Driven

by Toby Vintcent

  Straker rebalanced himself – straightening up – and tried to read the new situation. He was effectively through the line of the “triplets” – on the other side of the road – now with his back to the row of offices. He had the remaining two assailants between him and Stacey Krall. As far as he could see, there was no sign of the other figure over to his left – approaching from the area around Krall’s parked car – and in the other direction the darkened Range Rover seemed to have stopped – waiting? – watching? – some distance away, over to his right.

  Straker wanted to act quickly, to keep the initiative – to maintain the element of surprise.

  Still the shriek from the car alarm was blaring out into the night, its four yellow flashers keeping time with the noise. No one seemed to have been drawn by it – to come and check the car was all right. It didn’t look like it was going to attract any intervention or third-party help.

  Their new positions in the street relative to each other changed the angle of lighting and shadow. Straker suddenly saw the bigger of the two men brandish something level with his chest. Shit – was that a weapon?

  The figure started to move towards Straker. Not a weapon – not a firearm, at any rate. It was some form of bar – bat – or handle.

  Straker took guard, ready to defend himself.

  The figure started to rush him.

  Straker had no idea how agile this guy would be.

  As the handle – or whatever it was – was raised, Straker saw the man wield it with two hands from his right shoulder – to give it a double-handed swing across his front, aiming to hit Straker from the left.

  Again taking the attackers by surprise, Straker charged into the attack. It seemed to work. It threw the attacker’s rhythm – forcing the man to hurry his stroke.

  At the last minute Straker stopped and ducked.

  That worked too.

  The swing missed him – going straight by, clean above his head. But its momentum – undiminished by contact with the target – meant the assailant’s swipe continued round on its arc. Straker then, jumping up, landed a full-bodied kick in the assailant’s genitals.

  Straker’s impact was well-timed. It caught the assailant completely by surprise. Testicular pain disabled him instantaneously, buckling him up, causing him to let go of the handle – still continuing round on its swing – which went clattering off across the road. The man fell into a heap on the ground clutching himself.

  With two attackers down, Straker turned his attention on the third. But as he did so, he missed the fourth figure – the one over by Krall’s car. Out of the dark, this man smashed into Straker’s side, sending him twisting to the ground. Straker fell badly and rolled on the rough tarmac. He wasn’t badly hurt, but was momentarily disorientated.

  Straker could still hear the infernal screech of the saloon’s car alarm.

  He was scrambling up as quickly as he could to his feet, ready to face his new assailant, when a colossal thump crashed into his chest. A heavy-booted kick had been landed – solidly – in his ribs from the last of the triplets. It knocked the wind out of him.

  Suddenly – over the commotion – and even through the noise of the car alarm Straker thought he heard a voice. A female’s voice. Straker panicked – was that Krall’s? He heard it was hers, but it didn’t sound distressed. It sounded deep and commanding. She was talking forcefully. He tried to look up to see that she was okay, but couldn’t see her. It sounded like her voice was coming from the far side of the saloon car.

  Straker suffered another crippling blow to his side as the other assailant landed a powerful kick to his flank. The blow was fierce. Straker tried to roll away, desperate to regain his feet. But his problems were compounded. Not only was he winded – and his ribs burning in pain – but there were now two sets of kicks coming at him from two different directions.

  Straker couldn’t regroup, not out in the open like this.

  Alternating rhythmic blows soon thwarted any effort he made to get to his feet.

  Kick followed kick.

  Krall watched on in horror as Straker suffered blow after blow. She didn’t think she could do any more to help.

  In what seemed like an agonizingly long three minutes, Straker was hammered by the thugs. All he could manage, having been overwhelmed, was to protect his face and neck.

  Then, as if by wishful thinking, Straker heard a noise.

  An alarm – but not the saloon car. No, not an alarm – a siren. He definitely heard a siren.

  Krall heard it too. Coming from her left, down the street from behind the Range Rover.

