will never know. And it’s probably a load of bollocks, anyway.” Just as they made their decision to check out the bus crash at the hospital, the fire crew rolled up. Shanice stared at them blankly through the windscreen of their van, as the fire crew piled out onto the flame-lit street. She looked across to her partner and noticed her world-class look of blankness, too. The fire crew gave back as good as they got, then carried on with their job. There was only a slight sense of urgency shown by them as they half-heartedly tried to quell the blaze that had now spread properly to the neighbouring terraces. Shanice shrugged at Teri and put the van in gear, ready to drive off toward the hospital at London Bridge.

17

Back down the other end of the recovery ward, the double doors banged open and seven nightmares appeared. The patients nearest the doors once again ducked under their sheets like scared children hoping the thin cotton would keep the horrors out. The gangbangers ran through, led by Tyrone of the Bang-Up Crew, and under orders to look for Tunde. Tyrone’s focus was everywhere because he had seen Soldier on this level, and he had even heard the copper yelling at him to run. The bodies of the three dead gangsters didn’t slow Tyrone, or even give him the slightest concern. He just avoided the blood and piss that was starting to ooze from their battered shells, hop-skipping and jumping over the fluids. “They’re on this floor!” He leapt over a dead man. “No shit!” said Shank, a long-time associate of Tyrone, as he leapt over the corpse, too. “Look about, lads,” said Sharkey. “Check under the beds, in those big cupboards. They must be somewhere up here.” He came up behind Tyrone and Shank, grimacing down at the floor as he splashed in the pool of piss, the liquid turning the bottoms of his prison denims dark blue. “The Transport Killers don’t take orders from you.” Carson pushed his peaked driver’s cap up on his greasy forehead. “That’s right.” Delroy fingered the end of a long kebab knife. “I don’t really give a fuck what you think.” Tyrone shrugged. “You can go collect tickets on your bus, for all I care.” “We’re all here for the same reason,” Carson said. “And if I catch that grass, I’ll cut his head off myself and deliver it to Nico. I’m just telling you—don’t tell me

what to fucking do.” He hefted a rusty axe up onto his shoulder. “Then you must be deaf as well as stupid.” Sharkey pointed at him. “We capture Soldier, we don’t kill him. Nico wants that honour.” “Boys, let’s just find them and get the fuck out of here,” Shank said “Oi, you two.” Are you coming or not?” Tyrone said to the two clowns. They had remained silent all the way up to the twelfth floor, and were now creeping around the beds on the ward, one of them giggling and sniffing at a trembling soul under their thin sheet of cloth armour. “Forget those two,” Tyrone said. “let’s get on with this.” He didn’t like being around those clowns longer than he needed to be. Four more gangbangers appeared at the far end of the ward. These guys were all Nail Dem Crew, with Nico up front, followed by three similarly dressed gangsters. “What happened?” he said. “Have you got him?” He gestured at the three dead Transport Killers on the floor. “No, we’ve just got here,” Tyrone said. “But Soldier did this with that copper. They must have made it through the ward before you got up here.” “They never went down,” Nico replied. “We heard you lot shouting at each other on this floor, so we thought we’d check it out.” “They must have gone up, then,” Carson said. “Yeah, they must have,” Nico said. “But it doesn’t matter, as I’ve taken precautions. We’ve smashed the controls for the lifts, and the power’s out. I’ve got gangs waiting at the bottom of the north stairwell, where we’ve just come from, and a mob covering the main south stairwell where it comes out on the ground floor. They are proper stuck in here, and we just need to find them. And don’t forget, Soldier is mine.” He looked them all in the eyes. Tyrone liked his style.

“I was in here years ago,” he said to Nico, “and there’s patient lifts that go from A and E, up through the operating theatres, and on the wards.” “You’re right, but they need a pin code to open up, so the likes of us can’t use them. To be safe, we’ve smashed those controls, too. The lifts are no use to anyone, so I’m more concerned about the stairs, and we have them covered.” “What are we doing about the cop?” Tyrone said, “Kill him. I don’t care.” Nico shrugged. “What about those clowns?” Tyrone looked over at the two filthy fools who were now prodding petrified patients through their bedding. Nico shook his head. “Leave those idiots. Let’s find Soldier.” The group, without the clowns, jogged back toward the north stairwell. Nico and his three compatriots stopped in the stairwell. Carson, Delroy, along with Shank, Sharkey, and Tyrone, followed and were quickly forced to stop as well, almost walking into the back of Nico’s team. “What’s happening?” Tyrone said. He could see a look of irritation on Nico’s face, so decided to keep quiet. “Me and my three will go up slowly,” Nico looked into Tyrone’s face, “checking each floor. You five go straight to the roof. We’ll flush them out.” “Yeah, we’ll wait for them on the roof and cut them to pieces.” Tyrone said, wanting to stay in Nico’s good books. “Go, then!” Nico shouted. The mixed group of gangsters from the Bang-Up Crew and Transport Killers hurried up the stairs, and the four Nail Dem Crew marched behind them, in search of their ex-leader, Soldier.

***

Back on the ward, Charlie the clown was delighted that the other gangsters had left him and his partner-in-crime, Cuddles, alone on the ward. They didn’t like playing with the others, but Ringmaster had given them their orders, and they always did what he told them. But now they were left alone so they could play on their own sordid . Charlie continued to tease the patients in their beds, some of which were under their blankets. Some held in traction. And some just unable to move, so they sat rigid in their beds, waiting to see what he and Cuddles would do. “Hello, boys and girls!” Charlie sang, in a gravelly voice, tweaking his grubby red nose. “They’re all a bit shy, Charlie, aren’t they?” Cuddles said. “Yes, they are, Cuddles.” Patients moaned and sobbed up and down the vast ward, knowing there was nothing they could do. They all look so vulnerable. Charlie looked at them all, laid out for the slaughter. “Shall I give them one of my special cuddles, Charlie?” “What a smashing idea!” Charlie nodded with enthusiasm as he gazed at his audience. “Someone is a bit shy.” Cuddles, on his tiptoes, making a shushing sign with his index finger up against his dry lips, approached a bed with a large lump under the covers. The lump wasn’t trembling like the others, and it seemed as if the patient was sleeping. The only movement being the slow rise and fall of their breathing. Charlie wondered how on earth they could be sleeping through all this, but he stayed in role, shushing the other patients as his partner crept toward the lump in the bed. Charlie clapped and jumped up and down with delight. He knew what Cuddles

was going to do. As his friend approached, he revealed exactly what his special cuddle was. Drawing out a garrotte and gripping a wooden handle in each fist, Cuddles opened his arms to show the length of wire between his hands, and smiled at his audience. “Come out, my pretty. Come out from under your blanket.” They did come out, but it was Cuddles who got the surprise, and there was nothing Charlie could do as the ambush was sprung. It’s the cop. He threw the bedclothes at Cuddles as he leapt off the bed. He jammed a Taser into the side of Cuddle’s neck and zapped him. Energy tore into the shuddering clown’s ragged body. The cop dropped the Taser and grabbed the clown’s hands. After ripping the garrotte free, he looped the wire over the top of the clown’s head and took the handles with both hands. He turned back-to-back with Cuddles and pushed the handles forward over his right shoulder, the wire biting into Cuddle’s neck, squashing his once amusing bow tie that many years ago rotated for laughs. The cop leant forward, taking the clown off his feet, jerking the wire. In his death throes, Cuddles’s last act was to bite his own purple tongue off. “Cuddles!” Charlie shouted, but it was too late, as agonizing pain erupted in his back. He tried to turn sideways to see what was happening. He had been so transfixed by what had happened to Cuddles, he hadn’t been aware of what was behind him. But now he could see him as he grabbed Charlie’s shoulder. It was Soldier, their prey. He felt more agony and pressure on his back, and then a weird feeling as the tip of the blade of the machete popped out of his chest with a splash of dark blood. Charlie wondered if he would be ing Cuddles in that big top in the sky. And then he died.

***

Cahill couldn’t believe they had got away with hiding under the blankets. It was bloody ridiculous. It was just lucky for them that the gangsters lacked any method in their search plan. But he had killed again. He didn’t want to, and it was becoming easier as the night went on, but it didn’t mess with his head any less. He was also wondering about what he had overheard about why Nico wanted Tunde captured, not killed? It didn’t make sense. Surely, to stop Tunde talking to the NPS, he just needed to die as soon as possible. Surely, he wasn’t that grandiose that he needed to ister the coup de grace himself? The thoughts raced around his troubled brain, but there was no time now. Not even for another sip of whiskey. They had to move. The thought of the drink wasn’t as urgent as it had been. The adrenaline boost from the running, fighting, and killing had replaced one addiction for another...for now. “I suppose we go back up the stairs, then?” Tunde said. “You heard them. Both stairways are guarded down below, and the lifts are out.” “That lot will likely go up floor by floor. They think we’re somewhere above here. No, I reckon we go down.” Cahill smiled at him. “But they’re waiting mob-handed down there!” “Yes, but on the ground floor, this place has a basement. Maybe we can get out from there?” Cahill swore blind he saw a smirk flash on Tunde’s face that disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Okay, sounds promising,” Tunde said. “But how do we sneak past the mob on the ground floor to get to the basement?” “I’ve got an idea.”

18

Shanice drove her van onto the Thameside Hospital approach road just as they had done earlier when they dropped off Cahill. It was too quiet. Where were the freaks? Where were the weird people that always seem to be staggering around the streets at night? Shanice felt her worry building. Where were the lost feral souls of London? Never to be seen in daylight, as they wanted to avoid the factory hustle and bustle. It was only at night that they came out of their holes—safe in the dark, safe from the workers, and safe from the gangs, too, as they had nothing to offer. So where were they? “This is weird,” Shanice said. “Pull over. I don’t like this.” Teri sounded scared, and Shanice realized that she must have a bad feeling, too. She hit the brakes while they were still on the ramp and unable to see the hospital, and their incarcerated engers were thrown from their seats in the cage, crashing to the floor. Their moans were ignored. The girls sat in silence and opened their windows to listen. Nothing. No noise, no sirens, no shouting, no screaming. Shanice swallowed. “Let’s go on foot,” Teri said. “Leave the van here?” “Good idea. Let’s use the footpath. Quiet approach.” Shanice locked the van. Then both girls stepped over the road barrier, onto the relative safety of the footpath, which initially ran alongside the approach road, but then cut down under the approach ramp, into a tunnel, as the road swept upward and curved around toward the hospital.

Shanice and her partner inched along the damp path. The smooth concrete walls under the ramp were perfect, so there was nowhere for anyone to hide, and it was well-lit. Shanice emerged from the tunnel and saw the front of the hospital. It was carnage. The reports were right. An old-style Routemaster double-decker bus was imbedded in the building and surrounded by tons of debris. But still they couldn’t see anyone. Just the flicker of the emergency lighting from inside the building, and a dust cloud that seemed to hang in the air around the bus. Shanice stopped Teri with a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got to call this in, Teri. This is Company property.” Teri nodded. Shanice was always clear about her position in the world. The Company paid her, and she was always loyal to the firm. “Smithy’s vendetta against Cahill will have to wait,” she said. “We’d better call for backup.” They backed away from the building, intending to return to their van to use the main set radio. The girls jogged back through the tunnel, toward their van and the two prisoners. As they went, Shanice heard something, and so had her partner. They both stopped to listen. She could hear a repetitive squeak ahead. Then she saw him, the unicycling clown. “What the hell!” The clown circled on his unicycle at the end of the tunnel, his gaze fixed on them. Eventually, he came to a stop by balancing his peddles. In a flourishing gesture, he pointed at the police van, and with a nod, he cycled off in that same direction. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Shanice said. She ran toward her van, but as she emerged from the tunnel, Shanice saw that

she and her partner were too late. Two grubby female Triple C gangsters were each holding a torch near the police vehicle as the unicycling clown whizzed past and threw a brick through the vans rear window. “No!” Shanice yelled, as she saw the fire eaters take deep breaths and spew raw flames into the van’s interior. The zombie and his partner screamed in agony as the flames engulfed them. Shanice realized that she and Teri had only delayed their deaths by a short amount of time. Should have left them in their house. Then Teri punched her on the arm, bringing her out of her anguish just in time to realize that the van was totally ablaze, and the intense heat would soon reach the fuel tank. “Run!” Teri screamed, as they backed off. The explosion threw her and Shanice off their feet and onto the tarmac, where they rolled vigorously to avoid being sprayed by the hot metal and glass that bombarded them. As soon as she could, Shanice crawled back into the under, her ears ringing from the concussive force. Teri crawled after. Through hazy vision, Shanice saw them coming. Lit by the flames of the burning van, the gangsters rushed toward them in prison blue and hoodies. Then there were clowns and circus freaks all running toward them, screaming for their blood. “Get up, Teri. Run, run!” Shanice pulled her up by the arm and dragged her partner to her feet. Still shaken by their recent trauma, they sprinted back toward the hospital, stumbling, the shrieking hoodlums hot on their tail. Skipping over the steel and masonry that littered their way, Shanice saw the gap down the side of the bus and squeezed through with only just enough room to go sideways. Panting and hustling, she pressed against the buckled metal sides of the bus to avoid the jags of plate glass that jutted from the wounded building’s fresh scar. She felt Teri pushing her along, but she couldn’t go any quicker. Her

heart pounded. Shanice stumbled into the lobby, wiping her eyes from the grit and dust that floated in the air. It smelled dusty, too, but there was another odour—copper. She was stunned at the sight before her. This was what happened when a doubledecker bus smashed into a busy hospital. Open-mouthed and aghast, she stared at the bodies that littered the bloodstreaked floor and realized what that metallic smell was. Teri was next to her, equally appalled by the scene. But it wasn’t over for them yet. They turned away from the wrecked bus and scurried into the gloomy building, desperate not to become bloody streaks themselves. As they drew up level with the Accident and Emergency waiting area, Teri grabbed Shanice’s arm, shushing her and indicating that they should get down on their knees. Shanice couldn’t see what Teri had seen, but trusted her. So she dropped down with her and hid behind a row of plastic seats that faced the lift lobby. Now Shanice could see them, too. A dozen assorted gangbangers congregated by the lift doors and stairwell. Teri had stopped them just in time, before the gangbangers could see them. Shanice and her partner slid right down underneath the row of seats, doing their best to hide amongst the debris that was under there with them. Behind them, Shanice saw their pursuers had also made it into the hospital and were running inside. Their blood was up, their vision blinkered, so they ran straight past them as she held her breath. Shanice continued to watch their chasers from the makeshift observation post. The gangsters were looking around, but eventually became bored and darted toward the group occupying the lift lobby. Although, they weren’t completely stupid. Three of them stayed back and waited by the gap through which they had all entered. Taking the opportunity to catch their breath and take stock, Shanice began to look around. She noticed that they were far enough away from the lobby not to be seen by the waiting mobsters, and there was enough mess and bodies between them and the bus to block the view of the three guards there. But that meant they were stuck. Or so she thought.

Shanice saw the door to the treatment area in A&E opening. “Look.” She pointed over to the door. The door was just about level to them, and they saw a Chinese woman in a security uniform. The short and slight security guard dropped to her belly and crawled over to them. “I’m Lin, the security manager,” she whispered. “Are you here for Cahill?” “Sort of,” Shanice whispered back. “He’s still in here,” Lin said, “and I’m sure he’s still alive. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be guarding both the stairwells.” “We’re trapped, too,” Shanice said, referring to the guarded hole by the bus. “Are there more of you coming?” “Not exactly, Lin,” said Teri. “We were just ing, and we heard a report about a bus crash.” “We’ve been trying to call you all night!” Lin looked at her with desperation. “It’s Halloween,” Teri said, “and they’ve blown up our van with the two prisoners in the back.” Lin looked down at the floor. “What’s out the back, through that door, Lin?” Shanice pointed to where Lin had just come through. “We can get to the ambulance bay, and there’s one waiting there so we can drive it out of here. But there’s a problem. The driver has disappeared somewhere with the keys.” “Aren’t there spare keys somewhere?” Teri said. “We have spares for all our cars and vans.” Lin’s eyes rolled up in her head, deep in thought.

“I’m not sure, but I know where to look. Come on.” Lin pulled herself along the ground, toward the door from where she came. Shanice took a deep breath and locked eyes with her partner. In silent agreement, they followed the security manager across the floor.

19

Dirty Tommy approached the Bricklayers Arms roundabout. He didn’t have far to go now, and he had begun to wonder how he was going to get Alexis back to Soho on his push bike. Maybe he could steal a motor? Anyhow, he’d sort something out when the time came. He swerved around a pair of freaks that were locked together, doggy style, in the middle of the road, thrusting and panting like animals. “Filthy, dirty stinking freaks,” Tommy muttered, as he cycled into Tower Bridge Road and toward an imposing barricade made of old cars and furniture with huge piles of rubbish heaped over it. In the middle of the barricade was a gap framed by two oil drums, and on their rusty tops rested a battered scaffold pole, like a makeshift car-park barrier. This was the way in, and it was guarded by two scruffy teenage boys wearing matching black Harrington-style jackets. Tommy freewheeled to a halt a few feet away from them. “Can we help you?” said one kid. “Who the fuck are you two?” Tommy said. “I’m Joe. And my friend here is called Terry.” “Hello,” Terry said. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Tommy. But you two are in my way. So fuck off out of it!”. Joe smiled, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not from around here, are you, mate. You see, this is the Foster Kids turf, and you can’t just wander through.”

Tommy took a deep breath. So far this evening, he’d almost been killed for his push bike. And now these two likely lads were winding him up. He feared no man, but these two carried themselves with confidence, and he could come off second if he rumbled with them. Wasn’t a bet worth making. “It’s been a long night already, so let’s start again. I’m on my way to H’s place. My cousin Jez has some goods there for me.” “Jez is your cousin?” Joe said. “Yes,” Tommy replied, with open arms. Terry grabbed the pole and pushed it across the oil drums, with a rusty screech. “Why didn’t you say, mate? On you go.” Joe stood back out the way. “Err, thanks.” “No problem. H’s is about two hundred yards up the road, on your left. You can’t miss it. Sign says Tower Kebab.” Tommy cycled his bike through the barricade. “Oh, and do yourself a favour. Make sure you try the chips.” Tommy wondered what the hell Joe was going on about as he travelled the final leg of his journey.

***

Alex was still slumped in the wingback armchair in H’s lounge, being scrutinized by Jez. And he would not give in. “What you don’t realize is the position you’ve put me in, Alexis.” “I’m bored with this. I keep telling you...my name is Alice.”

“I told my cousin Tommy you were a good girl, and I vouched for you. He thinks you’re a grass. And the more I think about it, so do I.” Alice, Alexis, or whatever, her head was spinning, and panic pulsed in her chest, the adrenaline rushing around her body. It was one thing dealing with a simple case of mistaken identity. She could ride that out. But this was something else. If they decided she was a grass—a no-good informant—she was as good as dead. She couldn’t fight her way out. And frankly, it was probably better that they discovered she was an undercover cop rather than being a grass. But that was a huge gamble. Seemed that life meant very little in London these days. But it was even worse than that. Alex was making a habit of flying under the radar. She was enjoying being undercover too much, and deployed whenever she got the chance. The thrill of the danger, taking the odd sniff of some illegal chemicals...she loved it. She had been going to H’s for weeks now, and had her feet right under the table. Initially, she was sent in to prove or disprove the intelligence about the Foster Kids’ suspected drug supply in the area. Basically, the Foster Kids would have been an easy hit for the LPD. But Alex soon established that there was no Class A supply, just cannabis and amphetamine. Not worth the time or money to mount an operation there. So she was here on her own tonight. Her cover officer didn’t even know she was out. Therefore, no security team on standby. If she had the chance to phone her cover officer for help, there would be no guarantee that backup could get here to help her in time. Although, if she did call it in, one thing was for sure—her dismissal would be guaranteed. She was still on final warning for the Cahill investigation, so if she wanted to keep her job, she would have to get out of this herself. Alex had become good friends with H, and loved spending time with him and the Foster Kids. And it turned out that they were good kids. They were all at that odd age of fifteen, sixteen, or seventeen. So they weren’t liable to start work in the factories yet. Hopefully, H and the Kids would be her safety blanket. Maybe they would help her survive Jez’s scrutiny. Her thoughts of salvation were rudely interrupted when a scrawny red-faced angry-looking man appeared in the doorway. He nodded curtly at Jez, then locked his eyes straight on Alex.

“Nice one, Jez. You found the slag.” Alex’s heart leapt as she realized that the angry man was Dirty Tommy. She may have been able to continue to cause doubt in one person’s mind, but not both. All she had done was cut and change her hair colour. It wouldn’t fool Tommy, either. And now Jez had an ally. “Now, Alexis, you can explain how you got Mickey’s bar raided!” Jez said. Alex’s mouth flapped like a drowning fish, but her words wouldn’t come. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience. But then H appeared behind Tommy. He must have followed the stranger up the back stairs, having sensed a problem. And as always, he wanted to keep the peace. She was further relieved when two Foster Kids followed H into the room. Tiny and Billy, dressed in their gang attire—the black Harrington jacket—entered into the room and stood quietly at H’s side. Alex breathed again, her soul sinking back down into her body, realizing that she was under their protection. “H, please tell this geezer that my name’s Alice.” “What’s going on, Jez?” H said. “Who is this?” “This is my cousin Tommy. He’s come down here from Soho. This Alice, or Alexis—or whoever she is—has caused us trouble. She grassed to the cops.” Tommy sneered. “She bought the feds to my door, and got my best customer nicked. Plus, she stole my gear and cash.” Of course they were right about her getting Mickey’s bar raided, but she had stolen nothing. However, she could hardly dispute that, and that made Tommy doubly dangerous. He was stitching her up to save his own neck. Suddenly, the danger of being labelled a grass in the London Badlands was the least of her troubles. “Listen, everyone,” H said. “Please, no violence in my place. There’s always an explanation. Let’s go down to the restaurant. I’ll cook us some food. We can drink some tea and discuss this like civilized humans.” “Okay, let’s eat first,” Tommy said. “And then we can ask Alexis here why she

grassed on my pal Declan Cahill.” H’s eyes sparked in recognition. “Declan Cahill?” “What’s he to you?” Tommy said. “Now there’s a story.” H smiled.

20

Cahill slowed as he jumped the last few steps to the fifth floor. He and Tunde had arrived without further incident. Cahill was grateful that this was happening at night, with only reduced staff and visitors in the building. The huge restaurant on this floor was closed for the evening. When it was open, it could sit over a hundred diners at any one time, and throughout the day fed thousands. The kitchens prepared the food for all the patients, staff, and visitors. At night, the kitchen was closed, so the shutters were pulled down and locked on the serving hatch. In fact, the only sign of life there were the brightly lit vending machines that hummed and spread their glow into the vast gloomy room. As he tentatively looked around the restaurant area, behind all the pillars and in any obvious hiding places, he noted that Tunde was watching him with some amusement. Good news—there were no gangsters lurking in the shadows. But they had been there. Another one of Lin’s security staff must have thought to hide up here when the gangs first flooded into the building. Unfortunately for him, though, someone had tried to feed his head into the opening of the sandwich vending machine. He now lay motionless, flopped up against the machine, his neck bent back at an impossible angle, his tros bunched at his ankles. Cahill felt the rage building in him as he saw from the blood between his buttocks that the poor man had been raped and murdered. Although, maybe it didn’t necessarily happen in that order. His mind enjoyed the reprieve this anger gave it from the guilt of his own killings this night. A crackling noise emitted from his backpack. He reached in and pulled out the hospital radio that Lin had given him. He smiled as he heard Lin’s voice calling for him. “Good to hear your voice, Lin. Tunde and I are okay. How are you doing?”

“Declan! You’re okay,” she said, in a loud whisper. “I’ve got Teri and Shanice from your team with me. They ran into trouble outside, and I found them hiding.” Cahill’s heart raced. “That’s great news. Is back up coming?” “They aren’t here officially. They were just having a look-see. The Triple C blew up their van, with two prisoners onboard.” “Shit!” “Declan, there’s an ambulance in the A and E bay. If we can find the keys, we can use that to escape.” “Listen, Lin, we overheard them. The ground floor stairwells are both guarded, so we can’t get down there to you. You three, get the keys and go to the police station to get help.” “We’re not leaving you to die here!” Lin screamed. “I’ve got a plan. A way to sneak past them, down to the basement. If we make it, what’s the best way out from there?” “Hold on. Yes, the mortuary is down there. Get to the mortuary. There’s an access door where the bodies are dropped off.” “That’s helpful, Lin. Thank you. Do not hang about. Get to the police station.” Cahill listened to the static until she replied. “Okay. I’ll see you there, won’t I?” “Yes, Lin, I’ll see you there. I’ll even get you a coffee.” Cahill smiled as he fed the small radio back into his pack and turned to see Tunde’s ever-ready grin. “I think I sense some romance, Officer.” “Fuck off, Tunde.” But Cahill still held the remnants of a smile.

“So are you going to tell me this plan?” “The lift shaft. We’re going to climb down the lift shaft.”

***

Lin led the ladies to the ambulance dispatch room, which wasn’t far from the bay in which their escape vehicle was parked. On the wall was a metal safe, and Lin bet her pension that was where the spare keys would be. But first, they needed the safe key. She pointed out the safe out to Shanice and Teri. “Right, girls. We need to find the key to the safe.” The girls nodded at her and got stuck into a thorough search of desks, drawers, and shelves. Lin ed in. After rummaging on a desk, she picked up a large glass paperweight that contained a small model of a seafront pier, and bore the words A gift from Brighton. Underneath it was taped a single key. “Try this, Shanice.” Lin tossed it across the room. Shanice opened the safe and found that it contained the keys to at least a dozen vehicles. “I’ll grab the lot,” she said. She stuffed them in her leather patrol jacket pocket, while Teri checked outside the door to see if the coast was clear. Lin tried calling on her radio again, but this time she wasn’t calling for Cahill. She was trying to for her team. She heard nothing. Not including herself and the office manager, Christine, who was still ensconced in the back of the ambulance, there was a dozen security staff working tonight.

Four more than usual, as Lin had negotiated overtime to cover the busy Halloween night. Guilt stabbed her in the heart as she realized she had sent them to their deaths. “They’re all dead, aren’t they?” Lin asked the two cops, though she already knew the answer. “Don’t feel guilty because you’re alive and they’re not,” Teri said. Lin knew Teri was right, but it didn’t feel any less terrible. Cahill’s words echoed in her head, reminding her of the plan. He was right. They could do the best by getting to the police station and getting help here. She believed Cahill when he said he would be able to get out and make it to the station. But if she could get him some help, she would. “Looks clear, guys,” Teri said. “Everyone is hiding, except the gangsters,” Shanice said. “Come on.” The three uniformed women left the office at a crouch, ready for anything. Lin reckoned that they must have looked an odd trio, with two of them over six-feettall, accompanied by all five-foot-nothing of her. At the abandoned A&E reception bay, Teri once more spied the area before they committed. She could see the ambulance parked as Lin had described. “Let’s go, girls,” Teri said. Lin went to the rear doors, whilst Shanice searched for the right key for the ignition. “Chris?” Lin tapped on the locked doors. A metallic clank emitted from inside, and the doors opened. Christine looked pleased to see her. “Thank God you’re back,” she sobbed. “Just sit tight. I’ve got two cops with me, and we’re going to leave now.”

“Got the key,” Shanice said. With Christine still in the rear, they piled into the front of the ambulance, nerves on a knife edge. Shanice started the engine and reversed the vehicle toward the inner shutter. She rolled over a pressure pad on the floor, which triggered the steel shutter to ratchet up into the ceiling. “Once it’s fully up,” Lin said, “reverse back, and we wait for the interior shutter to close. We can open the exterior from the sealed bay.” She pointed over at a red mushroom-shaped button on the wall. “Once we’re out, there’s no way back in. The exterior shutter can only be opened before the interior one by someone in the security office.” The ambulance chugged out clear of the bay, and as predicted, the exterior shutter dropped back into place. “Right,” Shanice said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Revving hard, she pushed the ambulance along the sweeping ramp. Black smoke billowed from their ruined van, which blocked one side of the road, so they had plenty of room to get by. The smoke cloud made it hard to see. Then something struck the windshield. Something metallic twanged the air and spun off above them. “What the fuck!” Lin pointed ahead. Blocking their path, just beyond the melted van, was a line of circus freaks. And at their centre, a man dressed like a ringmaster was encouraging them to violence. Another missile flew toward them, and this time she could see it was a dagger thrown by a circus knife thrower, splendid in a black swirling silk shirt, his nose underlined by a thick handlebar moustache. The dagger cracked the screen, and Shanice jerked the wheel, causing the ambulance to skid. She corrected her course, and with sheer determination etched on her face, aimed for the knife thrower. Ringmaster cackled and leapt to one side as the speeding ambulance thudded into a couple clowns, sending them spinning to one side, before Shanice caught the knife thrower straight-on and carried him a few yards on the front of the ambulance, his moustache pressed up against the screen, his eyes glazed and unconcerned. He eventually slipped under the front of the vehicle, and Lin shuddered as the ambulance bumped over his torso.

“Good work, girl,” Teri said. “Let’s get back to HQ and report in.” “Then we get some backup and come back for Cahill?” Lin said. “That will depend on the sarge,” Teri said. “What!” “It’s the sergeants call where resources are sent. It’s still Halloween, and we’ve been banged out all night, and there are only eight of us on duty. It’s likely they’ll wait until the day shift comes in.” “They might not see the morning,” Lin said. “Let’s not speculate. We’ll get back to HQ and discuss it with the Sarge.” Teri settled into her seat for the drive back. Lin’s mind raced. She hardly knew Cahill, but she was scared for him and wondered where he was now. She wondered what horrors the gangsters had in store for him when they overwhelmed him, as she was sure they would. But there were just too many of them.

21

Tunde kept watch at the stairwell, straining his ears and looking up and down the stairs as Cahill worked on opening the lift doors. He glanced over and confirmed that in the stairwell he was out of Cahill’s view, and slipped his cell phone out of his underwear. After pressing his thumb down to unlock it, he saw a message from Babe. Not bothering to read it, he furiously typed one of his own. Holding out, babe. The cops are looking after me. Heading for the police station soon. A message from Babe winged back almost instantly. How are you gonna get out, babe? Tunde replied, Basement. Mortuary. He slipped the phone back in his pants, checking that Cahill hadn’t seen him.

***

Cahill inserted his remaining friction lock baton in the gap he had forced between the stainless steel lift doors. He levered it back and forth, his fists gripped knuckle-white-tight on the baton, when at last the doors gave in and he shoved them open. There didn’t seem to be any power to the twin doors, so they gave up without a fight and slid back. Using the torch on his phone, he shone the beam down and around the lift shaft, and saw there was an emergency ladder set in a concrete recess to the right of the open doors. At least they wouldn’t have to try to climb down the greased steel wire cable. He directed the beam down below. Nothing. Just blackness. A good start, but what they needed was the lift car to be situated above them, so he shone his light

upward. More blackness. Damn it. There was no way of knowing where the car was. They would have to risk it and go down as far as they could, and if they found that the lift car was in the way and there was no way around it, they could always go back up a floor and work their way around. That was unless they had the lift cars stuck on the ground floor by design. Maybe that was giving the gangsters too much credit. He and Tunde would just have to try. Cahill stuck his head through the stairwell door. Tunde jumped and glared at him. “Fucks sake!” Cahill laughed. “I’m in agony here. I need some more painkillers. I might have popped a stitch during that last fight.” “Think you’ll be able to climb?” “If we don’t clear the building soon,” Tunde said, “it won’t be long before they send more war parties through. We’ve been lucky so far.” “That’s why we have to make this move.” Tunde nodded and followed Cahill through, toward the gaping lift doors. “I’ll go first,” Cahill said. “You follow.” Cahill stepped into the lift shaft and grabbed the recessed metal ladder rung to his right. He stretched out across the void, his heart racing. His forgotten thirst came back and washed over him, engulfing his thoughts again. Pushing his cravings back into the place he kept his traumas, Cahill gripped the rungs and waited just below floor level. He looked up as Tunde climbed into the shaft to him. He blinked as his eyes got used to the dark. Then his night vision kicked in, allowing him to see more clearly. Down they went, Cahill descending slowly, allowing for Tunde’s wounded arm.

When the adrenaline came, he used the arm without any problem, Cahill thought. Maybe Tunde’s body masked the pain during action, but it had been a good half-hour since their last fight and the adrenaline was gone, the fatigue setting in. A noise above echoed in the shaft. A metallic twang followed by a steady hum that was almost like singing. Cahill froze, peering up into the dark. He could still see light above them from the open doors on the fifth floor. Tunde looked down at Cahill with panic in his eyes. “What is it?” Cahill watched him squinting into the centre of the shaft. “Look at the cable.” Cahill squinted, too, hoping to help his eyes see more efficiently. The greased cable looked blurry. He blinked and concentrated, and then he realized the cable was vibrating. The singing started to get louder. “Climb, Tunde. Fucking climb, now!” Tunde started pulling himself up as fast as his arm would allow, heading back toward the light. Cahill hurried behind, hitting the top of his head on Tunde’s once white trainers, which were now stained with black grease and the blood of their enemies. “Go, go, go!” Cahill said. The cable snapped above them—a pistol shot that whip-cracked down the shaft. The dreadful realization that a ton-of-steel elevator was coming was the adrenaline boost Tunde must have needed. The vibrating cable attached to the bottom of the hurtling lift, connected to a stack of counterweights, whistled as it sliced the air on its way down. Tunde reached the open doors, and Cahill watched impatiently as he rolled out of his view. Cahill reached the open doors himself and flung his hands out to grab the edge of the floor, his feet slipping off the ladder as he did so. Air rushed down the shaft presaging the arrival of his death-panic rippled through him. Using brute strength, he pulled himself up, His sweaty hand lost grip, and his backpack

slipped, falling down his arm, almost causing him to lose grip with his other hand. Somehow, he managed to keep a hold of the edge of the cold floor, but the backpack plummeted down the black shaft. Cahill swung his legs frantically to get a foot back on the ladder. With a wash of relief, he made it and reached up to grip the ledge with the hand that had slipped. He pulled himself up onto the polished floor and rolled onto it just as the elevator screamed past. A few seconds ticked by as he lay there, panting, next to Tunde, reliving the horror of his close escape, when the almighty crash of the lift hitting the ground shook the hospital once more. Debris wafted and rolled up the lift shaft, then out into the only space it could find through the open elevator doors, coming to rest above their heads like a storm cloud. “So, Officer, you got any better ideas?” Cahill stared up at the ceiling and controlled his breathing. “How could they have guessed what we were doing?” he said. “Maybe they found the dead clowns in the ward and realized we knew about their plan to block the ground floor?” “No chance,” Tunde said. “They couldn’t have known we were under the sheets. Maybe they just cut the lift cable for shits and giggles.” “Bullshit. That would have taken some supreme effort to hack through that cable.” Whatever the reason, Tunde was right. They needed a new plan.

