Red Station - Adrian Magson Harry Tate thrillers

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bordered by a muddy track, was mostly used by working boats, weekend sailors and jet-skiers. The going, while reasonably solid underfoot, showed some evidence of a spongy sub-layer.

      They’d spent an hour in the area, fishing, sipping beer and competitively skimming stones on the water, all the while scouting for cover in hollows, bushes and overturned or rotting boats. Other than a woman walking her dog and a couple of dinghies making laboured trips to boats further along, they had seen no-one who shouldn’t be there.

      As they were leaving, it had started to rain; hard, slashing drops like liquid gobstoppers, pounding the softer patches into mud holes and blanketing the harder ground with a layer of filthy water. They had highlighted these areas on a laminated map for special attention.

      Blue Team clearly hadn’t read the signs.

      Harry closed his eyes against a rising nausea. Of all the luck. He could be at Jean’s place right now, replete and warmed by her infectious humour, enjoying her company. Instead, he was stuffed with a growing disaster of Titanic proportions.

      Except that he knew deep down that this was as much a drug for him as the narcotics on the boat were for others.

      ‘Stand by.’ He toggled the switch to warn the other two men and watched the boat slide by thirty yards away. It was too late to abort, too risky to do nothing; within hours the stuff on board would be hitting the streets, flooding veins with its false promise and sending the weak and vulnerable to an early, hazy oblivion.

      It was now or never.

      He was clutching a handful of grass with his right hand. He forced himself to let go and slid his fingers into his jacket, to the reassuring touch of a semi-automatic.

      ‘Is it a go or not?’ Parrish, the third man. A firearms officer on loan from the local force, he was to Harry’s right, close by the water’s edge, positioned to cut off the boat’s retreat. A last-minute replacement for an MI5 officer off sick, he was nervy, impatient and looking to prove himself.

      ‘Wait!’ Tate breathed, and hoped the idiot wasn’t about to leap from cover and do a Rambo along the bank. As he spoke, the helmsman on the boat called a soft warning to his companions and cut the engine, steering the nose towards a short wooden jetty jutting out from the near bank.

      ‘Blue Team . . . you out yet?’ It was a wasted call, but gave him a few more seconds before having to make a final, no-going-back decision.

      ‘Negative, Red One. We’re not going anywhere. Sorry.’

      ‘You forgotten how to fucking run?’ he blasted back, and instantly regretted it. Five hundred yards in full gear, stumbling through the dark; even with night-vision kit they’d be like a pack of elephants.

      He decided to give it another two minutes, to allow the boat’s crew to split up and come ashore. Divide and conquer. Maybe, he thought wryly, when they saw they were surrounded by just three men stranded on a muddy bank in the dark, they’d give up without a fight.

      Then bad luck and timing chose that moment to join the party.

      From Harry’s left, the opposite end of the approach track from Blue Team’s last position, the familiar harsh roar of a Land Rover engine pierced the night, and a dark, square shape burst into view. Its lights were on low, but were sufficient to burn through the mist and highlight the surrounding bank . . . and the white hull of the docking vessel.

      TWO

      ‘Fuck!’ Maloney’s curse registered deep shock. ‘Where the hell did he spring from?’ All approaches to the area were supposed to have been shut off one hour ago. Any sooner would have alerted the traffickers that their plans were blown.

      ‘What’s happening?’ Parrish again, and by the catch in his voice, Harry knew that the firearms officer was about to make a move.

      ‘Hold your position!’ He turned to focus on the approaching car, gripping the hard outline of the gun and gathering his legs beneath him. Either someone had stuffed up the security cordon or the informant had lied about the smugglers’ plans.

      He used his radio. ‘Red Three, this is Red One. A vehicle just arrived. What the hell’s going on out there?’ Red Three was another MI5 officer – a floater – operating the outer cordon with the local police. He should have warned them about the car’s approach.

      ‘Red Three?’

      Silence.

      ‘Shit!’ He pounded his fist into the soft ground. What else could go wrong?

      The Land Rover slid to an untidy stop ten yards short of the jetty, throwing up a spray of ground water. Both doors opened and a man sprang from behind the wheel and ran round to the passenger side. He appeared to be urging the passenger – a young woman in a floaty dress – to stay inside, but she had already slid from the car’s high seat, followed by the heavy beat of hip-hop music.

      Christ, no, Harry thought, hardly able to believe his eyes. This is all we fucking need . . .

      As the driver tried to turn the girl back inside the car, he glanced at the boat ghosting into the jetty, its crew of three illuminated by the car’s lights, and lifted a hand towards them.

      But the girl didn’t seem to understand.

      ‘Hey, baby,’ she cried plaintively, her voice slurred. ‘Whassup? What’re you doing?’ She ducked past him and peered at the incoming vessel. ‘Who’re they?

      As the boat brushed the jetty, the man with the dreadlocks moved forward on the deck, bouncing the pole up and down on his shoulder. Behind him, the figure on the rear platform got ready to jump ashore, a glint of something stubby and metallic in his free hand.

      Harry Tate felt a kick of anguish deep in his gut.

      ‘Don’t . . .!’

      Afterwards, he never was sure what he’d intended to say – something more definite, for certain – and nothing like the single, useless utterance which came out of his mouth. He pushed himself to his feet, muscles cramped after too long in the same position, and brought up his gun. It was a long shot for a handgun but doable; he’d managed under worse conditions before now. His instincts told him Maloney was still somewhere to his right, also ready and willing to mix it if he had to.

      ‘Stop! Police! Don’t move!’

      It was Parrish. Shouting and running forward along the bank, faint in the reach of the car’s headlights, he was swinging his Heckler & Koch in the air, the barrel aimed at the night sky. Harry couldn’t tell if it was bravado or stupidity, but the gun was pointless if he wasn’t going to use it.

      And he was running across his colleagues’ direct line of fire.

      ‘Get down, you prick!’ yelled Maloney.

      Too late.

      The man with the dreadlocks looked at Parrish, then turned back to the Land Rover and screamed in defiance. He swung the pole down from his shoulder, catching it with a solid smack in his other hand. The car headlights glinted off dark metal.

      Shotgun.

      The muzzle-blast ripped the night apart, and the driver of the Land Rover was punched off his feet. The girl screamed as he was torn from her grasp, and her legs sagged. She whirled round to see what was happening, incomprehension on her face. Then a stutter of automatic fire came from the man at the rear of the boat. It ripped into her, shredding the floaty dress and sent her spinning to join her companion.

      Without pause, Dreadlocks swung his gun and pulled the trigger again. The heavy charge knocked Parrish over backwards. The helmsman shouted a warning and hauled on the wheel, surging away from the bank with a howl of engines. Taken by surprise, Dreadlocks grabbed for the side rail but missed. He sprawled headlong on the deck, while the man on the stern platform danced off-balance for a moment before grabbing the side bar and holding on tight.

      Harry

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