Just Another Day - Clark Steven (читаем книги бесплатно .TXT) 📗

It was Swifty who had first suggested to his Skipper three years ago that Ged’s quiet manner in a crisis and ability to weigh up a situation instantly would be a good candidate for the squad. Ged sailed through the assessment centre and Skip Lee took an instant liking for ‘the quiet man’ and nicknamed him after the character in the film portrayed by one of his film heroes, John Wayne.

Whilst all the team members were required as a matter of course to be excellent marksmen and each had to re qualify on a regular basis, Ged, was justly regarded as the best shot in the unit. His stats on the firing range were always impressive and never fell below nine out of ten centres every time.

‘It’s all in the breathing Mark. Get the breathing right and you’ve cracked it mate. Deep breath, slowly exhale, squeeze the trigger gently.’ Mark followed his technique and definitely improved but he was not in the same league as Ged. They each had their own strengths as Ged in return was well aware, he could never attain the athletic prowess of his buddy.

The uniformed traffic bobby in his high visibility coat stood alongside his car, blue lights illuminating the gloom, near to the exit slip road  directing traffic as it left the motorway. Neither Dave nor the officer acknowledged each other in case the gunman noticed any glances between them.

‘Bit unusual aint it to have Traffic cops for a blocked motorway?’ said Johnson, accusingly.

‘Not really,’ said Dave. ‘If it’s a serious or fatal accident, it takes them a long time to do all the photos and the investigation work and takes a fair while to clear the backlog of traffic, especially when it’s rush hour like this. In that case, they will try to put extra patrols out to assist in getting stuff back to normal as quickly as possible.’

Dave hoped he sounded convincing as Johnson growled his acceptance of the explanation and looked ahead. Although the control rooms were listening to Dave’s conversation, it was important to let him know that things were moving. He knew that the traffic car was for his benefit and he hoped that the end game was being worked out by the strategists in the command centre.

‘Tango Uniform Four Four to control receiving?’

‘Receiving you loud and clear, go ahead.’

‘Looks like Dave Watkins is a bit banged up. He has an injury to his shoulder and forehead but looks okay otherwise. Not able to determine how many other persons are onboard. Unable to see the gunman.’

‘Roger thanks. Standing by.’

The control room planners had been looking for a suitable place to try and direct the wagon to without drawing attention to that fact.

Dave looked in his passenger side mirror as he left the motorway and saw the two black vehicles following a short distance back.

‘How about if I pull into that Industrial Estate up ahead while we look at the maps to see how we get to wherever it is you need to go.’

The gunman looked at Dave. ‘What are you, a fucking mind reader? Do it, but pull up at the far end of those factory units. I don’t want any nosey fucker taking any unwanted interest in us.’

Dave drove forward for a few hundred yards until they were well clear of the last of the units. He couldn’t give a shit about further directions as he knew whatever was going to happen would take place here. The senior Commanders would not allow the wagon to leave this location. From a police perspective, it was an ideal location as there was no other way out and the support officers would quickly block off the service road that Dave had driven up a short time ago and ensure that the lorry could not force its way out. He had noticed a few other lorries nearby with the drivers sitting in their cabs drinking tea or reading the paper. His colleagues would quietly, but quickly, commandeer those vehicles and place them in a position to form a road block.

Within a few minutes of the wagon being halted, officers were evacuating the industrial units and putting in place the police cordon.

Dave felt the tide was now beginning to turn in favour of the police as the wagon was safely away from the public and he smiled slightly to himself as he thought, no matter what happens to me bollocks, you are going nowhere from here.

‘Keep both your fucking hands on the wheel while I have a look at this map okay?’

‘No problem’ said Dave as he stretched his hands out and leant his head down on his arms as the fatigue overtook him.

The sky shout system from the police helicopter suddenly boomed loud startling both Dave and the gunman.

‘You in the wagon. Throw down your weapons and give yourself up.’

Johnson instinctively jumped into the bunk area and, pushing himself back into the corner as much as possible, screamed abuse, not particularly at Dave.

‘You bastards, back off, back the fuck off or he’s a fuckin dead man.’

The voice from the sky boomed again.

‘There is nowhere for you to go. The exits are blocked off. This can all end peacefully if you throw out your weapons. Be advised that firearms officers have been deployed.’ The helicopter was hovering about a hundred metres above the wagon.

‘You can have me gun’ shouted Johnson. ‘I’ll give you me fucking gun alright.’ He leaned out of the bunk and through the smashed window of the passenger door, pointed the shotgun skywards and fired one barrel of the shotgun towards the helicopter.

The two control rooms heard the gunfire as, almost simultaneously, the pilot of the ‘chopper’ shouted, ‘Shots fired, shots fired. Gunman has fired on the aircraft, moving away. No damage. No injuries at this time.’

The ground patrols saw the helicopter turn swiftly away to a safe distance approximately half a mile to the rear of the wagon. There was a few minutes silence as though both sides of this Mexican standoff were considering the next moves.

‘Start the wagon. Do it. Do it now.’

The gunman was screaming in Dave’s ear; the fear and adrenaline was pumping in both of them.

‘Do it, or I’ll blow your fuckin head off where you’re sat. C’mon, get this fucking wagon out of here.’

Having seen the ‘milk tray’ man diving off the back of the unit earlier, Dave was aware now that the control rooms and response vehicles could hear the conversation in the cab. He started the engine and turned the wagon round facing the service road that he had first entered. Both he and the gunman saw the two black range rovers facing them.

The rear doors of the Armed Response Vehicles were open and Dave could see the officers taking cover behind the armour plated panels of the doors. He could clearly see the muzzles of the firearms officers pointing towards him.

In normal circumstances, a person would be terrified of seeing several high powered rifles with telescopic sights pointed in their direction but Dave took great comfort in this fact as he knew the object of their attention would be the gunman and not him.

As the lorry built up speed, he did not hear the shots but, suddenly, there was a loud pop and hissing noise as the bullets tore through the steel and rubber casing of the two front tyres of the wagon. The two marksmen ejected their spent shells and similarly deflated the four other tyres that made up the driving force of the tractor unit.

As a consequence of his injured shoulder and the six flat tyres, Dave had little control over the steering and he braked hard. The two front tyres shredded and ripped away from the steel rims, the sharp edges bit into the tarmac of the road surface bringing the lorry to a sudden halt. The possibility of smashing through the police cordon had now just disappeared and the gunman screamed more obscenities.

‘Want to play fucking games do yah, I’ll show you fucking games. He’s a fucking dead man.’

Dave had both hands on the steering wheel. Johnson lowered the shotgun and pulled the trigger. Both barrels erupted as the steering wheel shattered and the cables and plastic casing of the steering column disintegrated. The little finger of Dave’s left hand was blown off and smashed into the tachograph. Momentarily, it stuck to the glass window of the instrument and then, because of the angle of the glass, it slowly slid to the floor smearing oily blood as it fell.