by Lee Stone
Instinctively, he glanced at his mirror to see if he was going to be shunted. Tyler was following too close, and knew that he’d come off worst if he rear-ended the heavy Range Rover, so he hit the brakes too hard, and swerved violently. A truck behind him plowed into the side of him, and as Lockhart drove on, the headlights in his mirror disappeared. This was his chance.
He hit the gas and within a few minutes arrived at the petrol station. He saw it from the road, lit up harshly with strong fluorescent lights. The forecourt was empty as there were few other drivers on the road. He wasted no time, pushing his card into the pump; it would be quicker than paying inside. The tank was almost full when he saw headlights coming off the motorway. For a moment he panicked, until he saw that it was a truck and trailer, probably pulling off until the storm had gone. It was hard enough keeping the Range Rover in a straight line; The truck was an accident waiting to happen.
The truck pulled up on the far side of the forecourt, and the driver opened his door and tumbled out as if he was drunk. He fell straight to the floor, face down. Then a huge black figure pushed through the door behind him. By the time Lockhart realized that Tyler had hijacked the truck, it was too late. He stormed out of the cab, his revolver already pointing at Lockhart.
Without thinking, Lockhart raised his hands. Tyler had pulled a cap down to his brow, and zipped his coat up high. There were security cameras on the forecourt, and he was careful not to look up. He was well trained. He kept his back to the main building. He was within five meters of Lockhart when his phone rang. He picked up with his free hand, without ever taking his eyes off Lockhart or lowering his weapon.
Lockhart could hear the voice at the end of the phone shouting at Tyler. He picked up two words which told him a lot:
“Stand down!”
Tyler definitely wasn’t alone. He wasn’t the boss. He was being given an order and the order was not to kill him. So, he wasn’t allowed to shoot. Lockhart took a chance, guessing that Tyler wouldn’t fire the revolver, least of all on the oil-soaked forecourt of a petrol station. Tyler was five meters away, and the sanctuary of the bulletproof Range Rover was less than two.
Tyler was nodding his head in compliance as he listened to new instructions from Lang. Lockhart imagined what he was about to do, energizing his muscles, ready to spring. He swallowed his nerves and exhaled. He was ready to make a move.
Whether it was a twitch or a look in Lockhart’s eye, something gave him away. Tyler lunged towards him, arms outstretched, even before Lockhart felt himself moving. He was twisting towards the Range Rover, but he could feel Tyler’s shadow falling across him before his feet had moved from the spot. By the time his body began moving towards the driver’s door, Tyler was already closing the gap.
Some primal program buried deep in his brain was forcing his back to arch, avoiding the swiping grip of his assailant, and before he knew it, he was in, and clutching at the heavy door, trying to lock the huge soldier out.
As the door swung, it connected with Tyler’s solid forearm. His fingers grasped wildly for any purchase on Lockhart, but he slammed the door again, until eventually the arm retreated, and the door slammed. Through the thick glass, Lockhart watched as Tyler’s rage exploded. He grabbed at the fuel nozzle and began smashing it against the side of the Range Rover. There was no way he could come through the ballistic panels, and he knew it. But he stood there, venting his anger at having lost his target again.
Tyler shouted something into his phone, and then threw that at the Range Rover too. Lockhart saw the handset flying straight for the center of his forehead, and he ducked even though the phone bounced straight off the windscreen. Even in a rage, Tyler had impressive control. It seemed that the angrier he got, the deadlier his accuracy became.
Lockhart had seen enough though, and started up the Range Rover. He drove off at a steady pace. Behind him, he saw Tyler tower over another man on the forecourt who had been watching what was happening in amazement. He took the keys from the man and climbed into his Saab, driving after Lockhart with his cap still pulled low over his eyes.
