The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  He put the broken torsion wrench under his thigh and picked up the other one. He pointed at Harrigan’s left wrist. Harrigan slid his left arm across his body so that Hutch could reach the handcuff. Hutch looked at his watch. It had been twenty minutes since they had left the prison. He was running out of time.

  BILLY WINTER STRETCHED OUT on his sunlounger and adjusted his towel over his legs, the only part of his body not shielded from the sun by the fringed umbrella. Even at nine o’clock in the morning, the sun was still strong enough to burn. He looked at his watch. Assuming everything went to plan, within minutes Hutch and Harrigan would no longer be prisoners. The trouble with Thailand, Winter knew, was that practically nothing went to plan. That was why he’d decided to spend the morning by the pool in full view of the rest of the sunbathing guests, just in case something went wrong. Winter knew the importance of a good alibi, and he figured it would be hard to do better than to be seen at the pool of the Oriental Hotel. He waved a poolboy over and ordered eggs and bacon, with wholewheat toast, orange juice and a pot of coffee. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, his mother had always said, and Winter believed her.

  ‘CAN’T YOU DO IT?’ whispered Harrigan. His left arm was shaking even though he was supporting it with his right hand.

  ‘Do you want to try?’ hissed Hutch.

  Harrigan looked away and muttered something to himself. Hutch looked out of the window. The Kawasaki was back, drawing level with the window. Bird had the helmet visor up. He nodded at Hutch.

  ‘Shit,’ said Hutch.

  ‘Is he one of them?’ asked Harrigan.

  ‘When I give the word, put your head down and protect your face,’ whispered Hutch.

  ‘What about the cuffs?’

  ‘You’ll have to manage,’ said Hutch. He gathered the picks and shims together and stuffed them back into his training shoe.

  Bird was looking over his left shoulder, then he straightened up. He took his left hand off the handlebars and held it up, fingers splayed. ‘Five seconds,’ said Hutch. Bird dropped his left hand and accelerated away.

  THE TAXI DIDN’T INDICATE before changing lanes and the coach driver hit the horn. The taxi picked up speed so the driver didn’t have to brake. The coach driver reached up with one hand and ran his fingers along the red cord from which hung a small Buddha, sitting cross-legged inside a clear plastic tube. Two small motorcycles zipped by his offside mirror. The sun glinted off the back window of the taxi and the driver pulled down his sun visor and squinted into the irritating brightness. The taxi slowed a little and the coach driver narrowed the gap between them. A minibus with tinted windows overtook him on his left, a tourist bus judging by the signs painted on the side. The minibus overtook the taxi. Another motorcycle went by. And another. The driver suddenly realised that all four of the motorcyclists were wearing identical lime-green vests. That was when the taxi slammed on its brakes.

  THE COACH BRAKES SHRIEKED a second before the impact, giving Hutch just enough time to put his arms over his face and brace himself. The coach hit hard, its momentum carrying it forward, crushing the back of the taxi. One of the guards at the back of the coach went sprawling, his gun clattering on the metal floor. Several of the prisoners were thrown out of their seats and there were screams and shouts of pain. When the coach stopped moving, Hutch looked up. Traffic all around them had ground to a halt. He looked over his shoulder. The guard who’d fallen was on his knees, picking up his weapon. Hutch kept his hands low, hiding the fact that his hands were no longer cuffed together. He looked across at Joshua. Blood was streaming from the Nigerian’s nose.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, man,’ said Joshua. ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘Stay down,’ said Hutch. ‘It’s not over yet.’

  Harrigan lifted his head but Hutch put a hand on his neck and forced him back down.

  THE COACH DRIVER PUSHED himself up off the steering wheel. He groaned and felt his forehead. He took his hand away. It was smeared with blood. He reached up and touched the Buddha hanging from the rearview mirror. He was lucky to be alive, and thanks were due to the talisman that had saved his life. The two guards with him in the cab had been wearing their seatbelts and were shaken but not hurt.

