Counterpoint

by John Day

  Counterpoint

  John Day

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

  http://johnday.webplus.net/

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2014 John Day

  All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords ISBN: 9781311166395

  Chapter - The start of it all.

  It was early morning in Caserta, just north of Naples. The air was fresh and still, the sun already warming the air, and casting a green light through the tall trees, around the clearing.

  Just out of sight of a small side road, the tension was mounting; the exchange of drugs and €2,000,000 was under way.

  Tim had already cocked the machine pistol before he left his car, now he glided silently out from behind the buyers van. He had circled behind the group of six young men, three of his and three of the buyers. Before they saw him, he opened fire, scything through the six of them before they could shoot back.

  Snapping out the used clip and fitting a full one, he studied the crumpled bodies.

  No one moved.

  Without glancing up, he raised his free hand and beckoned to the red Fiat approaching him, 100 metres away. Carla, a pretty, 26 year old blond, floored the accelerator and the car darted towards Tim, tyres squealing and smoking as they clawed the tarmac. Seconds later, it skidded to a halt; Carla opened the driver’s door and popped the boot lid. Tim tossed the canvas bags of heroin and money into the boot, and slammed the lid shut.

  As he ran to the open driver’s door, Carla slid over into the passenger seat. A shot rang out; a bullet starred the windscreen, and penetrated just above the steering wheel.

  “Ah!” She screamed.

  If she had not moved when she did, the bullet would have smashed into the base of her throat. The bullet passed out through the door opening, as Tim ran into it. He was gut shot.

  The sledgehammer impact of the bullet, was not enough to overcome Tim’s onward rush, to get into the car. He doubled up and fell in. Carla pulled him in towards her, and eased him upright in his seat. Stunned at the sight of the blood, oozing from between his fingers as he clasped the wound, she suddenly realized what had happened.

  Another two shots rang out; both hit the bodywork.

  Tim let out a cry of rage; grabbing the steering wheel with one hand and gear lever in the other. Revving hard, the car shot forward towards the gunman.

  Mortally wounded, one of the six men had recovered enough, to take revenge for the double cross, and fired at the driver’s position, in the hope of a hit.

  The accelerating car hit the bodies with a violent lurch; the frantically scrabbling tyres clawed and tore at clothing and flesh. Tim enjoyed the bumping, slithering crunching sound as the car tore into and over the corpses.

  The gunman had tried to get up, and out of the way of the car, but it hit him full in the face, throwing him backward and under the car.

  Carla braced herself until the ride smoothed out, and looked tensely at Tim. How long could he control the speeding car, and how could she help him?

  Tim’s face was fixed in a wild grimace; staring ahead, he was unaware of anything thing except escape. He had lost all reason, and was heading on a road, leading to town, instead of into the mountains, as planned.

  A hidden police car waiting for early morning speeders lurched into motion. Tim’s Fiat took a tight right hand bend, tyres squealing in a barely controlled four-wheeled drift, in front of it.

  Carla had just noticed the police car and shouted a warning to Tim. He did not hear her. He was starting to go into shock now, and was losing consciousness. The Fiat swerved from one side of the road to the other. In Tim’s hands, a crash was only seconds away, and arrest would certainly follow.

  Carla grabbed the steering wheel and regained directional control; however, the car was still accelerating. Tim slumped against the door in a faint, his foot pressed hard on the accelerator. Carla reached for the ignition switch on the side of the steering column, and turned it off. Immediately the Fiat lost speed.

  Steering with one hand, she reached across and opened the driver’s door slightly. The air tearing past the door prevented it from fully opening. Carla knew she had to push Tim out, somehow. It had to be when the car was taking a sharp bend, and centrifugal force would help throw him out.

  Regulating the road speed by switching the ignition on and off, and steering with the other hand, Carla could only wait for the right moment. The police car was gaining ground rapidly, so time was running out, fast!

  Carla approached a large roundabout at the edge of town; it was just what she needed. She deliberately took the roundabout in the wrong direction, drifting across into the oncoming lane. Tim lurched over to the door, pushing it open. With all her strength, Carla pushed him out.

  Tim fell out slowly, pinched between the door and door pillar, eventually hitting the road with his face and chest. Somehow, one of his feet or trouser legs had caught at the base of the seat, dragging him along the road.

  Tim was not quite dead when he hit the road, so the agony of skin and bone being scraped off on the tarmac registered somewhere in his brain, for a second or two.

  The snagged foot suddenly became un-snagged when Tim’s outstretched arms were pinned under the back wheel, to the road. He was ripped out and dragged under the car.

  Carla was nearly thrown out herself when the rear wheel bucked over the corpse. Seconds later, she slid behind the steering wheel and at last, took full control of the car.

  The police car was now alongside Carla, on the inside of the roundabout forcing her onto the verge. Dabbing the brakes, she dropped behind the police and skidded outwards to the curb. The police thought Carla was going to take the approaching exit off the roundabout because the Fiat was drifting that way, so they took it ahead of her. The skid had scrubbed off most of the Fiat’s speed even though the verge was slippery. She continued on to the next exit.

