A sudden movement at ground level caught Jack’s eye. Glancing down, he saw an enormous rat by the side of his foot. Jack drew in a sharp breath as the furry creature scuttled across his shoe and, seemingly unconcerned by Jack’s presence, continued onwards without a backward glance.
As he stepped onto the eastbound platform Jack spotted Winston off to his right, no more than ten feet away. He had his back to Tyler and was pointing a gun at Dillon, who stood facing him, with both hands raised in the air. As Tyler assessed the situation Winston erupted into a screaming fit, recklessly waving the gun in the air.
And then the ranting was over and had Winston reached what hostage negotiators called the ‘endgame moment’. Knowing that his partner had seconds to live, Tyler took a deep breath to oxygenate his blood, lowered his head, and charged.
Everything became a blur from that point onwards. In the instant that Tyler’s body slammed into Winston, the gun went off, sounding incredibly loud. A grey cloud of smoke and cordite swirled around them as they clashed, its pungent odour stinging the back of Jack’s throat. His ears were ringing painfully, distorting the sound of the struggle.
As his momentum carried them towards the tracks, Tyler wrapped his left arm around Winston’s neck, clamping his forearm tight across the big man’s windpipe and carotid artery. Jack’s other hand grabbed Winston’s gun hand, jarring it upward and outwards.
Powerful images flashed through Tyler’s mind: Colin Franklin, last seen lying motionless in an east London street, a coffin, a Service funeral, Franklin’s heavily pregnant wife being comforted by grieving family and friends, their unborn child growing up without a father. He saw Winston’s smug face laughing at them from behind bars, mocking everything that young Franklin had stood for.
The images continued: Tracey Phillips lying on a cold mortuary slab, gutted like a fish; her family – he had found out earlier in the day that she had a young child of her own – struggling to cope. A pauper’s grave with a little girl standing beside it, a handful of wild flowers, freshly picked, in her hand.
Lastly, he thought about Tony Dillon, realising that he didn’t know if his friend had been hit or not. Tyler felt the images stoking his anger, and to his surprise, he realised that he really wanted to hurt Claude Winston.
Winston needed no such stimuli to summon aggression. He instinctively fought like a man berserk, thrashing and bucking with all his might as he tried to pull free and turn the gun on Tyler. Jack was lifted clear off his feet and swung around one hundred and eighty degrees, but he refused to let go. He knew that he was slowly strangling Winston, and he was determined not to stop until the mad bastard was down for good.
The struggle continued across the breadth of the platform. By now Winston was noticeably fighting for his every breath. He could feel his strength slipping away. As his vision became tunnelled he made a last-ditch effort and thrust himself backwards, smashing into the platform wall with all his considerable weight. He felt a satisfying thud as a surprised gasp came from behind, signalling that Tyler had been winded by the impact. Suddenly, the grip around his neck loosened and, sensing that the tables might just have been turned, he redoubled his efforts to dislodge his attacker.
Jack was dazed by the blow, but he was far from finished. If only he could knock the gun from Winston’s hand, he would be free to move. Jack had been a good boxer in his younger days and he was confident that he could take Winston in a fair fight.
And then it didn’t matter anymore. Dillon suddenly appeared in front of Winston, a fearsome battle rage contorting the normally calm features of his broad face. A shovel-like hand gripped Winston’s wrist and squeezed until the man yelled in agony and released the gun. It fell to the floor and bounced down into the track below. Dillon’s right hand exploded into Winston’s fat stomach. The force of the blow was powerful enough to knock Jack – who was still holding on from behind – backwards. As Winston sank to his knees, his face ashen, Dillon delivered a forearm smash into the bridge of the drug dealer’s nose. The snap of breaking bone was almost as loud as the gunshot had been on the empty platform. A sea of crimson erupted from the black man’s battered face as he tumbled backward, unconscious.
Dillon studied Tyler, who was bending forward; hands on his knees, his breathing laboured.
“You took your bloody time. I thought you’d been shot,” Tyler complained in between breaths.
“I thought you had him Jack, so I went to check on the lad.”
“Lad? What lad?”
Dillon nodded towards the Transport cop on the floor.
“Oh God, not another one,” Jack said, his face palling. “I didn’t even see him.” He rushed over to the injured officer, wondering if this was his fault too. “Hang on in there, mate. You’re going to be okay,” Tyler told him, not sure how true that was. Christ, Jack thought, he doesn’t look old enough to shave yet.
The officer nodded weakly, in too much pain to talk.
Carefully removing the Constable’s handcuffs, Jack ran back to join Dillon with their prisoner. “Help me turn this bastard over,” he said.
Dillon looked around carefully. “Do you think there are cameras operating down here, Jack?” he asked.
Jack saw the malevolence in his friend’s eyes. “Of course there are, so don’t do anything silly. He’s not worth it.”
“So help me, I’m tempted to throw him onto the line and watch him fry,” Dillon admitted, his voice thick with menace. He reached
