Blackout (Sam Archer 3) Read online

  Blackout

  By

  Tom Barber

  *****

  Blackout

  Copyright: Tom Barber

  Published: 10th September 2012

  The right of Tom Barber to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by he in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To my mother, Alison.

  A heroine in her own story.

  ONE

  It was a few minutes to midnight on a spring night in London.

  Inside a medium-sized office on the top floor of a three-storey building in West London, a man in his late-thirties was just finishing annotating the last page of eleven sequential A4 sheets of paper, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked. He was a politician, but about as far removed from the stereotypical type as you could get.

  Unlike a number of people in that career who so often sported the pasty complexion and soft, flabby physique that came with too much time sitting behind a desk, the man examining the papers had skin tanned and weathered by years in warmer climates. He was built like a professional rugby player, powerful arms and shoulders with not an ounce of excess body-fat on his midriff. He had a dark-featured chiselled face, a warm smile when he chose to use it and possessed a charisma that perfectly suited his chosen path as a politician. Collectively, these attributes had earned him a legion of admirers and supporters not just in his constituency but across the country. He had entered politics on a sheer whim a couple of years ago, and no one was more surprised than he at the meteoric success he had enjoyed so far.

  However, as humble as the man was, it wasn't a fluke that he had done so well. Officially, the tabloids said it was due to his inspiring and morale-boosting speeches and his refreshingly straightforward and honest approach. But as his campaign manager had told him, he ticked two very important boxes as a front-runner in the elections, two things that probably wouldn't make the bold print of the newspapers but nonetheless were qualities that none of his competition shared. Women wanted to sleep with him and men wanted to buy him a beer.

  Handsome, eloquent and charismatic, he was very much a maverick in the Kennedy and Obama mould, someone the public could relate to and get behind, a surprise but sure-fire candidate for leader of the party in due course. Show business for ugly people was how politics was often described. The man working on the papers behind the desk in his office that evening was definitely an exception.

  Changing one final word on the last sheet of the pile, the man dropped the pen on the page and stretched back in his seat, yawning, wearily rubbing his face. He’d been working on this speech for weeks, and tomorrow was the day he would finally deliver it. He knew its success would either make or break his campaign.

  He was due to speak at 11 am to a worker’s union across the city in Dalston, outlining his planned reforms and intentions for growth in the area if they chose to get behind him and help him get elected. Their support was crucial. He knew he had the middle-class vote in the bag. If he got the Dalston backing, it would be a clincher. Get them on his side, win the seat and who knew what could happen next. Given his recent run of success, he was sure as the night was dark that he could get to 10 Downing Street one day. He'd always been an ambitious man, and as everyone around him had started to realise, his confidence was infectious. Day by day, public belief in the man was growing, matching the same inner sureness that he’d always had in himself.

  He stretched the tight muscles of his neck from side to side, rubbing the day’s worth of stubble that had accumulated on his chin and cheeks. Blinking fatigue from his eyes, he checked the clock on the wall across the room. He caught it just as the long hand ticked forward, nestled side-by-side with the small hand. 11:59 pm. Time to head home. He needed to be on his best form tomorrow and that meant a solid night’s sleep, or as good a one as he could get considering the importance of tomorrow's commitments.

  He rose from his desk, reshuffling the series of papers carefully into numerical order, then slid them into a slender brown folder resting on the desktop. Closing it, he placed the folder inside his briefcase and clicked it shut, spinning the two three-digit dials with his thumbs.

  He was wearing dark suit trousers with a light-blue shirt, and the sleeves were rolled up to reveal thick forearms and a series of faded tattoos. Working here at night alone was usually the only time that he could get away with revealing them, the only other place away from the privacy of his own home. At all other times, he had to keep the sleeves rolled down which was a bitch in hot weather. Personally, he liked the ink-work, but he wasn’t a fool and knew the common stigmas that were frequently associated with tattoos. His campaign manager had emphasised some potential supporters still on the fence could perceive them in a less than positive way. He thought his manager was being over-cautious, but at this point every vote mattered and the politician with the tattoos couldn't afford to become complacent. Once he was elected, he could roll his sleeves up, literally. But for now, in public and with elections still on-going, the ink would remain covered.

  He pulled on the jacket and tightened his tie, then checked the rest of his office. He had everything he needed. Across the room, the tall windows were shut and locked, long red curtains drawn in front of them. He would be back here in six hours, but that gave him more than sufficient time for a rest and was all he really needed. He used to manage on half or a third of that in his former life, hunkered down in foxholes, bunkers or military camps in dark corners around the world. Six hours was plenty.

  Walking around his desk, the man moved to the door and stepped outside, then shut and locked it behind him, the briefcase in his right hand. He stood at the top of stairs, the building around him still and quiet, the only sound the faint ticking of a large grandfather clock downstairs in the reception hall. His offices were above a law firm and an up-and-coming showbusiness agency, so the silence in the building was a welcome contrast to the constant hustle and bustle of the day. He figured there might still be some people in the law offices below, unfortunate souls who were pulling an all-nighter, working hard on cases and scouring legal documents that couldn’t wait until morning. He knew how they'd be feeling. He’d slept here a few times himself on a couch in his office.

