Criminally Insane (33 page)

Leon drove the Lexus down the dock road away from the city. Prestige car showrooms had replaced derelict warehouses which had stood empty for decades, and a new passenger terminal gobbled up acres of the old port. Liverpool was now on the cruise ship tourist map, and liners from all over the world docked directly beneath the iconic Liver Buildings. Few reminders of Liverpool’s dark history as the centre of the world’s slave trade remained on the riverbank. Fashionable restaurants now occupied the waterfront where galleys had once docked, and a huge cargo and container port operated closer to the Irish Sea near the northern suburb of Bootle. “Are we doing this on our own?” Gareth asked nervously. “I can’t believe they shot Monkey, Leon. What am I going to tell his family?”

“We’ll tell them what we know, which is fuck all, Gar,” Leon growled. He reached for his silver tobacco tin and opened the lid with his left hand. He placed it on his knee and spooned some of the white powder onto the back of his hand. He sniffed it and then repeated the process. “Monkey had a lot of enemies, mate. You know that.”

“I suppose so, but I’ve known his family all my life. Are you sure it’s nothing to do with today?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I’ll find out.” Leon looked at him to reinforce his words. “We’ll get whoever did that, I swear down that we will, motherfuckers!”

Gareth looked in the wing mirror and then turned around to look out of the back window. “That fucker has been following us for miles.” He pointed out of the window.

“The guys on the motorbike?”

“Yes.” Gareth looked concerned.

“I know, Gar.” Leon smiled. “They‘re our backup, mate. They‘re hardcore mercenaries.”

“You could’ve told me,” Gareth grumbled and turned back toward the front. “I almost shit my pants then after seeing Monkey shot dead.”

Leon chortled and punched his associate in the arm. Gareth laughed it off, but the heavy blow would bruise later. A high security fence stretched for miles to their left hand side, and containers of every shade and colour were stacked high as far as the eye could see. Cranes worked tirelessly, lifting cargo from container ships from all over the globe. The port was enjoying a new lease of life, and the increased number of international ships docking brought opportunities for the criminal fraternity, too. Checking every crate and pallet was physically impossible. HM Customs were overstretched with policing imported goods, so they tendered out the port’s boundary security to private security companies. They were at the mercy of the integrity of their employees.

“We’re here,” Leon said smiling. He indicated and turned the Lexus off the dock road, away from the container terminal. A plot of land designated for development was utilised as a temporary car park, servicing a busy Sunday market nearby. It was desolate wasteland pitted with potholes full of rainwater. Bricks poked out of the compacted earth, causing havoc to tyre treads and wheel balance. There were a few parked cars on it and a scattering of vans dotted about. The only building remaining was an old pub called the Dockers’ Clock, which the owners had converted into a truckers’ cafe. It flourished by offering greasy breakfasts twenty-four hours a day to hungry heavy goods drivers. “Our suppliers should be in there stuffing their faces with bacon and eggs.”

“I haven’t been down here for donkey’s years,” Gareth said, looking around. “I used to get all my snide gear from that market when I was a kid.”

“Me too, Gar,” Leon laughed. “No more snide gear for you after today, mate. You can go to town and buy as much Armani as you want.”

They watched the motorbike slowing on the road behind them, but it didn’t pull onto the waste ground. It stayed on the road and drove nearer to the cafe entrance. The pillion rider dismounted and removed his helmet. Griff Collins glanced at Leon, waiting for a signal. Leon put a thumb up. Griff lit a cigarette and walked toward the cafe. The driver stayed on the bike and waited. “Grab the bag from the boot, Gar,” Leon ordered.

Leon pressed the release switch and Gareth climbed out of the car. He walked around the back of the vehicle to open the boot lid. Leon kept his eyes on the pillion rider as he stubbed out his smoke and entered the cafe. The boot lid opened, and he felt Gareth reaching in to remove the bag. He could hear him muttering something, but he couldn’t understand it. The car rocked as he clumsily fished around in the boot. He heard Gareth swearing under his breath and wondered how difficult getting a holdall could be. Leon’s mobile buzzed and he fumbled around in his pocket for it. “I’m here,” the voice said. “Do you want a brew?”

“Yes, I’ll be two minutes.” Leon ended the call. The pillion rider confirmed that the suppliers were in the cafe waiting for them. “We‘re on, Gar!” he laughed as he opened his door and struggled to lift his huge frame out of the vehicle. “Gareth, move it!” He locked the doors and looked at the boot. The lid was up, blocking his view. “Gareth?” Leon took three steps to the rear of the car and the colour drained from his face.

