Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

They were being told that the man had run across several fields and had gone to ground in Medlar Woods, less than a mile from the motorway. The helicopter had lost him in the trees and was maintaining a holding position over the area. They were pretty sure he was still in there.

The plan was to form a loose cordon around the perimeter of the woods, consisting of armed and unarmed personnel, then to enter the woods with two unleashed dogs, their handlers and armed back-up, to quarter the woods systematically and flush the bastard out. (The word ‘bastard’ was used in the briefing.)

Henry was sitting in the back of a Support Unit personnel carrier amidst their equipment of plastic riot shields and door-opening equipment. He was clutching his side whilst sipping a cup of hot tea, thoughtfully provided by one of the officers. They had called an ambulance for him which seemed to be taking forever to arrive.

He had called home to apprise Kate of the horrible mess he’d got himself into. Whilst concerned and distressed, she was also seething with him. Henry could see all his good work at home crumbling away. He would have a lot of rebuilding to do, he thought. Not good. It was a thought almost as painful as his cut.

He lay back across a bench seat and closed his eyes, wishing he had stayed firmly in bed, wrapped in Kate’s arms. He groaned with a mixture of pain and stupidity. He had got everything he deserved.

The officers moved down into the fields beyond the motorway, then spread out as they approached Medlar Woods. It took another fifteen minutes for them to encircle the woods. Then the dogs were set loose.

Verner was deep undercover, watching the approach of the officers from the motorway. He wore a smile on his face as he thought of the way in which his captive, Henry Christie, had managed to get the better of him. The motherfucker, he thought, picturing Henry. I gave him half a chance and he took it. Verner uttered a cynical laugh.

He had not dropped the pistol, but apart from that, a knife and one other weapon, he had no other means of attack or defence.

There were armed cops coming towards him. Lots of them. Each armed with a pistol — a Glock — and an MP5 machine pistol. And there were two dogs, which frightened Verner more than the armed cops. And at least a dozen normal cops dressed in overalls.

He was outgunned and out manoeuvred, particularly with the damned helicopter hovering up there.

But he wasn’t beaten yet.

The ambulance arrived eventually and, because they were facing east down the motorway, they took Henry to Preston Royal Infirmary. After the triage nurse told him he was nowhere near the top of the treatment list and applied a tatty dressing to the wound with instructions to keep it held on tight, he was then directed to the waiting room. He saw, and nearly cried with frustration, that the digital display in the waiting room said it would be at least three hours before he would be seen by a doctor. He sauntered to the newsagent shop and bought himself a bottle of water, a Mars bar and a newspaper, heading back to the waiting room to bed in for a long, mind-numbing wait on a plastic, bottom-numbing chair. He called Kate from the payphone — the battery on his mobile had given up — and spent some time reassuring her he would be OK. She was frantic and wanted to come to him, but he fended her off, saying he could cope. . although he wasn’t too sure how he would be getting home. Just as he’d set off in the ambulance, a recovery truck had arrived on scene to rescue the very sorry-looking Ford Mondeo from the grass verge. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Kate what a mess the car was in. He told her he would ring later, when he knew more. Then she could come and collect him, but in the meantime he would be fine by himself.

In the waiting room a shroud of weariness engulfed him. His aches and pains were ebbing, thanks to the paracetamols doled out in triage, but the feeling of stupidity was like a tide coming in.

He unfolded the newspaper and flipped to the back page.

The dogs were eager. Lancon Griff and Lancon Bart were both highly experienced tracker dogs who knew their business well. They moved into the trees, controlled by their handlers, each dog alert, ready and sensing the possibility of flesh and bone. Juicy.

Their handlers were kitted out with ballistic armour, as were the firearms officers accompanying them.

They were as tense as the dogs.

But not quite as tense as the man hidden deep in the undergrowth, watching their relentless approach. He was being hunted, a change of perspective from what was his usual state of affairs. He was normally the hunter. He was the one who normally scared people. But he knew he was trapped in here. The crew of the helicopter had seen him enter the woods. They knew he was in there somewhere and they had all day to find him.

Verner knew he had to take a risk if he wanted to escape. Slowly he raised himself on to one knee, dug his toe into the soft ground and launched himself upwards and began running through the trees.

The dogs spotted him, howling with delight, whilst behind them their handlers shouted instructions which the dogs probably never heard.

Fang locked on to his target with all the speed, accuracy and tenacity of a Patriot missile. Bart was twenty metres behind him. Fang’s head went down, ears back, as sleek as that missile, instinctively veering round objects such as tree trunks, flying over underbrush, his eyes wide with blood-scented anticipation.

Verner ran.

Fang closed in.

Suddenly Verner stopped dead in his tracks, spun on his heels and pointed the pistol at the onrushing canine.

Fang did not hesitate. A gun meant nothing to him.

Verner dropped the gun and presented the dog with his left forearm, which Fang gratefully took as he leapt like the Hound of the Baskervilles at his quarry, leaving the ground with all four feet and seizing the arm within jaws that could crush bone like biscuit. He forced Verner over.

Verner screamed as those powerful hinges bit into him.

‘Griff — down! Griff — down! Now!’ screamed the handler.

Griff — Fang — held on a few moments longer than he should have, and in that brief period of time looked Verner straight in the eyes. Verner could have sworn he saw sheer disappointment in the wolf-like eyes. Slowly the big dog opened his jaws and released a nicely punctured arm.

Fang stepped back to reveal three armed cops half-circled around Verner, MP5s aimed at him.

‘Armed police!’ one of them shouted. ‘Keep still and do as you are told and you will not be harmed.’

Verner cradled his injured arm. ‘I want to be taken to hospital, now,’ he demanded, getting the request in straight away. ‘That dog bit me and me leg is also injured from the accident.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what you want,’ the armed cop responded. ‘You do as I say.’

Jane Roscoe rushed into the waiting room, desperate to see Henry. He was engrossed in the newspaper and did not see her arrive. He only looked up when he became aware of someone standing in front of him.

‘Jane — what are you doing here?’

Her face was white with worry, her hair a mess, clothes in disarray. ‘I was concerned about you,’ she admitted. Somehow everything then seemed to drain out of her, energy palpably leaving her. Henry saw it go, like a spirit. He reached out and steered her to the empty chair beside him. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘just tired. Been a bit of a busy night.’

‘I’ll get you a tea, with sugar in it for energy.’

He left her and extracted two cups of sweet tea from the rather obstinate machine in the waiting room.

‘Ta,’ she said, taking a sip, sighing as it went down, and regaining her composure. ‘Sorry, Henry. How are you?’