bad you’ll wish you were dead. You get
me?”
The two men stared
silently at each other. Adrenaline poured into Harlan’s bloodstream. He knew
what he had to do – he had to put this fucker on the ground and kneel on his
back until the uniforms showed up – but he couldn’t do it. His body was rooted,
paralysed, while his mind looped back to the image of Robert Reed going over
like a skittle. Yet again he heard the sickening crunch, yet again he saw the
blood diffusing like wine through the snow.
The man swung at
Harlan. Automatically, he jerked his arms up to block the punch. The man swung
again. Harlan swayed out of his reach. “Motherfucker!” roared the man, throwing
a flurry of punches, all of which either deflected off Harlan’s arms or missed
their target. The man backed away, breathing heavily, a new wariness in his
eyes.
Again, they faced each
other silently for a moment. Then the man pulled out a key and unlocked the
car. “Stop. I can’t let you leave,” said Harlan, but he made no attempt to
prevent the man from ducking into the car. It wasn’t until the engine revved
into life that he darted forward and tried to yank open the driver’s side door.
He was dragged along, stumbled to his knees, and as the car turned sharply,
narrowly avoided getting pulled under its wheels.
As the car accelerated
onto the road, Harlan sprinted to his own car. He slammed it into gear and
pushed his foot down hard. He’d been trained in pursuit driving, and he knew
the area well, so he was confident the VW wouldn’t get away from him.
Accelerating smoothly through the gears, he quickly caught up with it. Its
driver put on a sudden burst of speed at a junction, narrowly avoiding clipping
another car. Harlan was forced to briefly mount the pavement in order to swerve
around the same car. Zigzagging through traffic, careening wildly around bends,
they roared through the streets at blurring speeds. Horns blared, tyres
squealed, and brakes screeched, as the VW’s driver attempted to shake off his
pursuer by going the wrong way around a busy roundabout. There was the sound of
grinding metal as Harlan’s car scraped along the side of an oncoming bus. For
an instant, he thought he was boxed in, then the traffic parted like the Red
Sea, and he was charging after the VW again. Its driver was going like a mad
thing, overtaking and undertaking, cutting across streams of traffic, forcing
Harlan to take crazy risks just to keep him in view. This is going to end badly ,
thought Harlan, and a second later it did. The silver VW took a corner too
fast, skidded out of control, hit a curb and flipped. Once, twice, three times
it rolled across a grass verge, tearing up huge chunks of turf, before coming
to rest on its roof against a wall.
Harlan sprang out of
his car and ran to the VW. He tried to open the driver’s side door, but it was
wedged shut by the car’s buckled roof. He kicked in the window, already
shattered by the impact. Ducking down, he saw the man lying in an unconscious
heap, his face crushed and bloody. Scattered all around him were clothes, which
seemed to have come from a holdall that’d burst open during the crash. Harlan
felt for a pulse, and to his relief, found one, although it was weak and
thready. The man groaned as Harlan hooked his hands under his armpits, and
gently as possible, pulled him from the wreckage. His breath gurgled and grated
as if something was broken inside his chest. Blood welled from a deep gash on
the palm of one of his hands. Harlan took off his jacket and covered him with
it, before ducking back into the overturned car to grab an item of clothing to
staunch the bleeding. It was then that he saw the gun. It was an Olympic .380
BBM revolver – a starter pistol favoured by criminals because it could easily
be purchased and just as easily be converted to fire live ammo. Careful not to
touch the gun with his hands, he wrapped it in a t-shirt and pocketed it. Then
he tore another t-shirt in
me?”
The two men stared
silently at each other. Adrenaline poured into Harlan’s bloodstream. He knew
what he had to do – he had to put this fucker on the ground and kneel on his
back until the uniforms showed up – but he couldn’t do it. His body was rooted,
paralysed, while his mind looped back to the image of Robert Reed going over
like a skittle. Yet again he heard the sickening crunch, yet again he saw the
blood diffusing like wine through the snow.
The man swung at
Harlan. Automatically, he jerked his arms up to block the punch. The man swung
again. Harlan swayed out of his reach. “Motherfucker!” roared the man, throwing
a flurry of punches, all of which either deflected off Harlan’s arms or missed
their target. The man backed away, breathing heavily, a new wariness in his
eyes.
Again, they faced each
other silently for a moment. Then the man pulled out a key and unlocked the
car. “Stop. I can’t let you leave,” said Harlan, but he made no attempt to
prevent the man from ducking into the car. It wasn’t until the engine revved
into life that he darted forward and tried to yank open the driver’s side door.
He was dragged along, stumbled to his knees, and as the car turned sharply,
narrowly avoided getting pulled under its wheels.
As the car accelerated
onto the road, Harlan sprinted to his own car. He slammed it into gear and
pushed his foot down hard. He’d been trained in pursuit driving, and he knew
the area well, so he was confident the VW wouldn’t get away from him.
Accelerating smoothly through the gears, he quickly caught up with it. Its
driver put on a sudden burst of speed at a junction, narrowly avoiding clipping
another car. Harlan was forced to briefly mount the pavement in order to swerve
around the same car. Zigzagging through traffic, careening wildly around bends,
they roared through the streets at blurring speeds. Horns blared, tyres
squealed, and brakes screeched, as the VW’s driver attempted to shake off his
pursuer by going the wrong way around a busy roundabout. There was the sound of
grinding metal as Harlan’s car scraped along the side of an oncoming bus. For
an instant, he thought he was boxed in, then the traffic parted like the Red
Sea, and he was charging after the VW again. Its driver was going like a mad
thing, overtaking and undertaking, cutting across streams of traffic, forcing
Harlan to take crazy risks just to keep him in view. This is going to end badly ,
thought Harlan, and a second later it did. The silver VW took a corner too
fast, skidded out of control, hit a curb and flipped. Once, twice, three times
it rolled across a grass verge, tearing up huge chunks of turf, before coming
to rest on its roof against a wall.
Harlan sprang out of
his car and ran to the VW. He tried to open the driver’s side door, but it was
wedged shut by the car’s buckled roof. He kicked in the window, already
shattered by the impact. Ducking down, he saw the man lying in an unconscious
heap, his face crushed and bloody. Scattered all around him were clothes, which
seemed to have come from a holdall that’d burst open during the crash. Harlan
felt for a pulse, and to his relief, found one, although it was weak and
thready. The man groaned as Harlan hooked his hands under his armpits, and
gently as possible, pulled him from the wreckage. His breath gurgled and grated
as if something was broken inside his chest. Blood welled from a deep gash on
the palm of one of his hands. Harlan took off his jacket and covered him with
it, before ducking back into the overturned car to grab an item of clothing to
staunch the bleeding. It was then that he saw the gun. It was an Olympic .380
BBM revolver – a starter pistol favoured by criminals because it could easily
be purchased and just as easily be converted to fire live ammo. Careful not to
touch the gun with his hands, he wrapped it in a t-shirt and pocketed it. Then
he tore another t-shirt in
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