The Increment (30 page)

'But we're still searching the rail tracks?' said Godsall.

Matram nodded. 'Maybe he's laying up, maybe he's just waiting for the train. Either way, he can't hide from us for long. I want you to check every inch of this track and make certain he's not hiding on it. No booby traps, no bombs, nothing.'

He looked out down the railway winding its way south from Waterloo station, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. 'Any mistakes, and you'll be out of the Increment, and out of the regiment.' He paused. 'And after that, I'll track you down and kill you with my bare hands.'

Matt took the bar of Yorkie, broke off a chunk and offered it to Eleanor. It was eight thirty. The sun was close to setting, fierce streaks of red settling down against the dirty, grey sky of south London. The heat of the day was starting to ebb, and at last a gentle breeze was starting to blow in from the east, fanning both their faces.

At their side, Archie had opened up the tins of Special Brew, and each man was drinking one. Villains, thought Matt. They like a beer before they go into action: it's their own version of XP22. In the army, he'd known men carry whisky bottles to gee themselves up before a fight, but most soldiers like to be stone sober on the battlefield.

'You ready?' he said, looking towards Pointer.

'For spilling some regiment blood?' said Pointer, raising an eyebrow. 'Always ready for that.'

Archie chuckled, making some of the foam from his beer spill out over his lips.

A wave of anger rolled through Matt. He was doing what he felt he had to do this evening, but if it meant taking the lives of any of his former comrades he would feel nothing but regret. Fate has some weird twists for us, he reflected.
When I left the Increment, I never imagined I would go into battle against them myself. And not with an army made up of south-London villains.

'Everyone knows the drill?' he asked.

They had discussed the plan in minute detail. It drew upon all Pointer's experience and knowledge of robbing trains. He had entertained them with the story of how Ronnie Biggs and the Great Train Robbers had completed their famous heist. One of them had climbed a signal mast, and covered the green light with an old leather glove. Then they wired some batteries into the box to activate the red light, bringing the train to a stop. When the driver got out to find a phone to see what was happening, they attacked.

The plan for this evening was similar. Pointer had rigged up the signal box below to bring the train to a near halt: the flashing red and yellow signal meant slow down, danger ahead. Unlike the old days, the driver wouldn't get out to find a phone: he'd use a radio or a mobile. But as the train slowed, Keith and Perry would sling a branch across the line to bring it to a stop. Then Matt, Pointer, Damien and Archie would launch a barrage of fire from the back of the train, taking down any soldiers who might be on board to defend it. The gunfire would shatter the windows, then they could shoot open the doors and raid the train.

Like any military operation, Matt reflected, it would depend on a combination of surprise and violence to have any chance of success.
And with a bit of luck, it might just work.

Matt stretched out. The ground felt hard beneath him, but as he started to chew on the chocolate he could feel some of the tension starting to ease out of him. It was always this way, he thought. As the moment of battle approached, you started to calm down. The brain stopped contemplating all the terrible things that might happen, and started concentrating instead on the immediate tasks ahead. Some kind of self-defence, I suppose.
Proof that the human brain is hardwired for combat.

'You shouldn't be here,' whispered Matt, looking back up at Eleanor.

Eleanor swallowed her chocolate. 'I don't have anywhere else to go. Besides, they killed my brother.'

'And they killed Gill,' said Matt with a shake of his head. For some reason he'd never really told Eleanor about Gill. 'Gill and I grew up together. Our lives went off in different directions sometimes, and we did different things, got involved with different people, whatever. We didn't have much in common really. I was interested in soldiering, she was interested in children and teaching.' He paused, looking beyond Eleanor, down on to the tracks, and into the scrubland of empty warehouses and rusting, decayed rails beyond them. 'Back in the regiment, we used to call it revenge. Simple as that.'

He laughed, and gave Eleanor's arm a secret squeeze.

'There's not just one woman for every man,' she said softly. 'That's just in fairy tales.'

Matram held his ear to the breeze. In the distance, he could hear something. A muttering, the sound of voices, carried down in the air. Up above he could hear a pair of police sirens screeching around a corner. He stopped, straining his ears. There it was again. An animal, maybe. Or just some kids playing.
Or voices.

Deliver that man to me, he told himself.
So that I can murder him with my bare hands.

He looked up into the scrublands. He was about two miles past Waterloo now, walking along the edge of the rail. His eyes had been locked on to the track, looking for any signs of disturbance: a scratched rail, some dents in the gravel, some debris lying across the sleepers. Anything that would give him a clue as to whether a trap had been prepared. Anything that would give him an edge in the battle that lay ahead.