Alec was sitting at his desk opposite Will and Chief Carlton. The coffee jug on the desk was half-full, or half-empty, depending on how you looked at things. Today it was definitely half-full. He rubbed his tired eyes and tried to digest everything they had uncovered in the last few days. “So you‘re convinced that this guy, Nate Bradley, is Howarth’s accomplice?” He asked, taking a sip of the strong black brew.

“Yes, it makes sense from what we know so far.” Will slurped coffee and nodded his head.

“And CTU gave you this information?” the chief raised his eyebrows.

“No, the Taskforce,” Will corrected him. “Look at Bradley’s profile and what happened to his family. It all adds up.”

“Maybe it does,” Alec mused, “but what evidence do we actually have that connects him to anything?”

“Nothing yet, but if we arrest him and search his property, we may be able to connect him to the missing college kids through his laptop.” Will was racing ahead with his theory. “If we can connect him to the missing lads, we may be able to connect him to the Benjamin murder?”

“Not a chance, Will.” Alec shook his head vehemently. “It’s all circumstantial evidence. I can see how it fits, but we have no hard evidence on him.”

“What about these two killings?” Will picked up an update that the chief had brought with him from the uniformed division. “David Lorimar, shot and set alight outside the hospital, and then Mickey Grieves shot three times in McDonalds?” He put the update in front of Alec. “Come on, guv. Someone is systematically assassinating drug dealers. He’s moving up the chain.”

“I don’t agree.” Alec was adamant. “We have no information to connect Lorimar to drug dealing. We know he’s associated with Jinx Cotton, but he’s a moneylender, not a drug dealer. Uniform arrested him in a firearms case, but the judge threw it out of court. As for Grieves, I’ve never heard of him, do we know he’s a dealer?”

“The drugs squad say he’s linked loosely to Leon Tanner, but he was a small time dealer at best,” the chief added. “We’ll find him and bring him in. Don’t we need to concentrate on the case against Howarth for now?”

“We do, but until the doctors have assessed his mental state, we can’t go near him. I think he’ll be transferred straight to Ashworth Secure Unit or the Cat-A nit in Manchester tomorrow morning. When we get around to interviewing him, I think it will be at Ashworth.” Alec drank some more coffee and topped up his cup from the jug.

“He’ll be in good company there,” Will scoffed. “Is Brady still in there?”

“Ian Brady, one of the infamous Moor’s Murderers. Now that is a blast from the past. I had just joined the force when they caught them,” the chief reminisced. “He spent most of his life in there. He’s being force-fed through a tube now. It’s less than, what, six miles as the crow flies from here, Alec?”

“I think so,” Alec nodded. “Wherever Howarth ends up, he won’t be getting out until he’s in a box, that’s for sure.”

“Sooner the better for me,” Will added.

“We still have to focus on his accomplice. If Will is correct in his assumption, then Nate Bradley is out there, knocking over drug dealers and their associates until one of them kills him or we stop him,” Alec shrugged. “Either way, we need to make his arrest a priority. I think we should use the press coverage of the Howarth arrest to find Bradley.”

“I agree, the tabloids will be all over the arrest of the ‘Child Taker’. It will be front-page news for a week! If we tell them we’re hunting an accomplice, we may get lucky. In the meantime, his picture has been distributed to every officer in the city,” the chief said proudly. “If he is out there, we’ll find him.”

Alec’s desk phone rang, interrupting their debate. He took a drink of dark liquid before answering it. “Smithy?” Alec said. He listened for a while. The conversation from the other end was a mystery to the others in the room. “What time?” Alec squeezed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and closed his eyes. “Okay, let everyone know, please.” He hung up the receiver and looked at Will. His face was ashen. “Kisha didn’t make it.” Alec stood up from the desk and walked to the window. The sun was fading fast, and the river looked like liquid metal in the dusk. “The doctors said she had massive internal injuries. She never regained consciousness.”

“I am so sorry, Alec.” The chief stood up and held out his hand. “That’s two damned good officers we have lost to that bastard. We can carry this on when you have told your people. I’ll speak to the press. Give me a call when you’re ready.” He patted Will on the shoulder and let himself out of the room without another word.

“I didn’t realise she was hurt that badly. Was she a mess?” Will asked his boss. “I mean did she look like she wouldn’t make it?” He couldn’t believe that she was dead. Will opened his collar and the button below it.

