by Paul Starkey
The Rascal and the Metro were pulling away from them now, so he slipped the Sierra into third and put his foot down to catch up. They were maybe halfway up the hill. From their reconnaissance he knew that the road split in two at the brow. If Keegan turned left he was heading for his girlfriend’s flat, if he turned right he was probably heading into town.
“Slow down, will ya,” said Sutton. “You know how much paperwork there’ll be if you plough into the back of them.”
Tyrell bit back a pithy comeback and merely nodded. Truth be told he was getting a little too close to the minivan. He lifted his foot from the accelerator to let gravity do the work…which was when the rear door of the Rascal sprang up.
“Bloody idiot,” said Sutton, laughing at the comical little van’s troubles.
The laughter died in his throat. Absently Tyrell wondered if it was because of the balaclava the man in the rear of the van wore, or the Kalashnikov clenched in his fists…
“Shit, shit, shit…” chanted Sutton, egg sandwiches consigned to the floor as he fumbled for his gun.
Tyrell had no time to think. He only had time to react. If he chose wisely they’d live, if he didn’t they’d probably both die. He dropped the gear-lever into second, and stamped down hard on the accelerator at the same time. The engine screamed, but the result was what Tyrell wanted, a sudden burst of speed.
It was obviously the last thing the killers in front had expected. Likely they’d theorised that—faced with a man with an AK-47—the Security Service agents would slam the brakes on, presenting an easy target. As such, whilst the first few rounds from the gunman’s long raking burst struck the windshield, the vast majority went high and wide, as the front end of the Sierra struck the rear bumper of the Rascal.
Tyrell was thrown forwards, seatbelt digging tight into his chest, forcing the air from his lungs in a long ragged cough. A deep shudder raced through the car, and was transmitted via the steering wheel to his bones.
The gunman had been flung against the windshield and now slid back down the bonnet to tumble to the ground. Ahead the Rascal was moving again, its bumper was hanging off and it trailed along the floor, sparks leaping up in its wake. The back door was still incongruously raised, like a child waving goodbye, as the van swerved up the hill.
Despite several bullet holes and multiple cracks, the windshield was still miraculously in one piece, ahead Tyrell could see that the front end had taken damage, but the bonnet hadn’t popped up which he took as a good sign. He was glad the Sierra was just a touch too old to have an airbag. That was one less thing to worry about.
Sutton was muttering to himself, Tyrell heard something that might have been a prayer intermingled with several choice swear words. He didn’t have time to thank or curse anyone. The Rascal had reached the top of the hill and was turning left.
The engine had stalled when they’d hit and now he put the car in neutral, then quickly turned the ignition key two clicks until the engine fired again.
“What are you doing?” asked Sutton, unclipping his seatbelt.
“Can you handle him?” Tyrell asked. On the road outside the man in the balaclava was groggily trying to get to his feet.
“Piece of cake,” grinned Sutton, the Browning now clenched in his fist.
“Good, take the radio and call for backup. I’m going after the van.”
For a second their eyes locked, and he thought the older man was going to tell him not too. Then with a resigned nod Charlie clambered out and slammed the door. Without a moment’s hesitation Tyrell put the car into first and put his foot down.
There was an initial bump as the Sierra went over something. Possibly it was part of the front end, but Tyrell hoped it was the Kalashnikov. The steering felt sluggish, but as he slipped into second gear the engine responded, the damage couldn’t be that bad.
As he reached the brow of the hill he glanced back in his mirror. Sutton was standing some distance from the gunman, who was now face down on the ground, Charlie was covering him with the pistol in his right hand; the radio in his left was to his ear. Satisfied that his partner was safe he jerked the gear lever once more and took the bend in third, the squeal of rubber echoing through the open windows as the momentum threw him hard against his seatbelt once more.
The street dipped ahead, and he just caught sight of the Rascal taking the second right. He stamped down hard on the accelerator and followed. There was no way the Rascal could outrun the two litre Sierra, but the estate was a rabbit warren so it might be able to lose him.