  She was not the only one to hear it. One of the assailants raised his head from the kicking. Then the other did the same.

  The Range Rover honked its horn – urgently – several times, and revved its engine.

  The assailants finally broke away from Straker.

  The car roared some more, and Krall watched it accelerate towards the attack scene. All four of the thugs ran to converge with the Range Rover, two of them still partly doubled-up. The car braked heavily, dipping its bonnet. It stopped. The assailants pulled open the doors and dived inside.

  Krall suddenly realized the danger Straker was in. She ran out into the road – towards his immobile form – and stood over him, facing the Range Rover down. All she could do was give the driver a dilemma. Would he have the balls to run them both over?

  Krall stood there, behind Straker’s body, staring at the approaching car, bracing herself for the worst.

  Blue flashing lights were now strafing the white stucco down the line of Regency buildings. Those in the Range Rover could see and hear that the police were closing in fast. Their sirens were deafening.

  The Range Rover roared towards Krall.

  She held her breath. At the last minute, the bulky black car swerved violently, brushing past. She even had to jump to the side to miss being struck by its wing mirror as it sped away.

  The police car screeched to a stop. Its headlights illuminated the foetal form lying in the middle of the road. An officer jumped out carrying a holdall and ran straight to Straker.

  ‘The attackers have just gone down there,’ shouted Krall to the driver, as she pointed down Newbold Terrace. ‘A black Range Rover,’ and rattled off the registration.

  Without delay, the patrol car backed up, circled round them, and sped off in pursuit of the attackers – its siren blaring, and lights flashing angrily.

  The policeman attending Straker was now kneeling down and shining a torch over his stricken form. Bending right down, he said: ‘Are you able to move at all, sir?’

  Straker groaned negatively, tasting iron on his tongue. Blood was dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His nose, teeth, cheekbones, back, guts, ribs, and knees all hurt like hell. The policeman grabbed his radio and called an ambulance to Newbold Terrace, immediately.

  Within ten minutes it arrived. Two paramedics, exercising great care, lifted the still-horizontal and foetal Straker onto a stretcher and then into the back of the ambulance. Accompanied by Krall, he was driven to A&E at Warwick Hospital in Lakin Road. For the next four hours Straker was put through extensive tests, scans and X-rays. He barely recovered his demeanour and lucidity.

  Krall’s anxiety showed in her face – amplified by her tiredness. ‘What kind of mugging was that?’ she asked.

  Straker inhaled through his mouth, the pain still keenly felt around his nose. ‘That was no mugging,’ he said with a light coughing fit. ‘Muggings don’t involve five people and a getaway car. That was a deliberate attack.’

  Krall’s face registered even more concern. ‘Who’d want to attack us?’

  Straker groaned, clearly not comfortable in the A&E bed. ‘Someone involved in the case? Someone looking to intimidate us – to frighten us off?’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Why not? It’s the most obvious possibility.’

  ‘But why now?’

  ‘Because of the raids,’ he said quietly, trying no
t to exert his chest. ‘Those Search Order raids will have changed,’ he said pausing to inhale, ‘the whole dynamic of Massarella’s spat,’ another shallow breath, ‘or whatever the hell this is.’

  Krall looked up from a plastic cup of coffee bought from one of the hospital vending machines. ‘Massarella took us to a hearing at the FIA. How much more could the dynamic change beyond that?’

  ‘Quite a way,’ replied Straker with a half-pant of discomfort. ‘Until then, we’ve only been the reactor to their bullshit.’ He paused to breathe. ‘Your invoking the High Court has shown our readiness to take the fight to Massarella. Those Search Order raids were proactive – they were an invasive act.’

  ‘But they were done in self-defence.’

  ‘To us,’ replied Straker. ‘To the other side – they’re an act of war.’

  ‘I don’t get it. How’s this worth all that?’

