Hard Landing Page 2

  Doug rolled the fork-lift driver on to his front and wound duct tape round his mouth, then bound his arms.

  Verity motioned at Macdonald and Owen to start moving through the stacked pallets. They were looking for the warehouseman, weapons at the ready. Macdonald looked at his watch. 'Plenty of time,' whispered Verity. 'Radio's quiet.'

  The second fork-lift truck stopped, and there was a bump as if something soft had hit the ground hard. Then silence.

  The three men stopped and listened. Off to their right they heard a soft whistle. Verity pointed and they headed towards it.

  The warehouseman was in his early thirties with receding hair and wire-framed glasses. He was holding a palm computer and making notes with a small stylus as he whistled. He was so engrossed in it that he didn't see the three masked men until they were almost upon him. His jaw dropped and he took half a step backwards, but Verity jammed his gun into the man's stomach. 'Don't say a word,' hissed Verity. 'Do as you're told and we'll be out of here in a few minutes.'

  He grabbed the man's collar with his left hand, swung him round so that he was facing in the direction of the office, then frogmarched him towards it with the gun pressed into the base of his spine. 'There's no m-m-money here,' the man stammered.

  'I said, don't talk,' said Verity. He rammed the barrel into the man's back for emphasis.

  When they reached the office the two fork-lift drivers were lying on the ground outside the door, gagged and bound. Owen was standing over them, his gun in one hand, the Fairy Liquid bottle in the other.

  Verity pushed the warehouseman to the floor next to them. He rolled on to his back and his glasses fell off, clattering on the concrete. Verity pointed his gun at him. 'The Intel chips,' he said, through gritted teeth. 'The ones that came in from the States this morning.' Voices buzzed in his earpiece. A Police National Computer check on the Arab, name, date of birth, nationality. Iraqi. 'Bastard ragheads,' muttered Verity.

  'What?' said the warehouseman, confused. He groped for his spectacles with his right hand.

  Verity nodded at Owen, who sprayed the contents of the Fairy Liquid bottle over the three men. Macdonald frowned as he recognised the smell. Petrol. The fork-lift drivers bucked and kicked, but the warehouseman lay still in shock, clutching his spectacles.

  Owen emptied the plastic bottle, then tossed it to the side. He took a gunmetal Zippo from the pocket of his overalls and flicked it open. 'You heard what the man said, now where are the chips?' He spun the wheel of the lighter with his thumb and waved a two-inch smoky flame over the three men.

  'Archie, what the hell's going on?' shouted Macdonald. He took a step towards Verity. 'No one said we were going to set fire to anyone.'

  'You've got a shotgun in your hands, this is no different.'

  'Have you seen what third-degree burns look like?'

  Verity levelled his weapon at Macdonald's legs. 'Have you seen what a kneecapping looks like?'

  Macdonald raised the barrel of his shotgun skywards. 'Just wished I'd been fully briefed, that's all.' He shrugged. 'You're right. In for a penny . . .'

  The warehouseman scrabbled on his back, away from Owen. Owen followed him, bending down to wave the flaming Zippo closer to his legs. The warehouseman backed against the wall of the office, his hands in front of his face. 'I'm not sure how close I can get before you go up in flames,' said Owen. 'The Intel chips,' he hissed. 'Where are they?'

  'I'll have to check the computer,' stammered the warehouseman. A dark stain spread down his left trouser leg.

  Owen clicked the Zippo shut, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the office door. Verity followed. The earpiece buzzed and crackled. There'd been a car crash outside the departures terminal. Two minicabs had collided and the drivers were fighting. Verity grinned under his mask. The more distractions, the better.

  Owen threw the warehouseman into the office. 'You've got ten seconds, then it's barbecue time,' he snarled. He pushed him down on to a swivel chair.

  The man's hands trembled over the keyboard. 'I have to think,' he said. 'I'm only the n-n-night man.'

  'Remember this,' said Owen, lighting the Zippo again and waving the flame close to the man's face.

  The warehouseman shrieked. 'Okay, okay, wait!' He stabbed at the keyboard. 'I've got it.' He wiped his sweating forehead with the arm of his coat. 'Row G. Section Six. Twelve b-b-boxes.'

  Verity turned to the office door. 'Fred, Doug!' he called. 'Row G. Section Six.' The earpiece buzzed. Despite the clean PNC check, the Arab was being taken into custody.

