Out of Reach

  Out of Reach

  Adam Hamdy

  Copyright © 2015 Adam Hamdy

  Adam Hamdy asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  THIRTY EIGHT

  THIRTY NINE

  FORTY

  ONE

  ONE

  “You ever feel like you’ve been somewhere before?” the grey-haired detective asked.

  Schaefer wasn’t paying any attention to the question: his mind was in the garden. The sun shining through the trees. Their leaves casting dappled shadows on the dry grass as their branches swayed in the gentle breeze. Schaefer is barefoot, his feet crunching the brittle summer earth into dust as he moves stealthily towards the big oak at the bottom of the garden. She’s hiding there. She always hid there. A flutter of purple flowers on pink cotton. A small, perfectly formed cheek. She can’t resist peeking, but Schaefer knows the rules and pretends he hasn’t seen her. He knows her stomach will be churning with the excitement of the chase, anticipating that sudden moment of discovery. The roar. The run. The hug. The rush of adrenalin giving way to the relief that it’s all pretend. That she’s safe wrapped in his arms. That he’s never going to let her go.

  Schaefer allowed himself to get lost in the moment. It was one of a handful that he had forced himself to relive every day, so that his recollection would be perfect. So that he never forgot. His little girl, running through the sunlit garden. Sweet. Innocent. Beautiful. Forever just out of reach.

  Remember this.

  The plastic bites into his left foot, and he looks down to see a blue shard, a relic of some old garden toy chewed up by the mower. He moves, swiftly now, he can hear her tittering with excitement. She takes another peek, this time from the right side of the tree. Schaefer pretends he hasn’t seen and swings to the left. As he rounds the gnarly old tree, he sees her. Amber. Ten years old. Ten years of innocent perfection. Schaefer growls.

  Amber jumps and squeals, “Monster!”

  She runs across the lawn, with Schaefer in pursuit, growling and roaring with every step. Halfway to the house she turns to make a stand, and Schaefer scoops her up, burying his face in her strawberry blonde hair and roaring with renewed fury.

  “Stop it, daddy,” Amber squeals. “It tickles!”

  “Hey, you two, lunch is ready!” Sarah yells from the patio.

  Amber wriggles free and runs towards her rotund mother. Sarah can’t pick her up: the boy is seven months along and puts enough of a strain on her back. Schaefer watches his wife stroke Amber’s head. He doesn’t know how much this mundane moment will come to mean to him. He cannot guess at the number of nights his eyes will run dry at this memory. Blissfully ignorant of the future, Schaefer joins his family for lunch.

  *

  “You with us, Schaefer?” Kent asked, piercing Schaefer’s reverie. “Schaefer?”

  The grey-haired detective looked round for a response, but got none. Older, leaner, and more sombre than the he was in his memories, Schaefer was looking past Kent, through the windscreen, at a hooded figure walking their way.

  “That’s him,” Schaefer said.

  “You sure?” Noel asked.

  Schaefer nodded. He couldn’t see the man’s face, but the clothes matched his informant’s description. Noel scanned Schaefer’s face for doubt. The detective’s pockmarked and scarred face betrayed no emotion when he saw Schaefer had none.

  “Let’s call it,” Noel told his partner.

  Kent grabbed the radio, “Visual on the suspect. Everyone stand by.”

  Schaefer sank a little further into the back seat. The hooded figure wasn’t cagey, even though he must have known he was being hunted. He wasn’t using any counter-surveillance techniques. He wasn’t even checking the street. But experience had taught Schaefer to be cautious, and he was determined they would not blow their cover until it was time. He peered over Kent’s shoulder and watched the hooded figure turn into a front garden and walk up the short path towards one of the red brick terrace houses. He didn’t even look round when he put the key in the lock. The hooded figure stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

  Noel and Kent both looked at Schaefer, but he said nothing. It wasn’t his place to order the raid.

  “You sure that’s him?” Noel asked.

  “It’s him.” Schaefer was certain.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Kent radioed the news, “We’re moving.”

  Schaefer was the first to get out of the car. Up ahead he saw a squad of six S.O.19 officers exit a battered, old unmarked van. Their matt black Heckler & Koch sub-machine guns were deadly shadows clasped close to their chests. Schaefer felt a gentle tug at his arm. It was Noel.

  “You know the deal: stay back,” Noel instructed.

  Schaefer was certain he’d seen more action than Noel or Kent, but he wasn’t police, so they wanted him well clear of any danger.

  They quickly crossed Chapel Street, which was otherwise deserted. Schaefer thought of all the families living on this quiet, residential South London street, sat in front of their televisions, or slumbering in their beds, unaware of the darkness just outside their own front doors. As they reached the other side of the street, Noel signalled the armed officers, and the squad split in two. Three of the S.O.19 officers followed Noel towards the front of the house. The other three joined Kent and followed him down a dark alleyway that cut between two of the houses. Schaefer went with them, plunging into a narrow strip of darkness as the houses either side blocked the sulphur glow of the street lamps. A few steps further and Schaefer was back in the yellow haze of London at night. He could see Kent ahead of him, moving well for an old man: deliberate and silent. Kent led the S.O.19 squad right, along a service road that ran behind the terrace. Schaefer followed, and was ten yards behind Kent when the landmine exploded.