***

Fifteen minutes earlier... As ordered by Nico, the gangsters led by Tyrone headed to the roof. But when they got there, they found that it was deserted. Despite taking the lead, Tyrone didn’t have a clue what to do next, except wait for Nico and his crew to catch up

with them after they were done searching floor to floor. Tyrone began to wander about on the roof’s flat surface, checking out all the vents and protrusions that littered the roof. And eventually, they found the lift mechanism. Carson and Delroy followed his example and went inside the rooftop elevator housing, as it was the only construction on the roof that rose above the glass annex. They had to climb a metal ladder to get up into it. Carson popped back out of the housing and was grinning at Tyrone. “If we cut the cable,” he said, “Soldier and the cop can’t use the lift.” “Good idea,” Delroy said. Tyrone thought that was a waste of time. Carson and Delroy were both were oblivious that Nico had already told them that the lifts were disabled. Therefore, their plan was pointless. But he couldn’t think of anything better to do. “Okay, then,” he said, and Carson’s eyes widened with excitement. “There’s thick cable,” Carson said, “plus a thinner one, and what must be a brake. If you three smash the brake off and cut the little cable, your knives will get through it. Me and Delroy will use our axes to get through the thick one.” Tyrone shrugged as Carson climbed the ladder, followed by Shank and Sharkey. Once there, Sharkey sawed through the smaller governor cable with a serrated blade. Then Shank disabled the safety brake by kicking it off the cable with a heavy boot. The weight transferred to the thicker hoist cable with a creak as the brake was dislodged. Tyrone motioned to Shank and Sharkey to leave with him, and they climbed out, leaving the rest of the hard work to the Transport Killers. From outside the housing, Tyrone could see Carson straddled over the top of the lift shaft, holding an old well-used fire axe, which he raised over his head and smashed down onto the cable, his veins popping out on muscles as he worked. Delroy was underneath him, dangerously close to the long drop below. Carson swiped sideways with his axe, smashing the other side of the cable to that of his partners. Strands of steel wire popped as the whole cable vibrated from the strain. It sang and hummed. The cable reached its limit and parted with a snap!

Tyrone snorted and laughed as Carson grabbed the metal work above his head to prevent himself from falling. Delroy wasn’t as lucky because the cable gripped his axe blade when it broke. He didn’t say a word or utter a sound as he swan dived after the hurtling lift, realizing too late to simply let go of his axe. “Holy shit!” Tyrone laughed and slapped Shank on the back.

***

Below the lift shaft, Nico and his trusted Nail Dem Crew boys, Rocky, Skins, and Blade, made it onto the annex floor and burst onto the small empty ward. “Slow it down,” Nico said. “They could be anywhere.” “They must be somewhere,” Blade said. Spoiling for violence and panting, they continued through the ward. Nico pushed open the doors to the small corridor, which led to the roof door. At last, they found the only room with any sign of occupancy, but it looked empty now—Tunde’s private room. “Hold up,” Rocky whispered, pointing at the bathroom door. He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot. Nothing. Nico nodded at Rocky, then prodded the blankets with a knife and pulled them back to reveal an indentation in the mattress. The search was short and fruitless, and the men stood in silence. Then Nico heard loud voices coming from somewhere above or behind him. Must have been coming from the roof. Then a muffled rumble that seemed to shake the floor. “That’s weird,” he said. “There’s nothing above this. It’s all glass.” The rumbling noise ed, traveling farther away like a tube train.

“Maybe those idiots we sent up first have found Soldier and the cop?” Skins said. Then Nico felt it—another impact somewhere below them. He could feel the tremors under his feet. Nico and his boys left the private room, found the door onto the roof, and ran out into the night. As he approached the end of the annex, he saw what they were looking for—Tyrone, Shank, and Sharkey waiting outside what must have been the elevator housing on a raised platform. “We thought we would fuck the lift up.” Sharkey smiled at Nico, who was climbing up to the platform. “I told you we smashed the controls,” Nico said. “No one can use the lifts!” Carson walked out onto the platform, laughing. “Delroy did. He took the lift to the ground floor.” Nico drew his long knife, walked straight up to Carson, and with a grunt, impaled him on it. Then, ignoring his victim’s mewling whimpers of pain, Nico forced him back into the elevator housing and pushed him down the dark, dusty shaft. He watched Carson hitting the sides of the shaft as fell. “No one do anything like this without asking me first. Is that understood?” Nico looked Shank, Sharkey, and Tyrone straight in their eyes. “Okay, man,” Tyrone said. “We were just having some fun. We wanted to waste the cop, but we couldn’t find him and got bored. Look, if we find Soldier, we’ll gift wrap him for you. No worries.” “Stay out of my way, you idiots.” Nico marched back toward the door, his entourage in tow. “I’ve had enough of this. We need to flush them out. Let’s go do what we came to do. Spread the word to the gangs. Get them to gather in their war bands, and on the order—search and capture Soldier and the cop. That’s capture, not kill. Got it?” The gangsters smiled and nodded their hooded heads at their leader.

22

Alex sat opposite Jez and Tommy, while Billy and Tiny flanked her as they sat around the big Formica table down in H’s restaurant. Alex was fond of these two Kids. Billy was known as the rat because he was as scrawny as a rat, and had scruffy black hair and front teeth just like a rat, too. Tiny was called Tiny because ironically, he was six-foot-six-inches tall. Both were ferocious fighters and top boys, so she felt safe between them. Although it didn’t stop her nerves from being fraught, H and the Kids had given her the temporary reprieve she had hoped for. Alex could see that H was in his element, serving up hot food at his table. He fussed around them, pouring cups of water, while his fries bubbled in the wellused oil behind him, creating the most delicious smells which made her mouth water in anticipation. “So how do you know Declan then, H?” Tommy said, his belly rumbling. H smiled, and his eyes rolled up in his head as if looking for the memory he required. “I met Declan Cahill about twenty years ago. It was back before everyone left. Before those damn factories were built. Before...all this.” His face showed the strain of living in the ruins of London—a shadow over his memories of better days. “He was the local bobby. Used to walk up and down Tower Bridge Road, and he’d often pop in for a cup of tea. He never took food for free. He would always insist on paying.” H smiled. “Mug.” Tommy snorted. “He was a decent copper. Not petty. He didn’t worry about minor things. He had discretion, and used it.”

H got out some plates and put them in front of his guests as he reminisced. He turned his back on them briefly as he shook the golden fries out of the basket, into a large stainless-steel tray, then sprinkled on a generous amount of salt and served them up onto the plates with a well-used metal scoop. “Thanks, H,” Alex said, and noticed without surprise that Tommy had tucked into his food without thanks. The Kids noticed, too, and murmured their appreciation before picking up their own forks, and began to spear the hot food. “One evening, it was late. The after-pub customers had all ed through, and I was clearing up when a man decided to rob my restaurant.” The cloud darkened over H’s features. “He pointed an old pistol at my head and demanded my money. How dare he do that. Take what he had never worked for!” “What’s happened, H?” Tiny said. “Declan Cahill came to my rescue. He kicked the door in so hard, it took the robber by surprise, knocking him across the restaurant.” Alex could see that H was reliving the robbery as he followed the bandit’s route across the room with gleaming eyes. “But the bandit kept hold of his gun, and it went off! It was so loud. But thankfully, the bullet missed us both. Declan didn’t miss with his truncheon, though. Knocked him clean out.” “What a lovely story,” Tommy said through a mouthful of chips. “Have some respect.” Tiny growled. “Whatever,” Tommy replied, trying to save face. Tiny started to get up, but H waved him down, a sad look on his face. “I did something terrible then. Something I still regret to this day.”

Alex could see that storm clouds had gathered over his head. “When Declan wasn’t looking, I picked up the old gun. I was angry. So angry that this man had wanted to take my hard-earned money. So I shot him in the head.” “He fucking deserved it,” Tommy said. “No, he didn’t! That happened well before London fell and became this. In my mind, it was people like me that helped send it over the edge. Helped create this wasteland that we exist in.” “What did this copper do?” Alex said, even more intrigued about Declan Cahill. “Something I never expected. Something I didn’t deserve. He helped me get away with it.” Alex was amazed. She couldn’t believe that any young police officer would do such a thing. She had heard of Cahill when she ed the undercover unit. He was a legend. But other than the fall from grace that she was partly responsible for, he was considered a straight arrow. Not the sort of cop to take money, do favours, or turn a blind eye. Why did he help this restaurant owner? Why did he take such a huge risk? “How?” she said. “He helped me arrange the crime scene. He knocked over tables and chairs, and he schooled me on what to say happened. He put my fingerprints on the barrel of the gun to make it look like I grabbed it during the fight. He told me to say that he fired first and missed, so I grabbed it and managed to get it off him, and I fired. He told me I fired because I knew if the robber got it back, he would have surely shot me. He said the bump on the robber’s head was where he’d hit his head on the overturned table leg as we fought. He then made sure there were no witnesses about, that no one had heard the shots, and he left. Told me to call the police, and he told me he was never there.” “And it worked?” Jez said. “It did. The robber’s body was never officially identified. No one knew who he was. But the police found that he was linked by description to other robberies

where he had killed with that same old gun. I was famous. A hero, even, for a while. Declan and I remained friends, but we never ever spoke of it. He still visits me. Although, not for over a year now.” Alex knew why, but kept her mouth shut. “I’ve no doubt that Declan saved my life by being here that night. The robber would have killed me. Somehow, I don’t know how, but Declan must have known that, too. It’s the only reason I can think why a good cop would help me. It makes living with the guilt a bit easier.” Alex was iring Cahill even more, and she wondered where he was and whether he could forgive her for betraying him. “He sounds like an amazing person.” She smiled. “You should fucking know!” Tommy pointed at her, speaking through a mouthful of fried potatoes. “You fucked him and then...you fucked him, Alexis.” “That’s enough!” H glowered at him. “If you keep on, I will ask you to leave my place.” Tiny and Billy tensed. “Tommy is okay, H. Honestly,” Jez said. “I’m talking to you as well, Jez. You only come here to cause trouble, or to rip the boys off.” “Come on, H!” Jez’s cheeks tinged with embarrassment. “Alice is my friend. She comes here and causes no problems. If she says you’re mistaken, that you don’t know her, then that’s good enough for me. Finish your food and your business, and then maybe you should leave.” In here, H was in charge, and the Foster Kids respected him and looked after him, so Alex might survive this still. “We’ll be off as soon as our business is concluded,” Tommy said. “Don’t you worry about it.”

He looked H up and down, and then did the same to Alex, who felt the gaze like a laser beam. H shook his head and walked over to the front window to stare out into the street, a weary look on his face. Alex could see in the reflection that the ing had worn him out. She and the two Foster Kids went back up to the first-floor lounge in silence, and settled back onto the comfy sofa to wait. She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for, but hopefully Tommy and Jez would give up and leave. Surely, they could see that H and the boys wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her.

23

Dev could have done with a break, but there was no chance of that because the dark control room was as always buzzing with the ringing of phones, with radio static filled with chatter, and with verbal reports delivering the results so jobs could be closed on the Computer Aided Dispatch system. Dev was trying to close the domestic call that Teri and Shanice had been sent to. The last they heard from them was when they had arrived and asked for the fire brigade to attend. That had been at least an hour ago. “Sam?” Dev asked his neighbour, on the console. “What now?” She pulled her headphone away from the ear nearest Dev. “I’ve not heard anything from the girls since that domestic.” “They’re probably still tucked up. They are big girls, after all.” “I may be putting two and two together and coming up with five, but since I put the call out about the bus crash at the hospital—” “That no one answered! I warned you not to.” “I’ve heard nothing from them, and I’m wondering if they went and had a look themselves?” “What, at a bus crash?” “It won’t be any ordinary sort of bus crash.” Dev was getting irritated. “Buses stop running at eight p.m. in the factory zone. You know that. You also know that the only double decker buses on the road belong to the Transport Killers.” Dev could see the panic in her eyes. She must have known he was right. That the bus could be an attack on the hospital—an attempt to get to the victim of the earlier shooting. The victim that Cahill had been sent out earlier to look after, without a firearm or any chance of backup.

“Dev, you’re right. We need to call this in.” Dev felt his presence behind him. “What are you two gassing about?” said Sergeant Smith. “We’ve got calls stacking up. And Dev, that domestic should be resulted by now.” “Sarge,” Sam said, “we might have a problem.” “Of course we’ve got a problem. It’s called fucking Halloween.” “Sarge, a double-decker bus crashed into Thameside Hospital about an hour ago,” Dev said. “I’ve already put that call over for the day shift. Hospital security will have taken the details of the driver. Not a Company matter. National Traffic Police will pick that up tomorrow. Not a priority for us.” “I think that’s a gang bus,” Dev said. “The factory zone buses are single-decker, not—” Smith gave a loud sigh and went back to his desk. “He’s a stubborn bastard when he wants to be,” Sam said. Dev was furious, he was trying to do his job and Smith was letting some petty vendetta against Cahill get in the way. “There could be innocent people hurt at that hospital,” he told Sam. He took a deep breath and was about to press the transmit button and dispatch the Fast Car to visit the hospital, when a beam of light struck the camera on the vehicle entrance to HQ. The monitor was just above his computer screen. Sam saw it, too, and nudged him. It was an ambulance flashing its lights. “Sarge, look!” Sam called out. “What?” Now, Dev could make out that the driver was Shanice. Next to her sat Teri, and squeezed next her was an unknown woman, possibly Chinese, whose head was

well below Teri’s shoulder. Smith’s interest was now piqued, and he rushed out to the yard, yelling for Sam to open the gates from her console.

***

Lin’s relief was huge as the gates swung open and the ambulance chugged into the narrow yard at HQ. She saw a uniformed sergeant with a grizzled face hurry out to the yard and go to the rear of the van, presumably to watch the gates close to make sure no one had sneaked in with them. “You’ll love Sergeant Smith.” Shanice pulled a face. Lin jumped down, and ignoring Smith, went to the rear of the vehicle to collect Christine. Smith ignored her, too, and confronted the girls, but she could hear clearly the barking tones of the sergeant. “Explain?” Smith said. “Sarge, the gangs have ed up,” Teri said. “Triple C, the Bang-Up Crew, the Transport Killers, and the Nail Dem Crew have all attacked the hospital. They want Tunde Adeyemi.” “Then let them have him, Smith said. “No-good drug-dealing scumbag.” Lin was on a mission. She had promised she would get assistance for Cahill, and she would. She marched around to the veteran sergeant and planted herself in from of him, hands on her slim hips. “The gangs have slaughtered my entire security team, and raped and murdered patients to get at this no-good drug-dealing scumbag, Sergeant. Do you know why?” Smith kept uncharacteristically quiet.

“He’s turning on the gangs. He’s going to give you everything—the drugs, the money...everything. They will stop at nothing to get to him. They will kill him and that poor officer you sent on his own to guard him. Now what are you going to do about it?” Smith narrowed his eyes as this firecracker of a security officer challenged him in front of his patrol officers. “Inside, now.” He marched inside the building.

24

Still on the fifth floor, they headed back to the restaurant so they could regroup. Cahill rummaged for supplies and found a supply of pain killers in the kitchen first-aid box. It was a treasure trove of obviously stolen pills and potions hidden there for the pleasure of the staff. They all had to get by somehow. There were even morphine tablets, which would have been perfect for Tunde’s pain, but Cahill needed him sharp. “Here. Take three paracetamol and three ibuprofen tablets. Wash them down with that blue sugary drink.” Cahill had gotten drinks from the vending machine, along with some snacks. They were both hungry and tired, and needed a boost of chocolate and sugar. Cahill could already feel the buzz from the much-needed food. Ironically, the large stainless-steel fridges had a stupid-high level of security on them, and there was no way they could get into them. The Company protected the food, but the staff could steal drugs and keep them in a cupboard. Cahill paced while Tunde rested at one of the spotless tables. Losing his backpack was a serious setback, because he had he lost his uniform, radios, his cell phone, his lucky pen, and his hip flask. Maybe his luck wasn’t completely depleted, though, as he had strapped on his utility belt. That meant he still had some kit—one friction lock baton, two sets of handcuffs, and his Taser. Panic lanced through his chest. Shit! He had dropped the Taser during his fight with Cuddles the killer clown, who he had garrotted to death. It was missing from its pouch. Plenty of cartridges, but no weapon. Shit. No hipflask, either.

***

Tunde had taken the tablets and was gulping them down with the blue drink. He was feeling the pain big time. It had been a traumatic day that had started with getting shot, down by the river earlier on. The escape to the police station wasn’t going well for them, but they were still alive and free for now. Cahill was the guardian angel who just kept giving. First, this morning. And now, this evening. And he was a proper fighter, that was for sure. Tunde was amazed how efficient this functioning alcoholic was. He had pretty much polished off his hip flask, and God only knew how much booze had already been in his system. The more they ran and fought, the less he had sipped from the flask, so the blanket of booze that seemed to constantly cling to him must have been wearing off. Worries pervaded Tunde’s thoughts. Would this make him less effective? Or would his instincts carry him through? He still needed the cops help, so he prayed it was the latter. Cahill was pacing up the other end of the kitchen, so Tunde sneaked his phone out to see if Babe had texted him. A new message was on the screen. Hey, babe. Did you make it out yet? Tunde replied, No, babe. Had a close one with a lift, but still strong. We need to find another way out. A few seconds ed. Be careful, babe! Stay hidden. If they can’t see you, they can’t hurt you. But hurry. You need to get to the police station so we can have a future.

***

“What the fuck!” Cahill yelled, as he grabbed the phone from Tunde’s hand. “Who are you talking to?”

“Cool down, copper. Cool down. It’s my girl. She’s worried for me. Look at the last message.” Cahill saw the last couple Babe messages. “But why did you hide the phone from me? You’ve been acting jumpy, and I made you leap out of your skin in the stairwell before the lift shaft. It made me think you were hiding something.” “Typical paranoid copper. We are in this thing together. I told you I’m doing all this for my girl, didn’t I? Cahill’s mind was racing, trying to overcome his policeman’s mistrust of everyone. Especially a gangster. “Okay, okay. It’s just hard for me to trust anyone. I deal with stuff on my own. I’m not used to worrying about someone else. It leaves you vulnerable.” “What are you on about?” “It’s nothing to do with you!” Cahill barked. “All right, jeez. We cool, brother?” “Yeah, yeah, we’re cool.” Cahill was ashamed of himself for thinking the worse of Tunde. He was right— they were only alive because they’d had each other’s backs. And besides, that phone could come in handy since he had lost all his comms. “Look, I wasn’t hiding anything from you,” Tunde said. “I’m sorry I bit your head off.” “That’s cool, brother. No problem. I get what you mean about looking after yourself. That’s what living amongst the gangs is like. Life is cheap. One minute you’re here...the next, dead. No one could give a fuck about anyone.” “I’ve only got myself to give a fuck about,” Cahill said. “but I’m even finding it hard to do that.”

“What is it with you? Why the drinking?” Cahill felt his skin burn in anger. Why did this gangbanger think he had the right to ask him anything? The rage subsided as quickly as it came, and his thirst pricked at him like needles again. He was no better, really, and he told himself to get off his high horse. He and Tunde only had each other tonight, and he wasn’t sure they would make it to HQ. They couldn’t even get out of the building, for God’s sake. But then an idea floated to the front of his brain—something he had seen earlier. Tunde waited patiently, not pushing for an answer, but Cahill caved in. “I’m a failure, Tunde. That’s why I drink. I can’t function without a cloud of booze in my head. Keeps the bad thoughts back there.” “What have you got locked away in there?” “I’m a cop through and through. That was my problem. I neglected the one’s that needed me.” “Who? The wife, the kids?” Cahill kept the irritation at bay. He had never talked about this. Let alone to a stranger. “We lost our baby, and I was too busy chasing bad guys to notice. Then I lost her. She killed herself because she couldn’t take the pain.” Tunde reeled. Cahill could see genuine shock. “Man...I don’t know what to say.” “Now you know.” Cahill smiled with tight lips. “I don’t know what I would have done.” “It’s why I’ve ended up babysitting you, Tunde. I fucked up, got caught, got demoted from detective sergeant back to patrol officer.”

“They busted you just because you had a few too many drinks?” Cahill shook his head. “Cocaine, Tunde. Lots of it. The Company internal affairs division caught me in a sting operation.” “Shit. So you were grassed up?” “Yep. And I know by who.” Cahill darkened as he ed that night. Dirty Tommy would have some explaining to do one day, that was for sure. “To be fair, I should have been sacked for what I did. I’d have sacked me. And it didn’t make sense why they didn’t.” Cahill didn’t expect Tunde to understand how bad things were for him—a street cop that had once been a detective, and had lost pretty much everything he loved. But still he persevered. He felt much better for telling the story about himself, and he started to have a bit of positivity about their situation. He decided to tell Tunde about his new idea. “Let Babe know we’re going to get to the police station. I’ve got another idea.” “Now where have I got to climb?” Tunde groaned. “Do you on the roof, there were railings that ran around the top of the building?” “Yeah.” “What are they usually used for?” “I don’t know?” Tunde shrugged. Cahill smiled again. “They usually have a window-cleaning rig for buildings like this.” “I’ve not seen one. Plus, there’s no power. It won’t work.”

“Maybe not, but I’ve seen these platforms before. They usually come with a manual lowering system, just in case of power failure. “Suppose there isn’t one there?” Tunde said. “We’ve got to check. Your room was at the front, but it could have been on the north side. The river side.” “I suppose it’s worth a look. But you’re forgetting, there must have been gangsters on the roof to cut the lift cable.” “They’re everywhere, Tunde. But they’re uncoordinated, all mixed up. We know the bulk of them are guarding the ground floor. And no offense, but that shows their lack of imagination.” “True that, copper. If I had been in charge instead of Nico, we’d be dead already.” “Let’s use the stairs on the river side. The concrete steps. That takes us to the floor below the annex. We can scope outside the window on the twentieth floor. From there, we should be able to see if there is a platform. Agreed?” Tunde nodded, deep in thought. “Tablets kicking in?” Cahill said. “Yeah, the arms feeling better, and the bleeding’s stopped.” “Good. We can make it, you know.” “I believe you.” And Cahill believed Tunde, too, as they jogged off, a picture in their bloodstained green scrubs, their hats and surgical face masks lost earlier during their first fight. The battered pair hurried into the north stairwell—Cahill with his cuffs and baton, Tunde with his chair legs tucked in his waist band.

***

Back on the ground floor, Nico rallied the gangs. Communication was vital. He had overestimated the t-gang approach, thinking that with their numbers they would have quickly flushed out Soldier and the cop, or at least be tracking them down out on the streets, on their turf. The hospital was unknown to them, and there were many places to hide, so he needed to be a leader and direct the battle. The trouble was that organizing hoodlums was like herding cats, and you had little or no chance of getting them to do what you wanted. That was unless you promised them pain or reward. But how do you communicate with them? In the age of social media, there were dozens of communication apps, but many of them were vulnerable to interception by law enforcement. One app seemed to evade penetration because it was written to do just that. Street Bro had been used by the Nail Dem Crew, and the other major gangs, for some years. With the feds unable to crack its encryption, it was the perfect tool to run their drugs and vice racket. Nico now used this system to marshal his forces. Like a general on the battlefield, he kept his entourage close by, all three of them armed with smartphones to send out the general’s orders. Hopefully, enough of his troops were savvy enough to read the instructions so that the rest followed like sheep. He had invited other gang leaders onto the network by giving them access, and then by setting up a group so they could all monitor or report activity. With luck, he could direct them with more precision. “That’s it. Triple C, band together. And Transport Killers...yes, that’s it. Form up into your own tribes. We spread out and find Soldier, find the copper. We catch them, we don’t kill them.” Nico was happy with the crowd of gangsters that whooped and howled as they banded together with their fellow warriors, almost one hundred of them. They had started with more, but their prey had proved the better fighters so far. They had been lucky picking off stragglers, but their luck wasn’t going to hold up. The ground floor was buzzing with excitement, and Nico was shouting at the top of his voice to be heard.

“Bang-Up Crew, search floors one to five. Transport Killers, floors six through to ten. Triple C, eleven to fifteen. And my crew, sixteen up to the top. Leave muscle at each end in the stairwells while you search. Once you’ve cleared a floor, all move up...rinse and repeat.” Shouts and screams of agreement could be heard, along with the Triple C’s bulb horn blasts. Nico shook his head at the scale of what he was doing. This is just the beginning. He smiled to himself. This is just a small portion of what the London gangs can do if they pull together. There were two big-hitting gangs missing today—The Battersea Barbarians and the All-Stars, who kept to themselves. But they both had large affiliations of maybe three hundred soldiers between them. After this night’s work, Nico was sure they would him. This had been short notice pulling twenty or thirty troops in to represent each of the four gangs present. Nail Dem Crew could, at a push, field around two hundred troops. Triple C’s numbers were unknown, but it was believed they could muster one hundred fifty fighters and assorted circus freaks. They were generous tonight, as they had near fifty freaks turn out this evening. Transport Killers weren’t as big, but had at least eighty hardcore gang ready to fight. The Bang-Up Crew, probably the biggest of all the gangs in numbers, and could field five hundred soldiers. After all, they had the best recruiting ground when the capital fell. Nico wondered what he could do with numbers like that. If the Bang-Up Crew were better led and organized, they could have taken over London town years ago. Lucky for the rest of them that they were far more interested in raping, killing, and preying on the weak, than running the place and making money from every vice in London. That was the Nail Dem Crew’s thing —business. Brutal but effective business. Nico was sure that after this display of leadership tonight, his firm could run this town once and for all, and there was nothing the LPD could do to stop them. Nico’s optimism faded as he ed that it was just one lousy street cop keeping them from their goal tonight. He watched in satisfaction as the gangs, now all in their own groups, readied themselves to search their designated floors. Nico raised his arms. “Let’s go!” he shouted, as he brought his arms down like the grand marshal

starting the Grand Prix. Mayhem, like the dogs of war, had been unleashed. There was no escape now.

25

The twentieth floor was quiet. The lights were all off, but it was lit by the glow of the moon, so he could see that the beds on this uppermost general ward were empty. Still, Cahill jogged to the end of the ward to look out of the wide glass window on the river side of the building to see if his prayers had been answered. And there it was, just dangling under the edge of the roof—their escape route, which would take them all the way down to ground level. That was if they could get to it. “Are you up for this?” Cahill said, as Tunde caught him up. “I suppose so.” Tunde checked his injured arm for movement with a grimace. “I don’t reckon you’ve got much choice. Not if you want to see your girl and your kids again.” “Kids?” Tunde moaned as he continued to stretch his bandaged arm. “You know, your babies.” “Yeah, of course, my babies. Not quite kids yet.” Cahill’s brain was whirring again. Was anything Tunde had said true? Or was the pressure of all this running, fighting, and hiding getting to them both, fuzzing their brains. Cahill’s own brain was niggling at him, telling him how much he needed a drop of whiskey, a beer—anything to replace his long-faded booze buzz. The constant running and adrenalin-fuelled activity had kept the cravings from taking over his every thought and need. But now, in this lull, the thirst was on him. Cahill pulled out a plastic bottle, raised it to his parched lips, and swigged deep of the blue drink, quenching his thirst but not his need. He munched on another chocolate bar. “The sooner we get you safe at HQ, the sooner we can get to the bottom of what

you really want, Tunde.” “I’m with you a hundred precent on that one, Officer. Let’s get to base, and then I will tell you everything. All the secrets, just as I’ve been promising you.” Cahill stared at him. He just couldn’t be bothered to make any comment. He would leave it for now. There would be time when they were in a safer place. Then it would be Tunde’s turn to bare his soul. “Look, it won’t be long before that rabble think of a better way to find us,” Cahill said. “They’ve been guarding the ground floor for ages, and we’ve stayed out of sight.” “He needs to search floor by floor,” Tunde replied. “Go through the building and hold the ground he’s cleared. That’s what I would do.” “We better get going then.” Tunde nodded as they ran back toward the south stairwell. That was the only way up to the annex and the roof. If Tunde was right, it wouldn’t be long until they had company, and this time they would come in greater numbers, overwhelming the pair. After carefully opening the doors, both men listened and then dared a look down the centre of the stairs. They couldn’t see anything, but they could hear some movement below that echoed up the walls of the stairwell. Without further chat, they took off up to the annex.

26

Sergeant Smith stared at Lin in disgust. But she gave it back. They were in the briefing room. Teri, Shanice, and Lin sat in the plastic chairs that filled the room and faced the front, while Smith assumed his position before them. Christine sat sideways in a foetal position at the back of the room, sobbing softly. Lin glared back into Smith’s eyes. “So start from the beginning,” he said. “You knew they’d be coming for Tunde Adeyemi,” Lin told him. “Adeyemi was the victim of a shooting,” Smith replied. “The assailants ran away from the scene. They had plenty of opportunity to finish the job. Therefore, the risk of a reprisal was low. One officer to babysit Adeyemi was a proportionate response.” “Bullshit!” Lin said. “Cahill told me that Adeyemi was going to do a deal with the National Police. He was going to give up everything to you.” “Yes, you said that earlier. Then how come the NPS knows nothing about it.” Smith folded his arms, wearing a smug expression. “What? But that’s what this was all about. Are you sure?” “I’ve just spoken to the National Police control room, and they haven’t received any calls today with regard to Tunde Adeyemi.” “B-but—” “But nothing,” Smith barked. “The request would have come from us, and there isn’t one in our system. There is no process that would allow Adeyemi to get to speak to a detective from the NPS without a Company referral.”

“Adeyemi was shot,” Terri said, “so surely a Company detective would have been assigned? Maybe they made a phone referral?” “Nope,” Smith replied. “Detective branch haven’t signed for the investigation yet. It’s queued on the computer for tomorrow morning.” “The mystery of whether Adeyemi wants to be a grass or not is going to have to wait,” Terri said. “The hospital is under attack, with multiple dead and wounded. And there are at least a hundred gangsters inside, looking for Adeyemi...and Cahill.” Lin saw Smith’s lip curl at the mention of Cahill’s name. “We have a total of eight patrol officers on duty tonight,” he said. “Hardly enough to take on one hundred armed gangsters. I’ve sent a request to the NPS for territorial . They will be here as soon as they can.” “When is that?” Lin said, her voice cracking under the stress. “I just told you—as soon as they can!” Smith marched out of the briefing room and into the control room.

***

Inside the control room, Smith paused to scowl at Dev before slumping into his chair. He placed his elbows on the table and flopped his head down into his hands. If he heard Cahill’s name any more tonight, it would be too soon. That damn man! Smith hated him with a ion, and he had done all he could to transfer his own hatred to his team so they in turn would hate him, too. They were his team, not Cahill’s. He was the sergeant. Cahill was nothing now. It had been five years ago, but what happened back then is what fuelled his hatred. Any reasonable person wouldn’t have let it bother them. Yeah, you’d be pissed off. But a reasonable person would have just got on with their lives. Not

Smith, though. He was a pulsating red lump of sinew that throbbed with anger. Tom Harris and Danny Cox, Smith’s favourite duo—The Boys, he called them. They always got the Fast Car posting, and Smith always assigned them to the best shouts. Smith was so proud of them because their arrest record was unbeaten in the South Sector. On that fateful day, Smith recalled, The Boys found themselves in a house full of dead bodies—a massacre deep in the slums of the sector. Some dark shit that resulted in six freshly murdered, mangled corpses heaped in a pile on the floor. The duo had gone there on an arrest inquiry to find a guy by the name of Calvin Carmichael, who had been stealing from the factories. And they found him, too. He was the bottom cadaver in the heap of his housemates. This was a job for the detectives. Detective Sergeant Cahill had just transferred in. He had been on some secret job and had been away when the LPD was born and the Metropolitan Police had died. So when he got back, he opted to transfer to the LPD rather than go to the National Police. He said he needed a fresh start, or some bollocks like that, Smith recalled. Cahill turned up at the house and started working the scene. As was usual with sector detectives, they used and abused the patrol officers, sending them on petty inquiries like house-to-house checks, looking for CCTV, witnesses. That sort of bullshit. Smith had challenged Cahill and lost. That was it. Detective Sergeant Cahill used Smith’s staff, and not just The Boys. He had them all down there running around for him. Flash bastard, how dare Cahill undermine the sergeant, make him look weak in front of his team. But it was made worse when Smith submitted an official complaint about Cahill’s mismanagement of his staff. It backfired. The Company’s view was totally different to Smith’s distorted hateful memories. According to them, Cahill had solved the multiple-murder case by acting swiftly, doing the so important legwork, knocking on doors, and finding witnesses. He had used his resources, and in doing so, had tracked down the gangbanger as he was trying to escape. Still soaked in his victim’s blood, CCTV pointed Cahill in the right direction to find the suspect still in possession of the axe that he had used to chop chunks out

of his victims. The gangbanger turned out to be the fence that Carmichael was using to sell the goods he was stealing from the factories. The deal had gone wrong—case closed. Cahill got a commendation and a transfer to the Central Crime Squad. Smith got reprimanded for obstructing the investigation. He couldn’t see anyone else’s point of view, nor could he see that he was wrong. No, all he could see was that Cahill was responsible for the only reprimand on his service record, and Smith hated him. His hatred had risen to the fore again tonight. But he had to call the National Police. It was protocol for any mass disturbance in the factory zone, and he had to consider the trapped or injured civilians at the hospital. Hopefully, Cahill would die trying to save that worthless gangster Adeyemi. In fact, he hoped they both died.

***

Back in the briefing room, Lin was checking on Christine while listening in on the officers’ conversation. “There’s nothing we can do for now,” Shanice said, “But once the Territorials get here, we can suit up and go in with them.” “When they get here, Shanice,” said Teri, “Smithy has just put the call in. I can’t see them getting here until six a.m., at the earliest.” Lin walked over. “They aren’t going to make it,” she said, softly. “Cahill is experienced,” Shanice said. “He’s helped them survive this long. He’ll have a plan, Lin.” “Let’s hope so.”

Lin moved to the window that looked out over the street, and peered through the narrow gaps in the shutters. The darkness outside was being held at bay by floodlights attached to the building. She hoped Shanice was right. That Cahill did have a plan, and maybe now he was running back here, and would somehow appear from the shadows and enter the safe rays of the bright lights.

27

Cahill laid on the top step to the annex and pushed the door open into the lobby and looked across the floor, hoping that if there was any opposition guarding the stairs, they wouldn’t be looking down. It was a waste of time, as he could see the lobby was clear all the way to the double doors that led into the small ward. Tunde stepped over him. “Quietly,” Cahill whispered. Tunde grinned down at him as he stepped over his prone body. He went across to the ward, nudged the doors open with his shoulder, and slipped inside. His chair legs were in his fists. Cahill came to his feet and followed him. Their gazes were everywhere, although the emergency lighting was weak, which made the room shadowy. And with every dark shape and every moving curtain, there was a potential threat that could be imagined. Cahill squinted to look across the roof, through the ward’s glass walls. All he could see were the dark shapes formed by moonlight, and the constructions he had seen earlier. Although, he couldn’t see the lift housing, as that must have been behind them, above the stairwell and lift. The fugitives came out crunching onto the roof and padded over to the north side, where the window-cleaning platform dangled. “So how does this thing work?” Tunde ran his gaze and hands over one of the two steel arms bolted onto a metal rig that sat on roof rails that ran around the top of the building. This rig could be moved around to allow the cleaners to wash windows up and down and all around the building. For some reason, it hadn’t been pulled up to sit on the rooftop, but it had been left deployed just over the lip a few feet below the roof. Cahill thought that maybe it had been left like that to prevent someone interfering with it. It wasn’t a drama. Just a short climb down.

