by Mike Gilmore
The chase was on again!
Randy put on a burst of speed and raced to close the distance; it seemed they were always forty or fifty yards apart. His quest was moving at a walk, and Randy quickly shortened the distance between them.
Shir Mohammad could almost feel the eyes of the senator boring into his back, and he threw a look over his left shoulder. He should have avoided the impulse to check on the senator, but he could not force himself to keep looking ahead. The decision was the correct one. The senator had discovered him, even with the jacket as a disguise, and was now running to catch him.
Randy saw the man hurriedly glance over his shoulder, jam the hat he had held against his chest firmly back onto his head, and suddenly break out into a full run, heading toward the escalator down to the train tracks running under the main floor of the station.
Randy ran at full speed, closing the distance between them. He was only about twenty yards behind the man when a young boy ran out of a magazine store and collided with him. The boy, about five or six years old and only forty pounds or so, bounced off Randy’s left thigh and crashed to the floor. His mother, a few steps behind her son, quickly scooped her son up, offering her apologies to the stranger. She alternated between apologizing to Randy and scolding her son for running out of the store.
Randy was forced to stop for precious seconds and ensure the boy was unhurt, but quickly he left the pair staring at his back as he resumed the chase.
His target was no longer heading toward the escalators to the train tracks but had diverted to the exit doors on the south end of the lobby that opened outside the terminal building.
The gap had increased while the English boy and his mother held up Randy’s pursuit. When he burst through the terminal exit, the man was running south on Craven Street in the general direction of the River Thames.
Craven Street was slightly narrower than The Strand, with less pedestrian traffic. Randy increased his speed and slowly decreased the separation between pursued and pursuer. The street ran along the terminal, and then turned south to follow a long, gentle curve, finally connecting with Northumberland Avenue. The tall buildings took on unusual shapes to match the street configurations. They had wide foundations on the northern ends that narrowed down to much smaller footprints as the various streets came together at sharp angles.
Randy reached the intersection of Craven Street and Northumberland Avenue. There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon catch up with his quarry. Why the man had not taken one of the dozens of trains from the terminal or gone down into the underground tubes was a mystery. The decision was the one piece of luck that allowed Randy to stay in pursuit of his target.
Some of the pedestrians the two men ran by were stopping to watch the unusual event happen around them. Among the pedestrians and inside the terminal the two men had recently left were the normal force of English bobbies. Several officers had notified their dispatchers that something might be developing; two men were apparently in some sort of dispute, and one was chasing the other. Although most bobbies still did not carry firearms, their utility belts held the typical equipment one would expect to see on a law enforcement officer. Moreover, they had radios to keep in contact with their regional headquarters.
Northumberland Avenue ended as it neared the Victoria Embankment and the River Thames. Randy watched the man jump off the curb to cross Northumberland Avenue. He headed toward the multi-tiered steps leading up to the Golden Jubilee Bridges that ran parallel with the Hungerford Bridge, which handled the trains in and out of Charing Cross Terminal.
The steel truss railway bridge had a confusing past, little known outside of London. Originally constructed in 1864, it spanned the River Thames for almost three hundred and fifty yards. The first Hungerford Bridge was a suspension footbridge built in 1845. It received its name after the Hungerford Market because it connected the south bank to Hungerford Market on the north side of the Thames. In 1859, the railway company that was extending the Southeastern Railway into the newly opened Charing Cross Station purchased the bridge. Under the direction of Sir John Hawkshaw, the old footbridge was replaced in 1864 with a larger construction of nine spans of wrought-iron lattice girders. Later, several more additions increased the capacity of the walkway, but over time, further expansion of the rail system required the elimination of one walkway.
Other footbridges accommodated the growing traffic for the Festival of Britain in 1951. However, the footbridges earned a questionable reputation for being narrow and dangerous, and their physical condition deteriorated. In the mid–nineteen nineties, the decision to replace the old footbridges with new structures running on both sides of the Hungerford Railway Bridge seemed imperative. The construction was difficult. The old footbridges needed to be removed and the new replacements constructed while keeping the railway bridge open to train traffic. Other complications included the Bakerloo Tunnel line, which ran only a few feet under the riverbed, and the possible danger of unexploded World War II bombs buried in the Thames mud.
Inclined outward-leaning pylons support the decks of the completed bridges with fans of slender steel rods called deckstays. There are 180 of these painted white rods on each bridge. The deck stays receive additional support and are held in position by other rods called backstays. The deck is held in position by steel collars fitted around the pillars of the railway bridge attached to the pillars by tie-down rods. The entire structure remains in place through exploiting the tensions between the pylons and the various stay rods and struts.
The two new footbridges, completed in 2002, were named the Golden Jubilee Bridges in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II’s accession. However, the public continued to refer to the three bridges at the Hungerford Bridge.
