Captives (2 page)

    A police car, blue lights spinning madly, sirens screaming, came roaring around the corner into the Haymarket. The gunman gritted his teeth and looked behind him. The traffic lights were on red.

    The traffic was at a halt.

    He tossed the Spas to one side, digging inside his jacket for a pistol. Pulling the Smith and Wesson 9mm automatic free, he ran towards a motorcyclist who was idly revving his engine, watching the lights, waiting for them to change. Exhaust fumes poured from the pipe of the 850cc Bonneville.

    The lights were still on red.

    The police car drew closer.

    The gunman shot the motorcyclist once in the back of the neck, pushing his body from the bike, gripping the powerful machine by the handlebars to prevent it toppling over. He swung himself onto the seat, twisted the throttle and roared off, the back wheel spinning madly on the slippery road before gaining purchase.

    He swung left into Panton Street.

    The police car followed.

    

    

    As the Bonneville rounded the corner into Panton Street its rider found himself faced with an oncoming car.

    The driver of the car blasted on his hooter as much in surprise as annoyance, looking on in bewilderment as the bike shot up onto the pavement and sped off.

    A second later the police car skidded round in pursuit, slamming into the front of the car as it passed, shattering one headlamp.

    Inside the police car Constable Norman Davies was speaking rapidly into the two-way radio, giving the location of the unit and also attempting a description of the man they were pursuing. He gave the number plate, forced to squint to read it as the bike hurtled back and forth from pavement to road, swerving past both parked and moving cars alike. Davies also called for assistance and for an ambulance to go to the bank in the Haymarket; although he had not seen the carnage inside, it was standard procedure.

    Besides, he and his companion, Ralph Foster, now hunched over the wheel in concentration, had seen the motorcyclist shot. Davies winced as he remembered the police car inadvertently running over one of the dying man's outstretched legs.

    He was informed that other mobile units were in the area and closing in on the bike, and that routes were being shut off. The man, he was assured, wouldn't get far.

    Foster spun the wheel to avoid an oncoming car, jolting the Rover up onto the kerb. The driver of the other car also struggled to guide his vehicle out of the way. The blue lights and the wailing sirens were remarkably effective in clearing a path through even the most densely packed traffic, thought Davies, still gripping the handset, one eye on the fleeing gunman.

    'Heading for Leicester Square,' Davies observed as the bike roared on.

    Fragmented phrases floated to him across the airwaves as the Rover hurtled on in pursuit.

    '… closing in from Coventry Street…'

    '… three dead… Haymarket…'

    '… in pursuit… identity unknown…'

    '… armed… dangerous…'

    Davies couldn't agree more with the assessment of their quarry.

    The bike was heading towards the junction of Panton Street and Whitcomb Street. Leicester Square lay just beyond.

    From an underground car park ahead a van emerged, reversing in front of the bike. The rider didn't hesitate, merely gunned the engine and sent the Bonneville rocketing up onto the pavement once more, ignoring the two people who had just emerged from the Pizzaland on the corner. He struck one. The other managed to jump back but hit the window of the restaurant and the glass gave way. There was a loud crash as he fell backwards through the clear partition, sprawling across a table as glass rained down on him.

    'Oh Christ,' murmured Davies.

    The bike spun to the left again, up Whitcomb Street, still against the traffic.

    Foster twisted the wheel and the rear of the Rover skidded on the wet ground, spinning round to slam into the side of the van. A jarring thud seemed to run the length of the vehicle, and both policemen winced, but Foster floored the accelerator and sped after the bike.

    The rider did not once afford them even the most cursory glance. He was hunched over the handlebars, gripping the throttle, seemingly oblivious to the cars he sped past in the wrong direction. The wind streamed into his face, sending his shoulder-length hair flapping out behind him as he rode.

    The street seemed to be filled with a cacophony of blaring hooters and shouts or screams as pedestrians found themselves forced to leap from the pavements as the Bonneville surged along, its rider oblivious to those he struck.