  Owen closed the Zippo and used duct tape to tie the warehouseman to the chair. 'I d-d-did what you wanted, d-d-didn't I?' asked the man fearfully. Owen slapped a piece of tape across his mouth.

  Verity pointed at Owen. 'Tell Harry to get the minibus ready,' he said, then jogged towards Row G.

  'I'll do it,' said Macdonald.

  Verity stopped in his tracks. He pointed a gloved finger at Macdonald. 'I said him. If I'd wanted you to do it I'd have told you.' He pointed at Owen. 'Do it!' he shouted. Then to Macdonald: 'You stay with me where I can keep my eye on you.' He jogged down the centre aisle, Macdonald and the Glaswegian following him while Owen ran towards the main door.

  Doug was already sitting at the controls of a fork-lift truck. 'Here they are.' Fred gestured at a pallet loaded with cardboard boxes.

  'Come on, get them loaded and let's get out of here!' yelled Verity. The boxes contained the latest Pentium chips from the States. According to Verity's man on the west coast, there were twenty-four boxes in the shipment worth almost a million pounds, wholesale.

  In the distance, the metal door slammed. They all turned at the sound of running feet. Verity and Macdonald raced into the main aisle and saw Owen hurtling towards them. 'Cops!' yelled Owen. 'There's cops everywhere!'

  Verity whirled round. 'What?'

  'They've got PJ. There's armed cops all over the place.'

  Verity's hand dropped towards his scanner. He checked the frequency and the volume. Everything was as it should be. 'They can't be,' he said.

  'They must have hit a silent alarm!' shouted Owen.

  Verity ran towards the office, where Eddie was standing with both hands on his pistol. 'What do we do?' asked Eddie.

  Verity gestured at the metal door. There were bolts top and bottom. 'Lock it,' he said. Eddie ran over, slid the bolts, then ducked away. There were no windows in the warehouse, no way of seeing what was going on outside. Owen was panting hard. Verity put a hand on his shoulder. 'How many?' he asked.

  'Shit, I don't know. They were all over the minibus. Three unmarked cars. A dozen, maybe. I didn't hang around to count.'

  Verity rushed into the office, slapped the warehouseman across the face, then ripped the tape off his mouth. 'Did you trip an alarm?'

  The man was shaking. 'How c-c-could I?' he stammered. 'You were w-w-watching me all the time. You know you were.'

  'What are we going to do?' asked Eddie.

  'Shut the fuck up and let me think,' said Verity.

  'There's nothing we can do,' said Macdonald. 'If the cops are outside, it's all over.'

  Verity ignored him and turned to Owen. 'You said they had PJ?'

  'He was bent over the bonnet of one of the cars and a cop was handcuffing him.'

  'Did they see you?'

  Owen nodded.

  'The minibus was still there?'

  Owen nodded again.

  'Okay,' said Verity. If the cops knew they'd been seen then he and his men had only seconds. He gestured with his shotgun at the two on the floor. 'Free their legs,' he said. 'And untie the twat in the chair. They're our ticket out of here.'

  Eddie rushed into the office. Fred and the Glaswegian bent down and ripped the tape off the fork-lift drivers' legs.

  Verity cradled his shotgun as he stared at the bolted metal door. If the cops knew they were armed, they wouldn't come storming in. And if they went out with hostages, the police wouldn't be able to shoot. Veri
ty tried to visualise the geography around the warehouse. As far as he could recall, there were no vantage-points for snipers. It would all be up close and personal, and that meant the cops wouldn't be able to fire without risking the hostages. But they had to move quickly. 'Come on, come on!' he shouted.

  Eddie pushed the warehouseman out of the office. 'The security guard's still out cold,' he said.

  'Three's enough,' said Verity.

  'Enough for what?' asked Macdonald.

  'To get us out of here.' Verity went over to the warehouseman. 'Give me the duct tape.' He held out his hand to Owen, who tossed him the roll. The warehouseman tried to speak but Verity pushed the barrel of the shotgun under his nose and told him to shut up. 'George, come over here.' The Glaswegian walked over to him. 'Put your shotgun against the back of his neck.' The Glaswegian did as he was told, and Verity wound duct tape round the weapon and the warehouseman's neck.

  'You use him like that and it's kidnapping,' said Macdonald. 'Shoot him and it's cold-blooded murder.'

  'If the cops let us go, no one'll get hurt,' said Verity. He nodded at Fred. 'Do the same with him.' He gestured at one of the fork-lift drivers. The West Indian hauled the man to his feet and did as he was told.

