Knife Edge Page 9

  It was on that bloody station somewhere.

  Doyle looked at his watch.

  Forty-eight minutes.

  He banged his horn, trying to force the van ahead of him to pull over.

  The traffic was heavy.

  Too fucking heavy.

  Even if he reached Euston quickly the chances of finding Neville there were slim, the chances of finding the bomb in time even slimmer. There were a hundred different places he could have planted it.

  The lights ahead of Doyle were on amber, the rest of the traffic was slowing down.

  Fuck it.

  He pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the Datsun shot through on red.

  The counter terrorist heard horns behind and to one side of him sounding like some organised chorus of dissent.

  Forty-five minutes before detonation.

  The first of many.

  Neville had said one every hour until eight o'clock.

  Doyle did some quick arithmetic in his head as he screamed past a cyclist.

  One every hour.

  Seven bombs and then the big one.

  'That's a lot of lives, Doyle.'

  Neville's words came floating back to him.

  'You know what it's like.'

  The counter terrorist's grip on the wheel tightened.

  'You've seen what bombs can do.'

  Seen, smelled, felt.

  He had the scars to prove what it was like to be on the receiving end.

  If he didn't find Neville quickly, there were going to be many people with more than scars to show.

  11.51 A.M.

  Neville saw the policeman as he reached the bottom of the steps.

  The motorcycle officer was about the same height as Neville, his white helmet gleaming beneath the fluorescents in the underground car park.

  Neville slowed his pace, watching as the policeman walked slowly around the Harley Davidson, his own bike parked close by.

  The air reeked of diesel fumes and oil. Black cabs were dropping off passengers then heading down the ramp to collect more in this underground area of Euston.

  Neville had left the bike there, not expecting any trouble, not expecting anyone to find it until he was ready to leave.

  He took another step towards the Harley, watching as the cycle cop continued walking around, inspecting.

  When he turned to face Neville, the ex-para could see that the uniformed man was in his early twenties.

  He flipped up his visor as Neville approached.

  'Is this your bike, sir?' the policeman asked, running appraising eyes over the leather-clad newcomer. 'You realise it's parked illegally?'

  Did he know? Was this a ruse?

  'Have you any identification on you?' the uniformed man wanted to know.

  Neville reached for the zip of his jacket, aware of the bulky weight of the. 459 and the. 357 beneath each arm.

  He was looking fixedly at the young policeman.

  Two businessmen who had just alighted from one of the taxis passed by, glancing disinterestedly at the tableau.

  'Why did you park here?' the officer continued.

  Neville eased the jacket open slightly.

  The policeman's radio crackled and he pulled it from his belt, flicked it to 'Receive'.

  Neville stood gazing at him.

  The policeman nodded as he heard what was being said to him by the voice at the other end.

  Nodded.

  Neville kept his gaze fixed on the uniformed man.

  He knows.

  The policeman looked straight at him.

  For interminable seconds it was as if both men had frozen.

  He fucking knows.

  A woman struggled from a cab, the driver helping her with her massive suitcase. Both glanced at the motorcyclists nearby.

  From above, Neville heard some words being called urgently over the station Tannoy but his eyes were still riveted on the policeman.

  'Your ID, sir,' the policeman said, the radio still pressed to his ear.

  Neville slid his right hand inside his jacket and pulled the automatic free.

  He saw the look of surprise on the young policeman's face as the pistol was hefted before him, the barrel yawning wide.

  Neville fired.

  The sound was amplified by the enclosed concrete space and the gunshots exploded like a sonic blast, deafening everyone in the confined area.

  The woman with the suitcase screamed, her cries drowned out by the blasts.

  The first bullet hit the policeman in the left shoulder, tore through and erupted from his back, cracking a portion of his scapula, taking gobbets of flesh, bone and material with it.

  It was quickly followed by a second, which thudded into his stomach, doubling him over; fingers clutching at the wound, one slipping inside the hole as blood poured freely down his body.

  He dropped to his knees, his visor falling forward and Neville could see the uniformed man staring at him almost in bewilderment through the Perspex.

  He fired one shot through it.

  The clear material shattered, the bullet powering into the policeman's cheek, punching his lower jaw, blasting several teeth free.

  Blood seemed to fill the helmet and he fell on to what was left of his face.

  The woman was still screaming.

  The taxi driver had run back and leaped behind the wheel.

  Other cabs in the drop-off area were accelerating towards the ramp, anxious to escape, one even tried reversing up it.

  Neville swung his leg over the Harley's seat, started the engine and twisted the throttle.

  The bike screamed on to the road, skidding slightly, back wheel spinning.

  The woman had stopped screaming now, and was standing motionless, gazing down at the body of the policeman, her eyes bulging wide in their sockets as his spreading blood reached her shoes.

  A taxi driver jumped from his cab and ran up the ramp into the street, the breath rasping in his lungs, eyes searching the clogged traffic.

  He was the first to spot the approaching police car.

  By now others had heard the sirens.

