Mike’s heart was in his mouth. Already the plan was in tatters and he’d only done a few miles. He’d completely failed to anticipate they might have a plan too. What could he do?
He was fast running out of road, and time. His foot lifted from the accelerator as he descended the penultimate slope, mind frantically searching for an answer. Now the car was climbing up the last bank. A few more seconds and he would be at the top, a blind summit. The road was tight and narrow, difficult to turn round any sort of large vehicle. He glanced at the image on the screen, clearly identifying the brow of the hill.
It was instinct more than anything. Mike’s hand reached to the gear stick and switched back into automatic mode. Then he turned off the headlights and brought the car to a halt, just below the crest of the hill.
Mike tried to stay calm while he sat, motionless, counting the seconds and constantly looking through the rear view mirror for the ever nearing headlights from behind. Closer and closer they got. He wasn’t sure if he could cope, if he was up to it, if he had the balls to see it through.
Two beams of light shot up into the night, pointing towards the sky as the vehicle hit the summit. The yellow rays swung round the corner of the winding road and flashed back down hill. Mike switched on, the headlights from his car blasting into the cabin of the onrushing driver.
He had stopped so close to the top, and they were travelling so quickly, the big 4x4 shot past the stationary Mercedes in surprise and confusion. Brakes slammed on as it desperately tried to reduce the pace of its descent, succeeding in skidding sideways down the road. The vehicle came to a rest astride the two lanes of the narrow road, blocking traffic from both directions. The pursuing headlights shone into view and spotted the stricken 4x4 blocking their path causing them to brake frantically before they too slid to a standstill at the bottom of the dip.
Horns blared in testosterone fuelled frustration at their predicament. Mike was already moving forward. Re-engaging the ‘night view assist’ he released the brake to motion the automatic gearbox into life. Once over the brow of the hill he pressed the accelerator hard to the floor and the three litre engine catapulted the sleek machine forward, glorying in the opportunity to fully flex its powerful mechanical muscles.
In seconds, he was gone.
‘How easy was that?’ his mind celebrated.
The watch read seven thirty five. Dawn had broken some time ago and Mike was beginning to think Bridges wasn’t going to show. A silver saloon appeared from around the tight corner at the top of the steep hill, and circled the small station car park before pulling up.
First out were the two minders. Once they’d examined the immediate area, Bridges appeared from the back seat wearing his self satisfied smug grin. Mike stepped away from the stone column to face the smirking man.
“Bridges,” he acknowledged.
“Daniels,” the man replied. “This is what you’re after.” He held out a folded A4 sized brown envelope.
“That doesn’t seem much,” commented Mike.
“Ten,” the man replied. “Taking economic conditions into account, I reckon you’ve still made a useful profit.” His smirk widened in amusement at the mirror reflection of Mike’s feeble attempt to pay Bridges off yesterday.
“I said fifteen,” Mike retorted, seeing no humour in the irony of it all.
“You asked for fifteen, ten is all you’re going to get,” was the gravely reply.
“The car is worth a lot more than that, and you know it,” insisted Mike.
“Take it or lump it,” the man replied. “If you don’t want the deal then I’ll have the twenty five I’m owed already, and we’ll call it a day.”
It was clear from the stony expression on Bridges face he knew Mike couldn’t pay, and there was no time to argue the point. Besides, the two minders were primed and ready. Mike had no choice than to accept. Reluctantly, he handed over the car keys in return. After a quick inspection the man motioned his two thugs away.
“I’m away off to the big smoke today,” he said, meaning London. “Think I’ll give the Mercedes a bit of a run out, see how it handles,” he smirked triumphantly.
Mike felt the urge to punch the smug bastard, except the two minders were still in attendance. Soon, he thought, very soon.
Bridges took the wheel of the Mercedes while one of the minders entered the front passenger seat next to him. The other brute got back into the silver saloon and sped off.
The S Class reversed from the parking bay and started to edge forward when Mike suddenly remembered and tapped at the driver’s window. The pane of glass lowered slowly and Bridges triumphant face appeared.
“Side pocket,” said Mike, “I’ve left something and I need it for work.”
Bridges spotted the small padded envelope and tossed to Mike’s waiting grasp.
“It’s a shame about Amy,” the gravel voice said.
“Amy?”
