Chapter Twenty One: The drop off. The area is heavily wooded and my guess is: if an excuse can be found to explain a drop in altitude, a day drop from a chartered aircraft is totally feasible. A night drop in this area would be difficult, not for the pilot, but for the idiots trying to find the bags in the dark. I am sure they would not go so far as to put tracker beacons in the bags; and the next villages would see any temporary landing lights, and vehicle lights would be a dead giveaway also as they drove up and down this disused lane. The map clearly illustrates higher ground to the west of the site; any drop would be lower down in the valley base and be shielded by the expanse of trees. We both agree to set up a hide on the high ground, west of the valley. The approach from the west will be difficult, but a safer and more importantly will provide a panoramic view of the potential drop zone. Our early morning call is booked for 5am, breakfast for 530am. Things are looking up.
The van starts first time. The weather is near freezing and the ground is wet, but it’s not raining and there’s only a gentle breeze. The thermal underwear is a definite boon; the coffee and sandwiches are also packed. The sleeping bags and plastic sheets are in the back of the van, so we should be comfortable for hours. Catriona reads the map and gives me directions; it gives me time to reflect on our nemesis McGovan. He is a violent and emotionally devoid individual, a controlling sociopath. He is dangerous and as I start to reflect on the past week or so, I become doubtful of my own abilities, unsure, insecure even. It’s not as if the police have helped either. We drive out of town. It must be a good 15 miles from Croydon to Furness Green. The A roads turn to B roads, and then into single lane tracks; that follow hedge rows which line the edges of cold, wet, fallow fields. The van crashes into pot holes and struggles for grip as the road gradient increases toward the higher ground. Each corner in the road brings us further into the wooded area; it’s clearly shown on the ordinance map. We park the van in amongst the trees and head east, looking for the tree line and a vantage point that will enable us to see most of the valley below.
The weather is grey and overcast, cold and drizzly; and Water drips off my nose as I try to focus the binoculars on the lower ground to the East. The drizzle is a real bind as I set up camp, but I get there eventually and we settle in for a few hours of landscape watching. 'Steve'. 'Yes'. 'Can you here that'. 'No'. 'Quiet'. Nothing, I could hear nothing and then the faintest of noise; I wasn’t sure at first but then: yes! It was an aircraft engine somewhere to the south. And it was coming this way. It took some time, but the whistle and roar of a small jet aircraft was definitely coming this way. I suppose it was pretty obvious really; so much better than a night drop. We are in the middle of nowhere; the weather is awful, overcast and wet. Anyone with any common sense would be in doors, and if not the visibility was so low that the risk of anyone spotting anything were virtually zero. The grey sky was set with low lying clouds that clipped the hill tops; how the pilot could see anything was beyond me. But then as the engine roar grew to its loudest yet, the craft broke through the cover of cloud and swooped through the valley. As the sleek jet bottomed out of its dive, heavy bags appeared behind the aircraft in a sweeping arc to the ground. One, two, three, up to 8 canvas bags hung heavily behind the craft on small parachutes, then hit the ground with a soft thud and slid across the valley floor. The jet then powered its way back into the cloud and away. The roar of twin jet engines fading away with Doppler affect. It was at this point that two land cruisers left the tree line and drove towards the line of bags. Five heavy set guys then leapt out of the vehicles and swung the tailgates open; hauling the bags into the rear of the vehicles. It only took three minutes or so from the time I saw the cruisers, to when they were leaving the scene. The only sign of any activity was the heavy tyre marks left behind in the soft and grassy ground. Cat was hitting me on the back with excitement.
'Let’s go Steve, NOW'. We both crept out of the hide and headed for the van. The decent from the hillside was a ride to hell for sure. The light rear axle of the van stepping out on every tight bed as the front wheels dug in and struggled for grip on the downward camber of each corner. 'Easy Cat. Easy'. 'Yeh all right, they are out of here and we will never see them again. And where the bloody hell was the police operation? Have you ever been so bullshitted in all your life'. 'Just get round to the east side, find them on the main road, and hold back. We need to follow them and find out where their base is located. What happened next was surreal, my mind and body absorbed the impact, but my soul and real being as a person could not comprehend the violent redirection of the van from a forwards and natural driving motion to an instant 90 degree impact of a giant sledge hammer. The chassis of the van was thrown upwards from the ground and rotated so the left side of the van hit the road surface, the side passenger window shattered instantly, glass digging into my forehead and left cheek. My left shoulder took most of the impact and as my head bounced away from the road I received a second blow on the right side of my head. It was Catriona's head crashing into mine. The van slid for some twenty yards onto the grass verge and came to a halt. The engine screamed in agony as Cat's foot must be jammed on the accelerator. 'Cat. Cat, are you OK'. No reply, there was no reply. I had cuts, grazes and some heavy bruising but I was OK. Cat was just slumped onto me though and not moving. The van was hit from the right, so Cat took the full impact and I am now at ground zero. My whole being, every fibre of my body, screamed at her again. 'CAT, are you all right!'
Someone was walking past the windscreen directly in front of me. Just as I was about to shout for help, I saw the baseball bat: and then before I could cover my face, the bat was lifted and brought forward with such force that the tip of the bat broke through the screen on its first blow, then it was wrenched free and brought down again and again. The screen shattered, then folded and then gave way all together as it was kicked in by our assailant. ‘Get him out, NOW! Come on, Hurry up'. It was McGovan; there was no mistaking the depth of malice and the strength of command in his voice. My belt was cut and my body dragged out of the van, my shins scraping across the dash. Cat slumped further to the left and groaned; she was coming around. 'Cat, I’m here, here! Over here’. 'Shut him up'. I received a punch to the nose, I felt the flesh of my nose crumple, and my skull took the impact of two large knuckles. A cold numbness ensued, followed by the warmth of my own blood flowing across my face. My head was mashed into the wet gravel of the road and a heavy knee forced its way between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the road. I exhaled a painful groan as I struggled to breathe and replenish the oxygen my body so badly craved. Every cell in my body wanted to panic and scream for my life; but something inside me was holding me together, accepting the pain as inevitable, and maybe, just maybe, finding an opportunity to live. 'This Mr Mitchell is the price of prying into the private business of other people, of which has nothing to do with you. I believe this is your precious wife’. In an instant I knew who it was: the person laying down the law, not the law of the land which he preaches as an ambassador of public servitude; but as the law of the strongest, who take what they want; it was Peter Bramley and he was in league with McGovan. The thug holding me to the ground held his hand over my mouth, and wrenched my head round to look at the van. Bramley was standing next to McGovan and Banta, the guy from New York. Banta had that look on his face, the same over confident and violent look that I could see when his brother killed Ray Mead. But it was McGovan who raised his arm; he was holding a silenced hand gun. There was no hesitation; two muffled shots hit Catriona in the chest, her body convulsed with each shot. The realisation on her face as she struggled for breath was one of fear and terror, as blood raced into her lungs. My mind seared with agony; my cries of anger and frustration stifled by the hand across my mouth. My face creased and tears wet my face. McGovan took two more steps toward the van, raised his arm once more and fire a single shot to Catriona's head; her body shook one last time and then lay motionless. Two of them dragged me across the road and shoved me into the first la
nd cruiser. I was in the back, in the middle and incoherent with psychological shock. The anger within me for what they had done to Cat exploded into a violent outburst as I attempted to attack one of McGovans team guarding me in the rear of the Land cruiser. A short sharp elbow to the face, followed by a pungent smelling cloth across my face put a stop to my incompetent attack. I was out cold.