  ‘Very easily,’ groaned Straker again, now trying to shift his position in the bed. Krall put down her coffee cup and helped him rearrange the pillows behind his back. ‘Control of billions of Formula One dollars – let alone our $750 million from Mandarin Telecom – are at stake here,’ Straker half-whispered. ‘Whoever’s behind this: Van Der Vaal? MacRae? Obrenovich? God knows who else,’ he breathed, ‘might just fear our raids could expose what they’re already doing – or stop them from getting their hands on it all by unlawful activity.’ Straker had to breathe deeply, but slowly. ‘I had expected them to react, in some way. I’m pissed off I hadn’t anticipated them do so this quickly.’ He inhaled. ‘Even then, I’d never’ve expected that level of violence.’

  Straker settled back against the pillows with another groan and a grimace. ‘The only consolation I can take,’ he said, with a smile-through-the-pain, ‘is that we’ve quite obviously got them rattled.’

  FIFTY-SIX

  Straker was not discharged from hospital until late the following morning. While he had only broken a couple of ribs, they were still painfully sore – as were his black eye, fat lip, and the other bruises across his face. Taking him by surprise was the party that came to pick him up. Accompanying Krall was Remy Sabatino. Up at the Ptarmigan factory to work on the simulator, she had been distressed by news of the attack, and insisted on coming with Krall to pick up Straker and his car.

  Sabatino was clearly disconcerted to see the state of Straker’s face and his general condition. She even felt moved to offer him an arm as the six-foot-two figure tried to shuffle from the main entrance of the hospital towards the waiting Ptarmigan courtesy car.

  Driven back to Grumman & Phipps’s office in Leamington, Krall, clearly fired up by the events of the night, was motivated to fight back – ready to go straight to work on the documents seized from Michael Lyons and Trifecta Systems the day before. Straker – finding it hard not to lisp – gave her a series of firm instructions: ‘Do not touch your car – I will arrange for the police to check it over, and then for it to be collected – and repaired – if necessary. Do not leave Grumman’s offices unaccompanied – I will have you picked up later by a Ptarmigan car, when you are ready. Also, I will arrange for you to be put up locally in private accommodation, instead of in the hotel you’ve been at.’ Straker, this time, was not asked why these precautions were needed. Krall nodded her acquiescence to them without objection.

  Straker, too, was keen to get back into the assignment – to return to the factory and push on with the next stage of their FIA defence. Sabatino, though, having seen him heave himself so awkwardly out of the Ptarmigan car, and grimace as he pulled himself to his feet alongside the Morgan, declared he was not fit to do anything, let alone drive – stating that she would instead.

  ‘I’ve seen the way you drive,’ he retorted. ‘The difference is that I don’t have a team of mechanics to take out the dents – when it all goes tits.’

  Sabatino just smiled, letting the taunt to go by. She simply walked to the passenger’s door, ready to hold it open. But then Straker, very suddenly, took her by surprise. He lunged forwards and grabbed her forcibly – staying her arm – stopping her touching the car door. He almost lost his balance doing so. She looked startled by the ferocity of his action. Gently, he let her go. Then, instead of making to get in, Straker, inelegantly – and with much groaning – lowered himself down onto the surface of the road, to look up under the chassis of the Morgan.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Taking heed of last night’s attack,’ he hissed as, in a contorted press-up position, he crawled awkwardly across the tarmac to the next wheel arch.

  Sabatino, seeing how seriously Straker was taking all this, didn’t find herself laughing at or mocking his unusual actions – particularly having heard from Krall about the viciousness of the attack.

  Straker crawled awkwardly round the whole of the car, checking its entire underside. Having finished, and groaning back to his feet, he then fiddled with the external release catches, and looked under the engine covers, particularly around the electronics. He finished his security check, and closed the car back up.

  ‘Right, go and crouch down behind that wall,’ he wheezed, pointing her across the street to the low balustrade. Sabatino looked concerned, but didn’t argue.