Taking the right hand turn he found himself in a shorter street. Kids were standing dumfounded on the pavements either side; terror mixed with excitement in their eyes. Ahead of him in the road he caught a glimpse of a burst football before it was lost beneath his wheels.
The van was less than a hundred yards away and just in front of it he saw Keegan’s Metro turn right again. He’d already decided that whichever way the van turned he would follow it. Keegan was small fry, a decoy, though not in the way they’d thought, the driver of the Rascal was a player though, and Tyrell wanted him, preferably alive, but dead if that was the only way to stop him escaping.
The van followed the Metro.
Tyrell gripped the wheel tight and, now in fourth gear, took the corner at speed. Wind whipped through the car, tiny flakes of tinfoil swirled around him, carrying their eggy stench. Outside he heard tires squealing again, but this time he also saw the flash of red metal swerve out of the way and heard the crunch of colliding metal an instant later. Looking back he saw the back end of a car that had obviously swerved to avoid being hit by the Sierra, only to run headlong into a parked Mini. He didn’t wait to see if anyone got out of the car, he turned his gaze back to the target and slammed the car into fifth, the speedo showing nearly fifty now, the Rascal growing larger as he drew closer.
At least they knew the nature of the operation now. Set up Keegan as a patsy and wait for MI5 or some other agency to start following him, then hit them when they least expected it. At the very least you kill a couple of coppers, but if you’re lucky you nail some MI5 or SAS.
“Not today,” he muttered.
Ahead the van swerved to overtake a bus. Without a moment’s hesitation Tyrell did likewise, only to find himself going head to head with a removals van. He was committed though, so he pressed harder on the accelerator as he aimed for the small gap between bus and van.
Two things saved him. The bus driver slammed his brakes on, and the removal van veered to its left, mounting the kerb with a thump but thankfully not hitting anything. Even then the Sierra only just flashed through the gap, and not without damage. Tyrell winced as the passenger side wing mirror was torn away. There’d be paperwork and explaining to do there, probably it would be added to the list. Hopefully nobody had been injured when the two cars collided earlier, and now he also had to worry about elderly passengers hurled down the companionway of a bus…not to mention someone’s worldly goods smashed to pieces on the way to their new home.
The Rascal’s brake lights blazed and Tyrell hit his own brakes, applying as much pressure as he could whilst still maintaining control of the car, shifting down through the gears as quickly as he could for added control. For a moment he thought he was going to have to veer past the van, as the Sierra continued to eat up the distance. But then the minivan was gone, turned right between two brick gateposts.
Tyrell was going too fast, he was going to overshoot, and that would give his prey valuable time to aid in making their getaway. Instinctively he reached for the handbrake and pulled, tugging the wheel as he went so that the car skidded into a handbrake turn. With a squeal worthy of a tiger clawing a chalkboard, the car stopped facing the gateway. The smell of burning rubber assailed his nostrils, and he had to cough to clear his airway…still, he mused, better than egg. Looking to his right he saw that the bus had crept further forward, but was now stopped once more. He caught a dumfounded look on the driver’s face and smiled. Then with a quick look
to his left he put the car back into first and headed after the men who’d tried to kill him.
It was a school he realised as soon as he was through the gates, a secondary by the looks of it. To his right was a four story tower that looked like it had been born in the seventies, with all the inherent ugliness that entailed. To the left were smaller, older buildings, several cars and a British Telecom van parked in front of them—which at least explained why the gates were open in the middle of the summer holidays.
Ahead he saw a deserted playground, and beyond this playing fields that disappeared acres into the distance. The Metro was driving across the field, and the Rascal was close behind. Tyrell increased his speed and kept in pursuit, but he wondered what the hell Keegan was playing at? For a moment he wondered if he was being led into a further ambush but then, in the distance, he made out more buildings (another school maybe?) bright blue railings and, beyond both, more houses. Now he saw the method in Keegan’s madness. Cut across the school playing fields and out the other side. He hadn’t counted on Tyrell staying so close behind though, and nor had he factored in the surface conditions.
