what he was doing with that tool bag at his feet.
The control panel was no different nor more complicated than thousands of others. The man leaned nonchalantly on the control box, whistling, and cast his eyes up the road.
When the convoy was about 200 metres away, he pressed a button. All the lights at the junction went to red and stayed there. He pulled a ski-mask on, reached into his tool bag and pulled out a light submachine gun.
This was the signal for another man who had been sitting patiently behind the wheel of a large furniture removal van, parked a few metres into the crossroad opposite, with the engine idling. He too pulled a mask on, released the brakes and then let the clutch out in such a stuttering manner that the huge van kangarooed out across the junction at right-angles to the approaching convoy, stalled, and stopped dead.
The convoy screeched to a halt. They had actually slowed down as they’d approached the lights, but weren’t intending to stop.
Behind the last police car in the convoy, two masked men leaped out of the back of a Ford Escort van which was parked up by the roadside. They were dressed in overalls and wore running shoes. One carried a machine gun ready for use; the other an infamous Sa-7, surface-to-air missile in a launcher, a type beloved by guerrilla and terrorist groups around the world. He aimed at the helicopter.
For an instant the police drivers couldn’t be sure whether this was for real or not. Was it an ambush? Or was it just an unfortunate incident?
When the rear door of the furniture van dropped open like a drawbridge, slammed down with a clatter and two men emerged from within, again masked, dressed in overalls and carrying weapons, they knew it was for real.
They reacted as they’d been trained. Screaming into their car-to-car radio, ‘Ambush! Ambush!’ the drivers crunched the gears into reverse. There was chaos. The passengers drew their guns in readiness.
None of the police cars got anywhere to speak of.
The man holding the SAM pulled the trigger. With a deadly whoosh! the rocket streaked towards its target in the sky.
The other man who’d leapt from the stationary van at the back of the convoy had already run the few metres towards the rear police cars. No one saw him coming. He sprinted past the cars, spraying them with bullets which smashed through the windows and bodywork with ease, killing all the occupants within seconds.
It was a similar story with the two leading cars; these were dealt with in the same manner by the two men who’d come running from the rear of the furniture van. The only difference was that one police officer, reacting faster than the rest, opened his door and rolled out and got up into a firing position. Before he could aim properly, however, the man who’d sorted the traffic-lights had virtually cut him in half with a sweep of his machine gun.
The pilot of the helicopter and the crew of police officers didn’t stand a chance. The rocket slammed into the under-belly of the hovering machine and there was a massive explosion of blue and orange flame and black smoke. Literally shot out of the sky, the helicopter twisted towards the ground, plummeting down onto the railway line which ran behind the village.
The driver of the prison bus was petrified — literally. He sat in his seat, numb, his hands tightly holding the steering wheel. The policeman next to him was babbling incoherently into the radio. Fortunately the radio operator at force headquarters was a cool customer who had already dispatched assistance and alerted his supervisors.
The driver of the furniture van raced past the two leading police cars holding a double-barrelled shotgun. He stopped at the front of the prison bus, took aim at the engine block and fired both barrels into the radiator. The engine cranked to a mangled stop.
Inside, Hinksman smiled at his two captors and held out his hands. ‘Beaten, I think,’ he said smugly. ‘I think it’s in your interests to let me go.’
‘ No fuckin’ chance,’ one of the cops said. He reached out and grabbed Hinksman’s handcuffs and twisted them. Hinksman screamed and fell forwards off the bench seat and onto his knees. One of the advantages of the rigid handcuff is that there is total control — via pain — of the prisoner, no matter how big, tough or strong he is. ‘If I’m gonna die,’ the officer hissed into Hinksman’s face, ‘I’m gonna hurt you first.’
He twisted the cuffs again. They bit into the flesh and nerve endings of Hinksman’s wrists. A little more pressure and the bones would break.
The traffic-light man sprinted to the rear of the bus and efficiently clamped six tiny explosive charges to the doors — one at each hinge and two near the lock and handle. Then he retreated a few metres.
The two officers who were trapped in the space between the inner cage where Hinksman was held and the back doors cowered. They had their guns in their hands.
The charges all detonated together, blowing the doors cleanly off their hinges. The noise ricocheted around the interior of the bus, like thunder in a confined space, deafening and disorientating everyone.
The officers were uninjured by the blast but were winded by the explosion and overcome with smoke. They tumbled out of the back of the bus into the open air, gasping, choking, coughing and confused. They were shown no mercy. As their feet touched the tarmac they were mown down.
All that remained was to get the inner cage door open.
The traffic-light man stepped up into the back of the bus, a small chain saw in his hands. Within seconds he had removed the door. He flung it, complete, out of the back of the bus onto the road with the assistance of one of his colleagues.
Throughout all this, the officer who had decided to inflict as much pain as possible on Hinksman had more or less hung onto his man. When faced with overwhelming odds he sensibly let go of the cuffs.
Hinksman held out his damaged hands. The saw neatly parted the cuffs.
‘ Give me a gun,’ he said to one of the masked men.
He was immediately handed a pistol.
He turned on his captor and held the gun to the officer’s head.
‘ No one gets away with causing me pain and aggravation,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘No one.’ He pulled the trigger twice and most of the back of the man’s head splattered through the cage onto the driver, passenger and windscreen.
Then he turned on the other officer who had also been his gaoler. ‘Just remember what I’ve said — and pass it onto Henry Christie.’ He shot the man twice in the lower stomach, figuring that he would stay alive long enough to tell the story.
‘ C’mon,’ the traffic-light man said, tugging at Hinksman’s sleeve. Hinksman nodded and jumped out behind him. They ran towards the traffic-lights and turned right where their transport awaited — a huge, powerful motorcycle with no rear number plate.
Hinksman was handed a crash helmet. Moments later, as the backseat passenger, he and the traffic-light man were accelerating away from the scene down winding country roads.
The rest of the ambush team had gone too. No one who saw the incident — and there were many witnesses — could exactly say where to. The men had gone, disappeared like ghosts, their shock tactics having had the desired effect.
Only two police officers were uninjured — the ones in the front of the prison bus. They climbed slowly out when they thought it was safe, both covered in the contents of their fellow officer’s skull. One of them looked around at the carnage, sank down to his knees at the kerbside and allowed his head to flop into his hands. He was too numbed to cry. The other wandered up and down the road, peering into the cars, knowing that he could do nothing. He sat down on a wall, and lit a cigarette. In the distance was the sound of approaching sirens.
One hundred metres further back, Lenny Dakin got into his XJS which he’d parked on a side street.
That had been fantastic, he thought proudly. Fucking fan-tas-tic. Money well spent. Worth every fucking penny. The most exhilarating two minutes three seconds he had ever experienced.
And Hinksman was free.
‘ He has to die.’
‘ I know, Joe, I know. I just don’t know if I can do it.’
‘ It’s not a case of can, it’s a case of must. Don’t worry, you’ll be protected. I’ll be there — I’ll see you’re OK. Trust me.’
‘ I don’t know… ‘
‘ Don’t you trust me?’