  Double-checking he had everything, the man turned and moved down the carpeted stairs towards the ground floor. To the right of the front door was a reception desk, and to his surprise, despite the lateness of the hour, his receptionist was still sitting there her head down, hard at work on something, distracted. She was a sweet girl called Jamie, just turned twenty five. She'd knocked on the front door at the beginning of the year asking if there was any work going in the building. She explained that she’d graduated last summer from a well-respected university with a good degree, but unfortunately, with the current state of the economy, such qualifications no longer guaranteed a job in the City, or in any city in fact. The man had liked her instantly, admiring her resourcefulness and after approval from the law firm and the showbiz agency he had offered her a spot running the front desk. She had proven adept at her role, working from morning to night without complaint, juggling the needs of the law firm, the agency and the up-and-coming politician’s office. Altogether, she did a fine job.

  Just as the grandfather clock
in the hall struck midnight, she sensed him coming down the stairs. She looked up and smiled. There was a pause as both of them waited for the twelve chimes on the clock to pass so they could hear each other speak.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said, once the building was quiet again, the last chime echoing in the hall.

  ‘What are you still doing here, Jamie?’ the man asked, stepping onto the marble floor and approaching the desk. ‘It’s late. You should be at home.’

  ‘I’ve got some exams coming up for my law course. Here’s a good a place to study as any.’

  'When are the exams again?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Well, good luck. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don't stay too late.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good night.’

  He nodded and moved to the door.

  ‘Oh, sir?’ she added.

  He turned. Jamie reached for something on her desk and held it towards him.

  It was a letter.

  ‘I almost forgot. This arrived for you about an hour ago. I didn’t want to come up and disturb you, but it’s addressed to you personally.’

  He frowned and reached over, taking it and examining it in his hand, turning it over and checking both sides.

  ‘Mail? At this time of night?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Did you see who delivered it?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘It just dropped through the letter box,' she said. 'As you say though, it seemed strange so I opened the door and checked outside. I couldn’t see anyone. Whoever posted it had gone.’

  He looked at it in his hands, then shrugged.

  ‘OK. See you tomorrow,’ he said, and pulling open the front door, he left.

  Outside, the man walked down a couple of steps and passing through a small black metal gate, he crossed a cobbled road and headed towards his car, a black Volvo, parked across the street. Although it was midnight, the street-lights lining the pavements clearly illuminated either side of the road, breaking up the shadows and providing light for anyone out and about. Although the pavements were quiet, the man could hear soft and slightly muffled activity coming from a pub up the street on the corner. The street itself was still, with no traffic. Most of its daytime residents were already at home, but a faint glimmer of light was still visible from slits and cracks in curtains that weren't entirely closed, most likely workers pulling a late one or people who lived here.

  Putting his briefcase down on the cobbled ground, the man took the keys to the Volvo from his pocket and clicked his car open. He pulled open the door and climbed inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He placed the briefcase on the passenger seat and tossed the letter on top of it, then slid the key into the ignition and prepared to twist it.

  But then he thought for a moment and changed his mind, taking his hand off the keys.

  He glanced down at the letter.

  He was intrigued.

  Who the hell would drop off a letter this late at night?

  Reaching over, he picked it up. He ripped open the envelope, then pulled out a letter.

  He unfolded it and started to read, curious.

  He read it from beginning to end, slowly.

  He only read it once.

  Then he found two photographs inside the envelope. He looked at them both, staring at each one slowly, examining every millimetre, every pixel of detail.

  And for the next hour, he remained where he was.

  He didn’t move.

  He barely even blinked.

  He just stared straight ahead, the letter and pair of photographs resting on his lap.

  Not long after he read the letter, Jamie stepped out of the building across the street and locked up, but she didn't notice him sitting there in the car. She headed off down the pavement, turning the corner and disappeared out of sight, as the man sat motionless in the Volvo, staring unseeingly through the front windscreen.

  After just over an hour had passed, he made a decision and twisted the keys, firing the ignition. He drove straight home, on autopilot. The next thing he knew he was parked outside his front door, in a quiet neighbourhood in the west of the city. He got out of the car and shutting the door behind him, he walked up to at the front door and sliding his key into the lock, he twisted it and walked into the house.

  He entered quietly, listening, waiting. There was nothing. The house was silent and dark. He placed his keys gently on a table by the door, and then headed straight upstairs. After a few moments, he came back down again slowly, in a daze, walked to the kitchen and took a seat at the table in the dark, all alone, a still black figure silhouetted by the moonlight from the open curtains behind him.

  He sat motionless for some time. Then he rose and walked into his den next door. Pulling open the top drawer of his desk, he retrieved two separate items and tucked one into each pocket.

