Road Kill

better.

The only worrying factor was the wind. There was no sign of the rain that had dogged us at Mondello, but the wind had picked up and was gusty, particularly over the exposed piece of road. It was going to make things that bit more tricky.

There were no other vehicles parked up but, even so, Sean checked round before he unzipped the tank bag and handed out the three bottles containing the gloss paint William had found in the hotel basement. They were the bottles without lids, so we’d smothered the top of the necks with packing tape.

“Now, you all know what you’re doing?” he said in that calm, almost soothing voice he’d always used to inspire confidence in terrified new recruits on their first live-firing exercise. The Devil’s Bridge Club members nodded, keyed up and anxious. “Switch your lights off so you don’t attract his attention as you’re coming up behind him. You’re going to have to fling these things pretty hard to get them to break, all right? Glass is amazingly tough stuff. It’s not like you see it in the movies. Aim for the windscreen if you can. The gloss will smear better than emulsion and they won’t be able to clear it, OK?”

“What then?” Daz said, giving up trying to wedge his bottle somewhere into the Aprilia’s fairing and carefully stuffing it down the front of his leathers instead. Paxo and William did the same.

“You get the hell out of Dodge,” Sean said sharply. “Trust me, Charlie and I will be right behind you.” He handed one of the other bottles across to me. I stood it in the top of my tank bag, making sure it was packed upright so as not to spill, but accessible enough to retrieve easily when the time came.

“What about afterwards, if – when – the van stops?” Daz said.

Sean flicked his eyes to me and I saw the question in them. Are you ready for this? I nodded, just once. As I’ll ever be.

“I think you’d better let us worry about that,” he said. “Just get far enough ahead not to get caught up in anything, then pull over and wait for us there. You’ve got Jamie’s helmet? Good. With any luck, he’ll need it soon.”

Paxo had been staring back over his shoulder, waiting for the van to catch us up.

“Here they come!” he said now, his voice high and strangled. “Let’s do it, yeah?”

As soon as the van flashed past our position, the three of them launched out of the lay-by, gunning the bikes up to speed in seconds. A moment later, Sean and I followed.

We hung back behind the others, keeping station while we waited for the boys to do their stuff. If they failed there was still a chance we could stop the van but Eamonn’s men would be ready for us and things would be so much more difficult.

I felt the nerves knotting my stomach into a tight hard ball. I swallowed, tried to breathe evenly, but that only seemed to make things worse. Reacting to circumstances was one thing, I realised. I could do that without a qualm. But actually instigating an attack was something different again. And especially with such untrained troops. I felt the enormous weight of the responsibility for their safety lying on me.

Does Sean feel the same? I glanced sideways, noted the tension in his arms, the stiff set of his neck as he kept his eyes riveted on the events unfolding ahead. Of course he does.

The FireBlade was a reassuringly solid presence under me, with the Super Blackbird keeping easy pace alongside, like two cavalry horses picking up to a canter before the final charge. Into the valley of death rode the five . . . well, let’s hope not.

I glanced ahead and saw the boys tight up behind the Merc. They’d clustered together where they would be almost out of sight of the van’s mirrors, hiding in his blind spot.

I saw them nod to each other, their signal. Almost as one man, they reached into their leathers and pulled out their bottles full of paint.

Paxo went first, shooting up the left-hand-side of the van. He flung the bottle awkwardly back over his right shoulder with his left hand as he drew level.

The bottle hit the front end somewhere without breaking and bounced up over the roof-line to land twenty metres behind the rear bumper. There it did finally smash, splattering pure brilliant white gloss paint all over the road. Sean and I had to swerve to avoid it.

Daz and William spurted up the right-hand side of the van as soon as Paxo began his run. But, as the first bottle hit, the Merc driver braked hard enough to lock one wheel, sending up a puff of smoke. The van lurched to the right, forcing the other two bikers to swing wide.

William was just at the point of his pitch and the sudden change of direction threw his aim out completely. The bottle landed hard enough to break this time, but too low and to the left.

“Shit!” I heard him shout. “Direct hit on the radiator grille, but nothing on the glass. Sorry guys.”

The van straightened as the driver fought with the wheel, the high back rocking violently. As William pulled away, Daz glided in almost close enough for van and bike to touch, controlling the big Aprilia with delicate precision. I held my breath as he seemed to keep it there for an eternity. The slightest sideways twitch from the Merc, or heavy gust of wind, and he was going to be history.

Then Daz stood up on his footpegs and backhanded the bottle he was holding straight down onto the windscreen directly in front of the driver, like he was christening a battleship.

Even from our position, we saw the paint spray up.

“Bull’s-eye!” I heard Daz yell. “He’s all yours!”

The Merc had began to snake wildly, scrubbing off speed until it was down to less than fifty. We dropped our own speed back to match and I held my breath hoping the van would stop of its own accord. After a few seconds it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. They must have known this was an ambush now, and their only chance to avoid disaster was to keep moving.

“Looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way,” Sean’s voice said in my ear. “You ready?”

“Lead on,” I said, terse.