  Schaefer saw the fireball and then felt the shockwave pick him up and toss him against a garden wall. He felt the intense heat of the inferno that broiled the four police officers ahead of him. Two of them were still alive and screamed like children as they burned.

  *

  Noel had been standing on the Circle Line platform at Liverpool Street the morning of the 7/7 bombings. He knew there had been an explosion behind the house the moment it happened.

  “Bravo, what’s your status?” Noel asked his radio. “Kent, are you okay?”

  The only response was the screams carried in the night air.

  “Open it!” Noel commanded, and O’Dell, the officer on point, kicked the door with such force that it almost splintered off its hinges. It swung wildly, and the two frosted glass panes shattered as the door hit the wall.

  Two pops of light illuminated the hallway as their t
arget, Leon Yates, fired a pistol. The bullets struck O’Dell in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

  “Get him out of there,” Noel yelled, as he backed out of the doorway and pressed himself up against the front wall.

  O’Dell’s colleagues pulled him clear, and tucked below the front window.

  “Is he okay?” Noel asked.

  Gray, the larger of the two men, checked O’Dell.

  “Vest took one, but he caught the other one in his shoulder,” Gray reported.

  “Officer down,” Noel radioed. “We need immediate medical assistance.”

  Noel knew the situation was out of control. All their preparation was worthless; it was now all about damage limitation. Noel risked a look into the hallway and saw a figure moving in the darkness. Satisfied they weren’t right on his tail, their target had decided to make his escape out the back.

  “Kent,” Noel spoke into his radio. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but the target’s coming your way, and he’s armed.”

  *

  The world was muffled and distant. A loud hum pushed Schaefer’s eardrums into his head creating an uncomfortable pressure. His arms and legs weren’t responsive and moved wildly when he tried to stand. He was like a marionette tangled in his own strings. His whole body trembled and his aching muscles were unable to coordinate their way upright. Schaefer’s incapacity saved his life. The moment he saw the back door open, Schaefer lay motionless. His senses and motor skills might have failed him, but his brain was still as sharp as ever. Schaefer saw the gun in Leon Yates’ hand. Yates’ reputation suggested that he wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in Schaefer’s head.

  Yates stumbled down the back steps and ran through the smouldering ruins of the garden, past the four charred, dead policemen. He turned left and ran past Schaefer, who was just another dead body. As Yates neared the end of the alley, Schaefer took a deep breath. If he lost Yates now, there was a real chance of losing him for good. Schaefer had no idea what had happened to Noel’s team, but there was no sign of them. If he wanted Yates, Schaefer would have to get the man himself.

  Schaefer took another deep breath and leant back against the rough brick wall. He engaged his legs, pushing as hard as he could, and slid up the wall, the brick tearing his scoring his leather jacket. Once he was on his feet, Schaefer took a couple of unsteady steps, and then broke into a run that got progressively faster. Ahead of him, Schaefer saw Yates turn left onto Galton Street. Schaefer accelerated, his body rapidly remembering how everything worked.

  Schaefer burst out of the alley to see Yates pulling a driver out of his BMW 3-series at gun point. The locals knew better than to break London’s cardinal rule: don’t get involved. As they hurried into one of the half-dozen local shops in the small parade, Schaefer saw a couple of them on their phones. Calls to the police were within the rules. The old lady at the bus stop suddenly found a reason to return to the convenience store, while two teenagers simply watched Yates with wry smiles on their faces like a couple of theatre-goers enjoying a West End show.

  Yates’ victim saw Schaefer run onto the street, and Yates followed the man’s gaze. Schaefer saw the flash of recognition and ducked behind the bus stop as Yates started shooting. Thick glass sprayed Schaefer as Yates peppered the structure with bullets. The smiling teenagers joined Schaefer on the other side of the low metal balustrade that offered some protection against the gunfire. Schaefer noticed that they were both still smiling, exhilarated rather than afraid. The bullets stopped, and Schaefer heard the roar of an engine. He broke cover to look down the street and saw the tail lights of the stolen BMW recede into the distance.

  Schaefer scanned the street and saw a suited man standing beside his new Mercedes E Class. The upright citizen was on the phone to the police and didn’t notice Schaefer slip into the driver’s seat and start the engine until it was too late.

  “Hey!” Upright yelled, as Schaefer gunned the engine. Upright carried on shouting, but Schaefer didn’t hear what he said, he could only see the man’s jerky, angry gestures in the rear-view mirror.

  Schaefer saw Yates just miss an oncoming van as he overtook a bus. The van took out Yates’ wing mirror, just as Yates roared onto the correct side of the street. The van driver stopped immediately, preventing Schaefer from copying Yates’ manoeuvre. Beyond the bus, Schaefer caught sight of Yates entering a roundabout. Schaefer knew he’d lose Yates if he didn’t track his exit, so he swung the car left, and felt the traction control kick in as the Mercedes mounted the pavement. The car smashed through an advertising hoarding, and then tore through the metal railings that lined the approach to the roundabout, as Schaefer returned to the road. Schaefer caught sight of Yates taking the third exit onto Walworth Road towards Elephant & Castle, and decided to try to gain some ground by cutting the wrong way round. The drivers on the roundabout were so shocked to see a car coming towards them that Schaefer didn’t get a single angry horn. He narrowly avoided colliding with a small Renault, whose driver was on the phone. Schaefer mounted the roundabout, trashing the Merc’s under-carriage in the process. He felt the tyres bite as they reconnected with tarmac, swung in front of a lorry and followed Yates up Walworth Road.

