If Leary saw them, he made no attempt to slow down, and the Land Rover roared on doing over sixty.
Doyle gripped the wheel of the Transit with one hand. With the other he fired the Desert Eagle straight at his own windscreen.The noise was deafening.
The heavy-grain slug blasted a hole in the glass the size of man’s fist.
Shards of crystal sprayed in all directions.
Doyle fired again, struggling to control the recoil of the weapon. This shot hit the rear of the fleeing Land Rover.
Shoot the tyres out
For fleeting seconds he thought about it.
And what if the car goes out of control and swerves up on to the pavement?
He aimed higher.
The two women preparing to cross leapt back from the kerb, one of them screaming in terror as the two vehicles roared past.
Traffic lights ahead. They were on amber but Doyle wondered if they’d hold.
Fifty yards. The traffic seemed to be more dense now.
Forty yards. Leary guided the Land Rover around a Renault.
Thirty yards.Traffic further ahead was slowing down.
Twenty yards. The lights flickered. Leary put his foot down.
Ten yards. Doyle imitated his action.
Red light.
The Land Rover hurtled across the junction. Doyle followed, steadying the Desert Eagle once more.
A metallic voice was whining from the radio but the counter terrorist had no idea what it was saying.
On the right there was a garage. Doyle could see several cars filling up.
And a motorbike.
Leary suddenly wrenched the wheel of the Land Rover to the right and the car shot across the forecourt of the garage. He slammed on the brakes and clambered from the driver’s seat, the Ithaca still gripped in his fist.
Doyle followed, ducking low behind the wheel as he saw Leary raise the shotgun to his shoulder. He fired twice.
Both discharges thudded into the radiator grille of the Transit. Doyle saw steam rise from the ruptured bodywork. He struggled with the wheel for a moment then stepped hard on the brake.
The Transit skidded, kept sliding and slammed into several cars parked outside a glass-fronted showroom. The vehicles were shunted into the huge expanse of crystal and the jangling sound of smashing glass filled the air for long seconds.
Doyle gritted his teeth and slid from the cab, glass crunching beneath his feet.
Leary was already running towards the motorbike.
The rider stared at him then backed away from this madman with a shotgun. He raised the weapon, pointed it at the motorcyclist and squeezed the trigger.
The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.
The Irishman hurled the empty shotgun aside then swung his leg over the seat of the Honda 600 and revved the engine.
Doyle sighted the Desert Eagle.
If you shoot you’d better hit the bastard.
He hesitated.
Even if he did hit Leary, from such close range the bullet would go straight through him.
Strike a petrol pump?
Doyle holstered the weapon and ran towards the motorbike. The front wheel left the ground as Leary gunned the throttle.
Doyle launched himself at his quarry. He slammed into Leary and both of them crashed to the ground. There were several small puddles of petrol on the forecourt and its smell was strong in their nostrils.
Doyle fixed his hands around Leary’s throat and smashed his head down sharply on the concrete.
The counter terrorist was aware of Leary reaching for something. Seconds later he felt a cold punch in his side, then his thigh and left buttock.
Doyle grunted in pain as the knife was driven into him. He felt blood burst from the lacerations and released his grip on Leary’s throat, trying to grab the man’s wrist to prevent him stabbing again.
Leary brought his head up hard into Doyle’s face and managed to roll from beneath him, his clothes spattered with petrol and Doyle’s blood.
Doyle fumbled for the Desert Eagle. Saw Leary clamber on to the motorbike and work the throttle. The bike roared out of the garage into the street.
Doyle fired once but the bullet tore through the air six feet from its target.
The counter terrorist tried to rise, aware of the burning pain from his wounds. He put one hand to the deep puncture in his side and saw blood running freely through his fingers.
‘Call the police,’ he rasped at several onlookers.
Someone already had.
Doyle heard sirens approaching, and hoped one was an ambulance.
The counter terrorist tried to rise again but his leg buckled beneath him.
Leary had driven the blade deep.
Cunt.
Doyle sat with his back against a petrol pump, the Desert Eagle still gripped in one fist. With his free hand he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans and applied pressure to each wound in turn. The one in his buttock hurt the most.
More pain.
He felt dizzy. A combination of the petrol fumes and the stab wounds, he told himself. He closed his eyes so tightly that white stars danced behind the
lids.
Don’t pass out
He could hear the motorbike receding into the distance. Leary was away.
For the time being.
‘Bastard,’ he hissed under his breath.
The first of the police cars screeched to a halt on the forecourt.
EXHAUSTION
Ward slumped back in his chair, eyes closed. 4.06 p.m. He took out the disk and switched off the computer. That was it for the day.
Enough was enough.
As he got to his feet he felt something he had not experienced for a long, long time. It was a sense of pride.
He set the alarm in the office, locked up then stepped on to the back lawn and stood with his hands on his hips taking deep breaths of the still air. His head was spinning.
In one of the gardens nearby, a dog was barking. He could hear kids playing noisily.
Ward waited a moment longer then wandered back to the house. As soon as he stepped inside the phone began to ring. He wondered about answering it then decided to leave the call to be collected by the answerphone.
He walked into the sitting room, heading for the drinks cabinet. Holding his glass of Jack Daniel’s, he sat down in one of his armchairs.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
RUNNING ON EMPTY
The glass fell to the floor and bounced once on the carpet.
Ward woke with a start, staring around the darkened room. At first he could see nothing.
Not a hand in front of him.
