The Falcon Tattoo (The National Crime Agency Series Book 2) Read online

  ALSO BY BILL ROGERS

  THE SI JOANNE STUART, NATIONAL CRIME AGENCY SERIES

  The Pick, The Spade and The Crow

  DCI TOM CATON MANCHESTER MURDER MYSTERIES

  The Cleansing

  The Head Case

  The Tiger’s Cave

  A Fatal Intervention

  Bluebell Hollow

  A Trace of Blood

  The Frozen Contract

  Backwash

  A Venetian Moon

  Angel Meadow

  Breakfast at Katsouris (short stories)

  INDIVIDUAL WORKS

  Caton’s Manchester (eight walks based on the Manchester Murder Mysteries)

  The Cave

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2016 Bill Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941151

  ISBN-10: 1503941159

  Cover design by Stuart Bache

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  I had a dove, and the sweet dove died

  And I have thought it died of grieving:

  O, what could it grieve for? its feet were tied

  With a single thread of my own hand’s weaving;

  Sweet little red feet, why should you die

  Why should you leave me, sweet bird, why?

  John Keats “Song. I had a Dove.”

  Chapter 1

  Her heart was pounding, the sound of each breath magnified by the respirator. She repeated the mantra they had been taught:

  Fast is slow, slow is fast. Move slow, think fast, focus.

  She could feel the first beads of sweat forming where the visor met her hairline. A voice erupted in her earpiece.

  ‘Stand by!’

  Another adrenaline spike. Nerves at screaming point, she breathed in again, slow and deep, breathed out, relaxed her grip a fraction on the polymer handle of the Glock. Victor appeared at her side, the menacing black bulk of the Enforcer raised to smash their way in.

  ‘GO! GO! GO!’

  The door flew open. She was first through, Romeo close behind. A passageway, a door to the right, two doors to the left.

  ‘Hall clear!’ she said. Keeping low, she moved into the room on the right. A table. Two seated. One standing behind. Gun? No gun?

  Gun!

  She squeezed the trigger once, controlled the recoil, squeezed again. A fluid movement. Double tap.

  ‘GR One. One Tango down, two Charlies present.’

  Back across the hall, she scanned to check that it was still clear. The barrel of Romeo’s MP5 brushed her hip.

  She scanned the second room. Three chairs, a coffee table, a television set, a bookcase. Another doorway. She was about to declare the room clear.

  A figure stepped out from behind the bookcase.

  Fast is slow, slow is fast . . . Gun? No gun?

  Gun!

  She fired two shots. The body fell back.

  Count the shots. Six remaining.

  ‘GR Two. One Tango down,’ she said, heading towards the second doorway. As she drew closer, there was the sound of automatic gunfire from within the room.

  Romeo touched her on the shoulder.

  ‘Flash-bang,’ he said.

  She leaned back against the doorjamb and closed her eyes as Romeo lobbed the stun grenade into the room. The bright white magnesium flash left a ghostlike impression behind the tinted eyepiece as she moved through the doorway.

  Two hooded figures were standing in the left-hand corner, another in the right-hand corner. Both were armed.

  She fired one headshot at each of the figures to the left. There was an instantaneous burst of automatic fire from Romeo on her right. She fired a second shot into each of her two targets, and they fell.

  Count the shots. Two remaining.

  ‘GR Three. Three Tango down. Room clear!’ she said.

  Back through room two, and into the passageway. Still clear. One doorway on the left. Romeo was still behind her. She moved to the door, and kicked it open. It was an empty toilet.

  ‘GR Four clear!’ she said.

  The hostages? Where the hell were the hostages?

  The passageway led into a small hall. There were stairs. The stairs were empty. She began to move up them, hugging the wall. The landing was clear. There were four doors, and a ladder to the roof. Two of the doors were open. She checked the first on the right. A bathroom.

  ‘U One clear!’ she said.

  Romeo had entered the second of the rooms. She moved into position behind him.

  ‘U Two clear!’ he said.

  She stepped back out on to the landing. A figure holding an AK47 appeared at the far end. She fired two shots. He fell backwards.

  Count the shots. None left!

  ‘One Tango down,’ she said, ejecting the magazine and tearing the spare from its clip. Another figure appeared at the end of the landing. She had to turn the spare so that it presented correctly.

  ‘Shit!’

  As she fumbled with the magazine, there was a burst of fire. The figure fell back. She rammed the magazine home. Her hands were shaking.

  ‘One Tango down!’ said Romeo.

