Knife Edge Read online

  The Harley hit the kerb, rose into the air for precious seconds then slammed down again, skidding momentarily on the pavement.

  Neville hunched over the handlebars and rode fast through the horde of pedestrians on the pavement outside the hotel, scattering them as a dog does sheep.

  Some even ran screaming into the road.

  He looked up and saw that the Lynx was almost level with him now, dropping ever lower until it seemed the thing must strike the ground.

  ***

  Behind, Doyle floored the accelerator and also sped up until he was virtually alongside Neville.

  A parked Jag whose driver seemed oblivious to the pandemonium around him flung open his door, preparing to step out.

  Doyle tried to swerve but it was too late.

  The Nissan struck the Jag's open door and tore it free, sending it skidding across the road.

  The other headlight shattered, more paint was stripped from the body of the SX, leaving a great furrow in the red paintwork of the vehicle.

  Doyle reached for the Beretta, watching as Neville swung back into the road only yards ahead of the Lynx.

  ***

  The traffic on both sides of the road was slowing down, those facing the speeding procession aware of the danger they faced.

  The bus driver who found himself heading towards the helicopter screamed and covered his face, convinced that the chopper was going to plough into him but, at the last moment, McBride sent the helicopter into a steep climb, just clearing the double decker.

  One of the skids actually scraped along the roof of the bus, tearing paint free, causing the chopper to lurch violently to one side.

  McBride fought to control the Lynx, its rotor blades spinning only feet from the front of the buildings to his right.

  The bus went out of control, ploughing across the road.

  ***

  Doyle saw it coming and floored the pedal again, aiming for a gap between the front of the oncoming bus and a Cavalier which was blocking his path.

  He slammed into the front of the car, knocking it aside, screeching through seconds before the bus crashed into the car behind him, the massive red bulk of the vehicle now blocking traffic in both directions.

  Those queuing outside the Hard Rock Cafe turned to watch the suicidal chase.

  A couple even applauded.

  Neville was approaching Hyde Park Corner.

  The underpass, Doyle thought. The bastard was heading for the underpass. He could lose the helicopter that way.

  Wind poured through the broken side window of the Nissan and Doyle stuck a hand out, wondering if he could get off a few shots before Neville sent the bike hurtling below ground.

  No. The traffic was too heavy. The danger of hitting others too great. Besides, even a shot as accomplished as Doyle would have little chance of hitting a target moving so quickly.

  The Lynx swooped low again.

  Doyle heard another loud crack as one of the armed policemen fired.

  They obviously didn't care about hitting innocent bystanders, Doyle mused.

  The entrance to the underpass was approaching.

  To Doyle's surprise, Neville suddenly veered right, across the traffic, straight into Old Park Lane, a small side road leading off the main thoroughfare.

  Fuck it.

  Doyle hit the brake, turning the wheel, clipping the front of an oncoming Astra in the process.

  The collision caused the Astra to spin and Doyle himself grunted as the impact slammed him back in the driver's seat but he gripped the wheel and drove on, aware that Neville was doing what he'd feared.

  The road and streets leading off from this part of Piccadilly were narrow, mostly one-way…

  … (the wrong fucking way for Doyle)…

  … and some were barely wide enough to accommodate a car.

  Neville was having no trouble on the motorbike apart from having to slow down.

  ***

  The helicopter had risen high into the darkening sky now, unable to get close due to the proximity of the buildings, but McBride tracked Neville on the monitor, the fleeing ex-para appearing as a small red shape on the infra-red.

  ***

  Doyle could see the motorbike, no more than ten yards ahead of him, twisting and turning effortlessly through the narrow streets while he fought with the Nissan, trying to coax it, at speed, through the same thoroughfares, striking the kerbs frequently, forcing pedestrians into doorways for safety.

  But the counter terrorist wouldn't give up. Perspiration was beading on his forehead, some of it running down the side of his face as he used all his concentration to keep on Neville's tail, all his driving skill just to stop himself ploughing into a building.

  There was an empty stretch of road ahead, narrow, cobbled but free of people.

  Doyle stuck the Beretta out and gripped firmly, firing off three rounds.

  The pistol slammed against the heel of his hand with each recoil, empty shell cases spinning into the air.

  One shot screamed off the concrete, another parted air and the third punched in the window of a shop, glass shattering noisily.

  Neville turned a comer into Derby Street and again Doyle wondered what the hell he was playing at.

  If he'd shot right into Shepherd Market it would have been impossible for a car to follow him but he didn't, he chose to ride on into Curzon Street.

  Back into traffic.

  What the fuck was he playing at?

  Twice now he'd refused the opportunity to shake off or at least delay his pursuers, first at Hyde Park Corner and now here.

  Doyle could hear sirens through the roar of engines.

  He knew there must be police cars on the way by now, joining the chase.

  Neville sped across the road, looking back quickly, almost as if to ensure that Doyle was still following.

  The counter terrorist saw him reach back with one hand, flip open the top box and reach in.

  He pulled the Steyr free and fired one short burst in Doyle's direction.

