Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

He rang off. When the phone sounded again Berg said, ‘That’s a text,’ and Purkiss took it and looked at the screen.

The photo was blurred and distorted from being first photocopied and then scanned, but there was no doubt who it was. Pope.

‘Our guy?’

‘Yes.’

*

Berg and Purkiss spotted the flashing lights at the same time.

Purkiss had been lost in thought. So Pope had taken the girl, but hadn’t killed her despite having had ample opportunity to do so. Did she know something he needed to find out? But if so, where was he taking her? Why hadn’t he simply interrogated her where he’d snatched her? Or was she in some way his accomplice, travelling with him voluntarily? That made even less sense.

‘There,’ said Berg.

Across the highway a petrol station cut a familiar sight, a single large haulage truck in the forecourt. Less familiar were the two cars with active flashers parked, it appeared, across both points of entry and exit.

‘Worth a look,’ said Purkiss. Berg turned off and as she did so, rang Nakamura. His voice came across the speakerphone.

‘Nothing about it on the police frequencies.’

The slip road, or whatever they called it over here, led to a traffic circle beneath the highway. Berg navigated it, the Taurus close behind, and came off on the road running past the service station. As they approached Purkiss saw two men crouched near the closer car. Plain clothes, with no external markings on them or their vehicle to suggest they were law enforcement.

Both men were armed with handguns. One was talking into a mobile phone. They turned to look at the two cars as they drew up.

One of the men, the one without the phone, strode over as Berg killed the engine. She opened the door and the man said, ‘Police business. Get back in the car and drive away.’

Purkiss was about to climb out himself when he saw movement in the window of the building beyond the pumps. He peered through the windscreen. Two figures, there: a man holding a smaller person, a woman, in front of him.

He eased open the door and slipped out, staying low to the ground. Behind him he heard Berg snap, ‘FBI. Let’s see some ID.’

Purkiss moved behind the car, through the headlights of the Taurus which had pulled up behind, and began to make for the grass verge that ran along one edge of the forecourt’s perimeter, towards the side of the building.

*

The verge was deep in shadow and he made it without challenge. Only once did he glance at the window on his way. A fair-haired man, holding a woman with his arm across her neck, a gun pressed to her head. The features weren’t distinguishable but he knew it was Pope and Ramirez.

A fire door was set in the back wall of the low, long building. He reached for it, then thought better. It would be alarmed, especially at this hour. Purkiss moved along the wall until he saw a small window. He ran a few paces and jumped, catching the ledge and hauling himself so that he perched on it. The glass was opaque but he could make out a restroom beyond.

Purkiss stripped off his coat, the one he’d borrowed from Nakamura, and balled it around his fist. Gripping the open fan window above him for stability, he pressed the covered fist against the glass of the larger window, increasing the pressure steadily until he felt and heard a tiny crack. He eased off, then pressed again. The glass splintered and gave way, fragments shattering on the porcelain below. Purkiss held his breath. Distantly, from the other side of the building, he could hear angry voices shouting, Berg’s predominant.

Keeping his hand covered with the coat he broke away as many pieces of the glass as he dared, tossing the shards away behind him into the weeds. When he’d created a gap big enough to fit through he put the coat back on again and crawled through, sending further splinters skittering into the restroom. He dropped to the floor and paused at the door, drawing the Glock.

A short passage led from the restroom to the shop beyond. Purkiss stopped at the springloaded door at the end of the passage and looked through the glass panel at eye level.

Across three or four aisles, Pope stood at the window, looking out. Almost hidden in front of him was a woman’s slight figure. Pope’s right hand held a gun steady against the side of her head.

With his fingertips Purkiss pushed against the door. The springs were well oiled and there was no sound as the door opened. He passed through quickly, controlling the closing movement.

Pope presented his back to Purkiss. A single shot would have to suffice to take him down; one from closer range would be better. Pope was turned slightly to his right, holding the girl directly in front of him, so an approach from the left would be less likely to risk hitting her. Purkiss ducked and edged along the aisle towards the front of the shop.

Ramirez screamed.

The noise was like a gunshot, and for a fraction of a second Purkiss was immobilised as if he’d been hit. He heard her voice — behind us, there’s a man behind us — and at the same instant saw the CCTV monitor above the counter, his frozen figure gazing back.

Careless.

Pope was fast, spinning and opening fire as Purkiss emerged at the end of the aisle and brought his own gun up. Purkiss was forced to drop again as the bullets smashed into the shelves around and above him, ripping through packets and tins, sending a billow of flour and sugar overhead. Purkiss rose again and took an instant to aim before firing, aiming not at Pope — he’d swung the girl round, not quite in front of him, and the risk of hitting her was too great — but at the window behind him while making sure his aim was high enough to avoid the petrol pumps beyond. Purkiss ducked once more as the window exploded outwards, the shock and noise meant to disorientate Pope even fractionally.

Purkiss came round the end of the aisle at a crouching run, aware of shouting drawing closer through the shattered window, and saw Pope with his gun raised, looking back through the window hole. A body lay near his feet, a civilian. Pope’s free hand was on the woman’s shoulder. She cowered, clutching something in front of her — an instrument case — and staring at Purkiss.

‘Ms Ramirez,’ he yelled. ‘Come over here.’

Pope looked across at him and simultaneously pulled the woman closer to him and brought the gun to bear. Purkiss ducked behind the shelves again, felt the shot sing over his head. How many was that, so far? Five or six? Pope’s gun looked like a Hockler; that could mean up to fifteen rounds. Ten left, plus whatever he had spare.

Gunfire crashed and sprayed the wall at the back of the shop, blasting away plaster. Purkiss risked a raise of his head and saw the back of Pope’s head again: he was facing through the shattered window, firing back. Two shots; a third.

Ramirez’s white, frightened face stared back at Purkiss again.

Purkiss beckoned her. Her eyes widened.

‘He’ll kill you,’ Purkiss called. ‘Get over here. I’ll get you away.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Nina.’ Pope half-turned, still focused on whomever was out there. Another salvo of shots came and plaster dust erupted from the ceiling.

‘Get over here now. You’ll get killed at any moment.’

She broke free then, only her head visible and moving over the top of the aisle. Purkiss moved to the front to meet her at the end.

‘Nina.’ Pope’s voice had risen to a roar.

She was six feet from Purkiss now, but she stopped and glanced back. He reached forward and grabbed her wrist roughly, yanking her past him and behind him. She was still clasping that case. He moved to the end of the aisle she’d emerged from and peered round.

Pope’s shot whined past his cheek and drove him back.