Akram turned and ran into the crowd.
Donaldson was only metres behind him, his arms punching like huge pistons. But Akram moved with the agility of a deer. His head went down and he weaved and cornered around people like a skier hurtling down a slalom.
Donaldson had no finesse in his speed, no grace, and he shoved individuals roughly aside. He was taking the direct route and everyone had better get out of his way.
Akram, though, was getting further away. Keeping low, he entered Hounds Hill shopping centre and disappeared into the covered mall. Donaldson cursed as he ran in and found himself faced with a dilemma. The mall was a large, curving semicircle, which split to the left and right. There was no sign of Akram, who could have gone either way and ducked into a shop, then used another exit, or a fire escape.
Donaldson spun on the spot.
Bill Robbins came up behind him.
‘Lost him,’ Donaldson gasped. ‘Is Sadiq still pinned down?’
‘Yes,’ Bill assured him.
‘And has the phone been seized?’
‘Yes,’ Bill repeated.
Two more cops rushed in behind, armed and in uniform, wearing peaked caps with chequered bands, and brandishing H amp;K machine pistols.
‘Who’s the guy you chased?’ Bill asked.
‘Akram — the guy I was telling you about.’
‘Jamil Akram? Shit,’ Bill blurted.
‘Yeah — and he’s gone to ground here — but he won’t be hiding long. He’ll break cover.’
‘I’ll get more people, get the exits sealed.’
‘Make sure you tell ’em to take care. He’ll be armed,’ Donaldson said. ‘And dangerous,’ he added, not caring if it sounded cliched.
‘Description?’
Donaldson gave him a glance. ‘I know this sounds racist, but any Asian male, thirty to fifty, in this vicinity needs pulling and slamming down. But he is wearing a black zip-up wind jammer, blue jeans, grey trainers and he’s got a black moustache.’
‘Understood,’ Bill said, and he transmitted this through to comms.
Donaldson indicated to Bill that he was going to start looking and moved into the mall.
He prowled slowly, like a predator, but felt that Akram was now likely to be on the other side of the shopping centre or maybe in a car — at which moment Donaldson spotted a sign pointing to the Hounds Hill multi-storey car park, adjacent to the mall. It was only a guess, but Akram had appeared at the scene having come from the direction of the shopping centre, so maybe he was simply retracing his steps to get back to his escape vehicle.
Donaldson looked back at Bill and the two firearms officers. Bill was still talking urgently into his PR but Donaldson managed to get his attention, pointed at one of the firearms officers and then placed the flat of his hand on the crown of his skull in the old military signal. Come to me.
Bill nodded and shoved one of the officers in Donaldson’s direction, yelling something in his ear. He ran up to the American, who said, ‘I want to check the parking lot.’
The two men headed towards the double doors leading to the car park steps. ‘I’m Karl,’ Donaldson said quickly.
‘Steve. And what are you?’
‘FBI.’
‘And who are we after?’
‘Jamil Akram.’
‘He’s a bad guy, is he?’
‘Ultra bad.’
Steve, the firearms officer, pushed through the double doors and the two men stepped into a concrete stairwell.
‘Where from here?’
Donaldson thought quickly. ‘First level, then up through the parking lot, one level at a time.’
The firearms officer was kitted out in overalls, boots, a Kevlar vest, a utility belt holding handcuffs and a holster (in which was a Glock 17), the MP5 across his chest. He was weighted down like a storm trooper but he went quickly up the first two flights of stairs to level one. As they stepped out on to the concrete a Ford Fiesta shot out from a parking space, tyres screeching on the shiny floor. It accelerated towards the exit, and therefore in the direction of Donaldson and the firearms officer.
In spite of the reflection on the windscreen, Donaldson saw it was Akram at the wheel. ‘That’s him,’ he shouted.
The car gained speed, the engine revving.
The two men separated and Donaldson saw that Steve was already having doubts. What had this man actually done? What are his intentions? Is my life at risk? Are others in immediate peril? What happens if I shoot and kill? Am I out of a job? Goodbye pension. All questions that needed answers.
Donaldson had no such qualms. Problem was, he wasn’t armed.
The car sped between them, Akram’s head low over the wheel. As he passed Steve, he dinked the car purposely at him and caught his right leg with a glancing blow, sending him spinning away. But at the moment of impact, the officer had managed to smack the stock of the MP5 into the windscreen, cracking it like a spider’s web across its width. The weapon, though, flew out of his grasp and clattered away.
Akram sped on.
Donaldson rushed across to Steve, who was on the floor, gripping his injured leg. Without hesitation, Donaldson expertly flicked the restraining loop on the officer’s holster and released the Glock. Donaldson was familiar with the weapon, had used one many times in the range. He pivoted on his haunches and fired two shots at the back of the Ford as the car veered down the exit ramp.
Certain he’d put at least one bullet into Akram, Donaldson turned back to Steve who writhed in pain on the concrete floor, gripping his leg tightly with blood-soaked hands. Donaldson prised the hands away, wincing when he saw the misshapen thigh bone. He grabbed the officer’s PR and spoke coolly into it.
SIX
That transmission was the one picked up by Rik Dean, sitting alone in the KFC whilst Henry had gone to check whether Mark Carter had done a runner out back. Up to that point in the day, neither detective had his PR on and Rik had only switched his on for… well, boredom, really. He was instantly transported into a foot chase in Blackpool town centre, consisting of various hurried and worried transmissions, others more measured and calming, and he recognized the gruff but controlled tones of Bill Robbins in amongst them. There were many exchanges between mobile and foot patrols descending on an incident — one which Rik did not immediately understand — and then came the ‘ Officer down ’ message, at which point he had rushed out to Henry, thinking he would want to know about this.
He found him around the back of the KFC talking to Mark — who had, as Rik guessed, tried to slip out and disappear. Henry was holding Mark’s sleeve and it looked as though the pair were having a few moments of tension. But Rik knew what was important and that he and Henry might be needed elsewhere p.d.q. Mark Carter could be picked up as and when, so it didn’t concern Rik too much when Mark saw his chance and fled.
The two detectives raced to Henry’s car and jumped in. Henry reversed out of the space and screeched on to the road, turning up to the traffic lights on Preston New Road. From there, a left turn would take them towards Blackpool, right to the motorway roundabout at Marton Circle, the M55. The lights were on red.
‘What’s the situation?’ Henry demanded.
‘Not entirely sure,’ Rik admitted, looking at his PR which was alive with traffic and some pretty panicked voices.