As he caught his breath, Lockhart wondered what had happened to the bull back on the motorway. Proud in his field, wide eyed and confused outside his usual territory. As the snow fell, Lockhart thought about Ajmal, the Englishman who had traveled so far from his comfort zone. He wondered what he would be doing if fate hadn’t pulled him to Quetta. He wondered the same about himself.
There were no other cars on the road now, except for the Range Rover and the set of headlights following menacingly behind, about fifty meters back. Lockhart had sped up to about eighty, and the lights in the mirror kept in touch. The miles ticked down towards Heathrow. With fewer cars on the road, the surface was becoming ever more treacherous, but the snow plows had been out and the surfaces were just about passable. The Range Rover plowed towards the Airport, and the Saab followed in its tracks.
In the Saab, Tyler was trying to identify a noise emanating from the dashboard. A small button with a phone icon had started flashing, and he pressed it.
“Tyler?”
It was Lang. For a moment Tyler was impressed that the General had procured the forecourt CCTV footage, traced the Saab’s registration and cross referenced it with the owner’s phone records all in the space of fifteen minutes. Then he realized that in fact the Saab’s Bluetooth had picked up the signal from his own mobile. Its cracked screen was illuminated on the passenger seat.
“He’s just ahead,” Tyler reported. “Bad visibility, but I’m sure he’s heading for Heathrow.”
Lang was already typing, checking outbound flights from London’s busiest airport. It was impossible to know where Fearless could be headed. So, he made a decision.
“We need him to make the bank transfer. Do you understand?”
Don’t kill him. Don’t let him leave. Tyler understood. He had a hundred million dollar cut riding on getting the job right. He hung up, and focused on the tail lights in front of him.
It wasn’t long before the Range Rover was turning off. Tyler chuckled to himself. He was heading to Heathrow alright, just like the notepad in the kitchen had told him. Amateur.
As the Range Rover pulled onto the Heathrow slip road, Lockhart hit a wall of snow. The slip road hadn’t been cleared by the plows in the way that the main road had been, and he approached the junction far too quickly, sailing across it with his wheels unable to grip, despite the weight of the modified car. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and willed the car to come around, which it did. He straightened up and continued round the airport ring road.
About thirty seconds later, Tyler did exactly the same. The Saab was lighter and made more of a meal of the turn, and although Tyler was an expert driver, it took all of his concentration to bring the car under control. As he looked up from the spin, he saw that the Range Rover had accelerated and was already pulling away from him. The eerie, unnatural light of Terminal Five was looming up through the snow, and Lockhart was getting away.
But Lockhart was fishing. Reeling in his opponent. If he could draw Tyler into his trap he could be rid of him for good. Lockhart had no claim on the three hundred million dollars and no desire to keep it. But Tyler hadn’t agreed to the deal, so Lockhart had made a decision. Run and hide, or find a way to deal with Tyler. He was going to deal with him.
The river was pushing him along, round the ring road and straight to the front entrance of the departure terminal. The Saab was further behind now, but still within sight. The blood was still in Tyler’s nostrils. Lockhart estimated that he would have about forty seconds after getting out of the Range Rover before the man with the gun arrived behind him. He figured he could safely leave the 4x4 parked in the red zone for about ten minutes before it was clamped or towed.
He kept one hand on the wheel, and began to dig about in his pockets with the other. He pulled out his loose change, and put it on the passenger seat. Then he unbuckled his belt and began to slip it from his jeans. He took off his
watch and removed his mobile phone from his jacket. It was almost time.
Every moment the world was getting brighter. The tall buildings stopped the snow from swirling around the vehicle, and back-lit billboards were looming up on either side. Low lights skirted the carriageway, and the roads because gritted and slushy.
It was all too public for Tyler, but he couldn’t back down now. This was what everything had been building towards. Dangerous days in Nahr-e Saraj, making deals and threatening locals. Heading out into Taliban desert strongholds to squeeze an extra ten percent from local traders. He and Lang had been shot at, and one group had even been stupid enough to take them hostage. Tyler remembered the occasion well.
