Chapter 29 I Predict A Riot
At the base of the palace gates, a high-ranking police officer positioned himself, clutching a powerful megaphone.
Behind him, a squadron of riot police held formation. Their faces obscured by helmets, eyes focused on the restless crowd. With shields raised high, they braced against the imminent outbreak of violence. Police dogs pulled away from their handlers.
The rifle-wielding British royal guards had also assumed positions behind the defensive line.
Their iconic red uniforms and black bearskin hats stood out vividly against the somber gray stone backdrop of Buckingham Palace's courtyard. These guards were more than ceremonial figures; they were the last line of defense.
A barrage of petrol bombs arced like mortar shells upon the police barricade, forcing them to retract two steps.
Sergeant Thompson a seasoned officer, choked on the blistering scent of billowing black smoke with its noxious presence, approaching his superior Sergeant Taylor.
“It's not going to calm down Serg. We need a stronger deterrent,” Thompson said, wondering if making the call would lead to more violence or help diffuse the situation.
Sergeant Taylor's eyes darted across the churning mass of bodies.
“Everybody must hold the line, and keep these animals in check.” Sergeant Taylor instructed.
“If we provoke them it could all go tits up!”
Molotov cocktails exploded against police shields. The harsh shattering of glass, unleashed crackling flames, dancing menacingly across the pavement.
“They are already provoked. Look at them! Think about the safety of your men,” Thompson pointed out, feeling the heat wash over him.
“Very well then Thompson, make the call. I will conduct operations from the staging area!”
Thompson's commanding amplified voice resonated through the megaphone.
“Attention! Attention! Disperse immediately! This is a warning!”
Thick armored water cannons, pointed gargantuan obsidian nozzles in a strategic semi-circle. In the compartments, crew members took vantage points over the control panels, awaiting instructions from Sergeant Taylor to unleash their formidable power.
If deemed necessary, they could also mix water with tear gas and other chemical agents to enhance their effectiveness against the escalating mob.
McBride was no stranger to facing such weapons from past conflicts, narrowly escaping with a broken collar bone.
He knew it was often wiser to let the reckless braves take the first hits.
“Everyone move back and splinter off, why don't yer,” Mcbride ordered to his closest allies.
“If you do not disperse immediately, we will use force. This is your last warning!”
Thompson's threats only added to the mob's brazenness. More petrol bombs flew - including rocks and empty beer bottles. They inched closer.
"Activate the water cannons!"
Grey yelled to Turner through the dense smoke.
“Turner, you're too close; get to the rear immediately!”
“I'm right with you, guv!”
The people protesting at the front bore the brunt of the first attack. The chaotic clamor of water drowned out the nozzles into the crowd.
Bones cracked. Joints whiplashed. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, bodies collided. Torn fabric and drenched figures littered the ground.
Turner, sensing the danger, darted back, shouldering past bodies that impeded his way.
He had hardly covered half the distance. Turner ducked and rolled just as a jet stream overhead soaked the protester beside him.
Through the sting of tear gas, McBride called for a retreat close to the press area. He surveyed his people, assessing their wounds.
Some had suffered injuries. Most were exhausted and breathing heavily; their faces were blackened with soot. A few leaned on others for support.
Ox and his brawny bouncers mugged petrol bombs from the wavering retreating throngs of men. Everybody followed suit grabbing what weapons they could find.
“We need to take out those water cannons,' McBride shouted.
“Grey, Turner get ere' you bunch cowards! Get in involved.” Ox demanded.
Grey and Turner shouldered their way through, exchanging bleak looks as another volley of water dumped people to the pavement.
“Yer used to be coppers? Get us our entry point why don't yer, yer old bastard?”
McBride handed both of them ready-to-be-used petrol bombs.
Grey gripped the makeshift weapons in his hands. Then he switched his focus to the violent clusters of activists being mercilessly shot down.
Their faces had invisible scars, mirroring his sentiments toward the corrupt system that had oppressed both of them for far too long.
Turner just like Grey had been on the other side of the barricades in their respective careers, they also knew where the weak points and vulnerabilities were.
“Guv are you thinking what I'm thinking?”
Grey cracked a smile. “Oh! yes, I am Turner!”
“It will be the same usual setup, it never changes,” said Turner.
Both honed in on the idea of the assembly area, a separate zone. Housing command vehicles, armored personnel carriers, ambulances, and fire trucks, dotted away from the riot.
“McBride, there will be a staging area close by of some sort, that will be our entry point.”
“Take out the supply line. Cut off their access to vital supplies?” Turner added.
“Then it's down to muscle!” Ox cracked his gnarled knuckles in response.
“Bomb them and squeeze them from the inside, I like yer thinking. Grey.”