“See these.” He pointed to the ropes that ran along the top of the steel arms. “They run all the way down to the platform.” He pointed down at a flat rubber-covered steel platform dangling at the end of the ropes. It measured about ten-feet-by-four-feet, and it had waist-high steel posts evenly spaced around the edge, with chains stretched between them. “The ropes are fed into those electric hoists—one either side—then into a ropelocking device.” He pointed at the hoists followed by the locks. “When there’s no power, the hoist will free-run and allow the locks to grip the rope. If there are two of you, you can manually release the lock, sort of like a brake. Then you can lower the platform down to the deck.” “How do you know so much about these?” Tunde said. “I dealt with an alleged accident involving one of these rigs, a few years ago.” “Alleged?” “Turned out to be murder. The brake had been tampered with.” “That’s some cowardly shit,” Tunde said, with disgust. “When you’ve been a detective as long as I have—” “You aren’t a detective now, though.” “Thanks for reminding me.” Normally, Cahill would have lost his temper from a comment like that. Especially since he hadn’t had a drink for a couple hours, and his comfort booze cloud had long left him. He wasn’t sure if that was why his head ached so bad, or if it was from the stress they were in. Tunde had really got under his skin. Cahill liked him—ired him, even—and he would do everything he could to get him to HQ, where Cahill would get to the bottom of what Tunde wanted.

***

Tyrone, Sharkey, and Shank were still on the roof, having decided to stay up there after Nico had shouted at them for helping the Transport Killers cut the lift cable. Nico had pissed Tyrone off big time, as it hadn’t even been their idea. It was the fucking Transport Killers that had decided to do that, and they were both dead. Tough shit on us. Tyrone had decided that they should hang around up here, wait for the dust to settle, and then they would hit the recovery wards. He was feeling as horny, as always, and he would take his pick from the young ripe patients on the wards, male or female. He had no preference. This society was well beyond that. Of course, there were still heterosexuals, usually amongst older of the community. But bisexuality or pansexuality was more common these days, especially when it came to rape. The gangsters were mucking about near the lift housing when Tyrone heard Cahill and Tunde crunching on the rooftop gravel as they moved to the platform. Tyrone sneaked a look along the side of the annex and saw Soldier and his cop babysitter heading over to the river side of the building. Tyrone darted back out of view. “It’s Soldier and the cop!” “You’re shitting me!” Sharkey replied. “We’ve been trying to flush them out all night, and they come to us?” “What are we waiting for?” Shank said. “Let’s jump them!” “I’m gonna waste that cop,” Sharkey said. The Bang-Up Crew gangsters crept from their hiding place, Shank first, Sharkey second, and Tyrone third.

***

“Shall I climb down first, or are you going to?” Tunde flexed his arm while he looked over the edge of the roof. Cahill could see him grimace, but it wasn’t from the pain this time. It was fear. “Why don’t you go first?” Tunde said. “You know how it works.” Cahill sat on the edge of the roof, then span around so he could lower himself onto the platform, using his arms. As he spun, he could see Tunde gripping on to the steel arm. Cahill smirked as he realized that Tunde was definitely scared of heights. He was fine in the lift shaft, but that was dark and he had something solid to hold on to in there. Tunde’s fear had emerged on top of this towering building. Cahill opened his mouth to make a smart comment to his companion when movement between Tunde’s legs caught his eye. “Look out!” Cahill managed to shout, as he slipped down onto the platform with a thud, having lowered too far to pull back up in that instant. He jumped to pull his body up and onto the edge, and rolled fast before gaining footing. Then he drew his friction lock baton and racked it open with a snap. He saw that Tunde had already closed the gap and had struck a blow, catching the gangster leading the charge under the chin, splitting his flesh with a splash of blood, and dropping him to his knees. Tunde spun out of reach before number two of the three could stick a blade into his guts. Number three stepped up, wielding a claw hammer that he was swiping left and right, coming to help number two, who Tunde was fending off. Cahill slammed a front kick into number three’s belly, below his flashing hammer. His arms dropped to cover his damaged guts as Cahill delivered an overhand strike with his baton, on top of his head. Number three fell onto his back, his eyes rolled up in their sockets, showing the whites. Blood flowed down from the hole in his

head and into his eyes, which instantly turned red. Cahill saw the end segment of his baton was bent at about forty-five degrees. It would never close again, and would likely break off if he tried to straighten it out or hit anyone else again. Shit, no more batons. No Taser. Tunde’s chair legs looked a pretty good proposition now, and not so silly. He turned his head toward Tunde’s fight, and saw gangbanger number one, who Tunde had hit first, getting to his feet with blood dripping from his chin, slowly pulling his own blade out from a sheaf on his waistband. Tunde was swinging his uninjured arm and holding the chair leg against his torso with the injured arm. Number two parried the swinging chair leg away with his long blade, using it like a short sword. Cahill could see Tunde was tiring, but holding his own. But number one was back in the fight and closing in. Cahill intercepted number one, discarding his bent baton and grabbing his rigid cuffs from his belt. He caught hold of the wrist that held the knife and snapped the cuff shut. Number one yelped as Cahill twisted the arm to the outside, against the natural movement of his elbow t, causing him to stumble backward in that direction to save the t from rupturing. A classic Aikido move aided by the firm grip of the rigid cuff. The knife dropped to the ground, and Cahill continued to move his captive, turning three hundred sixty degrees, while the gangster scrambled backward on the gravel as he tried to keep the pressure off his arm. Cahill then slammed the stumbling, cuffed number one into number two, pushing him off balance as well. Taking advantage of the distraction, Tunde smashed his wooden weapon against number two’s temple. Cahill grabbed two’s wrist, slamming it into the empty side of the cuffs, and squeezed that one closed, too. Now, gangsters one and two were ed at the wrists. Cahill kept hold of the pistol grip on the cuffs and kept them moving around, always circling, keeping pressure on, twisting left and right, up and down so both men suffered pressure on their wrists and elbows, too occupied by their agony to think about hitting their antagonist. Cahill’s adrenaline was peaking, giving him the strength to control these men like rag dolls. Even managed to force them over the steel rail that circled the roof, as he twisted them. He was getting nearer and nearer to the roof’s edge.

Number two’s foot slipped over the edge, and he slammed down onto his crotch. Cahill bent his knees and went down low with him. Tunde stepped in and kicked number two in the face, forcing him even farther off the edge. Cahill released his grip as number two’s weight started pulling number one off the roof with him. A backhanded swipe from Tunde’s chair leg to the back of number one’s head finished the job, as his resistance to number two’s imminent fall ended, and both men slipped over the edge. Cahill peered over and watched the men spiral down toward the river path like sky divers. They barely missed the window-cleaning platform as they plummeted down, spinning slowly as they flew. They looked as if they were holding hands, Cahill thought, and noticed that both men were screaming all the way down to the hard deck. This time, he felt no confusion, no doubt. In fact, he didn’t feel anything other than that he was sure that this was the only course of action. Kill or be killed. Cahill looked back at Tunde and was about to say something, when he saw them coming. Fifteen or twenty of them—Nail Dem Crew, unmistakable in their hoodies and designer training shoes. Their faces drawn back in fury, all running from the annex door, toward the pair. Cahill’s time and luck had run out.

***

Nico led the Nail Dem Crew through the sixteenth floor, all the way up to the roof, holding each floor as they went. As he emerged into the night, he saw them—Tunde and the cop. The cop was just about to hurl two handcuffed Bang-Up Crew boys from the rooftop. Fair play. Nico ired the cop’s handywork with a smirk. A look of concern flashed across Nico’s features as his gaze locked onto his prey —Soldier. Nico paused at the entrance, his sudden stop causing a bottle neck behind him, halting his entourage, who were as always close behind.

“Boss?” Rocky said. “Boys, spread the word!” Nico shouted, as he ran. “Everyone, get up to the roof!” Blade used Street Bro to send the message. The Nail Dem Crew flooded onto the roof, pushing around Nico and his boys. “Kill the cop,” Nico said. “Waste him. But Soldier is mine.”

***

Cahill and Tunde turned and dashed in between the twin steel arms, and leapt down to the dangling platform. It dropped a few feet, pulling the ropes through the brakes. “Grab that lever!” Cahill yelled. “I’ve got this one. Now pull it away from the rope. That’s it!” Both men gradually opened their brakes, either end of the platform. The rope began to run smoothly through the mechanism. They dropped away from the rooftop just as the first gangsters got to the edge. They crowded the edge, the first few scrabbling on their bellies, trying to grab at their targets as the platform descended. From behind the prone men, one brave warrior worked his way through and jumped down onto the descending platform. He thudded down on Cahill’s end and quickly regained his balance, then sprang into action, attacking the cop, his weight knocking them down on to the deck. Cahill struggled against the unwanted guest, and in doing so, lost his grip on the brake. His end began to descend more quickly. He struck the attacker with his elbow, smashing it repeatedly into the gangster’s mouth and nose as he tried to grab the brake to slow his side of the platform.

Cahill was aware that Tunde was kicking out from his end, but he was too far away to make . “Brake on! Brake on!” Tunde shouted at Cahill, as the platform dropped at Cahill’s end. Cahill managed to smash his opponent away, and closed his brake. Tunde did the same to keep the platform level. At last, Tunde advanced on the attacker who was trying to climb up Cahill’s legs, with his face smashed in from the elbow strikes. Tunde grabbed the man’s legs and flung them over the edge of the platform, making him dangle over the side, his belly caught on the chain link between the safety posts. Cahill lifted the man’s belly free of the chain, helping him over the side. The gangster dropped free of the platform, and he, too, soared to the ground, along with the Bang-Up boys who had gone handcuffed before him. Cahill looked back up at the rooftop, gangsters hung over the edge, screaming for their blood. The pair was about twenty feet down now, and too far for anymore attempts to jump. With a nod to Tunde, and a deep breath, Cahill went to his brake, and Tunde his. Once at their respective ends, and on the count of three, they released the brakes again and began to descend rapidly.

***

Back up on the roof, Nico attempted to get order. “Cut the fucking ropes!” said a member of the NDC, as they watched the platform escape down to the ground. “You heard the chief,” Blade said. “He wants Soldier alive.” “Skins, send out the word,” Nico said. “Get everyone back down to the ground floor. Let’s catch them on the river path.”

“Yes, boss.” Skins sent the message on Street Bro. Lost them on the roof capture target on the river path.

***

The platform was descending smoothly. Cahill glimpsed a few gangbangers inside the building as he went down, floor by floor. They tried to smash the plate glass as they slipped past, but they didn’t have the tools to achieve any real damage. They were fast approaching the ground. “This thing will stop a good ten feet off the deck,” Cahill said, “but low enough for us to jump down.” “Cool, cool,” Tunde replied. “But where are we heading when we land?” “I’ve been thinking about that. South HQ is literally two miles south of here. Straight through Borough and the Elephant and Castle.” “We can run that in twenty minutes,” Tunde said. “We’re on the home straight, brother.” “They’re mob-handed. Tunde. They were able to flood the building, so I’m pretty sure they’ll cover that route.” “For fucks sake, copper. Which way are we going, then?” “I’ve got an old friend on Tower Bridge Road. He’ll help us.” Cahill said. “No one helps anyone in the zone. Least of all, coppers.” “This friend will. So when we hit the deck, we run to our right, go east along the Thames path toward Tower Bridge, then head south.” “Cool.”

“If we get split up, meet by Tower Bridge,” Cahill said, as the platform neared the ground. As predicted, the ground was about ten feet below when the platform came to an abrupt halt. The river path was quiet. None of the gangsters had made it down there yet. But they wouldn’t be long. The pair had to move fast. Cahill saw bodies on the path. Two were still attached by the cuffs with massive trauma pooled around them in a dark-red halo. They laid about twenty-five feet from the building. The gangster that had jumped down to the platform was turned inside out, and was directly below them in a pile of meat and bone. Cahill also saw the two burnt bodies near the cracked plate glass that Lin had told him about. It was dark and quiet inside the hospital’s ground floor. “Ready?” he said. “Let’s do it.” Tunde gritted his teeth, stepped over the chain, and slipped off the edge. After landing like a cat, he darted toward the building and crouched, looking left and right. Cahill landed less gracefully, but in one piece. He limped over to Tunde’s position. “This path leads all the way up to Tower Bridge.” “I’m from South London, copper. I know every path and rat run as well as you. Maybe better.” “Fair enough.” The two men jogged east, toward their destination, quickly clearing the hospital grounds and heading into the shadows of the river path. At last, they were free of the building and out in the open. At last, they had a fighting chance.

***

Nico was blowing hard as he and his boys hit the ground floor of the hospital. Through the plate glass window, he could see the platform was empty, its previous occupants long gone. “Skins, did you send that message,” he said. “Course I did.” “It came out, boss.” Rocky lifted his phone to show Nico the message on the screen. Blade appeared next to them. “They’re going crazy, boss. Bang-Up Crew are raping their way through the recovery wards. Triple C as well. It’s not good news for the patients.” He laughed. Nico was furious. How had he lost control so quickly? But then he understood how easily gangbangers could be distracted. “Maybe the Triple C gangsters that were circling the building will find them,” Nico said to himself. There was plenty of time to reorganize. He knew where the cop would take Soldier. South HQ was just beyond the Elephant & Castle, and that suited Nico’s plan just fine.

***

Cahill and the gangster jogged along the river path. By pure luck and adrenalin, they had beaten the gangbangers to the ground, and were now well clear of the hospital. They were making good progress and were closing in on the old warship HMS Belfast, which blocked their path.

The Belfast has seen better days. Cahill looked up at the fallen wreck, looking for the best path through. The old warship was rusted and full of holes, and had been filling with water for years. The weight of tons of water had forced her over onto her port side. Masts and funnels, now horizontal, blocked the Thames path with steel, wires, and old Radar aerials. She used to sit much farther out in the river. Tourists used to walk across to her, over a long, winding gangway. During the riots, there had been fierce fighting in the vicinity. The gangs had used the floating battleship as a defensive platform to fight from. They lobbed petrol bombs and other missiles at the peacekeepers as they tried to cross the gangway to capture them. The Navy was eventually called in, and they brought tugs to push the ship against the river wall. The troops were then able to board her to end the violent standoff. After the battle, they left the Belfast tied alongside the wall to rot. The blood that ran along her gunwales had dried to a rust colour, and eventually, time and ingress of water got the better of her. She had flopped over on her side and died without the grace she deserved. Picking the best route, the fugitives climbed over the wire and obstructions, and chatted as they clambered. “There’s no sign of them.” Tunde puffed. “We would have seen them by now, if they were still after us.” “They probably thought we headed straight down Borough,” Cahill said. His earlier guess had been right. “No one likes a big head,” Tunde replied. Cahill grinned as they ducked and wound their way through, and eventually emerged back on the river path. Tower Bridge was in their sights. “Right. Not far until we head down Tower Bridge Road,” Cahill said. “If we get separated from here, go to Hakan’s. It’s an old kebab shop on the right as you head toward the Bricklayers roundabout. It’s the only shop left open down there. Tell him I sent you.”

“We’ll go together,” Tunde said. “I reckon this lot took a wrong turn.” “Just in case.” “Never knew you cared.” Cahill gave him a dirty look. Tunde patted the officer’s shoulder as they began to jog once more, on their way to visit an old friend. The two men approached the staircase that ran along the west side of the derelict Tower Bridge. The road bridge that used to majestically raise and lower between the ancient towers had been destroyed by a ton of explosives to control gang movement from South London to the City and vice versa. They headed up the stone stairs that led to the deserted road that ran off the bridge, and hustled south.

***

He watched from the shadows, under the arch. From there, he saw Soldier and the cop climb the stairs, up onto Tower Bridge Road, until they disappeared from his view. The clown stepped out in pursuit, a balloon floating from a string held in his grubby fist, that bobbed as he bounced up the stone steps. He then peered around the corner to watch the pair head south, and once they were a fair distance ahead, he continued to follow them. Ambling along, keeping close to the building line, the clown pulled out a phone and selected the Street Bro app.

28

The north barrier that protected H’s place was similar to the one on the south approach. It was situated south of the junction with Grange Road, about a hundred yards along Tower Bridge Road, where the road narrowed from the wide junction where the underground public toilets used to be. Tiny had left the comfort of the restaurant, and was now on guard duty at the north barricade. An old fifty-six-seater coach that filled most of the road was sat on its mangled axle, its wheels long gone, and the windows boarded over with warped plywood. It was wedged up against the building line where a popular Pie & Mash shop once operated. And at the other was a similar makeshift barrier consisting of oil drums, a scaffold pole, and another couple of abandoned cars that stretched it to the other building line. Obviously, this wasn’t an airtight barrier, but its job was to slow aggressors, who would be forced into a small gap to get through. At that pinch point, a group of determined defenders could pick attackers off as they tried to get through. Tiny knew first-hand that the Foster Kids barrier had been tested in battle many times. Despite their few numbers, their ingenuity and fierceness as warriors had seen off many an attacking force. Tiny heard them before he saw them—feet on tarmac, rhythmic running. At least two of them. Then he saw them as they cleared the shadows. A well-built black man, and a tall stocky white man, both filthy and seemed to be wearing light green hospital scrubs, ripped and torn, covered in blood and grease. They approached the barrier, puffing and blowing. “Who goes there?”

***

Cahill was overjoyed to see the barrier at the mouth of Foster Kid turf. And even happier when Tiny stepped into view, carrying what looked like a medieval pike. He had known Tiny since he was small, and when he used to be called Steven. He had watched him grow up over the years. He had visited H at the restaurant. It hadn’t been long until Steven towered over Cahill, and they had started calling him Tiny. Now, though, Cahill noted how broad his chest had become. He was like a shaved bear, big and sturdy. “What you gonna do with that then, big boy?” Cahill grinned. Tiny’s brow creased in confusion, and then it fell into a smile. “Declan!” “Hello, Tiny. How’s tricks?” “Where the fuck have you been?” “What have I told you about your language?” “Sorry, Officer.” “I’ve had a few problems, but I’m back now.” “I can tell. Look at the state of you.” “I need help, Tiny. A place to hold up for a bit, catch our breath.” Tiny looked at them both, up and down. “You’re always welcome here, Declan.” He left his stare on Tunde a bit longer and didn’t address him. “I assume H is about then?” Cahill said, causing Tiny to look back at him. “You know where he is. He’ll be pleased to see you, after the fun and games we’ve had tonight. We’ve got a couple arseholes visiting, so I volunteered for the barrier.”

“You going to let us in, then?” Cahill looked down at the pole. “Who is this, then?” Tiny’s smile dropped as he referred to Tunde. Cahill knew that Tiny could see exactly what he was—a gangbanger—and would have already worked out from the expensive footwear that he was probably Nail Dem Crew. “He’s with me, Tiny. Under my protection. I need a place to lay up until I can be sure we’re in the clear. Then I’m getting Tunde here to South HQ.” “Well, you’d better go down to H’s, then. He’s going to be so pleased to see you. He was only just talking about you.” “All good, I hope?” Tiny was looking at Cahill with iration and respect. “Yeah, all good. And now I know why he calls you the last street cop.” Cahill’s brow furrowed with confusion. He had never heard that name used before, let alone that H called him it. He had a fairly good idea why H called him that, but he was surprised that H had talked about that potential reason with anyone else. His mind sped back decades to when he first met H, and all they had been through. He was a street cop back then, a long time ago. And now fate, and his own behaviour, had put him back on the streets. So maybe Tiny was right. He would always be a street cop. Tiny slid the pole across, and the two fugitives entered Foster Kids’ turf. “You know the way, Declan.” Tiny looked up the road. “Of course, mate. I’ll see you in a bit?” “Yeah.” Tiny returned to his vigil, his sharp gaze looking out to the north, trying to penetrate the shadows of the dark streets.

Tunde and Cahill strolled south to H’s restaurant, hoping for food, a rest, maybe even a wash and change of clothes. “That giant kid didn’t like me,” Tunde said. “He grew up in the zone, and in the gangs, like you. He knows the enemy when he sees them. Don’t be offended.” They continued in silence, but was there a troubled look on Tunde’s face? Or was he in pain again? Hard to tell.

***

H had calmed down now. He never usually lost his temper, but Jez and his cousin had pushed him too far. They had caught him in a weak moment, because he had never told the story of how Cahill had saved him from prison that night. He felt terrible for doing so, and ashamed of his actions all over again. His memories bobbed to the surface, causing him the old pain and anxiety as that bullet flew and blood sprayed for the thousandth time. H balled his fists and trembled as he stared out over the street. He stood in the spot he had always stood at the front window so he could smile at ers-by to welcome customers old and new to come in and enjoy his food. It had been so long since he had seen a new customer. Then he saw the two men walking toward the restaurant. H rubbed his eyes and re-focused on the men as they neared. He felt his anxiety fall away, and joy buzzed in his chest. Declan Cahill entered the restaurant. He looked exhausted, but still managed a smile as H ran to embrace him. H noticed a black man dressed the same as Cahill slink in with him, but he stayed by the door. He looked Cahill up and down at arm’s length, wearing a smile for all to see. “Declan, it’s so good to see you, my boy. So good.”

“And you, H. Sorry it’s been so long.” “We’ll have none of that. Look at you. Why are you in such a state?” H creased his brow. “It’s a long story.” “Aren’t they always?” H chuckled. “I’ll get some food on for you both. We’ve got hot water. The Kids will sort you out some fresh clothes. Now, you rest. Then we talk.” “Yes, H. Thank you.” Cahill looked over his shoulder to where the black man stood. “This is Tunde. He’s under my protection, and I need him.” “Tunde will be safe in my restaurant.” H looked at Tunde. “Nail Dem Crew?” “Was. But now they’re trying to kill me.” H harboured a natural distrust of any gangster he didn’t know, but would give him the benefit of the doubt, seeing as Cahill had referenced him. “The Foster Kids protect this restaurant and the vicinity. It’s their turf. But you start any trouble, and I won’t be able to stop them from ripping you apart. I think you know that, my friend.” Tunde nodded. “Where are my manners. I’ll take you up to the lounge.” H padded up the stairs. Tunde and Cahill followed. H ushered them toward the lounge. “I have my friend Alice visiting me. But you’ll have to excuse the other two. I was hoping they would have gone by now.”

***

Cahill entered the room and saw who H was talking about. He couldn’t believe it. Dirty Tommy here in H’s lounge, like an unwanted stepchild. And next to him, an older, more filled-out version of Tommy. Definitely a relative. And a girl with short hair and a short skirt. Cahill forced his eyes away from her stocking tops and paused on her eyes. It couldn’t be. “Alexis?” he said. All hell broke loose. Tommy jumped to his feet, his skin bright red, spit flying from his mouth. “You’re fucked now, Alexis!” Cahill reeled back, his head spinning from the thoughts flooding his troubled brain. “Hold on one minute Tommy,” he said. “Let’s have this right. You vouched for her.” He locked his gaze onto Tommy’s as he pointed at the stunned Alex. “Well, that’s because Jez referenced her!” Jez jumped to his feet, too. “She only wanted a couple grams, and I always send punters your way. I’ve sent dozens of new customers your way. Wasn’t my fault he got nicked.” He pointed at Cahill. “You know what Jez,” said Tommy “I make you right. It all comes back to her. She’s a grass.” He folded his arms to punctuate his statement. Cahill watched the exchange, when suddenly a switch went off in his brain. Alexis, or Alice, looked at him, her eyes wide open, transmitting some sort of telepathic message that he was getting loud and clear. Help! The realization took a weight off him, but at the same time a whole new world of pain washed over him. He wasn’t setup by Jez, Tommy, or even Alexis. It had

been his own employer, the LPD. Cahill mulled it over. Alice, as she was calling herself now, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was using a name similar to the one she had used at Mickey’s, with a slightly changed appearance and that haunted look in her eyes. The look that goes with the fear of being compromised—the nightmare of every undercover cop. Cahill had to protect her. She was a UC. But it wasn’t going to be easy, especially since he should be next in line to kill her. He nodded slowly at her to show his , and she mouthed, Thank you. “Right, you two clowns,” he said. “No one is a grass here. I don’t give a shit what name she’s using now. I’m telling you, she’s no grass.” “Fuck off, Declan. She had you nicked,” Tommy sputtered. “I was being tailed by a surveillance team that night, and they must have been on me for a few days. They suspected I was using, and I led them straight to Mickey’s bar. It was my own fault.” Cahill paced the room. “They got lucky when they raided the place. Or my luck ran out. She had no way to know who I was. Nor would she have been able to call them.” Cahill gave a smarmy smile, settling into the lie. “Well...not with what I was doing to her.” He could tell his story was working. Tommy’s eyes screwed up with confusion, and Jez’s face fell in the relief that he probably wasn’t to blame, after all. “Why is she lying about her name, then?” Tommy said. “Because of the cops raiding the bar,” Alex said, “I knew you would blame me. But it’s nothing to do with me. I ran away as soon as I could. That’s why I’m working down here. I’m scared. But I never took a thing from Mickey’s. On my life!” She stared deep into Tommy’s eyes. Her gaze flowed down his optic nerves and into his heart. Tommy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he broke eye first. Cahill spotted it.

“What has she taken then, Tommy?” he said. “She took our money and some gear, Declan. The thieving bitch did us.” “Where do you and Mickey keep the cash and gear, then?” Cahill said. “Because I was in that bar and out the back, day in and day out, and I never knew where you locked it away.” “She must have seen it, that’s all.” Tommy replied. “That is bollocks, Tommy.” Cahill folded his arms, smirking. “No one knows where you and Mickey stash your valuables.” “There was definitely cash and gear missing,” Tommy said. “Who else took it, then?” It was obvious to Cahill that Tommy had taken the gear and had been looking for a scapegoat. Silence reigned in the room as Cahill collapsed into one of the chairs as Tunde entered the room, realizing the argument was done. Equally silent, he flopped down next to him. H scuttled into the centre of the lounge. “I’m so glad we got to the bottom of that,” he said. “I knew there would be a simple explanation. Declan, it’s always a happy time when you visit. Now, I’ll get some food on the go. Billy will show you the bathroom and put clothes out, won’t you, Billy?” H shouted the last part down the landing to Billy, who had followed at a discrete distance. Billy appeared at the threshold. “Come on, you two. There’s a couple rooms down here.” Cahill felt relief wash all over him. At last, no one was trying to kill him or Tunde. And despite the argument he had walked into, he was so pleased to be back in H’s company. Cahill often thought about that day when he walked into the restaurant and interrupted the robbery. H thought Cahill was his guardian angel, but the truth was far from that.

Cahill had helped to cover up the murder to save his own skin. If he had arrested H for shooting the robber, he would have most likely lost his job for failing to prevent the killing. For God’s sake, he saw it happen and froze. He did nothing. A man picks up a gun and executes an unconscious man laid on the floor. No, that would have been the end of his career. And jail, for sure. Lots of water had gone under the bridge since that day, and it had turned out well. H had kept his word, as far as he knew, and had never said that Cahill was there. H was even commended for his actions. The slag with the gun was linked to other killings, so H was a hero. Cahill was, in turn, H’s hero. It was funny how things turned out. Because tonight, H was Cahill’s. Cahill briefly pondered Alexis and why she was there. If he was right and she was a UC, it was likely she was she targeting H and the Foster Kids. Cahill did not like that one bit. Grudgingly, he slid this task to the back of his over-crowded mind and placed it in the queue that snaked around his grey matter. Cahill and Tunde wearily pulled themselves to their feet and went to clean up. Each were shown one of the two brothel bedrooms complete with en suite showers.

***

Nico wandered through the debris of the ground floor of the devastated hospital, his rubber soles sticking to and then unpeeling from the blood-covered floor with each step. Felt like he was walking through a cheap night club. Rocky, Skins, and Blade walked with him, all three looking down at their phones. In unison, the devices chirped as a Street Bro update winged in. Rocky said, “Clowns are saying they’ve gone down Tower Bridge Road.” “That’s a long road,” Nico said. “Where?” Rocky inputted a question into his phone. Almost immediately, it chirped back.

“Through a barricade at Grange Road. Foster Kids turf.” Rocky read, in his monotone voice. “Get everyone you can from all the gangs, here to meet on the river path,” Nico said. “We’ll go down there and speak to these...what were they called?” “Foster Kids,” Blade replied. “Yeah, Foster Kids. We’ll tear through them and catch those two fuckers before morning comes.” Nico was getting tired. He thought they should have got to the South HQ by now. He had left a dozen of his crew there just in case, and he was regretting that now. What, with all the gangsters those two had wasted so far. “I’ll put the call out, boss,” Rocky said, his head down as he one-finger typed his message. Nico shook his head as they began to head to the meeting.

29

Tiny marched like a guardsman, along the length of his barrier, up and down, back and forth, his vision sharp, always looking outward. He had chatted with Joe, who was taking turns with Terry on the south barrier, using his cheap but useful walkie-talkie, and everything was quiet there, too. On his next circuit, Tiny spotted something that didn’t look right. The silhouette of the building up the road moved. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but building lines didn’t tend to change shape. He stopped and focused hard, and saw a dark shape pour like liquid from the building line, and then trickle to the middle of the road. As the shape got to the centre of the road, it was lit by the moonlight. A clown. Tiny watched as more shapes seemed to roll from the shadow of the building to the clown. A mixture of s were present. He could make out Triple C, Bang-Up Crew, Transport Killers, and Nail Dem Crew. He counted forty—no, fifty of them, at least—spread across the road, forming a wall of terror. Tiny brought his walkie-talkie up to his mouth. “Joe, are you there?” “Yo,” Joe replied. “I’ve got bandits at twelve o’clock. How’s our six doing?” “I’m clear as far as my eyes can see. You want me to lock the doors?” “Yes, please. Lock it down and bring the Kids to me...strapped.” They had suffered raids before—mainly lesser gangs looking to rape and pillage. But the big gangs had never paid them a visit. Until now. Tiny was pretty sure that this had something to do with that gangbanger Declan was protecting. This was going to be bad.

***

Locking the back door was part of the Foster Kids’ contingency plan. It meant collapsing the pile of rubbish that covered the barrier at their south entrance, on the Bricklayers roundabout. Doing this would create a wall of scrap cars, wood, and plastic. It wouldn’t be impenetrable, but it was damn tricky to climb a pile of debris. But they had another trick up their sleeves to make things even more difficult. Joe picked up the rope that lay coiled inside the barrier, and pulled. At first, it didn’t budge. He strained and felt it give. The rope was tied to a large sheet of plywood wedged at the side of the oil drum barrier, forming a wall that took the weight of a huge pile of junk heaped up against it. At last, the rubbish began to tumble as Joe pulled the plywood clear. The heap settled, and a cloud of foulsmelling dust wafted toward him as the mess filled the gap between the oil drums. The barrier was at least six-feet-tall, and all the way along, it now covered the scrap cars and broken furniture. Joe rummaged at the foot of the oil drum and pulled out a petrol can that they kept just for this occasion. He splashed fuel all over the barricade, up and down its entire length. Even harder to climb a burning barrier. Joe threw a box of lit matches into the accelerant and piles of rubbish. Fire rippled and bounced across the debris. He sprinted back toward H’s, carrying the half-empty fuel can. He hadn’t got far when the backdoor caught light properly, with a whooshing gust of hot air that Joe felt blasting his back as he raced away.

***

Cahill felt amazing after the shower, and emerged into the bedroom, wearing just a towel. His image flashed back at him from a mirror as he entered the room. The patchwork of cuts and bruises he was covered in caught his attention. He

inspected them, prodding dark spots and wincing as the pain reminded him about how he’d received it in the first place. “Hello, sailor,” Alex purred. Cahill clutched his chest and span around. “For fuck’s sake, Alexis.” He had completely missed her behind him, where she was sprawled across the bed. “I’m sorry, Declan. Please call me Alex.” Her smile dropped all the way to the floor. “I suppose that’s your real name.” Cahill wasn’t happy with her at all. She had set him up a year ago. She was a UC, there was no mistake. He strode across to where she lay and grabbed her by the top of her arm to pull her to her feet. Saying nothing, he ran his hands over her body, smoothing the material, patting around her breasts, groin, and backside. “Be gentle, now,” Alex said, as he moved her about like a puppet. “What are you doing?” “Making sure you’re not wearing a wire.” Alex broke free, red cheeks blazing as she pulled her top down, exposing her flesh. Then she lifted her short skirt, tucking it in on itself above her waist to expose her underwear. She pulled her black knickers down to her knees and did a twirl, showing him everything. There was no wire. “Happy now?” she growled. “That you’re not wearing a wire? Yes. What you did to me a year ago? No. Absolutely not.” “You were on the undercover unit,” she said, “so surely you did things you weren’t proud of.”

“I never went up against police. I never did that, Alex.” “I took the job to help you. Don’t you see that? You were in self-destruct mode.” “If that’s help, Alex, I’d hate to see you try to harm someone.” Cahill ed the way he had managed to keep his job. Maybe he could discover why he got demoted and not fired. “You took cocaine that night, too,” he said. “And although I was drunk and high, I seemed to sleeping with you. So how are you still in your job?” Alex looked at the floor as she readjusted her clothes, covering her intimate areas. “The deputy assistant director in charge of professional standards protected me. They protected you, too, Declan. The Company cannot have scandal. We all know that.” “You mean Sabine de la Tour?” Cahill said, ing the name from the paperwork following the decision to demote him. La Tour had been the head of Professional Standards. “Yes, her,” Alex replied. “I was told that her plan to cover up my actions came out during your discipline hearing. So Sir Stuart couldn’t sack you because it would have exposed a flawed operation, and potentially embarrass the Company.” “How, though? I would have never found out who you really were, because I would have been sacked.” “You underestimate the politics, Declan. Sabine’s plan was scuppered by one of her own colleagues. They’re all trying to get Sir Stuart’s job. They would have reported him.” “What, for doing his job?” Cahill said, scarcely believing he was defending the man who demoted him. “Sabine de la Tour is the most ambitious cop in the world. She would have

reported him to the Company, even though she was behind the plan. She would have told them she was under Sir Stuart’s orders. You see?” “All this so a senior officer can become more senior. It’s always the same—they all forget about the streets.” “With respect, Declan. This all happened because you’d gone off the rails. You were a legend on the undercover unit.” He looked down, his mind drifting back to the reasons why he went to the undercover unit in the first place—the horror of losing his baby girl and then his wife. He ed the relief that came from operating as someone different. Someone who didn’t have that history. Alex was right. He had gone off the rails. They had targeted him because he was a liability to himself and the Company. As Cahill recalled, he realized he was missing something else. Yes, he had been boozing, using, and sleeping with prostitutes. Yes, all that was true. But what had gone wrong in Alex’s world? What had happened to her that she had so easily succumbed to temptation that night? This wasn’t just about him. He turned to her. “You’re dead right, Alex. But what about you?” “What about me?” “We slept together, took cocaine. I thought you were a prostitute.” “I knew what I was doing. I saw something that I wanted, and I took it. I wanted to be as good as you, Declan. I wanted other cops to speak as highly of me as they do about you.” “What by crossing the line? When I took a target down, I did it right. I never took gear back then, even when I was being tested by the bad guys. We were trained to deal with that. And you know sex on the plot is forbidden.” “I wanted you, Declan. Simple as that.” Cahill didn’t know what to say. He was one to talk—it was him that they targeted, not her. He would be the original hypocrite, whatever he said. “Look, whatever happened is history,” he said. “We can’t change that. At least

I’m still working.” “If you really think about it, I helped you. Another UC would have just called the cavalry in. You were in possession of class A drugs, and caught paying for sex. You would have been charged, convicted, and sacked. My fuck-up saved your job.” Cahill felt his temper rise. “I was busted to patrol, Alex. That’s not me. I’m a detective. You got away with it completely!” “No one trusts me anymore, either, and I’m given all the shit jobs.” “Infiltrating a street gang isn’t a shit job, Alex.” She paused and bit her top lip. “Well, I’m not here officially. I was sent in to find hardcore gang activity, but there was none. So they closed the operation down. But I like it here, so I visit every now and then. Where’s the harm?” “So who knows you’re here now? Who’s your cover officer for this job?” “You’re not getting it. I’m here because I like being here. No one knows, okay!” “Okay, Alex, okay.” He had gone too far with her. She was too vulnerable and messed up to see sense. Cahill sank onto the bed, sitting on the soft edge. Alex sat next to him. He ignored her as they sat in silence, both breathing deeply. Alex was in a bad place, too. She was lost in life, just like Cahill had been for years. And she was using her job and the thrills that it gave her to survive. But if she kept stepping over the line, it wouldn’t be long before it all came to a terrible end. The LPD had a lot to answer for. People like Alex and Cahill risked their lives for the job, doing whatever they needed to survive. But whatever happened, the Company could not be seen to fail.