  Down below, the taxi driver climbed out of his vehicle. The back of the taxi was crushed but the driver seemed to be unhurt. He examined the damage, shaking his head in disgust. He was a young man with the dark skin of an easterner and he had long, greasy hair that fell around his shoulders. He was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and faded blue jeans and looked as if he hadn’t washed in a week. The coach driver pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his uniform and dabbed at his forehead.

  The taxi driver glared up at the cab of the coach and pointed at his taxi. The coach driver shrugged and smiled. It wasn’t his fault. The taxi driver had braked for no reason. Anyone would have crashed into the back of him; it wasn’t as if the coach driver had been speeding. He stroked the hanging Buddha again. The taxi driver walked around to the side of the coach and stood by the door, his hands on his hips. The minibus had stopped and the driver had put on its hazard warning lights.

  The coach driver opened the door to his cab and looked down at the taxi driver. ‘Are you hurt?’ he said.

  The taxi driver put his right hand behind his back as if scratching an itch. When it reappeared it was holding a large handgun. He motioned for the armed guard to drop his shotgun. A man climbed out of the back of the taxi. He had a gun in either hand.

  THE DRIVER’S CAB WAS blocked off from the rest of the coach and the guards at the rear were unable to see what was going on in front of the vehicle. The three guards at the back of the coach peered out of the windows, anxious frowns on their faces. They talked among themselves and seemed more concerned about their own welfare than the injured prisoners. The rear door hissed open. The guards whirled around, caught by surprise. Two of the motorcycle riders were standing there, wearing full-face visors. Before the guards could speak, the motorcyclists tossed small steel canisters in through the open door and then ducked out of the way. White smoke belched from the cylinders and within seconds the guards were coughing and spluttering.

  Joshua struggled to his feet. Hutch put his arm out across the aisle and grabbed his arm. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said.

  BIRD RAN FROM WHERE he’d parked the big Kawasaki, towards the coach. Ahead of him, half a dozen men piled out of the minibus, their faces covered with scarves, large guns in their hands. They fanned out towards the coach. All around them cars were stopping, but the men were totally concentrated on the job at hand. In his left hand Bird had a length of chain, at the end of which were four stainless-steel hooks. He bent down as he ran, just in case one of the guards managed to get off a shot.

  The men from the minibus ran to their prearranged positions around the coach, covering the windows with their guns. The coach had already half-filled with choking smoke. One of the guards staggered out of the rear door. A masked man pistol-whipped him and he slumped to the ground.

  Bird reached the window where Harrigan and Hutch were sitting. He straightened up and attached the hooks to the four corners of the metal mesh covering the glass, then ran back to his motorcycle, playing out the chain between his gloved hands. At the other end of the chain was a carabiner which he clipped to the back of the machine’s chassis. He stood astride the bike, clicked it into gear and gunned the accelerator.

  TEARS STREAMED DOWN HUTCH’S cheeks. The rear of the coach was obscured by thick, white smoke but he could just about make out the figures of the guards. Harrigan was choking so Hutch told him to put his shirt over his mouth and to breathe through the material. Hutch looked out of the window. As he did he heard the wrenching of metal as the mesh screen was ripped from its mountings. Through the glass Hutch saw a man with a red silk scarf wrapped around the bottom of his face. He was holding a gun with both hands. Hutch ducked instinctively. When he looked up again he saw one of the motorcycle riders running up holding a sle
dgehammer. Hutch grabbed Harrigan by the collar and pulled him into the aisle. Harrigan fell to his knees, still coughing. Hutch dropped down on top of him as the sledgehammer slammed into the window. Glass showered over Hutch’s back. He straightened up.

  ‘Okay!’ Hutch shouted. ‘We’re out of here!’

  Harrigan didn’t appear to have heard so Hutch picked him up by the arms and pushed him across the seat. Two men in motorcycle helmets and green vests held up their arms and reached for Harrigan. Harrigan flopped out of the window head first as if he were unconscious and the two men pulled him through. Hutch heard shouts from the back of the coach. He looked around. One of the guards was unlocking the door to the cage.

