Read Online To Kill Again: Episode One by Darren Howell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darren Howell
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weren’t the first kid whose dad ran out on --
DYSON : He never ran out!
Leaving them arguing we pull out of the car, into the rain... focusing on their licence plate as we go... Traveling back farther along the street. Farther... farther until we enter another car.
SHITTY JALOPY
You could easily mistake it as just being dumped or abandoned.
Instead, two fully paid up members of the criminal fraternity sit in near darkness, watching the cop car ahead.
Illuminated only by the glow of a tablet computer, a weasly-looking Cockney GEEZER, types away at the keyboard.
A screen unfolds: ‘METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT - VEHICLE IDENTIFICATION DATABASE’.
GEEZER : Boom! We’re in. I’m too fucking good.
He hits some more keys.
The screen changes to ‘ENTER VEHICLE LICENCE PLATE NUMBER’.
The Geezer looks down the street, tapping away. His partner in crime, the driver, a white RASTAFARIAN who’s convinced he’s Jamaican, sparks up a joint. The Geezer exaggerates a cough.
GEEZER : D’you have to?
RASTAFARIAN : Ya man. For medicinal purposes.
GEEZER : Bollocks.
The tablet screen begins to scroll data.
GEEZER : I knew it. I fucking knew it! It’s the pigs. Didn’t I tell you? Old Bill! We’ve been set up.
RASTAFARIAN : Babylon! What we gonna do now?
The Geezer considers their options.
GEEZER : Frankie don’t want no screw ups. Fuck it, kill ‘em.
The Rastafarian floods the car with cannabis smoke and cheers.
RASTAFARIAN : Ya man! Let’s cook us some bacon.
He reaches behind his seat. Pulls out a disposable rocket launcher. He winds down the window, manoeuvring his torso out into the rain.
GEEZER : Try not to miss!
EXT. DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS
The Rastafarian laughs as his finger flips up the safety. Tightens on the trigger.
RASTAFARIAN : Fuck you, man.
The projectile spews out of the barrel and snakes toward the cop car. WHOOO --
INT. POLICE CAR (STATIONARY) - CONTINUOUS
-- OOOSH! The driver’s mirror aglow, Dyson and Sarah exchange terrified glances.
DYSON : OUT!
But they’re just too slow. The next moment is their last.
EXT. DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS
KABOOM! The car explodes in a devastating fireball. We hold on the remains of the car, two burning figures clearly visible in the front seats.
There are no survivors .
EXT. COMMERCIAL STREET, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
A convoy of ominous black vehicles race through the rain.
There’s an American big rig, a smaller truck and two ex-US school buses. All the vehicles have blacked-out windows and are sandwiched between two threateningly large SUVs.
The convoy slows, turning into a narrow, darkened street. A rusted sign on one wall reads --
COLBART STREET
The convoy stops outside a huge, dilapidated Victorian warehouse daubed with graffiti.
Immediately, a dozen men in unmarked windcheaters and baseball caps eject and a well-orchestrated operation begins.
One of the men smashes the huge double doors of the warehouse open with a police-issue battering ram.
Another fires up some kind of futuristic laser cutter, slicing through the brickwork next to the doors to widen the entrance. Men immediately set to work with sledgehammers to take down the remaining wall.
More men nail gun metal sheeting over every broken window.
48 seconds later one of the men gives a thumbs up. The smaller vehicles all pull into the darkened --
WAREHOUSE
Park up right at the end.
Then the big rig begins to reverse in, easy now the doorway’s widened. It stops with a hiss of brakes, men joining prefabricated metal walls between its protruding cab and the warehouse wall.
Whatever these people are doing, they sure as hell don’t want anyone seeing it.
As men position portable floodlights all around, which immediately start to snap on, the whole side of the big rig’s trailer begins to slide out on hydraulics; doubling its internal size.
One MAN takes off his baseball cap to reveal a grim, gaunt face. It’s the kind of face that
DYSON : He never ran out!
