Shepherd ripped off his headset as he stopped and turned to watch the man go. He was walking purposefully towards Hyde Park Corner where half a dozen double-decker tourist buses waited, their engines running. They were operated by several companies and their uniformed representatives were walking up and down the pavement, waving brochures. He looked back at the entrance to the car park. A second Asian emerged carrying a similar backpack, this one dark blue.

  Shepherd put his hands into his pockets and kept his head down as the man walked by. As soon as he was out of earshot he pulled out his headset and spoke into the mic. ‘I have two targets walking from the car park down Park Lane,’ he said. ‘Both IC4 males with backpacks. I think Ali Mohammed has already handed over the weapons. They’re en route to the tour buses in Park Lane.’

  ‘The ARV has Victor One in sight and is ready to move in,’ said Brennan.

  ‘I’m following the two targets now,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I need back-up, SFOs or ARVs, I don’t much care which so long as they’ve got guns.’ He looked over his shoulder. Another Asian man was about fifty yards behind him. Mid-twenties, a neatly trimmed beard and dark glasses. And he was carrying a black backpack. Shepherd turned around. ‘I’ll call you on my mobile,’ he said, and stuffed the headset into his pocket.

  He pulled out his phone and called Rayner’s number. She answered immediately. ‘I have three IC4 males now, all heading to the tour buses,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Alpha Eight, Alpha Nine and Alpha Ten.’

  ‘There’s an ARV en route,’ said Rayner. ‘But they’re in traffic. Okay to use blues and twos?’

  ‘Negative on that,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they panic they might pull out their guns and start firing. There are too many people around.’ He began walking after the three men. The first had reached the line of tour buses and got onto the front one. He showed a ticket to the driver, who waved him on. ‘Alpha Eight has got onto the first bus,’ Shepherd said. ‘What’s happening in the car park?’

  ‘Shots fired,’ said Rayner. ‘I’m waiting for details.’

  ‘And the South Bank?’

  ‘Victor Two is still mobile. The ARVs are in position to move in as soon as they stop. And there are four plainclothes SFOs in the vicinity.’

  ‘What about getting SFOs to my location?’

  ‘On their way,’ said Rayner. ‘Two in a black cab, just coming up Park Lane now.’

  Shepherd hurried towards the buses. All three men had got onto the same one.

  ‘I’m getting ready to board the bus. Where’s my back-up?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘On the way.’

  As Shepherd boarded the bus, an Italian father was buying tickets for his family using his credit card. It seemed to take for ever but Shepherd had to wait patiently. Announcing who he was and why he was on the bus would at the very least cause a commotion that might tip off the terrorists. It had to be done softly-softly, so he paid for a daily ticket and accepted the cheap pair of red earphones that could be used to listen to the tour commentary in any of eight languages and climbed the stairs. He paused at the top. The Italian kids – two girls and a boy – were fighting to get window seats at the front and the mother was hissing at them to be quiet.

  ‘I’m upstairs,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Be careful, Spider,’ said Rayner.

  Shepherd put his phone away into his pocket and stepped onto the upper deck. There was a roof over the first six rows and the jihadists had moved to the rear. Two were right at the back, one on each side, their bags on the seats next to them. Shepherd heard the doors rattle closed below. The third jihadist was sitting on the left behind a young couple, staring out over Hyde Park. The man in front of him was showing the woman how to change the language of the commentary.

  There were four Chinese couples to Shepherd’s right, chattering away in Cantonese.

  The jihadist in the far right corner was staring at Shepherd, who twirled the earphones around as if he didn’t have a care in the world and was deciding where to sit. The jihadist’s hand was on top of his bag, toying with its zip. Shepherd smiled easily and headed for the back row. He flopped down in the centre seat and stretched his legs down the aisle.

  ‘You can’t sit there,’ said the jihadist to his right.

  Shepherd frowned and looked around. ‘The driver said we could sit anywhere.’

  ‘We’re waiting for our friend.’ He swallowed nervously. He was bearded and wearing tinted glasses.