  *

  The stench of rendered flesh hung in the air. Noel could not stop himself looking at his fallen colleagues, who were all charred beyond recognition. It looked like Yates had booby-trapped the back gate with an incendiary device that was designed to cause maximum carnage. Noel thought he could recognise his partner of twelve years by what was left of the man’s shoes, but he couldn’t be certain. Noel tried to control his swirling emotions, and hoped that none of the paramedics or police officers swarming the scene noticed his eyes welling. Noel felt his mobile vibrate and took it out of his breast pocket, relieved to be taken out of the moment.

  “Noel,” he said into the phone, his voice cracking slightly.

  “It’s Schaefer. I’m following Yates. We’re approaching Elephant and Castle. The Norris Estate.”

  Noel clicked his fingers at Eric Pope, one of the newly arrived detectives. “It’s Schaefer. He’s got eyes on the target. I want another S.O.19 unit en route now.”

  “I’ve got to go,” Schaefer said.

  Noel looked at the bodies sprawled before him and warned Schaefer, “Stay clear of this guy, Schaefer. Schaefer?”

  But Schaefer was gone.

  *

  Schaefer slipped his phone into his pocket as he approached the small crowd of youths that surrounded the abandoned BMW. He had parked the Mercedes across the street and followed Yates into one of London’s most notorious sink estates. Two young gangsters were already inside the car stripping out the radio and speakers, and Schaefer ignored the hostile looks he got from the rest of the gang as he passed, his eyes fixed on Yates, about thirty yards ahead.

  Further on, two snake-eyed, hooded youths sat on a low, graffiti-covered wall, and watched Schaefer as he approached. Schaefer pretended not to notice as they hopped off the wall and fell in behind him, but he suddenly became very aware that he was friendless in hostile territory. Up ahead, Yates entered the third tower block. Schaefer took his mobile and sent a text to Noel that read, “Block 3.”

  Schaefer pulled open the heavy security door with its ancient broken lock, and smashed reinforced glass pane, and stepped inside the dark hallway. Yates stepped out of the shadows and pressed a Browning pistol into Schaefer’s neck.

  “Seek and ye shall find,” Yates rasped. “You known to me, brother.”

  Schaefer realised the snake-eye youths were at his shoulders, penning him in. This was bad; he’d walked straight into a trap.

  “Yeah, you are known. The recurring man. Is beautiful thing, the darkness he make,” Yates said. Schaefer guessed the man was crazy or high. Or both.

  “I don’t want any trouble. I’m here to see a friend,” Schaefer offered, playing up his growing sense of fear.

  “Lie!” Yates yelled, unsettling Schaefer. Then quietly, “Let me be a friend, b
rother. Let me taste your path. We serve the same master.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Schaefer replied honestly.

  Yates studied Schaefer. If he hadn’t spent the past decade swimming in a sea of human filth, Schaefer might have been convinced that Yates had the gift, that he could see something beyond the physical. As it was, all Schaefer saw was a crazed, gun-toting maniac with delusions of grandeur.

  “I help you see,” Yates hissed. He paused for a moment, staring directly into Schaefer’s eyes, and then said a single word, “Amber.”

  Schaefer went rigid at the mention of the name. He tried not to betray any emotion, but his mind instantly filled with questions. What did Yates know about her? Why did he even know her name? Who was Yates working for? Schaefer’s natural response would have been to beat the answers out of this hideous man, but there was the problem of the gun at his throat.

  “Ah,” Yates continued. “Now your eyes open. Now you know we brethren.”

  Schaefer felt the rage build. That this foul excuse of a man knew anything about his daughter. That her name had even passed his lips. That he might know something about what had happened to her.

  The gun discharged as Schaefer stepped back. But he was clear of the muzzle, so the bullet flew past his face and hit the ceiling. Filled with righteous fury, Schaefer grabbed Yates’ wrist, and twisted it hard, forcing him to drop the gun. Both Snake Eyes snatched at Schaefer, and Schaefer vaguely felt their blows to his back and head as he focused on Yates, who was backing towards the stairs. Schaefer turned and head butted the larger man, breaking his nose. He grabbed the smaller man and drove his head into the rutted concrete wall. Two more forceful blows, and the man was unconscious. The larger man had composed himself and pulled a knife, which he waved menacingly at Schaefer. Instead of backing off, Schaefer surprised the man by moving forward. As his startled assailant fumbled a slash, Schaefer caught his arm and in one swift movement, forced it down towards the man’s thigh. Snake Eye screamed as he stabbed himself in the leg, but Schaefer spared him any enduring pain by knocking him out with a couple of savage punches.