  Bullets peppered the front of the Nissan, drilling holes in the bodywork, punching in a portion of the radiator grille, another shattering the windscreen.

  Another spiderwebbed it and, for precious seconds, Doyle could see nothing except cracked glass.

  He was about to punch a hole in the opaque mess when another bullet sent the whole lot spraying inwards.

  Doyle hissed as a thin sliver sliced open the flesh on his jaw and he shielded his eyes from the pulverised crystal flying at him like transparent needles.

  Cold air rushed through the gaping hole but at least he could see again.

  See Neville speeding up South Audley Street.

  See the Lynx dip low once more to join in the chase.

  And now, what had begun to scratch away in the back of Doyle's mind became not a scratch but a great churning.

  There was something wrong here.

  Very wrong.

  Twice Neville had been in a position to avoid pursuit.

  Twice he'd chosen to continue the chase.

  Doyle glanced down at the dashboard clock.

  Jesus Christ. Less than twelve minutes to detonation.

  There was a method in this apparent madness from Neville, Doyle was sure of it.

  But why?

  Had he one last trick left?

  As Doyle drove on he was gripped by an almost unbearable conviction that Neville was leading them right to the bomb.

  When it went up, they'd all go with it.

  And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake that belief.

  7.51 P.M.

  The Lynx had stayed roughly level with the tops of the buildings as it had skirted South Audley Street but now, as Neville emerged into Grosvenor Square, the helicopter swooped towards him, free to dive and turn in the open area.

  Doyle saw it dip towards Neville.

  Saw Neville slow up slightly.

  Saw him fumbling with the Steyr.

  A loud bang sounded as one of
the police marksmen fired at Neville.

  The bullet struck the ground close to him.

  Another loud retort.

  Another miss.

  Doyle swung the Beretta up and fired off more shots until the slide flew back signalling that the pistol was empty.

  He pulled a spare magazine from his pocket and jammed it into the butt of the pistol, forced to slow down as he worked the slide, chambering a round.

  As the Nissan slowed, Doyle saw what was happening.

  'No!' he roared. 'Get away from him.'

  His shout was directed at the helicopter which was dropping still lower, the noise of its rotors now deafening.

  ***

  'I've got him,' said Clark, eye pressed tight to the telescopic sight.

  Neville swung the Steyr upwards and tightened his finger on the trigger.

  The fusillade raked the chopper, blasting in the windscreen, punching holes in the co-pilot's door. Bullets drilled the length of the helicopter.

  One struck Clark, stove in part of his ribcage then erupted from his back.

  He slumped forward in his seat as more bullets dotted the chopper, piercing the cabin door, drilling through the tail boom. One struck the tail skin and blasted it clean off.

  McBride struggled with the controls, tried to lift the Lynx free but Neville jammed in a fresh magazine and opened up again, once more raking the helicopter from end to end.

  Bullets screamed off the hull, punctured the cabin and tore through the vertical fin.

  The tail rotor gearbox was hit. Pulverised by a concentrated burst of fire.

  The chopper lurched violently in the air and McBride felt his stomach tighten as the instrument panel suddenly flashed with a dozen red warning lights.

  The chopper began to spin hopelessly out of control, the end swinging round madly.

  It was as if someone had nailed the main rotor to the sky and the chopper was turning around that central point.

  It dipped crazily, the pilot yanking so hard on the joystick that it seemed he would wrench it free.

  Then, with alarming speed, like a puppet with its strings cut, the chopper plummeted earthward.

  It struck the ground in the centre of Grosvenor Square.

  The explosion was massive. A conflagration so powerful it blew Neville over, spilling him from the bike.

  The concussion blast even moved Doyle's car and the counter terrorist covered his face with one arm as a wave of intense heat rolled across the square.

  An enormous cloud of black smoke and flame rose into the air as the chopper exploded with such ferocity that every window in the buildings around the square was blasted inwards.

  Huge, twisted pieces of metal were hurled in every direction by the cataclysmic blast, spewing through the air like lumps of flaming shrapnel.

  A piece of the main rotor, as if fired from a cannon, shot across the square and smashed through a parked car, impaling the vehicle which also exploded, adding its own chorus to the already ear-splitting hurricane of fire belching upwards into the darkening sky.

  Blazing petrol ejaculated into the air and spilled across the ground, igniting everything it touched.

  More cars began to burn. A whole series of secondary explosions were triggered, as if someone had let off a great chain of venomous and extremely powerful firecrackers.

  The sky turned orange, then red, then black.

  Noxious smoke rose and hung over the square like a reeking shroud.

  ***

  Doyle saw Neville roll over on the ground, struggle to his feet, hurrying to pull the Harley Davidson upright.

  The counter terrorist floored the accelerator and the Nissan hurtled towards Neville and the bike.

  Neville spun around, had time to fire one single burst from the Steyr.

  Doyle shouted in pain as a bullet tore through his left shoulder, cracked the collar bone and punched its way out of his back, ripping through the seat in the process, but he held on to the wheel, seeing Neville's face illuminated by the fire.

  He saw the look of horror on the ex-para's face.

  Then the car hit him.