  ‘They’ve just shut the doors,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think your friend’s going to make it.’ He looked around, feigning interest in what was going on in the square. ‘Hyde Park, how awesome is that?’

  The two jihadists looked at each other. The one to his right started speaking in Urdu. The other replied, clearly annoyed. Whatever plans they’d made, Shepherd was obviously interfering with them. The jihadi sitting ahead of them was turning in his seat to see what was going on.

  ‘Please, leave us alone,’ said the man on Shepherd’s right. ‘Find somewhere else to sit.’

  ‘So where are you from?’ asked Shepherd. He tapped the maple leaf flag on his shoulder. ‘I’m Canadian.’

  The man on Shepherd’s left glared at him. There were marks on his cheeks that looked like fragmentation scars, and old burns on his hands. ‘Get the fuck away from us,’ he muttered.

  ‘Whoa, that’s no way to talk to a tourist,’ said Shepherd. He looked across to the man on his right. ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what he just said to me? What’s wrong with him?’

  Shepherd knew he was going to have to make his move soon. It was the way they were spread out that was the problem. One against three wasn’t too much of a challenge if the three were grouped together. But the jihadists had spread themselves out and unless he fired first he stood no chance of taking them all out. But he wasn’t able to fire first, not when there were no weapons in sight. There were more than a dozen witnesses on the top deck of the bus so he had to be sure that any action he took was justified. Shooting unarmed men never went down well with the press, even when the unarmed men were terrorists planning to maim and kill.

  The man closer to the front shouted something in Urdu. The one to Shepherd’s right yelled back. An ARV was coming down Park Lane towards them. The man to Shepherd’s left pointed at it. The man at the front stood up and bent down to unzip his bag.

  Across the road, one of MI5’s black cabs came to a halt. The two CTSFO passengers got out and started jogging towards the bus. As they ran they pulled out their Glocks. The man to Shepherd’s left spotted the guns and shouted. The jihadist at the front glanced out to see what he was shouting about and he, too, spotted the men with the Glocks. He stood up, bellowing at the top of his voice. The couple in front of him turned, and the Chinese tourists huddled together like startled sheep.

  Without his radio, Shepherd had no way of knowing who was doing what, but clearly the CTSFOs were running towards the bus waving their guns, presumably to get the driver to stop. The ARV was still heading their way. Still no sirens or flashing lights.

  The man at the front of the bus unzipped his backpack. He pulled out something black and metallic. An Uzi. He dropped the bag onto the seat and reached into it again, pulling out an extended magazine. Shepherd reached for his gun as he stood up. The man slapped the magazine into the Uzi. Shepherd took two steps down the aisle. ‘Armed police!’ he shouted. Not strictly true but he knew there was no point in shouting, ‘MI5 officer with permission to carry a weapon!’ He could quibble about semantics if it became an issue later.

  The man swung the gun up. His finger wasn’t on the trigger but that didn’t make any difference. Shepherd fired twice in quick succession and both rounds slammed into the man’s heart.

  The Chinese tourists screamed. The Italian mother grabbed one of her daughters and shielded her. Her husband was rooted to his seat, his mouth open wide.

  As the man started to fall, Shepherd turned. The man in the left-hand corner had pulled an AK-47 with a foldable stock from his backpack and was getting to his feet. Shepherd shot him in the chest but the round sparked off the gun and ripped through the man’s shoulder. The man didn’t seem to notice, he was probably pumped up on adrenalin and endorphins. His lips curled back in a snarl and he pointed the barrel at Shepherd, but Shepherd was already pulling the trigger again. He aimed higher this time and the bullet tore into the man’s throat. He spun around and the next shot hit him in the side. Then he fell forward, bent double over the side of the bus. His weapon clattered to the ground.

  There was screaming behind Shepherd and pedestrians stopped in their tracks as they tried to work out where the shots were coming from. Shepherd heard the Italian father yelling at his children and the sound of feet running down the stairs. The Chinese girls were screaming now, their men shouting.