  'They won't let us walk out of here,' said Macdonald. 'Even with hostages.'

  'Armed robbery will get us twelve years, maybe fifteen,' said Verity. 'If a gun goes off and one of these sad fucks gets it, it'll be manslaughter. Ten to twelve. We've got nothing to lose.'

  'Ted Verity, I know you can hear me,' said a voice. Verity spun round, then realised that the voice had come through the scanner earpiece. It was being broadcast on the police frequency. 'This is the police. It's over, Ted, come out now before this gets out of hand.'

  Verity roared and ran over to the fork-lift driver Fred was tying up. He slammed his shotgun against the man's chin, then kicked him between the legs, hard. He fell back, and Verity hit him again as he went down.

  Macdonald grabbed Verity's arm. 'What the hell's got into you?'

  Verity shook him off. The earpiece buzzed again. 'There's armed police out here, Ted. There's nowhere for you to go. Leave your weapons where they are and come out with your hands in the air. If we have to come in and get you, people are going to get hurt.'

  A telephone began to ring in the office.

  'Answer the phone, Ted,' said the voice in Verity's ear.

  'It's the cops,' said the Glaswegian. 'They'll be wanting to talk to us.'

  Eddie hurried over to Verity.

  'They've already talked to us,' said Verity. He slapped the scanner on his belt. 'On the radio.'

  'How did they know we had a scanner?' asked Eddie, his face just inches away from Verity's.

  Verity could smell garlic on his breath. 'They knew everything,' he said. 'We've been set up.' He swore, then pushed Eddie in the chest. 'Get the fuck away from me!' he said.

  'It's over,' said Macdonald. He turned to the Glaswegian, looking for his support. The Glaswegian shrugged, but said nothing. 'If we go out with hostages, they'll throw away the key,' said Macdonald. The Glaswegian's finger was on the trigger of the shotgun. Most of the barrel was covered with duct tape, binding it to the warehouseman's neck. The man was trembling and the tape across his mouth pulsed in and out as he breathed.

  'They'll throw away the key for me, anyway,' said the Glaswegian. 'One look at my record.' He jabbed the shotgun against the warehouseman's neck. 'Let's just do what we've got to do.'

  Macdonald groaned. 'Jeff,' he said to Owen, 'help me out. This mad bastard's gonna get us all killed.'

  'No names!' screamed Verity, brandishing his shotgun. 'No fucking names!'

  'Ted,' said Macdonald calmly, 'them knowing who we are is the least of our problems.'

  'He's right,' said Doug. 'If the cops are outside it's thank you and good night.' He gestured at the door with his handgun. 'This pea-shooter's gonna do me no good against pigs with heavy artillery.'

  'We're not gonna shoot at them,' shouted Verity. 'All we're gonna do is tell them if they try to stop us the hostages get it. Look, the minibus is out there. PJ's there. If we move now, we can still get out of here. If we keep yapping they'll be firing tear gas and God knows what else in here.'

  The phone stopped ringing. Fred went to stand by Doug. The Glaswegian pulled the warehouseman back so that he was closer to Verity. Battle lines were being drawn. Owen cursed and moved over to Verity, his sawn-off shotgun at the ready. He gestured with his chin for Macdonald to join him but Macdonald shook his head.

  'Eddie,' said Verity, 'get the hell over here.'

  Eddie looked across at the two West Indians, then at Verity. 'I didn't sign up for a shoot-out,' he said. 'In and out, you said.'

  'Eddie, get over here or I'll shoot you myself.' Eddie gritted his teeth. Verity levelled his shotgun at Eddie's groin. 'I swear to God,' said Verity. 'Get your fucking arse over here.'

  Tears welled in Eddie's eyes but he did as he was told.

  'Answer the phone, Ted,' said the voice in Verity's ear. 'What we've got to say is better said over a secure line, right? Don't you agree?'

  Verity ripped off the earpiece and pointed at the fork-lift truck driver on the floor. 'Get a shotgun taped to his neck, now,' he shouted to Owen, keeping his own weapon aimed at the West Indians.

  Owen grabbed the duct tape and pulled the injured man to his feet. 'Give me a hand,' he said to Eddie.

  'If you're going to go through with this, I'm out of here,' said Doug.

  'You're not going anywhere,' said Verity.

  'This ain't no Three Musketeers thing,' said Doug. 'You do what you've got to do, but I'm walking out now.'

