drawn, six Trojans steamed from the first vehicle. ‘This is Mel and they’re attacking,’ was Melanie’s last message, as the Trojans crashed through the circle of Reds and raced across the pavement, terrifying dozens of workers hurrying for the station. A pair of surveillance officers broke cover, signalling them to hold off, but the Trojans shoved them aside on the sprint to their target, already yelling at the tops of their voices: ‘Police! Stand still!’
The Trojans caught Jibril just inside the station entrance, dead opposite the crowded bus terminus, as he made a right and headed for the staircase leading down to the Tube network. They stopped the morning rush-hour commuters in their tracks as the first pair threw him to the ground. Crammed into the entrance, a dozen witnesses froze in open-mouthed horror as one Trojan held his weapon against Jibril’s temple. Then they saw a lean figure in motorcycle leathers rush forward from the crowd and launch himself into the air to land on top of Jibril, completely covering his body and spoiling the officer’s aim.
Before anyone could react Melanie swept in after him, shouting, ‘Police! Police!’ and crouching protectively over Langton and Jibril as the Trojans piled in, pumped up, confused but ready to fire. They grabbed Melanie first, but Langton, still on top of Jibril, was already rolling over and shoving his ID up at them. ‘We told you, you stupid bastards,’ he was shouting, ‘we had him.’
Sirens were coming from everywhere, but Jibril lay prone as one of the Trojans made a rapid body search. Their team leader stood over them while thirty commuters looked on from the station entrance, evidently stunned by the drama unfolding in front of them. Three Trojans roughly dragged Melanie and Langton aside and stood them against the station wall, then made a quick search and glared at Langton’s ID.
The Trojan searching Jibril looked up and shook his head at his boss, just as Kerr appeared beside him. ‘Hi. I’m John Kerr,’ he said, nodding at Langton and Melanie, ‘and those two are mine.’
The leader scowled back, ignoring Kerr’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m gonna have you for this.’
The second Trojan team appeared, carrying white forensic suits. Recovering from the shock, many of the commuters were taking photographs with their mobile phones, so the assault team carried Jibril to one side of the ticket hall as Langton and Melanie melted away. They drove one of the Range Rovers onto the pavement to block the entrance, then stood the prisoner on the middle of a giant sheet of plastic and methodically removed his clothes, placing each item in a separate evidence sack.
‘So, are you going to tell her, or shall I?’ Kerr asked the Trojans’ leader, as they dressed Jibril in a white forensic coverall.
The team leader turned away and spoke into his mike. ‘Gold from Challenger One. Suspect is unarmed. We’re taking him into Paddington Green.’
Kerr was studying the gathering crowd, routinely spotting his own people. ‘Have to say,’ said Kerr, nodding at another pair of Trojans nearby carrying Benelli shotguns, ‘they look a bit disappointed.’
‘There was no need for your guys to jump in,’ said the team leader. ‘We weren’t going to shoot him. No way.’
Kerr watched a marked armed-response vehicle screech to a halt in front of the lead Range Rover and the crew recover Heckler & Koch 9mm automatics from the boot. ‘You sure about that?’
The firearms man glared back. ‘We couldn’t afford to risk letting him run on the train,’ he said, instinctively checking his weapon.
‘But we have to, mate,’ Kerr shot back, his head full of memories from 2005 and the torn body of Jean Charles de Menezes. ‘That’s exactly what we have to do. It’s why we’re in this business. Bottom line is, he wasn’t armed, not carrying a bomb. Perhaps you were gonna shoot him, perhaps not.’
They watched the Trojans quick-cuff Jibril and
The Trojans caught Jibril just inside the station entrance, dead opposite the crowded bus terminus, as he made a right and headed for the staircase leading down to the Tube network. They stopped the morning rush-hour commuters in their tracks as the first pair threw him to the ground. Crammed into the entrance, a dozen witnesses froze in open-mouthed horror as one Trojan held his weapon against Jibril’s temple. Then they saw a lean figure in motorcycle leathers rush forward from the crowd and launch himself into the air to land on top of Jibril, completely covering his body and spoiling the officer’s aim.
Before anyone could react Melanie swept in after him, shouting, ‘Police! Police!’ and crouching protectively over Langton and Jibril as the Trojans piled in, pumped up, confused but ready to fire. They grabbed Melanie first, but Langton, still on top of Jibril, was already rolling over and shoving his ID up at them. ‘We told you, you stupid bastards,’ he was shouting, ‘we had him.’
Sirens were coming from everywhere, but Jibril lay prone as one of the Trojans made a rapid body search. Their team leader stood over them while thirty commuters looked on from the station entrance, evidently stunned by the drama unfolding in front of them. Three Trojans roughly dragged Melanie and Langton aside and stood them against the station wall, then made a quick search and glared at Langton’s ID.
The Trojan searching Jibril looked up and shook his head at his boss, just as Kerr appeared beside him. ‘Hi. I’m John Kerr,’ he said, nodding at Langton and Melanie, ‘and those two are mine.’
The leader scowled back, ignoring Kerr’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m gonna have you for this.’
The second Trojan team appeared, carrying white forensic suits. Recovering from the shock, many of the commuters were taking photographs with their mobile phones, so the assault team carried Jibril to one side of the ticket hall as Langton and Melanie melted away. They drove one of the Range Rovers onto the pavement to block the entrance, then stood the prisoner on the middle of a giant sheet of plastic and methodically removed his clothes, placing each item in a separate evidence sack.
‘So, are you going to tell her, or shall I?’ Kerr asked the Trojans’ leader, as they dressed Jibril in a white forensic coverall.
The team leader turned away and spoke into his mike. ‘Gold from Challenger One. Suspect is unarmed. We’re taking him into Paddington Green.’
Kerr was studying the gathering crowd, routinely spotting his own people. ‘Have to say,’ said Kerr, nodding at another pair of Trojans nearby carrying Benelli shotguns, ‘they look a bit disappointed.’
‘There was no need for your guys to jump in,’ said the team leader. ‘We weren’t going to shoot him. No way.’
Kerr watched a marked armed-response vehicle screech to a halt in front of the lead Range Rover and the crew recover Heckler & Koch 9mm automatics from the boot. ‘You sure about that?’
The firearms man glared back. ‘We couldn’t afford to risk letting him run on the train,’ he said, instinctively checking his weapon.
‘But we have to, mate,’ Kerr shot back, his head full of memories from 2005 and the torn body of Jean Charles de Menezes. ‘That’s exactly what we have to do. It’s why we’re in this business. Bottom line is, he wasn’t armed, not carrying a bomb. Perhaps you were gonna shoot him, perhaps not.’
They watched the Trojans quick-cuff Jibril and
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