One moment Tyrell was effortlessly gliding across tarmac, the next the Sierra left the playground and started down a shallow, grassy bank. The ground suddenly got a lot bumpier, and the car a lot slower. Today it was warm, but the previous two days had seen heavy rain, and Tyrell smelt cut grass and mud as he drove on. The wheels were probably getting caked in it so steering would only get worse. He had the advantage though, the Sierra had more torque, and with each passing second he drew closer to the two vehicles.
They were crossing a football pitch now, churning up the earth as they went. A gaggle of kids of indeterminate age, who’d obviously come out for a kick-about, now found themselves running for their lives as two cars and a van driven by lunatics ploughed lengthways down the pitch, screaming towards the white wooden goalposts in the distance.
The Metro was still ahead, but even as he bumped and jostled along Tyrell smiled, he was drawing level with the Rascal. In the cab now he saw another balaclava (do these guys get bulk discount, he wondered) but little else. The Irishman glanced his way and, as he drew level, wrenched the steering wheel to the left.
The Rascal struck the side of the Sierra with a tearing crunch. The car shuddered, and Tyrell along with it, but the lower centre of gravity of the Sierra meant that the Rascal accomplished little by side swiping it. This didn’t stop the van’s driver trying again.
As the car shook once more, Tyrell gripped the steering wheel tighter and clenched his teeth. Ahead he saw the goalposts, naked without their nets, and faded white lines marking the edge of the pitch. Not yet, he thought, not yet…
The Rascal hit him again, with no more impact that before, but this time as the van pulled away Tyrell swung right and returned the favour, the Sierra banging up against the side of the van, the clang of metal echoing through the car. The Rascal had nowhere near the stability of the Sierra, and the nudge was all it took to make the van tip, the wheels on the left side lifting from the ground. Tyrell pulled back and then rammed the van again, and this time the Rascal tipped onto its side.
Despite the heavy ground, momentum kept the Rascal going the last few yards until it hit the nearside goalpost. Wood bit into metal and the van spun sideways between the posts before finally coming to a halt over the line.
Tyrell smiled. One nil…
The Metro was still heading for the second cluster of school buildings, but Tyrell was content to let Keegan get away. He slid the Sierra to a halt so that the driver’s side was facing away from the downed Rascal. Then he climbed out, drawing the Beretta as he did so. Leaning over the roof of the car he slipped the safety off and aimed towards the van, just as the goalpost the Rascal had struck fell, an instant later the crossbeam dropped onto the van, wood striking metal with a dull clang.
Then all was silent. The summer breeze tousled his hair. His mouth was dry and he licked his lips to try and give them some moisture. It was only now that he realised his hands were gently shaking, only now he realised how fast his heart was pounding. The metal of the gun was slick with sweat as he kept it focused on the van, waiting for the driver to clamber out.
Seconds ticked by and he began feeling bolder, even though he knew it was a dangerous feeling. Chances were the driver was incapacitated, that he was no danger. Of course it was just as possible he was playing possum, lying in wait with a Russian assault rifle for some idiot Security Service agent to stick his head into view.
Tyrell didn’t know if he could afford to wait though. Already the kids were starting to draw slowly nearer, they too were growing bolder, and if the Irish terrorist was still a threat, the last thing Tyrell needed was them getting involved. Someone’s furniture smashed was one thing, dead children something else entirely.
He’d pretty much decided to move on the van when he suddenly heard the sound of an approaching engine. He’d been so focused on the Rascal that his brain had only just registered the sound, now he turned to find the Metro bearing down on him.
“Bloody idiot,” he muttered as he saw a glimpse of Keegan’s pasty white face behind the windshield.
It was a foolhardy gesture. The ground slowed the car’s approach so much that Tyrell actually had time to step out of the way. He wondered why Keegan hadn’t stopped, figuring either he was suicidal, or more likely was so intent on his mission that he failed to notice his target move. The car was still travelling fast enough to make a racket as it hit the side of the Sierra. Tyrell watched as Keegan’s head snapped forwards, sounding the horn for a moment before it whipped back again.