Alec kept his face to the window. “Yes, he made a mess of her. The bastard bit her face off.”

“The team will be rocked, guv.” Will indicated to the officers they could see through the glass. “She was a good copper.”

“She was.” Alec turned around and his face was like thunder. “She should never have been there alone. Stevie Neil is out of this department as of now, and if I find out he was talking to the press, I want him locked up for reckless endangerment, understand?”

“Yes, guv,” Will agreed. “Lara Bridge won’t take my calls at the moment, but when I get hold of her, she’ll tell me who the leak is.”

“Make sure she does.” Alec didn’t care how he did it. “Bang her up in the cells if you need to. I want to know how she got hold of that information.”

“I’ll call her again. If I offer her the full story, she may spill the beans on her source.” Will took another swig of coffee. “Now the chief has gone, what happened with Howarth, guv?” he asked. “Smithy called in saying that the army were pulling everyone out of there, and the next thing we heard, you had Howarth in a van?”

“The bomb squad captain has a twenty-five-year-old daughter.” Alec sat down at the desk. “I told him what Howarth did to Louise Parker and the Oguzhan family. He was wavering when one of his men came over and told us he’d seen a manhole cover leaning against the cellar wall in the second house, but he couldn’t see the drain anywhere. He moved a couple of drums and found the open manhole. I knew Howarth was planning to use it as his escape route. I asked him to let me wait for one hour and we took the gamble. It paid off this time.”

“Phew, big gamble, guv,” Will gasped. “What if it had gone up?”

“The technician was positive that the timer was a decoy. It just made me all the more convinced that the bomb wasn’t built to go off, it was his way out of there. He wanted us to evacuate the area so he could slip away unhindered. He would be miles away by now if we hadn’t taken the chance.”

“I can’t believe he’s in the cells, can you?” Will laughed, but it was a nervous laugh. “Do you think they’ll section him?”

“Probably,” Alec nodded. “Its difficult to believe anything that animal has done,” Alec agreed. “Hes in the cells, and that is all that counts. Anyway, I believe we have a few more problems to deal with in the cells?” Alec pointed his finger at Will.

“Yes, guv.” Will blushed red. “I took a gamble of my own, but it hasn’t worked quite as well as yours did. Oguzhan and his minder have been in the cells about four hours now. His lawyer is kicking off big time. He cooled off a little bit when I told him that we had Salim’s killer in custody.”

“What have you said to him?” Alec asked. The creases around his eyes deepened.

“Just that we had made an arrest in connection with the murders, guv, like you said, it will be all over the news tonight. I told his lawyer we’re briefing the drug squad and they will be dealing with him. I said it could take a while.” Will seemed unperturbed by the matter. “As soon as they heard about the arrest, they started jabbering in Turkish. The old man was frothing at the mouth.”

“Have you briefed anyone from the drug squad?”

“No, guv.” Will smiled. “I can’t see them making anything stick, can you?”

“No,” Alec agreed. “He owns the property and that’s all we have. He’ll be out in an hour or so.”

“Well, it’s early days yet, I suppose,” Will smiled thinly. “We’ll see if he wants to play ball.”

The desk phone rang again. The two detectives looked at it with concerned expressions on their faces. The way things were panning out, it was probably bad news. Alec paused before answering it. “Smithy?” Alec sighed into the receiver, anticipating the worst. He listened for a minute and asked exactly the same question he had earlier. “What time?” He paused again. “Let everyone know, will you.” He hung up and looked at Will across the desk.

“It must be your lucky day,” Alec smiled. “Rose James walked into a police station in Shrewsbury half an hour ago.”

Leon stopped dead and put his hands on his head. “What the fuck?” He muttered as he looked at the dead body of Gareth Bates. There was a single bullet hole in the centre of his forehead, a trickle of blood running from it into his left eye. The skin around the wound was charred black. His eyes were wide open and his face was fixed in a sneer, showing his yellowed teeth. Gareth was lying on his back in a puddle of dirty rainwater. Leon looked around, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. It dawned on him that Gareth was recovering the holdall from the boot, but he couldn’t see it. He leaned over to find it, but the boot was empty. “Shit! Motherfucker!” He looked again, but it was nowhere in sight. Leon struggled to kneel down to check under the Lexus. He gasped for breath as he strained his fat neck, but the holdall was gone. Leon stood up and leaned against the back of the car. The nearest vehicle was fifty yards to his left. It was an unoccupied green Vauxhall Omega. Seventy yards to the right was a beaten-up Iveco Daily. It was post office red and had the Parcel Force logo printed along the panels. Leon reckoned it was too old to be in service. It was the only vehicle parked close enough to the Lexus for the thief to reach unseen. He had been distracted for just a few moments whilst Gareth had gone to the back of the car. The van was the only possible place that the killer could have gone. He jumped when his mobile buzzed in his pocket.