There had been nine people in the compound where he and Lang were taken prisoner. Tyler had been hooded and tied in a car for four hours, but when they arrived at their sordid destination, he could have pointed to their position on a map and been within a couple of hundred meters. He had kept his eyes and ears open, and he knew the names of five of the men, and who was in charge.
He had worked out who was the weakest member of the group, and he had established which of them had weapons, and who knew how to use them. They had been captive at the compound for less than two hours when the second in command had come to question them, with three men alongside him. The General sat calmly, knowing that he had a more impressive weapon by his side than an AK 47.
And so it proved. Tyler refused to talk, simply holding out his hands in silence, indicating that he would talk if his cable ties were removed. One of the henchmen hit him with the butt of his gun, and Tyler doubled over, as though in pain. The truth was, he was all muscle and it hadn’t hurt in the slightest. Eventually, he straightened up and held out his hands again.
The second in command spoke to one of the others, and Tyler’s restraints were removed. Within thirty seconds all four insurgents were dead. Tyler didn’t miss a beat as he felled each of them in turn with his fists knees elbows and boots, like some venomous cage-fighter. It was frightening to watch. Then calmly he took a pistol from the side of one of the men and methodically shot each of the dazed men in the head, showing no mercy and no hesitation.
The remaining five men came through the door one after another, like the keystone cops, and Tyler picked the first three off with bullets between the eyes. It was like target practice. The fourth man came flying into the room, his eyes wild. Tyler grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall, turning just in time to shoot the remaining fighter.
The man pinned against the wall looked around the room. Lang was still sitting at the desk, his hands cable tied in front of him. There were eight dead men on the floor. Tyler turned back to the man on the wall.
“You have to understand that things have changed now, Mr. Houshmand,” Tyler said quietly to the frightened looking man. “Do you understand?”
Houshmand nodded without speaking. He was the most feared warlord in that part of Helmand, but with all eight of his close protection team killed in the space of a minute, he was alone and scared. He had no idea how the huge man looming over him had learned his name. He wasn’t about to ask.
Lang stood up, and Tyler rummaged among the dead until he found a pocket knife which he used to remove the General’s cable ties. Lang stood up, and directed Houshmand to sit in the chair which he had vacated.
The terror was done. In a room full of eight dead bodies, the last man standing will always be compliant. So, Lang spoke quietly while Tyler stood behind him. He dictated terms about who would be granted safe passage through the territory, which factories would be left to flourish and which would be razed to the ground. By the time they left, Houshmand was clear about who was in charge in Nahr-e Saraj.
This was how Tyler had earned his money. Dangerously and slowly. The millions of dollars at stake tonight were not legitimate, but he had worked hard for them. The man who held the key to his money was not about to walk out of sight through a well-lit airport. No way. He pushed a little harder on the gas.
The Range Rover came to a fork in the road. Without hesitating, Lockhart took the restricted lane which led straight to the drop off point outside departures. He stayed within the speed limit and pulled up as close to the doors as possible, without drawing any undue attention to himself. He pushed the hazards and bleeped the central locking. Then without looking back he walked up to the huge glass structure and through the automatic doors.
The inside of terminal five was just like any other large airport; the same check in desks and hushed atmosphere, the same harsh lighting and stone floors, and the same vain efforts to look different. In Heathrow’s case it was a ceiling made of large round sound buffers and an ice cube sculpture in the lounge. Lockhart ignored it all and headed for the escalators to the first floor.
According to the huge screen, all of the flights were delayed. No doubt the runway was frozen with snow. It wouldn’t matter. He was almost at the top of the escalators by the time Tyler screeched to a halt behind his Range Rover. A few people looked up but the place was almost deserted; it was past midnight, and the snow had prevented most people from setting out. A recorded message on Heathrow’s main switchboard was telling people that the snow was leading to severe delays and that the runway would be closed until at least six A.M. Tyler grabbed the revolver from the passenger seat and thrust it back into his jacket pocket. He jumped from the Saab and rushed to the main doors.
