Crash Course by Derek Fee (pdf to ebook reader .txt) 📕

speedboat’s throttle was being kept wide open, the French boat appeared to be dropping its speed.

The speedboat was now only several hundred yards from the beach and heading straight for a group of windsurfers.

“For God’s sake watch out,” the second man shouted above the noise of the engines.

The driver ignored his companion’s advice and pulled hard right on the wheel sending a wave tumbling towards the windsurfers and causing some of them to lose their balance and fall into the water.

“Ease off,” the second man shouted. “You’ll kill somebody.”

The driver took a glance over his shoulder and saw that the French vessel was cutting speed in deference to the number of people in the water. Got you, he thought and pulled his boat closer to the shore. It didn’t matter that he’d gained a few seconds on the patrol boat. What he needed was something that would stop his pursuers dead in their tracks. Desperate situations required desperate measures. Swimmers were already streaming out of the water as the two boats powered along parallel to the beach. The speedboat driver saw a figure struggling through the water directly in front of him. He turned the boat in the direction of the swimmer. There was no other choice.

The speedboat skimmed over the water closing the gap between itself and the swimmer with incredible speed. The driver saw the swimmer‘s head turn upwards towards them. It was a young woman whose face had a look of sheer terror on it. The boat seemed to leap forward at her and the occupants heard the dull sound as the bow struck her body. The driver pulled the wheel to the right and the boat began to sweep around the bay and away from the beach.

“Salaud!” Brondel let the glasses fall around his chest. “Crapule,” he screamed at the top of his voice.

The body of the swimmer bobbed to the surface and the helmsman looked enquiringly at the young lieutenant.

“Arretez les moteurs, Luc, et mettez nous à coté du corp.” Brondel could see the speedboat disappearing at speed around the edge of the beach as his helmsman cut the engines and brought the Allouette alongside the floating body.

“Vite, les gars. Peut-etre on peut faire quelque chose pour la nageuse.” Brondel removed his binoculars and slammed them into the chart table. For two years he had waited for such a chance and now it was gone. He watched silently as two of his sailors jumped into the water and pulled the inert body alongside the patrol boat. The young woman was hauled on board and laid on the deck. A medical examination would not be required. Half the girl’s head had been removed by the bow of the speedboat.

“Crapule,” Brondel shouted looking at the edge of the beach where the speedboat had disappeared.

Chapter One

London

Detective Sergeant Mark Kane raised his eyes and looked along the length of the police van. They were parked on a narrow walkway outside a 1950’s house on a grim South London council estate. Eight officers sat together at the other end of the van; their bomber jackets bloated by the bulletproof vests they wore underneath. The only sound in the van came from Kane’s mobile phone. He had bet five hundred quid on Arsenal to win and the wankers were already one down to Manchester United. If he wasn’t on this ‘spin’, he would have been sitting in the stand at the Emirates watching the Gunners pour his money down the drain. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes before the off. The banter and schoolboy giggles which had accompanied their drive to the estate after the briefing had dissipated and silence hung heavy in the van. Two of the younger officers were dragging furiously on their cigarettes. The back door of the van opened and Kane was the only man not to jump. “We’re ready.” The skipper, Superintendent George Davenport, eased his bulk through the open pane at the back of the van.

Beyond him Kane could see the civilian door openers, or ‘ghostbusters’ as they liked to be known, setting up their hydraulic ram.

“I want a result on this one,” Davenport said, crouching down. “No fuck-ups.” He looked directly at Kane. “You up for this?”

Kane nodded.

“You really are something. The officers wearing the bulletproof vests appear to be pissing themselves while you’re watching a football game.”

Kane smiled. “One all, the Gunners have pulled one back.” He was dressed in wall-to-wall Armani with his light brown hair gelled back and tied in a bun and enough gold chains around his neck to make Mr T envious, Kane looked the epitome of the drug dealer.

“I don’t want any grandstanding,” Davenport continued staring at Kane. “You all heard the briefing. The information we have from Kingston is that every one of them has already killed. So be bloody careful. I want the drugs. I want the guns, and I want Hackett and his boys wrapped up in a nice package. Are we all clear on that?”

The eight officers nodded their agreement. Kane simply returned his boss’s stare and switched his mobile off. He’d worked for five years under Davenport in SO10, the undercover unit of the Metropolitan Police; they had both been here before and any form of acknowledgement was superfluous.

Davenport opened the door of the van and alighted. Kane climbed out after him.

“I wouldn’t be too fucking cool about this gig if I were you,” Davenport said as he drew himself up to his full height. “These people don’t take prisoners and you’ll be in the front line. I don’t want any casualties.”

“It’s my life and I’ll play it as I see it.” Kane took his Glock 19 from a shoulder holster and checked it.

“And no bloody shooting unless absolutely necessary,” Davenport said as he watched Kane. “I don’t want Hackett and his boys slipping out of this one because we used cruel and usual force.”

“I’ve been on Hackett for six months,” Kane said, replacing his gun in its holster. “The cruel