“Alex, look, I get it. I’ve been there, too. You know that. You need some help.” “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m just glad you’re here.” She leaned in and rested her head on his shoulder. Her perfume wafted up to his nostrils. She smells good. Cahill placed his arm around her shoulder and stroked the top of her arm. Alex placed her palm on the top of his thigh and ever so slowly ran it back along the towel, toward his groin. She lifted her head and angled it toward him, her lips opening. Cahill felt lightheaded and brought his mouth toward her welcoming red lips. He felt himself becoming aroused as their lips touched. Tunde burst into the room, and Cahill pulled away, as did Alex, frustration painted on their pink faces, their exploring hands retracted. Tunde grinned. “We need to hustle, brother. They’ve found us.” Cahill nodded and grabbed the clothes left on the bed, and disappeared back into the bathroom to dress. He had been given clean socks, underwear, blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a Foster Kids trademark black Harrington jacket. He pulled on his own black boots, then placed his chain link handcuffs—his last bit of kit—in his jacket pocket. When he came back out of the bathroom, Alex and Tunde were gone, so he went downstairs where he found a gathering of about a dozen Foster Kids, H, Tunde, and the cousins Tommy and Jez, both still giving Alex evil stares. Billy the rat was in the centre of the room. Tunde was eating hot fries from a bowl, and Cahill started salivating as H placed a similar bowl in his hands. The hot, fresh salty food was welcomed, and Cahill demolished the fries as he listened to Billy. “I’ve just been up to the north barrier. I’ve seen the enemy, and they’re fifty strong. Thanks to Joe, the back door is closed and burning bright. I’ve left three pikemen with Tiny for now. The enemy is just holding off about two hundred yards from the barrier. They’re just fucking staring at us. Its creepy, man.” Cahill felt a surge of responsibility for their plight.

“They’ve been after Tunde all night,” he said. “They’ll stop at nothing. The best thing we can do is slip out another way. You need to open the barrier up and let them through. Show them that we’ve gone. Don’t fight them.” H waved Cahill quiet. “This is the factory zone, Declan. This is life here. If they want to invade, they will. And the Foster Kids will defend their ground.” “You’re outnumbered, four to one,” Cahill said. Billy grabbed a young Foster Kid from the crowd. She was only twelve years old, at the most. “Little Mona is our fastest runner,” he told Cahill. “At the end of Rothsay Street is a gap in the fence. It comes out in the Old Leather Market.” “Well, then, there’s our way out.” Cahill clapped. “Mona, you need to run to Surrey Quays,” Billy said. “You need to call in a favour. Find the captain. Tell her what’s happening here.” Mona nodded and sprinted out of the restaurant and disappeared down the side and into the dark of Rothsay Street. Cahill knew from his time on the Central Crime Squad that the captain was the leader of the All-Stars. “Billy, there is no way the All-Stars will rumble with that lot,” he said. “They stay out of turf wars.” “They’ll rumble for us,” Billy said. “Well, for H. Seems everyone loves his food.” He smiled, and the Foster Kids chuckled. “The Stars tolerate us, as we don’t deal or use heavy gear like the others. And yeah, H feeds them when they come to visit us, and with that arrangement, we get the promise of backup, and I’m calling it in.” “What if you, me, and your girl there slip away?” Tunde said to Cahill. “If these boys and girls want to fight, let them.” “If you lot are going,” Tommy said, “me and Jez will go, too.”

Jez nodded rapidly. “That’s fine by me,” Billy said. “It’s probably best, Declan,” H said, with a smile in his old eyes. “Tunde, no mate. Cahill folded his arms. “This is down to us. We led them here. We can’t just run away and leave them. We either all go, or all stay.” “You’re not our boss, Declan,” said Tommy. “Jez and me are out of here.” Cahill wasn’t surprised at that since the plan to stitch Alex up with his crimes had been scuppered. So what was the point of him hanging about. “I’m not stopping you, Tommy,” he replied. “You and your cousin should get out of here and back to Soho, where you belong.” “Come on, Tommy,” Jez said. “I don’t need telling twice.” He and Tommy got up to leave. “Will you be back to Mickey’s soon, Declan?” “I’m done with your services, Tommy.” “Fair enough.” Jez and Tommy left the restaurant. Tommy paused to grab a bicycle that was propped up outside. One of the Foster Kids volunteered to show them where the escape route was, and led the cousins around the corner. The Kid soon returned and reported that they had gone. “You, Alice, and your friend should go, too,” H said again. Tunde and Alex both gave Cahill a pleading stare. “Look, we’ll help you defend the barrier,” he said. “If it looks like we’re about to be overrun, we’ll fall back and go out through the escape route.” “I’ll take your help any day, Declan,” Billy said. “But I don’t fancy fighting alongside no Nail Dem Crew boy.

“I’ll stay back here with Alexis, or Alice, or whatever her name is,” Tunde said. “It’s actually Alex.” “Of course it is.” Tunde said. “Then that’s settled,” Cahill said. “I’ll be at the front line. You two, get ready to run when you see me coming. Got it?” “What if you don’t make it?” Tunde said. “Then you and Alex will go to South HQ and ask for Sergeant Smith. You can’t miss him. He’s the miserable old man with a head like a deflated football, and three stripes on his shoulder.” Alex nodded at Cahill. Tunde did, too. Billy said, “Right, enough talk. We need to show our strength. Everyone grab a pike and get to the barricade. They could attack any minute.” The Foster Kids and Cahill grabbed the long-handled weapons from a cupboard, one at a time, as they filed out into the night and onto the battlefield. The pikes were broomstick handles with a plate steel blade attached on one end. The steel had been cut to resemble an axe head, with a knife blade sticking out the top. The whole thing had been sharpened, and Cahill liked the weight of it and that they had sheaved the other end of the handle in steel, too, so both ends could deliver a decent blow. At the same time, he noticed that a couple of the younger Kids were laying out bandages, tourniquets, and other first-aid equipment on the biggest Formica table. Cahill approached the lines. He was at the vanguard with Billy. As they strode toward the barrier, Cahill noticed smoke and orange haze where the south barrier was still burning, so at least they wouldn’t be flanked, he hoped. Cahill and the Foster Kids approached the line of four that were manning the barrier. As they got nearer, he could now see the line of gangbangers across the road.

Why haven’t they moved yet? What is this army waiting for?

30

Unlike the great leaders of old, Nico stood at the rear of his army, not at the front. At his side, as always, were his entourage, their phones in hand. Rocky squinted as he read a Street Bro message. “They want to know what we’re waiting for, boss.” “They will go when I tell them to,” Nico replied. “Not before. Type that.” He wasn’t sure how this was going to go down, or whether Soldier and the cop were still even on Foster Kids’ turf. They could have easily just walked through. Although, that was doubtful, as Nico’s lookouts at South HQ would have seen them arrive at the nick by now. What worried him the most was how wellprepared this minor league gang was. They were forcing their enemy to attack a small gap in a barricade defended by gangsters armed with long-range bladed weapons. It was the modern equivalent of breaching a castle wall where the initial attackers were literally marching to their death. Nico was struggling to control his army. It pretty much did what it wanted, and he could only hold their attention for short periods of time before they got bored and went off on a mission of destruction, all their own making. Nico’s main advantage was that he had over fifty soldiers here, all foaming at the mouth to kill the cop. Probably Tunde, too, if he didn’t keep reminding them to leave Soldier to him. They had twelve to fifteen defenders, at the most. But history is full of stories about how the few had successfully defended against the many. Nico needed to decide, and asked Skins to get the most senior member of each gang over to speak to him. Eventually, Nico was huddled up with Big Al, leader of the Bang-Up Crew; Road Man, leader of the Transport Killers; and Ringmaster, leader of the Triple C. “We have a few options here that I want to discuss,” Nico said.

“Let’s just fucking waste them,” said Big Al. “What are we waiting for?” Road Man said. “The show! That’s what!” Ringmaster cackled. “If we just throw ourselves at that barricade,” Nico said, “we’re gonna lose a lot of brothers and sisters.” “We’ve already lost too many, Nico,” Road Man growled. “The cop has to die,” said Big Al. “And if the Foster Kids want to protect him, then they can get wasted, too.” “I want that as well, brother,” Nico said. “But I’ve got an idea that may reduce our losses.” “Does it involve killing someone?” Big Al said. “Yes, it does.” “Then we’re in,” Road Man said. Ringmaster backed away, bowing and twirling his greasy black moustache. A nearby clown honked a battered bulb horn with one hand, and swung a machete in the other. “Right, the rest of you listen up,” Nico said, as the leaders watched Ringmaster exit stage left. “These Foster Kids have been here for years in the zone. They know the rules. I’m going to parlay with them and try and negotiate the handing over of Soldier and the cop, on the promise that we leave them alone.” “Really!” Road Man said. “Of course not.” Nico smiled. “We’ll still waste them. But by then, their guard will be down, and it’ll be easier to get through.” “What if they won’t negotiate?” Big Al said. “Then we’ll demand single combat. Winner takes all.”

“I’ll do it,” Big Al said. Nico smiled again. Big Al was perfect for this. First, Nico didn’t like him, so if he died, who cared. Second, he was big, muscular, older, and experienced. Nico knew that single combat was one of the best ways to solve disagreements without all-out war occurring. It kept casualties down so that the business of drugs and vice could continue. This could work. Nico would put his fortune on the Foster Kids being old school and agreeing that this was the best way to resolve their beef. Plus, it was blowing smoke up their arses, as it would flatter them, too. A small gang allowed to negotiate with the big boys. Nico needed to try to keep control if their army attacked. It would be carnage if Soldier were there. He’d be wasted, too, no doubt, and that couldn’t happen. Not yet.

***

The Foster Kids filled the gap in the barricade, two deep. Tiny stood at the rear, where he could direct the defence, and where he could keep an eye out for any climbers slipping over the coach. Cahill looked on with approval, but hung back behind Tiny. He thought it was probably wise to keep out of view for now. Behind him, he could see the yellow glow of the restaurant’s strip lighting illuminating the street. He promised himself to get Alex and Tunde moving in a hurry if the defences started to fall. Tiny’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. “Declan, stay out of view. They’re sending an envoy across to parlay.” Cahill nodded and stepped back into the shadow of the coach, but could still just see two gangbangers approaching the barricade—one from the Nail Den Crew, and one from the Bang-Up Crew, who held a machete with a filthy piece of

white cloth tied to it as a symbol of truce. Tiny pushed through to the front to act as the Foster Kids’ spokesperson. Nico and Big Al stopped about six feet from the barrier. Cahill strained his ears to listen. “I’m Nico, leader of the Nail Dem Crew. And this is Big Al, leader of the BangUp Crew. We need to talk.” So that’s Nico. “You can call me Tiny. I’m leader of the Foster Kids. I’ll talk with you. But , it’s you that came here wearing your colours and carrying weapons.” Tiny spoke calmly and with maturity, obscuring that he was barely out of his teens, even though he was as large as Big Al. “Yes, we’re at war,” Nico said, “but not with the Foster Kids.” “What do you want?” Tiny said. “We know that Soldier, ex-leader of the Nail Dem Crew, is with a cop, and that they are on your turf.” “What if they are?” “Soldier is informing to the cops. I need him alive so we can find out what he’s told them.” “What about the cop?” “He needs to die. He and Soldier have slaughtered our brothers and sisters tonight.” “So what next?” “We outnumber you, and we could cut through you like it was nothing. But too many have already died tonight. So I’m asking you for a courtesy, one leader to another. Hand over Soldier and the cop, and we’ll be gone.”

Tiny didn’t need to collaborate with his gang to reply to this request. “Yes, you outnumber us. I can count. But you can see a well-defended wall here. I don’t think you can afford any more losses tonight. The answer is no. Now fuck off.” Tiny folded his arms. Cahill couldn’t believe his ears. Tiny had grown up since he’d last saw him. He couldn’t imagine Nico being too impressed. Nico laughed. “Really. Fuck off, is it?” “I can spell it for you if you want,” Tiny said. “Now, listen well. I’m giving you one more chance here. I’ll lay down a challenge for you. Old school—the winner gets what they want. You win, we leave. We win, you hand them over.” “I’m listening,” Tiny said. “Single combat.” Cahill knew this would only be resolved with bloodshed. Single combat was used amongst the hardcore gangs to reduce casualties, but it still proved the strength of the gang, and no one lost face. The trouble was that single combat often ended bad, especially when the challenger lost. Cahill realized Tiny was playing for time. Maybe he was hoping that by now, Little Mona had convinced the captain to send a war party to back them up, and even now, the All-Stars were readying for battle. “Agreed,” Tiny replied. Nico grinned. “Five minutes out here.” He pointed at where they stood. “No. Your challenger can fight here.” Tiny pointed just inside the Foster Kids’ ground. “If your barrier is open, and I can have three witnesses with my man?” Nico said.

“Five minutes.” Tiny headed back behind his two rows of defenders and approached Cahill. Nico and Big Al wandered back over to their side.

***

Nico and Big Al went to the rear of the army and found Road Man. Ring Master was nowhere to be found, but he was no loss, thought Nico. “They went for it. Big Al will fight, and you three,” he nodded at Blade, Skins, and Rocky, “will serve as witnesses. Road Man and I will launch the attack as soon as Al kills his opponent. All you three need to do is stop them closing down the barrier, and distract them while the army comes through.” “Yes, boss. No problem,” Blade said, with a glint of pleasure in his eyes. “You got what you need, Al?” Nico said. Big Al flexed his chest, and in doing so, revealed at his waist, in a leather sheath, a beautiful Bowie knife with ten inches of broad polished steel. In his hand was a razor-sharp machete from which he had already removed the white cloth. The machete would give him the reach he needed if their champion chose to fight with one of their pikes.

***

Tiny, Billy, and Cahill had their own huddle behind the coach. “I’ll take their fighter on,” Tiny said. "And if anything happens, Billy, you’re the leader.” Cahill wasn’t happy that Tiny was fighting. In fact, he wasn’t happy about any of

them risking their lives on his part. “Be ready, though,” Tiny told Billy. “Even if I don’t get beat, they’re going to attack.” “Of course they will. I’ll get one Kid per witness. We’ll cut them in half before they get the chance to do anything.” Cahill thought that was the best plan. It would give them a chance. But it was likely that their army would succeed in getting through the defences, whatever happened. They would slaughter them all and take their turf, too. He needed to be ready to move. To get Tunde and Alex to South HQ. He decided to pull back from the front line. As much as he wanted to help the Foster Kids, his mission to retrieve Tunde and deliver the message he had was more important. Tunde would save thousands of lives if they could shut down the drug routes into London. It was the right thing to do. Cahill found a deep doorway about twenty yards from the restaurant, and about a hundred yards from the front line. It gave him a view of both locations. He could see Tunde, H, and Alex sitting inside the relative safety of the place. Cahill kept his pike, just in case.

***

Billy watched his friend in iration as he prepared himself. Tiny checked everything, just as Billy would have done. He checked his laces were tied, his belt tightened, his jacket zipped up to the neck. Nothing flapping. Everything streamlined, with nothing for an enemy to grab. Tiny pulled out some thin black leather driving gloves and put them on. He flexed his fingers and gripped the shaft of his pike, making sure the leather gave him a better grip on the wood. He would need that when the blood started flowing, thought Billy.

He twirled the pike, moving light on his feet. He twisted and turned to warm his muscles, imagining the killing blow, practicing it like an athlete teaching his muscles the way. Billy looked over at the three young girls he had ordered to stay close to the witnesses. These three were also best friends. Sasha, a fifteen-year-old street fighter as fast as a weasel. Lilly, a sixteen-year-old boxer as tough as any boy her age. And Kat, another fifteen-year-old girl with fighting credentials to rival any gangster in London. These three girls, all carrying pikes, were ready to slaughter the witnesses as soon as Billy gave them the word. “It’s time,” Tiny said. The defensive line of Foster Kids opened on Billy’s orders, forming a line both sides of the barricade, with eight either side, including his three assassins. Big Al was on his way over, his machete in hand at his side, the smirk on his face distorted by his scars. Behind him were three gangbangers, who Billy assumed were the witnesses. The pole was drawn back and left there wide open, as the four warriors marched across the threshold. Billy stopped the three Nail Dem Crew witnesses and pointed out where they should stand over at the far side of the barrier, where the end of the battered coach met the oil drum right next to where his three girls lay in wait. The witnesses, wary at first, saw the three teenage girls and nudged each other, stifling grins as they nestled in next to them.

***

Big Al could see his adversary front and centre. Tiny stood with his legs shoulder-width apart, his pike held tip down, his forearms folded and resting on the sheaved end of the weapon, his face unemotional. Big Al stopped and looked around at the Foster Kids that guarded their barricade. He couldn’t believe how young they all were. He couldn’t believe that the Bang-Up Crew hadn’t already been down here to rape and murder them all.

He would have to make that right, he thought. He felt like a fox in the henhouse. He would eat well here, after all this was done.

***

“Whenever you’re ready, single combat, winner takes all,” Billy said. “Whatever.” Big Al lunged forward, chopping his machete through the air. Tiny weaved to avoid the clumsy blow. Swung his pike, twirling the un-bladed end around, and parried the machete away with a clang. Big Al stumbled forward from the momentum of his miss, the from the pike overbalancing him. Tiny twirled the pike again and back-swung the long weapon. Whoosh! Big Al leant back out of the way, but too slow, as a chunk of denim from his open shirt was cut clean away by the flashing blade. Big Al jumped back, a flash of doubt across his face. And if Billy could see it, Tiny must have, too. Tiny was already making his next move, spinning in close to Big Al as he retreated. He brought his blade back to swipe at Al’s belly again. This time he felt some resistance, and the tip bit flesh. Big Al shouted out in pain and pressed his hand down on his guts. As he brought it away, it was glistening red. He gritted his teeth and attacked Tiny again with a slicing motion over his head, bringing the machete down like an axe. Tiny pirouetted out of harm’s way and smashed the un-bladed end of his pike down onto Big Al’s hand. The crowd winced at the sound of bone cracking as the machete fell to the ground, from broken fingers. Big Al howled. Billy watched the witnesses as they gave their game away when they touched the handles of their hidden weapons. He nodded at his assassins. They had seen it, too. It wouldn’t be long now, and they would have fifty soldiers beating down their walls.

Billy wasn’t sure how long the Kids would last, but he knew one thing for sure —the attackers would know they had been in a fight.

***

Cahill was watching Tiny in iration as he performed a martial dance around his opponent, tearing chunks out of the Bang-Up Crew brute that they had sent as their champion. Cahill could also see the army in the distance, a great shadow of hostility swaying in motion to the fight. Cahill had no doubt that as soon as Tiny dropped his opponent, the army would march. Of course they would. They had no honour. They wouldn’t obey the unwritten law of the gangs of London. Why should they? They would never get found out because they would kill everyone. He needed to get Tunde out of here. He jogged over to the restaurant. Alex, H, and Tunde all looked up as he arrived. “Tiny is going to win this fight very soon,” he said “It’s no contest.” H clapped his hands in delight. “He’s a good boy!” “Tunde, you and Alex get a head start. As soon as Tiny drops this guy, they will attack.” “But they agreed that the winner takes all,” Alex said. “Grow up, girl,” Tunde said. “They’ll kill everyone.” “Alex, he’s right,” Cahill said. “You two need to start heading to South HQ. Tunde, you know the way? You know who to ask for?” “Yes, Officer, you told us.” Tunde couldn’t resist the sarcasm. “H, will you show them the escape route?” Cahill said.

“Of course. But you should go, too.” “I’ll be just behind them. I just want to try to help Tiny close the barrier again and set up the defence before they overrun you. Then you and me will catch up with Tunde and Alex.” “I’m not going anywhere.” H sat back, his arms folded in defiance. Cahill would have to deal with that one later. H led Tunde and Alex down the street the same way Tommy and Jez had gone earlier. Neither of them looked back at Cahill, as if they were afraid to make eye , not believing they would see him again. Cahill was glad they didn’t. He went back over to his doorway. The fight was still going. Tiny was still moving fluidly, swinging his pike and slicing pieces of Big Al off, one at a time. Big Al’s smashed hand had meant he was now using only one hand to swing his Bowie knife at his opponent. He seemed to be working on pure rage now. He was almost done, and Cahill thought Tiny should finish him off. He had been playing with him, adding on the minutes, hoping for help. Didn’t look like it would be coming, after all. Cahill saw movement to his left. It was H jogging from Rothsay Street. That’s strange. But then Little Mona ran around the corner after him. Her skin was bathed in sweat, and her mouth was wide open as she panted from her exertions. “This way!” Mona shouted, in her shrill voice. The first one appeared, trotting around the corner. An All-Star wearing tight white jogging bottoms and high-top trainers, and a black bodied white-armed letterman jacket. The logo on this jacket was a big white five-pointed star. Behind him, jogged another. Then another. Eight in total—five men and three women. The All-Stars raced onto the field of battle. Cahill knew this would turn the tide. These new players weren’t just eight soldiers. This squad of fighters were archers—a compound bow in one hand, while their other steadied a quiver of arrows slung on their backs.

As they approached the front line, Cahill could see that Tiny had seen them, too, and he smiled at the exhausted Big Al. It all happened at once.

***

Nico’s heart pumped in anticipation. These new players changed everything. The All-Stars were organized and equipped with deadly weapons. They couldn’t wait another second. He needed to send the army. “Now! Go, go!” Nico yelled. “Kill them all!” There was a brief pause as the gangbangers, having been mesmerized by Big Al and the Foster Kid’s fight, eventually turned to look to see who was shouting. Realizing it was now their turn to scrap, they began to surge forward. Nico stepped back as Road Man ed the gangsters on the assault. Nico had other plans.

***

Billy knew the fight was over, as Tiny lunged his pike forward as if it was a bayonet on the end of a rifle, and sunk its point deep into Big Al’s belly. Tiny dug it in deeper and ripped the blade down, spilling Al’s guts onto the ground in a shower of meat and blood. Al made no noise as he stumbled back, then slumped forward with his arms down by his side. The fall ended with Al’s forehead splashing in his own wet intestines. Billy chopped his hand down into the palm of his other as he made urgent eye with each of his femme fatales. He didn’t need to say more, as the girls had just seen Big Al’s final swan dive, and they’d heard the roar of the enemy as

they began their attack once they knew the All-Stars had arrived. Rocky, Blade, and Skins died quickly as the three girls brought their sharp pikes into play. The blows came down on them as they tried in vain to pull their weapons free of their clothing. But the girls’ brutal and rapid chopping drove each of them to the floor to bleed and die in untidy heaps. Billy watched with approval as the girls did their work, their faces streaked in gore as they hacked at the fallen curled-up bodies. The All-Stars ran through and stopped just outside the barrier, forming two ranks of four. They staggered their line to give themselves room, and all drew an arrow and mounted it on their bows. The army was halfway across. Billy’s heart was in his mouth, and his adrenaline burned through every fibre of his body. The female All-Star on the right of the front row shouted, “All-Stars?” The remaining seven Archers shouted, “Yeah!” “Release!” Billy watched in awe as the archers drew back the tight cords of their bows and shot their first long arrow. Then they went about their job, releasing one arrow after another into the rapidly approaching army, their arms a blur as they worked. The approaching army shuddered and balked as the arrows thudded into their front ranks. The gangsters behind had nowhere to go and started to die, too, as the human shields in front began to crumble in blood. And still, the rear pushed forward into a hail of certain death. Billy’s unclenched his fists as the adrenaline subsided. He looked over at Tiny. The two top boys nodded slowly at each other. Their turf was safe again, thanks to the All-Stars.

***

Cahill had never seen anything like this in all his years as a cop. He had read intelligence reports of large-scale gang fights with multiple deaths. But he had never seen it with his own eyes. The Company denied this sort of thing even happened in the zone, as there was never any sign of it—no bodies...no victim reports. Cahill’s resolve to get Tunde out and tell his story had never been stronger. And now he had witnessed what amounted to a medieval street fight. The Company had to do something. If they wouldn’t do anything, then maybe the telling of their story might get the government to intervene. Anything was worth a try to change things in the zone. In the no man’s land outside the Foster Kids turf, the bodies piled up. Cahill could see that there had been no escape. The gangsters at the rear wouldn’t have worked out what was happening at the front of their forces as they continued to charge forward. Those that did see what was happening had tried to run away to the sides, but they hadn’t been fast enough to avoid an arrow loosed from a compound bow that could reach speed of two hundred miles per hour. Cahill tore his focus away from the archers as they continued their grim work. H was equally amazed, gaze transfixed as he bent over, trying to get his breath back. “Did they get out?” Cahill said. “Who?” H replied, through deep breaths. “Oh, Alice and your friend. Yes, they made it out just before little Mona and the All-Stars arrived. That’s right. They said they would wait the other side.” “I can’t talk you into coming, H?” “What for?” H smiled. Cahill looked back over to the archers and the carnage they had met out. The attack was finished. It had lasted just a couple minutes, and bodies were strewn all over the road. Not even one soldier had made it to the barrier before they were skewered. Tiny, Billy, and his three girls now walked amongst the fallen gangsters, using their pikes to finish off any of them that dared to live. The

rest of the Foster Kids swarmed over the corpses, stealing anything of use. “Okay then, H. I’ll be seeing you.” “Definitely, Declan. You make sure you come back and see me.” The right-hand All-Star jogged over to Cahill and H as they said their farewells. “The captain sends his regards, H.” “Thank you, Fifi. We owe you so much.” Fifi shrugged and smiled, showing a gap where her front teeth used to be. “I’ll get some food ready for you all.” H was in his element now, and rubbed his hands together. “That would be perfect,” Fifi said. “We’ll be there in a bit.” H scuttled back into his restaurant to prepare the speciality of the house. “That was smart work,” Cahill said to Fifi, as she started to walk back to her companions. “Cheers, mate.” She turned to walk away. “On your way in, did you see a girl, and a black guy dressed like me?” Cahill said. Fifi stopped and tapped her forehead. “Yes, I was going to say to H to tell them to be careful out there.” “Why?” “As we ran through the Leather Market, I noticed the freaks were on the hunt. They hid from us, but I wouldn’t go out there tonight. Not without back up. I reckon they’re from the old hospital.” “What difference does that make?” Cahill said, not wanting to think what he was thinking, and was hoping Fifi had a less terrifying reason to be concerned.

“You must have heard about them? The cannibals? They eat people.” Fifi wore a look of disgust as she headed back over to her team, who were now also amongst the dead, retrieving their precious arrows. Cahill felt a new wave of panic wash over him. What had Alex and Tunde walked into? He knew the area well, as did Tunde. Cahill had heard all the rumours. But like the rest of the LPD, he had yet to see any evidence himself of cannibalism. The missing person files concerning the residents of South London were getting longer and longer, though. The Company shrugged the figures off as just more escapees from the factories that had ed the ranks of one of the gangs. Maybe some did. But maybe some had been captured by the freaks. Yet another inquiry that Cahill would investigate on another day. That was if he made it out. The freaks must have crossed south over Long Lane, from their hunting ground around the old hospital. Maybe all the extra gang activity was disturbing them. Like ants when boiling water was poured into their nest. Or was it simply because they could smell the blood. Cahill’s thoughts were disturbed when he heard shouting coming from beyond the barrier. He saw that Tiny was walking back toward him, shaking his head. Cahill approached him. “What was that shouting?” Cahill said. “Unbelievable. The freaks just grabbed a couple bodies.” “The archer, Fifi, said she saw them nearby.” “I suppose it saves us getting rid of them all.” Tiny shrugged. “Tiny, you can’t get rid of all those bodies. I can back you up. It was selfdefence, even with these numbers. Let me bring the authorities in. Let me help.” “Have you bumped your head, Declan?” Tiny’s eyes went wide. “They’d kill us all, or lock us all up. It’s not the first time we’ve had to get rid of our enemies, you know.” “There’s dozens of bodies out there!” Cahill said.

“So fucking what. The Company would be pleased they were gone.” “It’s not right, mate. They need to be identified. Families told. And they should be buried.” “They’ll be buried. Don’t worry about that. We’ll dig pits, burn them, and bury them. We’ve got a few places.” Cahill had no doubt the Foster Kids had only survived this long by employing such brutal tactics. This was the real reason why they got left alone. “You think you understand the zone, Declan? You don’t, mate. And the Company doesn’t know or care what we must do to survive here. We’re the forgotten people of London.” Cahill had no words. Tiny was right. The LPD was just sticking plaster over the gaping wound that London was. The police didn’t ever see what went on in the dead of night. No one ever reported anything, and the gangs took care of the dead. Cahill wondered if it was possible to reverse this way of life. Probably not, he decided. “I’ve got to go, Tiny. I’ve got to go after Alex and Tunde. Make sure the freaks don’t get to them. Not after all this.” “That’s cool, Declan. But don’t come back with any of your LPD pals for a few hours yet.” “I don’t think there’s much chance of that.” He gripped Tiny on his upper arm. “I’m sorry for all this.” “Declan, it’s been one of the best nights the Foster Kids have ever had. No one will fuck with us after this.” Tiny laughed, slapping Cahill on his back. He walked back out to the battlefield and started directing his troops. They had a lot of work to do. The archers went into H’s restaurant with rumbling stomachs. Cahill decided to take the same route as Tunde and Alex to give him the best

chance of finding them. At the end of Rothsay Street, he could see a ten-foothigh wall of plywood, its base and edges thick with weeds and shrubs. The escape route wasn’t obvious at first, until he noticed a faint beaten path in the dusty ground, leading to the left side of the fence. He pushed through the bushes and noticed the corner of the plywood fence was missing. Plenty of room for him to get through, as the archers and his friends must have done just before him. Gripping his new weapon, courtesy of the Foster Kids, Cahill crawled through the hole.

31

Nico jogged along Long Lane, feeling alone and ashamed. Ashamed that he had run away while his army was cut to pieces in a hailstorm of arrows. He had felt the fear when he saw the archers arriving. Road Man obviously hadn’t seen them. Or more likely, hadn’t understood who they were and what they were capable of doing. Nico had counted eight bowmen and women. There was no way they could have run the distance between them and the barrier without all eight of them shooting two or three arrows. That initial attack would have killed half of them in the first few seconds, before they even had the chance to fight back. It would have only taken a couple minutes for that many archers to launch over a hundred arrows. The night wasn’t going well. Nail Dem Crew had suffered too many losses. That cop should have gotten Soldier to the police station by now, where Nico’s boys laid in wait, ready to deliver the final phase of the plan. Unfortunately, the other gangsters had been too engrossed in raping and murdering through the hospital, and just doing what they wanted. There was no controlling them. Nico believed that his plan was necessary to protect them all. A few dozen deaths would help hundreds of gangsters survive. It was vital that they concluded the plan. He noticed movement in the shadows along the side of the road. Freaks. He went from jogging to sprinting. Two barely human creatures broke from the shadows and darted across the road, trying to cut Nico off as he sped toward the main road ahead of him. These were the creatures that weren’t even good enough to a gang. And if you couldn’t do that, what did you have left? Starvation and death were an everyday event for them. They had nothing to trade, no money from work, and no from fellow gang . The reasoning part of their brains had long been warped, their moral comes broken, and their prolonged hunger had caused their minds to by the built-in human restraint from consuming

human flesh. In fact, they had become purely hunters of flesh. A night like tonight was perfect—bodies dropping all over the place. Nico could hear their ragged breathing as they howled at him. His adrenaline kicked in, giving him a much-needed boost of speed, and soon he gained enough distance on the freaks for them to give up the chase. He didn’t look back, but made a left, then a right at the end of Long Lane, before turning left again into Borough High Street, where he settled back into a jog, heading south to South HQ. He would wait there with his boys, for Soldier to arrive, and then he could finish this. He hoped Ringmaster had kept his promise, too, and that his clowns would them at the HQ. They would need numbers for the final phase.

***

Cahill straightened up as he left the escape route and pushed through the shrubs. Looking around, he couldn’t see any sign of Tunde or Alex. He hurried toward Long Lane. It was the most direct route to Borough High Street, where they could head to South HQ. Cahill thought about all the bodies that covered the ground behind him. Did this mean it was over? Were they home free from the gangs? Surely, the task of capturing Tunde was becoming too difficult for them, their losses staggering. Or did they even give a shit? He had one goal, and that was to find Tunde and Alex and get them both to the station. It wasn’t far now. Back in the troubled recesses of his mind, his thirst ignited a feeble spark for the fiery warmth of liquor. But that flame was quickly extinguished by the carnage and horror of the night. The need for the drink had faded and he barely noticed it, but it was still a tiny reminder that he had some unfinished business with the bottle. Cahill followed Weston Street up toward Long Lane, and noticed something on

the ground. A bicycle laying on its side. And as he got nearer, he recognized that it was Dirty Tommy’s bike. Something was wrong. He would never leave that lying about. There were blood splashes on the bike and ground. Cahill felt a knot form in his stomach, which then turned into an icy stab of fear when he saw a shoe on the ground beyond the bike. It was one of Tunde’s designer training shoes, stained by grease and blood, just as he ed them. Cahill was too late. The freaks had got them.

32

Fifteen minutes earlier... Tunde and Alex pushed through the plywood escape route and popped out just as little Mona arrived, puffing like a steam train, leading the charge of the AllStars’ archers in of the Foster Kids. Tunde marvelled at the sight of them, dressed in their colours, carrying their weapons of war, charging toward the fray. Tunde felt adrenaline pierce through him for the millionth time tonight as he wished he could fight alongside them. He glanced at Alex—or whatever name she was using—and saw her fear. He ed his promise to Cahill and his own goals. He needed to get to that police station. Everything depended on it, and if Alex slowed him down, he knew he probably wouldn’t help her if it put his journey in jeopardy. Cahill’s face flashed in his mind. Damn you. The cop had got to him, that was for sure. They ambled toward Long Lane. Tunde knew this was their best route to Borough High Street. He tutted as Alex started to get ahead. “Slow your roll, Alex. Declan won’t be far behind. Let him catch up.” “He wanted us to get to the South HQ. He said he would catch up to us. It’s only been ten minutes.” “Did you see those gangsters? They’re carrying compound bows. That’s serious firepower out in the zone. He’ll be here soon. Don’t you worry about it.” Alex stopped because a bicycle was blocking her path on the ground. Tunde caught up and crouched down by the abandoned bike. It was covered in glistening wet blood that ran in rivulets off its tubular frame.

