Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

Lisa was lying on the pavement sobbing.

Doyle pulled her to her feet, saw that there was blood on her cheek.

A tiny sliver of concrete, blasted free by a bullet, had cut her skin.

Otherwise there seemed to be no damage. She just stood there sobbing uncontrollably.

Frank Mallory saw her as he ran towards the two figures, shouting something which Doyle couldn't make out.

He saw the man in the flannel shirt gesturing towards him but he didn't hear what he shouted. He had other things on his mind.

Neville was already halfway up the Mall by now, the helicopter still in pursuit, hurtling along so low it seemed to brush the tops of the trees which lined the thoroughfare.

Traffic travelling in both directions slowed down, mesmerised or terrified by the spectacle.

Doyle ran into the road, the Beretta still gripped in his fist.

The driver of a Cortina slammed on his brakes in an effort to avoid this madman, the car skidding, missing Doyle by inches.

Two more cars behind him also slowed up, one of them bumping the back of the Cortina.

It was the vehicle behind that which Doyle wanted.

The driver of the red Nissan 200 SX was in his late thirties, smartly dressed and, when he saw Doyle running towards his car, he immediately slapped on the central locking.

His companion, a young woman in her late twenties with long hair and an impossibly tight black dress, screamed as she saw the leather-jacketed, long-haired man approaching the driver's side. She realised instantly he was carrying a gun. She'd seen enough Sylvester Stallone pictures to recognise one when it was waved at her.

'Get out the fucking car,' shouted Doyle, levelling the Beretta at the driver.

Neither occupant moved.

Doyle fired once, the bullet shattering the side window.

The glass fractured, splintered and sprayed inwards.

The counter terrorist punched through what was left of it and yanked up the locking depressor, tugging at the handle, then grabbing the driver, hurling him into the street.

'Get out!' Doyle shouted at the woman who was still screaming.

She tumbled out of the passenger door, one of her high heels skittering across the pavement behind her.

Doyle floored the accelerator, twisting the wheel, allowing the car to complete a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

A van travelling in the other direction struck the rear of the Nissan, shattering a back light, but Doyle pressed down harder on the right-hand pedal and the SX roared off up the Mall.

He could see Neville up ahead of him, weaving in and out of traffic, the helicopter skimming low as it followed him.

Doyle jammed the Beretta into his belt, using both hands to grip the steering wheel.

He slammed into the side of a blue car in the opposite lane, ripping off a wing mirror, the squeal of metal on metal almost deafening. Paint was stripped from the nearside of the Nissan as surely as if someone had attacked it with a blow torch.

Ahead of him, Neville swung right into Marlborough Road, cutting across the path of a taxi, which was forced to mount the pavement to avoid him.

The helicopter banked right too and Doyle heard another shot.

What were those dozy fuckers playing at?

As he himself sent the Nissan screaming around t he bend, the needle of the speedo touched fifty.

The car barely held the road.

Doyle fought and regained control of the wheel.

Air from the shattered window gushed in, sending his hair flying behind him like incensed reptilian tails, but he cared about nothing except that motorbike rider ahead of him.

Doyle pressed down even harder on the accelerator and eased the automatic free.

He was ready.

'This wasn't supposed to happen,' PC Duncan Clark panted, gripping the back of his seat as the helicopter swung low between two buildings before rising sharply again, always following the fleeing motorbike.

'We were told to get Neville,' Butler reminded him. 'We've got to.'

The pilot looked down at the small infra-red image showing on the console beside him, checking that Neville was still within their reach.

The Lynx was flying at around a hundred feet, rising and dipping where necessary, McBride constantly aware of the proximity of so many buildings.

Neville was roaring up St James's Street now, hunched low over his handlebars, the Harley Davidson swerving in and out of traffic as if it were on some kind of maniacal slalom.

Butler pulled the HK81 up to his shoulder once more and squinted into the telescopic sight, trying to draw a bead on Neville.

'Take her down a little.'

'I can't take her any further, we'll hit something,' McBride told the marksman.

Butler tried to hold the rifle steady. His finger pressed more firmly on the trigger as he waited until he had Neville squarely in the cross-threads of the sight.

The bike veered left slightly and Butler lifted his finger from the trigger.

'Jesus,' he snarled. 'I can't get a clear shot.'

Clark was breathing hard, his heart pounding madly against his ribs.

He raised his own rifle and drew a bead on Neville.

He tried to swallow but it felt as if someone had filled his throat with chalk.

There were so many other vehicles in the road. So many other targets he might hit by accident.

Dare he shoot?

He kept the rifle pressed to his shoulder.

The chopper dipped low once more.

As Doyle roared along in pursuit of Neville, he could see the Lynx above him, drifting up and down like some toy dangled on a string. Many of the pedestrians he sped past had stopped to look at the spectacle hurtling past them, marvelling at the wildly moving helicopter and the speeding motorcycle it pursued.

Fucking police, Doyle thought angrily.

They were told to keep out of it.

Without their interference he'd have got Neville.

Fuck it. He had him. Helpless before him until the bloody chopper arrived and fucked everything up.

If Neville got away the police would be to blame.

Let that bomb that was due to go off in just over fifteen minutes be on their conscience.

But where?

One hundred and thirty pounds of Semtex. Where the fuck had Neville hidden such a prodigious supply of the explosive?

Doyle shook his head as if to clear away the thought, concentrating his mind on the fleeing motorcyclist, using all his skill to weave a path through increasingly heavy traffic.

The counter terrorist knew that Neville had an advantage.

His manoeuvrability.

The Nissan Doyle was driving was fast but cumbersome compared to the swiftly moving Harley Davidson. If the ex-para should swing the bike off a main road then Doyle knew he was fucked.

Ahead of him two cars were blocking the road.

Doyle twisted the wheel and sent the Nissan hurtling up on to the pavement.

He heard someone scream, saw a dark shape dive away from the onrushing car.

Doyle stayed on the pavement, realising it would give him easier access along the thoroughfare.

There was a loud clang as he struck a waste bin, ripping it from its position on the pavement.

It flew into the air, spinning, sending its rotting contents scattering in all directions.

He hit the next one too and heard one of the Nissan's headlights shatter.

Still he drove along the pavement, finally guiding the vehicle back into the road as Neville reached the junction of St James's Street and Piccadilly.

The lights were red.

Neville glanced up at the red light then sent the bike hurtling left into Piccadilly, oblivious to the frantic blasting of horns which greeted his arrival.

The Harley swept across the path of two cars, both of which braked hard to avoid collision with the bike.