Shaun Hutson - Knife Edge

He fired three shots, the weapon bucking fiercely in his hand.

The first shot missed.

The second struck the windscreen of the bike, shattered it and hit the left hand of the rider, blasting off two fingers.

The third struck the top box and tore a portion of it away.

Blood streaming from what was left of his fingers, the rider struggled to keep control of the bike, finally losing the battle.

The police bike went over, throwing the rider clear, the machine spinning across the Tarmac, slamming into the huge wheel of the lorry, which barely shuddered from the impact.

The bike exploded.

There was a sudden eruption of yellow and orange flame as the bike disappeared beneath a shrieking orb of fire.

'Jesus,' hissed Garside as the Astra sped through the aftermath of the explosion.

He could feel the heat through his open window, smell the stink of petrol which was spilling out across the road like fiery tentacles.

The motorcycle officer was lying flat on the road, blood spurting from his hand.

Thick black smoke was billowing upwards in a miniature mushroom cloud, hovering over the burning bike like a man-made storm cloud.

The second police car swept past in the Astra's wake.

'Officer down,' shouted Garside into the radio. 'Suspect turning into Guildford Street. He's heading for Russell Square.'

It reminded Doyle of a mausoleum.

Empty of people, apart from those in uniform, Euston was like some vast, futuristic sepulchre.

The virtual silence only added to the illusion. Doyle could hear the sound of his own boot heels on the concourse as he walked.

Where to begin?

There were so many places Neville could have hidden the bomb. For a start they had no idea of its size or weight, no clue as to where the ex-para might have secreted it. What also worried Doyle was that they had no clue as to what kind of bomb it was.

Radio controlled. Mercury switch. Tremor activated.

Not a fucking clue.

The counter terrorist glanced at his watch.

All they did know was that it would be going off in under fifteen minutes.

The lower levels of the station had already been searched. The dogs had found nothing.

If the bomb was here, it was on the concourse somewhere.

There was a John Menzies shop to his left.

The counter terrorist stepped inside, glancing swiftly around at row after row of books and magazines. The bomb could be behind any of them.

Doyle stuck out a hand and swept the top shelf of books away, scattering them on the floor.

He did the same with the next. And the next.

Five rows of paperbacks ended up beneath his feet.

The shelves were empty. No bomb.

He repeated his actions with the other shelves.

Nothing.

As he turned to his right he saw two men hurrying up the ramp which led to the suburban platform. Both of them were leading sniffer dogs.

'Have you checked in here?' Doyle shouted, attracting their attention.

The two men let the dogs loose and they scuttled into the shop, snouts twitching.

Doyle moved on towards the cafe on the other side of the station.

There were uniformed men moving about inside it, some pausing every so often, kneeling to check under the tables.

Further along the concourse was a branch of Tie Rack. Doyle hurried towards it, past a coffee stall. The aroma of freshly roasted beans seemed pleasantly out of place amidst the confusion.

As he walked he glanced around him.

Neville could have planted this bomb weeks earlier. His actions weren't the hasty, desperate deeds of a madman. Everything he'd done so far had been planned. Methodical. There was a strategy at work here.

The other bombs had probably been planted around the same time.

Wherever the hell they might be?

Doyle reached Tie Rack and moved briskly through it, opening drawers, pulling out the contents, convinced, even as he searched, that he was looking in the wrong place.

But where to look?

Where could a bomb lie undiscovered for weeks, possibly even months, in a location so crammed with people every day?

He looked across at the toilets, vaulted the barrier and walked in.

There was water dripping somewhere, the steady plink, plink an accompaniment to the counter terrorist's footfalls.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Doyle and he almost managed a smile.

For years he'd cheated death at the hands of the IRA, terrorists, organised crime and Christ alone knew who else and yet now his life was threatened by one of his own.

By a British soldier.

What all his enemies had failed to do might be accomplished by a man he would have called an ally.

How side-splittingly, jaw-droppingly hilarious.

He pushed open the door of the first cubicle.

How ironic.

How fucking ironic.

Doyle took a step inside, ignoring the graffitti on the walls and door, the puddle of piss on the floor.

He flipped open the cistern and looked inside.

Empty.

He moved into the next cubicle.

The stench was appalling. So strong he almost retched.

'What's wrong with flushing it, you cunt,' he murmured, trying not to look into the clogged bowl.

He pushed off the lid of the second cistern.

Nothing.

He could still hear the sound of water dripping.

Doyle moved to the next cubicle.

Thirteen minutes until detonation.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

He pushed the lid of the third cistern away and looked in.

Fuck all.

You're clutching at straws but then what else is there to do?

One bomb an hour, Doyle mused.

When? Where?

He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one, sucking hard on it.

One an hour and you can't even find the first one.

He moved to the next cubicle.

'Where the hell does he think he's going?' PC Garside mused aloud as the police car sped along in pursuit of the fleeing motorbike.

Brenner, still hunched over the wheel, didn't answer, his only concern being keeping Neville in sight.

The ex-para glanced over his shoulder and saw the pursuing vehicles, sirens blaring, lights flashing brightly.

Russell Square was just up ahead.

Neville smiled.

He eased up on the throttle slightly, the needle of the bike's speedo slipping towards forty.

Thirty-five.

'He's slowing down,' Brenner said triumphantly.

Thirty.

'We've got the fucker,' the driver snarled.

Twenty-five.

He saw Neville reach behind him, flip open one of the top boxes.

Brenner pressed down harder on the accelerator.

Behind him, the other police car was also drawing nearer.

Neville was coming up to a comer, guiding the bike almost gracefully around it into Southampton Row.

As he straightened up he pulled something from the top box.

'Oh Jesus,' gasped Garside.

He saw the Steyr gripped firmly in the ex-para's fist.

Brenner saw it too and all he could think to do was accelerate.

Ram the bastard.

Knock him off before he opens fire.

Before he…

The first fusillade drilled holes right across the front of the Astra, blasting out both headlights, puncturing the radiator grille in several places and smashing in the windscreen.

Glass flew back into the car and both men tried to shield their faces from the projectile shards.

Garside shouted in pain as one slit his left cheek to the bone.

Other fragments of the shattered crystal peppered his hands like translucent grapeshot, pieces sticking in the flesh.

Brenner struggled to control the car which skidded madly across the street.

The shriek of burning tyres was instantly eclipsed by the staccato rattle of a second burst from the subgun.