McBride raised a hand, commanding his people's attention, like a president addressing his party.
“Our objective is clear - dismantle the defenses. Target the engines, fuel tanks, anything to incapacitate their machines of war.”
Grey and Turner exchanged another look. They knew it was a risky endeavor, but who were they to step on McBride's toes?
Grey led the group away from the melee, skirting around media vans distracted by the clashes up front.
Under this cover, McBride and his fighters stealthily circled. As Grey had predicted. A staging area with emergency vehicles was parked.
They swept in like ghosts, producing lighters with flickering grins.
"Light 'em up, boys!" McBride yelled.
His men responded in retaliation, hammering the engines with inflaming bombs. Rapidly they caught fire.
In the command trailer, Sergeant Taylor's eyes squinted at the CCTV feed.
Suspicious shadows moved among the vehicles.
"What in God's name..." He leaned in for a closer look as the first flames appeared.
His radio sparked to life with panicked cries.
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"Fire! We're under attack."
Taylor stood up, lunging for his walkie-talkie.
“I need emergency responders now. Goddamn it, we are on fire here.”
The first responder at the other end of the line answered immediately.
"Get out of there. We're dealing with a lot of shit on our end right now!"
Taylor fumbled for the doorknob, but heat seared his palm. He stumbled back, cursing. Through the cracking of glass, Taylor saw Ox petrol bombing the fuselage of his command post. Taylor called out again to his radio.
"I'm trapped here. There's no way out!"
The first respondent hesitated.
"It's chaos. Multiple targets. We're stretched thin. Just hang tight, Taylor!"
"I'm a sitting duck right here!"
"We're sending backup. Hold on!"
Taylor pounded a fist against his desk, helpless. Smoke forced its way inside, clawing at his lungs.
Through watering eyes, he saw the orange tide advancing, cutting off any hope of escape.
His final view was that of Ox, through cracked glass, until the trailer became like an oven, cooking its lone cook.
A fire engine wailed its approach, firefighters spilled from the cab. Rolling out hoses, bracing themselves for the job at hand, unaware of the looming danger.
Ox had signaled his hardened fighters forward, storming into the fray.
Slowly, through the smoke, hard shadows emerged in front of the first responders.
“You will put the fire out,” Ox rumbled. “We can’t have that.”
In moments, gear and equipment were wrenched aside. Blows swinging for England, frames collapsed unconscious.
Grey had witnessed such brutality on the streets, but it was nothing compared to the numbness that had settled into his soul. From constable to inspector to this—how far had he fallen?
Ox's boastful voice, rasping like a rusty blade, cleaved through the pandemonium.
"No rescues today," he spat, kicking aside a fallen breathing apparatus.
It was then that two riot vans appeared, sirens breaking through the bedlam. They barrelled down, no doubt rushing to aid injured comrades.
Ox unfurled a firehose with the help of his fighting men, its red rubber coils slumping to hot apsalt like a tired cobra.
Riot police swarmed out with visors snapped up, totally unprepared for what was in front of them in this smoked-choked street. Sergeant Taylor's post was blazed. Firemen and paramedics wouldn't dare enter this inferno.
Grey and Turner happened to be standing there empty-handed.
“Take this you a couple of numpty's!” Ox barked, turning the nozzle over.
"What do you want us to do with this, Ox?" Turner asked.
“Fire off. That fucker! What do you think?”
One of Ox's men had already leaped onto the back of the fire engine. Grey and Turner gripped the nozzle as the water surged through, a torrent of pent-up fury. It roared, reeking of chlorine, with the oncoming water they needed.
Grey felt the hose buck in his hands, a living thing.
"Drown them!" Ox roared, his voice ragged with a feral grin.
Turner's face contorted as the hose writhed in his hands; it was more powerful than he had expected.
Immediately, the riot police became drenched. Rolling torrents pummeled them against the armored paneling. They slipped and slid on the treacherous islands of cobblestones.
At this point, the wildcards of McBride's fighters lay in wait. Whispering the promise of further chaos, he crouched behind the foilage of bushes. McBride's instincts kicked in, pronging himself away.
"Forward, lads! For Ireland!" They ambushed.
The semi-injured policemen looked mortified. Shields were sprayed away under the pressure. McBride had hijacked one of the riot vans, packing as many allies inside as it could hold. Then the second van was taken.
Ox gave the order for Grey and Turner to stop the hose down.
Then McBride led the charge, steering toward the barricade in what was to be the start of a destruction derby.
Ox helped himself to the fire engine. His fighting men hung from the sides clutching petrol bombs, fires raging all around them.
“Douse anyone or anything that tries to fight back!” Ox hollered out the window.
Grey and Turner followed close behind, mounting onto the pumping panel at the rear, struggling to get to grips with the heavy hoses.
