Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Even pounding down the hill, getting faster and faster, Henry knew he should have veered away and gone to ground, to protect himself.

But his desire to protect life, ingrained deeply over the course of his career, made him — stupidly, some might say — carry on. The mobile phone dropped out of his hand and disappeared in the wet grass.

Verner heard Henry’s thundering approach.

He fired another shot across the bows of John Lloyd Wickson, the noise whipping the air again, then twisted round to face Henry, trying to point the rifle at him. It snagged in the low branches of the tree and before he could bring the barrel round and aim and fire, Henry leapt wildly at him.

But Verner was quick.

He recovered and was able to use the rifle as a baton. He caught Henry a hard, well-aimed blow to the side of the head just before Henry could actually grab him. The impact twisted Henry’s neck and sent him rolling across the grass.

Henry’s mind was jarred for one black moment, but as he hit the grass, clarity returned and he rolled up into a kneeling position, facing Verner who was still trying to pull the gun round and get it pointed at him. Henry pounced again, like an athlete leaving starting blocks.

He palmed the barrel of the gun away and went for the man holding it.

Henry would be the first to admit that he wasn’t really a fighter. Although he had been through many scrapes in his time, often coming off poorly, he did not have the technique of a trained attacker. He had been taught many defensive tactics, but few which went the other way and he knew that his best strengths lay in his ability to overpower, rather than beat into submission.

When faced with someone who really knew what he was doing, Henry knew there would be a good chance of coming off second best.

Although Henry clearly had the advantage of position and the fact that the man on the ground had relinquished the rifle, Henry did not see the blow coming. It was just a blur as the man’s left fist connected. Suddenly Henry’s jaw jarred, his head jerked upwards and then it was him on the floor, the man having now recovered his position.

A glint of steel. In Verner’s right hand there was now a knife. It sliced through the air towards Henry’s abdomen. His eyes shot open and he reacted by twisting to one side, but not quite far enough and quick enough. He felt the blade slice through his clothing and along the edge of his ribs. His skin split with an exquisite sort of pain. He gasped, continued twisting away, and the knife rose again, this time plunging back down towards his chest.

Henry’s hands grasped Verner’s wrist, just preventing the point of the blade from piercing his ribs, halting it less than an inch above his chest.

Henry and Verner stared into each other’s eyes.

Verner laughed.

It was the moment Henry needed. Just that one moment which was a lack of concentration on Verner’s part.

He kicked out, connecting with Verner’s left hip.

This time Verner went sprawling and the knife flipped out of his grasp, spinning away and embedding itself in the soft ground.

Henry was up, going for him.

But Verner had also recovered, was up on his feet, powering towards Henry. They met like a couple of trucks in a head-on collision, then grappled with each other like wrestlers. They teetered over and rolled down the slope, hitting, kicking and trying to head-butt each other, both frenzied, fighting their own separate agendas.

They fought with the ferocity of bears.

When they stopped rolling, Henry found himself trapped underneath Verner. Verner’s right hand was around his windpipe, squeezing hard and forcing Henry’s head back, his knees pinning Henry’s arms to the ground.

Henry gurgled, fought, writhed and desperately tried to break free.

Jane Roscoe raised her head to where she had last seen Henry Christie on the hillside. Now she could not see anyone.

‘Keep your head down,’ she warned Wickson. He complied, crouching deep in the drainage channel, his face now like a frightened mouse. It was an expression that warmed the cockles of Jane’s heart, even though she, too, was terrified. It showed Wickson for what he was. She spoke into her mobile. ‘Henry, Henry, what’s going on?’

The connection was still open, but she could hear nothing.

She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out her personal radio. Her message to control room was quick and succinct.

Henry could feel that the back of his head was in water, a puddle or something, and that the man on him was trying to strangle him and push his head under the water. Centimetre by centimetre, Henry knew he was going under. The water was touching his ears now.

He managed to release one arm from under Verner’s knee.

Without hesitation, Henry clouted him across the head, his hand bunched into a fist with his thumb forming a hard pointed ‘v’ which he drove into Verner’s temple.

The blow knocked him sideways.

Both men rose to their feet and faced each other, circling now. Suddenly Verner was holding a spray canister of something in his hand.

Henry did not want to get a face full of whatever was in it. Could have been anything from CS to acid.

He stepped back and held up his hands. But it did not make any difference to Verner, who sprayed it at Henry.

Verner turned and ran.

‘Henry?’ Jane heard Henry’s voice calling through the mobile.

‘Yeah,’ he croaked. ‘I let him get away. . Ahh, Jesus.’

‘What is it? You sound awful.’

‘I am.’ He coughed and spluttered. ‘He just CSed me.’ He coughed and made a choking noise. ‘Christ! And my windpipe’s crushed, and I’ve been fucking stabbed. . I’m tired, wet, beaten up. . but other than that — ’ he coughed again — ‘feelin’ fine.’

‘Stop whining. . where is he now?’

‘He can’t be too far way. . obviously I can’t see a bloody thing either at the moment. My eyes are streaming. How about turning the helicopter out for a start, then get a dog and some ARVs up and around here.’

‘Already on their way,’ she said crisply.

‘The guy’s dangerous,’ Henry warned.

‘I gathered that.’

‘Everyone down there OK?’

‘Well, nice of you to ask. . yes. . shaken and stirred.’ Jane looked at Wickson and his security man, deep in conversation with each other again. Wickson was as pale as white paint, but the security guy, Coulton, looked cool and composed. ‘Do you need an ambulance?’ she asked Henry.

He was sitting on a rock, holding his face into the breeze, desperately trying to keep his eyes wide open to get the CS blown out. His nose was running uncontrollably and his eyes burned like fire. He managed to look down at the cut on his side by pulling up his shirt. It was not as bad as he had thought, though the sight of it made him feel a bit woozy. It was just a slash across the skin. ‘I could do with looking at, I think, but I’m not ambulance material. . at least I don’t think so,’ he said vaguely. Then: ‘I’m gonna make it back to my car, somehow. I’ll be all right. It might be an idea to get a few checkpoints set up. This guy’ll have transport of some sort. There was a car parked off the road not far away from mine, could be his.’

‘I’ve arranged some checkpoints to be manned.’

‘In that case, you’re well ahead of me.’

He pressed the end-call button on his mobile and stood up shakily. The exertion of the encounter had left him feeling weak kneed. He was in need of food and drink, as well as TLC. He did not feel he had the energy to make it back to his car, but there was no way he could have got the helicopter to air lift him out of there.

His mobile rang again. It was Roscoe. ‘Henry. . description of the guy, please.’