“Shit, that was Tommy’s bike,” Alex said. “He arrived on it earlier. I saw him wheel it off when he left with Jez.” Tunde was about to speak, when the ambush was sprung.

33

Sergeant Smith tapped his pen on his desk, and almost dropped it when his phone rang. He snatched up the handset. “Sergeant Smith.” “This is Inspector Collins from NPS Territorial .” “Ah, yes, sir. How can I help?” “We’re just about to brief, so we will hopefully be with you in an hour or so. But that will depend on a few things.” “Go on.” “You need to get all your staff back at the station. We don’t want any blue on blue when we roll through.” “Certainly, sir. I’ll get on it.” “Good. Because we’re coming in force, and we’ve got a Clean Sweep order. You know what that means, Sergeant?” Smith’s lip curled into a smile. “You have my guarantee that all my staff will be safe and sound in the station when you arrive. Do what you’ve got to do, sir.” The inspector hung up. Smith was excited by this. If Cahill got caught up in an NPS Clean Sweep operation, he would be treated as hostile, and would be cut down along with the gangbanger that he was protecting. When the Company formed the London Police District, there were a few conditions. One was that the new National Police Service would always be called back in for major public disorder. And if they were called in, they would assume that London was on the brink of severe disorder. This could not be

allowed to happen, so Operation Clean Sweep was devised. This meant that a convoy of armoured trucks would roll through London, to the source of the unrest—in this case, the hospital—and any persons met on route would be treated as hostile, armed and dangerous. More bodies would fall before this night shift was done, and Sergeant Smith was pleased at this. His last chance to be rid of Cahill. Smith walked over to Dev and Sam’s desk and leaned in too close for Sam’s comfort. She leant away. Smith smirked when he saw how uncomfortable he had made the radio operator. “Can I help you, Sarge?” She wore a false smile. “The girls are still in the building, aren’t they?” Smith said, referring to Teri and Shanice. “They’re looking after our guests, getting statements from them. They’re out in the breakroom.” Smith nodded. “Is the radio traffic more manageable now?” “It’s definitely calming down now, Sarge.” “Good. Call the others back to HQ as well.” “They’re all tucked up. I’ll call them in when they’re done.” Smith’s face hardened. “Call the others back means now. Not when they’ve finished with the pile of shit they’re currently dealing with. Call them back now means fucking now!” He marched off back over to his desk and sat once again, resting his head in his hands. “Fucking Halloween.”

***

Sam nudged Dev and leant into him. He pulled his earphone to one side in preparation for a whisper in his ear. “What?” he said. “Something’s going on, Dev.” “Isn’t a missing cop, a protected witness, and the destruction of a hospital enough?” “We need to call everyone in now. That means one thing.” “What?” “It’s got to be a Clean Sweep order.” Sam smirked with satisfaction. “I thought that was just a rumour to keep a lid on the violence.” “No, Dev. I’ve seen it before. The NPS comes through the ground like a mincing machine. They’ll be in huge numbers, armed to the teeth, and they’ll have authority for deadly force. That’s why we’ve got to get our people back to HQ.” “But Declan and the witness will be out there. We’ve got no comms with them.” “I know. That’s why the Sarge is so happy.” “This won’t end well, Sam.” Dev stared at the side of her head. But she got back to work and began to call the team in.

***

Tom Harris pushed the car to its limit along the empty road. Sitting next to him was his operator, Danny Cox. They were posted together, as usual, in the Fast

Car, call sign Foxtrot Charlie. The car’s flashing blue light bounced off abandoned store fronts and houses as they sped after the bandit car ahead of them. Tom gripped the wheel at the ten-to-two position, one hand pulling the wheel through the other. The bandit struggled to drive smoothly as he tried to outpace Tom’s white shark of a police car closing in for the kill. “Balham High Street, northbound toward Clapham, ninety miles an hour,” Danny said, calmly, over the vehicle’s main set radio. Tom’s face was set in concentration as he nursed the saloon car around a sharp bend, the rubber screeching as hot tires span, trying to grip on the road. “Black BMW convertible with the roof down, no plates. Male driver believed to be wanted in connection with the earlier fire at the Tooting Bec Factory complex. Any unit to assist?” The main set was monitored by all four sectors of the LPD, especially for highspeed chases like this, so that if they were heading out of their sector, their colleagues had a chance to set up roadblocks ahead. But tonight, there was no response. “Leave it, Danny. He’ll crash in a minute. He can’t handle that car.” The BMW was on the wrong side of the road, haring into a blind bend. Tom thought the driver must have had heard him, because the bandit car clipped the curb with the enger side front wheel, causing it to veer to the left. The driver over-corrected and skidded back to the right, then left again. The car weaved as the driver fought for control. Tom applied his brakes smoothly as he followed the bandit car around the bend. Finally, the car mounted the curb and slammed into some railings. The BMW destroyed the first six feet of metal, but as the steel piled up underneath it, it began to lift. In a panic, the driver accelerated. But with the front wheels off the ground, there was no steering, just power flowing through the rear wheels. The convertible flipped as it left the end of the railings, the car spinning in mid-air. Tom came to a controlled stop a safe distance away and watched the car as it landed upside down. The windscreen, old and rusted, gave way, crushing the

driver’s upper body as he was flung down toward the ground like a crash-test dummy without the luxury of a seatbelt. The wheels of the car spun slowly in the air, and the engine cut out, leaving the devastating crash scene in total silence. The boys sat for a few seconds to see if the driver was able to crawl free of the wreckage. But the only thing that came from under the overturned car was a red river of blood that flowed into the gutter. Danny picked up the microphone again and was about to speak, when Sam’s voice sparked on the South Sector channel. “Foxtrot Charlie, are you receiving HQ? Over.” “Danny here Sam. What’s up?” “Drop whatever you’re doing and get back to base, please.” “Might be difficult, Sam. We’ve just had a vehicle chase, and the driver has just wiped himself out on some railings. I was about to report it. Over.” “Received, Danny. Tape it off and file the report back here.” Danny grinned at Tom. “All received. On way. Out.” “It must be serious.” Tom spun the car around. “Hold on. Aren’t we going to tape it off?” “Fuck it,” Tom said, as they headed to HQ. “What difference does one more body smeared across the road make? Let the early team deal with it.” “Yeah, fuck it.”

***

Mikhail Ruslanovich navigated his patrol car around the potholes and piles of debris to park down on the riverfront. He felt the buzz in his chest because of

what he and his colleague Sarah Doyle were just about to do. It was pitch dark at Wandsworth Pier because the streetlights had been smashed a long time ago. The only light was from the moon, which cast its meagre glow across the derelict ground that was once one of the more prestigious areas of South London. There had been gleaming residential blocks of swanky apartments with views of the river, surrounded by the best cafe’s bars and restaurants along the river stretching between Wandsworth Bridge, all the way to the equally swanky Putney Bridge. It looked so different now. Wandsworth Pier was one of the many landing points for the army forces when they started to retake London. The area in front of the pier was pockmarked with craters created from grenade explosions. Piles of unidentifiable lumps of charcoal-like substances littered the uneven ground. No one really came down to the pier anymore, as the nearest factory was to the west, in Wandsworth Park, nearer Putney. So it was just the freaks here now, scavenging for whatever they could get. Perfect for Mikhail’s needs. Soon, the windows were completely steamed up, and the rear of the car gently rocked up and down, up and down. In the back of the car, Sarah was naked and sat astride Mikhail, who stared into her eyes while she ground her lap into him as he pushed his own hips up into her. He gasped with pleasure as her moaning became louder. He was close to climax, and Sarah must have been, too, as she convulsed on him. Her face scrunched up as the pleasure hit her, her hands pushing up into the roof lining of the car as she came. A few more thrusts, and he felt a wave of orgasm. He squeezed her breasts as he finished inside her, then slowed his thrusts to a relaxed pace. Sarah wound her hips in a circular motion as they recovered. “You okay?” Mikhail stroked the small of her back. “I am now.” She laughed. “We should stop doing this shit, Mik.” “Why? It’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?” Here we go. “I’m not so sure.” Sarah climbed off his lap and sank down next to him on the rear seats, looking

for her torn-off underwear. The affair had been going for nearly a year, since Sergeant Smith paired them up on Papa Charlie One. Mikhail was married, and so was Sarah. But at the Christmas party, they had danced. Then they kissed. And before long, they started sleeping together at work. Fuck-buddies was what they said it was—no emotion, no falling in love. Well that was what it was supposed to have been he thought. “All I think about is us, Mik. My husband doesn’t understand me like you.” Mikhail’s brain raced. No, he wasn’t ready for this. He loved his wife. To him, this was just sex. “Sarah, we agreed to be fuck-buddies. That was it.” He looked away, out into the dark as he laced his boots. Sarah was struggling into her uniform, her eyes welling up with tears. She took a deep breath and continued dressing in silence. Mikhail could feel that the tension in the car was ready to burst. The radio erupted into life. Mikhail was saved. For now. “Papa Charlie One, are you receiving HQ? Over.” Sam’s voice transmitted into the car’s sex-stinking interior. “Yes, HQ. Mik receiving.” Mikhail had reached into the front of the car first to grab the mike. “Hi, Mik. Can you and Sarah get back to base ASAP?” “All received, Sam. On way.” Mikhail threw the microphone onto the driver’s seat. He looked across at Sarah, who was touching up her hair and makeup in a small mirror, her lips pursed. “Wonder what that’s all about?” Mikhail got out the back of the car and into the driver’s seat.

Sarah said nothing, a frosty look in her unhappy eyes as she climbed into the front enger seat. “Sarah?” “What?” “Are you okay?” “I’ll have to be, Mikhail.” “I think you were right about stopping this shit.” He started to drive around the potholes and craters. “Whatever.” It was going to be a long drive back to HQ.

***

Carly Evans parked Papa Charlie Two alongside the curb about fifty feet from the illegal drinking club in Peckham Rye. From that position, she and Jay Patel would be able to watch the carnage unfold. Their last call had been to a fight. The report said that a crowd of people were fighting in the street, armed with sticks. A common call on any night in the zone, and there was a way to deal with a call like that. And that was to simply sit back and watch them beat each other to a pulp. The drinking club was in a ground floor flat on an ancient council estate run by a minor league gang who called themselves the Jolly Boys. They had named themselves after an old popular TV comedy show. Despite their upbeat name, they were the scum of the earth. The lowest level bottom-feeders you would find on any gang hierarchy list, if such a thing existed.

They did have one thing about them that made them a necessity in the zone, and that was that they distilled the best homemade booze in South London. The trouble with that was this fiery booze, if taken in large quantities, would turn the mildest human being into a homicidal maniac. The drinkers had emptied out of the club, and were now trying to kill each other. Carly was transfixed by the fight, and decided to take the opportunity to eat her breaktime sandwiches that she had brought out with her. Jay took her cue and pulled out his food, too. She nibbled the corner of a tuna and cucumber sandwich, her eyes widened in disbelief as a huge bare-chested man lifted a wriggling woman over his head and throw her through the front window of the drinking club. “Oh my God, Jay. Did you see that?” Jay spat out a lump of the cold chicken drumstick he was demolishing as he laughed. “She didn’t expect that, did she!” The pair rolled about in the front seats of their patrol car, holding their stomachs, which hurt from laughing. As they did, Carly saw that the bare-chested man had grabbed two smaller men by their necks and then slammed their heads together, dropping them like sacks of shit to the debris littered deck. Behind the barechested man, another guy crept, holding a lump of wood about three-feet long. The guy ran forward and whacked the bare-chested man on the back of his head. His eyes almost popped from his skull as he stiffened and fell onto his face. “Timber!” Jay was crying with laughter. “I’m literally going to wet myself!” Carly cracked up. She noticed that the falling of the bare-chested man seemed to have a calming effect on the fight, and the participants started to drift away into the night, just as she had hoped. “That was brilliant, mate,” Jay said. “I’ll call it in.” She nodded.

The last combatants exited the club, leaving the street peaceful again, with just the bare-chested man laid on the ground between the two men he had knocked out. “HQ, HQ, this is Papa Charlie Two. Receiving?” Jay said, into the microphone. “This is HQ,” Sam replied. “That fight at Peckham Rye...we’re there now, and it’s all quiet. Show it as no trace, please, Sam.” “Will do, Jay. I was just about to call you both to return to base.” “What for?” “Tell you when you get here. Come quick as you can.” “Okay, Sam. All received. On way.” “Come on, you. Let’s go,” Carly told her partner. “My guts still hurt from laughing. Best fight ever.” They were both still chuckling and wiping tears away as they headed back to base.

34

Tunde’s eyes flicked open, but he couldn’t see anything. He was lying on his back, and tried to stretch out, but couldn’t. His arms were somehow pinned to his sides. A shock of pain hit him in the centre of his brain, reminding him of the blow he had recently received, knocking him out cold. The fucking freaks had got the drop on them. Oldest trick in the book—they left bait laying on the ground. While the pair had dumbly stared at the push bike, a dozen stinking, biting freaks attacked them. Slowly, his eyes began to focus, and his brain started to work again. He noted the reassuring throbbing pain in his arm from the gunshot wound. It reminded him about everything that had happened today and all night—the cop, and failing to get to HQ. It was going horribly, and to top it all, he had lost his training shoe. He would worry about that later, if he could. Tunde strained to look down at his body where he could see that his torso was wrapped in thin plastic-covered rope. Probably washing line. Rolling onto his uninjured side, he saw Alex, still out for the count, but as equally wrapped up in washing line. They lay in what looked like the shell of a building right down in the earth. And about four feet above, he could see where the floorboards used to sit. The ceiling was non-existent, and he could see the fading night sky through the holes. Their feet were facing a brick wall, and Tunde stretched his head back, so he had an upside-down view of what was behind their heads. The entrance to the room was an open hole in the brickwork above the floorboard line, and he could hear activity outside. Screams and shouts echoed the air. There was a fire out there, too. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the crackling of it, and see orange shadows painting on what was left of ceiling of their room as the flames roared up every now and then. He was giving all his senses a treat now as he sniffed. At first, he caught the smell of roasting meat, like a leg of pork sizzling in its juices in the oven, its

thick skin bubbling and crisping up under the intense heat. But then he smelled the unmistakable aroma of human hair burning, the acrid stench invading and scalding his nostrils. That isn’t roast pork. Tunde grimaced in disgust. A surge of fear rose in his chest, and a sick feeling came over him, too. He held it back. He needed to think. He had never been so helpless in his life. Alex murmured next to him and tried to move in her bonds. Tunde imagined her brain was doing exactly what his had just done. “Alex?” he whispered. “You awake?” “What the fuck is happening?” Alex sobbed. “The freaks have got us,” Tunde said, thinking that was obvious. “Where are we?” She started to tremble. “I’m not exactly sure, but I think this is the old hospital, you know. Guys?” “Oh my God. We have to get out of here. Now!” She was trembling violently now. “Calm it down, Alex. That’s not helping.” “What’s that smell? No, no!” she shrieked, then fainted. “Thank fuck.” Looking back and upside down again, Tunde could see that her scream had brought the freaks to them. “You need to let us go, now! Do you know who I am?” Tunde couldn’t believe he’d just said that. Four half-naked freaks with long hair jumped down into their room, while a couple others ed down a long length of reinforced steel bar. They fed the rebar down Tunde’s washing-line-wrapped body and lifted him up. They hefted

the ends that stuck out at the head and foot of the parcel, onto their scrawny shoulders, then carried him out of the room like a prize antelope. Upside down, Tunde saw the scene unfold as he and Alex were carried out into the open. The shell of the hospital was still there, creating a high wall all around the open space. Broken up by the odd window or door, the night sky was wide open above the shell. Inside the perimeter, there was no sign of the former hospital. The space was now a large earth pit, much like the room he had woken up in, with the floor and s burned away, and the dirt-covered foundations had become the ground. He counted more than thirty freaks, all in small clusters, spread around the large area in what he guessed were family groups. They milled about, interacting and grunting. There were kids playing in the dirt, too, and gnawing at lumps of meat, like spareribs, from the takeaway. They worked hard with their teeth until clean white bone appeared from under the burnt meat. The ground was littered with clean bones. Tunde was taken to the left side of the pit and propped up against the rough earth wall just below the old floor line, and Alex was dumped next to him. Farther along the left side, in the corner of the ruin, a fire pit had been dug and was glowing red hot. Freaks constantly threw lumps of wood, and any burnable rubbish, including human bones, skulls, ribs. And he spotted a pelvis, too, as it was lobbed into the pit to keep the flames hot. Even at this distance, Tunde could feel the waves of heat on his skin as the pyre flared in response to all the fuel it was receiving, its hunger being satisfied like some demanding fire demon. Its servants, the freaks that fed it. A decently built scaffold tower stood above the pit, blackened and scorched. Tunde now knew the re-bar wasn’t just a convenient way to move prisoners around. It also fit perfectly across the tower to allow their bodies to spit roast above the flame grill. Just in front of the flame pit, a group of freaks were struggling with someone they had just untied. Jez. There was nothing Tunde could do but watch Jez have his clothes ripped from his body. And then watched as they rolled him along the ground, wrapping him

in a kind of mesh—no, not mesh. Chicken wire. The re-bar was inserted into the wire binding, and two of the freaks lifted Jez in the air between them. Jez’s screams pierced the air as he struggled against his cage, but there was nothing he could do as another freak held a flaming wooden torch against his bare torso. The freak started to run the scorching flames up and down Jez’s naked body. Jez’s shrieks got louder as the freak burned away all his body hair, searing his skin in the process. Tunde saw him go limp as his coping mechanism cut his consciousness too. The acrid stench of burnt hair hit his nostrils again and made the back of his throat hurt. The freaks carefully placed Jez’s unconscious body on the spit above the firepit. Jez would never wake up now, as the intense heat began to charbroil him. The freaks licked their wet lips and rotated their next meal on the spit. Tunde was numb he looked around, searching for some chance of escape. But all he saw was a pile of dead gangsters, and one more living meal attached to a rebar pole on the ground between them, and the firepit. The man on the re-bar moved. It was Dirty Tommy, still dressed and tied like them, with washing line. Maybe Tommy would be next? Or one of the dead gangbangers? Who knew? There were dozens of these freaks to feed. Most of them hovered near the firepit, their mouths and chins wet with saliva in anticipation of a meal. Tunde bet they hadn’t eaten this well in days. Halloween was good for them. The groups Tunde had identified came forward, one representative at a time, to claim a body for their family. Well-ordered for a bunch of flesh-eating cannibals. So far, no one had claimed him or Alex. But Dirty Tommy’s luck had run out, as a large-built, possibly female freak grabbed the re-bar and started to drag him toward her clan. Tunde couldn’t see any way out of his predicament. Maybe the cop would ride in on his steed and rescue them. Or maybe they would get stripped, cooked, and eaten. He let out an involuntarily laugh. The situation was unreal. The Nail Dem Crew didn’t even acknowledge the freaks. They just stayed out of

their hunting ground. Hell, they didn’t even believe the stories about cannibalism. There was never any evidence of it. The Company provided work and food parcels to the residents of London, so there was no need to sink to this level. That was, if you believed anything the Company said or did. Tunde was watching Tommy as the lady freak started to untie him. Tunde let out another involuntary laugh as he saw Tommy launch into action. The head-butt he delivered to the freak was monumental, and quite right, too, as he was fighting for his life. The freak’s face was a mess of blood as she flew back and landed on her arse. In a flash, Tommy was up on his feet and looking for a weapon. A thigh bone was near his foot, and he scooped it up. Tunde had underestimated the skinny pimp. He was a tough and skilled fighter. The freaks started to close in on their future meal, but they were undisciplined and just scratched and clawed at him. They were effective in large numbers and when they had the element of surprise, but their tactics were failing, as Tommy was swatting them away with his leg bone before they could overpower him. Go on, Tommy! Tunde watched the battle unfold, but the freaks were closing in, and they would overpower him eventually. He could see Tommy’s eyes scanning the boundaries of the site, looking for a way out, anything to help him survive. Tommy’s endurance and determination made Tunde start to wriggle and try to loosen his bonds. His movements woke Alex again, and he saw her looking slowly around. But then she must have seen the human-shaped kebab being rotated on a giant spit. Her eyes popped wide and she tried to call out to Tunde, but no words came out, just a garbled choking noise. Then her eyes rolled up into her head, and she fell back into another faint. “You’re no good to anyone, love,” Tunde said. His wriggling increased, and he felt the stretchy washing line start to loosen. Tommy was backing up toward the firepit, his arms dropping from exhaustion, but a look of fierce defiance was still painted on his open-mouthed features.

Then something caught his eye. So much so, his defences dropped, his arms now at his sides, his eyes goggling. Tunde saw something, too. Movement above them on the earthen bank, in one of the many openings in the broken hospital wall, somewhere between where they were trussed up and the firepit. As he searched for further movement, something flew from the gap—a red spinning object, and it was flying toward the firepit. As the object began its descent, Tunde heard a noise, as if something was slicing the air. Then he saw that something strike the spinning red object. An arrow pierced the item, which he could now see was a fuel can, and was spraying its volatile contents in the air. Then another arrow came, but this one was on fire. It struck the canister with a white flash, followed by a blast of heat and a wave of concussion as the tank exploded. That wasn’t it, though. As the blast reached the firepit, another bigger ball of flames burst out into the waste ground, incinerating any freak that was in its path. Tommy had started running as soon as the fuel can began its journey, and therefore escaped the initial blast. As he went, he looked back at the ball of fire that now rushed across the waste ground. He saw that he was outpacing the rolling flames, so he turned and jogged backward, watching the carnage unfold. As the plume of hot death swept the lady freak into its embrace, Tommy pointed his middle fingers at the burning freak and shouted. “Ha!” As he turned away again, he saw Tunde and Alex and ran toward them, leaping for cover as the flames reached a crescendo, arcing high above the waste ground. Tunde reeled from the boiling heat and rolled away. Alex was still oblivious to it and stayed where she was. Tommy landed between them, hitting Tunde in the back. “Thanks for your fucking help!” Tommy said to Tunde. “Really?” Tommy got to work on their bonds.

Just as the last strands of washing line were loosened across Tunde’s upper body, a designer training shoe covered in grease and blood landed on his chest. Elation flowed through him as Cahill landed on the dusty ground, followed by Tiny of the Foster Kids and the female leader of the archers. “You took your fucking time.” Tunde grinned at Cahill as he shrugged off the loosened washing line bonds, and pulled on his trainer. “We’d better get moving,” Cahill said. “The fire is dying down, and they’ll come back at us in force.” Tunde could not have agreed more. A few freaks howled in pain, singed and burnt. They rolled in the dust, trying to douse flames that had already been extinguished, but they still felt the pain of the fire on their flesh. A freak not too badly injured barrelled forward, and Tunde braced himself. Tiny stepped up and raised his pike, but the archer loosed an arrow that struck their attacker in the centre of his face, dropping him to the dirt. “I’ve not got many of these left,” the archer said. “Nearly ready, Fifi,” said Tiny. Cahill crouched down next to Tunde to cut Alex’s bonds away with the blade of his pike. Alex’s eyes were red with tears, and her lips trembled, but no words came. As the lines fell away, she shot forward to hug her rescuer. Tunde couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. “It’s okay, darling. I’ve got you.” Cahill helped get her to her feet. “We need to leave now.” Tunde could see that the freaks were getting to their feet and shaking themselves off, readying themselves to attack. Cahill nodded at him and draped his arm around Alex’s shoulders. He ushered her toward the bank, and Tunde followed. Tiny scrambled up and offered the blunt end of his pike down to Tommy, who

used it to pull himself up to the top of the earthen bank, followed by Alex, Fifi, and Cahill. Tunde watched and waited to take the pike last, and then used his good arm to climb the bank. Once at the top, he shuffled after them all to the nearest opening and climbed through. At last, he could leave this place of horror behind. The howls from the injured freaks became quieter as he gained distance along Great Maze Pond. Tunde and the group jogged down the ruined street and turned right, onto Newcomen Street. Then they eventually emerged onto Borough High Street and headed south. His tension was ebbing away, and his heartbeat thumped in his ear in time with his throbbing arm. He approached the junction with Long Lane, until the group ahead stopped. Obviously, they felt it was safe enough to stop and take stock of the situation. Tiny said, “Are you definitely off this time, Declan?” “Thanks, Tiny. And especially you, Fifi.” Tunde couldn’t agree more, but kept quiet. The recent close shave had shaken him up. “My pleasure, Declan,” replied Fifi. “It’s not often I can let loose like tonight. And that fireball!” She beamed with joy. “Come on then, you,” Tiny said to Fifi. “Let’s get back to H’s before all the food goes.” Tunde was pleased the others were leaving them alone. The pair walked away, giving a wave as they went. “Wait for me!” shouted Dirty Tommy. “I’m gonna pick my bike up and get north of the river as soon as I can.” He looked at Alex and Declan, but ignored Tunde. And he was happy with that, as he, like a lot of others, had taken an instant dislike to Tommy. Despite his fighting skills, he was damned annoying.

“No harm done, eh, guys?” Tommy said. That was the best they would get from him. “Suppose not.” Alex folded her arms. “I’ll see you, then.” Tommy turned his back and followed Tiny and Fifi down Long Lane. “I fucking hate South London,” he muttered, shaking his head. The feeling was fucking mutual, thought Tunde. He could see Alex was infatuated with the cop as she clung to him with her arms as they walked. Tunde caught Cahill looking at him, as if he were expecting him to speak. He decided that he would keep his mouth shut for now. He would leave Cahill wondering what was going on inside his head. Maybe later, when they reached HQ, he would reveal his thoughts to Cahill. And it wouldn’t be long, as they were closer now than any other time this night. Although the night was coming to an end, it was still dark. Sunrise this time of year wasn’t until about 7:30, and he reckoned it must be about 5:00 by now. “I reckon it’s okay to head straight to HQ now,” Cahill said. “What do you think?” Tunde remained silent, his head down in pain. “I doubt there’s anyone else out there now,” he finally replied. “You heard from Babe?” Cahill said. “I lost my phone when the freaks jumped me.” Tunde looked down again. The trio marched south.

35

Nico arrived at the rendezvous point without further incident. Thanks to the Triple C, he had managed to gather a bigger army than he had attacked the Foster Kids with. They waited in the vicinity of South HQ. Over thirty more of the Nail Dem Crew were hidden in the old, ruined estate on Opal Street, opposite the HQ. They had been briefed, and they all knew exactly what they had to do when Soldier and the cop arrived. And these were Nico’s own people, so they would follow orders. To be fair, Ringmaster had done well, too. The Triple C had mustered over twenty circus freaks, and they were all hidden down Renfrew Road, past the HQ building, lurking in a derelict pub opposite Kempsford Road. They also had strict instructions about what to do when Soldier arrived with his police escort. Although, Nico wondered if they would stick to the plan. He hadn’t had much luck controlling warriors from the other gangs tonight, and he could forget about any help from the Transport Killers or the Bang-Up Crew after the massacre on Tower Bridge Road. Nico had spoken to Ringmaster when he got there, and had learned that three police cars had recently arrived back, one after the other, and were now secured inside the vehicle yard. He also reported that they had seen an ambulance there, too. Nico thanked the eccentric gang leader and went to his own forces up the road, on the other side of the HQ building. A large-built Nail Dem Crew member stepped into Nico’s path. Cowboy was one of the oldest serving gangsters on the Crew, and he’d been kept back at HQ all evening, just in case anything had happened to Nico, so Cowboy could have assumed leadership. “Glad you made it Nico,” he said, in an impossibly deep growl, pulling the brim of his black Stetson down low over his eyes.

“The boys never made it.” Nico said, referring to Blade, Rocky, and Skins, in genuine regret that they had lost their lives. “I wondered why Street Bro stopped updating,” Cowboy said, in a sad tone. “No one makes old bones in this town.” “True that,” Cowboy growled. “Did they go for it?” Nico said. “They want access to our smuggling connect, and an eye-watering discount on their gear. But yeah, they went for it.” “Okay.” Nico mulled the information over. “They’re sending twenty straps with plenty of food,” Cowboy said. “Good. It won’t be long, now,” Nico replied, not hiding his pleasure. The deal Nico had made with the Battersea Barbarians was a risky one, at best. But he felt it was worth it to play out the final part of their plan, because the result would make him the richest and most powerful gangster in London.

***

Teri put her head around the door of the breakroom to see if their guests were okay. She saw Lin on the sofa, sipping a steaming-hot cup of coffee that she grasped in her small hands. Christine shivered next to her, also with a hot drink, but hers remained untouched. Her unblinking wet eyes stared at a notice board that displayed missing persons. The board was full. Satisfied they were okay, Teri strolled along the corridor and ed her teammates in the briefing room. “Where’s Sarge?” Tom Harris said.

“He’s in the control room, attempting to close down all the outstanding calls,” Shanice said. “So it’s definitely happening, then,” Tom said. “Clean Sweep is the only directive that allows him to close all the calls down.” Jay shrugged. “We can explain,” Teri said. “That would be handy,” Tom replied. “I was wondering why you two had swapped the van for an ambulance, and why there are a couple civilians drinking our coffee in there.” He pointed toward the breakroom. “The gangs attacked the hospital, trying to get to Tunde Adeyemi,” Shanice told the team, who sat and stared at her. “Lin, the short one in uniform, helped us get away in the ambulance. She’s the security manager at the hospital.” “Hold on,” Tom said. “How come you two went there? Calls were off-limits. You knew that.” “Look, we never went to help Cahill,” Teri said. “A fucking bus had crashed into the building. You must have heard that!” “It was just a traffic collision,” Danny said. “It could have waited.” “That bus was full of gangbangers,” Teri said. “The place was surrounded, and when the bus breached the building, they ran in, raping and murdering. We were lucky to get out alive.” Danny and Tom looked at each other to convey their suspicions about her story. “I don’t give a shit what you two think, and that’s the truth.” Shanice folded her arms. “Hold on a minute,” Mikhail said. “Has anyone managed to get a hold of Cahill?” Sarah gave him a look that would kill, and shook her head slowly.

“Who cares!” Tom said. “Whatever you think he’s done,” Carly said, “he is still our colleague, Tom!” “He’s been found guilty by the Company, of drug possession and using prostitutes. And he’s a fucking drunk!” Tom shouted at her. Mikhail looked for , and got the nod from Sarah and Jay. “He was a good detective, Tom. This is all because the sarge hates him. And that’s his problem. It shouldn’t be ours.” “I don’t believe this!” Tom replied. “I reckon he would have been sacked and thrown in jail if he had been found guilty of something that serious,” Mikhail said. “Then you’re a mug,” Danny said. “If Clean Sweep runs through the streets, and Cahill is out there...” “According to Lin,” said Teri, “Cahill was hiding in the hospital with Tunde. He could be trying to get back here with his man.” “Look, he’ll just have to take his chances,” Tom said. “If we’re right, HQ will be on lockdown until the National Police have been through the plot. There’s nothing we can do.” He slumped back into his seat. Sergeant Smith entered the room, carrying his ever-present clipboard, and Teri felt the atmosphere change on his arrival. “Right, stick the kettle on, because this building is locked down until further notice. Operation Clean Sweep has been approved, and in the next couple hours, Territorial will roll through the ground.” Smith flashed his yellowtoothed grin. “They will start here and then take the most direct route to the hospital.” “Sarge, Cahill is still out there,” Mikhail said. “I know, and there’s nothing we can do.” Smith’s yellow grin threatened to split

his face open as he marched back out of the briefing room. Teri had always been worried about the sergeant’s sanity, and now it was clear he was as mad as a March hare. She just hoped Lin was right, and Cahill was almost here.

***

Smith had never been happier as he waltzed out into the vehicle yard, and to the entrance doors that were usually controlled from inside. But lockdown meant lockdown. He tucked his clipboard under his arm and threw the deadbolts across the gates. Now they would have to be physically unbolted before anyone would be allowed in. The only other entrance was the front desk, and that had already been secured for the night. Rubbing his hands together, he waltzed back inside and into the control room, where Sam and Dev were waiting for further instructions. “Right, you two,” Smith said. “All calls are now rerouted to central control. All our outstanding calls are suspended. All I want you to do is monitor our external CCTV cameras. Tell me if you see anything untoward. Clear?” “Yes, Sarge,” they replied, in unison. Smith went back to his desk sat and swivelled his chair around to supervise the controllers and listen in on them. He saw Sam select the camera control screen and select the two cameras that gave a view outside the front of the building— one, up and one down the road—and set the monitors accordingly. “Right, Dev. I’ll take the Kennington Lane end. And you take the Renfrew Road end.” “Roger that, Sam.” Dev placed his hand on the small joystick that enabled the camera to scan the area. “Where are you, Cahill?” he mumbled. “What did you say?” Smith growled.

“Nothing, Sarge.” “Good.” It had turned out to be a great night, after all, as far as Sergeant Smith was concerned.

36

Cahill scanned the wide expanse of road at the Elephant & Castle, while Tunde and Alex held back behind the building line. The long Halloween night was coming to an end. The freaks and weirdos were departing the streets for their dingy boltholes so they could hide from the daylight and wait for the darkness to come again. It wouldn’t be long until their next bout of mayhem. Meanwhile, the legitimate residents of London were waking and readying themselves to leave their own safe places to head to work in the factories and elsewhere. Cahill could see that the coast was clear. “Ready?” he said, over his shoulder. Tunde ignored him and walked out into the road, heading south toward HQ. “I am.” Alex sighed and took Cahill’s arm again, eager to please him. The three moved across the open ground, which was once one of the busiest road junctions in London. Now, it was a no man’s land that hadn’t been claimed by a gang, as it was so close to the South HQ. Cahill suddenly felt tired of the weight of Alex hanging off his arm, and it irritated him. He tried to shake her off, but she just squeezed tighter. Tunde smirked at them, but his smile was quickly replaced by a grimace. They were all running on empty. They left the Elephant & Castle behind, then kept to their right on Newington Butts, and strolled into Kennington Lane. Their destination was just a few yards away. Cahill stopped at the junction with Renfrew Road and stared at the building—the place he had been trying to get to all night. But something felt wrong.

He shrugged Alex off his arm, much to her displeasure. He turned around slowly as he scanned the surroundings, his ears and eyes wide open, but he saw and heard nothing. “We’re here!” Tunde pointed at the building. Although it was shuttered, they could make out the soft glow of lights through the narrow slits in the steel window coverings. It was the best view he’d seen that night.

***

“Sarge!” Sam yelled, startling Smith at his desk. He looked up and saw that Sam was staring at her screen and pointing. He stood behind her to see what all the fuss was about, and to his despair, on the screen he watched Cahill, a white female, and a black male as they walked on Kennington Lane. They stopped in the middle of the junction with Renfrew Road. Smith squinted at the screen and saw Cahill in the deserted shadowed road. He watched him look around the street, and felt the hate boil in his veins, frustrated that he had no choice but to let his enemy in, with his witness, and God knows who else. Cahill had succeeded yet again, and made him look stupid. Smith marched into the briefing room. “Tom, Danny, go and let Cahill and his guests in through the vehicle gate.” The lockdown had meant those gates were now bolted, and therefore couldn’t be opened from the control room. This irritated Smith even more, as he had just personally locked them. “Sarge?” Tom said. “Now!” Smith screamed, with spit flying and veins popping.