  11.54 A.M.

  The speeding police car mounted the pavement to avoid the traffic in Hampstead Road, the driver twisting the wheel, guiding the vehicle down the sharp incline towards Euston's underground car park.

  The sound of screeching tyres joined the strident scream of the sirens as the Astra sped down the ramp.

  PC Stephen Garside glanced to his left as they swept through the subterranean area.

  He saw the prone figure of the motorbike cop lying in a pool of blood.

  'Shit,' he grunted and reached for the radio.

  The car roared down another ramp, the vehicle skidding slightly on some spilled oil at the bottom.

  'There's an officer down,' said Garside, gripping the door as the car turned the corner, throwing him sideways. 'Underground car park at Euston, it looks bad. Over.'

  'Puma three, message received. Where are you now? Over,' the voice at the other end said.

  'In pursuit of a motorbike. We have reason to believe the rider is responsible for the injuries to the officer. We're heading out of the underground car park at Euston and-'

  He grunted as the car cannoned off a wall before spinning back on to the road.

  'Fuck's sake, Phil,' Garside grunted, glaring at the driver.

  'Do you want to drive?' PC Phillip Brenner said, eyes fixed on the speeding bike ahead of him.

  'Heading up into Hampstead Road again,' said Garside into the radio. 'Request assistance. Over.'

  The Astra reached the top of the ramp and sped between two cars, clipping the front of a Nissan, shattering one headlamp.

  ***

  Neville looked over his shoulder and saw the pursuing police car, its lights spinning wildly on its roof, the siren wailing.

  The ex-para gunned the throttle and took the bike into a tight left turn into Euston Road.

  The Harley narrowly avoided a Rover
heading in the opposite direction, the tip of one handlebar scraping the paintwork of the vehicle and almost causing Neville to overbalance but he kept control of the bike and roared on.

  The police car followed.

  More traffic lights ahead.

  The lights were flickering from amber to red.

  Neville shot through, the needle on the speedo nudging sixty.

  The Astra followed.

  Another police car turned out of Eversholt Road, its sirens also blaring and, for fleeting seconds, Neville could see the nervous faces of the two men inside.

  The ex-para smiled inside his helmet and sent the bike roaring almost diagonally across the road.

  It struck the kerb, skidded, then the wheels gripped and he was riding hell for leather along the pavement, pedestrians scattering before him, some shouting, some screaming, some gesturing angrily.

  He turned the bike back on to the road and swept past St Pancras.

  The two police cars followed, the first of them closing the distance between car and bike. Neville saw this in his wing mirror and slid one hand inside his jacket, pulling the. 459 free.

  He looked quickly behind him then fired off four rounds, the pistol bucking uncontrollably in his hand.

  Two shots ricocheted off the road, the third took off the police car's left wing mirror and the fourth struck the radiator grille.

  Neville continued to pump the trigger.

  His next two shots both struck the windscreen, which promptly spider-webbed.

  The leading police car went out of control, skidded across the road and slammed head-on into a Range Rover, the sickening crash audible even over the sound of the Harley's engine.

  Neville smiled, aware that the Astra was still in pursuit.

  Come on, you fuckers. Your turn.

  He guided the bike into Gray's Inn Road.

  The police car followed.

  12.06 A.M.

  Doyle brought the Datsun to a halt and jumped out, heading towards the side entrance of Euston. Towards the two burly uniformed men who blocked the way.

  'I've got to get inside,' Doyle said, reaching inside his jacket.

  'No chance,' said the taller of the two constables. Doyle produced a small leather wallet and flipped it open.

  'Counter Terrorist Unit,' he said sharply, pushing past the policeman, sprinting up the short ramp towards the side door.

  There was only one word to describe what he saw inside the station itself.

  Pandemonium.

  'Jesus Christ,' Doyle murmured under his breath, walking slowly past the left luggage area.

  There were still a couple of hundred people on the concourse, all hurrying towards the exits. Mingled with them were uniformed staff from the station itself, workers from the shops and cafes. A seething mass of humanity all attempting to get out of the building as quickly as possible.

  Doyle saw men and women running from the platforms to join the throng.

  The announcement to evacuate the station was still booming from the loudspeakers.

  Doyle saw policemen moving about amidst the confusion. The bright yellow helmet of a fireman bobbed into view. Then another.

  He heard dogs barking.

  Sniffer dogs, he assumed.

  The announcement from the Tannoy blurted on, voices were raised, there were shouts, the sound of thousands of feet on the concourse. The dogs.

  Bedlam.

  More people were pouring up from the subway, scrambling awkwardly up escalators which hadn't been switched off and were still programmed to move downwards.

  It looked like some bizarre fairground ride, but the faces on it showed anything but joy.

  Doyle walked briskly across the concourse, glancing around.

  Hoping Neville's left the bomb in plain sight?

  A uniformed BR man ran past him.

  Where the fuck is it?

  There were so many places to hide a device.

  Doyle heard footsteps close behind him and turned to see two uniformed men running in his direction.

  He flipped open his wallet and showed his ID to the policemen, who nodded briskly and moved off in another direction.