    Ahead he saw a man snatch a child up into his arms and duck down beside a parked car, shaking as the police car also passed within a whisker of them.

    Another police car was approaching from the left, lights and sirens joining its companion in a discordant melody.

    The motorcyclist paused for a moment then sped off up Wardour Street, past the Swiss Centre, pursued now by two police cars.

    'Units covering from Shaftesbury Avenue,' a metallic voice informed Davies. 'Give your position.'

    He did just that, almost dropping the handset as Foster sent the car slamming into the side of a passing transit, sparks spraying into the air as metal grated on metal. A hub-cap came free, Davies didn't know from which vehicle, and went spinning across the road.

    Many pedestrians had now stopped on the roadside and were watching the chase. Others walked on, ignoring it. More than one tourist hurried to take photos.

    The Bonneville was speeding towards the traffic lights at the top of the street, leading into Shaftesbury Avenue.

    They were on red.

    'Right, you bastard,' snarled Davies.

    The rider worked the throttle and gathered speed.

    Still red.

    The needle on the speedo of the motorbike touched sixty. The bike shot across the lights as if fired from a cannon.

    'Keep going,' yelled Davies, watching the bike speed past an oncoming Sierra, causing the driver to brake suddenly. There was a loud crash as a Cortina close behind slammed into the back of the other car. The Sierra was shunted forward, rolling towards the onrushing police car.

    Foster swung the car round and paint ripped from the rear of the vehicle as it scraped the front bumper of the Sierra. But they were clear of the crossroads, heading up Wardour Street now, the motorbike still trailing exhaust fumes, the police sirens still wailing. Behind them the second car had narrowly missed the pile up in Shaftesbury Avenue and it, too, was in pursuit. From a side street Foster glimpsed another motorbike, a white one.

    A police bike.

    One second was all it took.

    One second of broken concentration, then he heard Davies screaming a warning.

    As he looked back through the windscreen he saw a man step in front of him.

    

    

    The police car was doing fifty when it hit the pedestrian.

    The impact catapulted the man into the air where he seemed to hang, as if magically supported, for several seconds before crashing back to earth, bones splintered and blood pouring from several ragged gashes. He rolled over in the gutter and lay still.

    Davies looked back over his shoulder to see that the second police car had pulled up and one of the officers was getting out to look at the luckless soul.

    'Jesus, Jesus fucking Christ,' shouted Foster, his face a mask of horror and revulsion. 'I couldn't stop. I couldn't…' He was breathing heavily, his face as white as milk. Davies said nothing; he merely gripped the handset and watched as the motorcycle policeman cruised up closer to the fleeing Bonneville.

    He was almost level with his quarry when the rider reached inside his jacket and pulled out the automatic.

    'No,' shouted Davies, as if in warning.

    He saw the pistol being raised, pointed at the head of the motorcycle policeman.

    The rider of the Bonneville fired once.

    The high velocity round powered into the face of the other rider, blasting through the right cheek, pulverising the zygoma. At such close range the lethal bullet exploded from the policeman's skull through the left occipital bone, even blasting through his helmet, which filled with blood. Portions of bone and smashed helmet flew into the air, carried on a geyser of crimson.

    The bike merely flopped hopelessly to one side, colliding with a stationary car. The policeman was hurled from the seat, sprawling across the bonnet, blood spattering the windscreen.

    The Rover sped past the body.

    'Lima Six come in.'

    The voice on the two-way, startled Davies and he' jerked in his seat, hesitating a moment before answering.

    'Lima Six, go ahead, over,' he said breathlessly, still watching the escaping motorcyclist up ahead.

    'Lima Six, be advised that Oxford Street and all roads leading off it are now closed by other units,' the voice told him.

    Now there's nowhere for him to go, Davies thought triumphantly. Nowhere else to run, you bastard.