“How do you work this thing?” Grey asked looking at the pump controls.
“I don't bloody know, I did not sign up for the fire service.
Go spinal tap. Or something," said Turner, untangling the hose from the road.
"What do you mean?"
"Turn it up to eleven. And hope for the best."
Through the discharging clouds, they caught sight of the riot police scrambling after them.
Grey swung the hose, Turner did the same. Working in tandem, a powerful jet of water smashed in dual streams, sweeping the area, pinning the riot police away from them.
The Wind swept across their faces - they hated to admit it, but they found it quite fun.
The dogs began to whimper and pull at their leashes restlessly. Spooked by something.
Sergeant Thompson turned around, straining his eyes.
“Something's not right,” he muttered.
Without as much as a warning, McBride's commandeered fleet came through the smoggy blend directly at their positions, smashing into them like warheads, followed by - McBride's gravelly laugh.
Ox threw the fire engine into a speedier gear and tore right at them.
Bandits clinging to the sides followed up with petrol bombs, screams, and barks drowned out mad cheering. Grey and Turner, still on hose duty aimed at the ambulances.
“Let's turn these cannons around,” OX growled, missing being able to use his fists.
Crew operators operating the water cannons did not know which way to fire.
Sergent Taylor their coordinating officer had been barbequed.
Add to that the mob had galvanized and reformed at McBride's interception.
Luckily for them, they were about to have their minds made up for them.
Catching them off guard. Ox and his fighting network appeared, ranging across the compartments.
Rapid scuffles ensued. Ox climbed into the driver's seat and surveyed the controls. Though unfamiliar, their purpose was clear.
A wicked smile crept across his lips, revealing a deviousness that hinted at the game they were about to play.
“Which one is the fire button again?” Ox asked nonchalantly. He leaned back in his chair as if he were a child about to play with a toy truck.
The operator, a seasoned veteran thought he had seen it all - until today.
“Ah, the green one,” the operator replied.
“But be careful with that. It holds the potential to consume everything in its path.”
Ox was turning the steering wheel, its hydraulic mount swiveling around. The turreted nozzle, now facing the police defense line.
“I wouldn't have it any other way.”
Ox's grin only widened. Without hesitation, he reached for something hidden in his person, pulling out a gleaming steel blade. The operator's eyes widened in surprise.
“Go and give a tutorial to my men,” Ox commanded.
“You have one minute, or I will slice you up. Run along now little pig.”
A minute later, metallic joints creaked in harmony, adjusting their angles, aligning themselves perfectly with the police defense line as their targets.
“Attention! Attention! Disperse immediately! This is a warning. Will McBride please disperse? Unless the stinky Irishman wants a shower.”
McBride lobbed a petrol bomb at Ox's window, sticking two fingers up.
Grey and Turner knew what was coming, cocooning themselves in the safety of the fire engine.
“Fire!”
The tables turned in an instant. Ox, motored along, watering the police down like he watering the garden on a lazy Sunday afternoon - squishing them into the royal cream stone driveway.
Thompson staggered through the delirium, firing off useless rounds that pinged harmlessly off armor plating.
Retreat was his only thought, yet escape proved hopeless as frenzied attackers came from all angles.
Any surviving officers scrambled back, retreating through the place gates themselves.
Grey watched with cold calculation. What secrets from Grey's past lay beyond the palace gates? He was determined to find the answers, whatever the cost.
The Royal Guards had left the sprawling courtyard, unwilling to defend a crown that was about to collapse.
Grey took a breather. Finally getting the chance to make that precious phone call to Detective Jamison.
He gave him instructions to make a house call to his family's home. When Grey would be in touch again was an unknown variable.
Turner looked at Grey for a long moment. He did not know what to say.
He always tried to lighten his boss's mood with his humor instead of sensitivity, a trait that Grey always appreciated - especially in their former line of work.
"So guv," Turner said, "I take it you're going to drop your title of OBE?"
“Turner, I think we are going straight to hell at the end of our lives. I am involved in the murders of lots of innocent men.”
“Some were not so innocent," Turner tried to reason.
"We were innocent once,” Grey, said regretfully.
“There is no turning backing now, Guv. We go big or we go home."
“I don't have a home or a family anymore.”
Grey caught the reflection of his IRA insignia in the driver's mirror.
“For the cause right?”
"Yeah, Guv."
In that all too familiar route. Grey cruised along to the ballroom.
Along the way he noticed McBride loitering around the palace grounds, taking stock of the situation.
He noticed Ox parked up in the middle of the water cannons, lining up his new favorite toy, and firing off at the main door, blowing it wide open.
He noticed worried eyes looking down out of lit windows. Then they all entered ready to ransack the joint.