He dropped the shotgun onto the passenger seat and returned his concentration to driving. Not that far to go now.
The Range Rover slewed to the right.
He corrected the steering, thinking nothing of it. A gust of wind.
It happened again.
‘ Wooaw,’ he gasped. The wheel almost ripped itself out of his grip. This time it was a little harder to control at 117 m.p.h. ‘What the fuck is happening?’ he demanded out loud. Puncture, maybe?
It veered to the right again. Dundaven held tightly to the wheel, trying to keep the speed up but finding it increasingly difficult. With each second the vehicle became more and more unstable. Next it went left. Something was very definitely wrong.
With a flash he remembered the cop on the motorway.
And the bump on the road.
He groaned angrily and reached for the shotgun.
‘ The Stinger!’ he hissed.
Sharp, the traffic officer, had caught up with Dundaven in less than two minutes. The speed was now lower than fifty and dropping.
The helicopter radioed the apparent success to all patrols.
Within another minute Henry was back in the chase.
Seconds behind him was another traffic car and an Armed Response
Vehicle (ARV) — which was double-manned — each officer armed to the back teeth with a variety of weapons.
Another helicopter appeared in the sky, the one belonging to Greater Manchester Police.
Dundaven saw everything converging on him. He fought to keep the speed up, but could not halt the decline. Having picked up spikes in both front tyres, the Range Rover was proving impossible to control. It seemed to have had enough of him and wanted to stop the whole crazy business. He was powerless, like the rider of a horse which had a mind of its own. He slowed and stopped in the centre lane.
The helicopters hovered above, lights blazing down on him.
There were no other cars about other than cop cars, because three miles back Control Room had activated the overhead matrix signs and brought the motorway to a standstill.
Dundaven fondled the shotgun for a few moments. Deep in thought he tossed it out of the window, sat there and bowed his head.
It was over.
Henry talked Dundaven out, giving him precise instructions through a loud-hailer.
Slowly. No sudden movements.
There are armed officers. Their guns are pointing at you. If you make any sudden movement, or do anything other than what I say, you will be shot. Be in no doubt about that.
Open the door with your right hand. Push it fully open.
Put your hands on your head. Interlock your fingers.
Get out very, very slowly.
Right leg, left leg. Slowly. Get out. Stand up. Face me.
Walk very slowly towards me.
Keep looking at me.
Slowly or you will be shot… that’ s it… another two steps.
Stop there.
Keep facing me… keep looking at me… do as I say.
Keeping your hands on your head, go down onto your right knee.
Now stretch out your arms at shoulder height. Pretend to be Jesus.
Keep your left arm stretched out. Lean forwards and place your right hand on the road. Now your left. Lower yourself to the ground, keep your nose flat to the road, lie face down on the road.
Put your arms out again.
Stay exactly where you are.
An officer will now approach you. He is armed and if you move, he will shoot you in the back.
You must do what this officer tells you… otherwise you’ll be shot.
He was expertly searched. His wrists were secured up his back in rigid handcuffs. He was placed in the rear of a police van which had been called to the scene. Two burly cops climbed inside with him. The back door was locked. Henry instructed them to take him directly to Blackpool.
Henry picked up the shotgun and placed it carefully on the back seat of his car.
He and Seymour looked into the Range Rover, baulking at the sight of the blood and bits of skull and brain splattered all over the passenger side.
Henry opened the back door.
When he lifted the blanket he realised why Dundaven had been so anxious not to get caught.
‘ Looks like we’ve bagged a gun-seller,’ said Seymour.
Chapter Eight
It is claimed that the best job in the FBI is to be stationed at the London office, situated on the fourth floor of the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square.
Karl Donaldson agreed wholeheartedly with the proposition.
He had been appointed as an assistant to the legal attache some twelve months previously, having fought off fierce competition for the post. Since then he had never been happier in his professional as well as his personal life.
In the last year he had acted as FBI liaison with many British police forces, MI5 and MI6. Thanks to cooperation between himself at the FBI, Scotland Yard and the Spanish police in Madrid, a Colombian-backed money-laundering scam handling billions of dollars of drug-trafficking money between the US, Channel Islands and Isle of Man and a crooked Egyptian finance house, had been smashed and literally dismantled.
Donaldson had recovered and seized over two billion dollars and destroyed a service to the cartels which had probably seen twenty times that amount pass through it in four years. He had also been involved in the investigation of many other international conspiracies, several of which were ongoing, some of which had come to nothing.
The work, he found, was demanding, exciting and fulfilling.
Just as his personal life had proved to be.
Previously having been a resident in Miami, he had moved to England and married Karen Wilde, cop, formerly a Chief Inspector in Lancashire. They had met and fallen in love whilst Donaldson — then a special agent had been investigating mafia connections in the north of England. Karen had transferred to the Metropolitan Police and was presently seconded to Bramshill Police College, where she held the rank of Temporary Superintendent.
Without having tried particularly hard, they were expecting their first child.
Life was being very good to them both.
But occasionally there was a downside — which Donaldson was experiencing now.
He was sitting at a window seat on the direct GB Airways flight from London to Madeira. In spite of his destination, that lush green Portuguese island in the Atlantic, Donaldson’s face was set hard, as it had been for the whole of the three-and-a-half-hour journey.
The plane was on its final descent into Santa Catarina Airport on the east coast of the island.
He gazed out across the wing. He could not be said to be taking in the steep banking of the plane, nor the expert manoeuvring, the twisting and dipping, in order to line up with the runway; his aesthetic sense did not