    'Lima Six, do you read? Over.'

    'Understood, we will continue pursuit. Over and out.' He jammed the handset back onto its clip on the dashboard and leant forward slightly. 'Let's get this fucker,' he hissed.

    The rider had still not looked behind him. Only when he reached Oxford Street did he glance over his shoulder, to see that the Rover was gaining on him. He looked right and left and noticed that there were two police cars moving towards him from the direction of Charing Cross Road. Ahead of him Berners Street was blocked; he could see police cars and uniformed men moving about on the pavement. Half a dozen of them moved towards him.

    He turned the bike to the left, revved the engine and sped off down Oxford Street towards Oxford Circus.

    The Rover came hurtling out of Wardour Street, wheels squealing on the tarmac as Foster struggled to keep it under control. He succeeded and the car roared off after its prey like a predatory animal in search of its next meal.

    Traffic on both sides of the road had been halted; the only vehicles moving were the motorbike and the pursuing Rover.

    Pedestrians stood, immobilised by shock, staring. From the safety of their own vehicles other drivers watched the chase, some with amusement, some with irritation. Always bloody traffic hold-ups in Central London.

    A thought suddenly struck Davies.

    He snatched up the two-way.

    Ahead of them the Bonneville was slowing down, the rider swinging it round so that it was facing the shops. Onlookers scattered in terror as he revved up, looking towards the oncoming Rover.

    'Is Ramillies Place sealed off?' Davies asked urgently.

    'Negative. It isn't possible to get a car…'

    The voice trailed off.

    No, not a car.

    The narrow walkway that led from Oxford Street to Ramillies Place wasn't wide enough to get a car through, but it would accommodate a bike.

    Just wide enough for a bike.

    The bike appeared to be aimed at the narrow alley next to Marks and Spencer but, as the police car drew nearer, Davies saw that it was not.

    'What the hell is he playing at?' muttered Foster.

    The motorcyclist revved his engine for what seemed like an eternity, the back wheel spinning, leaving great rubber slicks on the road as he held the power in check. He might have been daring the uniformed men to come closer.

    The car was within fifty yards.

    Exhaust fumes poured into the air around the bike, so thick that it appeared the machine was on fire.

    Thirty yards.

    He looked to his left and right and saw cars converging from both sides.

    Fifteen yards.

    He released the throttle and the bike rocketed forward.

    The gap that would take him to freedom beckoned.

    He was less than twenty feet from it when he turned the bike towards the window of Next.

    The Bonneville hit it doing sixty, erupting through the thick glass, which exploded in a dense shower. Several shop window dummies were carried into the store by the impact, one trailing along, tangled in the front wheel of the bike by the garments it was dressed in.

    The bike cartwheeled but the rider held on, like a rodeo rider anxious not to lose his mount, his face hideously cut by the glass.

    Even when the bike exploded.

    The blast shook the building, blowing out what remained of the front window, a searing ball of flame enveloping the machine and the rider. As he hit the ground his skull seemed to fold in on itself, the bone crumbling as he struck the floor with incredible force, sticky portions of brain bursting through the riven skull.

    He lay beneath the remains of the bike, the flames devouring his flesh, stripping skin from his bones. Blisters rose, burst and then blackened as the fire engulfed him, turning him into a human torch.

    Those who'd been in the store when he crashed through the window fought to escape the scene of devastation. Members of staff fled past fire extinguishers in their haste to flee what could rapidly become an inferno.

    Uniformed men now forced their way in, held back by the flames that had engulfed the Bonneville and its rider, who now lay beside two blazing mannequins. As the fire destroyed them they dissolved, their false limbs melting in the ferocity of the inferno. One, still wearing the remains of a silk camisole and knickers, its false hair scorched off, seemed to roll over onto him, the heat twisting its plastic limbs into grotesque shapes, bending and moulding its arms so that they seemed to close around the dead man in a final fiery embrace.