There is one crime I shall never be found guilty of: underestimating my enemy.

The voices. Matram cocked his head, then looked up the side of the bank. Some bushes, some dried-up grass, then a barrier of concrete before the rail line gave way to the street. He scanned the horizon. A movement. He started walking, his grip tight on the Smith & Wesson 500 hunting revolver he had strapped to a holster next to his chest. It was ten yards to the bush: a nearly dead collection of brambles and leaves that still covered enough space to hide one maybe two people.

Matram drew the revolver, pointing it in front of him. He edged forward, aware that anyone hiding there might be armed. The bullet, if it came, would fly out of nowhere.
I'd be dead before I even knew about it.

He paused, knelt and aimed. Three bullets blasted into the bush, then three more. Matram could hear a noise. An impact. Followed by a whimper. He ran into the bush and saw a dog lying on its side. Blood was seeping out of its stomach, but the ground was too hard to absorb it, and the liquid was starting to trickle down the bank side.

Matram reloaded the Smith & Wesson, putting the gun barrel to the dog's head. He fired once, killing it instantly.

Then another noise. He pulled the ringing mobile from his pocket, holding it to his ear. 'The track is clear?' asked Abbott.

Matram nodded. 'I believe so,' he said warily. 'My men have searched the line. Police helicopters have flown over every inch of track.' He glanced down at the dog. 'So far we have found nothing.'

' "Believe so" isn't what I was planning on hearing, old fruit,' snapped Abbott. 'Our friend from the wrong side of the Channel is about to get on the train. We don't want anything happening to him, do we?'

'I said the track has been cleared,' said Matram. 'We'll be monitoring it the whole way. I don't think there's any way Browning can get on to a speeding train. He's not Superman.' He paused, his eyes wandering back down the track. 'Anyway, if he does, we just kill him. End of story.'

'Then get back on this damned train,' snapped Abbott. 'We're already late leaving.'

TWENTY-FOUR

The train should have been there at eight forty-five, five minutes after it left Waterloo, but there was no sign of it. Matt was wondering if it might have been cancelled.
If that happens, we're all done for.

Then suddenly Matt could feel the steel tracks at his side start to vibrate and tremble as the power surged through them. He could see nothing, except the pale lights of the signal ahead of him starting to change.

It had worked, he realised. Pointer had managed to change the signal.

A line of electrical junction boxes six feet back from the track stretched down to the signal box, and Matt was hiding behind those. For the first phase of the ambush, that would be their cover. The wooden breech of his Kalashnikov was gripped tight in his hands, primed for action. Damien was at his side, and Pointer was running back to join them. Keith and Perry were standing by to put a log on to the tracks. If the signal didn't bring the train to a stop, that would.

If ever there has been a moment to start praying, this is it.

The train was drawing towards them: just a hundred yards away now. Matt glanced behind him. Eleanor was hiding behind a bush twenty yards back. If he died this evening, hopefully she would escape. Ivan had called to say he had to get his wife and children out of the country to make sure they were safe.
This is one battle where we'll have to do without the Irishman.

The engine was pulling two carriages behind it. As the front of the engine moved past Matt, a roar of mechanical noises washed over him, and a heavy cloud of diesel exhaust spat out into his face, blackening his skin, and filling his lungs with noxious, oily gas, making him choke. He shut his mouth and his eyes briefly, trying to shield himself from the fumes.

Another ten yards forward, and the back carriage would draw level.
Then I can attack.

'Now!' he shouted.

At his side, Damien, Archie and Pointer stood up, their Kalashnikovs raised to their shoulders. Steadily, they took aim, preparing to unleash a volley of fire into the stranded train.

'What the hell was that?' shouted Abbott as the train wobbled and slowed.

Matram looked out of the window. Both men were sitting in the carriage behind Lacrierre's office. He had work to do and didn't want to be disturbed. Four Increment soldiers were with them: Godsall, Harton, Snaddon and Trench. Each one was equipped with a supply of rifles, knives, handguns and explosives.

Matram felt a flicker of concern. He'd had the whole track searched by police helicopters earlier: it should be clear. He glanced out of the window. He could see nothing but the scrubland rising up to the street above. Then he saw a group of men in luminous yellow jackets moving through the scrub. A single word was rattling through his mind.
Ambush.