“Yeah, haven’t you heard? Someone tipped the local force a heavily gunned drug dealer was operating out of a riverside apartment in the City. An armed police unit stormed the place with all guns blazing. Sadly, only Amy was there and she got caught in the gunfire. They found a grand in her purse along with a false passport though.”
Mike was stunned into silence, unable to fully absorb the man’s words.
“Crying shame a lass that age,” continued Bridges, shaking his head slowly in mock disappointment at the loss of such a young life. “You can only wonder as to which reckless fool would possibly want to involve her with the law.”
And with that he laughed out loud before prompting the Mercedes forward with a touch of the accelerator, waving his hand from the open window as the car moved away. Mike wanted to scream at the departing vehicle, wanted to hurl abuse at the man who had taunted him. Nothing came from his lips. He could feel the rising emotion, bursting to escape. It stayed there, bottled up and capped, reluctant to appear. Unable to release the pent up frustration, Mike looked helplessly to the sky. Nothing happened. He turned dejectedly to implement the next stage of his plan, and got into the taxi which had pulled up alongside.
Shocked into a stunned silence as they journeyed, Mike’s conscience filled with unmitigated guilt at his own, hapless role in Amy’s demise. All he could think to do was sleep. As if this would, somehow, end his misery.
“Are you all right mate? I’ve been trying to wake you for over an hour. You’re costing me a bloody fortune.”
Mike quickly realised it was the taxi driver speaking to him through the open rear door.
“Tough night,” said Mike, unapologetically. “What time is it?” he asked, trying to wipe the sleep from his eyes.
“Ten near enough.”
“How much do I owe you?” Mike asked.
“A bloody fortune mate, that’s how much!”
“Give me a minute,” said Mike.
The driver was a tall man who you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of in a dark alley, and he had every right to be pissed off. Mike could sense he was a decent sort, like the vast majority of people in the north east. His eyes began to more clearly identify the facial features of the voice, a small head with a round face and gentle eyes. The man’s grin revealed a missing tooth to the left side of his mouth. Mike watched as the driver raised himself up off his haunches and step to the front of the car. He fumbled into his pockets before sliding out into the brightening sun to hand over a wad of notes, which lit up the driver’s face as he counted excitedly. Then he frowned at the newly emerged passenger.
“Fresh notes, you’re not Mafia are you? The filth is just over there.”
“No,” replied Mike shaking his head gently.
“Fair enough,” said the driver, and without another word he got into his seat and sped away.
Mike looked across to his destination. He’d been left in the open air short stay car park, about a hundred yards or so right in front of the two storey terminal building. He ran the fingers from a hand through his hair as if using a comb, to try and t
idy up his unkempt appearance, in desperate need of a wash and clean up. The morning was pleasantly warm, too warm for the overcoat he was wearing. He wondered if it would be this hot in Toronto, as he made his way along the long rows of parked cars. Considering the airport usually numbered around twelve flights per hour max, both incoming and outgoing, the car park was surprisingly crammed with vehicles.
He entered the middle of the three wide revolving doors granting access to the terminal, and looked up at the electronic departures board. A loudspeaker announcement boomed through the wide floor, calling for passengers on his flight to make their way to the departure lounge. He hastened for the airline ticket desk.
“Morning,” he announced confidently to the smart dark haired young girl behind the black-topped counter. The pretty woman had a friendly and welcoming smile, though perhaps a little overdone on the makeup.
“Good morning, how can I help you?” she asked in a well practised customer friendly smile.
“My secretary called yesterday about a ticket for Toronto,” he said.
“What name, Sir?”
“It was booked on my behalf by someone called Calder,” he responded.
She turned her attention to a small box file placed on the counter behind, and retrieved the documents he’d requested.
“Here we go, one window seat, standard fare, open return. Is that right?”
“That’s fine. I’m a bit late though, hope I haven’t left it too late.” he said.
“You’re in luck, the flight has been delayed.”
He offered up his new passport as verification. She shook her head and handed him the ticket, pointing him towards the check in desk.
“You better scoot,” she said with her professionally trained smile and he thanked her.