  Checking she was a good distance away, Straker gingerly opened the car door manually. Without getting in, he checked the car was in neutral – before inserting the key. He turned the ignition. The V6 fired. There was nothing untoward – it fired cleanly first time.

  Sabatino walked back across the road. Straker limped round to the passenger side. She suddenly found herself looking at him, almost asking permission to open the door. With her help, he lowered himself gingerly down into the low-slung sports car.

  Sabatino, trying to lighten the mood, asked: ‘Can we drop the top?’

  He explained how, and the roof was stowed away. She climbed in behind the wheel. ‘British Racing Green, bonnet louvres, wire wheels, cream leather seats, walnut trim – very nice,’ she said musically in genuine appreciation of the car.

  ‘Look after it, then,’ he said as he tried to pull on his seat belt. Hearing the stifled groan that it induced, Sabatino leant over and helped him buckle up.

  Sabatino reversed out of the parking bay. ‘I heard Stacey’s description of the attack. You took some beating. Is this where it all happened?’

  Straker nodded.

  ‘Talk about taking one for the team,’ said Sabatino. ‘The least I can do is buy you lunch.’

  They found their way out of Leamington and onto the southbound stretch of the A429. Straker may have felt less than comfortable, and while the open-top Morgan on such a glorious sunny day should have cheered him up, his mind was still working – and concerned. His senses were sharp.

  The A429 was a straight, fast and busy road. He used its openness to check behind in the passenger-door mirror. On such an open road, he was confident he would have spotted any unwanted company, had there been any. As they reached the Fosse Way, he checked again.

  So far, at least, he was sure they were not being followed.

  Twenty minutes later they passed through the market town of Shipston-on-Stour, and were soon heading east on the B4035 towards Banbury.

  Just after one o’clock, Sabatino pulled the Morgan Roadster into Brailes and onto the elegant sweep in front of the lychgate of St George’s church. Appropriately, a St George’s flag flew lazily in the gentle breeze from the top of the stone tower.

  Parked in front of the Old Parsonage, Straker awkwardly climbed out and stretched himself up. He was still in significant discomfort. Sabatino offered him an arm again. They walked side by side down to the edge of the main drag through the village. Crossing over towards the pub, Straker looked discreetly left and right. As far as he could see, there was no one there.

  It would be a very different story on the way out.

  Inside the George at Brailes, Sabatino scouted a table in the garden before leading Straker – walking unsteadily – out into the
sunshine at the back. Having ordered, and got themselves settled with a drink, Sabatino said: ‘Stacey told me you reckon the attack was related to the case,’ and took a sip of her Guinness. Straker nodded. ‘It was far too well organized – particularly at two o’clock in the morning – to be a random crime,’ he said firmly. ‘It was too carefully co-ordinated.’

  ‘God, and Stacey said you think they’ll have another go?’

  Straker shrugged. ‘We’d be daft not to think they’ll try something else. That attack shows we’ve put them on the defensive, now.’

  Sabatino looked worried by the implications of this violence. The contrast between the mood of their conversation and the serenity of the English garden all around them – bathed in sunshine – was stark. Their food arrived, but a cloud hung over their lunch while they ate. Straker had to eat carefully and hesitantly, his fat lip making chewing particularly uncomfortable.

  After an hour, they left the pub. Emerging onto the main road out the front, they looked both ways, and made to cross over.

  Straker was instantly aware of something. Over to his left.

  Looking that way again – as if being extra careful while he crossed the road – he made a mental picture of everything in view. Some way down was a car, parked among others on the opposite side. He was sure there was something about it. Under his breath he said: ‘That black Range Rover – two hundred yards down there on the left – is trouble … don’t look round!’

  Her face registered concern.

  Straker walked them back up the side road to his car.

  ‘How? How do you know?’ she asked, her voice also indicating concern.

  Straker’s 14 Int Company experience and his two tours with the Hereford Gun Club were not really for public discussion. ‘A bit of military training and hard experience in Iraq.’