fifteen seconds the bags were loaded in the boot and the gunmen fell back to their vehicle — nondescript — untraceable. They were almost in the clear when a guard dropped to his ankle and came up with a snub nose in his hand. He swung it toward the gunmen but they put him down before he could realise how much of a bad move it was.
The gunmen scanned the area.
Witnesses. Men going to work. Women in cars. Each and every one of them able to stand up in court and point a finger.
They unleashed hell. Nobody got out alive.
When the executions were over, the gunmen piled into the car and out of frame. Five in total. Identical clothing, identical weapons, and no identical features. The whole thing was over and done within sixty seconds.
Smart. Professional. Cool.
Bishop leant back in his chair and drew on his cigarette. He was about to turn the machine off, but in the final frames of the recording, a piece-of-shit Ford that looked parked and empty, pulled away from the curb and trailed after the getaway car.
A spotter. A lookout. Bishop tapped the arrows on the dirty keyboard and brought the footage back frame by frame. A hundred or so taps later, he leant forward and peered at the screen.
A licence plate.
Bishop wrote down the number, yanked the SD card from the computer and left the room.
Chapter Eleven
The CIB had come to life. The phones rang; some were answered, some weren’t. Every desk was occupied, and those without one worked from the floor. The coffee machine was in overtime, and the guys whose shifts had ended hours ago stayed on for no pay and forced themselves to think outside of the four corners they were used to.
Bishop shoved the crumpled paper into a uniform’s hand. ‘Run this tag, then run who the vehicle is registered to. I want sheets, known associates; everything you can find. Bring it to me and only to me, you understand?’
The uniform nodded. He had no choice and a second later was off and on his way to do the detective’s shit work and cursing under his breath.
In the chaos, on a bench, quiet and alone, sat a woman. Waiting patiently with her handbag on her lap and a scrunched-up tissue in her hand.
Bishop walked over and crouched in front of her. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
She stared back at him blankly.
‘Ma’am? Can I help you?’
She started. ‘What …? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s my husband; he’s a driver for Armaguard. I can’t get him on the phone. I’ve been waiting, but everybody’s so busy.’
‘What’s his name, love?’
‘Jamie Gale.’
Bishop patted her hand. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ Heading toward his desk, he picked up a victim list, scanned through the names. Then he made his way back across the office and sat next to her.
He was never any good at this. No one is ever good at it, but Bishop always struggled to find the words, which he knew always made it worse. His face gave the answer long before he opened his mouth.
‘His name was on that list, wasn’t it?’
Bishop nodded.
‘I thought so. I just needed somebody to tell me, to know for sure.’ She stood up and held out her hand. Bishop shook it. ‘Thank you, detective.’
‘Can I have someone drive you home?’
She shook her head, disappeared into the sea of activity and was gone.
The noise started from the elevator and rolled back in waves. Cheers, claps and wolf whistles flooded the room. Within a matter of moments, every badge was on their feet and their hands slapping together like a chant. Bishop headed over to what everybody was so happy about. Rayburn, Cooper and Taylor barged through the office with shit-eating grins.
‘We got ’em,’ Cooper yelled.
Bishop didn’t know who they thought they’d got, because the two beaten-up bastards they had cuffed didn’t look like they could rob a blind man, let alone an armoured truck. Everything Bishop needed to know about them he could tell by their ‘tribal’ tattoos, Adidas tracksuits and oversized sunglasses. They were
The gunmen scanned the area.
Witnesses. Men going to work. Women in cars. Each and every one of them able to stand up in court and point a finger.
They unleashed hell. Nobody got out alive.
When the executions were over, the gunmen piled into the car and out of frame. Five in total. Identical clothing, identical weapons, and no identical features. The whole thing was over and done within sixty seconds.
Smart. Professional. Cool.
Bishop leant back in his chair and drew on his cigarette. He was about to turn the machine off, but in the final frames of the recording, a piece-of-shit Ford that looked parked and empty, pulled away from the curb and trailed after the getaway car.
A spotter. A lookout. Bishop tapped the arrows on the dirty keyboard and brought the footage back frame by frame. A hundred or so taps later, he leant forward and peered at the screen.
A licence plate.
Bishop wrote down the number, yanked the SD card from the computer and left the room.
Chapter Eleven
The CIB had come to life. The phones rang; some were answered, some weren’t. Every desk was occupied, and those without one worked from the floor. The coffee machine was in overtime, and the guys whose shifts had ended hours ago stayed on for no pay and forced themselves to think outside of the four corners they were used to.
Bishop shoved the crumpled paper into a uniform’s hand. ‘Run this tag, then run who the vehicle is registered to. I want sheets, known associates; everything you can find. Bring it to me and only to me, you understand?’
The uniform nodded. He had no choice and a second later was off and on his way to do the detective’s shit work and cursing under his breath.
In the chaos, on a bench, quiet and alone, sat a woman. Waiting patiently with her handbag on her lap and a scrunched-up tissue in her hand.
Bishop walked over and crouched in front of her. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
She stared back at him blankly.
‘Ma’am? Can I help you?’
She started. ‘What …? Oh, I’m sorry. It’s my husband; he’s a driver for Armaguard. I can’t get him on the phone. I’ve been waiting, but everybody’s so busy.’
‘What’s his name, love?’
‘Jamie Gale.’
Bishop patted her hand. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ Heading toward his desk, he picked up a victim list, scanned through the names. Then he made his way back across the office and sat next to her.
He was never any good at this. No one is ever good at it, but Bishop always struggled to find the words, which he knew always made it worse. His face gave the answer long before he opened his mouth.
‘His name was on that list, wasn’t it?’
Bishop nodded.
‘I thought so. I just needed somebody to tell me, to know for sure.’ She stood up and held out her hand. Bishop shook it. ‘Thank you, detective.’
‘Can I have someone drive you home?’
She shook her head, disappeared into the sea of activity and was gone.
The noise started from the elevator and rolled back in waves. Cheers, claps and wolf whistles flooded the room. Within a matter of moments, every badge was on their feet and their hands slapping together like a chant. Bishop headed over to what everybody was so happy about. Rayburn, Cooper and Taylor barged through the office with shit-eating grins.
‘We got ’em,’ Cooper yelled.
Bishop didn’t know who they thought they’d got, because the two beaten-up bastards they had cuffed didn’t look like they could rob a blind man, let alone an armoured truck. Everything Bishop needed to know about them he could tell by their ‘tribal’ tattoos, Adidas tracksuits and oversized sunglasses. They were
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