Chapter Eighteen
Bridger was driving at breakneck speed; he had tried contacting Laura on the phone, nearly running off the road as he fumbled with the numbers on the small keypad, but she had not answered her phone. He hoped there would be an explanation for that other than the scenario that was running through his head, causing his foot to press the accelerator even harder.
The car was fitted with red and blue lights in the front grill and on the front and rear windows and it had a siren, which was currently blaring out although it was struggling to compete with the sound of the engine, but other motorists still seemed oblivious to his haste.
“Get out of the bloody way you ignorant dickhead,” he yelled for the umpteenth time as he came up fast behind a vehicle travelling at the speed limit.
The vehicle in front pulled slightly to the left and Bridger floored the accelerator, feeling the car surge forward as he straddled the white centre line, just managing to squeeze between that car and an oncoming truck with its lights flashing and horn blaring. He saw the angry confused eyes of the truck driver as the tractor unit roared by, dragging its trailers so close to his car that he could hear the noise of the wind displacement. Looking in his rear view mirror as he continued he saw the truck's trailers swinging wildly as the driver fought to pull back onto an even course. The sign on the rear of the trailers read ‘Have a nice day’. The truck carried on around the corner out of sight. He did not have time to care what happened to it next.
He was scrolling through his contact list looking for Gary Stone’s number, looking down more than at the road, almost driving blind, holding the steering wheel steady by jamming his knee under it. Another loud air horn sounded from out the front and he looked up in time to see large headlights flashing wildly directly in front of him. Grabbing the wheel with his free hand, he swung the car into a wild arc and narrowly missed the next oncoming truck, dropping his phone in the process.
“Shit, I don’t bloody need this right now”, he said aloud, trying to reach down between his legs. He could not keep his eyes on the road and reach low enough at the same time so Bridger forced himself to slow down. He needed to get where he was going and not kill himself in the process. Working hard to keep his foot from pressing heavily on the accelerator in his urgency and keeping the vehicle at a steady 120km/hr he glanced down quickly to get a bearing on where the phone had landed. Seeing it resting just short of the brake pedal he took a deep breath then ducked under the dashboard grabbing it on the first try. Bouncing straight back up he was relieved to see that he was still on a steady course.
This time he rang the number for the central police station, a number that he knew by heart and asked the operator to put him through to Sgt Gary Stone’s cell phone. He was just entering the motorway at the base of Saddle Hill when someone answered.
“Stone” The voice was gruff and rushed.
“Gary its Mike, I need to know what’s going on”
“Mike, you’re a hard man to find these days.” He sounded annoyed. “Make it quick,” he continued, “We have Martin McLaren in the cross hairs, he’s armed Mike and not in good place right now, he’s currently standing in the middle of the road with a shotgun. Ken is squad sniper…”
Bridger did not have to ask what that meant; if Martin moved an inch from where he was, he was going to die. Despite his own history with Ken Moore, he knew Ken was a ‘by the book’ kind of man when it came to his current role, and he was an excellent shot. His feeling of helplessness deepened and his foot pressed harder on the accelerator.
“I’m two minutes away Gary.” Bridger looked down at the car’s speedometer that was reading 155km/hr and climbing “For god’s sake, do not shoot him.” He cut the connection and threw the phone on the seat beside him, concentrating on the top of the hill and the cars that were banking up as he reached the apex and the next lower speed restriction. He pictured Laura’s face, beautiful, sad, and then the image was gone.
He knew he had less than a few minutes… at most.
Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 19