Tyrell hurried round to the driver’s side door, pistol at the ready, but the young man’s head lolled, his eyes were closed and blood dripped from his nostrils. Pistol now hanging limply in his right hand Tyrell wrenched the door open with his left and reached in. He didn’t really need to check for a pulse, the man’s eyelids were fluttering and he was groaning, but he did so anyway. It was weak, but it was there.
“Look out, mister!”
Tyrell dropped to a crouch the moment he heard the teenager’s shout, and it saved his life. An instant later came the chatter of an automatic weapon, followed almost instantaneously by the tattoo of metal raindrops striking one or both of the cars. He sighed, it wasn’t over yet.
A pause, then another burst of gunfire. He tried to count the rounds but it was impossible. When another silent pause descended he had no way of knowing if his opponent had expended his magazine’s worth, or still had rounds in reserve. Still crouching he worked his way over to the rear end of the Sierra and, swallowing hard, quickly peeked around the corner.
The terrorist was stood a few yards away, looking slightly ridiculous dressed in the bright blue overalls of a plumber and a black woollen balaclava in the summer heat. Only the dangerous silhouette of the AK-47 in his hands spoke that the situation was anything but funny. The gun wasn’t loaded, and the man was frantically trying to slap a fresh banana shaped magazine into place.
Beretta clasped tightly in two hands, Tyrell stood. “Drop it!” he commanded.
The gunman froze, magazine held perhaps an inch from the rifle. He stared at Tyrell and Tyrell stared back. He had no idea what the guy looked like, could barely even see his eyes, but something in the way the man held himself told him he wasn’t going to drop the gun.
Their eyes still locked together the gunman slotted the magazine into place with a click that sounded like thunder rolling over the playing fields. “Don’t,” said Tyrell, but the other man was already dragging back the bolt to chamber a round. “I said, don’t!” Tyrell cautioned one last time.
The gunman brought the gun to bear, the ragged gap cut into the wool where his mouth was twitched, Tyrell imagined he saw a sneer.
The Berretta held fifteen 9mm hollow points, but John Tyrell only needed two. He fired them quickly, a double tap, the second round fired before the recoil from the first could really affect his aim. If the
sound of the magazine clipping back into place had sounded like thunder, then the two shots were twin volcanoes erupting. Both hit the Irishman in the chest, less than an inch apart. He was lifted up and back, hitting the ground with a barely perceptible thump.
For half a minute Tyrell didn’t move, gun still grasped in his hands, aimed at the prone body on the floor now. Tiny wisps of smoke were emanating from the Beretta. They were caught by the breeze and drifted lazily into the air. The breeze swept the smell of cordite away from his nostrils and he was glad of that. Eventually he stepped over to the body, and looked down. Black eyes stared back at him. The two holes in his chest seemed inconsequential, but it was illusion. Tyrell knew the bullets would have mushroomed shortly after impact, causing maximum damage to the man’s internal organs.
Tyrell had never killed anyone before, never even had to fire his weapon in anger. He knew he should be worried about the kids getting close, about Keegan coming to, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the body. He was waiting to feel something before he did. No emotion would come though. He wasn’t even shaking anymore. Adrenalin had faded, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
Finally he fell back on his training, because he didn’t know what else to do.
Make the area safe.
He holstered the Beretta, then retrieved the Kalashnikov. The gun felt raw and powerful in his hands, the perfect killing machine. Constructed with less than ten moving parts it could be buried in mud and still fire when fished out, equally reliable in the humid jungles of South East Asia where it had claimed countless American lives, or the arid mountains of Afghanistan, where irony had so recently seen it kill the countrymen of its designer. The magazine held thirty 7.62mm bullets, and Tyrell shuddered at the thought of what just one would have done to him if he’d given the other man a chance.
