fields.
He looked at his wing mirrors out of habit, before remembering that he’d ripped them off before driving into the shed. They’d have only got in the way, and he wasn’t going to use them in any case. And he sure as buggery wasn’t going to hand the truck back to anyone, not once he’d finished with it. The drum of petrol in the back would see to that. One match and woof — all gone, just like the last one.
He checked his watch. Another five minutes. He was ahead of himself. And nervy. He needed to calm down. He left the motor running and jumped out, squeezing through the narrow gap between the truck and the side of the shed. He shuffled to the back of the truck where he’d made a hole in the rear doors to let out the exhaust smoke. He sparked up a last cigarette, feeling the cold bite of a draught fanning the air around him. That was better. He could do this, no sweat.
He checked the time again. He wasn’t sure why it was so critical; Tasker had never been punctual for anything. Still, best follow orders. He tossed the cigarette aside and made his way back to the cab.
A flash of movement showed in the spyhole between the boards, and he revved the engine, his heart going with it. Christ, they were early. No, wait. It was a dark-blue saloon with a cupboard strapped on the top, bobbing about like a jelly. Christ, he’d be pulled over for that back in England, daft bugger. He breathed out in short sharp bursts, willing his heart rate to return to normal.
He coughed, eyes fixed on the road through the gap. His throat was hurting and a veil of smoke drifted in through the open side window. Exhaust fumes were building up inside the shed. He swore but didn’t dare take his eyes off the road. He’d been revving the engine too much and it wasn’t being carried away sufficiently at the back. He should have thrown out all the wooden crates instead of cramming them alongside the truck. Trouble was, a local might have noticed and come to investigate.
Two minutes seemed to drag by achingly slowly. Then another car appeared. Black, shiny, a pale flash of blinds at the windows.
A Citroen DS.
Fletcher hit the accelerator hard, relieved he’d kept the engine warmed and ready to fly. He coughed again, his throat raw now, as the stubby little truck leapt forward like a terrier going after a rabbit. It hit the front doors with a mighty crash, the railway sleeper strapped to the front ripping through the rotten wood like paper and showering the cab and bonnet with years of accumulated dust and debris, cobwebs and bird shit. The rush of daylight flooding the cab made him blink after the gloom. The truck bounced as it hit the track, and shook off a cascade of planks tumbling around the roof. As it hit clear air, it seemed to gather speed as if revelling in the cold, clear atmosphere like a bull let out to grass.
And Jack Fletcher, fired by the excitement of it all, screamed unintelligible words at the top of his lungs, pounding the steering wheel with his fist, eyes streaming with tears but fixed on the target vehicle, now about two hundred yards away and approaching the end of the track and the bridge without a care in the world.
The instructions had been clear as day. No messing. No hesitation. Do it.
So intense was he on the target, so high with excitement, that Fletcher failed to notice the billowing rage of smoke trailing behind him; failed to see the flames started by the cigarette landing in the old dried grass beginning to consume the rear of the truck… and creeping towards the drum of petrol lashed in the back.
‘Broadside on, Jack, as hard as you can. Push the bastard twicers right over the edge.’
He was going to be a legend.
Adrian Magson
Death on the Pont Noir
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Rocco and Claude had a clear view of what happened next. A stubby Renault truck emerged from the inferno of the shed like a horse out of a starting gate. But this horse was hell-bent on death and left destruction in its wake. Without bothering to open the doors, the driver had simply burst through the rotten wood as if they didn’t exist. The impact against the padlocked hasp had been enough to send a shock wave rippling throughout the flimsy structure, tearing away the walls and supports and lifting the corrugated roof. Then everything had crashed downwards. But not before the truck was tearing itself clear of the debris and accelerating along the track, its engine screaming in protest and the rear end trailing a gushing swirl of smoke and flames.
‘It’s the same as before,’ said Rocco. The same model truck, the same railway sleeper strapped across the front, the same target.
Only this time the target was real.
They jumped in the car and took off, accelerating hard. It was a fruitless task and Rocco knew they would never make it. What could they hope to do — stop the official car carrying the president and his bodyguards? The DS would leave them standing. He debated shooting at the truck in an attempt to put Fletcher off his aim, but he knew that was futile, too. The distance was too great and the Englishman would be too focused on his target to even notice. What was more likely was that the bodyguards in the DS would see Rocco and Claude as the attackers and turn their automatic weapons on them instead.
He flashed his lights, hoping the guards would notice and at least look at the area around them. The angle of the Renault’s approach was such that it was in a blind spot, and might not be seen until it was too late.
The DS continued its run, cruising smoothly along the tarmac. Rocco even fancied he saw the oval of a face looking through the rear-side window. De Gaulle, perhaps, getting his first view of a site of past death and destruction, unaware that if the truck now bearing down on him did its job, he would be joining all the departed souls in the ground below.
At the last moment, as the DS began to draw level with the mouth of the track, something must have caught the attention of the guards. The noise of the shed being destroyed carrying above the car engine, maybe the swirl of smoke trailing after the burning truck catching the eye or simply a bodyguard’s instinct kicking in and warning of an impending attack. There was movement inside as the occupants turned to stare at the side where the attacker was coming from.
‘Get out of there!’ Claude shouted. ‘Move it, you idiot!’
As if responding to his call, the DS seemed to sink on its suspension as the driver put on a surge of power, and began to pull away at speed. But they were already a fraction of a second too late. The truck blasted out of the track and across the road, mud churning up from its heavy tyres, the driver’s face close to the windscreen, his mouth open in a snarl. Was he even aware of the flames creeping across the back of his vehicle? Did he care?
The railway sleeper seemed almost about to miss its target… to have all been for nothing. Then it brushed against the rear of the car. It was a near miss, but enough, flicking the heavily armoured DS sideways with near disdain.
The car driver corrected and accelerated again, fighting the wheel. For just a second one of his rear tyres slid out over the bank, spinning in thin air, and Rocco and Claude swore in unison, expecting the worst. But the car’s extra weight was its saving grace. With a waggle of its tail, it settled and took off across the bridge trailing a damaged rear wing and bumper.
The truck, still under full power and carried by its own mass, was unable to stop in time. It soared out over the edge, dragging earth, grass, white marker posts and fiery smoke with it, the engine howling as if in a frustrated rage all of its own.
Then it dropped out of sight.
The DS flew towards Rocco’s car without stopping, the driver and guard in the front staring hard and clearly expecting another attack. Rocco stamped on the brakes and pulled over to let them pass, holding up his empty hands and bracing himself for a hail of defensive gunfire. But the guards knew their job and held off shooting.
As the car disappeared, Rocco drove across the bridge and stopped. Then he and Claude jumped out and looked over the edge of the drop, standing by the ripped scar where the DS driver had nearly come to grief and where the Renault driver had plunged to his death.
Far below, the truck was just visible, its nose buried in the ice-covered pond and surrounded by a vast cloud of steam and smoke. It held for a moment, and Rocco thought it had gone in as far as it could. Then with a groan, it began to sink further. As it did so, the water around it rippled violently, lighting up with a vivid flash, and a wave of
