by Jan Swick
More hours spent going stir crazy in the suite. Matt stared at maps and consumed energy drinks and slept again. If all went to plan, this would be over in just a couple of hours. But he was prepared for a long, hard night.
Daz left the hotel for a period and sent his men out to check one final time to make sure he wasn’t being watched. The report came back positive, as in negative. At four he, Lisa and Matt exited into the hotel’s rear car park to meet MacSec.
There were seven of them, all hard young individuals in a variety of gear, everything from a lady in a trouser suit to a guy in a tracksuit, a girl in a long dress and a chap who looked like part of a road construction crew. A snapshot of London’s typical make-up. In a crowd none would appear linked to another, and at any location you put them at least one would fit in like part of the furniture. A tool for every job. Matt applauded their logic. He had expected a motley gang in torn jeans and sleeveless tops and tattooed to hell.
A girl in a black skirt and white shirt who looked like a clothing store assistant stepped in front of Lisa, who had looked her up and down and clearly was surprised that such a sweet-looking girl was part of this crew. The girl grabbed one of Lisa’s breasts. Lisa slapped the hand away and stepped back.
“Come in handy, don’t they?” the girl said.
“Meet the fine girls and boys of MacSec,” Daz said. “All ladies and gentlemen who would be in coffins or cells if not for me.”
They started disputing this, some with colourful language, and Daz laughed. “Shake hands with the toughest man you’ll ever meet and his equally tough friend,” he told his crew. And their hard looks mellowed as they all shook hands with Matt and Lisa. The tit-grabber even apologised to Lisa with a smile. Then they all got down to business.
There were four off-road bikes, so each rider would carry a passenger. Matt memorised the plates because the bikes were bland and typical, nothing that would draw attention in any city in the world. Each vehicle had a pair of black leather outfits draped over the seat, so the riders would be inconspicuous once on the road.
The four bikes would shadow the red Suzuki Swift containing Matt and Daz in a box-pattern, meaning they would create a square around the vehicle. One ahead, one behind, and one each side. Each pair of riders would carry a radio and a map.
Lisa was to ride with Judd, the gang's unofficial leader. He was the black guy Daz had passed a package to seemingly an age ago. He was wearing a suit with the shirt’s top button closed to hide as much as possible of a tattoo on his neck that looked like a barcode right across his throat.
Everybody knew the plan. And everybody knew the goal: the capture of a man nobody had seen. But Daz had not told MacSec the reason why. They knew not to ask.
At five o’clock the four bikes, labelled simply 1-4, tore out of the car park and took their positions, creating a box with the hotel in the centre. This was because nobody knew which route Daz would take once he left the hotel. Matt and Daz went into the lobby café and sat and drank tea and waited, with Daz’s phone centre-stage on the table.
Daz’s phone beeped at exactly six. The message was a postcode. By the time they had reached their car, Matt’s phone already had an RAC route planner showing him the location of that postcode.
“Fourteen miles,” Matt said.
They headed west. The location was Horton Road, just off Junction 14 of the M25. Nearby was the A3113, which took traffic to Heathrow Airport. But there was nothing here. As they took left turn off the A3113 before the southbound exit onto the M25, Bike 2 and Bike 3 went past them. 1 and 4 had already circled the junction, returning onto the A3113 to find a place to stop. The Mondeo curved left and they found themselves surrounded by trees and fields, although the noise from the busy junction nearby was a constant soundtrack that ruined the peaceful setting. The road turned right, but an offshoot pointed towards Stanwell Moor. Some way along the offshoot they could see low buildings. A business park.
“Now what?” Daz said. He spoke into his radio radio, explaining to his team that they had stopped.
As if on cue, his mobile beeped.
TIM’S TUCKER. GRAB CAR FIRST.
The message made no sense at first. They took the offshoot, driving slowly, until the business park revealed itself on the right from behind high bushes and small trees.
