Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

They managed that but not with the vehicles following.

A bus slammed into one, shunting it several yards further down the road.

The other, a Fiesta, shuddered as another car struck it hard in the rear, the metal crumpling like paper, back lights shattering under the impact.

Doyle sent the Nissan after the bike, slamming sideways into a Cortina in the process, the impact jarring both cars momentarily, but Doyle gripped the wheel, pressed down on the accelerator and roared off once more, noticing that the helicopter was now able to swoop even lower in such a wide thoroughfare as Piccadilly.

It was no more than fifty feet above Neville, the skids moving downwards until it looked as though they could merely bump the fleeing ex-para off the Harley.

Neville heard the deafening roar of the rotor blades and glanced up. The Lynx hovered over him like some massive metallic bird of prey.

He worked the throttle of the Harley and coaxed yet more speed from the bike, whose speedo was already pushing seventy.

There was an ear-splitting bang and a bullet sang off the road no more than ten feet from the Tour Glide.

Then another.

The second struck the front grille of a stationary Mercedes and punched a hole through the metal.

In the chopper Clark cursed and took aim again.

Ahead on the left Neville saw the brightly lit frontage of the Ritz Hotel.

He swung left sharply, across the path of a taxi, whose driver blasted its horn angrily.

The Harley hit the kerb, rose into the air for precious seconds then slammed down again, skidding momentarily on the pavement.

Neville hunched over the handlebars and rode fast through the horde of pedestrians on the pavement outside the hotel, scattering them as a dog does sheep.

Some even ran screaming into the road.

He looked up and saw that the Lynx was almost level with him now, dropping ever lower until it seemed the thing must strike the ground.

Behind, Doyle floored the accelerator and also sped up until he was virtually alongside Neville.

A parked Jag whose driver seemed oblivious to the pandemonium around him flung open his door, preparing to step out.

Doyle tried to swerve but it was too late.

The Nissan struck the Jag's open door and tore it free, sending it skidding across the road.

The other headlight shattered, more paint was stripped from the body of the SX, leaving a great furrow in the red paintwork of the vehicle.

Doyle reached for the Beretta, watching as Neville swung back into the road only yards ahead of the Lynx.

The traffic on both sides of the road was slowing down, those facing the speeding procession aware of the danger they faced.

The bus driver who found himself heading towards the helicopter screamed and covered his face, convinced that the chopper was going to plough into him but, at the last moment, McBride sent the helicopter into a steep climb, just clearing the double decker.

One of the skids actually scraped along the roof of the bus, tearing paint free, causing the chopper to lurch violently to one side.

McBride fought to control the Lynx, its rotor blades spinning only feet from the front of the buildings to his right.

The bus went out of control, ploughing across the road.

Doyle saw it coming and floored the pedal again, aiming for a gap between the front of the oncoming bus and a Cavalier which was blocking his path.

He slammed into the front of the car, knocking it aside, screeching through seconds before the bus crashed into the car behind him, the massive red bulk of the vehicle now blocking traffic in both directions.

Those queuing outside the Hard Rock Cafe turned to watch the suicidal chase.

A couple even applauded.

Neville was approaching Hyde Park Corner.

The underpass, Doyle thought. The bastard was heading for the underpass. He could lose the helicopter that way.

Wind poured through the broken side window of the Nissan and Doyle stuck a hand out, wondering if he could get off a few shots before Neville sent the bike hurtling below ground.

No. The traffic was too heavy. The danger of hitting others too great. Besides, even a shot as accomplished as Doyle would have little chance of hitting a target moving so quickly.

The Lynx swooped low again.

Doyle heard another loud crack as one of the armed policemen fired.

They obviously didn't care about hitting innocent bystanders, Doyle mused.

The entrance to the underpass was approaching.

To Doyle's surprise, Neville suddenly veered right, across the traffic, straight into Old Park Lane, a small side road leading off the main thoroughfare.

Fuck it.

Doyle hit the brake, turning the wheel, clipping the front of an oncoming Astra in the process.

The collision caused the Astra to spin and Doyle himself grunted as the impact slammed him back in the driver's seat but he gripped the wheel and drove on, aware that Neville was doing what he'd feared.

The road and streets leading off from this part of Piccadilly were narrow, mostly one-way…

… (the wrong fucking way for Doyle)…

… and some were barely wide enough to accommodate a car.

Neville was having no trouble on the motorbike apart from having to slow down.

The helicopter had risen high into the darkening sky now, unable to get close due to the proximity of the buildings, but McBride tracked Neville on the monitor, the fleeing ex-para appearing as a small red shape on the infra-red.

Doyle could see the motorbike, no more than ten yards ahead of him, twisting and turning effortlessly through the narrow streets while he fought with the Nissan, trying to coax it, at speed, through the same thoroughfares, striking the kerbs frequently, forcing pedestrians into doorways for safety.

But the counter terrorist wouldn't give up. Perspiration was beading on his forehead, some of it running down the side of his face as he used all his concentration to keep on Neville's tail, all his driving skill just to stop himself ploughing into a building.

There was an empty stretch of road ahead, narrow, cobbled but free of people.

Doyle stuck the Beretta out and gripped firmly, firing off three rounds.

The pistol slammed against the heel of his hand with each recoil, empty shell cases spinning into the air.

One shot screamed off the concrete, another parted air and the third punched in the window of a shop, glass shattering noisily.

Neville turned a comer into Derby Street and again Doyle wondered what the hell he was playing at.

If he'd shot right into Shepherd Market it would have been impossible for a car to follow him but he didn't, he chose to ride on into Curzon Street.

Back into traffic.

What the fuck was he playing at?

Twice now he'd refused the opportunity to shake off or at least delay his pursuers, first at Hyde Park Corner and now here.

Doyle could hear sirens through the roar of engines.

He knew there must be police cars on the way by now, joining the chase.

Neville sped across the road, looking back quickly, almost as if to ensure that Doyle was still following.

The counter terrorist saw him reach back with one hand, flip open the top box and reach in.

He pulled the Steyr free and fired one short burst in Doyle's direction.

Bullets peppered the front of the Nissan, drilling holes in the bodywork, punching in a portion of the radiator grille, another shattering the windscreen.

Another spiderwebbed it and, for precious seconds, Doyle could see nothing except cracked glass.