There was a minute of silence. Then Matram decided he had to investigate.

'You,' he said, looking towards Snaddon. 'Check the door.'

Snaddon walked to the side of the carriage. A red lever was prominently displayed for emergency openings. She yanked on it hard, pulling it down. The door hissed, and a light started flashing. Slowly, the door slid open, and then Snaddon looked down on to the side of the tracks.

'Special delivery,' said Matt, looking up at her. 'For a Mr Jack Matram.'

He pulled the trigger on the Kalashnikov, a round of fire rippling up into her body. The bullets punctured a series of holes in her chest and lungs, cutting through the arteries, and sending blood spilling down the front of her shirt. A cry of pain croaked from her throat, and then she fell forward, dead.

'Move, move, move,' shouted Matram from the back of the carriage.

'Lovely jubbly,' said Pointer, bounding up to Matt's side. 'Stopping a big monster like this. It worked for old Ronnie, and now it's working for old Jack as well.'

Matt looked at him and grinned. Snaddon's corpse was leaking blood over his shoes. The door was still wide open, but apart from the low growl of the engine, the area had fallen silent again. How many men were in there? Four, maybe five, he guessed. The Increment had a total of eight soldiers, but it was unlikely Matram would commit all his forces at the same time.
No commander wants to do that.

They retreated behind the boxes again, waiting to see if anyone else emerged. It was too dangerous to try to get inside the open door: he would certainly be shot. Damien, Pointer and Archie were lined up behind him, six feet away, also taking cover behind the electrical boxes, their guns at the ready. Keith and Perry were moving down the other sides of the track. The second carriage of the train was completely surrounded.

'Fire,' shouted Matt.

The sound of five machine guns firing in unison suddenly burst through the still of the evening: a repetitive, chattering sound, like the hum of crickets in summer but magnified a hundred times. The echo bounced back along the steep sides of the tracks, multiplying and replicating the sound of the gunfire until they were lost in a symphony of noise.

Christ, thought Matt.
None of the glass is shattering.
'Move forward,' he shouted, straining to make himself heard. If they couldn't shoot through the glass of the carriage, they would have to find another way in.

Matt gestured to Damien and they moved quickly to the side of the carriage, flattening themselves against it. No one inside the carriage could shoot at them without emerging from the door, in which case they'd be mown down by Pointer and the others. Now, they moved along the side until they could jam their Kalashnikovs into the doorway Snaddon had left open, twisting rightwards to spray the inside of the carriage with bullets. An answering hail of bullets came back at them. There was no way in.

'Back,' shouted Matt. 'Move back,' as he and Damien retreated behind the boxes again.

At the front of the second carriage, a door had briefly opened and a hand grenade arced out into the sky. Matt turned his gun to fire on the window, but it was too late. It had already closed. The grenade skitted to the far side of the train, bouncing across the scrubland behind them. Matt was about to yell a warning when the device exploded. A huge ball of flame licked up into the night sky. The smell of gunpowder hung heavily in the air. As the smoke started to clear, Matt could see Perry lying on the ground, one arm and one leg both severed clean from his body. Keith was staggering towards them, his face cut through. Pointer rushed forwards, grabbing hold of his son, holding him up by the arms, and dragging him across the tracks.

'Get him back up the bank,' shouted Matt. 'Eleanor can deal with his wounds.'

'He's my boy,' grunted Pointer. 'I'll look after him.'

'She's a doctor,' yelled Matt. 'We've got a battle to fight.'

Another grenade tumbled out of the carriage, bouncing along the side of the track, and nestling into scrub. 'Take cover,' shouted Matt.

He dived to the ground, dragging Damien down with him. The grenade exploded with a deafening, ear-splitting roar. Gravel from the track kicked up high into the air, then started raining down, as a thousand hard pebbles dropped out of the sky. Across the track, he could see that Archie had been hit in the blast, taking a wound across the stomach, from which blood was pouring.

Two men down, and we've hardly even started.

'There, there,' shouted Matt, pointing to the window from which both grenades had been tossed. Pointer had left Keith on the bank side, where Eleanor had stripped off his T-shirt and was using it to bandage his wounds. Pointer raised his machine gun to the window, letting off a murderous round of fire, preventing any more grenades from getting out.

Matt and Damien started to crawl across the track to the far side of the train. They had to find another way into the carriage to stand any chance of fighting back. Otherwise, they were just going to get bombed to pieces.

