Singapore Sling Shot - Andrew Grant [64]
The moment the man in the poncho vanished, we started up the flank of warehouse number two. It was only a minute to gate crashing time. Jo was in the lead. I was at his shoulder. We didn’t run. This was more of a slow jog. We had time. The moment we reached the corner, we would be on camera. I wondered if Jo was going to kill or just lay the sentry out. That particular question was answered when he removed a set of brass knuckles from an overall pocket and slipped it on his right fist over his glove.
A metre short of the corner we stopped. I raised my Browning. If the sentry came around the corner firing the weapon he undoubtedly had under his poncho, I needed to be ready. In reality, I needn’t have bothered.
There was an almighty crash from the front of the compound fifty metres beyond the warehouse we were preparing to storm. The sentry ran into view and stood looking towards the sound, trying to see what was happening. From under his poncho he produced a cut-down pump shotgun. Jo took two paces and his brass knuckles met the man’s temple with a sickening sound. The poncho-clad one was out of it and maybe out of life.
I was tempted to pick up the shotgun, but left it lying where it was. We were in semi-silent mode for the moment at least. There were other sounds out front. One of them was the faint rattling thwack of a silenced weapon in use. K was no doubt seeing to any opposition. Jo and I and the guy with the pry bar raced for the door set in the centre of the rear wall of the warehouse, while the other three sprinted for the front of the building. As yet there were no sirens and no alarm bells.
The door gave easily. While it was solid enough, it wasn’t reinforced and the two locks exploded as one. We were in and now an alarm bell was ringing.
In front of us was a huge cavernous warehouse. Unlike the one in the next compound, this one was brightly lit and it didn’t contain cement. Around the walls were stacked pallets holding boxes and bundles of whatever. In the centre sat half a dozen shipping containers.
The four men guarding Thomas Lu’s inner sanctum had all moved to the front of the warehouse drawn by the sounds outside. The pedestrian door beside the huge sliding door set in the front wall was open. They had possibly been going to the assistance of the men in the gatehouse. Now, because we had triggered the intruder alarm, they were turning back towards us, weapons raised.
Whether these guys knew anything about basic military training or had learned all their fighting techniques from bad movies, we’ll never know. Whatever, they were standing bunched in the open, aiming a variety of weapons in our direction. The three of us took cover behind the nearest container as the clowns started shooting. One of them was using an Uzi and hot copper jackets were slapping the side of the container and ricocheting off the concrete floor like angry bees.
The noise was deafening. None of these guys were using suppressed weapons. Being inside a large galvanised metal shed while the guns were blazing was like being trapped in a metal drum with half a dozen mad drummers beating on it.
The reason we hadn’t opened fire was that the range was long for a handgun under these conditions, almost sixty metres. The other reason was we had guys coming in from the front. Crouched beside my container I could see the door. Our guys arrived fast and low. They came in shooting, fanning out and going to ground as they did so. Above the sound of the unsuppressed weapons came the dull thump of the silenced Brownings. It was over in seconds.
The sudden silence was deafening. I took in a wider view around the edge of the container, my ears ringing from the gunfire. Our three