  Shepherd blocked out the sounds as he pointed his SIG-Sauer at the last remaining terrorist. He had one hand in his bag but from the way he was standing Shepherd was sure he didn’t have his finger on the trigger. The first jihadist he’d shot had had to slot in his magazine but Shepherd had no way of knowing if the man facing him had a loaded weapon or not. It didn’t matter. As soon as he saw a gun he was going to fire. ‘It’s your call, pal,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can drop the bag on the floor and put your hands on your head, or I’ll put two rounds in your chest. As you can see I’m on a roll – it doesn’t worry me either way.’ His finger tightened on the trigger as he stared at the man, waiting to see how he would react. Anything short of full surrender would result in his death. Shepherd saw confusion in his eyes but there was determination also and the man gritted his teeth. ‘Drop the bag!’ shouted Shepherd, but he could tell from the man’s body language that it wasn’t going to happen.

  The man began to move, plunging his hand deeper into the bag, his face contorted with anger and hatred. ‘Allahu—’ he screamed, but ‘Akbar’ was cut off by the first bullet, which slammed into his heart. He staggered backwards but his hand was still in the bag so Shepherd fired again and the second shot hit him in the throat. He continued to stagger backwards. The bag fell to the floor and the jihadist tumbled over the side of the bus and hit the road with a thump. A woman screamed further along the pavement. Shepherd peered over the side. The driver had opened the doors and tourists were flooding out into the street.

  He saw one of the CTSFOs running towards the door. The other was at the front of the bus, looking up. Shepherd held his gun above his head. ‘All clear!’ he shouted.

  The only tourists still on the upper deck were the Chinese, who had stopped screaming and shouting and were now staring open-mouthed at him. Shepherd put his gun back into its holster and smiled, though he knew it was going to take more than that to put them at ease. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not great at languages so this will have to be in English, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Obviously this brings our tour to an end. If you could make your way downstairs and off the bus, there should be police officers ready to give you any assistance you require. I’m sorry for the inconvenience caused.’

  They continued to stare at him in shock. Shepherd pointed at the stairs. ‘Go!’ he said. They finally got the message, stood up and hurried down. As they scrambled off the bus, one of the CTSFOs came up the stairs, Glock at the ready. Shepherd held his gun above his head until he was sure that the cop wasn’t in shooting mode. ‘The area is secure,’ he said.

  The CTSFO nodded and put his gun back in its holster. Shepherd did the same. The cop went over to the nearest jihadist and looked down at the gun. ‘An Uzi? That’s a nasty weapon to be using against civilians. With the thirty-round magazine, too.’ He shook his head. ‘They meant business, all right.’

  ‘What’s happened with Victor Two and Victor Three?’

  The CTSFO walked to the rear of the bus. ‘Both neutralised,’ he said.

  ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Among the good guys?’ He grinned. ‘No. But plenty of casualties on their side.’ He looked down at the AK-47. ‘A bloody Kalashnikov. Where the fuck do they get their guns from?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ said Shepherd. He took out his headset and pulled it on. ‘This is Spider, back on the net,’ he said. ‘The bus is secure, three IC4s down.’

  ‘You had us worried there,’ said Rayner.

  ‘No need,’ said Willoughby-Brown. He chuckled. ‘Three against one, they didn’t stand a chance.’

  It was day six in the observation post and there were more than forty faeces-filled plastic bags on the roof when Williams saw the black four-wheel drive heading up the road towards Houman Ahmadi’s home. ‘Sarge, we’ve got movement. Black Landcruiser.’

  Standing was sitting with his back to the wall. He shuffled over to the mat next to the window, grabbed a pair of binoculars and focused on the target house, then back along the road. The Landcruiser was moving slowly. The windows were tinted so it was impossible to see who was inside, but it was the first time they’d seen an SUV in the area. Generally vehicles were military, police, or pick-up trucks.

  ‘John, talk to base, tell them we might be up and running.’

  ‘There’s a four-door pick-up truck behind it,’ said Williams. ‘Could be security.’