  Harrigan’s feet disappeared through the window. The door to the cage opened and a guard stepped through it, bringing his shotgun to bear on Hutch. Hutch raised his hands in surrender. The guard, coughing and squinting through the stinging smoke, looked in astonishment at Hutch’s unchained hands.

  The guard got to within six feet of Hutch, the barrel of his shotgun pointing steadily at Hutch’s chest. He motioned with the gun for Hutch to lie on the floor. With a sagging heart, Hutch began to do as he was told. He dropped to his knees. Suddenly Joshua leaped to his feet and shoulder-charged the guard. The guard fell sideways, across two of the prisoners. His gun went off and lead shot smacked into the roof. The noise was deafening in the confines of the coach.

  ‘Go, man!’ screamed Joshua.

  Hutch got to his feet as the guard pulled himself up. One of the prisoners he was lying on grabbed the gun and the two men wrestled for possession. Hutch bent down and took the lock-picking tools from his training shoe. He thrust them into Joshua’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Just go, man,’ Joshua yelled. The guard’s shotgun went off again and the prisoner in the window seat jerked and fell into the aisle. Blood spurted from between his teeth. The guard pulled the shotgun from the prisoner’s lifeless hands and tried to stand up. Joshua threw himself on the guard and began hitting him with both clenched fists.

  Hutch hesitated for a second, then ran for the broken window.

  BIRD FLINCHED AS THE shotgun went off for the second time. He unhooked the chain from the chassis of the bike and threw it to one side. He turned to look at the coach just in time to see Hutch throw himself through the window. He was caught by two of the helmeted riders and they half-carried, half-dragged him over to the motorcycles. Harrigan was already sitting astride one of the machines, his handcuffed hands in his lap. A guard stumbled out of the coach, his eyes closed. He was hit on the head with the butt of a gun and slumped forward, unconscious before he hit the ground. Bird climbed on to his Kawasaki. Traffic had now come to a complete stop in both directions. A coach full of Japanese tourists in one of the northbound lanes were clicking away with their cameras.

  Suddenly a window in the prison coach exploded as a guard fired his shotgun. One of the masked men was hit, and he fell back, blood spraying from his chest. The man’s companions started firing back with their handguns, pouring bullets into the coach. A large black man hurtled through the window and fell awkwardly on to the road. Bird’s men emptied their guns into the coach, firing until the hammers of their weapons clicked on empty chambers.

  Bird ran over to the man who’d been shot. Froth-flecked blood was bubbling from his chest wounds but he was still alive. Bird took a pistol from the waistband of his jeans and shot the man in the face.

  There were screams and moans from inside the coach. Most of the windows had been shattered by the gunfire and there was broken glass all over the road. Bird ran back to his Kawasaki, threw his leg over it and turned the ignition switch. The masked men ran over to the parked motorcycles with the helmeted riders, tucking their weapons into their belts. Bird waited until he saw Hutch getting on to the passenger seat of one of the motorcycles before driving off.

  HUTCH PUT HIS HANDS around the waist of the rider as he kicked the motorcycle into life. Hutch blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear them, and looked over his shoulder. The men with masks were all climbing on to motorcycles. Bird was already roaring away, his body bent low over the tank of his machine. Hutch looked around for Harrigan, then saw him on the back of one of the bikes.

  ‘You okay?’ Hutch shouted.

  Harrigan didn’t appear to hear him. The motorcycle he was sitting on jerked forward and for a heart-stopping second Hutch feared the Irishman would tumble backwards. Harrigan recovered his balance and sat straight, holding on to the rider’s vest with both hands. The handcuffs stopped him from putting his arms around the man. Harrigan’s motorcycle sped away northwards, driving in between the lanes of parked traffic. Several of the car drivers had got out to see what was going on and they had to leap out of the way.

  Hutch’s bike lurched forward and he gripped his rider tighter. All around him was the buzzing of 125cc motorcycles, weaving in and out of the traffic. He took a last look over his shoulder. Joshua was half-jumping, half-shuffling away from the coach, laughing like a madman and making quite good progress considering that his legs and hands were still chained.