“Is there a problem?” Griff was sitting in the window of the cafe waiting for Leon. “Your coffee is going cold here, if you know what I mean.” Griff could see that the suppliers were getting tetchy. They were grumbling and checking their watches every few minutes. They were nervous, and the deal could go sour if Leon delayed it any further.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Leon looked at the cafe. Sweat ran down his head onto his neck. “Are you in the window?”

“Yes, why?”

“Did you see anybody near my car?” Leon reached inside the boot and lifted the spare wheel with his free hand. He held the phone under his chin and lifted a 7.75mm Scorpion machinegun from the tyre well. The Scorpion was small enough to slip into his jacket pocket. Only the magazine protruded.

“What are you talking about?” Griff sounded irritated. He wanted the handover completed without complications. Babysitting Leon was easy money as long as nothing went wrong. “Is there
a problem?”

“Answer the question, did you notice anyone near my car?” Leon repeated, with more urgency this time. He didn’t want to let the mercenary know that the money had gone.

“No.” Griff hissed. “I’m here to watch what is going on in here. You said you had outside covered.”

“Yes, it’s covered alright.” Leon took out his tobacco tin and fumbled with the lid. He spooned the white powder onto the lid with shaky hands and then cut it with his gold MasterCard. He snorted three lines in succession before slipping the tin back into his pocket. Closing the boot, he rushed back to the driver’s door and climbed into the car. The motorcycle rider watched as the Lexus engine roared into life, and the wheels sprayed a fountain of mud and grit into the air as they tried to find purchase. The vehicle lurched forward, and Leon snatched the wheel hard left. The vehicle swerved toward the red parcel van at speed. “The deal’s gone bad. They’re ripping me off!” Leon shouted into the phone as his car neared the van.

He lowered the passenger window and took out the Scorpion. As he pulled to a halt in front of the vehicle, he unleashed the entire magazine into the front windscreen. Glass and metal ricocheted into the air as the van disintegrated beneath the maelstrom of bullets. The gun clicked empty before he took his finger from the trigger. He removed the empty magazine and snapped in a full one. “Jinx!” He screamed at the van. “Is that you in there, you fucking prick?” He opened the door and struggled to climb out. Holding the Scorpion at arm’s length, he approached the ruined vehicle with trepidation. “Where is my money, Jinx, you arsehole!” The front seats were empty and the bulkhead prevented him from seeing into the back. He ran to the sliding door which gave access to the rear and leaned against the van to gather his wits. The cocaine was coursing through his bloodstream, and anger replaced caution. The fact that his money was gone sent him into a blind panic. This was the deal of a lifetime. It would lift him into the premier league of international drug dealers, and he wanted that desperately.

The diners in the cafe heard the gunfire, and several of them ran outside to watch the action. Griff kept his eyes on the suppliers. The gunshots had startled them, and after looking out of the window, one of them grabbed their vehicle keys off the table and they looked around the old pub for a way out. They were searching for a rear exit. The old pub still had the same floor plan it had had when it was full of dockers drinking pints of mild and smoking Woodbines. A corridor led from the main seating area to the toilets at the rear of the pub. The suppliers headed down the corridor. Griff knew that there was a fire exit situated there which would lead them onto the road at the back of the building. He waited a few seconds and then followed them. They looked uncertain as to where they were going. Griff jogged down the corridor toward them. “There’s a fire exit here, mate,” he feigned concern. “Fuck knows what’s going on out there, but it’s best to go out the back here.”

“Thanks, we’ll follow you,” a Turkish-looking man answered warily. His English was broken. The two men weren’t carrying anything with them. Griff assumed that the drugs were in a vehicle outside, and he knew into which pocket the Turk had put the keys.

