Quick

by Steve Worland

  Ahhh. It doesn’t hit him that hard, but it’s hard enough to make the Vespa wobble. Violently. It’s called a tank-slapper in the bike-riding world and it’s a bastard to recover from. The scooter bucks and weaves like an unbroken stallion, tries to turf him off. He holds on tight, works the brakes, wipes off some pace and recovers his balance.

  ‘Man!’ Instead of being chastened by the experience it only confirms that he’s hard to kill. He watches the armoured car drift left across the roadway, picks his moment, guns the bike down its right side and ploughs through the wall of sparks. He can feel the pricks of heat on his face and hands as he searches for the security guard —

  There. He’s balanced on the side of the bonnet and clutches the windscreen’s frame with an expression of abject terror. It would appear that the full extent of his plan was to climb out onto the bonnet. Now that he’s there he doesn’t seem to know what to do next.

  Billy pulls up beside him and shouts over the roaring wind and the scraping metal. ‘Get on!’

  The security guard looks from where he’s crouched on the bonnet, to the scooter, which is a metre away, then back to the bonnet. He shakes his head.

  Billy can’t believe it. ‘Are you kidding me? Get on!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean you can’t? It’s a whole lot better down here than up there.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ~ * ~

  From the rear of the truck Red watches the security guard and the guy on the Vespa have what appears to be an argument.

  What the hell could they fighting about?

  Then the penny drops. The security guard doesn’t want to get off the truck. First he didn’t want to get out of the truck and now he doesn’t want to get onto the bike. ‘What a dickhead.’ Red really wants him to get off. It’ll save them the trouble of dealing with him later.

  ~ * ~

  Billy shouts at the security guard: ‘Why are we even having this conversation? Get on!’

  ‘What if we have an accident?’

  ‘You’re on top of an armoured car being dragged through the city on its side. You’re already having an accident!’

  The security guard is still unsure.

  ‘We’re not going to have an accident. Okay?’

  The security guard takes this in—then nods reluctantly. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay. Good. Now do it.’

  The security guard steels himself, slides across the bonnet, reaches out with his right foot, hooks it over the bike, then slump-drops onto the seat behind Billy. He looks back at the guard.

  ‘See? No problem —’

  The armoured car abruptly lurches right.

  Thump. It slams into Billy’s leg. It doesn’t hurt but it sends the Vespa into another violent tank-slapper. Billy slows the bike as best he can but can’t stop the gyrations. ‘We’re having an accident!’

  ‘What?! But you just said —!’ The security guard doesn’t finish the sentence because the Vespa bucks them both off. Billy knows the landing is going to hurt but he’s equally concerned by the fact that he’s wearing his favourite Levi 501s. He’s owned them for a decade without once ripping them but now he’s about to feed them to the bitumen.

  Wham. He lands on his left thigh and it hurts more than he could have imagined. He can feel the blacktop burn through the denim as he slides towards a line of cars parked by the side of the road, the spinning Vespa to his right, the screaming security guard to his left.

  One of the parked cars pulls out, a white Honda Jazz, and Billy realises he’s about to slide under the Japanese econobox. He raises his feet, lines them up with the bumper bar and grits his teeth —

  Thunk. His Blundstone boots thump into the bumper bar—and the Honda lurches to a halt. The security guard clunks into the next car along as the Vespa spins to a stop nearby, its engine still burbling. Billy drags himself to his feet as the Honda drives around him and peels off without even a ‘you okay?’

  Billy’s right thigh stings from a nasty road rash and his palms and elbows are skinned and bleeding, but he’s not feeling pain because the adrenaline is pumping. The pain, he knows, will come later, it always comes later, but for now the adrenaline is in charge.

  He turns and helps the security guard to his feet, who then studies his own skinned hands and elbows, then looks at Billy gratefully. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Billy turns, locks eyes on the truck as it tows the armoured car up the street, sees there’s a guy wearing a red helmet standing behind the cabin with, Billy is sure, a pistol in hand.

  What do I do now?

  He quickly realises he doesn’t have to do anything. He already called for backup and saved this grateful security guard; he could just walk back to Maccas, clean up these cuts and grazes in the restroom and order another plate of hotcakes. But, for good or bad, that’s just not in his nature. He wants to stop the people currently dragging an armoured car down the middle of his city before they really hurt someone—and, just as importantly, he wants to ride this adrenaline rush for as long as he can.

  He glances at the Vespa. It’s really dinged up but the engine still runs and neither of the tyres are flat. He picks it up and throws a leg over the seat.

  The security guard watches him, both confused and surprised. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m gonna catch those pricks.’ Billy revs the engine and screeches off, the rear tyre smoking the whole way.

  ~ * ~

  Yellow glances at Black. ‘How’s it looking?’