  Neville was catapulted ten feet into the air, such was the impact. He crashed earthward, landed on the roof of the car and rolled off, the Steyr falling from his grip.

  Doyle slammed on the brakes and tumbled out of the car into the road, aware even more of the unbearable heat, which rolled across the square like a wave.

  Blood was running freely from his shoulder and he could feel it beginning to stiffen, his left hand already going numb. He clutched the Beretta in his right hand and advanced towards Neville, who was lying on his back a few yards away.

  Doyle stood over him and looked down at the ex-para.

  His eyes were open, blood was running from his mouth and nose and, when he tried to speak, all that escaped was a liquid gurgle.

  Doyle figured the impact of the car must have pulped his ribs, driven them into his lungs. His face was splashed with blood.

  The counter terrorist knelt beside Neville and lifted his head with one hand, groaning with his own pain.

  The visor of Neville's helmet had been broken. What remained of it was flipped open.

  Doyle pushed the Beretta against the ex-para's cheek.

  'Where's the bomb?' he grunted through clenched teeth.

  Neville's eyes rolled and Doyle thought he was going to pass out but, instead, he realised that the dying man was trying to direct his attention to something.

  'You're looking at it,' Neville managed to say before blood filled his mouth and he coughed, his face twisting into an agonised grimace. As he coughed, blood and sputum showered Doyle.

  'Where?' Doyle demanded. 'Don't fucking die yet, you bastard.'

  Neville coughed again, tried to turn his head then vomited a foul mixture of bile and blood, most of which spilled down his chest.

  'The bike,' he whispered, and Doyle was sure he saw a smile flicker across those bloodied lips. 'It's packed with Semtex. It's all there.' He was gripped by a great fit of racking coughs and Doyle stood back as more blood and vomit spilled from his mouth. Great crimson clots splattered on to the road beside him.

  Doyle could hear the wail of sirens more clearly now, even over the roar of flames from the wreck of the blazing helicopter.

  'I won,' Neville grunted.

  'Fuck you,' hissed Doyle.

  He shot Neville three times in the face, each impact causing his body to jerk wildly, every bullet staving in another portion of his features.

  'Cunt,' Doyle rasped at the corpse.

  He turned towards the bike, running across to it.

  Could Neville be bluffing?

  He doubted it.

  He pulled open the top box.

  The entire cavity was filled with long white packages. Doyle drew a finger over the nearest and sniffed. He recognised that marzipan smell of plastic explosive only too well.

  He tugged one of the panniers open.

  More Semtex inside.

  Doyle dragged the bike upright, shouting in pain as he was forced to put pressure on his left shoulder but he finally managed it, opening the other pannier.

  That too was filled with Semtex.

  He could only guess at where the rest of the explosive was.

  Packed inside the fuel tanks? Hidden in the frame itself?

  That didn't seem to matter.

  What did was that the whole fucking lot was going up in five minutes.

  Come on think. What do you do?

  His head was spinning, he was having difficulty breathing, as if the raging fire was sucking all the oxygen from the air.

  Think.

  There was only one chance and that was slim. But it was all he had.

  As the first police car pulled into Grosvenor Square, Doyle swung his leg over the Harley Davidson and started the engine.

  7.56 P.M.

  Doyle saw a policeman gesturing wildly at him as he swept past on the Harley.

  Maybe the man thought
he was Neville, he mused, twisting the throttle harder, trying to coax more speed from the bike.

  His shoulder hurt like hell.

  More pain.

  But he seemed able to grip the handlebars tightly enough and the sight of blood running on to his left hand didn't bother him.

  He had other things on his mind.

  Or, more to the point, under his arse.

  One hundred and thirty explosive fucking things to be exact.

  If he didn't make it he'd be vaporised. The equation was simple.

  They wouldn't need a coffin to bury him in next to Georgie, a fucking matchbox would probably do the trick.

  He sent the Harley Davidson screaming along

  Brook Street, the fire from the blazing remains of the helicopter still sending shrieking plumes of fire into the sky. He passed several fire engines travelling towards the carnage. Ambulances too. They'd find Neville. It might take a little while to identify him with most of his face blasted off, thought Doyle, but by the time they did identify him, it might not matter anyway.

  If he couldn't reach his desired destination in time then fuck all would matter any more.

  Across New Bond Street, through Hanover Square towards Regent Street he sent the bike.

  This had to be the quickest route.

  The needle on the speedo was nudging seventy and, when he couldn't get a clear run on the street, Doyle guided the bike up on to the pavements.

  Where he could he gestured wildly for those blocking his path to get away. If they didn't he'd ride the stupid fuckers down.

  Time?

  He couldn't even look at his watch. He could only guess at how close to oblivion he was.

  Could only surmise how long he had before the one hundred and thirty pounds of explosives beneath him went up.

  He roared into Regent Street, saw the crush of traffic and, again, mounted the pavement.

  All along the route people screamed as they tried to get out of his way.

  Doyle looked down at the speedo as he sped through Piccadilly Circus, running a red light, almost going under a bus which was moving ponderously towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The driver hit his horn but Doyle barely heard it as he went roaring down the Haymarket.