With the seat ticket secured he took the short escalator up to the first floor, to where the customs area provided the final obstacle to the departure lounge. Reaching the narrow passage at the top of the escalator he moved to the side and slipped off his overcoat, which was now making him uncomfortably warm. It was beginning to smell too, due to the dampness not being properly dry-cleaned from the garment. He reasoned he was probably starting to honk a bit too.
Mike double checked he had the necessary documents ready; passport and boarding card. For some reason he’d kept the earphone to his mobile, which he’d left in the rear passenger door of the Mercedes. He tossed the object into a waste bin and took a deep breath. Bridges had said the police discovered a false passport on Amy. The next few minutes was going to be incredibly risky.
The sound of loud voices coming from the rising escalator alerted him to a large group of approaching holidaymakers. They were mostly young men who, by the sound of their revelries, had already consumed substantial levels of alcohol. Mike tagged on to the end of the group. A few more steps and they had reached security.
Nervously he placed the loose change, his watch and belt into the grey plastic tray. As he watched the conveyor system move the items slowly forward, Mike could feel the palms of his hands beginning to moisten, the skin underneath his hair dampen with perspiration.
The tray slipped through the X-ray machine. Mike followed his possessions by walking through the passenger detector. It beeped. The duty officer motioned him to repeat the action. The machine bleeped again. He was directed to the side and told to raise his arms up level with his shoulders. The personal detector bleeped as it reached Mike’s chest.
“There’s something in your shirt pocket,” the officer said, dispassionately.
Mike pulled out the object, the memory stick.
“Damn, I was supposed to leave this back at the office,” he responded. The officer shook his head disinterestedly and ushered him through.
Entering the corridor leading into the large, circular shaped departure lounge, Mike made a beeline for the row of shops. He bought a suitcase small enough to be considered as hand luggage, then toiletries and some cheap shirts, using cash for every purchase.
He spotted the newly opened technology shop. There wasn’t time for a considered choice. He opted for a cheap known brand with a sizeable memory capacity and asked the assistant if she could give it a charge before he boarded, as there was an important e-mail he had to send. Her initial reluctance soon succumbed to his charm offensive, and he headed for the wash room to freshen up.
Wiping the water from his face with an unpleasantly coarse paper towel he glanced in the mirror. Mike looked very different without his beard. The shape of the face didn’t seem as long now and his nose appeared to be more prominent. A morning shadow had emerged around the newly resurfaced chin and his light brown eyes were cradled in dark puffy bags, taking the edge off his more youthful looking face. At least he smelt better.
Mike returned to the main concourse and bought a cup of coffee from the main cafeteria, at the far end of the open space. He was fortunate to find a single unoccupied seat next to a large flat screen television, and settled back to watch BBC news 24. The sports report was finishing and England’s cricket team were performing poorly again. He yawned and decided to look around.
The place was surprisingly busy. Hundreds of people were either sat round the seemingly insufficient number of tables available, crammed into the rows of waiting seats or leaning against the walls. The merry group of youths he had encountered earlier searched for the nearest bar to refuel. Immediately behind a hugely fat woman was shovelling a freshly made breakfast into her large mouth, while her small skinny partner tried to entertain their two unruly children.
His view drifted back towards the cafeteria where a blonde woman in jeans and a yellow top was buying a drink, and caught his attention. She was petite, about five foot five he guessed, with a figure to die for. Her face was round with a set of large blue eyes of outsized proportion to the rest of her body. She exchanged words with the overworked cashier and looked up in his direction. A sunny smile lit up her pretty face. Embarrassed she had caught him looking at her, he shifted his gaze back to the television. Seeing the woman caused him to think of Amy, and his spirits sank.
“In breaking news, we are receiving reports anti-terror police have been involved in a fatal shooting incident on the M1 motorway, close to the south of Newark. Specially trained units succeeded in blocking the path of a suspect vehicle, a black Mercedes saloon, travelling at speed along the southern carriageway of the motorway. After shots were heard to be exchanged, the driver and passenger of the vehicle were found to have died. We will have more on this story later.”
Mike smiled at the news report as he sipped his coffee and turned to peer out of one of the large windows. What goes round comes around, he considered.
“In a separate incident in the North East of England,” began the second newscaster, “police are reporting a fatal shooting after an armed drugs raid at an apartment in Durham City, in the early hours of this morning.”
Mike’s head snapped round to the television.
