Blackout - By Tom Barber Page 0,9

buried itself in the bed-frame behind. The guy in the bed snapped back and was still, feathers floating down to rest on his forehead and the blood-stained pillow case, his eyes open and staring at the bathroom across the room as his head lolled to the left.

And the room was silent.

The figure in black took a confirming look at the dead man. He flicked on the safety catch to the silenced-pistol, opening his jacket and sliding it inside, then zipped up the coat. He turned and walked out of the apartment as silently as he had arrived, pulling the door shut silently behind him, the wraps on his feet and the gloves on his hands shielding any prints and any evidence that he was ever here. Fifteen minutes later, the gloves, wraps and pistol were on their way to the bottom of the East River and the man was in a taxi on his way to John F Kennedy International Airport.

His direct, six hour flight to London would take off in the next couple of hours.

THREE

The journey from the shooting range to the ARU headquarters took just over twenty minutes. The black 4x4 Ford carrying the four officers passed pavements and street corners busy with bustling, purposeful commuters heading to the office, cups of coffee and briefcases everywhere you looked. Cutting and weaving an intricate path through the London streets, Porter did his best to avoid the heavy traffic wherever he could and get them over to their headquarters in good time. Eventually, he turned left and pulled the car into the police station car park. He tucked the vehicle into an empty spot near the entrance, alongside two other black 4x4 Fords, the other official Unit police cars. He applied the handbrake and killed the engine, and together the four officers stepped out and shut the doors of the vehicle.

Dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater, Archer took a deep breath of fresh air and looked up at the ARU's headquarters in front of him. The building was a simple design, two floors, a long, rectangular operations room above and a series of locker rooms, holding and interrogation cells and a gun-cage below. They were in the heart of the city, surrounded by glass buildings and with the echoes of traffic in the air all around them, but without knowing that this was a counter-terrorist police station one would think it was just another office building. Looking up at the roof and shielding his eyes from the sun, Archer caught a quick glimpse of the end of a black helicopter rotor.

Then again, the chopper was kind of a giveaway.

Along with the recent inclusion of the two PSG1A1 sniper rifles at the end of last year, Cobb had also been allocated a helicopter, funded by the Met's budget much to the envy of some of his colleagues. Fox and another officer called Mason had qualified for piloting the vessel, and although it had only been used a couple of times since its arrival in January, it had proved invaluable on both occasions. It was a Eurocopter EC135, a twin-engine helicopter popularly used across the UK by police and ambulance services. Weighing just over three thousand pounds, the helicopter could carry a pilot and seven passengers, and gave both air-support and essential visual aid for any crisis or emergency where they needed an aerial vantage point. Sturdy and compact, it was painted black with yellow lining and had ARU printed in bold white letters across the doors.

Down below, Fox opened the back of the Ford and pulled out the rifle in its case. Once he shut the door, Porter locked the car and the four men walked across the tarmac towards the entrance.

A young officer called Clark was sitting behind the front desk, a metal barrier preventing them from moving further into the building. He was a nice guy, just twenty six, and had replaced Archer as the youngest officer in the building. He’d recently passed the rigorous selection process, completing his training with flying colours, but given that there were no spots available Cobb had offered him the desk job until one freed up. The young policeman looked up as he saw them coming and nodded.

‘Morning,’ he said, as the four men walked in.

‘Morning, Clarky,’ Archer said. ‘How’s things?’

‘Good, Arch. Yourself?’

‘Can’t complain.’

The four officers took it in turns to sign a pad on the front desk, checking the time on a clock on the wall above Clark's head.

‘Staying out