Leaving them arguing we pull out of the car, into the rain... focusing on their licence plate as we go... Traveling back farther along the street. Farther... farther until we enter another car.
SHITTY JALOPY
You could easily mistake it as just being dumped or abandoned.
Instead, two fully paid up members of the criminal fraternity sit in near darkness, watching the cop car ahead.
Illuminated only by the glow of a tablet computer, a weasly-looking Cockney GEEZER, types away at the keyboard.
A screen unfolds: ‘METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT - VEHICLE IDENTIFICATION DATABASE’.
GEEZER : Boom! We’re in. I’m too fucking good.
He hits some more keys.
The screen changes to ‘ENTER VEHICLE LICENCE PLATE NUMBER’.
The Geezer looks down the street, tapping away. His partner in crime, the driver, a white RASTAFARIAN who’s convinced he’s Jamaican, sparks up a joint. The Geezer exaggerates a cough.
GEEZER : D’you have to?
RASTAFARIAN : Ya man. For medicinal purposes.
GEEZER : Bollocks.
The tablet screen begins to scroll data.
GEEZER : I knew it. I fucking knew it! It’s the pigs. Didn’t I tell you? Old Bill! We’ve been set up.
RASTAFARIAN : Babylon! What we gonna do now?
The Geezer considers their options.
GEEZER : Frankie don’t want no screw ups. Fuck it, kill ‘em.
The Rastafarian floods the car with cannabis smoke and cheers.
RASTAFARIAN : Ya man! Let’s cook us some bacon.
He reaches behind his seat. Pulls out a disposable rocket launcher. He winds down the window, manoeuvring his torso out into the rain.
GEEZER : Try not to miss!
EXT. DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS
The Rastafarian laughs as his finger flips up the safety. Tightens on the trigger.
RASTAFARIAN : Fuck you, man.
The projectile spews out of the barrel and snakes toward the cop car. WHOOO --
INT. POLICE CAR (STATIONARY) - CONTINUOUS
-- OOOSH! The driver’s mirror aglow, Dyson and Sarah exchange terrified glances.
DYSON : OUT!
But they’re just too slow. The next moment is their last.
EXT. DURWARD STREET, WHITECHAPEL - CONTINUOUS
KABOOM! The car explodes in a devastating fireball. We hold on the remains of the car, two burning figures clearly visible in the front seats.
There are no survivors .
EXT. COMMERCIAL STREET, WHITECHAPEL - NIGHT
A convoy of ominous black vehicles race through the rain.
There’s an American big rig, a smaller truck and two ex-US school buses. All the vehicles have blacked-out windows and are sandwiched between two threateningly large SUVs.
The convoy slows, turning into a narrow, darkened street. A rusted sign on one wall reads --
COLBART STREET
The convoy stops outside a huge, dilapidated Victorian warehouse daubed with graffiti.
Immediately, a dozen men in unmarked windcheaters and baseball caps eject and a well-orchestrated operation begins.
One of the men smashes the huge double doors of the warehouse open with a police-issue battering ram.
Another fires up some kind of futuristic laser cutter, slicing through the brickwork next to the doors to widen the entrance. Men immediately set to work with sledgehammers to take down the remaining wall.
More men nail gun metal sheeting over every broken window.
48 seconds later one of the men gives a thumbs up. The smaller vehicles all pull into the darkened --
WAREHOUSE
Park up right at the end.
Then the big rig begins to reverse in, easy now the doorway’s widened. It stops with a hiss of brakes, men joining prefabricated metal walls between its protruding cab and the warehouse wall.
Whatever these people are doing, they sure as hell don’t want anyone seeing it.
As men position portable floodlights all around, which immediately start to snap on, the whole side of the big rig’s trailer begins to slide out on hydraulics; doubling its internal size.
One MAN takes off his baseball cap to reveal a grim, gaunt face. It’s the kind of face that
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