  Black studies the right side-view mirror. ‘The guy on the Vespa is gone. Apart from that, no problems.’

  Yellow nods then scans the roadway. ‘Location B is close—damn.’ Flashing lights in the distance. The police. Again. Two cruisers this time. They speed towards the truck, five hundred metres away and closing. ‘Looks like it’s going to be location C.’ He takes in a set of traffic lights ahead and points the truck towards them —

  Boom. It ploughs into the narrow gap between a BMW and a Toyota, swats them aside then turns hard left down another road.

  ~ * ~

  ‘Yowza!’ Tyres screech as Red holds on tight, watches the wrecked vehicles spin away as the armoured car swings out on the chain behind —

  Clang. It sideswipes a street sign, knocks it flat —

  Clung. It glances off a traffic light junction box then shimmies back into the middle of the road.

  ~ * ~

  Billy sees the truck make the turn and immediately knows what he must do. He swerves the Vespa hard left and plunges into a narrow street that runs parallel to the road the truck turned down. He guns the little engine, then turns hard right down an even narrower lane. It’s clear of traffic —

  An older gentleman hobbles onto a zebra crossing to the right.

  Woh! Billy swerves around him.

  The old bloke raises a fist. ‘Ass clown!’

  And quite right, he should be annoyed, that was too close. Billy shouts back at him. ‘Sorry —!’

  A van backs out of a driveway to the left.

  Woh! Billy swerves around it.

  Jeezelouise.

  He rides on, takes a deep breath, focuses on the intersection ahead. He doesn’t have a plan so much as a general idea of what he wants to achieve. He just needs to be careful of that guy wearing the red helmet who’s perched behind the truck’s cabin.

  Billy reaches the intersection and sees the truck thunder along the road from the right. It’s near.

  Crunch. The armoured car sideswipes a taxi. It thumps onto the footpath and narrowly misses a group of teenagers.

  Christ, that was close.

  Billy grits his teeth. He needs to stop these pricks before they kill someone. He guns the Vespa and shoots straight towards the truck’s cabin, pulls up beside it. He can just make out someone wearing a black helmet through the tinted passenger window. The man looks straight ahead and doesn’t appear t
o notice Billy.

  Billy glances back, can see no sign of the red-helmeted guy, then takes in the truck’s large cylinder-shaped petrol tank beside him. That’ll work nicely. He grabs hold of it, clicks the Vespa’s gearbox into neutral, then wedges the right side of the scooter’s handlebars between the bodywork and the tank so the bike freewheels along beside the truck.

  He places his right foot on the petrol tank’s step, grabs the handle on the side of the cabin and levers himself up. He presses his body flat against the bodywork, hands splayed for maximum surface contact, then shuffles towards the rear of the cabin. The moment he reaches it he’ll need to subdue Mr Red. The upside is that he has the element of surprise on his side. The downside is that he has no weapon if Mr Red isn’t easily surprised.

  He reaches the rear of the cabin and looks back. He can see where the metal chains that drag the armoured car are looped around the fifth wheel but he can see no sign of the bloke —

  Mr Red rises from behind the fifth wheel, a nine-millimetre pistol in hand.

  ‘Oh shit —’

  Bam. He fires as Billy swings back to the side of the cabin.

  Thud. The bullet thumps into the bodywork.

  So much for the element of surprise. Now what?

  A flash of sunlight off a windscreen to the right. Billy pivots towards it.

  Oh no.

  A tram thunders straight towards the truck—and Billy. Its wheels lock up and squeal as the stunned driver attempts an emergency stop.

  The tram slows.

  It’s going to miss the truck —

  But it won’t miss the armoured car.

  This is going to be bad.

  Wham. The tram slams into the rear of the armoured car.

  Smash. The tram’s front windscreen detonates in a shower of glass. The armoured car shudders, then continues on its way —

  Twang. The impact sends a giant tremor along the steel chains and vibrates the truck like a giant tuning fork —

  Billy is jerked sideways. He watches Mr Red throw out his gun hand to steady himself against the fifth wheel —

  Clank. He misses and knocks the weapon from his hand.

  The truck shudders again.

  Woh! Billy overbalances and drops to the roadway below —

  Hey! He catches hold of one of the chains, the steel-cap toes of his Blundstone boots dragging along the roadway. He hangs on for dear life, the chain creaking in his palms, which now scream with a special kind of pain, the gravel rash not enjoying contact with bare metal.

  He pushes it from his mind and looks up at Mr Red. On his knees, he reaches down into the chassis of the truck to retrieve the gun he dropped. It’s balanced on a support beam just below. His fingers touch it but he can’t quite grab it.

  Good. Billy needs to move his arse before Mr Red gets hold of it. He glances back at the armoured car. It’s about five metres away.

  Can I get to it along this chain?

