James Becker - Echo of the Reich

Georg waved at the two men standing beside the door as he drove out of the building.

As soon as the car had left, Bronson lowered the door again, slammed the bolt into position, and strode back to the side corridor, Eaton following just behind him. They left the unit by the open door, and jogged down the alleyway at the side of the building, slowing as they approached the end, while they were still effectively invisible to the occupants of the white van, parked some seventy yards in front of them.

Then Bronson slowed his pace even further. He’d noticed something, something in the alleyway that was only now registering on his conscious mind.

The adjacent building was essentially a mirror image of the one he and the other men had just left, with a side entrance door. In fact, it was identical in most respects except for one thing. Perhaps because of what was stored in the other building, or the work that went on there, or maybe simply to protect the employees, a fire alarm system had been installed. And right next to the side door was the small red box that contained a manual alarm switch, tucked safely behind a sheet of glass.

“Let’s see if we can cause a little confusion around here,” Bronson muttered, a bleak smile on his face.

He strode back down the alleyway, took the Llama out of his pocket, reversed it so that he was holding the weapon by the slide, and smashed the butt into the glass.

Instantly, an atonic wailing filled the alleyway as the building’s sirens screamed into action. And by the time Bronson had reached the front of the building again, all the doors on the front of the adjacent unit were open and men and women were streaming out, most of them glancing back at the structure, presumably looking for some evidence of what had triggered the alarm.

In moments, the forecourt was a mass of people milling around, some with their hands over their ears in an attempt to muffle the noise of the sirens. Others were running for their cars, clearly intending to move them away from the building in case the fire really took hold and spread outside the structure.

Bronson looked at the confusion and nodded in satisfaction.

“Okay, John,” he said, “I’ll go first. When we get out of here, turn left and keep your eyes open for me. I’ll stop about a mile down the road. When you see me, stop the car because I’ll need a ride.” He checked the scene in front of him again. “Now we can go. And run, don’t walk. You’re worried about the fire, right?”

22 July 2012

When the sirens were triggered by the fire alarm, Georg’s car was already approaching the white van, driving along the exit road from the industrial estate. Bronson knew that the men in the cab of the van would be confused by what was going on. They’d be trying to study the car as it drew near them, and at the same time wondering what was happening in the industrial unit in front of them.

Bronson ran over to his car, unlocked it and started the engine. Then he dropped the driver’s side window and put the Llama pistol on his lap. Despite the activity around him-several of the cars on the adjacent forecourt had already driven off, the drivers parking some distance away-he had a feeling he might have to use more than his natural charm to get past the parked vehicle. If Davidson had ordered the raid, which was the most logical explanation for what had happened, the officers in the van would at the very least know the make, model, color and registration number of the Ford, and they’d certainly stop him as he tried to leave. Or attempt to, anyway.

Bronson had hoped that some of the vehicles might have been driven out of the industrial estate, but that didn’t seem to be happening, so the attention of the police officers was likely to be on his and Eaton’s cars as they attempted to leave.

Eaton was just starting the engine of his car as Bronson drove off the industrial unit’s forecourt and headed toward the exit road.

Ahead, he saw that Georg’s car had already turned left onto the road outside the estate, so obviously the police officers hadn’t spotted Mike in the back of the vehicle.

He accelerated toward the parked van, but even as he did so, the passenger-side door swung open and a black-clad figure emerged, wearing the kind of combat gear used by police assault teams, the word “POLICE” prominently displayed across his chest. The man strode around to the front of the van and waved his arms to attract Bronson’s attention, then stepped directly in front of the Ford and held up his right hand.

Stopping wasn’t any part of Bronson’s plan, but clearly he couldn’t drive over the officer. He veered left, away from where the man was standing, then braked hard and came to a standstill. He couldn’t drive past the man-there was simply no room-but he knew he had to get away from the trading estate. If he was arrested, there was no chance of him finding out the group’s hidden agenda.

So he had to do whatever was necessary to get away. He had to take the risk. And what he had in mind would, he guessed, cement his relationship with Georg and his colleagues.

The police officer nodded-perhaps he thought the driver had just seen his signal a little late-and started walking over toward Bronson’s Ford. Then he stopped dead.

Bronson extended his right arm out of the car’s window, took careful aim with the Llama, and pulled the trigger. The pistol jerked in his hand, the spent cartridge case spinning out of the breech and carving a transient golden arc in the afternoon sunshine. The right-hand-side front tire of the Transit blew with a satisfying bang, and the vehicle lurched to the right.

Bronson didn’t wait. He’d disabled the police vehicle, and that was all he’d intended to do. He tossed the Llama onto the seat beside him and lifted his left foot off the clutch pedal, accelerating the car hard down the road. In his rear-view mirror he saw the rear doors of the Transit swing open and more police officers clamber out. But there was absolutely nothing they could do to catch him now.

But Bronson had no illusions about the efficiency of the Metropolitan Police. He’d burned his bridges when he waved the pistol, and destroyed them completely when he fired at the Transit van. By now, there’d be an alert out for his car, and because of the GPS tracker fitted to it, they would know exactly where to find it. That was why he’d told Eaton to pick him up. He would need to dump the car as soon as he could, before a couple of ARV gunships were vectored onto it.

Just over a mile down the road was a turnout, but there were two cars already parked in it, and Bronson needed an absence of witnesses when he changed vehicles, so he drove on. He kept checking his rearview mirror, hoping for a sign of Eaton, but he couldn’t see the other car. But the road was fairly busy and he guessed Eaton would be some distance back. He hoped he was somewhere behind him, anyway. If the man had been arrested by the police, or had forgotten what Bronson had told him and turned right, it would make everything a lot more difficult. Not impossible, but certainly very difficult.

Then he spotted another place where he could pull off the road. It wasn’t a proper turnout, just a patch of rough ground on the left, barely large enough to accommodate more than a couple of vehicles. But it was ideal for what he wanted. There were no houses on either side of the road, so the only possible witnesses would be anyone driving past when he climbed into Eaton’s car.

Bronson pulled off the road, the Ford bouncing over the rough ground, and stopped the car at the far side of the patch of earth. Then took out the mobile he’d been given by the police and removed the battery-he didn’t want Curtis ringing him while he was sitting in the car beside Eaton and that also disabled any tracking chip the Met might have placed in the phone. He pocketed the Llama and his own mobile phone, checked he’d left nothing else in the vehicle, and got out of the car, watching out for John Eaton as he stepped closer to the road.