Leon took three deep breaths and then reached for the door handle. He yanked it with his left hand and aimed the Scorpion with his right. “Fucking bastard, Jinx,” he yelled as he pulled the door, but it didn’t budge. The owner had locked the door. He ran around to the back doors as fast as his huge frame would allow him, and he grabbed the handle and twisted it. “Bastard!” he roared, his cheeks wobbling. Spittle flew from his lips as he cursed the locked van. The doors held fast. “I know it’s you, Jinx, I know you’re in there.” Leon stepped back and pulled the trigger. The machine pistol bucked in his hand as the bullets drilled into the rear doors. The magazine emptied in seconds, and the gun clicked as the last bullet fired. Leon threw the gun at the van and it clanged off the bumper and clattered onto the dirt. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, breathless.

Griff pressed the push bar and the fire exit burst open. He let the Turks run past him, but as they did, he knocked into one of them. Several other diners had had the same idea and they barged past Griff in their hurry to escape. The suppliers ran to the left of the building and peered around the corner. They knew that their contact was a fat black man, and a man fitting that description was waving a machinegun around on the car park. They exchanged words which Griff didn’t understand and then ran toward a white Transit compact. The other diners were scattering in all directions, and at least four engines started at the same time. He could hear wheels spinning in the dirt as frightened onlookers fled the scene. Griff ran to the front of the pub and waived to the man on the motorbike. His associate started the engine and drove the machine along the road to the front of the cafe. Sirens wailed in the distance. There wasn’t much time, and it seemed that Leon had lost the plot. Griff watched him hurl a machinegun at a red van, and then he picked it up and began hammering the vehicle with the weapon like a man demented. The Turks reached their compact and began searching their pockets for the missing keys. They exchanged angry words, but they were never going to find them because Griff had them in his hand.

Leon heard the police sirens, and his sense of self-preservation tried to take hold of his cocaine clouded brain. He threw the gun underneath the van and then immediately regretted it. His prints were all over it. “Fuck! Fuck!” He kicked the van, and tears of frustration ran down his face. “Jinx, you fucking bastard!” he sobbed as he kneeled down to recover the weapon. It was closer to the other side, out of his reach. The siren was coming closer; others had joined it. Leon scrambled up, using the van to support his massive bulk. He stumbled around to the opposite side. His chest heaved and perspiration drenched his skin, making his clothes stick to him uncomfortably. Vehicles whizzed past him, their engines at full throttle as innocent bystanders tried to escape the scene. A green Omega started at speed toward the exit. If Leon had paid attention, he would have noticed the driver climb out of the back seat. Leon didn’t notice them, it was all a blur. He had to retrieve the gun and get away from there before the police arrived. Jinx had his money. Leon was convinced that he was his Nemesis. There was a huge puddle at the other side of the parcel van, and Leon cursed at the top of his voice as he knelt in the icy water to reach the gun. Wheels screeched by and engines roared as he stretched his podgy fingers toward the Scorpion. His face was inches away from the puddle. “Fucking bastard!” he cried. Snot ran from his nose and dribble hung from his lips as he tried desperately to reach the gun. His fingers brushed it, and he felt the cold metal. He pinched it between his index finger and thumb and inched it backwards toward him. Strong hands grabbed the back of his head and a crushing weight pinned him to the floor. The water saturated his clothes; he struggled to get up, but the combination of his own weight and the weight on his back forced him further into it. He gasped as his attacker drove his face into the deep puddle. His body twitched and wriggled, and bubbles flowed to the surface of the dirty water. He desperately tried to hold his breath. He knew he would drown, but his lungs were burning from the exertion. The hands pushed him deeper still as his strength faded. Leon opened his mouth and sucked in rainwater, which rushed into his lungs. He felt darkness creeping into the corner of his mind as the oxygen ran out and his brain began to shut down. “Say hello to my wife and my son Nate, you fat fucker,” Gecko whispered into his ear as his body stopped moving.

When the huge dealer was dead, Nate Bradley jogged over to the green Vauxhall Omega and climbed into the driver’s seat. Leon’s money was in the holdall on the backseat. As the sirens neared, Nate decided it was time to cut and run. He headed for the exit, dropping the car over the kerbstone and onto the dock road.

