Free Hunter Killer by Chris Ryan Page B

table. He loaded each weapon, then wandered back up the hallway to find Spud. Danny’s mate was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He accepted the weapon from Danny, and together they moved up to check out the top floor.
    There were three bedrooms here. In two of them, the beds and furniture were covered in dust sheets. The third bedroom contained two single beds. ‘Hope you don’t snore,’ Spud muttered. He plonked himself down on one of the beds. The springs squeaked. ‘When I pull,’ he said ungraciously, ‘you get the couch.’ But they both knew there wouldn’t be much time for pulling.
    Danny checked the time: 11.03hrs. They were expected at Paddington Green police station at midday. He stowed his Glock under his jacket and walked out of the room. ‘Let’s get moving,’ he said over his shoulder.
    The traffic around Paddington was a disaster. Half the streets had been cordoned off, and the police presence was higher than Danny had ever seen it in the UK. Even though it was four days since the bomb, an unpleasant burning smell lingered in the air. The railway station itself was closed, of course – as it would be for months – but having dumped the car and continued towards the police station on foot, they were given a sharp reminder of the sheer magnitude of the device when they saw shop windows more than 200 metres from the station boarded up: the shock waves had shattered them.
    ‘Bet it was like a fucking butcher’s shop in there,’ Spud muttered as they caught a glimpse of the station through a side street 100 metres to the south. He sounded as sombre as Danny felt. Sure, he’d witnessed destruction like this in other parts of the world, but there was something about seeing it on your home turf.
    As they passed a junction, a BMW X5 waiting at a red light caught Danny’s eye. Something about it looked different, and Danny instantly realised that it was the slightly darker-than-usual tint of the windows. Bullet resistant. He found himself checking out the occupants. Four guys, all in their twenties or thirties. Two of them in black T-shirts, one in a leather jacket, one in dark Gore-Tex. Armed police conducting covert surveillance. No question. To confirm his suspicions, Danny zoned in on the grate at the front of the car. He could just make out the police lights hiding out of view.
    Spud gave Danny a look that suggested he’d clocked the unit too, but the X5 went totally unnoticed by the other members of the public who hurried past them. Amazing what you don’t see, Danny thought, when you don’t look.
    There were uglier buildings in London than Paddington Green police station, but not many. It was a bleak concrete block on the north side of the Westway flyover, with a raised upper level surrounded by security bars that looked more like a World War Two observation tower than a modern police building. Danny was no stranger to this place. In one sense it was just an ordinary police station serving this area of north-west London. But the sixteen secure underground cells meant it was the first port of call for any high-profile criminal or terrorist suspect. Only a few weeks ago, Danny had been called on to escort a police unit moving a Chechen bomb-maker from here to the Old Bailey.
    They didn’t enter the building. Not yet. Instead, they loitered by a post box on the other side of the road while Danny pulled his encrypted mobile phone and dialled a number that he’d already pre-programmed. A voice answered immediately. ‘Paddington police station.’
    ‘Do us a favour, mate,’ Danny said. ‘Tell DI Fletcher that his special package is ready for collection.’ He hung up immediately.
    They didn’t have to wait more than a couple of minutes. A fresh-faced duty sergeant who looked like he was barely out of school appeared at the main entrance of the police station. He stood for a moment, looked round, and finally clocked them. Once he’d nodded in their direction, Danny and Spud crossed the