  The police driver was quick to realize his mistake, and with considerable skill, he spun his car around to follow Carla. His misjudgement was all she needed to escape. She had the edge, with a nippy car and her will to survive at all costs.

  Roadblocks were being set up, of course, but Carla was well prepared. She believed that if you fail to plan, you plan to fail!

  Carla headed away from town, back the way Tim had come, until she reached the turn off to the emergency escape route. The direction Tim should have taken. With the police car in close pursuit, she calmly negotiated the narrow road cut out of the rocky hillside, up towards the forest. The powerful car was now gaining on her and getting too close for comfort.

  Her heart sank as the engine cut out briefly, then picked up again. Low on fuel she guessed, and the gauge confirmed it; the fuel pipe, or tank must be leaking! The long, steady climb with few bends to swill the meagre contents past the pickup pipe in the tank, had caused the glitch. Zigzagging the car sloshed fuel around the tank, maintaining a flow to the engine. The police car was now only 20 metres behind, and gaining, fast!

  “You’re too close,” muttered Carla to herself as she snatched up a radio controller, stuck with Velcro to the dashboard. She switched it on as she passed under a rock
y outcrop, and pressed a button, triggering a nitroglycerine charge, embedded in the rock. The force blasted her car sideways in a shower of rock fragments, but she quickly regained control and accelerated away. The blast caught the police car full on, smashing it sideways into the parapet. Blasted with fist-sized chunks of rock on one side, and grinding away in showers of sparks on the other, the police car stalled.

  A large landslide fell onto the road right behind them, blocking it off. Totally stunned by the attack, it took several moments for the driver to recover and restart the engine. He floored the accelerator and with the engine screaming, dropped the clutch. Bucking and screeching against the parapet, the police car broke free and was in hot pursuit again.

  Carla grinned cheekily to herself as she glanced in her rear view mirror, at the havoc she caused.

  “Bang goes you’re no claim bonus Cop,” she muttered.

  Still gripping the controller, she rounded a bend and pressed it again. Another explosion, and more rock spread over the road in a landslide; she was almost home free.

  Carla’s engine spluttered and died; wiggling the steering frantically, brought it back to life.

  “Just take me a few hundred metres more. Please! Please!” She begged. “Don’t let me down now, please!”

  The car surged forward and she backed right off the accelerator, maximizing every precious drop of fuel, left in the tank.

  A narrow track suddenly came into view on the left, and she spun the wheel, drove up it a few metres, and stopped. Just ahead was a particularly dirty, dark green 4X4 vehicle, substantially hidden by the undergrowth.

  At a glance, she could see no one was in it or nearby.

  Leaping out of the Fiat with a different set of car keys, snatched from the glove compartment, she ran to the dark green Cherokee, beeping it unlocked as she ran. Before opening the door, she glanced at the dashboard, to see if any warning lights were flashing. No lights glowed, so she got in and started the engine. Thankfully, it roared into life.

  Dragging the bags of drugs and money from the Fiat to the Cherokee, she tossed them onto the back seat and slammed the door shut. Dashing back to the Fiat, she flicked a switch under the dashboard, and a loud buzzer sounded. Carla ran back to the other car and drove off into the woods.

  A loud thump and a glimpse of flames through the trees confirmed to Carla, the Fiat had commenced the destruction process. No traces of fingerprints or forensic evidence would remain on the car; it had done well and was expendable. The car would burn for some time, blocking the track to vehicles from the road, also part of the plan.

  The route through the woods was also well planned. It provided a link to a motorway network (SS7, E45 & A1 merge) offering many possible busy routes out of the area. The dense tree cover and dull green paintwork also made spotting the Cherokee difficult from the air.

  The track soon petered out and by carefully following the faint tyre marks left days before when the route was worked out, Carla managed to find her way. Ten minutes later, she emerged onto a side road, in sight of the first of a series of roundabouts.

  Carla pulled into a large, busy petrol station and drove under the canopy near the car wash. There were two cars ahead of her, in the queue, so she had to wait her turn.

  She looked at herself; there was blood on her hands, face and all over her clothes. All she could do was hope no one came close enough to see through the tinted glass.

  Five minutes later, it was her turn to go through the wash. With tokens already in the vehicle; all she had to do was wind down the window and put them in the car wash machine.

  The wash transformed the Cherokee, it emerged with gleaming chrome and paintwork; no one would associate the quietly burbling vehicle going in with the one growling out.

  On the motorway, Carla noted many police vehicles heading the way she had come, and several helicopters watching traffic flow near junctions.

  By road, there was no quick route to this section of motorway, from where Carla left the Fiat, so roadblocks were not set up on this stretch. Because of the dense undergrowth, and rough terrain, pursuing police did not consider the cross-country route was feasible. You could spend a day finding a way through.

