Crisis Four ns-2

by Andy McNab

  On her own, as far as I could see, and sitting down behind the counter, was a large woman in her mid-thirties. I could see only her top half; she had peroxide-blond "big hair," which was probably kept that way with a can of lacquer a day; she must have been one of those Southern women the radio program had been talking about. The T-shirt was probably her daughter's, going by its tightness. I couldn't see her bottom half, but no doubt she'd be wearing leggings that were about four sizes too small. She was eating a corn dog and reading a magazine, and somehow managing to smoke at the same time.

  I crawled back to Sarah.

  "Can we take a vehicle?" she said.

  "Not yet. It doesn't look as if she has one."

  Beyond the shop was another tarmac road that met this one at a T-junction. The only thing that interested me was that where you have junctions, you nearly always have signposts.

  We headed for the junction. The neon light was reflecting off the rainswept road and the hard standing of the pump area. I had to remind myself that it was still daytime. The sign said, "Drive Thru," and I'd do just that, given half a chance.

  I started to envy the woman with big hair. She was sitting in there with a TV or radio on, and the heaters would be blasting away to keep the condensation off the windows; in fact, she was probably keeping so hot that she might need to knock back a Coke after the corn dog. I wondered how she'd keep the cigarette in her mouth.

  We passed the shop and carried on to the junction. I motioned for Sarah to wait, but she'd got her breath back, and with it some of her old habits.

  She'd never liked being ordered around and not being part of the show.

  She came with me.

  I moved forward the last ten meters and spotted a signpost, green tin on a tin stake. To my left, the way we had come, wasn't signed; to my right was a place called Creedmore, which was no good to me I didn't know it from a hole in the ground. But I knew where Durham was. It was just west of the airport; lots of people and traffic, somewhere we could get lost. The sign said that the road facing me was going that way.

  It passed the gas station at the junction on the left, went uphill for about half a mile, with muddy drainage ditches on each side, then disappeared to the right behind a line of tall firs. That was where I wanted to go once I'd lifted a vehicle, but before I did anything I had to make sure the woman couldn't call for help. My eyes followed the phone lines from the building across the junction. They paralleled the road running from my left to right.

  I moved in the Creedmore direction, about twenty meters beyond the junction, and crawled back up to the road, looked and listened. Absolute silence. I got to my feet, nodded at Sarah and we sprinted across. Once back in the trees, I followed the phone lines until I found a pole about five meters short of the junction.

  I started taking my belt off, and asked Sarah for hers. This time she didn't question me. She followed the line of my gaze as I studied the top of the pole.

  "Are you going up there?"

  "I want to cut the line to the gas station."

  "Are we going to rob it?"

  Sometimes she had only a nodding relationship with reality. I stopped pulling my belt off and looked at her.

  "Are you serious?" I wondered about what had happened to all those expensive years of university training. She had enough brain power to move a glass without even touching it, but sometimes she didn't seem to have even an Eleven Plus in common sense.

  "We're just going to get a car and get the fuck out of here," I said.

  "We have guests arriving, remember?" I mimed a dog biting with my hand.

  I took her belt and buckled the two together to make one big loop. Hers was the American's heavy biker's belt, with a Harley-Davidson logo that said, "Live to ride, ride to live." I dropped the loop at the bottom of the pole, hooked my feet inside either end, gripped the pole with my hands, and started to climb. I'd learned how to do this from a documentary on the South Pacific, when I'd seen blokes use similar devices to climb coconut trees. You slid your feet up as high as you could, keeping the strap taut, then pressed down until it gripped. It was then a matter of reaching up and gripping the pole with both hands, lifting your feet again, and so on. That was the theory; the pole was so wet and slippery, however, that it took me several attempts to master it. At the end of the day, though, I was rather impressed with myself; if ever I was marooned in Polynesia, I wouldn't go hungry.