“A young woman was found dead by police when they stormed the premises after an alert posted by concerned local residents.”
Something inside told him he had to listen to this report and he felt a strange sense of foreboding.
“The woman, identified as Amy Snowdon, was believed to be part of a northern based drug cartel operating within the city for some time.”
The colour drained from Mike’s face and his jaw dropped open as if it had a mind of its own.
“A man, believed to be her accomplice, escaped from the scene.”
A picture of a bearded Mike flashed up on the screen and he stared incredulously at his own image, followed by camera shots of his apartment and the streets of the surrounding area.
“Police want to interview this man, named as Michael Daniels. Anyone sighting or have any information on the whereabouts of this man should call the phone number below immediately.”
A series of numbers flashed across the bottom of the screen. Mike’s heart went into freefall as he stared blankly at the televis
ion, unable to hear what the newscasters were saying.
He felt as though the whole world was closing in around him, and the stress and pressure of events finally began to take their toll. The emotions that had been suppressed by shock over the last day started to find their way to the surface. His hands began to shake and his body tremble. Only a quick sip of the hot coffee in front of him halted the urge in his body to throw up.
Everything that had happened within the last twenty four hours, descended into his mind like an unstoppable avalanche of horror. His heart began to pound, the pulse of his body raced erratically and he struggled for breath. Mike bit into his fingers to stop a cry of anguish from bursting from his lungs, filling the surrounding air with a wail of grief. He kept it inside, just, but he knew it was a losing battle.
He surged towards the washroom, clumsily knocking people from his path as he made his way, and stood before the first available basin. A quick turn of his right wrist forced the water to pour from the tap and he scooped it to his face to douse his eyes. Mike repeated the exercise several times until his face was drenched and then, slowly, he raised his head to look into the mirror. Beads of water rolled over his cheeks, dribbled down the chin and dropped into the basin below. He watched transfixed, as the liquid wended patterns down his now haunted expression.
Was it water from the tap, or were they tears? He neither knew nor cared. Other men passed him by, their curiosity briefly drawn to the strange figure standing staring at the mirror as if caught in some sort of ethereal trance. Up until now this had all seemed like some kind of slow motion dream, or that he had somehow been sucked into a video game or a Hollywood action movie. It was none of these. This was all too frighteningly real.
Mike stood in abject silence. A cold truth bit into his soul. Dave was right, they would never stop, and they would come for him too. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He was fooling himself into thinking it could ever be possible to be rid of them.
There was no escape.
That’s when he decided upon the unthinkable, concluding it was the only viable option. He had to surrender and take his chances.
Mike strode out onto the concourse, searching for the information signs pointing to the public telephones. Resigned to his fate he searched for the inner courage to make the move. Leadenly he made his way towards a telephone booth, taking a one pound coin from his pocket as he walked.
More than enough, his mind confirmed. It was not as if he had to say much. Only that he was here, waiting at the airport. Come and get me.
Lifting the receiver, he dropped the coin into the slot and pushed the first of the dialling buttons with his index finger at the same time as an announcement came over the loudspeaker system.
“Will passengers for Toronto flight number … please make their way to gate twenty six ready to board.”
The message repeated. Mike couldn’t make out the flight number because of the noise and movement in the departure lounge. Not that this mattered. There was only one flight to Toronto from Newcastle Airport. The finger of his hand hovered over the dialling buttons as his subconscious unexpectedly took control of his thinking. Four people were dead in less than twenty four hours, including Bridges and one of his brutish minders. He would almost certainly be the fifth. Passengers were boarding the plane now. And Canada was a big country.
Placing the receiver back into its holder he reached for the new passport in the inside pocket of his jacket, prised it open and smiled. The first name was the same as his grandfather, the surname the place he had lived in all his adult life; easy to remember. Security hadn’t pulled him for having a false passport so it was unlikely the boarding officials would either.
A burst of adrenalin surged through Mike’s veins and he found himself heading for the technology shop to pick up the laptop. They could search for Michael Daniels for as long and as hard as they wanted, he couldn’t care less.
“Beware, Canada,” he said softly, approaching the departure desk. “Matt Durham is coming to town.”
And he gave the airline assistant the broadest of smiles as she checked his boarding pass.
Chapter Six
Rosa Cain
The Milieu Principle Page 5
