Title : Rear Entry
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester, Ryan, Lyle, Ditzy, Blade, Kermit, Finn, Fiver
Disclaimer : Not mine (except the SF lads), no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Warning : Military operation with scenes of violence.
Summary : The military team are told to resolve a hostage situation by any means necessary.
A/N : Written for celeste9’s fandom stocking.

“You are authorised to use any means necessary to secure the release of the Home Secretary, up to and including deadly force, Captain Ryan. Do I make myself clear?” Lester said, raising one elegant eyebrow questioningly.

“Crystal clear, sir,” Ryan acknowledged.

“I’ll await your report.” Lester favoured the military team with a curt nod and promptly left the armoury.

“Looks like Christmas has come early,” Lyle commented, pulling his thigh holsters out of his locker and starting to kit up.

This wasn’t the first time they’d gone up against Helen Cutter and her clones, but this was the first time they’d been let off the lead and allowed to romp in the park with them. The wretched woman had over-reached herself, taking the bloody Home Secretary, of all people, hostage, and demanding Nick Cutter in return. That had caught Lester between a rock and a hard place. Their boss couldn’t stand the Home Secretary, a ratty little man with a face like a weasel who’d been drinking piss, but then again, he had been known to refer to Cutter as being the mental equivalent of a boil on his balls.

But the government never negotiated with hostage takers, so that meant their team could finally get to do what the tax-payer had trained them for, instead of just riding shotgun for a bunch of crazy scientists. This was a strictly military outing, with the civilians – even Hart, who could certainly handle himself in a fight – being confined to barracks for the duration.

Lyle checked his SIG Sauer P226 out of the armoury, slid in a full magazine, and slipped it into the holster on his right thigh. A Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife went into a sheath on his left thigh, then he pulled on the light Kevlar body armour and slipped his black tactical vest over the top. His pockets loaded with enough spare ammunition clips, grenades and flash-bangs to keep even his innately destructive nature happy, Lyle slung his M4 carbine over his shoulder and was ready to go.

A quick glance around told him the rest of the lads were equally ready. With a brief nod to Ryan, Lyle followed his captain down to the garage.

They were travelling as two teams, Ryan heading one and Lyle the other. The plan was simple: they would converge on the warehouse where the Home Secretary was being held, Ryan’s lot would create a diversion, while Lyle, Ditzy and two others made a hot entry from the rear. Described like that, the plan had led to quite a few sniggers and some unfavourable comparisons with Lyle’s sex life.

SO19 had the warehouse under surveillance but were under strict orders not to go in. Thermal imaging had confirmed that the building was indeed occupied, with one person unmoving, to one side of the interior, with nine others moving around. They’d received good intel that indicated the Weasel – their codename for the man they were there to extract – was the one who wasn’t moving around. Probably tied to a chair. Mrs Cutter and her goons were not particularly imaginative, from what Lyle had seen.

Leaving their vehicles well away from the perimeter, the two teams made their way in on foot, maintaining radio silence. They’d already run through the plan enough times to know exactly who was doing what and when. They’d only need to communicate on air if something had gone badly wrong.

With Ditzy, Finn and Blade at his back, Lyle worked his way closer to the loading bay at the rear of the warehouse. The green glow from his night-goggles revealed nothing untoward in the area. With a quick hand-signal, Lyle waved Ditzy forward. As Lyle watched him work a small shaped-charge into the lock, he was amused by the fact that hardly anyone who knew the medic would recognise him now. Gone were the easy smiles and the bad jokes, replaced with the same hard-eyed competence displayed by all of the team as they geared up for a sudden act of explosive violence that would result in either the rescue of the Weasel or his death. There were unlikely to be any half-measures.

Trailing a thin cable behind him, Ditzy retreated to a safe distance and gave Lyle a thumbs-up.

Counting down in his head, the way he’d been doing since they’d left the vehicles, Lyle reckoned that Ryan’s team should be in position now, with the distraction ready to roll. Sure enough, 30 seconds later, the screech of car tyres sounded in the massive car park at the front of the building.