  I heard the hiss of tires and the drone of an engine getting closer. My heart missed a couple of beats while I wondered how I'd explain myself, then both sounds changed direction and died as the car turned and headed toward Durham. It happened twice more. Each time, I stopped and waited until the vehicle had gone. At least the treetops gave me some cover.

  I had just another couple of feet to go when I heard a fourth vehicle approaching, but this time from the direction of Durham. It was going slowly and coming close.

  I looked down for Sarah, but she was already moving away from the pole and into cover.

  The car drew up at what I guessed was the junction and stopped. I heard a door open and the sound of radio traffic. It had to be a police cruiser.

  I couldn't reach down for my weapon, because it was taking all my strength and grip just to stop myself sliding back down the pole. I wondered about climbing up the last couple of feet so I could rest on a cross spar, but the way my luck was going I'd probably fuck it up and come hurtling down like Fireman Sam and land on their heads.

  I heard a burst of laughter and looked down again. Sarah was nowhere to be seen, but a Smokey Bear hat was, covered in clear plastic, shaped so it kept the felt dry. It moved into the woods, above a dark-brown raincoat that stuck out at the sides. State troopers have zips up the sides of their coats to enable them to draw their pistols easily, but this guy wasn't doing that, he was undoing his front zip. I saw his knees jerk as he released himself, then the sound of piss hitting the tree just a few feet below me. Steam rose in front of the hat. I didn't want to make the slightest sound. I didn't even want to swallow. My fingers were starting to lose their grip on the rain-slicked pole.

  I searched frantically for the trooper's mate. I couldn't see him; he must have stayed in the car, as you do when it's raining. I could see raindrops ricocheting off the garage roof, glistening in the light from the Drive Thru sign. The stream of urine against the tree subsided as he finished off, then he let go a resounding fart.

  I started sliding. I pressed down hard on the belt with my feet, and gripped the pole like a drowning man. The sounds below had stopped, and I watched him jigging up and down to shake off the drops. He packed himself away, checked his coat, and strode off.

  I heard the troopers joking to each other. The car door slammed, and then they drove off. I let out all the air I'd been holding in my lungs, inching myself farther up the pole to increase my range of vision. The cruiser was finally driving into the gas station. Why the fuck didn't he go in there in the first place? Maybe he was trying to chat up the woman and the last thing he wanted was for her to hear him farting away and stinking the place out.

  I reached the top and hooked my left arm around the cross spar. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down, then looked for Sarah. She was emerging from the bush she'd been hiding in, and I wondered if she knew how lucky she'd been: it looked a very inviting bush, and she might easily have got drenched by old fartypants.

  I followed the telephone line to make sure it was the one to the gas station, reached down and retrieved the Leatherman from my pocket. Where these lines come in to a pole, they get hooked up to take the tension from the line, and then there's a nice little loose bit that carries on through. I leaned out, squeezing hard with the mbber soles of my feet, got the pliers part of the Leatherman over the line, and snipped. Then it was just a case of sliding down the pole nice and slowly so I didn't land up with half a ton of splinters in my arms and legs.

  Sarah was straight in at me: "Give me a gun, Nick. What if he'd seen you?"

  It
made sense but I felt uneasy. Giving Sarah a weapon seemed to be a lot like giving Popeye spinach. On the other hand, if he'd spotted me she could have done something about it. I still wasn't sure whether she would fuck me over, but decided she still needed me too much. I'd let her have it for now.

  I got Lance's semiautomatic, 9mm Eastern-bloc thing out of my jacket and handed it over. She said a sincere "Thanks" as she pushed back the top slide half an inch and checked to see if there was a round in the chamber.

  The cruiser was driving out of the gas station and coming back in our direction. We both got down, and she used the time to put her belt back on. The blue and white passed us heading toward Creedmore; maybe they were helping to man a roadblock or something farther up the road.

  I wanted her to stay where she was while I went back to the gas station to hijack a vehicle. She insisted on coming with me.