“Here,” Matt said. He drew the car up to the edge, where there was a partially hidden layby on the left with a car parked there. It was the red Suzuki Swift.
“Christ, it’s on. And look.” Daz showed Matt a map on his phone. It was an overhead view showing their location, and the significance of a thick green line around the western half of Junction 14 was obvious to both of them: Greater London’s western boundary. So the race across London was going to be exactly that: all the way across London.
Daz spoke into his radio while looking at the map. “Guys, give up the chase for the minute. We think the race is going to be from here all the way east. It might end at The City, but if it goes all the way across Greater London, I think we’re looking at the Boroughs of Bromley, Bexley or Havering. I want a bike in each and one in The City, but be aimed back here, west, just in case we find out we’re not going the whole way.”
He got affirmation from his team then turned to Matt, who said, “For real? Right across London? Nearly forty miles, all chased by the cops?”
Daz shared his concern. “Even at eighty miles an hour, that’s twenty-five minutes of hard driving and chasing. The cops could have a hundred roadblocks up in that time. And ten choppers. Maybe we’re missing something. We can’t avoid the cops for that long. We can’t race round London without hitting some kind of traffic jam.”
“We’ll see,” Matt said as he opened his door.
The Swift was unlocked. As they got in, they caught movement from the trees off to their left. Some guy who’d been there and now wasn’t. A watcher for sure. Maybe someone whose job it was to make sure nobody stole the car before the client got there. He vanished from their minds when Daz’s phone beeped again.
UNDER SEAT.
Both reached under their seats. Daz lifted a box of six eggs. Matt found a plastic bag with the ignition key and a hands-free headset. They both looked at the eggs. Matt put on the headset. Immediately he jerked as a voice spoke in his ear. It was loud enough for both men to hear.
“For the next hour or so, you do everything I say, do you understand, driver?”
Matt’s eyes widened. The voice was American. This had to be the other one, the second Watchdog. The Expert. The man who had probably arranged the entire operation to kill Karen. Who had stood at a high window half a mile away from her body and viewed the comings and goings of the police as they processed the crime scene. He had met Orbach, and now he was in voice contact with the second man he had to kill. He tried to picture a face, but knew he could be wildly wrong so shut it down.
“Who’s paying who here?” Daz said.
“You’re paying me to make sure that when you next get out of this car, it isn’t into handcuffs. Listen, driver, you do everything I say and you do not use your initiative, and you do not doubt a single thing, okay? Failure on your part puts us in big trouble. Say you understand.”
Daz laughed. "What with the us part? I don't see you in the car."
“I understand,” Matt said, and it hurt his head to kowtow to a man who had had a hand in his sister’s death. Her murder. He looked at Daz, who was indicating his radio, pointing out a problem: they couldn't use it if the Expert could hear everything they said.
“I will direct you through London, but it is vital that you hit checkpoints at exactly the second I require. That means even if the police are hot on your tail and I say drive at nineteen miles an hour, that’s what you do. Deviate and it all goes wrong, and the handcuffs come out. Understand?”
“I said I did.”
“So what now?” Daz said.
“Now you wait three minutes by that dashboard clock. Give them time to settle. And then you drive to the
business park a hundred metres ahead.”
“And then what? Who time to settle? And what are the eggs for? A mid-chase break?”
“Glad you asked,” said the Expert.
The business park had a caravan in the car park. It had a hatch with a guy in an apron peering out. A sign on the roof said TIM’S TUCKER. There were three plastic tables and chairs out front and at one sat two police officers. Their patrol car was in one of the parking spaces. Matt and Daz had watched it turn in four minutes ago.
Each cop was tucking into a jacket potato and chill from a plastic container when the Swift turned into the car park and parked sideways on to the tables, thirty feet away. Neither man looked up as Daz exited on the far side of the car.
