Hunter Killer (21 page)

Quickly, Clara crossed the busy road. There was a doorway set back from the pavement, where she hid in the shadows. She only had to wait a couple of minutes before she saw Kyle again, walking back the way he’d come. He looked around furtively, then shuffled into the pub they’d walked past.

Clara shivered with the cold. She felt so stupid. She wondered if she should follow him into the pub and demand the money back, but she quickly discounted that idea. She’d half known he’d drink it away. At least she’d confirmed one thing: that Danny had been right about his brother all along. He was past anyone’s help.

The thought of Danny made her shiver again. She wondered where he was now. And then she felt the familiar twist of anguish when she remembered that it wasn’t her business any more.

But that didn’t stop her thinking about him. About the abrupt way he’d finished with her. About what was going on in his head.

About where he was now, and what he was doing.

About whether the man she still loved was safe.

Jamal had already decided that if he wanted to get far away from London, the pushbike would be no good. He needed to fetch his motorbike. And he needed to do it tonight. It was a risk returning home to Perivale, he knew that. But as he kept his bike in a lock-up a good 50 metres from the flat itself, he could collect it without even showing his face at home.

It was ten o’clock exactly when he stopped cycling. He left his bike against the railings of the local primary school, and didn’t even bother to lock it up. He knew perfectly well that it would be stolen, but that was okay – it wasn’t like he was going to need it again, after all. He covered the last half mile to the lock-up on foot, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep them warm. His skin tingled. He felt like everyone he passed – small groups of youths, couples hand in hand – were staring at him. But that was ridiculous, he told himself. Nobody knew he was here. On the corner of one main road, a squat man in a black leather jacket who looked uncannily like Phil Collins
did
make eye contact. But then he pulled out his phone and started having an argument with his girlfriend, and Jamal carried on his way.

He stopped about 20 metres from the lock-up – it was a line of three sectional concrete garages in a quiet side street, with a patch of cracked tarmac in front of them. He looked up and down the street, checking that nobody was watching him. The place was deserted, so he crossed to his lock-up – the middle of the three – and opened it up with the key he had in his back pocket.

It was dark in the lock-up, and entirely empty apart from the bike, and the helmet which he kept slung over the handlebars. Jamal hurried in and, moments later, was sitting on the vehicle. There was half a tank of petrol – enough to get him out of London. He had already decided that when he needed to refuel, he would fill up a plastic jerry can, so he didn’t have to expose his bike to the security cameras at any petrol stations. He pulled on his helmet, started the ignition, revved the bike a couple of times and slowly moved out of the lock-up. He was so eager to get away that he didn’t even bother to close the garage door. He wouldn’t be returning, anyway.

The air temperature had dropped. It was a cold night. But Jamal couldn’t risk returning to the flat for warmer clothes. He would just have to man it out. He peered to the end of the side street. No sign of anyone. He drove on, to the corner of the side street and the main road. Here he stopped again and checked around him. There were a handful of pedestrians on the street, but none of them seemed to be paying him any attention. A bus trundled past, its windows misted up, followed by some regular cars. On the other side of the road, exactly opposite the side street, was a black Land Rover Discovery. A broad-shouldered man was behind the wheel reading a newspaper. Probably just a cab driver from the cab firm up the road, waiting for a fare, Jamal told himself. He turned left and followed the bus, which was now 50 metres ahead of him.

He kept one eye on his side mirrors. For 30 seconds or so there was nobody behind him. Then he saw a single pair of headlamps. But there was nothing suspicious about that. It wasn’t like he could expect the streets to himself. He concentrated on driving: safely and not too fast. He
certainly
didn’t want to be pulled over.

From Perivale, he headed on to the A40 out of London. There was more traffic here, almost all of it leaving the capital. He found it strangely comforting, as if the camouflage of other vehicles made him more difficult to pick out. The road headed west, past Heathrow. The Terminal Five building glowed in the distance, lighting up the sky, but there were no planes arriving or leaving. London, tonight, was still a no-fly zone for civilian aircraft. He remembered how Sarim used to talk about one day organising a terrorist hit on an aircraft – he had elaborate plans Jamal didn’t fully understand that involved stealing passports in Thailand – and how pleased Abu Ra’id would be with them if they pulled off another 9/11. Up until today, pleasing Abu Ra’id had been all Jamal wanted to do. Now, however, he just wanted to get away from him. He was acting, he realised, out of fear.

Jamal didn’t really know where he was going. He had no friends, to speak of. No relations who hadn’t disowned him. All he really knew was that he wanted to get someplace quiet. He could get a cheap room in a Travelodge somewhere while he worked out his next move. Maybe he could skip the country. Get over to Pakistan. As one of the Paddington bombers, surely there would be people who would give him sanctuary.

He was thinking these thoughts as he checked his fuel gauge. It was almost empty. He cursed himself for having passed a petrol station a few moments before. Now he would have to get off the A40 and hunt for another petrol station nearby. He pulled off at the next exit, took a left at the roundabout and continued along an almost empty B road for a mile or so until he came across a Texaco garage on his right. He pulled into a lay-by, killed the bike’s engine, and quickly crossed the road to the petrol station. A red Ford Focus was filling up, but otherwise the forecourt was deserted.

As he approached the shop to buy a jerry can, however, another vehicle that had come from the same direction as Jamal turned into the petrol station. Its headlamps were very bright, so at first glance he couldn’t tell what kind of vehicle it was. Something about it, though, made him uneasy. Inside the shop he took another glance. It was parked up by the air and water station. A black Land Rover Discovery.

Jamal froze.

He was standing by the sweets. The guy behind the counter was staring at him. He looked round. Green jerry cans were on sale on the far side of the shop. He walked over and picked one up. ‘Going to fill this up, mate,’ he said to the attendant, who nodded back at him.

