Wuthering Dormice (aka Bike) Part 794 by Angharad

I had cried myself hoarse and grazed my knuckles on the door of the cell. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I wept. There was nothing I could do until I was released, except to send psychic curses to most of the Hampshire Constabulary, who had, it seemed, IQs in single figures. There would be some ructions once I got free.

Until then it seemed all I could think was how an hour ago, I had been able to take options, now I felt like killing many people. I had chucked the knife, before I drove into the police HQ, because I could be charged with carrying an offensive weapon. It now looked as if a bicycle could be described in the same terms.

All sorts of ideas swirled around my head: had the Russians really got Simon, or was it a faked call? Did they let me escape to make it easier to take Tom and the others? It seemed absurd, after all, I was hardly what might be described as a risk factor to them, was I? Without a weapon, I was pretty well useless. Despair began to settle upon me like a blanket of darkness.

“Not so clever now, are you?” said a male voice. The door opened and the two coppers whose car I’d borrowed stood in the doorway of the cell. I looked at them and continued my weeping. The big one approached me, “See the bruises I’ve got after meeting you, bitch.” I ignored him or tried to, but my senses were on such a heightened awareness, that I could hear my tears dripping on the floor.

He stood in front of me and I was aware that his friend was still by the door– I suspected I was about to get a going over while his friend kept watch. I still refused to look at him.

The next moment I was lifted by my hair until I was standing and he jerked me against a wall. I felt a thump against my back which winded me and then its coldness against my back.

He held me against the wall by the throat, his other hand poised to hit me, probably in the breast, where it would hurt but not necessarily show immediately. His hand was choking me and the blood pounding in my head meant I couldn’t hear what he was saying to me. I nearly collapsed but he reduced the pressure enough for me breathe again. I had to make a decision, to stand there and let him hit me or to make a stand, in which case his mate might start on me as well.

My head started swimming as he slowly strangled me, and my body reacted. My knee came up and hit his groin rather hard. As he reacted to that by releasing my throat, I hit him on both temples with my thumbs. He dropped like a stone, groaning.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. His mate stood and watched his friend fall to the ground. “You bitch “ he yelled and rushing at me he aimed a punch at my head which I sidestepped and he hit the wall, two kicks later and he was lying on top of his friend. A quick search of them and I managed to handcuff them to each other and to the bed. I walked out of the cell and past the custody sergeant who was busily engaged in an argument with another officer.

I knew the alarm would be sounded in a few minutes, and therefore trying to escape would be useless. I therefore followed a copper through a security coded door – well he stood to one side as he tapped in the code. On the other side of the door I found myself in the admin side of the building and after exploring a few corridors found a door which had the name, Superintendent Strange, on it. It seemed occupied, so I knocked on it and was bid enter.

“Who are you?” he said looking at me, then, “are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” I said then sat in the chair opposite him, “Please listen to me, I’m not crazy, nor am I lying.” I then poured out my story and he sat there listening to my every word.

“I know you,” he said, “not personally, but I read the reports on the previous attack on your house. You acquitted yourself rather well. Let’s see what we can do to even things up a bit.”

He picked up the phone, “I want as many men as we can raise, including an armed response unit ready within the hour. He gave the address of the farmhouse. I want a low-profile surveillance unit there now and reports to me as soon as they get there.

“In the cells are two injured officers, get them checked out for injuries and detain them, they’re suspended from this moment. I want the tapes from the cells CCTV on my desk in two minutes, and if they don’t contain what I believe they will, your arse is toast.

“Get me a cup of tea sent up here immediately,” he covered the handset, “anything else we need?”

“Were MI5 involved or not?” I asked him.

“Get me Special Branch liaison.” He put his phone down, “If anyone knows they will.”

His phone rang as a WPC arrived with a cup of tea, which he indicated was for me. I took it from the policewoman. The custody sergeant came dashing in with a videotape, and put it on his desk.
“Superintendent Strange,” he said into the phone, “ah, Harry, how good of you to call back – need a favour, are MI5 busy on my patch?” I could hear the noise of a voice but not what it was saying. “We think some Russian agents cum mafia types are very active, yeah, after the Camerons again, no not him, the banking family. Yes, I know, we all thought that was over, except it seems the Russians. Okay, ten minutes then, bye.”

I sat sipping my tea, which was grotty compared to the Twinings I normally drank at home, yet it tasted like nectar and eased my throat, which was feeling quite sore. He rose from his desk and took the film which he locked in a filing cabinet.

“You’d better come with me, as I brief whatever ragbag assemblage we have here. The object is to assess if your family are still in there and if they’re alone.”

“How will we know?”

“We can try and sneak as close as possible, sadly we have little specialist equipment, that usually comes from Winchester, along with the siege team. They deal with hostage situations. While I talk to the troops, could you draw me a rough plan of the house on a flip chart?”

“Um, I think so. Don’t you have plans and things from last time?”

“They’ll be in the archives, by the time we get them, these guys could have killed all your family and legged it.” His phone rang and he told me his surveillance team was in position.

In a large room, he stood and addressed about twenty coppers – men and women. While he explained his take on the situation, I drew a plan on the flip chart. They called up Google Earth and got a satellite photo of the house and garden. My plan showed what was where inside the house.

Half an hour later, we swept out in three police vans, blue lights flashing but no sirens. Behind us was a large Range Rover with a SWAT team in it. I wasn’t sure if that reassured or caused me more anxiety having grown up with the idea that British bobbies did not carry guns, let alone Heckler and Koch machine guns. Even I wore a bullet proof vest, although I was told my role was purely as a spectator or local advisor. Under no circumstances was I to do anything other than sit in the van and behave myself.

“Is she the one who decked Cooksey?” asked someone behind me.

“Yeah, she dumped him and Illingworth.”

“You’re jokin’?”

“No I ain’t, they’re up to their necks in shit for trying to assault a prisoner.”

“I heard they ‘ad to walk back, ‘cos someone took their car, wasn’t ‘er was it?”

“Think so, apparently she’s an undercover agent or something.” I had to squeeze my hand very tightly to stop myself laughing. I’d heard the briefing and while it hinted we could be dealing with a foreign secret service and or the mafia, a sort of Comrade nostra, they didn’t describe me as anything other than a victim who’d escaped the blockade. The emphasis was on not underestimating the enemy, and the fact we could have six hostages inside, four of whom were children. When they heard that, they were all fired up to help and I felt proud of them, and equally fired up. To sit this out was going to kill me.