by Mark Ayre
Abbie looked north-west. It was clear fields for a way, but she could make something out. Shapes in the dark. Something rising a distance towards the sky. Not high. Maybe as tall as a two-storey house, but far narrower. That wasn't the only shape, and Abbie knew that block of forms was where she needed to go.
"Okay," she said and launched forward.
She was sitting behind Evans. Before he knew what was happening, she brought her hands around his headrest and slid an arm around his throat. She grabbed the wrist of that arm tight with her other hand and tugged. Evans struggled but weakened quickly. She counted as his attempts to remove her arms grew more and more pathetic. When he was unconscious, but before she could suffocate him to death, she released her arm and slid back into her chair.
Evans slumped. His head hit the window.
"I don't know how long he'll be out," said Abbie, "but I'd guess long enough."
Even in the pitch black, Abbie could sense Ana turning her way.
"Long enough for what?"
“For you to take him back, dump him somewhere, and await my call. Next time we speak, I’ll be in custody. I’ll need my lawyer. Unless I’m dead. In which case it’s unlikely I’ll phone.”
Ana’s hurt was evident.
“Is this because I let Ndidi get the better of me? Guy moves like a snake. His hand was a blur. Flash Gordon couldn’t have dodged that punch."
“Flash Gordon?”
“Yeah. Quick one in the red spandex. Batman’s mate.”
“That’s The Flash, idiot. “Flash Gordon was—“ Abbie stopped. “Doesn’t matter. This is nothing to do with trust. You’ve proven yourself yesterday and today. As I said, your actions don't make up for your past wrongdoings, but they prove the person you are now is worth having around. I don't blame you for what happened to Christine. Ndidi is an experienced police detective, and he was desperate. You didn't stand a chance, so don't for a second think that's what's going through my mind."
It took a little while for Ana to process all this. Once she had, she took a breath. Abbie could see there was something else on her mind.
“I’ve remembered Flash Gordon. He was the bully from Spider-Man.”
“That’s Flash Thompson.”
“Damn,” said Ana, “there’s a lot of Flashes in the fictional world. Is that the plural? Flashi?”
“I’m going to take it you understand,” said Abbie. “Now come help me move the lump.”
Together, they dragged the corrupt cop to the car's boot and dumped him inside. Though he was unconscious, there was a degree of satisfaction in slamming the lid and closing him in.
Abbie turned to Ana.
“You might want to let him out before you reach the town limits. Probably for the best you don't get caught by one of his colleagues with him in there."
Out of the car, in the open, Abbie's eyes were adjusting to the dark. She saw Ana nod and looked north-west. The shapes in the darkness were no clearer. She needed to get closer.
"That thing," said Ana, pointing at the tallest shape, "looks like some sort of watchtower. They'll see you coming."
Abbie followed Ana's finger and looked to the same shape. Considered, then gave a slow nod.
"You're probably right."
"They'll kill you before you can get close. Before you can figure out what you're dealing with. You have to let me help."
"No," said Abbie. "Too risky."
"Forget about me," said Ana. "Forget about explaining what happened to my mum. None of that matters. What matters is saving Isabella. She's the priority, isn't she?"
Damn. It was so annoying when people used Abbie's arguments against her.
"This mission has a low chance of success whatever we do," said Abbie. "I want at least one of us to get out alive."
In the silence following this answer, Ana turned towards the shapes in the dark again, thinking.
"Fine," she said at last. "I'll go. Drop this corrupt bastard off somewhere. Wait for your call, which will come, because you’re not going to die.”
"Thank you," said Abbie.
"Well," said Ana. "I'll do that, but first, there's something else."
Abbie turned, and even in the light, she caught the glint in Ana's eye.
"Something else?"
"Something to help you get inside without putting either of us in too much danger," said Ana. "See, I have a plan."
Thirty-Eight
Ana adjusted the driver's seat, started the car, redirected the box-shaped vehicle, and stopped. She was facing north-west. Direct ahead was the dark shape of what appeared to be a watchtower. Ana didn't know what it was. As far as her map was concerned, she was staring into empty fields.
She accelerated. The car (piece of junk that it was) went from nought to ten miles an hour in the space of a half minute. Incredible. How they had managed to evade the police in this rust bucket was anyone's guess. How close would she be to the Becker base when Ana was noticed? She had the lights off. The car was all but invisible in the dark. But the night was silent, and the vehicle was not. It's engine strained and groaned with every metre of land they chewed up. If the Beckers came out, guns raised, would this shit heap have the speed to evade them, or would they tear Ana to shreds?
Probably best not to think about that. Ana had committed to this course of action. There was no turning back.
She continued to gain speed. It was hard going over the grass and the dirt, but within a quarter-mile, she was up to forty miles an hour. Soon after, she hit sixty. Then sixty-five, then seventy. By then, she could tell what lay ahead, and it made sense. The tower stood at the end on one side of a short and presumably unregistered runway. On the other side, five metres back from the tarmac, was a long, tube-shaped building that ran almost the runway's entire length. On the same side as the tower, but at the runway's opposite end, was a cube-shaped stone building that seemed far too close to where any planes would land. Further proof this place was built by criminals, for criminals. Before long, someone would notice its existence, and it would be destroyed.