  "Listen," I said, "a man and a woman turning up at a gas station, stealing a vehicle don't you think there's a bit of a chance they'd make a connection with the lake?"

  "Nick, I'm coming with you. I'm not going to take the chance of us getting split up and this all going wrong. We're going to stay together."

  She was right; without realizing it, she had reminded me what I was here to do. If there was a drama with the police or whoever, and it was obvious I was about to lose control, I would have to kill her before they could get her. Not the ideal option, but at least she'd be dead. Looking at her with my not-happy-about-it face on, I gave in to her demand.

  "Fuck it, come on then."

  We finished doing up our belts, moved back up the road for more distance and crossed. We turned right and paralleled to a point where I could get a clear view of the pumps and the shop again.

  One car, a white Nissan sedan, was already on the forecourt, but it was four up, with two couples in their mid-twenties. The driver had just started the engine and out he rolled. I heard a distinctive ding-ding as the tires ran over a rubber tube sensor. He got to the road, stopped, turned his wipers and dipped lights on, laughing with the rest of them probably about the woman with the corn dog turned left and off they went. We lay there, waiting in the rain.

  During the next ten minutes, two news vans with satellite dishes scuttled past along the road, headlights blazing, windshield wipers working furiously, on their way to get the story.

  Another car rolled onto the forecourt. It was a Toyota, full of a family. I was half up, ready to go for it, like a big cat watching the herd. The car was ideal, a normal family sedan. Dad got out and, avoiding the rain, ran straight into the shop. I saw him give Big Hair a few bills, then he came out again and filled up. I decided against. I was looking at the family two kids in the back, window half steamed up, the kids beating each other up, the mother turning around and shouting at them. There were just too many people in the car. It would be a nightmare to drag two screaming kids from the car.

  Ding-ding. They took the Durham road.

  Sarah looked over at me.

  "I thought we were in a hurry?"

  Big Hair was walking across to the machine to get herself another bucket of coffee. She went and sat back by the till, next to the window, looking out, wistfully stirring her bucket with a spoon. I was right, it was packet creamer. Perhaps she dreamed that one day Clint Eastwood would drive onto her forecourt, come in to pay for gas, and bang, The Bridges of Happy Beverage County. Until then, nice work if you can get it.

  A sign to the left of the shop entrance announced, "24 Hour Video Surveillance," together with the fact that they carried only fifty dollars in the register and the rest was slipped into a night safe that the attendant didn't have access to. I turned to Sarah.

  "When we go to lift the wagon, I want you to get your T-shirt and pull it over your head, so you can only just see out of it."

  Ding-ding. Another vehicle drove in toward the pumps from our left.

  This time it was a really old van, late Seventies, early Eighties, the sort of thing Mr. T and the A-Team used to run around in, but a very tired gray.

  The windows were half steamed up, so I couldn't see how many were inside, but as soon as the driver opened the door I knew this was the one.

  He was in his early forties, and the important thing was that he got out and didn't take the ignition key with him, but just waved at the woman.

  He must be a local, because he was trusted enough to nil up and pay afterward.

  We got back into our big-cat positions, and I studied our prey. He was wearing a pair of green overalls that had seen better days, with oil stains and rips in the knees. His baseball cap should have been white but needed burning more than bleaching now. He was skinny and of average height, with about three days' stubble and four years' worth of wet or very greasy hair over his shoulders.

  The tank was fall, the filler cap went back on. I whispered, "You ready?"

  She nodded. He turned and, with his hands working their way into his overalls for money, jogged toward the shop. I jumped to my feet and started to run. With my left hand I pulled my T-shirt up over my face, and so did she. We must have looked like a couple of sperm. I kept my eyes moving between the van and the shop. I didn't really bother about what Sarah was doing; the plan was for her to go to the near side of the van, to the passenger door; I was to go around the rear, because I wanted to hide myself as much as possible, then get in the driver's seat and go for it.

