Nick Oldham - Instinct

Two miles had shot by while that short discussion was taking place, so they had to move now.

Henry dropped further back in the Merc. The firearms vehicle slotted into his vacated space. As if on cue, all the traffic cars switched on their blue lights. One then took up a position behind the Fiesta, another drew alongside it in the middle lane, and then they tightened up their positions. Further ahead, the traffic car that had been waiting on the hard shoulder accelerated into the nearside lane.

The Fiesta now had a police car alongside it, one behind and one in front, with nothing on the nearside except for the hard shoulder.

Then, like jet fighters escorting another plane down to earth, they edged the Fiesta across on to the hard shoulder without touching it, slowing the car down bit by bit.

Henry watched the operation being executed with precision from his position at the back of it all.

It wasn’t far now to the Broughton exit, maybe two miles.

The police cars continued to slow down.

The Fiesta made no effort to avoid what was going on, seeming to accept the inevitable, slowing down as indicated.

‘Far too easy,’ Henry remarked. He could feel the tension increasing as if a band were tightening across his chest.

Then they were at a crawl.

Then at a virtual standstill.

Then stopped.

For a few seconds nothing happened. Then the two AFOs in reflective jackets got out of the ARV — which was parked ahead of Henry on the hard shoulder — handguns drawn, and stood behind the open doors of their car, using the V-shape for support and protection. One had a loudhailer. Then the doors of the traffic car in front of them opened, the officer jumped out and ran back, whilst the AFOs ran forwards at a crouch, each taking up a position behind the open doors of the traffic car, directly behind the Fiesta.

Meanwhile, normal traffic continued to roll past and, without exception, every vehicle slowed down and the occupants gawked at the incident unfolding in front of their eyes. Traffic may have been light, but it was a problem, and it needed to be completely stopped behind them somehow.

Henry and Rik climbed out of the Mercedes which was parked about fifty metres behind the ARV on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on.

A gust of wind buffeted Henry, causing him to stagger. Then he was almost spun full circle by the slipstream of a passing lorry. He felt extremely vulnerable and suddenly realized what a very dangerous place a motorway was, even at the best of times. He went to the boot of his car and fished out a couple of reflective jackets that he always carried, handing one to Rik. Then, keeping to the side of the motorway, he strode up to the traffic officers, the wind in his face, amazed by how strong it was on such a nice day. The fact that the motorway was exposed and slightly raised made it cold and forbidding.

The man in the Fiesta had not moved. Henry could see his outline in the driver’s seat.

Henry mentioned the passing traffic to one of the officers who shouted back at him, raising his voice because that was the only way to be heard against the combined thunder of passing vehicles and swirling wind. He told Henry that the gantries had been activated further back down the motorway and blocks had been set up on the slip roads to keep anyone from coming on. The overhead signs were telling drivers to stop because of a police incident. The officer added, ‘No one ever does, though.’

Henry patted the guy’s shoulder and, crouching low with Rik just behind him, he jogged up to the armed officer using the passenger door of the traffic car as a shield. This was the one with a loudhailer.

Henry assessed the whole scenario, very unhappy about it.

‘We need to get him out from the nearside door and up to the Armco barrier,’ he shouted.

The officer nodded.

Then the driver’s door of the Fiesta opened, the guy swung out his legs, stood up and faced Henry’s direction. Henry saw a young, skin-headed Asian youth, maybe nineteen years old, dressed in trainers, jeans and a big anorak. This was not the man that Donaldson had described to him, the one he’d chased through the streets, who had driven this car at a cop, the one he’d shot. Not the man called Akram.

‘Stand still,’ the AFO with the loudhailer shouted. ‘Do not move.’

The lad had a blank expression. He seemed to be saying something to himself, mumbling. His hands were down at his sides, fists clenched. He walked between the Fiesta and the traffic car and stopped by the rear offside wing of the Ford as though he hadn’t heard the shouted instruction.

Henry’s eyes took in everything — including the other firearms officer crouching behind the driver’s door of the traffic car, armed with a Glock pistol, held down in front of him in the classic two-handed grip. This officer had a clear, unobstructed view of the lad.

Henry thought he saw the twitch of a smile in the corner of the Asian’s mouth. His head rose slightly and he looked at Henry across the gap that separated them.

Several cars hurtled past in the fast lane.

Henry spotted something in the young man’s right fist. It looked like the top of a pen. Henry knew exactly what it was. A button. A detonator. Attached to a bomb that was strapped to his chest.

Henry had been here once before, face to face with a suicide bomber. Last time, in the backstreets of Accrington, he’d been lucky. A mis-connection meant the device failed to explode. Since that moment, Henry knew he never wanted to be in that position again. He knew he would not be so lucky next time. This time.

The young man raised his right hand.

Several things happened.

Henry screamed, ‘TAKE HIM DOWN!’ to the firearms officers.

The young man shouted something, words that were blocked by the wind, but Henry knew he was saying that Allah was great.

The firearms officer on the other side of the car stepped sideways, raised and aimed the Glock, bringing it up into the point of an isosceles triangle formed with his locked arms.

The young man lifted his thumb in a gesture designed to show that he was now going to press the detonator in his hand, blow himself up and whoever else he could take with him.

Henry cringed and cowered away, as though turning his back to the situation would protect him from a bomb blast.

Steve Flynn was looking at one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life. He adjusted the peak of his tatty baseball cap to reduce the relentless glare of the African sun in his eyes, squinted and did a dreamy double-take just to make sure. But there was no doubt about it, even from this distance. The young woman was something special.

Flynn was in the cockpit of the sportfishing boat Faye2, carefully manoeuvring her backwards into the tight mooring space alongside Ray Boone’s boat, Shell, when the woman appeared on the shaky wooden quayside, walking from the direction of Boone’s houseboat tethered in the next creek. Just for a moment Flynn lost concentration and almost scraped Boone’s older boat, a mistake that would have left him more red-faced than he already was. Flynn was proud of the way he handled boats.

Boone himself emerged from the galley and glanced sideways at Flynn as he passed him at the wheel. Boone winked smugly and said, ‘Spotted her, huh?’ and continued out on to the rear deck. Flynn’s eyebrows arched. He reversed the last few inches into position and Boone stepped ashore with the mooring ropes, looping them over two wooden stanchions. He then walked towards the beautiful woman, said a couple of words into her ear and embraced her gently. Her face widened into a wonderful smile, and she then gazed lovingly at the old hound dog that was Ray Boone. She said something softly to him, her green eyes sparkling shyly.