But not tonight.
With two miles down and one to go, about forty-five seconds at current speed, the car began to shake. This car had probably struggled at eighty miles an hour when new. All these years and owners down the line, Ana thought the engine would probably explode before she reached the big 8-0. If this car was a Doc Brown time machine, you'd never know it. She could drive for a hundred years on straight, smooth roads and still never hit the magic eighty-eight miles an hour.
The shaking worsened, though the car was no longer speeding up. Ana wasn't weedy but nor was she particularly muscular. The wheel was fighting her, jerking this way and that. Her wrists, all the muscles in her arms, were screaming, but she held on. She was seconds away from the tower and the runway beyond.
What was that? Ana thought she heard something. The night was silent, but sitting in the car was like sticking your head in a running washing machine. She could hear nothing beyond the engine. The sound even seemed to drown out her thoughts.
Then a side window shattered. Ana withheld a scream which no one would have heard anyway and sped past the tower. Three seconds later, she bounced off the grass and onto the tarmac.
She gave a whoop of joy. Almost released the wheel to slap it with triumph, but that would have been disastrous. The car calmed on the tarmac, but she was still going far too fast. If she let go with one hand, the wheel would wrench free of the other. The car would spin, probably flip.
Not wise.
So she held on, zooming down the runway. Once she was off the other side, she would grow safer with every metre. All she needed was to keep on—
The back windscreen shattered. A bullet smashed into the car's floor. As glass flew onto the back seat, Ana screamed and ducked. As her head went down, her hands twisted to the left.
The wheel sensed weakness and seemed to renew its efforts to escape her clutches. Ana fought to hold on. She was almost there. The shooter was in the guard
tower, and Ana moved further away every second. How long before she was out of range?
She kept hold of the wheel. Resurfaced from beneath the dash. She had only been down a few seconds and had managed to stay relatively straight. She was still on the runway.
But in those few seconds, someone had departed the tube-shaped building. As Ana rose above the dash, they were stepping onto the runway, into her path.
In ten seconds, she would hit them. In most cars, Ana would expect to win any collision with a human. In this junk-heap, who knew?
The newcomer raised a shotgun. Aimed at her windscreen.
Pulled the trigger.
With a scream, Ana ducked again.
Her windscreen shattered, and she heard the bullet punch her headrest in two.
This time, the wheel won the battle. As Ana ducked, it tore free and the car span, still moving forward but twisting like a dodgem as it went.
Terrified, expecting another bullet, Ana none the less grabbed the wheel and raised her head. She saw the shotgun wielder dive aside as the car spun over the place he'd been standing seconds ago.
The wheel yanked with more force than ever, and Ana screamed as the car continued to spin. In a desperate attempt to gain control, she slammed the brakes.
There was a scream from somewhere deep in the car, then a strange moment. It was almost peaceful. It felt as though Ana was floating.
Then she realised why.
The wheels had stopped spinning, but the car wasn't interested in falling still. The argument led to the vehicle lifting from the ground and twirling through the air.
There was that moment of peace. Then Ana saw the ground rushing towards the side of the car.
She screamed.
The car smashed onto its side, into the tarmac, and rolled. Ana was hurled around within the confines of her seatbelt as the car went from side to roof to side to wheels to side again before it stopped rolling.
Ana stopped screaming, but the car didn't. There was a screech of metal against tarmac as the vehicle slid along a few more metres on its passenger side doors before finally coming to a complete stop.
Held by her seatbelt, Ana hung to her side. She was vaguely aware of the smoke billowing from the vehicle into the sky. At first, there was a ringing in her ears, but after a few seconds, it stopped.
In the silence that followed, Ana heard approaching feet.
Mr Shotgun was coming to finish the job.
Thirty-Nine
The small room, already cramped, felt more so as the tension mounted. The unease had been developing since they arrived and had ballooned when Evans had called to say Abbie had escaped.
Idiot.
Orion was red with rage when he hung up. Fury poured off him, and Franks flinched when he turned her way. Had Evans delivered the message in person, Franks was certain Orion would have killed him in an epic temper tantrum. As Evans' partner, Franks was terrified Becker might take his temper out on her.
Instead, he had gone for a walk. When his sister arrived, he had calmed a little. He hugged Rachel and punched Ndidi in the stomach before shoving the father to his daughter. Franks expected Orion to kill the little girl then, but Orion said the hostages would remain alive. For now.
He was still nervous, was Becker. Franks didn't understand what all the fuss was about. So Abbie was on the loose. What of it? There was no way she could know where they were, was there? Even if she turned up, she couldn't stop them. Orion's team was depleted (Rachel’s prison getaway driver on the run, three dead at Abbie’s hand, five in holding cells following the heist) but not finished. Orion had his right-hand man—Winston—who commanded two terrifying-looking guys. Winston had remained in the room with the Becker siblings, Franks, and the hostages, but the other two had left; one to man the watchtower and one to patrol. If Abbie showed, she'd be killed before she could do any damage.
