He clambered up onto the roof, then crawled slowly across until he reached the other side, where he studied the gap between the two buildings. Ten feet and nine inches divided him from his chosen vantage point. That wouldn’t be a problem. He’d practised the jump several times with the rifle slung over one shoulder, and his average had been just over fourteen feet.
He retraced his steps, then crouched down for a moment before bursting out of the blocks and sprinting towards the edge of the building, reaching top speed on the last stride. With inches to spare, he leapt into the air like an Olympic long-jumper who knew exactly where the take-off board would be, and landed on the roof of the next building with several feet to spare. He knelt down on one knee and caught his breath, not moving again until his heartbeat had returned to a steady fifty-four.
He then crawled across to the edge of the building, but didn’t look down. He’d never told Colonel Parker, his old commanding officer, that he had a fear of heights. After a few more minutes he stood to take in everything around him, and was well satisfied. But then he’d chosen the spot carefully. He was directly above Ron Abbott’s flat, and Abbott, he’d quickly discovered, was a creature of habit. Something that was considered a deadly sin by the SAS, as it made you an easy target for the enemy. Abbott spent every Thursday evening with members of his family at the dogs in Romford, where they were regularly separated from some of their ill-gotten gains. That was invariably followed by dinner at a local nightclub, not known for its cuisine. He usually arrived back at his flat around one o’clock in the morning with a girl on one arm, sometimes on both.
The other reason Ross had selected that particular spot was because it gave him a clear view of the pub where the birthday celebrations were now in full swing. Two hundred and forty yards – well within the range of the high-powered precision rifle – as the crow flies.
He eased the butt of the rifle gently into his shoulder, and lined up the crosshairs on the telescopic sight on the forehead of one of the bouncers. He held the rifle in that position for two minutes before he lowered his arm and rested.
Ross suspected it would be a long wait before the real target appeared. After all, it was his thirty-fourth birthday. He took the Marlboro packet out of his pocket, extracted six highly polished bullets and stood them up in a straight line like soldiers on parade. Then he settled down to wait, but didn’t for a moment lose his concentration.
The first reveller emerged from the pub just after midnight. Not someone he recognized. The second, who spilled out onto the pavement a few minutes later, was Terry Roach’s uncle Stan, who had been in and out of jail for the past twenty years, and was now rumoured to have been pensioned off by the family.
Ross raised the rifle once again and centred the crosshairs on Uncle Stan’s lined forehead. He pulled the trigger. A small click followed, allowing Stan to go on his way, blissfully unaware he’d been target practice.
Although he didn’t expect the real target to appear for at least another hour, he loaded six bullets into the magazine. Just in case.
Over the next hour a stream of inebriated guests made their way out of the pub and started walking unsteadily in the direction of their homes. Taxi drivers avoided that street, even in the middle of the day.
Then, without warning, the birthday boy appeared. He staggered out of the pub, accompanied by two of his mates who were in no state to assist him.
Ross calmly took out his phone and dialled 999. When an operator asked, ‘Police, fire or ambulance service?’ he said firmly, ‘Police,’ as Terry Roach lurched forward and grabbed at a window ledge to steady himself.
‘Police. How may I assist you?’
‘There’s a gun battle going on in Plumber’s Road, Whitechapel,’ he said, trying to sound breathless.
‘Can I take your—’ But he’d already switched off the phone. He would dispose of it later.
He nestled the butt of the rifle back into his shoulder, and steadied the barrel with his left hand. He centred the crosshairs of the telescope on the enemy’s forehead, just as he had done in Oman, and now in Whitechapel. He lowered his sights to the birthday boy’s right kneecap, his old sergeant major’s words ringing in his ears: Concentrate, breathe normally and squeeze the trigger smoothly in one movement, don’t snatch. He carried out the order and the bullet whistled through the air towards its target. Seconds later Roach sank to the ground in agony, clasping his right leg.
As Ross had anticipated, the stricken man’s two mates tried to drag him back into the pub. He lowered the crosshairs an inch and steadied himself before pulling the trigger a second time. This time, the bullet headed for Roach’s groin, and the sudden agonized movement of Roach’s hands from his knee to his balls rather suggested Ross had hit the bullseye. One of his mates continued to drag Roach back towards the pub, screaming for help at the top of his voice, while the other ran off in the opposite direction.