Chapter 50
The silence was broken by a simple “Subject secured.”
In Brunswick Street, a black Mercedes Sprinter gently moved off, turning left at the top of the road. Thirty seconds later, another followed, trailed by a marked armoured Land Rover.
The first Sprinter stopped by the far gate and two got out. One held the lock whilst the other snapped it with bolt cutters. Swinging the gates open, they beckoned the other occupants of the van.
Eight black-clad figures wearing gas masks, hoods up, swiftly clambered out and vanished into the compound, one hundred and twenty metres to go to their final assault position.
At the main entrance, the other vehicles drove slowly past the security office, turned right and disappeared behind the building line. Sixty metres later they stopped. Side doors slid back, helmeted, black-clad, hooded and masked, they stepped out, quickly formed a crocodile and briskly walked off towards the corner of the target unit.
Behind the firearms control van, Thurstan watched the split screen; movement within the building, the frontal forming up point, Sprinter parked up, Land Rover forty metres away, engine idling.
The Tac Advisor held his radio up and spoke, “Blue Team, are you at your FAP and ready to go?”
“Kssh. Kssh. Kssh.” Three bursts of static. Affirmative.
The same question of the rest. The same reply.
He looked at Thurstan for confirmation. The DCI nodded back.
“All callsigns, I have control. I have control.” He watched the monitor as the Land Rover began its race to the shutters.
At the front, on the corner, lined up in single file, each member of Red Team made an unconscious tiny adjustment. Indiscernible individually, but noticeable when together; a little shrug as they pulled their weapons closer into their shoulders.
“Standby! Standby! Go! Go! Go!”
On the second ‘standby’, Red Team began a controlled rapid walk covering the remaining few metres to the unit. Their mobile colleagues smashed into the shutters just as they reached the door. At the rear, Blue Team had ripped off the already loosened grills, trashed the windows with a 'Break and Rake’ and fired CS incapacitant through the openings. Stun grenades were thrown and dropped through the shattered remnants of glass.
The front door surrendered easily to the breaching tool and Red Team followed two flash bangs in with muffled calls of “Armed Police.”
Inside, Darius McAvoy was about to be introduced to a novel application of a pair of tin snips when the building seemed to implode. His torturers were abruptly catapulted into the pile of assorted vehicle parts covering the nearby wall as they were each struck by the full force of heavily armoured officers. It was swift, violent and clinical.
Thurstan watched it all unfold with a hand on his mouth. Spud stood next to him, wide-eyed.
Darius McAvoy, still tied to the chair, bloodied and scalded, was set down outside, facing into the wind that would blow away the effects of the riot gas, eventually. Everything was a massive blur, tears poured from his eyes, mucus dangled from his nose and he dry vomited repeatedly.
A team member put his hand on his shoulder with a smile, “I know this may not be the best day you’ve had, son, but look on the bright side, tomorrow will probably be a lot better.”
The two hostage-takers were dragged out to the concrete hard-standing, forced to their knees and turned to the breeze. Behind their backs, cable-tied hands.
Red Team’s TL called in a sitrep: scene secure and safe, hostage requires paramedics, not life-threatening.
The TACAD turned to Thurstan with a satisfied smile. “All yours now, Boss.”