“I fucking hate this place.” I tell Isabella. We’ve been doing all the police bullshit for the past week, and they decided for some reason, to give us a real task to do as a closer to our training. Protecting this plaza building while some stuck up politicians visit it, how nice! And it’s in my hometown, Luton. God. At least it’s better than all the sitting down in random classrooms and having information drilled into us we’ve done so far.
“I can see why. I’ve seen at least nine beggars in the past hour and they’ve all sworn at us.” She responds. Of course, despite being completely covered from head to toe in blackout gear, issued balaclavas, and having rifles (the G36C, my personal favourite now), people here seem to treat us like shit anyways. “Maybe, instead of having a nice samosa in this shithole Nadeem Plaza, they could fix up their town.” I wish, girl.
We’re technically not supposed to be talking at all, but it is so boring out here. The others are stationed in different areas, too, so it’s just me and Isabella anyways. We were all paired up and sent out in different vehicles, with different tasks. I can barely remember what everyone’s even doing…
I think Ethan and Abdullah are just sitting in an unmarked car, looking out proactively. Hiroshi and Emma are providing sniper cover (dont fucking ask me why they put snipers here and gave them to the smallest people) and Robin and Carlos are in the plaza, in some snazzy suits, being person protection. Oh, and we’re outside the entrance. Being taunted by the smell of biryani, tea and pakoras.
All this policing stuff was a real change from the military shit we did before. All these new rules of engagement, detainment procedures, common acts and sections of laws, more radio bullshit. It’s been doing my head in. Why do we have our general callsign within REMSC as “Raven,” and then the police stuff with it? Fuck, if I had to call Robin, it’d be “Raven S2-21.” S2 standing for something to do with the fact he’s actually escorting the politicians around.
“Raven Trojan-22, 23, from Raven S2-21, preparing to move. Standby, out.” Robin crackles out over the radio. Trojan, that's us.
Lovely, I get to move around.
We all got vehicles in teams of two, except for the fact that some poor protection command officers were taken from London to fill in since we wouldn’t have enough for a convoy, taking place as the lead vehicle. Still, me and Isabella have got a cool BMW X5, with the red stars and battenburg (learnt thats the name for the colourful pattern on police cars) and everything.
“Do you know what we’re doing once we’ve finished this protection shit?” Isabella says, while getting into the front passenger seat. I love driving.
“God knows.” I reply. I don’t know either. But it’s probably more relaxed than this.
As we pull out, lights and everything, it’s pretty cool watching heads turn to look at the convoy. It’s a small convoy (guess these politicians aren't as important), but considering the fact that the last “convoy” Luton had was a couple terrorists coming through to go to London, it’s a big deal. You can just barely see some news reporters pointing their massive cameras at us, too.
“Oi. White Renault van about 40 metres behind us. Reg number ‘MW18 XOF’” Isabella snaps.
For. Fucks. Sake.
Can I not have a single training session without an encounter?
“Raven CW-25, this is Raven Trojan-22. Investigate van behind convoy. Over.” I spit into the radio. I’ll leave it for Abdullah to deal with, since he isn’t in the actual convoy. Hood and Campbell will absolutely kill me if I mess this up…
“Raven Trojan-22, this is Raven CW-25. Van is failing to stop. Over.”
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Y’know, there’s a lot more pressure on us now that there’s real lives at stake. Why is this part of training?
“All stations, this is Raven Trojan-22. Standby for contact, hostile vehicle, reg number beginning MW18. Out.”
“Don’t you love getting the chance to shoot people?” Isabella says.
“No, actually. These bullets are real. These lives are REAL.” I reply.
“Oh.”
“Did it not sink in for you?”
“Now it did.”
All of a sudden, she's stoic. That’s the scary realisation that what we do now could kill people.
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For now, all we can do is keep with the convoy. The van isn’t a guaranteed contact yet, it’s just failing to pull over. I hope that’s all that it is.