  Carla pressed on keeping pace with the mass of vehicles around her and remained unnoticed.

  Five miles later she turned off onto a side road and eventually, into a disused barn, stopping next to an old, silver Honda Prelude.

  There were no doors on the barn, but she felt safe in its dark shadows. She got out of the Cherokee and dragged the money bags out of the back, onto the ground. Popping the boot of the Prelude, she pulled out a large plastic sheet and a holdall bag. The sheet was spread out on the floor, and she stripped off all her clothes, piling everything into the middle. Taking a long drink from some bottled water, she used the rest to wash herself, especially those parts normally unclothed. The blood took some removing, and there was not much water to spare.

  Fresh clothes made Carla feel better, the denim jacket and jeans, white blouse and peaked cap complimented her ponytail and the Versace shades completed the picture of a cute little twenty-six-year-old blond, on her way home to her folks.

  The sound of a helicopter caught her attention, and she peeked out to find it. It was above the clouds somewhere, and she reckoned it would soon be in sight.

  She knew the Cherokee had a tracking device fitted, so the helicopter, belonging to Marco the drug-dealing boss who planned the escape route, was expected. Marco suspected Tim had double-crossed him, and wanted to get his investment back.

  “Time to go,” she said to herself, leaping into action.

  Everything on the sheet and the money was crammed into the boot of the Honda. As she drove out, front first, she pressed the Cherokee central locking button on the key ring twice and threw the keys through its open window, onto the driver’s seat. The sleek silver car glided onto the road, leading back to the motorway, without raising much dust.

  A minute later, looking up through the sunroof, she saw a black helicopter starting to descend through the clouds towards the barn. It hovered a few feet from the ground, blowing dust everywhere. Two men with guns dropped to the ground and ran into the barn.

  “It’s here,” reported the leading man over his radio. “The bags are in it as well.”

  “Check them and get the money over here,” a voice crackled back from the helicopter.

  “OK! They are full,” replied the leading man, a few seconds later. The man in the helicopter also heard a long beep tone picked up from the leading man’s microphone, and his scream.

  “SHIT! The trembler has activated!”

  The Cherokee exploded in the barn in a blinding flash, shooting flame and flying debris, high in the air.

  The Helicopter immediately climbed and disappeared back into the cloud.

  The plume of flame and smoke caught Carla’s eye and she smirked, “Oh! Naughty Carla” she scolded herself, “You must have reset the booby trap when you pressed the key ring twice.”

  Feeling safe now, the long journey to her hideaway home would soon pass, and she could get her investments set up with the drug money.

  Chapter - Max imagines the worst.

  Max Fortune had been driving for three hours now, in the region of the Lago Matese along the SP331, the quiet purr of the camper’s engine and the never-ending 20-meter strip of illuminated road in the headlamps, made him drowsy. No other traffic had passed him during this time, typical for this time of the night, in this part of Italy.

  Throughout the journey, he had relived the events in his mind, which brought him here. His wife had died twelve years earlier, and he had struggled to bring up his son while running a successful business, in England. He had had enough of the struggle. His son James had passed through university with honours with a chemistry degree, but then James switched to the more exciting and rewarding career, in the computer industry. Why should he, Max Fortune, waste his remaining years? He wanted adventure!

  There h
ad been many women in Max’s life, but none could see a future with him. He was fully committed to his work. The truth was, he had not found his soul mate, and at forty-five, set in his ways, he did not think there was any chance now. Impulsively, he shut down his business, bought a camper van and set off, to a life of adventure. So far, life had run pretty true to form. Three weeks ago he set off for the grand adventure and so far, on a scale of 1 to 10, thrill and excitement was somewhere about zero.

  Max was now starting the long winding ascent into the mountains. The hairpin bends on the way up, at least broke the monotony. He shifted into second gear, then into first to negotiate the hairpin bend. In the inky blackness of the night, below he glimpsed the lights of another vehicle. Max was not sure if he was pleased to see the manifestation of other human life on this road. He suspected bandits were in this area. He looked again; the lights were closer now and approaching fast!

  The more he thought about the situation, the worse it seemed to be. He was being irrational and feeding his fears.

  Max looked for somewhere off the road, to hide until the car passed. The left side of the road was almost a sheer drop into oblivion, and the right hand side was a sheer cliff face to the stars.

  He pressed his foot hard down on the accelerator and the drumming of the now high revving engine, straining to push the heavy van slowly up the mountain road, made him panic. He had to get ahead, hide, anything, but let them catch up and murder him.

  “Pull yourself together,” he said to himself “you’re just psyching yourself up” but his foot pressed the pedal even harder to the floor.

  Frantically he looked from side to side, to find some sort of refuge; he looked down below and saw the approaching lights.

  “Damn, they are gaining on me! What am I going to do? Why did I come to this godforsaken place?”

  Relentlessly, the lights grew closer, Max felt sick in his stomach, he had convinced himself bandits were going to catch him, then rob him, then kill him.