Nick Oldham - A Time For Justice

Hinksman threw himself to one side at the first sight of the gun, but Dakin froze momentarily. A moment too long.

August fired.

Dakin was propelled back against the cabin; he slithered down onto his knees, facing August, clutching his right shoulder which spurted blood. Once again the gun in August’s hand cracked — smack! — the sound almost deadened by the heavy rain. A bullet burned its way through the air to Dakin’s chest, burying itself deep in his heart, tearing it to shreds.

This all happened in a matter of seconds.

Henry and Donaldson ran across the grassed area between themselves and the lock, unable to see exactly what had transpired because of the boat obstructing their line of sight.

They bounded over the footbridge spanning the lower gate of the lock and onto the opposite side where they were confronted by the scene.

August was standing there with the revolver hanging loosely in his right hand by his thigh.

Dakin’s body was sprawled out on the deck, blood and rainwater mixing. He was twitching.

Dakin’s two men were crouched down behind the wheelhouse, both quivering wrecks.

Henry and Donaldson came to a halt.

A couple of steps behind August was Lisa Want, drenched, a camera in her hand but not being used.

Henry was confused, to say the least. He couldn’t work any of this out at all.

August turned and looked at him, a distant faraway deadness in his eyes. His face was streaming wet, his hair plastered down on his forehead. He had no particular expression on his countenance as he levelled the revolver slowly at Henry.

Henry went low, bringing his own gun up, prepared to fire to defend himself. But it was not necessary. He watched in fascination as August, in what seemed like slow motion, drew the tip of the revolver into his own mouth cavity and pulled the trigger.

It was almost like his hat had been blown off in the wind — but it wasn’t a hat — it was the top of his head.

For several seconds the newly dead man remained standing. Then his body realised it was no more and collapsed.

Lisa Want screamed hysterically and began frenziedly trying to wipe August’s brains off her chest.

Henry frantically looked round. ‘Hinksman!’ Where the hell is he?’ he screamed.

As soon as the gun appeared in August’s hand, Hinksman followed the survival instincts which had kept him alive for so long. He immediately threw himself down to the deck, scrambling wildly away as Dakin was hurled back against the cabin. By the time August fired the second shot, Hinksman had vaulted over the side rail of the boat and was running for his van.

Hinksman had started the engine before Henry and Donaldson had even got as far as the lock. He accelerated away from the lock, away from trouble. Desperate to clear the windscreen as his vision through the glass was a complete blur, he fumbled for the wipers switch, momentarily confusing it first with the headlights switch, then with the indication controls.

‘ Fuck!’ he cursed angrily.

‘ Ram that van! Stop him! It’s Target Two!’ Henry shouted hysterically down his radio, hoping that the transmission was being picked up and understood by the firearms team personnel carrier which was hurtling down the road towards the dock.

What Henry was advocating was completely against force policy. However, in those split seconds, he reasoned that it didn’t matter too much because there wasn’t a Chief Constable to enforce it.

‘ Ram the bastard off the road,’ he screamed again.

He was chasing after the vehicle on foot.

The Sergeant who was sitting in the front passenger seat of the personnel carrier exchanged a brief glance with the driver, who was a PC. He said, ‘Do as you’re told.’

The Constable didn’t need telling twice.

He almost stood on the accelerator pedal and the 3.5 litre engine seemed to growl as it surged forwards.

At last Hinksman found the stalk for the windscreen wipers.

The blades cleared the screen with their first sweep… and Hinksman’s eyes widened as the huge blue personnel carrier bearing down on him filled his total vision.

He wrenched the steering wheel down to the left, but there was no way he could avoid a collision. The bastard was aiming straight for him.

Henry knew not to underestimate Hinksman, but he thought that it would have been impossible for even the American to get out of the van alive. The front end of it had clipped the front fender of the personnel carrier and the van had been flipped over onto its roof. Its momentum had then carried it on over the kerb where it had smashed into the ladies’ entrance to a block of roadside toilets.

It was a complete mess. The roof had been crushed and the front end stove into the toilets and the windscreen shattered. Looked like a good fatal RT A.

Henry stopped running. He holstered his gun. He walked cautiously towards the van, past the firearms personnel carrier which had skidded to a halt by the side of the road, virtually undamaged.

‘ Anyone hurt?’ Henry called out.

‘ Nope.’

‘ Good.’

Then he couldn’t believe his eyes when Hinksman, apparently uninjured, crawled out through the space where the windscreen had once been, and sprinted away.

Henry was only feet behind. He was almost near enough to lay a hand on Hinksman’s shoulder.

They ran behind a pub. Hinksman leapt over a low fence, closely followed by Henry.

‘ I’ve got you, I’ve got you,’ Henry said to the beat of his running pace.

Suddenly they found themselves on the edge of the outer dock wall. On their right was a fifteen-foot drop into the fast-ebbing, brown-coloured, swirling water of the River Lune.

Henry was gaining on Hinksman all the time. He was feeling confident. Hinksman, in turn, seemed to be slowing down; perhaps he was injured, after all.

Then without warning, Hinksman stopped, spun round on the spot with the agility of a soccer centre forward. The move caught Henry completely by surprise and before he could stop himself he ran right into Hinksman’s arms.

Hinksman brought a knee up into Henry’s testicles and rammed them home. Pain seared through his groin and he doubled up, letting go of the American. Hinksman then punched Henry in the back of his head and Henry dropped to the ground.

Hinksman turned and was about to run, but Henry was not having that. Despite the pain he reached out and grabbed an ankle with both hands, catching Hinksman off-balance, bringing him crashing face-down to the ground. Henry fell on top of him, trying to pin him there for as long as possible. Surely assistance could only be moments away?

But Hinksman was strong, agile and dangerous.

He elbowed Henry in the ribs, causing him to release his grip, and both men rolled towards the edge of the dock, clutching at each other.

In a flash of speed Hinksman was on top and Henry’s head was dangling over the edge.

‘ Hold it,’ came a voice. Assistance, Henry thought with relief.

Hinksman glanced up. Then he looked down at Henry, smiled and said, ‘Let’s go together.’ With one final surge he took both of them off the edge of the dock into the river below.

They separated as soon as they hit the water, pulled apart with such incredible icy force that they were powerless to resist.

Henry struck out ferociously with his arms and legs in a desperate panic to remain on the surface. It was a futile attempt. He was drawn under with terrifying ease and he knew he was going to die. He clamped his mouth shut in an attempt to keep his lungs clear of water. He found it impossible. The dirty river water cascaded down his nostrils instead, making his mouth open in a gasp, then swallowing what seemed like the equivalent of a bucketful of gritty water into his stomach and lungs. It felt as if it was filling his head too. His body was twisted and turned, stretched, slewed and squashed, thrown around like a piece of clothing in a spin drier.