He knocked a suitcase from a Korean tourist who shouted bitterly after him, shaking his fist. Another time Tyler would have turned and silenced the guy, but today his mind was focused on his target. His eyes scoured the departure terminal, and caught sight of Lockhart heading across the walkway on the first floor, making for the departure gates.
Tyler had done his best to wipe his blooded nose and face as he drove, and the black clothes disguised the blood, but all the same the screeching brakes, the yelling Korean, and the pace at which he was rushing towards the escalator were drawing some attention.
None of it mattered now. All that mattered was making sure that Lockhart, and his hard-earned dollars, didn’t disappear to some place on the other side of the world. Tyler had always been a ruthless hunter, but after a year of close calls and near misses, he just wanted the prize. One hundred million dollars would put him beyond the reach of the law, or the Army. It would mean sunshine and success and palm trees and women and all of the things he had done without for the last twelve months. And all that stood between him and his new life was the man about thirty seconds in front of him.
Lockhart had reached the security checks. With so many flights canceled, there was no queue, and he walked as quickly as possible through the cordon and into the scanning space between two plain black boxes as directed by the uniformed guard. This was it, the scanner he had seen in the magazine article. It was a new generation X-ray machine which could see pretty much everything beneath passenger’s clothes. A small sign lit up with the words Scanning in Progress for about five seconds after which a guard called him through. He stole a glance behind him as he walked on and glimpsed Tyler almost at the machine.
Tyler saw nothing except for his prey. His work. His hundred million. Tunnel vision. He swept through the area ignoring the man in the uniform and squeezing his huge frame between the black boxes. Inevitably, an alarm sounded.
At once, Tyler realized his mistake. The shrill alarm cut through his thoughts and changed his focus. A man in uniform stepped out in front of him, and was asked him to return to the scanner. He was about six foot two, and he was staring hard at Tyler. Noticing his broken nose and traces of blood on his face. Noticing his heavy breathing and agitated state. Perhaps he was on drugs? Perhaps he had a heavy metal belt and a fear of flying. The security man doubted it, somehow.
Tyler was aware of a lot of movement in his peripheral sight. On a screen somewhere nearby, an astounded analyst had just noticed a gigantic man trying to get through the body scanner with what seemed to be some type of weapon. The revolv
er showed up brightly compared to the dull silhouettes around it.
The analyst hit the panic alarm, and now the two guards were being replaced by several well-trained police officers from the SO-19 anti-terror branch. They wore police badges with dark combats, thick protective vests, and Heckler & Koch MP5 semi-automatics.
Tyler’s blood began to boil. Confined between the black boxes, tricked by Lockhart, and surrounded by flat-footed British policemen, his rage exploded. He was a far better shot than any of the officers and as he whipped out the revolver they were slow to react. He was a warrior while they were mostly family men who became firearms officers because it paid a few more pounds towards family Christmases. Tyler had emptied two of his chambers before any of them had even raised their weapons to their shoulders.
Even under pressure his shot was excellent, and both bullets hit home; head shots which felled the police officers. But there were four officers on either side, and they opened fire. The first hit Tyler in the leg as a shocked policeman fired wildly, reacting to his colleagues dropping. As Tyler turned towards the man, a second bullet hit him in the back of the skull. The other bullets didn’t matter. Tyler was dead before his giant frame hit the floor.
Lockhart had heard the gunfire behind him in disbelief. He had hoped that the revolver would show up on the scan and that Tyler would be arrested. They idea that the man would have been psychotic enough to try to take on an airport full of armed policemen simply hadn’t occurred to him.
Judging by the fact that the gunfire had stopped, and the police were calling for medics, he guessed Tyler was apprehended or worse. The airport would be in lockdown in seconds. Lockhart looked around and spotted a fire alarm and smashed it with his elbow.