He exited the shop and walked up to one of the pumps, watching the Land Rover from the corner of his eye. The driver stepped outside. He had dark hair and black stubble, and was very broad-shouldered. He didn’t even seem to notice Jamal as he filled up his jerry can. He just walked into the shop and stood at the sweet counter, browsing.

It couldn’t be the same man Jamal had seen reading the newspaper back in Perivale, could it?

A minute later, the can was overflowing. Jamal swore as the petrol spilled over his hand. He replaced the nozzle in the pump, tightened the can, and returned to the shop. The dark-haired man was at the counter with three Snickers bars and a can of Red Bull. He accepted some change from the attendant, then turned to leave. As he passed Jamal they made eye contact. The man nodded. ‘All right, mate?’ he muttered.

Jamal put his head down and walked to the counter. As he stood there paying in cash for his petrol, he watched the man return to the Land Rover. Relief crashed over him when he saw the vehicle move. It turned left, back towards the A40.

His hands were trembling as he accepted his change. He pocketed it, then carried his jerry can out of the shop, across the forecourt and over the road to where his bike was waiting. He could almost feel the attendant’s eyes burning into him, watching him for his strange behaviour. He didn’t care. He’d be away from here soon enough.

He poured the fuel into the tank, then carelessly chucked the jerry can away into the verge. The sight of the Discovery had churned him up and he struggled to become calm again. Although it had driven away and was therefore clearly not following him, he decided he wasn’t going to head back towards the A40, just in case. He kicked the motorbike into action again and continued in the opposite direction along the B road at a steady thirty, the beam from his headlamp lighting up the road and the high thick bushes on either side.

A vehicle shot past from the opposite direction. Jamal watched its tail lights disappear in his side mirror. He was relieved to see that there was nobody behind him. He focused on the road ahead. A minute later, another car zoomed past from the same direction. Jamal swore again – it had its headlamps on full beam, which dazzled him. He checked his side mirrors again. With reduced, blotchy vision he saw the red tail lights disappearing. He screwed his eyes shut momentarily to try and get his full vision back again.

He opened them.

He almost shouted out in shock.

A vehicle had suddenly appeared no more than 30 metres behind him. Its headlamps were switched off, which was why he hadn’t seen it approach. It was closing in fast. Jamal couldn’t make out the outline, but he knew, beyond question, that it was the Discovery.

Panic surged through him. He opened the throttle on his bike. The speedometer crept up past thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

The road had grown narrow. It twisted and turned. Jamal tried to hug the edge, praying that his skills on the bike were up to the task. He checked in the mirror. The Discovery was obscured by a bend in the road. But five seconds later the road straightened out. It was closer now.

Twenty metres.

Ten.

Another vehicle sped by from the opposite direction. Its horn sounded angrily, but faded quickly. Jamal increased his speed even more. The speedo flickered past sixty. Seventy. It was too fast. He could feel himself losing control of the bike. There was a great roaring in his ears. One glance in the side mirror told him that the Discovery was on his tail.

Now it was overtaking.

He looked to his right. The man from the garage was behind the wheel. But in the back seat he could just make out another face that he recognised – the Phil Collins lookalike he had walked past in Perivale.

His stomach churned. He didn’t know what to do. Speed up? Slow down? He was panicking. The Discovery eased passed him, and as it did, he saw the rear window sliding down. The vehicle was five metres ahead of him when the passenger leaned out slightly. He was carrying something: a black metal tube. A gun, maybe? Jamal found himself shouting in fear under his helmet.
They were about to shoot him . . .

It happened so suddenly. There was a blinding white flash, like electricity behind his eyes.

He couldn’t see anything. He was totally blind.

Time seemed to slow down.

In a fraction of a second, he heard the Discovery’s engine pitch up a notch and he knew the vehicle was accelerating away. At the same time, he felt his tyres losing their grip on the road surface.

He was screaming again. Still blind.

A dreadful, high-pitched whine escaped the motorbike’s engine and he felt himself falling sideways to the right. But before his body hit the road, the vehicle came to an abrupt, jarring stop. He knew he must have crashed into the side of the road. The dreadful force of the impact jolted through him. At the same time, he felt the bones in his right arm and leg crush as they became sandwiched between the bike and the road.

And then time sped up again. Agony coursed through him. He was still blind, but he had a picture of himself in his mind’s eye, the twisted skeleton of the bike wrapped around his own damaged frame.

The pain was unspeakable. He tried to scream again, realised he didn’t have the strength to do it.

There was liquid in his helmet, warm and thick. He recognised the taste of blood. He knew he had to get his helmet off, and he tried to do it. But his limbs weren’t working. He couldn’t move. He panicked even more, and inhaled a lungful of his own blood, as a hoarse choking sound came from the back of his throat.

He couldn’t breathe.

Seconds passed. The vision was clearing. Through the bloodied, misted visor, he saw the outline of two men standing over him. He tried to speak, but only gurgled before inhaling more blood.

‘Is he dead?’ said a voice. It sounded deep and slow, like a voice in a dream.

‘Not yet,’ came the reply.

‘Told you it wouldn’t fucking work. I’ll finish him off.’

‘No weapons.’

‘Won’t need them, mucker.’

He was a hunted animal. Dread almost overcame his agony. He tried again to shout out for mercy, but again there was just a bubbling of blood and a burning in his lungs.

One of the figures was bending over him. ‘You’ve planted your last bomb, sunshine,’ it said.

Moments later, he felt a boot on his neck, grinding down into his jugular. His broken body started to shake. His lungs burned worse than ever. His vision clouded again and went black.

The boot on his jugular ground down harder, constricting whatever airflow had been going through his system.