Randy was getting closer. When he reached the first set of concrete and steel steps leading to the footbridge, he temporary lost sight of his quarry. As he reached the bridge walkway, he again saw the running man. Now it was a race to catch the man before he crossed the River Thames and escaped in the crowd of tourists on the other side. Randy ran as fast as his legs would carry him, dodging among the pedestrians making their own way across the footbridge. Randy guessed his quarry was seven or eight years younger than he was. His physical fitness routine was now paying off. He was faster, with better wind management.
Quickly he was closing the gap. He was within twelve or fifteen feet, and they were only about three-quarters of the distance across the bridge. He noticed the man slowing; he seemed to be favoring his left leg. Had the man pulled a muscle or tendon, forced to give up?
Randy never broke stride as he quickly approached his adversary. He was not going to try to tackle the man but planned to just grab him and try to restrain him against the side railing of the footbridge. With only a few feet now separating them, Randy started to slow down. He was reaching out with his right hand to grab the back of the man’s leather jacket when suddenly his quarry turned and pivoted on his left foot. Using his momentum, the man lifted the backpack from his right shoulder and with all of his strength slammed it against the side of Randy’s head.
Awkwardly positioned with his right arm outstretched and his left foot far ahead of his right, Randy lost his balance with the impact of the backpack. His forward momentum carried him several more steps before he tripped over his own feet and slammed into the steel tubular guardrail at the same time as he glanced off the body of his adversary. His legs went out from under his body and his right temple struck the railing.
A dazzling array of small white stars filled his vision as he fell to the concrete deck of the footbridge. He threw out his right hand to help break his fall, but his momentum rolled him over, leaving him with his left shoulder against the railing looking back toward the train terminal.
Shir Mohammad was on one knee near the east side of the walkway. He had lost his balance after the backpack impacted with the senator’s body. The force had knocked h
im to the opposite side of the bridge, where he tripped over his tangled feet. His lungs were burning from the fast run, and his legs felt like rubber. He held the backpack in his left hand. Still breathing heavily, he reached inside the main compartment for the Browning Titanium Gray Red Acid Quick Open knife. He needed to kill the American while the senator was dazed from his fall.
In his haste to grab the knife, it slipped from his hand. He rummaged among the other items in the bottom of the bag. Once he had the knife free, he tossed the backpack off to the side. The deadly knife blade was folded within the red handle. He moved his forefinger to the indentation just in front of the handle and depressed the release mechanism by feel alone. The twelve-centimeter titanium blade snapped open and locked into position.
Shir had never felt such hatred before. His father had died at the hands of some unknown person in America during a senseless robbery. His brother had died at the hands of the very American in front of him right now. At this moment, the purpose of his mission to London was far from his thoughts. He only had one desire: to kill the American.
He could tell the senator was coming back to his senses. The glazed look in his eyes was gone as he struggled to get back on his feet. Blood was running down the side of his face from a cut above his right eye. Shir needed to make his kill move with the knife now.
Randy Fisher saw the man rising from his kneeling position with the knife in his right hand. From a position of confidence a few moments ago, he realized he was now in serious trouble. The two men locked their eyes on each other. Randy observed the hatred in the other man’s eyes and the determination to finish him off in his expression. He forced himself to his feet and regained his balance. The perfect mirror image of the man who shot him twice three years ago moved across the bridge, the knife held low by his right hip.
Other pedestrians suddenly realized some sort of dangerous confrontation was taking place nearby. Everybody scrambled to get away from the two antagonists.
Randy felt his foe would bring the knife up and around, intending a strike to his lower abdomen. The four-inch blade was long enough to deliver a killing blow. He would bleed to death within minutes. Randy watched his foe take two steps forward until he only needed one more step to launch his attack. Randy needed some way to throw his adversary off balance. “Your brother tried to kill me with a knife three years ago after he shot me twice with his gun. He received very poor training by his handlers. You’re no better.”
Shir Mohammad Moez Ardalan felt the blood pounding in his brain as the man before him spit out words of insult against his brother. He paused his attack. “You know nothing about my brother, but know this, American. I will be the one to avenge his death. You will die here on this bridge.”
Randy paid little attention to the words of hate spoken by the twin brother. Instead, he watched the body language of the man intent on killing him. The space between their bodies changed with each man’s attempt to find a better position for attack or defense. Shir continued to scream words at Randy, spittle flying from his open mouth. Inhaling oxygen deep into his lungs, Shir screamed out a loud final cry of pent-up anger and hate. With only a split second of hesitation, he committed the next step and launched his attack.
Twenty years had gone by since Randy Fisher left the United States Army as a private and an experienced military policeman. As an auxiliary deputy sheriff on the Richland County Sheriff’s Department, only a few times had he participated in additional training programs; none of them dealt with hand-to-hand combat. But training stays with an ex-soldier. An old memory flashed through his mind. He remembered his hand-to-hand combat drill instructor screaming in his face to move faster. The DI was so close to him that day he could still remember the smell of the instructor’s breath from his morning coffee. Randy’s body suddenly reacted to the killing move from the terrorist out of long-past training and self-preservation.