  He was already moving to the next doorway. Jo followed him. He stood to the right of the door, waiting for her to enter the room first. Her face was bathed in sweat. Condensation was forming inside her visor. She moved into the room
.

  A hooded figure stood in the middle of the room. His left arm was around the neck of a young woman. Her head lay pinned across his left shoulder. He had a gun inclined across her face.

  Jo fired two shots into his head.

  ‘Tango down,’ she said. ‘One Charlie present.’

  Count the shots.

  She was breathing heavily as she exited on to the landing. One by one, she entered the remaining two rooms. They were both clear.

  Angling the Glock upwards with her right hand, she began to climb the ladder to the roof above, followed by her colleague. Three rungs from the top she stopped, and raised her left hand to shoulder height, palm upwards, fingers pointing to the rear. Romeo slapped a cylindrical grenade like a relay baton on to her palm. Her fingers curled around it. He began to count.

  ‘One, two, three . . .’

  She hurled the grenade through the hatch. The sound of the explosion echoed around the barrelled roof above them. She launched herself through the aperture and turned through 360 degrees, sweeping the roof space with her pistol.

  ‘Clear! Clear! Clear!’ she shouted.

  ‘Romeo, Juliet, stand down!’ said the voice in her ears. ‘Stand down.’

  Senior Investigator Joanne Stuart holstered her Glock, and removed her balaclava, visor, ear protectors and respirator. Her hair was wringing wet, her face and chest bathed in sweat. She wiped her face on the back of her sleeve, took a deep breath and began to cough.

  ‘There’s bugger all fresh air in here,’ said Romeo.

  Jo looked up at the hangar-like ceiling above them. They were still underground, safe from prying eyes and passing satellites. It had been easy in the heat of the moment to forget that the SAS Killing House was concealed in a bunker.

  They retraced their steps. There was a hum from extractor fans dispersing the smoke from the stun grenades. The building was suddenly a hive of activity as staff made their way in and busied themselves removing bullets from the rubber walls, checking and fixing targets, setting the furniture ready for the next exercise. The scene reminded Jo of the firearms skills house at the GMP Clayton Brook Complex in Manchester, modelled on this facility, where she had gained her first such experience. But this had felt entirely different. Romeo and his colleagues had been battle-tested around the world, and were in a constant state of readiness. But then, she reflected, these days who isn’t? That was why the National Crime Agency had sent her here.

  Chapter 2

  ‘So, how do you think you did?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jo replied.

  ‘Right answer,’ said the instructor. ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

  They were seated in front of a row of screens. A technician was operating the video. The picture was paused on the exterior view of the Killing House. One click, and the playback started.

  ‘Initial entry good,’ said the instructor. ‘Let’s have a look at ground floor one.’

  Jo was fascinated by how slowly she seemed to be moving on the screen. Everything had felt so fast in real time. She was secretly impressed by how cool she appeared as she took out the first of the targets. The instructor agreed.

  ‘Good reaction times,’ he said. ‘Classic double tap. Both shots on target. However . . .’ The pause was ominous. He asked the technician to go back, and then freeze the action at the moment Jo began firing. ‘What do you notice about your position?’

  Jo stared at the screen. She thought she had a strong stance: left foot slightly forward, weight balanced on the sole of each foot, arms locked into the firing position, yet loose.

  ‘I’m not sure?’ she said.

  ‘What about Romeo’s position?’

  She was barely a yard inside the room. Romeo was trapped between her and the doorway.

  ‘I should have wheeled left, or gone much further into the room,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘We don’t apologise here,’ said the instructor. ‘We learn. Run it on, Mike.’

  Her performance in the corridor and the second room was declared fit for purpose. Next came the room in which she had faced three hostiles.

  ‘Three things you got right here,’ said the instructor. ‘First, there’s the decision to take the two targets on the left and leave the other one to your buddy. Then there’s the decision to give each of them one headshot first, and then a second, rather than two double taps. If you’d gone for a controlled pair with the first Tango, the other one would have had time to take you out, and possibly Romeo too. Finally, there’s your accuracy, but we’ll come to that later.’

  He turned to the SAS trooper who had partnered her as Romeo in the exercise.

  ‘Did you notice anything untoward, Ginger?’

  Ginger nodded. ‘When Mike plays it back, Jo,’ he said, ‘watch what you did with your Glock after you finished firing, and as you turned to exit the room.’

  This time, Jo spotted it straight away.