As Leon choked, Griff climbed onto the pillion seat and pointed to the Transit. The driver nodded, twisting the throttle. The motorbike lurched toward the white vehicle and the Turkish suppliers. They were flapping about and arguing over who had held the keys last. One of them pointed toward the old pub and ran in the direction of the fire exit at the rear, thinking that they may have left them on the table. As he ran past them, the bike reached the compact and Griff pulled the sawn-off from his coat and aimed it at the remaining Turk’s face. “Are you looking for these?” Griff said. He waived the keys and then climbed off the motorbike. “Don’t be a hero. Are you a hero?” Griff ran to the back of the vehicle. The Turk took the opportunity to run, following his colleague toward the old pub. “I like your style,” Griff laughed as the supplier ran. He whistled at the number of packages that the suppliers had wrapped onto a single pallet. “We’ll have to take the van.” Griff ran to driver’s door and inserted the keys into the ignition. He tried to imagine how much the drugs were worth. Leon had screwed up the deal, but if he could commandeer the cargo of drugs, then there would be some kind of salvage money owing. He intended to claim that salvage. The ignition key turned, but the engine didn’t fire. There was a two-second delay before he turned it again. Again, it stayed silent and failed to fire up. Griff engaged reverse gear and checked the mirrors before turning the key again. A huge green refuse crusher trundled into his field of vision from behind. The doors opened and he saw men dropping out of it. The motorcycle rider revved the engine and sped away. Griff called after him, but then he realised why the rider had left him behind. He counted six dark skinned men around the compact. They had dismounted from the crew-cab of the bin lorry, and an array of weaponry pointed at him. “I thought there would be more than two of you.” He put his head in his hands and laughed. “I like your style!” Griff said as he opened the door of the transit and rolled out onto his back. As he came upright, he pulled both triggers on the sawn-off. A nine-millimetre bullet hit him in the cheek. It rocked his head backwards sharply, snapping his spine at the neck before travelling through his body turning brain cells into pink mush. It exited his head just above his right ear, ripping a chunk of bone the size of a man’s hand from his skull. Bullets, blood and bone splinters tore through the material of his jacket, and a barrage of nine millimetre rounds to the chest blew him off his feet. He was dead before he hit the floor. The Turkish gang left him bleeding in the dirt, and when the police cars arrived, the bin wagon and the compact were long gone.

Jinx watched Griff Collins fall, and he recognised him as the hit man who had looked him in the eyes after killing David Lorimar. The motorcycle was the same machine he had used to escape the scene. The Turks were there in numbers, but they remained well hidden until their shipment was threatened. If Gus Rickman had had any intentions of hijacking the deal, then he probably realised that his men were outgunned and retreated gracefully. The motorcycle raced past him, and Jinx put his foot down in the Mercedes to keep pace with it. The rider accelerated to nearly ninety miles an hour along an arterial route which ran parallel to the dock road. Jinx kept him in sight, but he was a dozen vehicles behind him as they approached a set of traffic lights. The motorcycle weaved through stationary traffic and then indicated to turn off the main drag onto a slip road which accessed the Wallasey tunnel.

The tunnel under the Mersey linked the city to the Wirral peninsula. Jinx pressed the accelerator down and followed the motorcycle onto the tunnel approach. A bank of tollbooths slowed the traffic again, but Jinx headed for the express lane which allowed regular users to drive straight into the tunnel. A camera used vehicle registration recognition to identify vehicles with a prepaid pass, and as Jinx approached, the barrier raised automatically. The motorcycle joined the queue for the pay booths and had to wait his turn in line. As Jinx headed down the tunnel, the motorcycler raced alongside him, unaware who was driving the car next to him. Jinx took the inside lane, forcing the bike into the outside line. A row of reflectors buried into the tarmac was all that separated it from the oncoming traffic. The lanes were narrow and overtaking forbidden, even for a motorcycle. There was a coach in front of the motorbike, keeping it level with the Mercedes as they drove further under the river. The coach and Jinx’s Mercedes hemmed the powerful machine in. As the tunnel began to climb, Jinx saw an eighteen-wheeler coming the opposite way. All four lanes were crammed with vehicles, and the air was thick with exhaust fumes and engine noise echoing from the curved walls. As the articulated lorry approached, Jinx swerved toward the motorbike. The rider glanced at him and swerved away to avoid a collision, but the Mercedes clipped the rear wheel, and the machine hurtled across the reflectors into the path of the oncoming truck. “That’s for you, Dava,” Jinx said. The motorbike shattered as it hit the lorry, and the force catapulted the rider underneath the front wheels. In his rear view mirror, Jinx could see the traffic grinding to a stop. A blue and white crash helmet bounced off the road and as it hit the tunnel wall, blood splattered the paintwork. The rider’s head sprung out of the helmet and smashed through the windscreen of a Nissan Micra.