***

Cahill couldn’t see anything amiss, but he could not shake the uneasy feeling that he was being watched, and not just by HQ’s CCTV. Then he heard the noise of bolts being drawn back, and saw the gates of HQ swing slowly inward. Tom Harris stuck his head out into the street and peered out and to his right, toward Cahill and his bedraggled companions. “Oi!” Tom shouted. “Cahill, are you coming in or not?” “Welcome committee is here, Officer.” Tunde tapped him on the shoulder and pointed down at the patrol officer poking his head through the opening at the far end of the police building. “I know. Let’s go, then.” Home free, but still unable to shake his bad feeling, Cahill advanced toward the open doors, his light head spinning with relief. As he and his companions trudged toward the entrance, he heard an impact that sounded like a ball being kicked off a brick wall. He saw Tom’s attention drawn away as they got nearer, and noticed a ball rolling along the ground near the entrance, as if it had just been kicked. Cahill saw the figure emerge from the shadows to the right of the vehicle entrance as he approached. The clown strolled toward them, wearing the green jersey of a soccer goalkeeper, and had on massive oversized sponge gloves which made his hands look like they spanned a foot across. As all the clowns were, he was dirty and unkempt, and his face had been decorated by the tattoo gun. Cahill ushered his group to speed up. They were only a few feet away, and he noticed that Alex was close to losing it. Tunde was grimacing from pain, but still

helped Cahill by grabbing Alex’s other arm. Tom stood mesmerized between them and the clown. Cahill, Alex and Tunde scurried over the threshold, into the yard. Cahill looked back. Tom watched as the clown stopped and smiled, saliva spilling from his red tattooed lips. “Can I have my ball back, please?” the soccer clown said. “No. Fuck off,” Tom replied, more out of shock than anything else. Cahill darted back outside the gates. There was no time for this. They had to get the gates shut. The gangs had been waiting for them. “Tom!” Cahill shouted. He threw his pike across the ground and grabbed Tom by his shoulders and pulled him back toward the gates just as he heard multiple feet running getting louder and closer. The clown laughed and lunged forward for Tom, but Cahill had already jerked him out of range. Tom was like a rag doll, unable to move. Cahill flung him through the gates as Danny Cox threw the left gate closed. Cahill grabbed the right, and he and Danny bolted them shut. Multiple thuds hit the solid gates and they shuddered as the attackers got there a split-second too late. Luckily, the entrance was an opening in the building, an archway sunk into the stone, with no way over the top. After a few seconds of pointless hammering, it stopped. Cahill retrieved his weapon from the floor and followed the group inside the building. Inside HQ, Danny ushered his partner Tom into the briefing room to sit down. Cahill scowled as he watched Danny speaking to his partner. He noticed the rest of the team shift with uneasiness when they saw him. Cahill stepped in the room. “Declan!” Teri shouted. “You got out.” “Yeah.” Cahill replied.

He was pissed off with them all, but he knew that Teri, along with Shanice, had at least come to the hospital, so he wasn’t too hard on her. The rest of them just gawped at him. He just looked them all up and down, then shook his head and left the room. “We’ll plot up in the breakroom,” Cahill said to Alex and Tunde, as he opened the door to the welcomed waft of hot coffee. He scanned the room and saw a woman wearing scrubs on her lower half, scrunched in an armchair and curled in the foetal position. On the sofa next to her was a small, cute Chinese woman staring at the floor. He stopped and watched her in silence. Alex and Tunde walked in, too. “Declan?” Alex said, her lips trembling, gaze darting between her hero and the security guard. “Lin?” Cahill said, his heart racing as he realized that Lin had made it out of the hospital, after all. Maybe he owed Teri and Shanice a bigger thanks than he realized. Lin broke free of her waking nightmare and looked up. Their eyes locked. He was vaguely aware of Alex as she flopped down into one of the two chairs either side of the coffee machine. And of Tunde, who took the other chair by the coffee machine. Mmm, coffee. Cahill’s mouth was watering from the fresh-brewed smell. But he soon forgot about that. “Declan!” Lin jumped up and reached up around his neck to hug her head into his chest, her tears flowing. “It’s okay, Lin. We’re fine, honestly.” Lin stood back and looked him up and down, maybe surveying for injury. “See, I told you we’d have coffee someday.” Cahill smiled at her, pointing to the

coffee machine. Finally feeling safe, Cahill leant his borrowed pike up against the wall of the breakroom. Then the door slammed open to thud against the wall. Bang! Sergeant Smith strode in. Cahill turned to face him. “I’m so glad you made it back,” Smith said, through gritted teeth. Cahill stared into Smith’s bloodshot eyes, looking down at him. Lin stepped away and sat back down on the sofa. “Is that right, Sergeant Smith?” Cahill said. “Why wouldn’t it be right?” Smith shrugged. “Because you are a bitter and twisted old bastard that should have the decency to retire. You are pure poison.” Smith’s face grew red, and his hands trembled in rage. “Don’t be like that, Cahill,” he said. “There was nothing we could do to help.” “Maybe if you didn’t bully the team relentlessly, maybe if you didn’t ban them from assisting me, maybe that would have helped. What do you think?” “You can’t prove that!” Smith spat. “We’ll see what the Company thinks about that. Just like last time.” Cahill smiled. Smith lunged for him. Cahill pivoted as Smith overreached. Tunde leapt to his feet and delivered an uppercut to Smith’s chin, dropping him to the deck. Tunde was in pain, gripping his arm again, but moved in on Smith anyway. “Leave him,” Cahill said.

Tunde halted. Smith climbed to his feet. His gaze darted everywhere. “I’ll have you nicked for that.” Smith pointed a shaking finger at Tunde, who laughed in his face. “Why don’t you nick him yourself, Sarge?” Cahill said. “Do everyone a favour. Go and sit at your desk and keep away from real police work.” Smith, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, said nothing and stormed out. Cahill would deal with him and his team another day. Smith couldn’t be blamed entirely for the night’s horrors. No, that was down to the gangs coming for Tunde. But maybe, just maybe some coordinated backup would have helped them get to safety earlier, and maybe not so many would have had to die out in the zone. “Let’s get some coffee, yeah?” Cahill said. “Plenty of sugar in mine,” Tunde replied. Alex stayed quiet, as did Christine, both trapped in their own heads. “I’ll have one, Officer,” Lin purred, her skin flushed. Cahill smiled, enjoying the spark of warmth this lady gave him as he filled cups with hot coffee for them all. As he finished filling the cups, his brain began to work over the events of the evening, including all the lives he had been forced to take. He was at peace with that, in so much, he had no doubt they would not have got out of the hospital alive if he hadn’t taken such a hard line. What he did struggle with were the events that unfolded on the Foster Kids’ turf. That had been a massacre by definition, and Cahill still hadn’t decided what to do about it. He didn’t personally spill blood, and neither did Tunde. But they were responsible for what happened on Tower Bridge Road, just by their presence. They should have been home free at HQ, because the gangs that had been on

their tails since the hospital had perished during the All-Stars archery barrage. But that soccer clown at the gate made Cahill believe that another army had been waiting here all along, which would for the feeling of doom he’d had when he arrived at HQ. But that made no sense. They had been vulnerable in the street. The building was locked down. The three of them were bare-arsed in the street. So if the gangs were waiting, why weren’t they dead. Why hadn’t the gangsters solved all their problems there and then, and ended Tunde? Now in a place of safety, Cahill’s detective brain started to put the clues together. He finished heaping sugar into the assortment of steaming mugs on the side, and handed them out. Lin’s gaze locked onto Cahill’s, and he winked at her as he handed her two mugs—one for her, and one for her curled-up friend, Christine. He picked two more up and took one over to Alex, who ignored him. Cahill shrugged and took the two mugs over to Tunde, who popped a handful of pills he had kept from the hospital into his mouth. He crunched them a couple times, then used the coffee Cahill gave him to wash them down. “What do you reckon?” Tunde said. “What? The clown?” “Of course, the clown.” “It was obvious we were heading here, Tunde.” Cahill looked down in thought. “I thought they had put all their eggs in one basket on Tower Bridge Road. Thought they were done.” “I would have sent troops here.” Tunde gave a knowing shrug. His innocent comment, and that shrug, sparked Cahill to recall his thoughts while he was pouring the coffee. If they were ahead and waiting for them at HQ, why did they fail so badly when the trio arrived? “Why didn’t they attack us then?” Cahill said. Tunde’s mouth closed tight, as if he had said too much.

“Why aren’t we dead?” Cahill said. “Those clowns are unpredictable. Who knows why?” Tunde shrugged. “Those clowns must be working on Nico’s behalf.” “I’m the one they’re after. I don’t know what their plan is. We’re safe and sound, so surely we just wait for the National Police to scoop me up.” Lin stood and waved at Cahill. “According to Sergeant Smith, the NPS are on their way.” “Well, there you go,” Tunde said. “I told you they’d come for me.” He folded his arms in satisfaction, and took his coffee over to a chair and sank down with a grimace, clearly in pain. “Declan, I need to speak to you in private,” Lin whispered, as she guided him out of Tunde’s earshot. Cahill looked quizzically at her, but stepped out into the corridor and shut the door behind them. “Smith told me that Tunde hasn’t spoken to anyone at the NPS. He’s a liar, Declan.” “Why’s the NPS coming, then?” “He didn’t say why. He just said that they’re coming.” Cahill’s brain whirred again. “Lin, go back in and finish your coffee. I’ll be back soon.” She smiled and nodded, then went back into the breakroom without another word. Cahill needed to speak to Smith. Needed to find out what he knew. Cahill heard Sam and Dev gasp as he threw the control room door open more forcefully than he intended. Smith was sitting with his back to his staff, head in

his hands. Cahill stood to the side of his desk. Smith ignored him and massaged his jaw where Tunde’s love tap had dropped him. “Sarge?” Cahill folded his arms. “You haven’t heard the last about this.” Smith said, without looking up. “Let’s try to be professional. We can sort all that out later.” Cahill could see Smith struggling with this. He was a bully and a coward that had always hidden behind his rank and the Company rules. But even he must know that this night wasn’t over yet, and that he would need Cahill and his entire team if there were more clowns and gangsters out there. “I agree,” Smith said, in a weary tone. “Those Triple C gangsters out there must have been here for Adeyemi.” “Of course. But what I can’t work out is why they didn’t they attack us and kill Adeyemi.” “What are you getting at, Cahill?” “I don’t know for sure. But something Lin said has got me thinking.” “Go on.” “Tunde has been telling me all night that he’s going to inform on the Nail Dem Crew. But Lin said you had spoken with the NPS, and that it isn’t true.” “I’ve tried every angle, Cahill. No Company detective has even been assigned, because the shooting happened after the morning handover. It’s on tomorrow morning’s list for them. All we had was the report of the patrol officer who took over from you. Nothing else happened with it. As for the NPS coming to see him...that’s rubbish because they have no record of a referral of any kind.” “Why was I even sent down there? Why then? I didn’t relieve anyone. He had been at the hospital all day without a guard. Why did you suddenly send one?”

“There was nothing to suggest we needed a guard. But just before the handover, we received a tip-off that there may be another attempt on him.” Smith shrugged. “A tip-off from where? A phone call? An informant?” “I don’t fucking know! I just get the bulletin. You know how it works.” “But the NPS are coming here?” “Not exactly.” “What exactly?” “Clean Sweep is going to roll through to quell the gang activity at the hospital, and any activity they encounter on route to and from the designated start point.” Cahill was speechless. He knew exactly what Clean Sweep was, and what it would have meant if they had still been out there. That also explained Smith’s gritted-toothed welcome to HQ. “The start point is here,” Smith said. “They’ll be here any minute, so that should sort those Triple C clowns out.” “Think on this, though, Sarge.” Cahill stared. “Going back to my original point. This building is a fortress. The windows are shielded. There are just three entrances, which are armoured. And there is no way around the back, unless you have a helicopter. So what are the odds that any gang could breach this building? I reckon a million to one against. So why did they let us get in? Why didn’t they kill Tunde?” “Because, Cahill, the clowns are a bunch of useless gangsters that were too busy trying to scare you, than do anything meaningful.” “Normally, I’d agree. But tonight, they’re working for the Nail Dem Crew.” “Let’s just sit tight and wait for the Clean Sweep,” Smith said, in a smug tone. “If there are any more bangers out there, they’ll all get wiped out. Plus, I’ve decided to issue you all firearms.” Cahill’s brain shrieked at him, and his thoughts suddenly clicked into place. The

night-long niggle solved at last, and he didn’t like it. “Guns,” he said. “As the senior officer on duty, I can invoke an emergency arming decision.” “No! The gun amnesty. You mentioned it at the beginning of this shift. You said that all the guns are here. Downstairs, in the armoury.” “Yeah. So what?” “That’s what this is all about.” Cahill bolted out of the briefing room and back toward the breakroom.

***

Tunde’s stomach flip-flopped. He was here at last, in the belly of the beast. His plan had worked. He just needed the opportunity to slip away from the breakroom, from all these damn do-gooders and victims. He laughed to himself. Victims—that was rich. Nico had almost got him killed tonight. The idiot only had to follow orders, but he had failed to get a grip of the gangs. Failed to do what he had been asked to do. Tunde had planned everything. The well-aimed gunshot to his arm, through a wedge of pinched flesh so his muscle and bones were saved from trauma. The luck with the timing so that when the shot fired, the cop heard it. He knew that Halloween would leave the already stretched LPD cops strung out, so they would struggle to attend the hospital. Then there was the icing on the cake by way of the intelligence fed into the LPD by Nail Dem Crew informants. The LPD thought they were dealing with trusted informants, but Soldier had arranged for his own people to give that intelligence to the cops. And the cherry on the top—the intelligence that had come in on this day was from three separate sources, all saying that the gangs would be visiting

the hospital to finish him off. But that was when his problems started. Tunde realized that the cop they sent to watch him was the one who he had bumped into on the riverside. The one who heard the shot, and who had called the ambulance. But Tunde had soon realized that he was washed up, a semialcoholic. He had expected a couple armed cops, at least. However, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Tunde had thought quickly. He convinced the drunk cop that he had known him, and that he had been good to him years ago, which had settled the cop down. Communications had been awful, and there was no way the cop could have checked up on his story about the NPS coming to see him to take him into protective custody as a witness. Cahill, the oldest boy scout ever, had jumped at the chance to protect someone that was going to help shut down the lucrative, but inherently evil, London drug market. What a joke. What Tunde didn’t plan for was how tough and resourceful Cahill was, and how intuitive he was. He seemed to be constantly thinking and planning. This, of course, caused Nico problems Tunde recalled. The plan had been to force entry into the hospital with a bang. This was to give him and the cop ample opportunity to escape from the building and get to HQ. However, neither Tunde nor Nico had counted on Cahill’s skills as he led their spirited exit. Their bloody escape had sent the gangs into a rampant bloodlust of killing and raping when they realized their gang were getting slaughtered by their prey. Tunde had got caught up in the escape by instinctively ing Cahill in the fight. At first, he wanted to show the cop that he wanted to escape, too, which was why he himself had drawn first blood against their attackers. But then, as he fought by Cahill’s side, winning against impossible odds, Tunde began to have the time of his life. He tried to communicate with Nico when he could on the number they had prearranged, but Nico, or Babe, hadn’t been good at interpreting their progress. What, with mistakes like lift cables being cut, and that their escape route had been too effectively blocked at the ground floor, where they should have been able to slip away.

Then Cahill had spotted the phone. Tunde thought he had got away with it, though, by explaining about his girl. But then he knew he had fucked up when he had waxed lyrical about his kids. Tunde’s cheeks burned as he ed his slip-up, but he thought he had brushed over that okay as well. If it hadn’t been for Cahill suggesting the window-cleaning platform, Tunde wasn’t sure they would have gotten out of the building at all. And then there was getting to HQ through the hordes of blood-thirsty gangs that had completely forgotten the reason they were there that night. Again, Cahill had come up with the goods with his plan to take them on an indirect route across South London. It was shrewd, and it meant Tunde had been able to let Babe know. But then things got even more intense. Tunde, of course, had no idea of Cahill’s association with the Foster Kids. Who could have known a cop had links like that. Tunde felt lightheaded as he ed all those dead gangsters. The plan had spiralled out of control in the deadliest way possible. Those lives were on him, no doubt. But they had escaped once more. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire. Tunde shuddered as he recalled his capture by the cannibalistic freaks out of the old hospital. He thought he was as good as dead, especially when he watched them roast that guy Jez. Jez had been badly injured during his capture, and was weak from blood loss. He was easy game. But then Tunde chuckled as he ed that skinny guy, Tommy, taking the freaks on just before their rescue. That geezer was a survivor, all right. Tunde owed Cahill his life for that rescue, and for the whole night, and he was confused by his feelings about the cop. He hated cops, and all law enforcement. They were the enemy, and they were just to be used and abused to get him to his goal. To get him to that massive pile of guns locked away inside South HQ. The gun amnesty had been running for weeks prior to Halloween, and TV coverage had been reporting daily on the ever-growing pile of hardware in the bowels of HQ. Sir Stuart Cullimore had given the final update himself. Tunde had been sickened by the man’s soft face and rancid smile, but the fool had given Tunde the idea as he told the world the result of the amnesty.

Sir Stuart listed them. He told the ambitious gang leader everything he had ever dreamed of. He heard about the seizure of over two hundred assault rifles, one hundred fifty machine pistols, and over three hundred assorted handguns. And of course, ammunition. Sir Stuart estimated almost one hundred fifty thousand rounds. Tunde could read between the lines. There was no way on earth that the gangs of London had given up this quantity of hardware. It was firepower not even the Battersea Barbarians had access to. Tunde had guessed that the cops were disguising their own seizures as part of the amnesty to try to tell the world—or more likely, the Company—that London was becoming civilized again, and that the gangs were losing heart, giving up their guns, and maybe soon they would all be marching toward the factories to start working alongside the other drones. Bullshit! The gangs had never been stronger. hip to the Nail Dem Crew was growing every day, as teenagers that became of age to work in the factory zone were instead running away to the NDC. It was the same story in other gangs. London Transport Killers were taking on apprentices. So were the BangUp Crew. The Battersea Barbarians were growing in force like no other gang. This was Tunde’s main concern. Nail Dem Crew had been one the biggest and the oldest gang in London, but the Barbarians weapons cache had always caused them problems because no one could match them. Tunde’s own intelligence had suggested that the Barbarians were soon going to move on the Nail Dem Crew to take over the most valuable commodity in London—the drug market. They had the numbers and the weapons to do it, too. Tunde had tested his theory during the planning for this night’s work. The Barbarians didn’t want to them in this venture—they didn’t want to risk the losses, and didn’t want to take on the cops. That wasn’t cowardice. Just business. They did, however, offer to lend some guns for the final assault. There was a cost, of course, but Tunde could see through them. They didn’t believe this venture was possible—that a gangbanger would get to be invited inside the police station, let alone get in the position to open the doors to their armoury. As far as Tunde could see, the Barbarians were keeping out of it, but offering so that if Tunde’s plan worked, they were still on good and could benefit from the treasure. If it didn’t, and the gangs got shot to pieces by the

cops, the Barbarians could take over as top gang without a single loss to them. Tunde knew his plan had a good chance of success, so as soon as he found the opportunity once he was inside South HQ, he would give Nico a signal—hang a red bandanna in front of a window. Nico would then start shooting the building up. The last part of the plan was to get the cops to open the armoury to defend against the attack. Once this armoured room was opened, Tunde would let them in through the fire door on Kennington Lane. And because the gangsters would be close to the building, they could flood inside. Tunde felt adrenaline surge through his body. He knew there would be about forty gangsters out there. But in the building, there were just a handful of cops, and some civilians. They wouldn’t stand a chance. Tunde frowned as he thought about Cahill. He would be a problem, and Tunde wasn’t sure if he could take him. Or even, if he wanted to. His thoughts were cut short when the short Chinese security guard ushered Cahill outside the room. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the little guard came back in and Cahill had marched off down the corridor. This was his chance. He gave it thirty seconds. “Toilet,” Tunde mumbled, as he left the room. Once in the hallway, he noticed the fire escape door was directly on his left—the one that led straight out onto Kennington Lane. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d entered the room. This was it, all right. The fire exit had no locks or codes, as it needed to be pushed open in an emergency. It was a solid door that would be difficult to breach from outside, but all Tunde needed to do was give it a shove and let death in. But not yet. First, he had to give the signal so that the shooting could begin. So that the armoury would be opened. Satisfied with the fire exit, he looked right, toward the stairs where the corridor opened. He couldn’t see Cahill, so he hurried toward the opening, which turned

out to be the middle entrance. This was locked, and couldn’t be opened without codes and keys. He ran up the main central stairs to the first floor, then back along left so he was at a window at the end of the corridor, which placed him right above the fire exit. Once there, he peeled off his dirty designer trainer and pulled out the insole. Of all the shoes to lose, it had been this one, when the freaks took him. He ed he could have kissed Cahill when he returned it. Shaking his head, Tunde delved his hand underneath where the insole had been, and found the folded red bandanna that he had secreted there. He opened the bright rag with a flourish. The window had a narrow fan light at the top, and Tunde saw exactly where to display the signal. After opening the fan window, he knotted the corner of the bandanna, securing it around the window’s thin metal stay. He pushed the onefoot square red cloth out the window and poked it through the slot in the metal shutter so it could flutter above the fire exit. Job done, Tunde headed back to the breakroom. All he had to do was wait for the shooting to start.

***

Cahill burst into the breakroom, searching for Tunde, but his chair was empty. “Where is he? Where is Tunde?” Cahill said, out of breath. “He was popping to the toilet,” Lin replied. “We’ve been tricked, Lin. The whole night. Tunde wants to be in here. It was his plan all along.” “Why?” she said. The door opened, and Tunde walked back into the room. Everyone stared at him.

Cahill pounced like a cat, clawing at his lapels and slamming him up against the wall. He squeezed the wound on Tunde’s upper arm. Tunde yelped. “What the fuck!” “What have you done, Tunde?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, copper.” Tunde twisted away, surprising Cahill with his strength. The two men squared up to each other. Alex shrieked and dived over onto the sofa next to Christine. The women grabbed each other in blind panic and . Lin narrowed her eyes like a cat before a fight, and clenched her fists. Cahill advanced. Tunde held his ground in the corner of the room, his fists raised. “You’re not informing on the gangs. You’ve planned this, haven’t you?” “You are out of your mind, Cahill. After all we’ve been through tonight, fighting our way here.” “I’m not going to listen to you anymore. In fact, you’re nicked.” “What for?” “Conspiracy to steal firearms, inciting a riot, assault...I’ll think of something when I hand you over to the National Police.” “You can’t prove anything. I’ve been with you all night, Cahill.” Cahill reached into the pocket on his borrowed Harrington jacket, brought out his last set of cuffs, and opened his mouth to speak, but gunfire ripped through the air. The din of dozens of percussion caps igniting gunpowder with a pop of heat, followed by the staccato of lead projectiles stitching the stonework and pinging off metal shutters. Cahill, Lin, and Tunde hit the ground. Alex and Christine hugged and screamed.



***

Inspector Collins, Silver Commander, paced as he briefed his bronze commanders about the morning’s mission. Most National Police Service officers had nothing but contempt for the Company’s private police force. Many of them applied to , so most of the resentment was down to the bitterness of failure. The LPD had the highest rates of pay, and anything protracted or complicated was handed over to the NPS to deal with. Plus, all prosecutions were conducted by them, too. So basically, a detective or patrol officer had all the fun, received the best pay, with almost zero paperwork. However, LPD cops were equally as jealous because they weren’t allowed to take any job from cradle to grave, so to speak. Life was funny like that. Cops are never happy, thought Collins. The zone wouldn’t know what hit it this morning. He was aware of the six darkblue armoured buses lined up in the yard at Croydon Police Station. Croydon was the home of Territorial , and the nearest NPS station on the southern border with the LPD. There were similar setups north, east, and west, just waiting to head into the LPD when things got out of control, as they were always destined to do. Each bus would be driven by a driver specialist, managed by a bronze commander, who was at least a sergeant, and ed by six constables, who were the shooters. The shooters were spread out three either side of the vehicle so they could scan for targets through the small loopholes cut into the side of the bus. Each shooter used a belt-fed Minimi machine gun fixed to a mounting, that could fire over seven hundred rounds a minute. Each bus could put down over four thousand rounds a minute. If you added that to the other five buses, that was twenty-five thousand rounds per minute. They didn’t call it Operation Clean sweep for nothing.

Inspector Collins cleared his throat. “Clean Sweep mission. Start point is LPD, South HQ. We won’t bother them initially. We’ll roll straight past and continue up to Thameside Hospital at London Bridge. Information received of mass gang disorder at that location. The plan is to eliminate any illegal gang activity on route, then on target, and then on return to the start point. Is that clear?” The six sergeants all mumbled their acknowledgement. “Any questions?” “Are we searching the hospital?” said a sergeant with a thick beard. “Under no circumstances are we to exit the vehicles.” “But what if—” “Stay in the vehicles.” This mission was a blunt instrument, a hammer to quell the surge in gang violence in a specific area. This was all the NPS was prepared to do for the Company. They would not put any NPS officer at risk in the factory zone. There would be no search-and-destroy mission inside the hospital. No assistance for any patient or hospital staff member lying bleeding and scared inside the building. No, the Company would have to mop that up themselves. Collins walked with the bronze commanders as they left the briefing room to their teams out in their vehicles. They would cascade the plan to them on route. The vehicle call signs, Alpha to Foxtrot, were allocated over the radio. Strict protocol meant that all six vehicles would stay in that order, and would travel in a fixed convoy. The plan was simple—if the convoy encountered anyone that they considered to be a gang member, under the rules of Operation Clean Sweep, they could be eliminated with extreme prejudice.

It would be a bloodbath. In unison, the armoured bus’s powerful diesel engines roared to life, and with that, a thick black cloud of exhaust fumes rose into the sky. The intense darkness of the billowing fog floated above them like the very shadow of death. Alpha rolled forward, followed by Bravo, then Charlie, and so on and so forth. Operation Clean Sweep was a go. Collin’s returned to his office for a well-earned cup of tea.

37

Just before the shooting started... Nico was furious at the Triple C. What were they playing at? All they had to do was hide down the road and wait for his signal. But as always, those damn clowns did whatever sick thing that popped into their crazy heads, like kicking damn footballs around. Now the cops knew they were there. But they still had no idea what was coming their way. Cowboy and two other gangbangers hauled three heavy holdalls into the derelict room. They dropped them with a metallic clunk behind Nico as he looked out the broken window, toward HQ. “Special delivery from the Barbarians,” Cowboy growled. “Twenty assorted guns, with plenty of ammunition. You want a few for Triple C?” “No chance!” Nico said. “That lot would probably shoot themselves. Distribute these amongst our top crew.” Before Cowboy and his boys could gather the bags up again, Nico delved his hands into one of the holdalls. Eventually, he found himself a Glock 17 already loaded with a magazine. Attached to the pistol grip by a thick rubber band were two more full magazines. He stuffed the weapon down the front of his joggers and placed the two magazines in his right jacket pocket. Cowboy nodded and smiled at Nico as they began to gather the bags so they could hand them out to the boys. “ the word, Cowboy. No one is to do anything until I say.” “What’s the signal, Nico?” “When I start shooting, we attack. Make sure the clowns know.” “Is this gonna work, boss?”

“We’re exactly where we need to be. All we do is wait.” Nico turned his back and went back to his view through the broken window, onto Kennington Lane and at the HQ building. The minutes ticked by, and Nico paced the derelict room, never taking his gaze off the building. How long would it be? How long until Soldier could get the signal out? Could he even do it, or had he been sussed out? He’d certainly been pushing his luck tonight. But Nico knew how resourceful his best friend and boss could be out on the streets. Soldier hadn’t become the top dog of the Nail Dem Crew for being a soft touch, that was for sure. Nico turned and paced the room for the fiftieth time, when he saw a flash of red. His chest buzzed with adrenaline as he focused on a flapping red rag that hung out of a shuttered window directly above the fire exit—their way in. But first, they needed to get the last part of the plan home. They needed to attack the building to get the cops to open the armoury. He drew the Glock with his teased the top slide back a few inches so he could see brass in the chamber. Locked and loaded. He strutted toward the HQ building in full view of his crew that were tucked away that end, and made sure he could be seen by the Triple C that were hidden down the other end. The gangbangers couldn’t help but follow their leader as they saw Nico stride from the hiding place they had been waiting so patiently in. They saw that he held a pistol, so the gangsters followed suit, running out after him. The Triple C responded as well, flowing out of the ruined pub they lurked in. These clowns were also armed, but not with guns. Instead, they wielded knives, swords, axes, and bats, with murderous looks on their painted faces. Nico’s guts buzzed with excitement as the screams and battle cries got louder on the quiet street. He aimed his pistol at the ground floor windows to the front of the building and fired the first shot. This would keep the attack clear of their intended point of entry, and hopefully undefended. His gunfire was not on its own, because a split-second later, his crew fired off their weapons, too. A multitude of pistols, shotguns, and rifles created a constant

volley of noise, with sporadic bursts of light as bullets flew from barrels. The noise was deafening as lead peppered the stone and steel of the building, which seemed to be moving as dust, chips, and sparks flew from its surface. Nico realized he was laughing as he rained bullets onto the building.

***

Cahill rolled onto his back and peered up at the windows, wincing as tiny missiles rattled the shutters, but quickly realized that the small arms fire they were receiving couldn’t penetrate the thick stone walls or the steel shutters. He rose to his feet and rushed over to Christine and Alex, who squirmed on the sofa, almost in time to the gunfire’s rattle. “You two, stay here. Nothing can hurt you.” He recognized that these two had been through a great deal of trauma this evening. Both had survived the horrors of the hospital, so it was probably best to keep them out of the fight for now. He knew, though, that if the gangsters got in, both women would need to fight. Tunde and Lin had got to their feet, and looked to Cahill for instructions. The shooting had slowed dramatically, but the shots were still ringing out. Must be conserving their ammunition. “Briefing room.” Cahill headed straight out of the breakroom, and the other two followed. Dev, Sam, and Sergeant Smith must have had the same idea, as the three of them burst out of the control room, almost bumping into Cahill’s group as they rushed into the briefing room, where the rest of the team were stationed. Piling into the room like that startled the team, who all darted from their own positions of cover and retreated from the intruders, deeper into the room. Some of them went for weapons on their belt kit.

“Shit, Sarge!” shouted Teri. “We thought the gangsters had got in.” “They’re outside, shooting at windows,” Sam said. “There’s dozens of them. Nail Dem Crew and Triple C.” “You two,” Cahill yelled to Sam and Dev, to be heard over the random gunfire. “Can you go back into the control room and monitor the cameras?” “They’ve already hit one or two of them,” Sam said, “but we’ll see what we can do.” “See if you can at least cover the entrances to the building.” They nodded and scurried back to the control room, keeping low as if a stray bullet would find them at any time. “Sarge?” Cahill looked at Smith, who was in a world of his own. “Sarge?” he repeated. “What?” Smith broke out of his daze, and looked at Cahill with pure hatred. “When is the Clean Sweep due?” “That would be damn handy,” Shanice said. “Any time now,” Smith replied. “What’s that?” Tunde said. Cahill shut him up with a glower, and stopped Shanice from answering by holding his finger to his lips. “Sergeant Smith, I’m going to need the cellblock keys,” he said. “Tunde Adeyemi is under arrest.” Smith’s eyes goggled wide open, and his jaw fell. “For fuck’s sake, Cahill,” said Tunde. “Those gangsters out there are trying to kill me.”

He flinched as a fresh downpour of lead rain tap danced all over the briefing room shutters. “Cahill, what are you talking about,” Smith said. “You’ve protected that gangster all night, and now you want to lock him up?” “Tunde’s part-right. The gangsters are here for him. But not in the way he wants us to believe. He’s planned the whole thing—the injury and the police protection, just to get inside here.” “You’ve lost the plot, Cahill,” said Tom Harris, having recovered from his scare at the gates. “They want what’s in the armoury, ?” Cahill said. “From our shift briefing?” “The amnesty,” Teri said. “All the weapons. Shit.” “And you were just about to open the armoury to issue us guns,” Cahill said. Smith’s took on a bemused expression. “What is it?” Cahill said. “It’s open already. I went down just before the shooting started. Dev saw them marching down the road, so I went straight down and unlocked the security door. You can go down and help yourselves.” Cahill stared into Tunde’s eyes. Am I right? Or am I making a fool of myself? No, his instincts were usually right, and he had learned to listen to them. But he was exhausted. Maybe a drink would help? Oh my God, yes, his brain transmitted back, with a wave of craving. His mind drifted onto the half-bottle of Irish whiskey in his locker. Saliva started to flow. He swallowed it down and forced his mind back onto the problem in hand—Tunde Adeyemi. And there it was. Cahill could see it there in Tunde’s eyes. Hope. “He needs to be locked down now. He’s behind this.” Cahill lunged toward Tunde, chain-link cuffs in hand.

Smith pulled back even closer to the interior wall, flinching from the gunfire still pinging the building, and from the fight he expected to break out between Cahill and his prisoner. “Step back!” Tom Harris blocked Cahill’s path. “You need to stand down. I’ll lock him up.” Danny Cox stepped to the other side of Tunde to assist Tom so that they had him covered on both sides. But Tunde made no move to struggle, and dropped his head. Cahill knew Tom was right, he had too much going on in his head to think clearly, and he was far too close to Tunde to be rational. They had been through hell. Smith seemed to regain his bravery when he saw his two favourite patrol men step up. “Well-done, Harris,” said Smith. “Take charge of Adeyemi. Let’s lock him down until the Clean Sweep can do its job.” He threw his bunch of keys across the room, to Danny. Tom and Danny grabbed Tunde by the arms and led him toward the door. Tom paused and looked at Cahill. “You make a good point about the weapons. So we won’t risk it.” “Thanks, Tom. Here, use these.” Cahill offered his cuffs. “It’s only down the corridor.” Tom laughed as he and Danny escorted Tunde out of the room. Bullets sporadically whined off the shutters, reminding them that there was still a threat outside. “I suggest we think about fortifying our position in here,” Cahill said. Smith scowled at him.

“What do you have in mind?” Mikhail said. “I think the strongest entrance is at the front desk because there’s an airlock and two sets of locked heavy doors. The vehicle gates are pretty solid, too, and I doubt they’d be able to smash them in without some heavy machinery. But the weakest point has to be the fire exit.” “So?” Teri said. “I think we should arm ourselves and barricade the hallway between the fire exit and the stairwell. That way, we can retreat down to the basement if we start to get overrun. Maybe have a secondary barricade down there in front of the armoury?” “Where do we get this barricade from?” Sarah Doyle said, with attitude. “There are plenty of tables, desks, and chairs in HR and the other rooms down here,” said Jay Patel. “We can fill the corridor, no problem.” “That’s the idea,” Cahill said. “Right, Carly, Teri, Shanice, with me. Let’s tool up.” “Careful, Cahill,” said Smith. “Sergeant Smith, this isn’t the time.” Cahill stared into Smith’s eyes. Smith blinked first. “Yeah, you sort the weapons and get that barricade sorted,” he said. “I’ll go down to the custody block and write up Adeyemi’s custody sheet. Better make sure something’s done by the book, eh?” He left for the cellblock, where Tom and Danny had just taken Adeyemi moments before. Cahill turned to face the rest of the team. “Jay, Mikhail, Sarah, start blocking the corridor just before the breakroom door. We’ll be back with weapons in a few minutes.”