  ‘I swept the muzzle over your head, and then your legs as I turned to leave the room,’ she said. ‘If there’d been an involuntary trigger squeeze, I could have shot you.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the instructor. ‘Imagine if there had been four of you in that room? It’s all about muzzle discipline and control. You can forget all that hype about safety triggers – in the heat of the moment, anything can happen.’

  He tapped the technician on the shoulder.

  ‘Next.’

  The remainder of the ground floor and her passage up the stairs passed without comment, but Jo knew what was coming. The instructor allowed the playback to continue until the second Tango had been hit, and then turned to Jo.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you, but I will. At least you knew you were due a reload, but it took you far too long. What’s more, you remained in clear sight while doing so. If this had been a live Op, you’d be dead.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’d placed my spare mag the wrong way round in the clip. I fumbled, trying to turn it one-handed.’

  ‘Well, don’t do it again,’ said the instructor. ‘This is why we practise over and over again.’

  Her performance on the ladder and accessing the roof received grudging approval. Next, the instructor tapped the keyboard in front of him.

  ‘Now let’s see how accurate you were.’

  A screen was filled with the head and shoulders of the first of the targets at which Jo had fired. Numerals in red identified the placement and sequence of the shots.

  The instructor used the digital mouse to move through each of her targets in turn. Jo realised with mounting relief, and just a hint of pride, that not one of her shots had missed its target, and they had all been lethal headshots. The instructor smiled for the first time.

  ‘Bloody impressive,’ he said. ‘Although after your performance on the ranges yesterday, I suppose we should have expected this.’ His smile faded. ‘Mind you, if you’d been one of my guys, you’d have failed today’s little exercise on that reloading debacle alone, and had to repeat it.’

  He eased his chair back, and swivelled to face her.

  ‘We repeat these exercises until it becomes second nature. Question is, now the Home Secretary is talking about plain-clothed officers walking the streets wearing concealed sidearms, will they get the same level of training? I doubt it.’

  ‘I don’t expect I’ll be authorised to carry a weapon unless we’re engaged in a counterterrorism operation, or there’s a specific known threat,’ Jo said. ‘But in any case, they’ll insist on regular refresher courses.’

  ‘I hope they do,’ the instructor replied. ‘For your sake, the public’s, and ours.’

  Fed, showered and changed into civilian clothes, Jo was on the train back to Manchester. After two action-packed days with the SAS Regiment in Sterling Lines, she was glad not to be driving.

  She checked her BlackBerry. No new texts. No missed calls. A succession of emails, all of which could wait until she was back at base. Nothing from Abbie. It had been over a week since Abbie had left. Since
then they had only communicated by text. Jo’s phone calls had gone unanswered, her voice messages lost in the ether. Abbie’s texts had been formal and abrupt. She was staying with Sally, the sister of her friend James from uni, who was the intended sperm donor for her baby. Abbie would call at the apartment for some of her things when Jo was at work. She would continue, for the time being, to pay her share of the mortgage through direct debit.

  For the time being. What the hell did that mean? For a month? Two months? Until Jo came to her senses? Jo didn’t even know how she felt about the situation. Okay, she was angry that Abbie had presented her with an ultimatum. Abbie was going to have a baby, and she was going to have it her way. And there would be more babies, at least another two. Abbie wanted them to become a proper family. If Jo wanted to be part of that, fine. If not, they were finished. That wasn’t fair. Jo had never said that she didn’t want it, only that she could not yet see how they could make it work.

  Jo knew that she was being dishonest. Deep down, she was still worried about the world she lived in and the work she did. About not being there when Abbie needed her to be. About the prospect of any children they decided to raise losing one of their parents. Losing her. And there was James bloody Warburton. How did Abbie expect her to feel? Selecting as the father this former friend from her time at uni. What role was he going to have in their growing family? What role might he expect to have? Despite all that, Jo really missed her. She missed her touch, her feel, her smell, the sound of her voice. The comfortable silences they shared. Her absence was a physical ache in the pit of her stomach. Jo sighed and reached for her book.

  The matronly woman sitting across from Jo nudged her partner, and nodded in Jo’s direction. The movement, slight though it was, had not escaped Jo’s attention. The two had taken in her black hair with its annoying tendency to curl, intelligent dark brown eyes, attractive face and tall athletic build. But their attention now focused on the cover of the book. They looked surprised and uneasy. It was, after all, a catchy title: The Evil That Men Do! FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood’s Journey into the Mind of Sexual Predators.

  Jo lowered the book and smiled serenely.