Silence descended upon the tracks again. Matt knew that whoever moved first would make themselves vulnerable. This is turning into a war of nerves, he realised.

Then suddenly Damien ran forward, towards the open door again, and Matt followed just an inch behind him. He admired his friend's guts under fire. Suddenly Trench looked out of the open door, his eyes swivelling from side to side. Matt raised his Kalashnikov to eye level, lining up the sights, then letting off a round of fire. Trench fell to the ground, his neck sagging away from his head, the skin ripped up by bullet holes.

Two down, thought Matt.
But I still don't know how many are left in there.

Matt and Damien threw themselves on the ground. Maybe they could smash the window from here. They kept firing, but bullets were bouncing off the carriage. 'It's no bloody good,' shouted Damien. 'We can't get in here.'

Underneath the carriage, Matt could see three pairs of feet. They must have climbed down from the train. 'They are coming to get us,' he muttered towards Damien.

Matt let off a round of bullets, aiming to fire under the train and shoot the feet from under the three men. The bullets smashed into the ground, but they were too quick. All Matt could see was the feet fleeing up the side of the bank leading away from the tracks.

Taking cover, he realised. Up in the high ground. At the top of the railway banks, where it meets the street. From there they can shoot down at us from over the roof of the train.
They can pick us off one by one.

Matt cast his eyes to Eleanor's position. She was badly exposed. If they saw her, they would kill her. 'We're fucked,' he muttered, looking towards Damien.

'I'm standing and fighting,' said Damien grimly.

'Don't be an idiot, you'll just get shot to bloody pieces.'

Damien shrugged. 'I'll take my chances.'

Matt shook his head. 'No,' he said, his tone turning serious. 'Even in the regiment, we knew when to retreat. Get out of here, regroup, and plan the next assault.'

Suddenly he heard a helicopter approaching. Matram had called in reinforcements. Then at his side, he could feel the train juddering to life. A vibration rippled through the several tons of metal, and the wheels strained as they started to turn. The stink of diesel filled the air.

'Fuck it,' shouted Matt. 'They're getting away.'

The train was starting to move again. Its massive engine had broken across the log blocking the track, crushing it into a million splintered fragments of wood. Eleanor was running down the hill, her breath short and furious. 'We're losing them,' she shouted.

'Get back, get back,' he yelled, his face red with fury.

But Eleanor kept moving. A bullet clipped the ground, and Matt reached out, dragging her behind the moving train to get her out of range.

The train was starting to accelerate, dust spitting up from its metal wheels. Thick clouds of diesel fumes blew out from its engine, obscuring Matt's vision. He started running, pulling level with the open doorway.

She can't survive out here herself. Not for a minute. She'll be picked off with the others. I'll have to take her with me.

His right fist reached up, grabbing the handle of the swinging door. With his left hand, Matt reached back and grabbed Eleanor's arm. The momentum of the train was gathering pace, and his arm locked on to the side of the train. He could feel the muscles in his arm being stretched. A sudden burst of acceleration tore his feet clean from the air, and for a moment it felt as if his shoulder was about to be split in two.

Matt twisted his shoulder, pushing all his strength into his arm, and pulled himself and Eleanor forward. He grabbed the side of the door, pulling them both on to the carriage floor. Then he slammed the door behind them. The train was moving faster now. A corpse was lying face down on the pale beige carpet that ran down the length of the carriage, a pool of blood oozing from his wounded gut.

Apart from that they were alone.

Matt took the Glock from his pocket, jabbing it forwards. How many enemies are left on the train? he asked himself.

He hauled Eleanor to her feet. 'Ready?' he whispered.

She nodded, wiping away some of Keith's blood that was still splattered across her T-shirt. 'Let's go make a deal.'

The helicopter took off again, flying low, swooping out over the streets of south London. It turned up into the sky over Wandsworth Bridge, then headed due south until it hit the railway line running down towards the south coast.

'There,' snapped Matram. 'There's the train.'

'I can't see anything?' said Abbott. 'You certain he's on board?'

'Let's get down lower,' said Matram. 'I want to take a closer look.'

The automatic door on the front carriage slid smoothly open. Matt positioned the Glock in his right hand, checked the safety catch was released, placed his finger over the trigger and stepped foward. I'm going to spill some more blood on this smart new carpet.

Lacrierre was sitting in the leather armchair. The laptop was open on his desk. Some music was playing loud on the speakers – the opera
Manon
– drowning out the sound of the train. He was looking out of his window, his fingers tapping out the melody of the aria.