“Come on, come on!” Garston screamed as the doors finally began to move.
Stunned or not, Dillon was rapidly closing the distance between them, and Garston raised his sap in readiness to take another swing at him.
Dillon’s equilibrium was all over the place; he stumbled, righted himself and carried on, but his floundering had cost him valuable time. Just as they were about to close, Dillon crashed into the doors and thrust both hands into the tiny gap.
“NOOO!” Garston cried, and immediately lashed out with the sap, hoping to break the cop’s fingers.
Dillon saw the blow coming just in time, and he reacted by snatching his hands back.
With nothing to impede their progress, the metal doors came together with a soft jolt and the freight elevator began its upward journey.
Chapter 8
Dillon leaned against the elevator door to steady himself. The right side of his neck ached like hell, and it was throbbing in unison with the left side of his head. He could hardly open his eyes and the floor under his feet seemed to be swaying up and down like a see-saw. He shook his head to dispel the dizziness, causing a small constellation of stars to explode in front of his eyes.
“Bollocks!” he raged, pounding the metal door with the bottom of his fist. Gasping for breath, and coughing like he smoked fifty a day, he looked around, taking in the chaotic farce in an instant.
Bartholomew was back on his feet, rubbing the side of his head as he staggered across to join Dillon.
“You okay?” Dillon asked. He reached an arm out to steady the junior officer and guide him away from the area contaminated by CS incapacitant.
“Yeah, I think so,” but Bartholomew sounded far from certain.
Dillon studied his eyes; pupil dilation looked equal, which was a good sign. “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked, raising two.
Bartholomew stared, squinted, and then stared some more. “Five,” he eventually said. Seeing Dillon’s eyes widen in alarm, Bartholomew broke into a lopsided grin. “I’m joking!” he said.
Dillon scowled at him for a moment. “That’s not funny,” he said.
Bartholomew shrugged. “It was a little.”
Dillon laughed, which made him cough uncontrollably. When he finally got the hacking under control, he turned to stare at the smaller man, his expression thoughtful. “Listen, I’m very grateful for your intervention back there.”
Tears streamed down his face as he spoke, but Bartholomew knew this was just a side effect of the CS and not an emotional outpouring of gratitude.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
In a moment of spontaneity, Dillon wrapped an arm around Bartholomew and dragged him in close.
Bartholomew winced as his throbbing skull was pummelled into Dillon’s shoulder. “Please!” he squealed. Then quieter: “Please – don’t be so grateful, boss. I don’t think I can stand the pain!” Disentangling himself, Bartholomew sagged down on his haunches and rubbed at the bump on his head.
But Dillon wasn’t listening. “We need to find out where Terry is,” he said, dabbing at his eyes. “I won’t be happy till I know he’s safe.”
◆◆◆
Grier was exceedingly proud of the fact that he’d never lost a prisoner during a foot chase. Nor had one ever escaped from him once he’d actually laid his hands on them – at least not until today. The suspect had somehow got the better of him during the struggle in the freight elevator, and now his one-hundred-per-cent record was on the line.
To be fair, the bald man had a considerable weight advantage over Grier, which he’d used to good effect by slamming Terry into the side of the elevator so hard that it had taken his breath away. Temporarily winded, all he’d been able to do was place his hands on his knees and suck in one mouthful of air after another as he watched his burly prisoner decamp from the scene in futile anger.
By the time Terry had sufficiently recovered to set off after him, the bald man had opened up a big lead. And, thanks to the interference of the fake nurse who had just spitefully stuck out her leg and tripped him up, that lead was about to grow even bigger.
Landing heavily, Terry slid along the shiny linoleum surface on his hands and stomach. Somehow, without losing too much forward momentum, and with all the elegance of a foal standing up for the very first time, he managed to scrabble back to his feet and continue running.
Glancing back, he saw that the nurse had already turned her attention to DI Dillon, and she was now hanging from him like a kid being given a piggyback ride.
The bald man was bloody fast, Grier acknowledged grudgingly, but he was faster, and he was determined to make up the lost ground.
Grier temporarily lost sight of the suspect when he turned right at the end of the corridor, but he wasn’t overly concerned by that. Unless his quarry nipped into a ward, which was unlikely given the fact that to gain entry you had to be buzzed through by someone inside, Grier knew that he would eventually come to the staircase that he and Bartholomew had ascended on their way up to join Dillon.
Grier allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction when he regained sight of the fleet-footed fugitive a few seconds later, and another when he realised that he had substantially closed the gap between them. Relaxing into his stride, he focused on his breathing and visualised himself applying handcuffs to the man he was chasing.
As the pursuit continued, the bogus porter started glancing nervously over his shoulder every few seconds like a marathon runner desperate to cross the finishing line before his nearest competitor could overtake him. That was a good sign; if the fleeing man had any confidence in his ability to maintain his current speed over any distance, he wouldn’t be wasting so much energy looking back.
By the time they