The first egg was dead on. It hit one of the cops on his wrist as he was lifting his fork to his face. Gunk and shell sprayed both men. Both jerked and looked up as egg number two flew between their heads and hit the caravan. By the time they had gotten to their feet and pushed back their chairs, all six eggs had flown and they were splattered yellow. The Swift was screeching out of there before the cops had gotten halfway towards them, making them about turn abruptly. In his rear-view, Matt watched them racing back to their vehicle. And they were on their radios.
“What if they saw the registration?” he said.
The Expert said, “Did you sign a log-book into your possession?” and Matt took that as a promise not to worry about such a thing.
He was told to take the next left, along a dirt track that circled the trees, then a sharp right. At the end was the A3113. Traffic was one way, racing past right to left, westbound. But the Expert said, “Faster. Eastbound, to the right. Keep at sixty-one and do not slow. Don’t worry about the blue bike but watch the fun in green.”
“What?” Daz said as the Swift bolted out of the side lane like a bullet. Right into traffic. Matt braced for a hard impact from a truck coming from his right, but the way was clear because thirty metres away a blue bike, going slow, was weaving all over both lanes. And slowing the westbound traffic.
The central reservation was fenced, but there was a gap. As if men with an agenda had lifted a portion. Tape and traffic cones made it look official, but Matt doubted it was. Steering one-handed, he blew across two lanes and through the tape and yanked the wheel right, joining the eastbound traffic that welcomed his arrival with a blare of horns. As he straightened up, he stared out the side window and watched a green car, old, long and heavy, race past the bike and past the side lane.
Or not.
The police car exited at speed, perhaps because the driver fancied his driving skills or because God had promised him a collar this evening. The green car slammed it dead centre, driver’s side. Matt put his eyes forward after that, but he heard the rending of metal and the screech of brakes. And the loud noise of a bike engine, no doubt the rider who’d slowed traffic getting the hell out of there.
“The speed limit is fifty. Go seventy and do not slow until I say otherwise. Hope you’re up to this.”
“I could go a hundred,” Matt said as he stamped the accelerator and blew by a tipper truck in the left lane. The trees lining the left side of the road blurred past. Cars in the westbound lane were beginning to slow and queue because of the accident ahead of them.
“Do that and it all goes wrong. Seventy. Do not deviate.”
“Was that it?” Daz said. “A hundred and fifty grand for that? Where’s the other cops?”
“They’re coming,” the Expert said. “Lots of them. That was but a prologue. The real fun begins soon.”
The way was calm. They went straight over two roundabouts and down a dual carriageway south of Heathrow Airport. Daz looked for planes on the ground, but the runway was empty. Then the view was obscured by vast, long warehouses and lines and lines of trucks. On their right they saw houses, some town or village.
“Any police stations in that town?” Daz said.
The Expert said, “That’s Stanwell and it’s in Surrey. It’s the Metropolitan police after us.”
“Us, he says,” Daz said with a laugh.
Past another roundabout, and then Daz saw a terminal building with planes attached on both sides, like kittens sucking at a mother’s belly. Onward, east off a ringroad and towards a flyover, although thirty metres out from it the Expert directed Matt to slow down to thirty, leave the road and push over grass and down a shrubbery-encrusted bank that someone had conveniently cut a car-wide path through. Then came the next tense part, because the road ahead was another dual carriageway and he made them turn right, which was the wrong way.
“Are you doing this just make me wet my pants?” Daz yelled at the Expert as they dodged cars to a chorus of horns. But soon a gap in the central reservation appeared and they took it and emerged onto the opposite side, where the traffic went in their direction. The limit was fifty and he told them to stay there.
“Everyone’s doing the same speed as me right now,” Daz moaned. “Are they paying through the nose, too?”
But ahead the cars started to slow at a junction. “Keep straight on, but you’re on your own at this junction,” the Expert said.
Matt clutched the wheel tighter as the red lights approached. Still only one hand on the wheel, which Daz warned him about. Both lanes were taken, but there was enough space down the middle to allow them through. But through the gap they could see cars whizzing across their path.