  Then he walked back into the hallway, grabbed his coat and left the house.

  He sat on a bench on the South Bank until morning. He watched the sun rise on the horizon, bathing the London skyline in an orange glow, the air fresh, the smell of salt from the Thames in the air, the city waking up from a deep slumber in front of him. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He felt unaccustomed tears well in his eyes as he looked at the view, the sun slowly bringing light to the city and the start of a new day. He checked his watch. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out the letter and the two photographs. He took a lighter from another pocket and sparked a flame. He set the paper and photos on fire, watching them curl and burn away between his fingers, eventually dropping the smoking edges of what was left on the ground by his foot, twisted, black and destroyed.

  He then reached into his pocket again and pulled out something else.

  It was an old revolver, six bullets inside, the second item he had retrieved from the desk in his den.

  He put it in his mouth and pulled back the hammer with his forefinger.

  He took one last look at the city in front of him.

  And he pulled the trigger.

  TWO

  At the same moment that the old revolver fired, Officer Sam Archer of the Armed Response Unit also had his hands on a gun, twenty two miles across the city. He was snuggled in tight to the stock of a long sniper rifle, his breathing slow and smooth, his heart-rate as even as a slow-ticking clock. His left eye was shut and his right was looking down the scope, the fingers of his right hand curled around the brown pistol-grip of the weapon, his forefinger resting gently on the trigger.

  A hundred and fifty five yards away his target was still, unmoving. The morning air was cool and clean, with no crosswind to worry about.

  He was aiming the crosshairs of the scope on the man’s right eye.

  The average length of a human head and torso is thirty six inches. The head alone is normally about ten. Archer had heard snipers talk about the fatal T, the region on a target’s head where any impact from a bullet would be an instant kill. From the chin to the nose and either side on each eye, any round that went through that area would instantly sever the brain stem and spinal cord. A target would be dead before he hit the ground, and nine times out of ten before he even heard the shot that killed him. With a moving target, a torso shot was more reliable, as the target area was larger and any hit to a vital organ was effectively a kill-shot regardless.

  But the man on the wrong end of the scope that morning was stationary.

  And he was about to get shot.

  The rifle in Archer's hands was a Heckler and Koch PSG1A1. The abbreviated name came from the German word prazisionsschutzengewehr, or precision-shooter rifle in English. Heckler and Koch had been commissioned to create the weapon by German law-enforcement after the Black September Munich disaster at the 1972 Olympics, when the Israeli Olympic team were ambushed by armed terrorists in the Olympic Village.

  The West German police had been unable to engage the armed gunmen with their short-range weapons and
eleven hostages had died, to the shock and horror of millions watching around the world on television. The heads of the German police force had ordered a long-range shooting weapon be designed specifically for their police teams, and Heckler and Koch had consequently come up with, still to this day, one of the most accurate sniper rifles in the world.

  The weapon was dark and sleek, supported at the front for stability by a tripod. It had a side-folding, adjustable, high-impact matte black plastic stock with a vertically-adjustable cheek-piece to accommodate the varying body-types, heights and builds of different shooters. Older versions used to have a Hensoldt scope, but this latest model had an improved Schmidt and Bender 3-12x 50 Police Marksman II tactical scope, mounted on 34 mm rings. It was new and more up to date, with increased accuracy and further range than the Hensoldt, effective in all elements, rain or shine. The sight showed four lines coming together then narrowing into thin cross-hairs which were at that moment in Archer’s hands, aimed on the iris of his target’s right eyeball.

  The rifle held a five, ten or twenty round ammunition box or could be loaded manually bullet-by-bullet, but Archer had gone with the five. It didn't disrupt the weight and feel of the rifle too much, and gave him sufficient reserve ammunition without having to manually load each bullet or weigh the rifle down unnecessarily. Inside the magazine were five polished NATO 7.62 x51 mm rounds, devastating rifle ammunition. Each bullet was a 175 grain, fairly heavy, but was the perfect blend of stopping power and accuracy. At 1000 yards, the fired bullet would contain more kinetic energy than a .357 Magnum round fired point blank. Dirty Harry would have approved.

  Once the trigger was pulled, a bullet would leave the rifle at over 2500 feet per second, just about twice the speed of sound, and rotated at about 200,000 revolutions per minute. With longer shots a sniper had to worry about spindrift, where the constant turning of the bullet would carry it off course, but the target wasn't far enough from Archer on this occasion for that to be a concern. Each bullet was a hollow-point, boat-tail cartridge, designed to mushroom upon impact and create irreparable damage. Through a human head, the bullet would enter the cranium and expand, destroying brain tissue and rupturing the spinal cord, resulting in instant death. With terminal ballistics, a rifleman always knew what both the crush and tear factor of each round he put into his rifle would leave. Basically, what the round would destroy in the body and the damage it would leave behind. And in both regards, the NATO round was the pick of the bunch. If there was a better common rifle ammunition out there, no one had discovered it yet or at least, had advertised it.