“Yes, boss,” Jay replied. “Roger that,” Mikhail said. “Whatever,” said Sarah. Cahill walked out, followed by Teri, Shanice, and Carly. They descended the central staircase, down two flights, and then a right turn at the bottom, going underneath the briefing room and the control room, and then finally arrived at the steel door of the armoury—the one Sergeant Smith had recently unlocked. It was a large room. Plenty big enough for the racks of LPD-issue submachine guns and pistols that lined the right-hand wall of the room, with a ready-use ammunition locker beneath the weapons. It was also conveniently large enough to house the huge wooden packing crates that were filled with the amnesty guns and ammo. They were stacked in neat piles, floor to ceiling, and they filled the room. Cahill stood at the counter that stretched across the entrance to the armoury, and stared into the room. He swallowed. There were an enormous number of boxes with potentially thousands of weapons stacked here. “Shitty death!” Shanice looked over Cahill’s shoulder. “Smithy wasn’t kidding,” Teri said, when she, too, spotted the pile of crates. “There’s tons of hardware in here.” Cahill lifted the counter and hooked it open for his team to go in. When the last one was inside, he entered. “Right, Heckler and Koch MP5, and a Glock pistol each,” he said. “There should be loaded magazines in the locker, so let’s fill some kit bags with them.” The girls set about the tasks he had just given. Cahill looked around the room and up and down the aisles created by the packing crates. It was a typical armoury. A couple of small, meshed vents on the far wall that no doubt vented out at street level. And the door, almost like a bank’s, was the only way in and out. The room itself was about fifteen square feet, and under the counter that extended to the side of the door opening, was a

shelf that accommodated a main set radio, a landline phone, and a ballistic firstaid kit. He ran his hands around the edge of the door, and then examined its frame. Sturdy, no doubt. He noticed there was a keyhole on the outside, but not inside. The door had an electric locking system that shot four bolts into the frame at the middle of all four sides of the door. Inside on the interior of the frame, two large deadbolts were fitted—one into the floor, and one into the ceiling. He thought this was odd, as generally there would be no reason to provide a means to lock yourself inside the armoury. But the manual bolts must have been fitted for some outlandish protocol. Like a power cut, or possibly a siege? He couldn’t help but laugh at his own conclusion. Whatever the reason, this was a gift. He decided that should the gangsters get in, and they couldn’t hold them on the ground floor, they would retreat into the armoury itself and lock themselves in. That way, they could easily holdout until the early shift, or until the Clean Sweep team arrived. Must have been getting close to that time now. It had to be after 6:00 a.m. A wave of weary crept over him. Cahill looked up and saw that the girls were loading the ammunition into the kit bags, and were also checking the functionality of the guns. The devil crept up onto his shoulder and blew ill-intent into his ear as he realized that now was the perfect time for him to grab that bottle of Irish from his locker. “Won’t be a minute,” Cahill said to Teri, who was nearest. “Just grabbing something from my locker.” “Sure,” she replied, without looking up. The locker room was right down the other end of the basement corridor, next to the gym, under the cellblock and the yard. His craving peaked as he found his shitty locker in the stinking room. After kicking the old paperwork and crap out of the way for the second time that shift, he snatched his locker door open without even attempting to unlock it. He had no idea when he had lost the key, along with his hip flask and lucky pen.

With shaking hands, he grabbed the half-empty bottle from the bag and pulled out the stopper. He drained a slug of the golden liquid in one go, stopping only to gulp in some air. He put the neck to his lips for another drop, but something stopped him. The spirit rushed around his chest as the warming liquid slithered down into his body, the blood rushing to his head. Usually, this was a welcomed feeling, and would have been just the start of his journey. But after all this, after all he had been through, he couldn’t allow himself to slip into oblivion yet. That would have to wait for the night to play out. Whether Tunde was behind everything that had happened tonight, or was about to become a source of intelligence and would split South London open in one momentous bought of informing, Cahill still had to consider the siege they were under. There were at least fifty gangbangers out there, and most of them seemed to have guns. He had noticed that the gunfire had gone from a constant barrage to random pot shots at the metal shutters. This told him two things. That they were either conserving ammunition, or running out. He shoved the bottle to the back of his locker and threw the door shut. As he left the locker room, Teri and Shanice walked out of the armoury, both hefting large kit bags full of weapons as if they weighed nothing. Carly followed them out, dragging one bag along the deck. Cahill relieved her of the bag, not out of chivalry, just impatience, and led the way back upstairs. They ascended the wide marble stairs, lugging the weapons, when they all heard an unfamiliar noise. They stopped to listen to the rhythmic clanging that reverberated through the building. Clang...clang...clang...

They continued up. But before they turned the bend in the staircase that would bring them back to the ground floor, a shriek echoed down the hall.

38

Nico strode through the gun smoke, squinting to see in the thick fog as the acrid burning gunpowder stung the insides of his nostrils like cheap cocaine. Shots popped off every now and then, since Nico had told them to slow down. They would need all the ammunition they could get hold of once the exit was opened to them. he was sure the cops would mount some sort of defence. But he was equally sure that Soldier would do everything he could to scupper their plans. He was resourceful like that. Truth be told, the gang were getting impatient. Fifteen of them were armed and positioned in a straight line along the front of the building, on Renfrew Road. Clowns and unarmed bangers festooned with various wickedlooking implements stood with them, but had nothing to do. Some pleaded with their neighbour for a go on the gun, and some relented. But not all. Nico was getting irritated again. Soldier was welcome to leading these bunch of hooligans as soon as this was over. Nico’s mood was lifted, though, at the thought of what was to come after their victory tonight. The Battersea Barbarians would fall first. They would regret not giving over at least a few gangsters to help with the plan. Nico flinched as someone blasted a sawed-off shotgun close to him, the pellets peppering the window at the far left of the building dozens, and bouncing off the shutter, having caused nothing but noise. Nico was bored, too, so he headed over to the fire exit, where he had lined up about a dozen gangsters. Half of them were Nail Dem Crew, and therefore had pistols. They would be his shock troops—first into the building to meet any resistance the cops had in store for them. Followed by another thirty gangsters, half of which were armed. And Nico would be right behind them, just like he had been back on Tower Bridge Road. They weren’t sure exactly how many cops were already in the building, but the

Triple C lookouts—if he could trust them—said that three cop cars had returned with two cops in each. Plus, they had seen the ambulance with another two. Then there was Cahill, Tunde, and that girl who was with them. Nico was confident that they massively outnumbered them, probably four to one. These were odds he liked. But now a new problem was looming—they were running out of night. It was after 6:00 a.m., and the sky was getting lighter, and it would be daylight by 7:30, this time of year. Soldier had done the research and had explained it all to Nico. The day staff would begin to arrive at 9:00. There were front counter staff and office staff. Next would be the new patrol shift, probably arriving at about 9:30. The four patrol team system worked like this. They did one week of days, 10:00 a.m.–10:00 p.m. One week of nights, 10:00 p.m.–10:00 a.m. Then one week off. The next week was a so-called free week, where the spare team bolstered the day shifts, which were busier than nights, usually with factory activity. Once the factories were locked up and the workers went home, the LPD pretty much left the streets to the gangs. The problem was that they should have achieved their objective between midnight and 2:00 a.m. Soldier hadn’t anticipated it would take so long to get to HQ. He couldn’t have known the cop had friends out in the zone. Plus, Soldier went missing for a couple hours after the bloodbath at Tower Bridge Road. But now they were here, in position. But they only had a couple hours to get this done. Nico addressed the gangsters that waited in line by the fire exit. “It should be any time now. You all ready?” The first gangster in line smiled at Nico, the veins popping out of her neck as she nodded slowly. This bruiser of a girl was Nail Dem Crew, and she was holding a chunky chromed .357 revolver that looked small in her huge hand. Nico smiled at her and nodded back. He noticed one or two of the shock troops were Triple C, but not clowns. One drew his attention because he wore a black leotard and was as muscular as the girl in the front. “You some sort of circus strongman?” Nico said, with hesitation.

The strongman grinned and lifted his weapon, which was a double-bladed axe. “I reckon we should make a start getting in,” Nico said. “You think your axe will make a dent in this?” He pointed at the fire exit door. It was wooden, but sheaved on the outside with metal. And to make things more difficult, it opened outward into the street so it couldn’t be kicked in. “I’ll give it a go,” the strongman said, his face a picture of happiness because he clearly liked nothing better than smashing stuff. The shock troops moved back as the first swing struck the steel with massive force, making the metal clang like a bell. Nico was amazed to see the door and frame shudder under the impact. The strong man methodically went about his business.

***

Tunde accepted his escort down to the cellblock, as it was as good an excuse as anything to get away from Cahill’s accusations and constant watch. These two idiots weren’t in his league. Or Cahill’s league, for that matter. What was it the Foster Kids called him? That’s right, they called him the last street cop. Tunde thought they were probably right. He’d never met a more streetwise and skilled fighter outside the gangs. Danny held Tunde’s uninjured upper arm as Tom unlocked the cellblock door with the keys Sergeant Smith had given him. “It’s best we stick you in the cell for now, Mister Adeyemi,” said Tom. “Just until this blows over.” He swung the door open. Tunde just wanted to get out of the corridor and into the room behind the closed door, so he was limp and compliant as Danny led him into the custody suite. The lights activated when the three entered the room, triggering an infrared

switch. The bulbs flickered as they struggled to wake and take the darkness away. The door was spring loaded, and clicked shut behind them on its own. The key would be needed to gain entry back into the main building. They entered the custody reception area. Directly to the left, as he entered through the door, Tunde saw there was a corridor that led to six cells which looked standard enough, and he knew from personal experience that each had a toilet. At the end of the corridor was a small, but efficient, kitchen which provided meals from the freezer that could be heated up by an industrial microwave oven. Tunde had always been partial to the all-day breakfast. Down the right side of the main space was a long desk with a Perspex screen. This was where the custody officer would take down the detainees’ details as they were booked in. At the far end of the desk, toward the front of the building, was the nurse’s room. There were no washing facilities in the cells, so the nurse’s room was also equipped with a bathroom and shower for emergencies. Opposite the long desk was the entrance from the vehicle yard through which prisoners usually arrived. Tunde wasn’t surprised by an empty cellblock at night. Police numbers were so small, they couldn’t afford to take cops off the street to look after prisoners. More gunfire erupted outside, and projectiles pip-popped off the shutters that covered the nurse’s room window. Although, these ones sounded more muffled than they did in the briefing room, due to the extra wall and door in the way. After locking him inside, Danny let Tunde go, leaving him unrestrained, and turned to speak to Tom, who had ducked down behind the desk, and appeared to be switching on the computer at the wall socket. Tunde started to control his breathing. Anytime now. “Won’t be a minute,” Tom said. Danny smiled at Tunde as he waited awkwardly for Tom, as he had the keys to open the cell doors.

This will be too easy. “I’ll stick him in number one, Tom, when you’re ready.” Tom popped up from behind the desk. “Yep, stick him in there. Here you are.” He lobbed the bunch of keys over the top of the Perspex screen. Now. Danny watched the keys sail through the air. He went to grab them mid-flight, his gaze locked on the glittering metal and not on Tunde, who launched a right hook to his jaw. Danny was down on the deck from the punch. Tom looked up, but not quick enough, as Tunde was already halfway over the top of the Perspex screen. Tom squawked as Tunde leapt down onto him. With no room to manoeuvre, Tom could only go backward as Tunde advanced along the confined space behind the desk. Tom put his hands up and covered his head, but Tunde slammed his knee up below the cop’s guard, connecting with his chin. Tom’s head whipped back from the strike. Tunde followed with a left, then a right, lightningfast punch combination. Tom’s knees buckled as Tunde landed a right cross on his chin, dropping him to the ground, unconscious. Tunde looked over at Danny. He was still out for the count, so Tunde reckoned he had a few minutes before either of them came around. “Cell number one was free,” he muttered to himself, as he dragged Tom out from behind the desk and toward the cell corridor. As he drew level with the entrance door, it swung open. He slid Tom along the floor so the cop skidded part-way down the cell corridor just as Sergeant Smith walked in. “Hello?” He looked around the room. Too late to run back out as the spring-loaded door slammed shut, and Tunde leapt out at Smith, who yelped, hands up in defence. But Tunde’s fist banged

through his feeble effort of a guard and smashed the sergeant’s nose flat. Smith collapsed to the ground with his colleagues. Tunde saw that Smith had another set of keys, which meant that Tunde now had what were probably both sets of keys for the building. These would come in handy, he was sure. Especially if Cahill tried to lock the armoury. Tunde dragged them, one by one, along the floor, and deposited all three knocked-out cops in cell number one, then slammed the door on them. He pressed the Isolate button on the cell alarm switch, which prevented prisoners from continuing to press their emergency call button. Or in this case, incarcerated cops trying to alert their colleagues. He stripped them of their batons, cuffs, Tasers, and CS gas canisters. Left them in a pile on the floor outside the cell, but not before he stuck a baton down the back of his tros, pocketed a can of gas, and shoved a Taser in his pocket to the gas. He stood by the custody door, ready to leave. Ready to let in his fellow gangbangers. He took a deep breath unlocked and opened the door a crack to look down the corridor. Just as he did, a clang! reverberated along the corridor, coming from his goal—the fire exit door. Shit. Nico got impatient. It was now or never. Tunde burst from the custody suite and sprinted the length of the ground floor corridor. Clang...clang... The noise got louder as he neared, and he could see in his path that there was a half-constructed pile of desks and chairs. He started to go for the small gap that was still there on the right side of the makeshift barricade just beyond the control room. “Hey!” A shout came from the control room door as Tunde sped past. He paused and

glanced in, seeing two of the uniformed cops—one white and tough-looking, and one Asian. They were holding a desk and were carrying it out of the room, no doubt to add to the barricade. The Asian cop was nearest to the threat and dropped his end of the table and reached for the Taser on his belt. He pushed the dangerous end of the weapon toward the running Tunde, but he was too slow, as Tunde was already pointing an identical weapon back at him. The darts hit the Asian cop in the chest and dropped him with a crackle of energy, just outside the control room door. The tough cop leapt up onto and over the table, jumping out into the corridor to grab Tunde. He shoved the tough cop with his shoulder, causing him to crash against the wall, where he became entangled in a stack of chairs ready for the barricade. Tunde didn’t look back, but caught a glimpse of a female cop who was carrying another pile of chairs. She shot out of the room and leapt over the Asian cop to take a swipe at Tunde, only just missing as he continued toward the fire exit. Tunde felt the closeness of the blow as he discarded the used Taser over his shoulder. Clang...clang. Nearly there, Tunde stretched his right arm out, ignoring the cops that were struggling to their feet, determined to stop him. When he was almost at the fire exit, a scream pierced his ears, coming from the breakroom. Tunde, breathless and sweating, peered in this last room on the left, just six feet or so before he could get his hands on the fire escape Push to open metal bar. Just a half-dozen feet and one firm push, and his dreams would be fulfilled. But he looked in. The Chinese security guard, Lin, saw him and jumped to her feet, looking around for a weapon, a fierceness on her face that Tunde believed. Christine and Alex were the source of the screams, and they clung to each other, unable to control the tears streaming down their terrified faces. Lin saw it—the pike that Cahill had left in the breakroom. Tunde saw it, too, and realized he’d better get the door open fast. His backup was six feet away, so he

went for the push bar rather than face the determined female security guard that was about to arm herself with an effective weapon.

***

Cahill appeared on the ground floor, lugging the weapons, along with Shanice, Teri, and Carly bringing up the rear. Cahill looked down the corridor to where the clanging was coming from and saw that Tunde was at the fire exit, about to let all sorts of hell inside HQ. He had been right. And he was too late. “Let’s get that barricade up!” Cahill shouted. He could keep them away from the basement and the guns. Where the fuck is the Clean Sweep backup? Cahill dashed toward the barricade. He watched Tunde push the fire exit bar, and felt his heart drop as the door swung open to reveal a mob shrouded in whirling gun smoke, their eyes glistening like monsters in the half-light as dawn tried to break through. There was a pause of about one heartbeat as the beasts realized the door was open. Then they roared in victory, and breached the building. “No!” Cahill screamed, when he saw Lin appear from the breakroom, just as the gangsters crossed the threshold. She had her back toward Cahill and was hunched forward, holding the pike like a jousting knight, but without a horse. She had some balls. She was about to take the gangsters on. “Lin, this way!” Cahill shouted. She looked back, eyes frantic. He beckoned her to run toward the barricade. She had a half-second to decide. The mob was coming.

She glanced back into the room. What is she pausing for? Then Cahill ed that her friend Christine, and Alex, must have still been in there. He could just make out Lin mouthing, Sorry at them. There was nothing she could do. If she were to survive, she had to move. Cahill’s heart leapt as he thought she had left it too long. But the lithe security guard pivoted and bolted toward the barricade. Sarah and Mikhail pulled Jay through the gap as Teri and Shanice threw chairs at the barricade, keeping a small opening for the rapidly approaching Lin. “Weapons!” Cahill shouted to Carly. She ripped open the bags and started to hand out the guns. Lin scrambled through the closing barricade, and the small gap instantly closed, with more furniture being piled high into the space. Cahill grabbed a Glock, a submachine gun, and the requisite ammunition for them. He loaded and cocked his pistol and put it down the front of his waistband. He loaded the Heckler & Koch, too, and fed a round in the chamber. It had taken him ten seconds to get ready, and he looked back down the corridor. A female Nail Dem Crew member filled the smoke-filled doorway. She was huge, and held a large revolver as she paused inside the building and aimed her hand cannon down the corridor as the others squeezed around her, some running into the breakroom, which elicited fresh screams from the poor girls left in there. No one could do anything for them now. Cahill felt a stab of guilt for Alex. There was no way to help her. Boom! The bullet launched down the corridor and exploded off the ceiling above the barricade. Cahill shouldered the Heckler & Koch submachine gun, switched to single shot, and squeezed the trigger. The pop! of the .9mm seemed pathetic compared to the .357 cartridge that had just exploded. But his shot was wellaimed, and struck home. The female stood motionless for a few seconds, a black hole in the centre of her

forehead. Then her arm dropped, along with her pistol as she fell forward. Gangbangers clambered over her to get to the barricade. Cahill surveyed the assault, trying to stay calm by controlling his breathing. The corridor was now blocked as well as it could be by thick wood and metal furniture. A big circus freak was hacking at the pile of furniture with an axe as others tried to climb over, but they only succeeded in crushing each other. Those that had guns were shooting in an undisciplined manner down the corridor. One stray bullet smacked a female gangster in the back of the head in all the chaos. She looked surprised as she collapsed to the ground. Teri and Shanice had grabbed a couple chairs and pulled them back about five feet from the barricade. Both armed with Heckler & Kochs, they stood on the chairs to better see down the gun-smoke-filled corridor. They were soon taking well-aimed shots at the gangsters. Cahill approved. The girls were good. Shanice targeted the strong man who had been chopping at the barrier. The full metal jacket slugs tore through top of his head, slicing it off like the top of a hardboiled egg. Jay, who had been on the ground, grabbed a Glock, checked it was loaded, and ed the fight. He reached over the barricade, also adding his weight to it, and chose his target. Mikhail and Carly grabbed Glocks, too, and leapt on the wooded blockade as well. Cahill was happy. The barrier had slowed the gangbangers, and now all the cops were fully armed and laying down covering fire into the corridor. The gangsters continued to pepper the barricade, walls, and ceilings with bullets. Cahill could see that although their progress had slowed, it hadn’t stopped them pouring into the building. Two pairs of gangbangers came in low through the open door, each pair carrying a wooden pallet. Two more pairs arrived, and soon they were building their own barricade to shoot from across the hall, near the breakroom door. All Cahill could do now was point his submachine gun at the threat and send the attackers .9mm kisses.

***

Tunde had found Nico in the chaos just outside the fire exit, and they hunched out of harm’s way as more and more gangsters piled into the breach like good soldiers. Tunde approved of the wooden pallets he saw being carried in. “It worked!” Nico said. “It fucking worked!” “We’ve still got to get through that barricade and those cops before we can get down into the armoury,” Tunde said. “Look.” Nico pointed at the queue of killers trying to get into the building— every man and woman itching to murder those cops trapped in there. “We’ll get through.” Tunde thought he was probably right. But how long would that take? The morning shift could turn up. The National Police were coming, too. So they were running out of time if they wanted to get away with the guns. Taking a page out of Cahill’s book, Tunde’s mind found a solution. “We need to flank them, Nico. Get around that barricade.” “We’d need a shitload of explosives to take the main doors off.” “You forget, Nico, I’ve been inside there. We can get in the breakroom easy. Maybe even the control room.” “So?” “So we smash our way through the walls, into their briefing room. We’ll come out behind their barricade.” “Yes, Soldier, you’re the man. They’ll never see us coming. I’ll grab a couple of the crew with hammers and axes.” Nico hustled amongst the queue and selected two suitably stocky crew that were both carrying sledgehammers. Then, on Nico’s authority, they jumped

the line, ducked and entered the fray. Tunde was a few paces behind. He stayed on Nico’s six as he and the hammer-wielding crew kept low in the gun smoke and chaos. Tunde saw they were approaching the breakroom, and kept his head down behind their own pallet barricade, but still flinched from the odd wasp sting of a .9mm slug pinged around him, chipping wood and plaster. He investigated the breakroom, where a few gangsters kept their heads down. But in there he could also see Alex and the other woman from the hospital, laying on the floor naked, covered in blood. Dead. Staying behind the wooden pallets, fallen comrades, and in the smoky shadows, Tunde pushed them on until all four of them could dive into the control room.

***

The barricade was holding. Cahill, Shanice and Teri were like surgeons with their Heckler & Koch MP5s, and were keeping the attackers back, forcing them to stay out of their gun sights by hiding behind the pallets, in the breakroom, and in the control room. A few of the pinned-down gangsters were getting shots off down the corridor, but mostly the lead just exploded off the barricade, walls, and ceilings. Cahill could make out that a group of about six gangsters were hanging on at the base of the barrier, harrying the cops with machetes and various blunt instruments, while managing to stay below the line of fire. They pushed and pulled at the barrier their side, while on the other, Jay, Mikhail, and Carly pressed their weight on the structure and occasionally fired their pistols through the gaps whenever they thought they saw a body part. Lin ed them, too, using the pike to thrust and smash at hands if they got too near the top of the pile of furniture. Cahill was concerned about how long they could hold out here. The gangsters just kept slipping in, and he knew there were dozens of them in the corridor and the two rooms beyond the barrier. He needed to stop them getting in.

He looked about and saw Sarah, Dev, and Sam crouched behind near the top of the stairs. He looked up at the girls, still doing their thing from their chairs, and approached Sarah and the control-room pair. “Sarah, take Mikhail and a couple MP5s up to the top floor, and see if you can stop them getting in the building. Dev, Sam, can you take over for Mikhail. You just need to put your weight on the bottom and keep your heads down. Okay?” Sarah nodded and checked in the bag. There were two MP5s in there, with four magazines a piece. She grabbed the whole thing, then grabbed Mikhail by the shoulder and pulled him backward off the barricade. Taking deep breaths, both Dev and Sam shut their eyes and landed on an upturned desk to replace Mikhail’s weight. Lin thrusted her pike over their heads with a scream, aiming at a face she saw appear in a gap. It wasn’t there long. Cahill made sure Dev and Sam were in a good position, then grabbed Sarah and Mikhail and re-explained the plan for Mikhail’s benefit. With nod, the pair darted up the central staircase. Cahill shouldered his weapon and put a couple rounds into the pallets. He was rewarded by a volley of shotgun pellets which blasted the top of the barricade. Some stray pellets bounced off a metal table leg, and one ripped through Cahill’s left ear lobe. Blood sprayed, and burning agony hit him. He grabbed the side of his head to ease the pain. He took a knee, the pain a distraction from the numbing weariness he felt. How the hell am I supposed to get through this? Lin saw him and leaned down next to him. Her eyes widened when she saw the blood on his ear and neck. “Let me see, Declan.” She wiped blood away from his ear with her sleeve, causing him to wince. “It’s fine. Just my ear. Looks worse than it is.” Cahill gazed into her eyes. Lin just returned the look, holding the left side of his face with her sleevewrapped hand. Another shot smacked into the ceiling, and the falling debris startled the pair from their moment. Cahill needed to get back up.

The girls were unwavering, as Teri returned fire, then shouted for another magazine. Shanice lobbed a spare one over to her wing girl. Teri reloaded, dropping the empty one on the floor. Lin patted Cahill on the shoulder, then picked up the spent magazines and took them over to the two remaining kit bags. She started to load them, sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, her pike ready on the ground next to her. Cahill grabbed the wall and stood with a deep breath. He raised his weapon and looked for his next target.

***

Sarah and Mikhail reached the third floor, which was as high as they could go, as there was no roof access. They raced from room to room, trying to find the best angle to shoot from. “We need to get above the door on Kennington Lane,” Mikhail said. “I know that,” Sarah replied. “I’m just checking what’s going on out there.” Once he reached the end of the corridor, he entered the last room on the left. “I reckon, if I lean out,” he said, “I’ll get a bead on the approach to the fire exit.” “I’ll shoot directly down on the exit from the window at the end of corridor,” Sarah said. “Cool.” Mikhail opened the window and released the shutter, letting it fly open and smash into the wall. He then leaned out as far as he could to the waist, and looked down and around the corner. There it was. He could just make out the edge of the door. But better still, he could see a crowd of about eight or nine gangsters holding at the exit there, ready to the fight.

He saw the shutter to his right fling open, and Sarah appear. She looked down right above the exit door. They both opened fire.

***

Ringmaster was outside directing his crew, looking for any opportunity to cause mayhem and murder. Movement on the top floor caught his eye as he saw a male cop lean out of the window and fire around the corner, at the queue of killers waiting to get into the building. The gangsters dove for cover, pinned down by the new threat above. “Bonzo, bring me my case,” said Ringmaster. Struggling to run with his oversized shoes, Bonzo scurried back across to the derelict building they had been impatiently waiting in. He soon emerged carrying a cello case, which he placed down in front of his boss. “Excellent.” Ringmaster rubbed his gloved hands together and opened the massive case to reveal an air rifle, tiny in comparison to the ridiculously large cello case. He took the rifle out, along with a small tin of .177 calibre pellets from the red velvet-lined case. It was an old-fashioned spring piston-style weapon. The type where the shooter breaks the barrel and inserts a single pellet directly into it. Once it’s closed, the spring has been cocked. This is then released by pulling the trigger, which launches a column of air to push the small lead slug out of the barrel. Not a sophisticated weapon, but still effective. And great for killing rats. This one was old, and had wooden furniture. But a decent black scope was fixed to the top of it. Ringmaster selected a pellet, broke the barrel, and carefully loaded it. “Bonzo!”

The clown hurried over and stood in front of Ringmaster, who then balanced the air rifle barrel on his shoulder. Taking careful aim at the male cop half-hanging out of the window, he slowly squeezed the trigger. Without even looking at the fruits of his labour, Ringmaster calmly packed his old air rifle and tasked Bonzo to take it back to where he’d gotten it from. Pleased with his work, he looked around, fiercely proud of his gang’s work this night. With a huge smile, Ringmaster followed Bonzo off the battlefield and disappeared into the derelict buildings.

***

Mikhail was hanging on for his life, out of the window, with one boot hooked under a radiator. He was popping regular shots from the MP5 whenever a gangster came into his view. When he and Sarah started firing, the gangsters had scattered. The pair had stopped them entering the building. They hadn’t managed to drop any of them— possibly wounded a few—but nevertheless, it was working. He could hear Sarah’s weapon around the corner spitting bullets down on their heads. He still needed to make amends with her after this. Mikhail had put his foot in it earlier, and he’d had no idea how she felt about him. He had no intention of leaving his wife over her, but he did have to work with her. What a mess. The .177 pellet hit him. A total fluke shot—the lead projectile traveling twelve hundred feet per second —entered the corner of his left eye, destroying the soft orb before it pinged off the side of his nose. Its job done, the pellet fell to the ground. Mikhail, stunned from the pain of the explosion in his eyeball, slipped out of the window, blindly flailing his arms and legs. He hit the ground headfirst.

***

Sarah eventually noticed the weapon to her left, around the corner, had stopped firing. She ducked back in and went around to Mikhail’s room. “Mik?” No one there. Where had he gone? A dreadful thought crossed her mind. She leaned out the window and looked down. “No!” she screamed, when she saw the heap of uniform below the window, an H&K submachine gun attached to the mound, by its strap. Sobbing, she started to fire down from Mik’s window, chipping up bits of tarmac from the road.

***

Now that the shooting had stopped from above the fire exit, the last remaining gangsters on the street charged back toward it and started going back in the building. One plucky Nail Dem Crew gangster with long blonde hair crawled over to where a dead cop’s broken body laid, and pulled the weapon free of the heap. Just as she did, a female cop appeared above and started firing again. Blondie rolled onto her back and took aim with the police-issue submachine gun, and sprayed bullets up at the female cop. Blondie loved the weapon. She could see the impacts on the cop’s torso as the .9mm slugs hammered her body armour. Then, as the shots inched upward, the lead reached above the protection of her armour. The bullet punctured her lilywhite skin and took out her larynx in a burst of crimson. Bleeding and leaking, the cop grabbed her ruined throat, blood spilling from her mouth. She dropped from view back inside the room, presumably to die on the floor.

With a huge grin, Blondie jumped up and darted toward the fire exit, holding her MP5. She couldn’t wait to waste more cops. Once Blondie had entered the building, other than the male cop’s body lying in an untidy heap on the pavement, and empty brass cartridge cases littering the gutters, the street was empty. The fire exit door slowly closed behind her, muffling the noise of gunfire within the solid stone building with the steel shutters.

39

The armoured buses that made up the Clean Sweep convoy powered up the A3, toward Kennington. They were approaching the junction with the A23. Sergeant Hickey was convoy leader, and was also the bearded sergeant who had asked the questions at the briefing earlier. He was call sign Alpha. “Convoy, this is Alpha. We will take the A23 turn on our next left. Then right, onto Wincott Street. Then right, onto Gilbert Road. This bends around onto Renfrew Road, where you will find South HQ on the right. Weapons are free. Received over?” “Bravo.” “Charlie.” “Delta.” “Echo.” “Foxtrot.” “Alpha, out.” The convoy turned onto the A23, and continued to roar toward its start point, just a mile or two away. A burst of machine gun fire plumed from the right side of call sign Bravo, obliterating a pair of freaks who had the audacity to stare at the convoy as it ed. Hickey watched it play out in the vehicles wing mirror. “This is Bravo. Two targets down.” Now, each bus would report and record its hits as they went. Unofficially, there would be a competition for the most kills on a Clean Sweep. The winner would receive a bottle of their choice from Inspector Collins. The convoy turned the final bend on Gilbert Road, and then onto Renfrew Road.

“This is Alpha. Standby, standby.” Quiet on the radio as the convoy rolled ed the South HQ, until Alpha reached the junction with Kennington Lane. “This is Alpha. All clear at start point. Alpha will lead to hospital site. Weapons are still free.” Again, the convoy acknowledged in order as they turned left and powered toward the hospital, dismissing the objects on the ground outside HQ as a pile of bin bags. Those inside South HQ never saw or heard a thing.

***

Cahill’s plan to send the two shooters upstairs was working. The flow of gangsters had halted for now. They only had the few dozen or so in the corridor and the two rooms to contend with, and they were holding back the flood. Lin was busy loading magazines, and they had plenty of ammunition to spare. The gunfire was used sparingly to keep the mob at bay, but a good few bodies littered the once clean ground-floor corridor of South HQ. Dev and Sam were still huddled on the bottom of the barricade, adding their weight as Carly and Jay shot their pistols through the furniture. The gunfire was reducing, the lulls between bursts becoming more frequent. It was between such a lull that Dev started to hear a noise down the corridor. “Can you hear that?” “Yeah!” Sam shouted. “It’s guns going off, Dev.” She gave him a dirty look. “No, listen. It’s like a chipping noise.” “So!” She sobbed. “We’re holding back a mob of gangsters. We’re probably

going to die, and you’re worrying about a noise.” Tears streamed down her face as she was jolted back and forth by the barricade. Dev put his head down and thought about what Sam had told him. He had to agree—they were probably going to die soon.

***

Just a few feet from them, in the control room, Tunde, Nico, and two of their crew worked on making a hole in the wall. They had hoped it was a partition wall with just a timber frame and plaster board. But no. Like the rest of the building, it had been built well. The two hoods with the sledgehammers had quickly uncovered the brickwork, and eventually knocked the first couple bricks through. Thinking they would see light through the gap, they were disappointed to find a cavity and another skin of bricks the other side. “This will take forever!” Nico said. “Look, make the hole this side bigger first,” Tunde said. “Then we’ll all attack the final layer and push through. It’s going to work.” The two crew assaulted the brickwork with efficiency as the hole in the inner skin widened. If they could get through, they could slaughter the last few cops that were in their way. Outside the control room door, Tunde saw a dead hand holding a huge revolver. Keeping low, he sneaked his hand out and pulled the handgun free and into the room. He flipped the cylinder open to eject the cartridges, and found only one had been fired. After discarding the spent brass, he reloaded the five.357 shells back into the rotating cylinder, then stuffed the handgun down the front of his tros. This would come in handy.

***

Dev winced and started to become overwhelmed by the chaotic screams and gunfire that invaded his ears, causing them to throb. He clapped his hands over them for just a few seconds. The relief was gorgeous as he closed his eyes, imagining he was somewhere else. Cutting out the loud noises meant he focused on softer noises. Chip, chip, chip... That noise was still there—metal on stone. He wasn’t going crazy. Then it dawned on him. The noise was coming from his left, so somewhere in the briefing room. No, it was the control room. No, in between. They were breaking through the wall. Hands still clasped over his ears, he twisted onto his back, keeping his weight on the barricade. Looking away from the barrier for help, he saw Teri and Shanice stood like magnificent warriors on pedestals, pointing and shooting at the invading mob. No fear, just determination. Just in front of them, Cahill paced underneath their fire, occasionally taking aim and firing himself. The Chinese security guard sat cross-legged, loading magazines from a box of .9mm shells behind the statuesque girls. Sam was curled up in a ball next to Dev, keeping her head down. On his other side, Jay and Carly were still looking for targets. He tugged the bottom of Jay’s tro leg. Although, this was probably a mistake, as Jay kicked him in the ribs and pointed his Glock down at him. “Jay, it’s me!” “Fucking hell, Dev! I nearly shot you in the face.” “Listen, I think they’re smashing through the wall from the control room, into the briefing room. I can hear them hitting the wall.” Jay crouched next to him and shut his eyes and strained to listen. His eyes widened. “Come with me.” He pulled Dev by the collar, off the barrier.