Or so Franks had assumed.
They remained in that room for what seemed to be days. Orion and Rachel talked of old times but didn't once engage in conversation with anyone else. Winston stood in the corner, shotgun across his chest, looking like he was hibernating with his eyes open. It seemed he could stand statue-still for a hundred years without a care if that was what was required. Franks found herself wishing Evans had remained with them, rather than being left to watch for Abbie. DS Moore was in the square building across the way, the control room. Franks considered asking to pop over for someone to talk to but was too afraid.
Bored out of her mind, Franks was on the verge of falling asleep when the trouble began.
Winston heard it first. So statue still had he been that Franks noticed immediately when, in her peripheral, he turned his head. A moment later, he had stepped away from the wall. Franks didn't know what had caught his attention. Nor did Orion or Rachel, but they turned when Winston moved. Everyone fell silent.
In the corner, Isabella and Idrissa remained huddled together. They fought tears but didn't say a word.
Then Franks heard it. At first, no more than a buzzing, and she had no idea what it might be. But the sound grew louder and louder, and soon she realised.
"No way," said Orion.
Which was when the radio crackled. Winston grabbed it and spoke to his watchtower guy.
"It's a car. Coming this way. Fast."
"I don't care who's in it," said Winston. "Kill them."
The room had only one table with two chairs. Rachel and Orion had been sitting opposite one another, chatting. As Winston lowered his radio, Orion stood. The anger swelled again. Rachel touched her brother's arm.
"It’ll be alright."
Franks thought Rachel was right. Orion didn't look so sure.
The engine grew louder. Then there was shooting.
The watchtower man radioed again.
"Shit, I didn't get anyone. They're on the runway."
Orion gripped the back of his chair. It was hard plastic, but Franks wouldn't have been surprised to see it snap in two under that grip.
Winston was on the radio to his patrolman, directing them towards the runway.
Lowering the radio, he looked to the boss.
"Go," said Orion. "No games. I want her dead."
Winston didn't hesitate. A curt nod was his only response, then he was out the door.
Orion had drawn his gun. His eyes flicked to the hostages, then he looked at Franks.
"Out the other way. Surround them."
Franks paused. Felt her mouth fall open. It wasn't supposed to be this way. All the hard work was over. This was the easy bit; wait until the plane came, then take your final payment while Orion and Rachel got on board and disappeared into the night.
She wasn't supposed to get into a gunfight with a woman who had already proven herself lethal and unkillable.
In the face of her hesitation, Orion's eyes widened, bulged as though about to burst.
Raising his gun, he pointed it at Franks' head.
"You got three seconds."
Before he'd reached two, Franks was out the room, in the hall.
The long corridor led to two external doors, one at each end of the building. Winston had disappeared through the door at the control room end of the runway. Franks took a breath, then moved towards the door at the watchtower end.
As she went, she drew her gun. A smooth, cool handgun. Fully loaded. It was fine. Winston was out there with his shotgun, and he was lethal. There was every chance Abbie would be dead before Franks arrived. That would be nice. That would be fine. Franks wasn't a fighter; she just liked money. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous. No way she was getting close to any action; worst-case scenario, she'd stand fifty metres away, firing until she was out of bullets. At least that way, she could say she'd done her best.
Kind of.
She reached the door at the end of the corridor and pushed it open. She would peak around the corner, onto the runway, just to see what the situation was—no need to put herself in danger.
She stepped outside, turne
d towards the runway. Pressing herself against the wall, she took a breath, preparing to lean around.
And someone appeared behind her. She felt the hard, cool steel of a gun against her skull.
"Hi there," said Abbie. "Looking for me?"
The car was on its side. Angry black smoke billowed from the engine. In any other scenario, if he was up against any other opponent, Winston would consider this battle won, game over.
Abbie was different. At the dealership, she had taken him by surprise. That was a mitigating circumstance but didn't excuse the failure of his team, who died at her hands, or that her proficiency had pushed Winston into a position where he felt retreat was the only option.
Winston never retreated. Except now he had.
Circling the car, Winston brought himself in line with the roof, which was now the side, and pointed his shotgun where he believed the driver would be suspended by her seatbelt.
At the school, setting Abbie up for arrest had been plan B. Plan A was to kill Abbie and Kilman.
Winston had never previously had to resort to plan B. Except now he had.
Not only that, but he had failed to kill Gary, and even Kilman might survive. Abbie had evaded the police; her fast thinking had almost led to her killing Winston. Once again, he had fled with his tail between his legs.
The memory made him flush with shame.
Though he feared Abbie a little—Winston was not afraid to admit this, even if he was afraid to admit the truth (that it was more than a little)—he had hoped he would meet her again. He needed redemption. Needed to prove, to himself rather than anyone else, he was still top dog. Cock of the walk. He would not be defeated.
What he really needed was for Abbie to show up and make a mistake.
Aiming his gun at where the driver of the crashed car must hang, he smiled.
Finally, luck was falling his way.
A door burst open.
In Winston's shock, he almost fired as he moved. He spun to see DS Moore appear from the control room.