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After flooding the stalled BMW, it had taken Winston so long to get it going again that Steve Bull had made up all the lost ground, and now the pursuit car sat right on the bandit’s tail as it motored towards the City. Armed support was on its way, but typically wouldn’t be with them for several minutes. The helicopter was refuelling and couldn’t get airborne for another ten minutes minimum. The controller at NSY had just ordered them to abandon the pursuit, insisting that it was far too dangerous to continue. Dillon immediately declared that their radio had developed a malfunction and was not receiving properly. They might suspect that he was lying, which of course he was, but they would never be able to prove it. The Chief Inspector at the Yard came on the air, screaming at them to stop playing ‘clever buggers’ and drop back. “End this pursuit right now,” he demanded. In a voice oozing sarcasm, Dillon told him that it was pointless to shout because they couldn’t hear him.
The chase hurtled along Shoreditch High Street towards the Met’s boundary with the City of London Police. Unless Winston changed course soon, he would have to negotiate the chicanes that formed part of the famed ‘Ring of Steel’, the security and surveillance cordon consisting of barriers and manned checkpoints that was erected in 1993 to deter terrorism and other threats following the PIRA bombing campaign of the late 1980s and early 1990s.
The Nat West Tower dominated the skyline ahead of them as they entered London’s financial district. “I think the bastard’s looking to decamp, boys,” Tyler shouted over the wail of the siren.
Brake lights suddenly bloomed, and a thick cloud of smoke mushroomed from the rear of the BMW as its wheels locked up. “Watch out, he’s stopping!” Dillon yelled.
“Thanks, I hadn’t noticed,” Bull replied sarcastically.
Winston’s furious braking had been caused by a stationary line of vehicles waiting to go through a City Police checkpoint. Jack wondered if the City cops had been notified of the pursuit and had decided to stop all traffic and use the backlog to block Winston’s path.
Ahead of them Winston’s car suddenly veered sharply across the road, screeching onto the opposite carriageway as it accelerated past the checkpoint. A City officer rushed into the road with his right hand raised, palm outwards, waving for it to pull over and stop. He stood defiantly in front of the speeding car, determined to engage the renegade driver in a battle of wills.
“Get out of the way, you damn fool!” Dillon said quietly, willing the idiot to move before it was too late.
A look of terror appeared on the young officer’s face as he realised the enormity of his mistake and dived for cover.
“Arsehole!” Dillon mouthed the word at the astonished policeman, who lay on the floor looking up at him as they shot by. There was an audible clunk as Bull squashed the City officer’s headgear beneath the wheels of the Omega. “Tosser!” he growled, glancing in the rear-view mirror to see the flattened helmet in the middle of the road.
“That’ll make us popular with the City plod,” Tyler said.
“Who gives a fuck?” Dillon said grimly. All he could think about was Franklin. The image of him tumbling to the floor kept repeating itself in his head, like a tape on a loop.
“Not me,” Bull admitted. He was determined to stay behind the BMW at any cost.
Bull suddenly slammed on the brakes as a large white van turned out of a side street on their right and almost drove straight into them. The two vehicles stopped with their front bumpers inches apart.
“Come on, move it back you idiot!” Dillon screamed at the man through his open window. Rage and frustration welled up inside him as he tried to wave the vehicle aside. Flustered, the driver stalled his van. In desperation, Bull reversed back a short distance, then shifted back into drive and mounted the high pavement of the central reservation, scrapping the underside of the car. He ignored the grinding noise that followed, hoping that no real harm was being done. He had to stay with the BMW, which was scything a path through the traffic ahead.
“Well done, Steve.” Tyler cheered, relieved that they were moving again.
“I hope the traffic skipper sees it that way if I’ve fucked the sump up,” Steve said as they re-joined the road.
“You leave him to me,” Tyler told him.
Dillon pointed to a large sign on the pavement that read: ‘MAJOR ROADWORKS AHEAD – EXPECT LONG DELAYS’.
“That ought to slow the bastard down,” he yelled, slapping the dashboard triumphantly.
And he was right. Winston had given himself a hundred-yard lead, but further progress was prevented by a solid line of cars that were waiting at temporary traffic lights to be funnelled through a single lane contraflow around a massive excavation in the road. Traffic could only move in one direction at any given time, and right now a stream of cars was spewing out of the contraflow towards the BMW.
“I never thought I’d be pleased to see a traffic jam,” Bull observed.
“We’ve got you now, you bastard,” Dillon growled.
Unfortunately, Winston wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. Without hesitation, he drove onto the pavement and continued for another fifty yards, scattering pedestrians like tenpins. Steve Bull followed, but much slower. “He’s bailing out,” Bull shouted, automatically unclipping his seatbelt in readiness to follow suit.
Before the BMW came to a complete stop, the driver’s door flew open and Winston clambered out. With a harried glance back in the direction of his pursuers, he abandoned the car, which was still rolling, and began to run up the steps leading into Liverpool Street station’s main concourse. The Omega screeched to a halt beside the abandoned