“Keep your weight on that!” Cahill shouted at Dev and Jay, seeing them get up. Jay pointed to the briefing room. “They’re smashing through!” “Right, go check then.” Jay nodded and ushered Dev into the briefing room. As they approached the wall, Dev noticed that the chipping noise had become a louder striking noise—a hammer on stone. “Dev, go tell Cahill we were right. We need to cover this room. I’ll stay here.” Dev nodded as Jay chose a position of cover, positioning himself obliquely against the exterior wall. Then, seeing a steel cabinet against that wall, he tipped it over on its side to form a three-foot-high metal wall. He sat with his back against it and peered over his new piece of cover, his pistol held ready. Dev gawped at him. “Now, Dev!” He ran for help.

***

Where is Dev with backup? Jay stared at the wall, the hammer strikes reverberating in his head now louder than the regular popping of bullets outside. It looked like an optical illusion at first. Like the wall was reaching out to him, bowing out to touch the tip of his gun before sinking back into the wall. Then, again. But this time, a crack appeared horizontally across it. Back it went again. Then out and back. Then the wall caved in. “Breach, breach, breach!” Jay shouted. Bricks tumbled down, and thick dust billowed toward him to reveal four gangsters about to tumble into the room.

Jay stood to see through the gloom and to fire a couple shots at the breached wall as the four gangbangers came through—the first two gripping their sledgehammers. The two behind, holding pistols. One of them, holding a Glock like Jay’s, let off shots from his pistol. Jay returned fire, but they both missed in the blinding brick dust that swirled in the room. The sledgehammer brothers advanced, but Jay could barely see, as debris had got in his eyes, and his tears were unable to clear them as he blinked in panic. A shadow over him as the first of the hammermen reached him, Jay fired two shots blind at the shadow. His spirits raised as the shadow dropped in front of the cabinet. But as he looked up for another target, the second hammerman caught him on the top of his head, smashing his skull into his brain.

***

Cahill popped his head around the door and saw movement in the dust, and heard the two shots. Stepping fully into the room, his Heckler & Koch shouldered, he peered into the cloud. A gangster with a blood-stained sledgehammer emerged. Cahill wasted him. Once he fell, Cahill saw Jay lying next to him, his head shattered. Bang! Another gunshot, and a flash from the dark dust cloud. Cahill felt as if he had been punched in his right shoulder, then felt a rip of severe pain, as if someone had pulled his collar bone out. The police-issue carbine flipped out of his grip from the impact. The .357 bullet had punched through Cahill’s shoulder and out through the other side, his collar bone smashed to pieces in the process. He was in shock, his head spinning, his chest gasping for oxygen. His whole shoulder was numb, and his right arm dangled at his side. He ed the Glock pistol he had put in his waistband, and went into survival mode. He pulled the Glock free with his left hand and fired a shot from

the hip that disappeared into the dust. Dev, who had alerted Cahill, crouched into the room and could see the cop was injured. So he grabbed his left shoulder and pulled him toward the door. Cahill let a second shot off at some movement in the room, but then he was out. “Declan!” Lin screamed, as he staggered out, ed by Dev, bleeding heavily from his right shoulder. “They’re through,” Cahill told her, in a weak voice. “Get to the armoury.” Lin, holding her pike, turned to the others at the barricade. “To the armoury!” she screamed, like a sergeant major on the parade ground. Now, it was like Cahill was observing through a blurred TV screen, as his team scurried around in front of him. Teri and Shanice climbed from their chairs and backed away, keeping the enemy to their front. “You two, up now and downstairs,” Shanice told Carly and Sam, who were still on the barrier. “We’ll cover you.” Carly grabbed Sam, who could barely move, and got her to her feet. They soon shuffled toward the stairwell, Carly grabbing the bag that contained ammunition and a couple pistols. Cahill felt Lin and Dev either side of him as they helped him down the stairs. Behind him, he was aware that Sam and Carly followed, and that Teri and Shanice had the rear guard.

***

Nico peered around the briefing room door and was rewarded with splinters of wood as bullets struck the frame. Tunde chuckled as Nico threw himself back

into the room. “They’re making for the armoury!” Tunde shouted. “We need to move.” Behind them, the gangsters were finally pushing through the breach. At least seven of them left were in a condition to fight. The others were dead or injured, and some had left the building, gone to lick their wounds. Plus, Ringmaster seemed to have pulled the remaining Triple C away. Tunde didn’t care, though. He had no need for them now. In fact, he was relieved that lot were out of his hair. He saw that the last men standing were pure Nail Dem Crew. They would be enough to finish this. It was now or never. Tunde went to his knees, then onto his belly. He rolled out to the centre of the door. Teri and Shanice saw him, but were too slow altering their aim, and Tunde was already shooting up from the floor. The first shot erupted from his heavy revolver. The .357 slug smacked into Shanice’s chin, throwing her backward and blowing the contents of her skull out of the top of her head. “No!” Teri screamed. Tunde’s second shot went low as he rolled, the lead punching through the top of Teri’s left thigh. She screamed in pain, went to her knees and flopped onto the floor, holding her wound, blood running through her fingers in gouts. Tunde stood and stepped over her, wearing a look of triumph.

***

Cahill could hear the carnage behind them threatening to catch up to them. The world was closing in on him, and he needed help. “Shit, Declan,” said Dev. “We haven’t got keys.”

Cahill’s last drops of adrenaline were trying to keep his pain at bay and his brain working. “S’okay,” he replied. “I left it open. We don’t need keys to lock it.” Talking was hard for Cahill, as shock tried to cut through his body’s adrenaline assistance. The three entered the armoury. Lin threw back the countertop, and with Dev, helped lower Cahill onto the floor the other side. He pointed at the first-aid kit under the counter, and Lin grabbed it. Carly and Sam were close behind. Carly started to pull the thick door closed. “No!” Cahill shouted. “Don’t shut it yet. The girls they’re just behind you.” “We have to close this, or we’re all dead.” Carly sobbed. Cahill’s head flopped down, a look of defeat on his blood-stained face. He didn’t object as Carly slammed the door shut, then slid both deadbolts home. We’re safe for now. He looked to Lin, who had the first-aid kit, which was wellequipped and specifically setup to deal with gunshot wounds. “You okay with this, Lin?” he said. “I’ve had training. But I work in a hospital, so I’ve never needed to use it.” “That’s cool. You’ll be fine.” He gasped. Cahill knew the wound in his shoulder was in such a position that the bullet probably hadn’t hit anything too vital. But he had to get Lin to stop the bleeding, and get some fluid in him. She got on with it, cutting away the clothing around his shoulder. She grabbed some gauze and began to wipe the blood from the circular wound just below his collarbone. Fresh blood spilled out as she did. Cahill couldn’t help but notice how gentle her touch was. He felt her wince as she looked at the exit wound, and he guessed it was a bit of

a mess back there. Lin grabbed a bottle full of clotting powder from the kit and ripped the top off. She then puffed large amounts of the white powder into his wounds, front and back. The clotting agent will slow the bleeding. She then began to pack the entry wound with ballistic pads, red instantly soaking through as she packed the hole, then applied further pads one after the other. Cahill was reassured by the pressure on his wound and the padding that protected it. Lin pointed at Carly, who had hung back by the door. “Carly, can you start packing the exit wound with the pads? Plenty of pressure.” Carly was trained, too, and did what she was told by the security guard. With the rear padding going on, Cahill was feeling more hopeful that he could get through this. He looked down. Good work. The top pads were staying white. The blood at last held at bay by thick wads of bandages, clotting agent, and pressure. Lin began to wrap the padding around his shoulder, under his arm with a wide bandage, ing it through to Carly and back again, both keeping the ballistic pads firmly in place, keeping on the pressure. Round and round, until they tied the end off, leaving his shoulder looking three times bigger than before. Lin then deftly folded a sling and positioned Cahill’s right arm high so that his hand rested on his left shoulder, relieving the pressure off his smashed collarbone. Already, Cahill felt more comfortable from the packing and the sling. Lin gave him a handful of painkillers from the kit, which he gratefully crunched dry and swallowed, ignoring the bitter hit. They would have washed down lovely with a drop of whiskey. Lin found the saline bag and intravenous kit, which had an idiot guide written on it, but she didn’t need that, and grabbed Cahill’s left wrist and tied some rubber tubing around his bicep. Cahill felt a juicy vein pop out on the surface of his forearm, which Lin expertly speared with a long cannula needle. She wrapped tape around it to secure it in place, and cut the tubing off his arm. Then she attached the drip chamber to a length of sterile tube, and inserted that in the bag

of fluid. Adapting to their situation, she attached the fluid to the remnants of his clothing on his left shoulder, with a big safety pin. She shook the tube and drip chamber loose so it hung below the wet bag, toward his forearm and the cannula. She let some saline flow down and through to clear any air bubbles, then clapped it on to the cannula. Some slight adjustments to the drip chamber, and the lifesaving saline started to drip through. It wasn’t textbook perfect, but it would help to stabilize him and take him out of shock. And with the drip attached to him, he could move if he needed to. Lin had done him proud. Cahill started to regulate his breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth. The swimming in his head reduced a bit, some of his clarity returning. God, I need a drink. Instead, Lin ed him an energy drink from the kit that was meant to be used to give a diabetic a lifesaving boost of glucose. But in this case, it gave Cahill some life-saving energy. “Get that down you, and sit still,” Lin said. Cahill obeyed and gratefully chugged from the bottle until it was empty. He propped himself farther up the wall. Despite looking deathly pale, he felt himself feeling better from the tablets and energy drink. The adrenaline was no longer masking the pain in his shoulder. But thanks to the firm dressings, it was now a dull, but powerful ache. If he stayed still, it was probably eight out of ten on the pain scale. He looked around to see who was left alive. Dev and Sam from the control room had huddled together at the far end of the room. And at his end was Lin and Carly. “What happened to the girls, Carly?” Cahill said. Carly’s face flushed, and she ran her hands through her hair, then wiped her mouth. “Both shot,” she whispered. Carly avoided eye with Cahill, so he knew that maybe her story wasn’t a

hundred percent true. Perhaps he would find out what happened to them later. “I saw it, too,” Sam said. “They were both hit. There was nothing Carly could have done.” Carly continued to look down. “I suppose we just hold out for the day shift?” Lin said. “Or the NPS?” Dev said. Cahill scanned his vicinity, unable to ignore the huge pile of crates in the centre of the room. “I don’t think they’re finished yet,” he said. They all followed Cahill’s gaze, toward the crates. “Shit,” Carly said. “They won’t stop until they get what they came for, will they?” “No.” Cahill squeezed his eyes shut. “Then let them in,” she said. “Let them take the guns. Use them to save our lives.” “You know that won’t happen,” Cahill said. “It might?” Sam sobbed. “We let them in, they take the guns...they kill us, too,” Lin said. No one spoke. They all knew she was right. For now, all they could do was wait it out.

***

Teri lay on her back, holding the top of her thigh, which was still bleeding heavily through her fingers. The blood was coming through in thick pulses, but was now starting to slow down. Tunde could see that the bullet had hit something vital. “You aren’t walking that off, sweetheart.” Tunde laughed. Nico came out next to him, followed by one of the remaining gangsters, who licked his lips as he gawped at Teri on the ground, a bulge forming in the front of his tros. He started to unbuckle them. “Jeez, how can you be horny?” Nico laughed. “She’s bleeding all over the place.” Tunde shook his head, but did nothing as the man dropped his tros. The aroused man approached the bleeding cop, his eyes glazed with desire, his cock stiff and swaying, barely covered by his shirt. Weirdly, Teri smiled at the gangbanger. “Get on with it then, lover,” she taunted, grimacing in pain. He faltered, confused at the cop’s reaction. Teri rolled to her left, pulling out her MP5 from under herself, firing it as she moved. Blood erupted out of the potential rapist’s groin as bullets shredded his manhood. He emitted a yelp and fell to bleed next to her. Before Tunde, Nico, or any of the other gangsters could react, Teri shoved the short barrel of her submachine gun under her chin and put pressure on the trigger. “Fuck you all.” She turned her own lights out. Tunde was impressed with this woman cop. She had balls, that was for sure. What a waste. Her broken head flopped back onto the floor. I could have fucked her myself. Tunde looked back at Nico.

“Who’s still here?” he said. “Other than us,” Nico replied, “we’ve got Cowboy and his gang.” “That lot in there?” Tunde nodded at the briefing room. “Juice, Cockroach, Fitzy, and Spike.” “I know them. They’ll do nicely.” As if on cue, the five gangsters walked out of the briefing room—Cowboy leading, followed by Spike, a nasty-looking hooligan with a broken nose and a shaved head. He carried a sawed-off shot gun and walked with a swagger. Next was Juice, short and stocky, with a round head like an onion. He was a berserker, a face biter. He never knew when to stop, and he was carrying a Glock pistol he had taken from a dead cop in the briefing room. Cockroach looked soft and fat, but he was worse than the other two put together. Plus, he never stopped talking. Fitzy had movie-star looks, with a bald head, and carried a pump-action shotgun. “Are we doing this, or pulling our plonkers.” Cockroach pulled back the hammer on his revolver. “Shut the fuck up, Cockroach.” Fitzy pumped a shotgun cartridge into the breach of his weapon. “Let’s get this done. Grab the guns, then get out of here. I’m fucking starving.” Cowboy was resting an Uzi submachine pistol upside-down on his shoulder as he approached Tunde. “What’s the plan, boss?” Tunde knew that their remaining forces were all hardcore Nail Dem Crew. Those boys, along with Nico and Cowboy, would hold fast. But now they had another problem—the survivors had locked themselves in the armoury. Tunde smiled to himself and ed he had two sets of station keys in his pocket. “Right, you lot, the basement,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” Nico replied, through a huge smile. Tunde led the way down to the basement. It was eerily quiet since the gunfire stopped, and the dust was starting to settle, which allowed the cheap strip lights in the old building to start doing their job again. Tunde found the heavy door and placed his hands on the cool steel, running them over its rough surface. He fingered the keyhole and found the most likely candidate on his bunch, and inserted it into the dark hole. It turned with a heavy clunk, but there was still resistance. Looking at the gap in the doorframe, he could see the lock was disengaged, but the steel door was still locked tight. “Must have deadbolts,” he muttered to himself. “Hmm. Opens out into the corridor.” “What was that?” Nico said. “I was talking to myself. Shut up. I’m thinking.” Nico pulled a face at Cowboy, who just shrugged. Tunde had learned a lot from Cahill this night. He had discovered that there was always another angle. He took out the second set of keys and handed them to Cowboy. “Boss?” “You know where the cellblock is?” “Stayed there once or twice.” Cowboy chuckled in his deep voice. “There’s a surprise in cell number one—three cops. They should be awake by now. Go get one of them and bring him here.” Cowboy summoned his gang of four, and they disappeared off on their mission. “What you going to do?” Nico said. “I’m going to kill their friends one at a time until they open that door.”

“Man, that’s cold.” Nico laughed. Tunde didn’t reply. He knew that this was his final play. Everything was against him. Backup would be here soon—if not the National Police, the incoming shift, and then they would be outnumbered for the first time. It wasn’t looking good.

40

The NPS convoy trucked north along Borough High Street, their guns hot from dealing with clusters of gangsters and freaks that were caught out in the open as they headed to the hospital. They had left over twenty bodies in their wake. Sergeant Hickey, call sign Alpha, rode in the front of the lead vehicle. He shifted in his seat to see what was happening in front of them. It was pretty much daylight, on a day which was going to be a dull grey one. Ironically, it looked like Halloween had been the last sunny day of the year. It would be a shit, wet winter. “What the fuck is that?” Hickey grabbed the radio microphone. “Convoy, this is Alpha. Weapons tight. I repeat, weapons tight. All units, hold your positions.” The convoy halted in a crescendo of air brakes. A large Company van with a flashing amber light on its roof had been parked across the hospital approach road, almost blocking it. The rest had been sealed off with yellow Company plastic cordon tape. Six armed Company cops wearing tactical coveralls and helmets cradled assault weapons and formed a line in front of the tape. They stood calmly as the NPS convoy halted. Hickey turned to his driver. “Let’s see what’s going on. I won’t be long.” Hickey used his thumb to un-pop the strap that locked his pistol into its holster. The SIG Sauer was cocked and ready. Hickey approached the cordon. As he did, a man wearing a black wool overcoat stepped into view from the shadow of the van. He carried a leather folder like a

clipboard, in one hand, and waved a pen at Hickey with his other. “Officer?” the man said, with a raised voice. “Sergeant Hickey. I’m from the National Police.” He closed the gap between them. “My name is Brown, Sergeant Hickey. I’m from Company Environmental Health.” He showed Hickey a Company identity card, which he flashed from his wallet. “Mister Brown, we were summoned by the LPD to Clean Sweep the hospital. What’s happening?” “Apologies, Sergeant, but we were sent here to deal with a deadly gas leak at the hospital. We can’t let anyone through. The fumes are highly flammable and poisonous.” Brown smiled at the burly, bearded sergeant. “I imagine that was due to the gang incursion?” Hickey said. “Don’t know anything about that. My report said that there had been fatalities here due to a poisonous gas leak.” Hickey stared at Brown, summing up all the information. On one hand, he didn’t believe a word Smith uttered. But on the other, if the Company had taken control of the hospital, that was down to them. Their job was complete, and they just needed to check-in at South HQ. Then it would be time to go home. “So you’ve got this?” “Yes, Sergeant. Here’s a copy of the order.” Hickey read the order. Looked legit. The sky behind Brown flashed white. A split-second later, they heard the crack of a thunderous explosion. A blast of hot air pummelled Brown, Hickey, and the Company cops, rocking them on their feet.

“Jesus Christ!” Hickey breathed. “Wow, that was a big one.” Brown cleared his ear with an index finger. “It’s a good thing we had the cordon in place.” “Flammable gas, you say?” Hickey said, ringing still in his ears. “Yep. Leave it with us, Sergeant. The Company has this.” Hickey was still gripping the order in his meaty hand as he turned away. That’s as good a clean sweep as any. He shrugged. He would get his convoy out of here and leave the Company to sort out their gas explosion. “Don’t forget, Sergeant!” Brown shouted after him. “For your report, it was a gas explosion.” He gave Brown a thumbs-up as he got back into his vehicle. Hickey reported the situation over the radio as the convoy retraced its route back to South HQ. All they had to do now was sign-off the Clean Sweep with the requesting officer. In this case, Sergeant Smith. Hickey loved his bed, and he could already hear it calling him home.

***

Cowboy moved aside to let Spike and Fitzy carry a beaten Danny Cox between them, out of the cellblock and back toward the basement. Cox was handcuffed, his arms pinned behind him as the two thugs dragged him along. Cowboy, Cockroach, and Juice were still in cell number one, with Sergeant Smith and Tom Harris. “Don’t worry, you two,” Cockroach said. “We’ll be back in a minute for another one of you.”

The Juice kicked Tom Harris in the ribs as he lay there cuffed on the ground, and then smiled down at him. “Yeah, it will probably be you next, son.” He pointed at Smith. “I’m not touching him unless I really have to.” Cowboy laughed and wrinkled his nose. Sergeant Smith had messed his tros, and was now lying in his own crap and weeping, with snot bubbling out of his nose. “Man the fuck up, Sarge,” Cowboy said, in disgust. “Come on, you two. Let’s see what Soldier is up to.” The three gangsters left Smith and Harris cuffed on the ground in the locked cell.

***

Cahill dozed, his eyes only half-closed, waiting for the inevitable. Someone hammered on the armoury door. “Hello in there?” Cahill recognized Tunde’s voice. He didn’t respond, and Lin looked to him for instructions. He wasn’t completely out of shock, and blinked slowly at Lin, then over at Carly. “Carly, ask what they want,” Lin said. Carly wanted to object, and looked at Cahill. He nodded at her to carry on. Carly nodded back. “This is officer Carly Evans of the LPD!” she shouted through the door. “I suggest you leave the building. Backup is on the way.” Lin got down on the floor and looked through the slit.

“There is someone lying there,” she whispered, “but I can’t tell who it is.” “Good morning, Officer,” said Tunde. “Look under the door, and you will see I have...what’s your name?” “Officer Danny Cox. Don’t do it, Carly—” She heard the sound of a kick. “Ahem. I have Officer Cox. Open the door, and I won’t shoot him in the head. I’ll give you two minutes to decide.” Lin got back off the floor and approached Cahill and Carly. Dev and Sam remained uninvolved, at the back of the armoury. “What is it to be, then?” Lin whispered. “If we do nothing,” Cahill said, “Danny is dead, and we have to assume that Tunde still has Smith and Harris in the cellblock. He must have overpowered them earlier. I’m not sure I could live with that.” “You’re right, Declan,” said Carly. “They’ll murder them, one after the other.” “I say call their bluff.” Lin grasped the hilt of her pike. “Let them in, and we fight.” “That’s our only chance, isn’t it?” Carly said. “Yeah.” Cahill nodded. Sam’s eyes bulged. “But we’re safe in here. Why should we open up?” “For fucks sake, Sam,” said Dev, “we can’t let them kill three more of us in cold blood when we can still fight. I’m in, Declan.” He stood. “Give me a weapon.” Carly ed him a Glock and showed him how to make it ready. “I’ve done the familiarization course,” he said. “I can do it. Let’s kill those bastards.” Carly offered a pistol to Sam, who turned away.

“I’m a fucking telephone operator,” she said. “You’ll be a dead one if you don’t help,” Lin said. “I’ll take that gun. I’m qualified.” Carly gave the last spare pistol to the short Chinese security guard, who expertly checked her magazine, then the chamber, and cocked the weapon, making it ready. Lin then leant the pike against the wall, where she could grab it if need be. Cahill still had his Glock, too, but wondered how much use he would be in close-quarter combat. He might get away with it if he had some distance. He shuffled along the wall to the rear right corner of the wall. The pain came back strong, his whole shoulder and chest set on fire as the movement aggravated the wound. Lin rushed to help, but he shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m just getting some distance for when they enter.” “Time’s up!” Tunde shouted through the door. Carly looked at them all. They were as ready as they would ever be. “Okay!” she shouted back. “You win. I’m opening up.” “Good choice,” Tunde said. “Maybe we’ll all live through this.” Carly pulled the deadbolts clear and retreated back to the left, where Lin was behind a pile of the wooden crates, then aimed her pistol toward the door, along with Lin. Cahill did the same from his position, his arm shaking, his body in agony, cold sweat painting his blood-soaked body. Dev stood on the left side of the room, toward the rear, with a view over those crates opposite Cahill on the right. He aimed his handgun with both hands, terror etched on his face. Sam was curled up at the back of the crates in the centre, under the air vents. The door swung outward into the corridor. Danny Cox was lying on his side, staring into the room. Boom! Danny’s head disappeared in a puff of red mist as a surprisingly goodlooking gangster decapitated him at close range, with a pump-action shot gun.

The good-looking one who shot Danny charged into the left, letting off another shell. And then another hoodlum, this one with a round head, darted into the right, shooting a Glock. The impacts of the slugs exploded lumps out of the wooden packing crates, into deadly splinters. Another one came in between them —a cowboy hat-wearing killer that sprayed the interior with a sweep of his Uzi. Dev was in his line of fire, and before he had time to react, Dev’s startled face crumpled and distorted under the deadly rain of lead killing him instantly. Blood spurted from Lin’s bicep when a bullet scored her flesh, as the submachine pistol continued to track across the room. The gangster with the round face and the Glock ran straight into Cahill’s sights. He winced in pain from the recoil as he fired two shots into the attacker’s round face. He fell face first into the concrete. Carly calmly delivered two .9mm slugs into Cowboy Hat’s upper body, a look of surprise on his face as he dived dead to the floor. Lin, ignoring the pain in her arm, sent shots down the room at another gangster. This one looked soft and fat. Her bullets buried themselves in his huge gut. “Fucking hell, she got me. Fitzy help me.” The soft, fat one couldn’t stop talking, even with a belly full of lead. Lin’s next bullet struck him in the face. Cahill raised his pistol, braced himself, and fired two shots at centre mass of yet another killer—this one with a broken nose—who sped into the room, his sawed-off spitting shots. He twisted away, mortally wounded, but still managed to duck behind the crates, clutching his gun to his chest. Blood spilled from his mouth as he tried to breathe, drowning in his own fluids. He reached for the edge of the packing case, his knuckles white. Panic filled his eyes as he died a hard death on the concrete floor. The good-looking thug had ducked back outside, and Cahill saw him steal a glance around the door, duck back, and then shoot blindly into the room, with just the gaping barrel of his shotgun peeking around into the armoury. Cahill was at the wrong angle, but Carly stepped out and aimed her gun toward the opening, just as the shotgun erupted at her. She was thrown back like a rag doll.

Cahill saw Carly twitch on the floor, the life flooding out of her young body, along with rivulets of blood. He noted that Lin had ed Sam at the rear of the room, and was covering her with the pistol. The pain and the weariness started to envelop him. Everyone was dead. Cahill felt like he was dying, too. And with only Lin and Sam left alive, hidden at the back of the room, he knew he had failed. The guns were theirs. He caught Lin’s gaze. She went to stand, but Cahill waved her down and mouthed one word to her. Hide. She nodded through tears and pulled Sam to her. Cahill watched with approval as they burrowed in between some large boxes at the back, like worms escaping into the damp earth. Cahill didn’t know how safe they would be there once Tunde and his gangsters started to remove their spoils, but any extra time he could give them would be a bonus. The room was quiet. Cahill tried to regulate his breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Nice and easy. It was almost over.

***

Tunde, Nico, and Fitzy peered around the door. The fight was over, and the victors strutted into their treasure trove. Tunde saw Cahill slumped against the right wall of the armoury, his shoulder heavily bandaged, his face a mask of smeared blood and dirt. Is he dead? No. Tunde was surprisingly relieved to see Cahill’s chest rising and falling. Tunde noticed that his right arm was held in a sling, his left arm holding the top of his right to ease the pain. He was unarmed. Fitzy shouldered his shotgun to take out Cahill, but Tunde knocked the barrel

down at the floor before he could waste him. “Fucking leave him.” “Fitzy, fuck off and bring the van over,” Nico said. “Cowboy left it behind the flats on Kennington Lane. Bring a few more boys and girls to help us load up.” Fitzy didn’t seem happy as he left the armoury. But as a good crew member, he did as he was told. Tunde and Nico approached Cahill. “Go on, then,” Cahill said, in a weak voice. “Take them.” “We fucking will, copper,” Nico sneered. “It’s been fun, Officer,” Tunde said. “I’d hate to see you having a bad time.” Cahill’s speech was laboured. “It’s been my pleasure fighting alongside you tonight, Cahill. I mean that.” Nico gave Tunde a sideways look. “The pleasure was all yours, you sick, lying fuck,” Cahill replied. Tunde laughed. “I’m going to let you live, Cahill. But just in case you’ve got any fight left in you...” He pointed his .357 at Cahill. “Nico, open a couple of these. Let’s see the goods.” Nico pulled out a hunting knife from his belt and inserted it under the lid of the topmost crate. It creaked and squeaked as he pried the wooden board off. With a crack, it came free of the nails. Nico flung the lid off and let it crash onto the floor. Next, came some packing straw and the dust that comes with it. He stared into the box, a smile threatening to split his good looks in two as he dug into the straw. Tunde kept his focus on Cahill, and glanced at Nico. “Well?”

Nico rummaged in the box. “What the fuck.” “What?” “It’s empty, Soldier. Fucking empty, except for some steel weights strapped to the bottom.” Tunde’s mind raced. “They’ve probably taken the top ones out,” he said. “Try the next one.” Nico pushed the top crate off to splinter on the floor, then repeated the opening of the next crate, and found the same—straw and steel weights. He tried a few more crates, and it was the same story in each one. No guns. Tunde’s face flushed with realization that he had been tricked. That smarmy officer on the TV...they must have rigged the whole thing. A fucking PR stunt. Cahill laughed. Tunde’s rage got the better of him, and he raised his pistol toward Cahill. “Stop fucking laughing, or I’ll shoot you in the face, copper.” “It’s all a lie, Tunde. We’ve all been had over.” “Did you fucking know?” “No, Tunde, I didn’t.” Cahill’s head slumped. Tunde dropped his gun arm to his side. Nico pushed him in the chest, against the wall. “We’ve lost half the crew tonight, Soldier. Some of our best boys and girls, for nothing. For fucking nothing.” Nico raised his pistol at Tunde’s face. Tunde did the same back to Nico, both just inches away from death, in a grim standoff. Then they heard machine-gun fire above them, out in the street.

Tunde lowered his gun. “Let’s go now, Nico.” He started toward the door. “Not this time,” Nico snarled, and tracked him across the room with his gun. His gun popped, the bullet missing Tunde by inches. Tunde tried to twist, tried to bring his .357 around to bear on Nico, when Cahill’s bandage erupted in a gunshot. His Glock must have been hidden under his sling as he pumped the trigger, sending three deadly projectiles into Nico’s flailing body. His corpse fell half out of the armoury and slid across the floor to stop against the opposite wall. Tunde could see Cahill was in agony after having fired the shot under his injured arm, and he wondered if the copper would kill him, too. Cahill answered that question by dropping his pistol onto the floor. Tunde stared at him. Cahill wouldn’t look up. “You’d better go, Tunde.” The gunfire continued up at ground level. “See you.” Tunde smiled at him, then turned his back on Cahill and hurried out. Cahill allowed himself to out.

***

Hickey directed the convoy back to South HQ, turning onto Renfrew Road just as three Nail Dem Crew gangsters piled out of an old van at the front of the building. Alpha fired first from its right-hand battery, the high velocity rounds smacking into the gangsters. Hickey noticed how good-looking one of the gangsters was,

as he and his boys danced the machine-gun boogie like night clubbers high on crack, until they dropped to the ground like piles of mincemeat. A few nearby Nail Dem Crew attempted to attack the convoy with rocks and sticks, and a couple with firearms, but the resistance lasted but a few minutes. “This is Alpha. Cease fire. Bravo and Charlie, form an outer vanguard on our east and west flank. Alpha will form the inner cordon. Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot, deploy into South HQ, search and destroy. Locate survivors.” Sergeant Hickey’s report stated that only Patrol Officer Declan Cahill, Telephone Controller Sam Delaney, and Security Manager Lin Tse were found alive amongst piles of empty wooden crates and packing straw in the armoury at South HQ. Tunde Adeyemi aka Soldier was not found during the search.

41

King Charles Hospital, Green Belt Surrey Three days later... Cahill didn’t expect to see Sir Stuart Cullimore’s face when he regained consciousness. He was sat up on a thick wedge of firm pillows, his torso completely strapped up, his body a mass of dark bruises. Cahill could see he was in the hospital, but he had no idea which one, or how long he’d been there. His mind was foggy, and he felt woozy from the painkillers. He had a new intravenous drip in his arm, which was delivering both fluid and pain relief. It felt nice, almost like being drunk. His thirst prickled. “Officer Cahill, you’re back with us,” Sir Stuart said, too loudly. “Call me Cahill.” “Ah, yes, Cahill. Of course.” Cahill laughed to himself. The director was a yes man. His amusement left quickly as he ed that it was the director himself who had fronted the gun amnesty in the South Sector. The perpetrator of the whole night’s violence, he was the orchestrator of all those deaths. “So Cahill, tell me, how are you feeling?” Cahill rolled his eyes. “Apart from all my injuries, I’m fine, sir.” “No need to be belligerent.” “I’ve every need to be, sir.” “What do you mean?”

“The gun amnesty, sir?” “I’m sorry. You’ve lost me. The amnesty was very successful, indeed. And my idea, too. The South Sector was the final one this year. I think the figures for all four sectors are a record. The most weapons surrendered to law enforcement in history—” “You’re not at a press conference now, Sir Stuart. You’re in front of the man who knows that the amnesty was bullshit. All of it.” Sir Stuart flushed. “I think we’d better talk when you are feeling better.” “Don’t worry, sir. You can read it in my report.” Sir Stuart’s soft face hardened, and he narrowed his eyes. “Be very careful, Officer Cahill. You only kept your job because of me.” Cahill laughed. “That’s funny. Really funny. Maybe I’ll reach out to Sabine de la Tour and ask her what happened. About the undercover sting she ran on me.” Sir Stuart’s already flushed complexion went full-on volcanic. He must have wondered how Cahill had known about the undercover. He would find out later, when he read the full casualty list for South HQ. “Well, I can see you’re tired and upset, Mister Cahill.” “Just Cahill.” “Cahill. When you are fit for duty, come and see me, and we can look at your position then.” “Detective duties, sir?” “ my staff officer to make an appointment, and we shall see.” That’ll do for now. Sir Stuart left the room, and Cahill was left deep in thought. He was used to being in a dark place. His life had somehow always ended up that way.

He had lost his wife and daughter a long time ago, and it had never gotten easier. He wondered what made him carry on fighting. What gave him the drive to live? Maybe he would find the answer one day. A small Chinese security manager was the next image to pop up in his tired mind. Maybe Lin could help him find out why life was worth living for? Yes, he’d like that allot.

***

Mickey’s Bar, Soho Three months later... Cahill ducked as he entered the musty airless bar that was Mickey’s. His shoulder was on the mend now and getting better every day. It was marvellous what they could do now. His shredded veins had been replaced with Teflon substitutes, and his collarbone was now a light, carbon fibre. There had been no doubt that Lin had saved his life that day. He owed her so much. This was his last weekend before he was due to report to Sir Stuart at LPD Headquarters, on the banks of the River Thames, and he was optimistic about returning to detective duties. He had kept his drinking under control, almost back to the old days. Just a few beers on Friday and Saturday night, and the odd bottle of wine midweek with Lin, over a meal. There was a bit of light in his life, for now. This was the first time he had set foot back in Mickey’s since his arrest, and hadn’t felt like it until tonight. Yet another one of life’s mysteries. The bar was almost empty, as always, with the usual suspects sitting in their usual spots, drinking the usual drinks. Nothing had changed, except maybe the

carpet was a bit more worn. Mickey appeared from behind the dirty red curtain. His eyes lit up in genuine delight. “Declan Cahill, so it is!” “Hi, Mickey. How’s things?” “Grand, so they are, Declan. It’s good to see you, after all this time.” Mickey started to pour Cahill a pint of black stout without asking, but Cahill didn’t stop him though, and he noted how his mouth had started to water in anticipation. He hoped it was just for that, and not for the old illicit things he enjoyed before his suspension. “Thanks, Mickey. It’s nice to be back.” “Ah, that’s grand, Declan. I didn’t think I’d see you again, to be honest, after Tommy told me what happened...you know.” Mickey obviously wanted to skirt around Cahill’s arrest over a year ago, and he certainly wouldn’t want to bring up the events from a few months ago, on Halloween. The whole of London still reeled from that night—the hundreds of deaths at Thameside Hospital due to an alleged gas explosion. And then the siege at the South HQ Police Station, where dozens more had died. “Tommy also told me about his cousin Jez.” “Yes, Mickey, that was awful,” Cahill said, ing the burned body on the spit. “Awful indeed, Declan. Fancy stealing from me, the eejit.” Mickey shook his grizzled head. Cahill chuckled at another of Tommy’s lies. “How is Tommy?”

“He’s not about this evening, Declan. But I’ll tell him that the last street cop said hello, shall I?” Mickey looked at Cahill with uncertainty, wondering if he had gone too far with this comment. He hadn’t. Cahill picked up his fresh pint and drained a couple inches from it, the foam a welcomed kiss on his top lip. He placed it back down on the bar. “Yeah, you tell him I said hello.” Cahill smiled.

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