“Van. Absolutely belting it towards us.” Isabella shouts at me.
Man.
“Raven CW-25, this is Raven Trojan-22. Breaking from convoy to engage. Out.”
Despite everything I want to do, I follow through and break from the convoy. It’s scary.
Lives literally hang in the balance.
In my hands.
Isabella seems to have the blood drain out her face as we slow down to get closer to the van. Thankfully, there seems to be a minimal amount of pedestrians around here. I’d hate to have to ram the vehicle, but worse comes to fucking worst, it’s how it goes.
It’s hard to focus on driving and commanding people around, but thankfully, everyone here is competent. Isabella is leaning out the window, pointing her rifle at the van. You can just barely hear her shout, “ARMED POLICE, STOP THE CA-”
BANG
Instinctively, I swerve away from the loud bang. Gunshot? I fucking hope not.
“No one told me that cunt has a fucking shotgun.” Isabella tells me as she gets seated again. Not injured, thankfully.
I can taste something bitter.
This guy could kill us.
I reach onto my radio handset and hit the orange button on top, the panic button. “Shots fired from vehicle,” is all I can manage to spit out. Every armed unit within 15 miles should be here, soon.
Before anything else happens.
The guy in the van keeps leaning out and pointing his shotgun at us. I don’t think this car is bulletproof enough.
So I swerve left and ram him.
The entire car shakes as we make contact, metal on metal contact filling everyone's eardrums.
The van keeps moving.
“PIT him.” Isabella screams at me, holding on for dear life.
There's no pedestrians around here, either. Good.
Just line up…
And swerve.
As I make contact, the van spirals, crashing into a nearby lamppost. Hope that guy is hurt.
We rush out of the car, rifles raised. Shouting, “OUT THE FUCKING CAR.” My heart is beating hard.
The guy comes out of the wrecked van, shotgun in hand. It’s not a threat yet, we can’t fire.
“DROP IT.” More shouting.
He just stands there.
I don’t want to kill you. But I will.
You mean less to me than what Isabella means to me.
“Get back!” He shouts back at us, his free hand clutching his head. “I have bomb in my van!”
Shitshitshitshitshit.
More shouting at him. I so badly want to rush and tackle him, but the risk is too high. Shotguns are not good.
We take a few steps closer, shouting still. My throat kills.
He stares at us.
He’s raising the shotg-
I don’t even need to think. A single shot to his chest.
Blood starts to soak his t-shirt. His hand is still rising.
It’s fucking brutal. Round after round piercing his body. Until he finally falls.
We run over, looking at his limp body. A pool of blood spreading across the floor.
Ignore it - protocols.
Kick the weapon away.
Kneel down. In the blood.
Cuff him.
“Fuck. The van, there’s a bomb.” I shout at Isabella.
“EOD will take too long.” She shouts back.
I don’t wanna do this, man.
We run over to the van, and fling open the rear doors…
Piles upon piles of yellow blocks, bound with string. Wires in each end. A lone circuit board on top.
Stereotypical semtex.
“All stations, this is Raven Trojan-22. Large amounts of explosives in hostile vehicle. EOD required. Out.”
Just semtex. Stay calm. They trained us on this.
Ripping out the wires from each block is hard. But the adrenaline fuels me. Albeit, it’s fading. We were taught exactly this; rip out the detonator cap from the explosive and it’s disarmed. Of course, I run the risk of blowing myself and everyone within 500 metres if they added security measures.
I doubt it, though.
Turning around after that, it’s a blinding sea of blue and red lights. They weren’t joking when they said everyone runs to the location of the panic call.
“Isabella. Are we done?” I ask her, almost plaintively.
We killed someone.
“You forget you’re the team lead.” She replies.
God. God's sake.
Every armed officer and their dogs are trying to question me, but I’m too tired for this. All I can focus on is his eyes as we shot him.
His mouth as he fell.
His blood on my legs.
The blood on my hands.