Luckily for them, two kids ran out into the road, throwing water balloons. Or was it luck? Maybe the Expert had simply tried to give them a scare. Cars stopped, horns went yet again, and the way was magically clear. One of the kids saluted the Swift as it crossed the junction. Not blind luck, then. Daz laughed, but Matt was wondering about kids and their involvement with the Watchdogs.
“You’re a good man,” Daz said. “I may tip you extra when I can put a face to the voice.”
“Save it,” the Expert said, “because we’ll never meet.”
Matt and Daz looked at each other with a grin.
They got as far as Hounslow before the cops found them again. Until then, to keep up the tension, the Expert sent them at dangerous speeds along roads made thin by parked traffic, through more red lights at numerous junctions, and shouted last-second orders to swerve down side streets. But Daz complained again and again about the lack of cops.
“We decided that you should be able to claim you drove right across London, one side to the other, ten Boroughs, with the police hunting you. Not all of it would be possible with the police hot on your tail. But they are still after you. Already a description of your car is doing the rounds. The Metropolitan Police employs nearly fifty thousand men and women and has ten thousand volunteers. But even sixty thousand is not enough to have one on every corner, I’m afraid. However, you’re about to get lucky. Take the next left onto Harper Street and run down the bus shelter just past the Chemist’s.”
They approached Harper street and Matt turned his as he made the left, and Daz saw his face and marvelled at it.
"Look at you," he said. "Is Sergeant Armstrong actually grinning?"
Matt had been, but he cut it now. Not because of Daz, though. Because this was serious business and he shouldn't be enjoying himself, despite their promise to each other earlier. But he checked himself in the rear-view and found the smile wasn't fully gone, and he had to admit to himself that this was fun. The reason behind being here was anything but enjoyment – closing the gap between his killer hands and the men who murdered his sister – but this was the kind of thing Matt enjoyed. He did not enjoy social situations, couldn't find pleasure in chatting at a barbeque, would feel uncomfortable at a dinner table...but stick him in a scenario where he needed his wits about him, where danger was always ready to pounce at a second's notice, and he thrived. It explained why he was keeping his left foot tucked under the seat: to make its journey to the brake longer, harder, riskier. It explained why he was mostly piloting with one hand: to force himself to work the wheel harder during turns. E
ven in a dramatic and stressful situation like a car chase, he was deliberately making things more awkward for himself.
Harper street was all commercial places and full of pedestrians, but the bus shelter, thirty metres down on their side, was empty, and maybe that was a Watchdog design and maybe it wasn't. It was all tempered glass around a plastic skeleton and the car tore through easily. It dissipated into nothing like a burst bubble. Twisted arms of plastic soared for five seconds. Fragments of safety glass landed in people's hair thirty metres away. And plenty of people saw it happen, including a number of men in a forecourt nearby. A police station forecourt. Cops standing around screamed STOP, as if that sometimes worked, and then scrambled to their cars like guys in a Le Mans-style race.
And the chase was on. Shockingly, the Expert told Matt to slow down to thirty. He did, and was forced to watch the road open in front of him, while behind two police cars entered the fray and closed the gap quickly.
Hounslow gave them to Richmond. The Expert shut down two more junctions to allow them to blast through, and a coach swerved into one cop car’s path, although they saw passengers on the bus and wondered if this event might have been simple luck. They passed the gold post box dedicated to Olympic Gold medallist Mo Farah. The Expert fell silent for long periods while Matt swerved and skidded and thrust his foot almost through the floor. The Swift was smaller and lighter and mechanically steroided to hell and the pursuing Volvo V70s were no match. Daz spent most of his time on his knees on the seat, staring back through the rear window at those chasing them, a hand gripping his seat belt buckle, as if that was safe enough. Both Matt and the Expert continually told him to sit down and strap in.