  As Doyle passed the counter of the Casey Jones stall he saw a cup of hot liquid standing on the counter, abandoned. Still steaming.

  Lying close by the counter was a discarded rucksack.

  Suitcases had been left on the concourse.

  He even noticed a small plastic football, possibly dropped by a child. It was rolling across the concourse slowly, undisturbed by the many feet scuttling past it.

  Doyle stood still, the noise echoing in his ears. The shouts, the Tannoy announcement, the dogs.

  He looked down at his watch.

  Twenty-five minutes to detonation.

  'Shit,' he murmured under his breath.

  'Doyle!'

  The sound of his own name made him turn and he saw Calloway heading towards him, accompanied by two men dressed in black uniforms.

  Bomb squad, Doyle thought.

  'It's Neville,' the DI said. 'One of our mobile units has him in sight now. We've got a description of what he's wearing, we've even got the bike's reg number.'

  'Bike?' Doyle said, looking puzzled.

  'He's riding a motorbike. He shot a policeman here, two cars chased him, they're still on his tail now.'

  'Where is he?' Doyle demanded.

  'Christ knows but they've got him in sight,' Calloway said.

  'You'd better make sure you take him alive or we'll never find those fucking bombs.'

  'The station's nearly clear,' Calloway said, looking at the crowds still pouring through Euston's exits.

  'Great,' Doyle murmured. 'That gives us less than half an hour before everything goes sky-high.' He looked at the men of the bomb squad. 'You'll never find it in time.'

  'Let us worry about that,' the older of the two men said.

  'If you don't we'll all be worrying about it,' Doyle snapped. Then he turned to Calloway again. 'The man Neville shot, is he dead?'

  The DI shook his head. 'No,' he muttered. 'Not yet. The doctors don't hold out much hope though.'

  Again Doyle looked at his watch.

  Time was running out fast.

  12.16 P.M.

  There were three people on the pedestrian crossing ahead but Neville didn't slow down.

  The pedestrians seemed oblivious to the approaching motorbike, even as its loud roar grew in their ears.

  They heard sirens too.

  A van sitting close to the crossing, engine idling, also presented an obstacle in the narrow road.

  Neville twisted the throttle and the bike swung sharply to the right, hit the kerb, rose a foot or so into the air, then slammed down onto the pavement.

  ***

  'Be careful,' screamed PC Garside as the Astra swept towards the crossing.

  An elderly woman was on it, carrying what looked like a tatty shawl in her arms.

  He realised as the car bore down on her that the object was a small dog.

  The woman tried to scream as the police car roared past her on the crossing but she couldn't suck in enough air to produce the required sound.

  The car missed her by inches.

  'Christ,' roared Garside, peering out of the back window.

  The old woman had collapsed in a heap, passers-by scurrying across towards her.

  'I thought we'd hit her,' Garside said breathlessly.

  His companion seemed more intent on keeping the fleeing Harley in sight, as Neville swung the bike back into the road.

  The Astra scraped the side of a Peugeot as it turned a corner, the harsh shriek of metal on metal filling the air.

  'Where the hell's the back-up?' Brenner rasped, struggling with the steering wheel. 'We're going to lose him.'

  As if in answer to his entreaty, another police car pulled out from Harrison Street.

  Ahead, a police bike nosed its way into traffic from Sidmouth Street.

  'Block him off,' Brenner snarled,
seeing the police bike heading towards the Harley.

  'Puma three, come in, over,' a voice on the radio said, barely audible through the hiss of static.

  'Puma three, go ahead, over,' Garside answered.

  'This is Lima one. We have you and the suspect in sight. Over.'

  ***

  Neville saw the newest of the pursuers join the chase.

  The more the merrier.

  The police bike was level with him, riding on the pavement, the occupant glancing across at him periodically.

  The street had become a blur of moving vehicles, the smell of exhaust fumes and rubber hanging thickly in the air, the roar of powerful motors drowning out every other sound.

  Traffic moving in the other direction swerved to avoid the oncoming procession.

  Pedestrians tried to find cover, realising they weren't safe on either the road or the pavement.

  There was a junction ahead.

  More traffic lights.

  Neville saw the glow of the red light.

  A lorry was moving ponderously across the junction.

  Neville even had time to read what was written on its large blue container.

  He saw the words river island as he sped across the front of the eighteen-wheeler, cutting yards ahead of the pursuing police bike.

  As he cut across the path of the bike, Neville slid one hand inside his jacket and hauled out the. 357.

  He fired three shots, the weapon bucking fiercely in his hand.

  The first shot missed.

  The second struck the windscreen of the bike, shattered it and hit the left hand of the rider, blasting off two fingers.

  The third struck the top box and tore a portion of it away.

  Blood streaming from what was left of his fingers, the rider struggled to keep control of the bike, finally losing the battle.

  The police bike went over, throwing the rider clear, the machine spinning across the Tarmac, slamming into the huge wheel of the lorry, which barely shuddered from the impact.

  The bike exploded.

  There was a sudden eruption of yellow and orange flame as the bike disappeared beneath a shrieking orb of fire.