  The truck’s engine note changes as the driver drops down a gear. He’s using the engine to brake and the vehicle slows. Unfortunately no one informed the armoured car about the braking situation so it continues at its current pace and slides directly towards Billy. It’s going to crush him against the back of the truck —

  Clang. The armoured car slams into the back of the truck as Billy swings out of its way, grabs the armoured car’s bonnet and climbs on. How ironic. He took all that time to talk the security guard off this thing and now he’s thrilled to be on it.

  Billy levers himself up, grabs onto the windscreen’s pillar then looks back at Mr Red. The guy’s still trying to snag that bloody pistol. Billy’s eyes are drawn to his helmet and for the first time he realises it has silver markings on top as well. There’s something familiar about it. Come to think of it the helmet on the guy sitting in the passenger seat was familiar too. It was black with coloured markings. Billy looks through the rear window of the cabin at the guy driving the truck. He also wears a helmet, yellow with stripes around it. He’s sure he’s seen that before as well.

  The truck’s engine barks and the vehicle picks up speed again, thunders beneath an overpass, its exhaust note reverberating off the cement surface above.

  Mr Red rises and finds his feet, the pistol in his right hand.

  Oh bugger.

  Well, that’s that then. Billy realises any chance of bringing these guys to justice is over. He now needs to find a way out of this situation before he gets himself shot. He could just step off the armoured car and drop to the roadway below, take his chances with the landing, but he’d prefer not. Four months in traction is enough for one lifetime. Unfortunately it looks like it’s his only option.

  The truck clears the overpass and takes a tight turn. The armoured car swings out —

  Crunch. It mounts the footpath and flattens a small tree, then another, keeps swinging until Billy realises he just might have found another option.

  ~ * ~

  Red aims his pistol at the guy as he climbs to the top of the armoured car. Yep, it’s the same fella who ran after the truck, the one who commandeered the Vespa and saved that moron of a security guard. The guy looks like he has some nasty road burns, his jeans ripped and torn, his hands and arms bloody. Red studies him, intrigued. ‘Who the hell is this guy?’

  Actually it doesn’t matter because he’s about to bite the big one.

  Red raises the weapon, aims it and squeezes the trigger —

  The guy takes three long, fast steps then jumps off the armoured car. He hangs in the air, arms windmilling, legs pumping like he’s riding an invisible bicycle.

  Red tracks his trajectory with the pistol, finger tight on the trigger. It’s a shame to kill the guy. He kept on coming until he was all out of options then made the ballsiest escape Red could have imagined. Still, he stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong and that couldn’t be tolerated.

  Red pulls the trigger.

  ~ * ~

  Billy sails through the air —

  Bam. ‘Ahhh.’ He feels a sharp sting on his left shoulder. It hurts like hell but that’s not what worries him. It’s the Yarra River in front of him that’s the real concern. The downside of having spent his youth driving around racetracks is that he never learned how to swim. Not the Aussie crawl, not breaststroke, not even bloody dog paddle. So why he’s now decided to jump into a large body of water can only be put down to a serious lack of options. Fortunately, there’s a wooden walkway beside the river.

  Woh! He clears it by the width of a cigarette paper—and grabs it with his left hand as he plunges into the Yarra’s icy brown depths. He jolts to a stop as the water stings his gravel rash. He quickly rises to the surface, looks at the shoulder and realises it’s a bullet wound. It’s minor in the scheme of things, just a graze really, but still, that prick just shot him.

  Billy turns and watches the truck drag the armoured car across the wrought-iron arch of Queens Bridge, catches sight of the red-helmeted bastard standing at the rear.

  That’s it.

  Billy knows why that red helmet looks so familiar. He can’t believe it took so long to work out. It’s the same helmet that Formula One world champion Michael Schumacher wore during his years driving for Ferrari.

  ~ * ~

  2

  The hotel room is dark. They only light slips in under the drawn curtains.

  Helmet off, Black paces the small room. ‘That was too close.’

  Helmet off too, Red sits and sips from a bottle of water, unconcerned. ‘It was fine.’

  ‘No, they nearly had us.’

  ‘You have to stop worrying so much. It was absolutely fine.’

  Black turns to Red. ‘Absolutely fine? You shot at a guy.’

  ‘I was protecting us.’

  ‘You could have killed him, not to say how many people we hurt towing that truck —’

  ‘Nobody was hurt.’ Yellow turns from the desk, hundreds of glistening diamonds laid out on a
large swath of black velvet before him. ‘It would have been reported.’

  Black moves towards Yellow, imploring: ‘We should stop. There must be another way.’

  ‘We’re not stopping and there is no other way.’

  ‘But I think that if we —’

  ‘Don’t think.’ Yellow stands, steps towards Black, his jaw set. ‘You need to take a moment, breathe in and accept what’s happening. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. It’s incredibly annoying and a complete waste of time.’