  'I'm with him,' said Fred, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

  The telephone rang again.

  'We're going out together,' said Verity.

  Eddie was winding tape round the fork-lift truck driver's neck.

  'They're not going to let you drive away,' said Macdonald.

  'They won't have a choice,' said Verity. 'What are they going to do? Shoot at us while we've got these guys by the short and curlies?'

  'And what are you going to do when they say there's no deal?' said Macdonald. 'Blow the heads off civilians?'

  'They'll deal,' said Verity.

  'If that's what you think you don't know the cops.'

  'Do you?' yelled Verity. 'Is that how they knew we were here? Did you grass us up?'

  'Screw you, Verity,' said Macdonald. 'I don't need this shit.'

  Verity pointed his shotgun at Macdonald's midriff, his finger on the trigger. Macdonald swung his own shotgun up so that it was levelled at Verity.

  'Guys, for fuck's sake!' shouted Owen. 'We're on the same side here!'

  'We're in this together,' said Verity. 'If we split up now, it's over.'

  'It's over anyway!' roared Macdonald. 'You just don't see it.'

  'Bob, we're damned if we do and damned if we don't,' said Owen.

  Macdonald snarled at Owen, though he kept his weapon on Verity. 'You told me this was a straight robbery,' he said. 'In and out before anyone was the wiser, you said. Now we're taking hostages.'

  'The cops are going to say we took hostages anyway,' said Owen calmly. 'Soon as we tied them up we were holding them against their will. Look, I brought you in on this because you were a cool head. Don't let me down now.'

  The phone stopped ringing. Outside the warehouse they heard rapid footsteps. Then silence.

  Macdonald lowered his weapon. 'Okay,' he said.

  Verity stared at him, then nodded curtly, acknowledging Macdonald's change of heart. 'Check the door,' Verity said. 'Don't open it, just listen.'

  Macdonald walked towards it. As he passed Verity, he turned suddenly and slammed the cut-down stock of his shotgun into the man's stomach. The breath exploded from Verity's lungs and he doubled over. Macdonald brought the stock crashing down on the back of Verity's head and Verity dropped like a dead weight.

  Owen stared at Macdonald in am
azement. Doug and Fred cheered. The Glaswegian tried to rip his shotgun away from the warehouseman's neck but the duct tape held firm and he cursed. Macdonald swung his gun towards him. 'Don't even think about it, Jock,' he said.

  'You're dead,' said Owen. 'When he gets hold of you, you'll be wearing your balls around your neck.'

  'If we go out there tooled up, we're dead anyway,' said Macdonald. He backed away from Owen. The Glaswegian ripped his shotgun free with a roar. He aimed it at Macdonald as the warehouseman slumped to his knees.

  Macdonald kept backing away. 'I've no problem with you, Jock,' he said, 'or you, Jeff. I just want out of here.'

  There was a loud bang at the entrance and they all jumped. As the Glaswegian turned to look at the metal door, Macdonaldsprinted down the warehouse. He ducked between two towering stacks of pallets, then zigzagged right, left and right again. He dropped the shotgun and kicked it under a pallet, then sprinted towards the rear of the warehouse. Behind him he heard the metal door crash open, then the staccato shouts of men who were used to their orders being obeyed. 'Armed police! Down on the floor, now! Down, down, down!'

  Macdonald zigzagged again, and reached the warehouse wall. The emergency exit was at the mid-point and he ran towards it. From the front of the warehouse he heard a single shotgun blast, a burst of automatic fire, then more shouts. He wondered who had fired. Owen was too much of a pro to shoot at armed police. It was probably the Glaswegian. Macdonald hoped he hadn't hit anybody and that the police had been firing warning shots. A pump-action shotgun against half a dozen Hecklers was no contest.

  Macdonald kicked the metal bar in the middle of the door, which sprang open. An alarm sounded in the distance. The door bounced back and he shouldered his way through.

  'Armed police!' shouted a Cockney accent. 'Drop your weapon!'

  Macdonald stopped dead and raised his hands in the air. 'I'm not carrying a weapon, dipshit!' he shouted, then stood where he was, breathing heavily.

  'Down on the ground, keep your hands where we can see them!' shouted the officer. He was in his mid-twenties, dressed all in black with a Kevlar vest and a black baseball cap with POLICE written across it in white capital letters. His Heckler was aimed at Macdonald's chest. Two more armed officers stood behind him, their guns aimed at Macdonald.