“Tinted windows.”
Nash shook his head, not understanding.
Harry grunted in frustration. “Okay, unless Led Zeppelin are playing Chipping Norton, these bastards are standing out like a collection of skeezy sore thumbs. They could have piled into a few Ford Fiestas, but no, they had to go all Marvel movie bad guy obvious.”
“You’re sure it’s them?”
“As sure as I can be.” She scratched her chin. “They’re headed straight here, at exactly one kilometre an hour below the speed limit. No deviations, no popping into a Starbucks for a coffee-like drink and a slice of carrot cake.”
“Fuck Starbucks!” Eva cried out, specks of sandwich flying from her mouth.
Harry chuckled and continued. “These guys are the shit and they’re coming straight for us.”
“Good enough for me. When will they get here?”
“Best guess, around ten. Park, have a stretch and a scratch, be ready by, say, midnight. Your assessment of the wee small hours was spot on.”
Nash took a wide stance, mind racing, already moving on to the next conversation. “Hawk!” When his old friend came over, Nash said, “It’s time to evacuate.”
“On it.” His hand delved into his pocket to extract his keys. “I’ll get the truck. Bishop, you make the call.”
“Affirmative,” Bishop replied, picking up his phone.
Phase one played out according to plan. Hawk jumped in his truck and headed into the village. At a designated corner he hit the brakes, strategically dislodging barrels covered with scary biohazard stickers, which proceeded to roll down the street.
Bishop called the police, stating in his best Cotswold accent that a biological hazard had just occurred with drums containing vinyl chloride, class-three dangerous goods due to their flammability. Bishop said the drums appeared undamaged but were “very scary”. It was important to advise that the drums were undamaged because any real leakage would necessitate a full-blown emergency response with dozens of agencies, putting even more people in the firing line.
Given the notice of the fast moving SUVs heading their way, Nash and his team were cutting it fine, but they didn’t want civilians wandering around and becoming collateral damage in their little war. The less people hurt the better. He only wished the opposition shared his outlook.
Luckily, the local constabulary followed protocol and activated a precautionary evacuation of Devil’s End. Every available police officer was deployed to assist with the evacuation. They followed the regimented procedure and contacted the Hazardous Area Response Team. Except, they didn’t. Harry rerouted the call to her mobile and advised a team was en route. Enter phase two.
Nash and Sophia drove in a van emblazoned with the official Hazardous Area Response Team logos. They wore matching overalls with printed logos Nash had also paid for. All the rushed jobs Hawk organised had cost Nash a small fortune, but the results spoke for themselves.
At the main entry to the town, the one connected to the M40, was positioned a rather rotund senior officer and a bookish policewoman. As soon as the van rolled to a stop Nash and Sophia and stepped out, and the two police at the roadblock straightened to attention. Nash did the talking, thinking Sophia’s accent would only raise questions. Both officers seemed pleased to have HART on the job, grateful they didn’t have to do the dirty work.
It tuned out the local police were surprisingly competent. They covered the two entry and exit points to the village and cleared it in less than an hour. Nash was quietly impressed. No locals put up a fight, and they were calmly evacuated to nearby Kingham. Apparently some were quite happy to be put up for the night.
“How long is this going to take?” was the first thing the Senior Sergeant asked.
Nash looked over to Sophia, who gave a theatrical shake of her head. “From the briefing we received, a good five to eight hours.”
The Senior Sergeant’s shoulders sagged. “Our shift ended three hours ago.” The black bags under his eyes reinforced his point.
Doing his best to give an air of sympathy, Nash said, “Look, we’ve got two more vans on the way. Trainers and students in their last semester. All fully qualified in road management. We can take over the outer cordon as we’ll have too many for the hot zone anyway. Happy to do it.”
“Really?” The Senior Sergeant’s mood softened. “It’s just, it’s my husband’s birthday and…”
Nash held up his hand. “Say no more. You go, we’ve got this. All good.” He gave a reassuring wink. “When we’re done we’ll put the barricades on the side of the road over there. You can collect them in the morning. We got ya.”
“That’s brilliant, thank you so much,” he called over his shoulder. He and the policewoman were already halfway to their car.
As their taillights disappeared into the night, Nash and Sophia quickly moved the barricade to the side of the road, careful to conceal it from view. They didn’t want anything to prevent Tartarus from entering their trap.
Nash pulled out his comms device. “Phase two complete.”
“Not before time,” Harry replied anxiously, “they’re about five miles out.” She was stationed on the roof of the abbey, as it had the best view of all entry points. “I’ve got a visual. Better get out of there, Nash.” There was a dramatic pause. “Here they come.”
Chapter Fifteen
The moment Nash parked the van, now stripped of its Hazardous Area Response Team logos, at the corner of the T-intersection, Bishop barked in the comms device in his ear.
“The Land Rovers have entered the town.” There was a slight pause. “They’ve split up. First team heading directly for Nash’s house, second team holding back.”
Damn. They’d hoped Tartarus would stay together, but suspected they wouldn’t be that lucky and had planned accordingly.
Nash and Sophia were positioned down the street and around the corner, but they had a good vantage point for what was about to unfold. Sophia extracted her pistol and rubbed his back reassuringly.
Nash hit the comms button. “Plan Omega. Repeat, plan Omega. You ready Paul?”
“Call me Mr Sandman.”
“I’d rather not.”
A dry chuckle came through Nash’s earpiece. “Ready.” After a moment of silence, Paul said, “I have visual. Here we go.”
Nash saw the SUV cut its headlights and roll to a stop four houses away. Five mercenaries in full tactical combat gear silently exited the van, carbines up and scanning for threats. They covered every direction in a wedge fire-team formation and silently slid through Nash’s front gate. The dark-clad figures descended on the house, two heading towards the back door to cover any attempted escape.
It was textbook execution. These guys were pros. Nash expected nothing less.