  TIM CARVER SAT BACK in his chair and flipped the top of his Zippo with his left hand as he listened to the police scanner on his desk. It had turned into a bloodbath, according to the frantic transmissions coming from the scene. Two guards dead, two prisoners killed, and half a dozen wounded. Ambulances were on the way but the traffic was locked solid for miles in both directions. The police had tried calling in their helicopter but it had engine trouble and wouldn’t be available for at least two hours.

  Half a dozen motorcycle policemen had managed to get to the coach and they were doing what they could to keep the injured alive with the assistance of a doctor who’d been trapped in his car nearby. From the sound of it, at least one more of the prisoners wasn’t going to make it.

  It wasn’t supposed to have happened that way, Carver knew. Hutch had said that no one would be hurt. He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and considered his options. The Thai police didn’t know of the DEA involvement, and by the sound of it Hutch, Harrigan and the perpetrators had got clean away. Carver’s best course of action appeared to be keeping his mouth shut and letting Hutch get on with his run. He looked at his wristwatch. It was time to contact Jake Gregory.

  THE TRAFFIC HAD STARTED to thin out and the motorcycle picked up speed. Hutch looked over the driver’s shoulder. They were travelling at almost fifty miles an hour, against the traffic flow. Cars were sounding their horns and headlights were flashing but the eight motorcycle taxis paid them no heed. Hutch could see why they were using small machines and not the 750cc monster that Bird had been riding: the small bikes were highly manoeuvrable and able to squeeze between tight gaps. They zipped past a police car; the three uniformed officers inside climbed out and watched them go, scratching their heads. Driving against the traffic seemed suicidal, but it certainly cut down on the odds of them being pursued.

  Ahead of him, Hutch saw the motorcycles turn off the main highway and into a narrow road which was blocked solid with traffic. The motorcycles bumped up on to the pavement and roared along it in single file, scattering pedestrians. Hutch was the fifth in the convoy, and Harrigan was on the bike behind him.

  Two monks carrying black bowls jumped into the road to get out of the way. Each of the riders nodded an apology as they went by. A makeshift restaurant had been set up on the pavement, where an old man and an even older woman were serving pork and noodles. The bike at the head of the convoy smashed through the tables and stools, knocking over the charcoal burner and a huge stainless-steel pot of water. The boiling liquid splashed over one of the workmen who’d been spooning noodles into his mouth and he fell backwards, screaming in agony. As Hutch rode by, so close that the tyres were only inches away from the man’s head, he could see that the water had gone over most of his chest.

  At the end of the road was a hump-backed bridge over a canal and the motorcycle convoy raced across it. Below, a water-taxi flas
hed by, black smoke belching from its engine. The traffic tailed off and soon the motorcycles were racing along at more than sixty miles an hour, the wind whipping through Hutch’s hair and tugging at his shirt. They turned sharply to the left and roared alongside the canal, past wooden homes on stilts and groups of children splashing and playing in the filthy water. Hutch looked to his left, back across the bridge. No one was following them, but he was unable to relax. It could all still go wrong.

  They left the canalside after half a mile and turned down another road, little more than a dirt track that ran between ramshackle homes. Bare-chested men, and women in threadbare T-shirts and cotton dresses, watched them go, and naked children waved and jumped up and down as if they were a parade passing. Ahead of them was a corrugated-iron fence, flecked with rust as if it had been there for several years. Truck tyre tracks led to a gap several yards wide halfway along it. The motorcycles went through, one at a time. Inside was a building site. Work seemed to have stopped, because there were no workmen around and the site had an air of neglect.

  Bird was already there, standing by the side of his Kawasaki and removing his full-face helmet. He waved at Hutch. ‘Perfect, huh?’ he said, dropping his helmet on the ground next to the bike and pulling off his gloves.

  ‘Nobody was supposed to get hurt,’ said Hutch, climbing off his bike. The driver dismounted, too, and pushed the motorcycle over to Bird’s Kawasaki. He let it fall sideways and it crashed to the ground. The rest of the motorcyclists were dumping their machines all around Bird’s bike, and stripping off their helmets, gloves and vests. The men with masks were already piling into four nondescript saloon cars.