From the noises they could hear, it wasn’t hard to imagine Kermit doing wheelies in a supposedly-stolen black Ford Focus, slinging it around the tarmac, windows down, whooping and yelling like a loon, with Fiver in hot pursuit, driving like a maniac in a white Beamer. A burned out car on the far side of the compound had given them the idea. The whole area was known for joy-riding, drug deals and fencing stolen goods out of the backs of nicked cars. Only the presence of the armed response units in the area had kept it free of its normal activities that night, allowing them the perfect cover.

Ryan and the rest of the lads were keeping their heads down in the cars, ready to de-bus as soon as the metaphorical balloon went up.

“Is it ‘cos I’s black?” Fiver had demanded with a wide grin in the briefing, when told what part he’d be expected to play.

“No, it’s ‘cos you’re a shit-hot driver,” Ryan had told him, and so the lad was proving, as he slung the car around on two wheels without rolling it, getting closer and closer to the front of the building with each pass, while maintaining the pretence of being hyped-up on drink or drugs, or both, and not giving a shit about his own safety.

The fact that he and Kermit could pass at a distance for a couple of crazy kids was a big help, as no doubt the Bitch Queen and her goons would be watching them on CCTV by now, having missed Lyle and his team working their way in from the rear in a camera blackspot.

Lyle’s mental countdown reached ten and he held out a hand to catch everyone’s attention. When his internal clock reached five, he started the final count on his fingers. When he finally tucked his thump into his palm, he was ready for the quiet crump of the door-lock being blown in.

A moment later, the door felt the full weight of Ditzy’s size-ten boot and burst inward.

The medic was first through the door, hurling a flashbang grenade over-arm into the warehouse. Lyle was at his side in a heartbeat, breaking to the left as the blinding flash of light and massive concussive boom did its work on the unsuspecting occupants of the room.

The vicious sound and light show allowed them a few precious seconds to pile in.

The barrel of Lyle’s weapon was immediately sweeping the interior of the cavernous space. He saw a shape move over to his left. Their rules of engagement were clear. Take no prisoners, quite literally. Her Majesty’s government had no wish to deal with the legal complexities of detaining and trying clones. Without any form of verbal warning, Lyle took the shot, putting a three round burst into the man’s chest. He saw an explosion of red mist from the clone’s back, heard a surprised grunt and watched as his target went down.

On his right, he saw the muzzle of Ditzy’s rifle spit flame and heard the noise of the bullets even over the still-echoing boom left over from the flashbang, then they were fanning out in the same order they used in the live-fire exercises in Credenhill’s infamous Killing House.

Blade, economical as ever with ammunition, took out one of the clones with a knife through his eye-socket, at the same moment as Finn dropped two others with a carefully-controlled burst of semi-automatic fire.

A loud bang from the front of the building told Lyle that Ryan’s team had come to join the party.

The next few moments were a blur of movement, noise and swiftly-dealt death.

Lyle and Ditzy made their way to the unmoving figure sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor. The man’s thin face and sour expression was unmistakable, although to be fair, he probably had something to be sour about. From the smell, he’d probably been sitting in his own piss and shit for the last couple of days, which was enough to make anyone look less than their usual pristine best.

Lyle had been fully expecting the man to be dead before they got to him, but from the quick thumbs up Ditzy had just given him, it looked like they were in luck, and so was the Home Secretary. With the rest of the lads working their way around the warehouse, the two of them quickly cut the man’s bonds and hauled him to his feet. After ascertaining their principal was indeed still alive, Ditzy hoisted the man over his shoulder and made a run for the door they’d just blown in, with Lyle covering him every step of the way.

It had taken no more than three minutes from start to finish.

With adrenalin pumping hotly through his system, Lyle caught his medic’s eyes and grinned. The job had been fucking textbook from start to finish. He didn’t think for a minute that anyone would have managed to slot the Bitch Queen, but then they’d not really expected to. But apart from that, the whole thing had been just peachy. No wonder he’d not had a peep out of his thumbs the whole time.

Lester owed them a pint for this one.