  The glass panels had been smashed out of the back doors and were covered with cardboard, and the whole thing was a rust bucket. I turned the corner of the van and moved along the side toward the driver's door. I had to skip over the loop of the pump lines and slipped on the diesel-stained floor. I recovered without falling and got to the door. Still holding the T-shirt over my head with my left hand, I got hold of the door handle in my right. It was a rickety, rusty old thing, hardly any chrome left on it; I pulled and it all but came away in my hand, hanging on by one edge.

  The window on the other side was misted up and I couldn't see what Sarah was doing. All I knew was that she wasn't getting in. She must have the same problem; her handle must be busted.

  The driver's window was down about three-quarters of the way. That must be how he got in--just reach in and open up from the inside. I jumped up slightly, got my right hand in ... and then chaos. The furious barking from the back of the wagon made me jump back as if I'd been given the full twenty seconds with a Tazer.

  I glanced toward the shop. The guy was staring out, mouth wide open.

  Someone trying to nick his van must have been the last thing he expected.

  The black thing in the back of the van was leaping up and down, going ballistic. I had to put my hand inside again; it had to be done, I was committed now. I reached in, yelling for Sarah to do something.

  I was jumping up and down, trying to find and grab the inside handle, the dog was reacting as if it had had to wait three days for lunch, and to the left of me the distraught owner was coming out of the shop shouting, "My dawg! My dawg!"

  "Sarah, fucking do something!"

  She did. I heard a loud, quick double tap from Lance's 9mm.

  It couldn't get worse than this. I jumped away from the window, leaving the dog in the van going ape shit and ran around to the front of the vehicle.

  "Sarah, fucking stop shooting! Stop!" Then I realized she wasn't firing at the driver, she was drawing down on the two German Shepherds that had come out of the tree line and were now about five meters away from giving us the good news. It had just got worse.

  She took one down; it fell over itself and kicked around on the ground, yelping. The other one kept coming. Sarah turned to fire but it was too close to me now. My right hand flew down to draw my weapon at the same time as my left went to pull up my bomber jacket so that I could get to the pistol. It was too late for both of us.

  It's pointless trying to evade an attacking dog so close; without a weapon, you can't do anything about immobilizing the fucker until it's committed itself to an attack. You've got
to let the thing sink its teeth into you, and take it from there.

  I had to get him onto me. I turned half left, let go of the bottom of my jacket and presented my forearm, still trying to get to my pistol with my right.

  He didn't want to miss this. He leapt up, his jaws opening with a deep growl, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth so he got a good bite first time.

  I saw his eyes roll back as he launched himself at me.

  I stood my ground and braced myself for the hit. I felt his saliva fly onto my face as he opened up and his head flicked back.

  There were probably other things going on, but they were lost on me now. I couldn't hear anything but the snarling of my attacker. I felt the weight of the dog hit me, and then him closing his jaws on my arm. His teeth sank straight through the jacket into the skin of my forearm and I started to shout.

  "Sarah! Sarah!" I wanted her to come and shoot this fucking thing.

  "Sarah!"

  I staggered backward with his weight, and he came with me. I got my hand around the pistol grip; not completely, but enough to pull it out of my jeans. The dog was jumping up on me, trying to get me to the ground, his hind legs scrambling against my legs and waist. His legs hit my hand and the weapon fell.

  "Sarah!"

  There was fearsome pain as his teeth tore into my skin. It was like having multiple injections with pen-sized syringes. I had to let it happen. I had to make sure the dog had confidence in himself, that he sensed an easy victory. If I went with the flow, he'd keep his teeth in one place, thinking he had me, he wouldn't thrash around all over the place. Forget the old wives' tales about grabbing a foreleg in each hand and splitting them apart: it only works with chihuahuas--and that's assuming you can catch the little shit in the first place. In real life dogs are like monkeys, they're much stronger than they look.