He saw the killer make the first move with his right foot and the forward movement of his right shoulder. The knife was still clasped in his right hand, the knuckles white and bloodless from the tight grip. The killer’s left hand and arm started to pull back as he twisted his body to force every ounce of strength he possessed into the knife thrust meant for Randy Fisher.
Randy moved without forethought. He quickly shifted his body to the right, a subtle leaning motion, without moving his feet. It was enough so the killer changed his body motion to adjust to the moving target. As the right hand of the terrorist came around, Randy could see his adversary’s body move slightly to correct for his feint, moving the terrorist’s body into a slightly off-balanced position. At the same time, Randy suddenly moved quickly to the left and a half-step back. The right arm holding the knife sliced through the air between their bodies, missing Randy’s abdomen by less than an inch.
Shir could not believe he had missed from so short a distance. He could feel the flap of the American’s sport coat graze the back of his right hand when his momentum carried his body farther around.
Randy stepped back toward the Iranian. He shoved the terrorist’s right hand farther away from his body using the side of his right hand. He grabbed the sleeve of the leather jacket to help maintain control of the arm with the knife. With his left hand closed into a hard fist, he delivered a powerful blow to the right side of the terrorist’s temple, just below the hat. He felt the shock from his fist colliding into the man’s skull all the way to his shoulder. For a few seconds, he saw the man’s eye roll, his focus lost, after the impact from his fist.
Stunned, the terrorist tried to pull his arm free. He dropped the knife and went down on one knee. Randy was moving in for another strike when a person plowed into his back. Randy lost his grip on his attacker’s leather jacket. The fast-moving assailant approached from his blind side, and Randy found himself thrown hard against the side railing for a second time. He felt pain in his left shoulder from the blow to his back and a stinging feeling in his right wrist. He slowly started to rise to his feet a second time.
Another man, five or six feet away from Randy, was assisting the Iranian up and yelling at his partner in a foreign language. They took six or seven steps before the first terrorist seemed to recover enough to move under his own strength. He began to head back toward Randy, but the second man grabbed him by the left sleeve of the leather jacket and roughly pulled him toward the end of the bridge and the stairs leading down to the embankment. They were yelling at each other before the first man seemed to realize they needed to escape. The terrorist turned away from Randy along with his partner. Both men started to bolt as fast as they could run.
Randy Fisher was back on his feet and slowly recovering. His left shoulder hurt, and blood was running into his eye from the cut on his right temple. There were a number of abrasions on the heel of his right hand. He quickly accessed his wounds. They were not life-threatening, but he would require medical attention. He looked around and noticed the heavy knife on the east side of the walkway. The terrorist’s backpack was several feet away. He walked over and stood next to them so they would not be disturbed and any evidence damaged.
Off in the distance he could hear whistles blowing, but his primary focus was still on watching the two men. They reached the set of stairs on the south end of the bridge that led down to a tree-lined pathway along the River Thames. At full speed, they leaped the final two steps of the concrete stairway and ran toward the London Eye off in the distance. For a few seconds he could follow their progress by the bobbing hats they both wore. Finally, he lost sight of them when they moved among the thick trees and the hundreds of tourists walking alongside the river, popping open their umbrellas against the growing strength of the rain.
Chapter 13
London
Saturday, November 28, 2015
2:30 p.m.
Randy Fisher, cold and wet, sat in one of the interrogation rooms in the Metropolitan Police Station on Agar Street east of Trafalgar Square. An unarm
ed bobby stood quietly against the wall next to the only exit from the room.
The rain had started to fall almost as soon as he got back to his feet, at first only a few heavy drops against his face. As he lost sight of the two men mixing with the tourists, he saw the wall of rain moving from the west toward the Golden Jubilee Bridges. The chase was over. He had lost his adversary.
Westminster Bridge was over six hundred yards west. In a few seconds of the heavy rain, it was almost invisible. As the bridge disappeared, the weather front moved closer. The London Eye became hard to discern, and then the hard rain was upon him, moving east.
People quickly whipped out their umbrellas, or brollies. He had learned the newer modern accepted term was tote. But Randy was without any protection from the cold rain. His sport coat became heavy as the material absorbed the rain. He lifted the collar against his neck, but the rain was simply too heavy. He could feel the water running down his back; he used his hand to clear his eyes. Each time, his right hand came away showing watery blood from the cut above his brow. He reached for the cotton handkerchief in his back pocket to cover the cut on his right temple.
Several British bobbies arrived on bicycles and quickly took a firm hold of his arms. He needed to clear up their concerns and explain why the chase after the other man had ended in a skirmish. They were trying to talk above the noise of the rainfall, but they simply gave up when a motorized police cart with a hard-shell top arrived. They indicated for Randy to take a seat next to the driver. Another bobby climbed onto the back bench to watch him. The driver made a U-turn on the footbridge and headed back toward the Charing Cross Station side of the River Thames. They did not try to ask him any questions as they hurried back across the bridge.