  Cox grabbed the radio and called Captain Waters. It was late afternoon, still uncomfortably hot but with a soft breeze blowing through the open window. The sky overhead was a clear blue, devoid of clouds. Standing knew that the Reaper drone would be at least twenty miles from the house, circling slowly to conserve fuel. The $17 million aircraft carried four thousand pounds of fuel and could stay aloft for forty hours. Whenever it began to run short a replacement would take over, providing for continuous coverage.

  The pilot was on virtually the other side of the world at the Air Force Special Operations Command, Hurlburt Field in Florida. She was sitting in a dark, air-conditioned room wearing a neatly pressed flight suit, her blonde hair held away from her face with a pink scrunchie. Next to her was the sensor operator who manipulated the Reaper’s TV camera, infrared camera, and other high-tech sensors. The sensor operator was the one who squeezed the trigger that would launch the missile. Like the girl, he was in his mid-twenties, sipping an iced latte through a straw as he watched the screens in front of him.

  A grey-haired man in his early fifties was sitting behind them. His dark blue blazer was on a hanger on the wall to his right and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves and folded his arms as he, too, watched the screens. He was wearing a blue tie with black stripes, and expensive black leather shoes with tassels. The pilot and operator hadn’t been told if he was CIA or NSA or Homeland Security, and he hadn’t introduced himself when they had been assigned to the operation. All they knew was that he was in charge and he called the shots – literally.

  Standing didn’t know any of that, of course. He had no idea who was flying the drone or running the operation. That wasn’t his concern. All he cared about was carrying out his mission: to bathe the target in the light of the laser.

  The SUV had slowed almost to walking pace as it rattled along the rough track that ran by Houman’s house. Standing focused on the vehicle. It was streaked with dirt and there were dark scratches above the wheel arches. The front registration plate was so splattered with mud that it was illegible.

  He scanned back along the dirt track. The pick-up truck was red but covered with so much dust that it was closer to brown. The windows weren’t tinted and Standing could make out the driver, a young man with a beard and a circular qalansuwa cap. The man in the front passenger seat was older, also bearded, and appeared to be cradling a Kalashnikov. ‘I see a weapon in the pick-up truck,’ said Standing.

  ‘Yeah, got it,’ said Cox. ‘Looks like an AK.’ He was holding a laminated photograph of the target.

  Standing took a similar photograph from the pocket of his tunic. Like ninety per cent of the male population, Abdul-Karim Ahmadi was dark-skinned, brown-eyed and bearded, but he did have a distinguishing mole on the left side of his nose and a rash of old acne scars across his cheeks. The SUV came to a halt and the pick-up truck pulled up behind it.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Standing.

  Williams was kneeling by the window. He was holding a rifle with a sniperscope and using it to check out the vehicles. The pick-up truck’s doors opened and four men got out. The two at the rear were wearing long white one-piece didashah robes and sandals. The two in the front were in more traditional fatigues and boots. All were carrying Kalashnikovs. They were wary, checking out the surrounding buildings as they walked to the SUV.

  The offside rear door of the Landcruiser opened and the four bodyguards stood around it, facing outwards. A man got out.

  ‘Is it him?’ asked Parker, but everyone ignored him.

  Standing took another look at the laminated photograph, then peered through the high-powered binoculars. The man looked left and right, then said something to the bodyguards around him. He was wearing sunglasses but he took them off, dabbed his forehead with a white cloth and replaced them. Standing saw the telltale mole on the man’s nose. He was wearing Western clothes, a shapeless linen jacket over a grey shirt and khaki cargo pants. ‘It’s him,’ he said, placing the binoculars on the ground. ‘Tell them target confirmed.’

  ‘We have the target in sight,’ said Cox into his radio.

  ‘Positive ID?’ asked Captain Walters, at the other end of the radio. He was back at their base where he was in radio contact with the operators of the Reaper in Florida. Standing figured it would have been much more efficient for the SAS team to talk to the operators direct, but then there wouldn’t have been anything for the officers to do.

 

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