Robert Ryan - Signal Red

Gordy, Bruce and Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs some minutes ago and watched the trio of security men waiting for the lift to arrive.

'Now?' asked Harry.

'Not yet,' said Bruce. The word had barely left his lips when the doors to the elevator began to separate and a louder bell sounded. 'Now!'

Gordy was out first, his long legs closing the distance between stairwell and reception desk in a few lengthy strides. He looked at the duty receptionist, a young man with bad spots, and decided he would give them no trouble. At the same time, a second internal voice told him it was always best to play it safe. Kid might be a black belt in karate, after all. Behind him he could hear Bruce and Harry crossing to the guards, the metal tips on Harry's shoes ringing on the parquet.

A puzzled look on his face, as if he wasn't certain what was occurring, the receptionist automatically reached for the internal telephone. Gordy whipped off his hat and brought it down on the kid's hand. It made a dull clang as metal hit bone. The lad, his expression transformed into a mask of shock and pain, buckled at the knee and he went down, disappearing from view.

Not a black belt after all, thought Gordy.

The driver of the car shrank into his seat as the door was pulled open and a wild-eyed figure lunged in at him.

'Who the fuck are you?' yelled Billy as he grabbed at a lapel and pulled the lad close to him.

'Who the fuck are you?' retorted the young man, raising his hands to cover his face.

'Flying Squad.'

'What? I ain't done anything. Honest.'

It sounded as if he was about to cry. Either he was a very convincing actor, or he really wasn't up to no good. Billy relaxed his grip. 'What are you doing here?'

The lad fumbled in his pocket and produced his airside pass. 'I work over there. Just showing the car to a mate. He might buy it.'

'Here? At the airport?'

'Perimeter road, it's a good place to try a motor out. Straight up.'

'Shit,' said Billy, letting him go and stepping back. His walkie-talkie crackled once more. This time he answered it.

Unaware as yet of the commotion at the reception desk, the guards stepped aside as the lift doors opened, intending to let the smart gentlemen within pass out.

The supervisor felt a thump on the side of his head and stumbled. He'd been fetched a tremendous blow with an umbrella from Harry.

One of the guards, realising a snatch was in progress, whipped out a baton and smacked it down hard on Bruce's head. Bruce staggered a little, but recovered. The guard, puzzled, raised the baton again. As he did so, Buster swung his cosh and caught the guard in the jaw. There was a sickly cracking sound. He did it again and the man crumpled into a heap. Buster leaned over for a coup de grace when he felt Gordy's hand on his arm. Gordy indicated three prone men, all with blood on their faces, each groaning and out of the game. Charlie, Gordy and Harry were all panting from the short, sharp skirmish. Bruce was pulling the laden trolley clear of the fallen men. The first part of the snatch was over.

'What the bloody hell's going on in there?' shouted the police driver, trying to make sense of the melee through the distortion of the glass windows.

His partner looked up reluctantly from the newspaper and his tawdry fantasies. 'Jesus Christ, someone's havin' it.'

He scrambled to leave the car, extracting his truncheon as he did so, while the driver reached for the radio handset to call it in.

As the copper left the car, Tiny Dave and Ian bent down and stabbed the rear tyres of the police car with the chisels. The Dunlops exploded in a rush of fetid air.

When the policeman turned to investigate this new occurrence, Tiny Dave swung at him repeatedly with his phony umbrella. Under the rain of blows, the copper fell back; two more sharp raps on the head and he was on the deck. Ian, meanwhile, had jerked the driver out of the car and felled him with a blow from the steel bowler.

Tiny Dave gave Roy and Mickey the thumbs-up.

The two Jags swung around the police cars and reversed up to the entrance in a cloud of exhaust smoke, slotting neatly either side of the Bedford armoured car.

The apron outside Comet House was quickly full of men, some of them carrying strongboxes.

'Get the doors!' yelled Bruce.

The rear doors of the Jaguars were yanked open.

They had rehearsed this dozens of times, but Bruce knew amnesia could strike even the most well-prepared team. So he carried on with the instructions. 'Put the boxes where the back seats were.'

The strongboxes, two per Jaguar, were slotted in to form new rear seats.

'Blankets.'

A cover was thrown over the boxes.

'Get in. Move it.'

Three men clambered in and sat on top of each of them. The doors were pulled shut.

Mickey was first away, tyres squealing and smoking, heading west away from Comet House towards the exit gate.

Please God, let them not have replaced the chain, thought Roy as he accelerated after him.

The young receptionist, sure that the robbers had fled, reached over and pressed the alarm button with his undamaged but unsteady hand. A siren screeched around the hallway; he knew a similar sound would be torturing the ears of those down in the strongroom and at the local police station. Then he slumped back down and cupped his good hand over his nose as his palms filled with the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Fear had burst the vessels in his nose.

The felled driver of the police car, his vision still blurred from the blow, managed to crawl back inside the Wolseley and grab his handset. He pressed the transmit button. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the words slurred. It was as if brain and jaw muscles were no longer in sync. But he was certain he could make himself understood. 'Hello, control. Hello, control. This is Romeo Romeo Alpha. Robbery in progress…'

Mickey slithered the Jag to a halt next to the exit gate in the perimeter fence. Gordy, primed for action, was out of the car while it was still rolling. He ran to the gate, lifted the chain and pulled at the phony link.

Nothing happened. The chain held.

Roy heard his anguished shout of 'Fuck!' even over the idling engine. As he braked to a full stop, he wondered how long it would take before Gordy abandoned the trick linkage and fetched the cutters. Time was ticking away.

But Gordy held his ground, tugging at another link, then a third and finally, on the fourth, it pulled apart. He turned, a grin slapped across his face, like he was a turn on Sunday Night at the London Palladium.

'Fuck's sake,' yelled Roy to nobody in particular. 'Get a move on.'

He checked the mirrors. All was still quiet behind them, although he had no doubt the alarm had been raised. They were still in the stunned phase of the blag, when the victims couldn't quite believe what had befallen them, but that wouldn't last much longer.

Gordy pulled open the left-hand gate fully and pushed the right one partly back, giving just enough room for the cars. Mickey took the Jag through, pausing only for Gordy, who had reconnected the phony chain-link, to throw himself into the rear. Roy ducktailed out into the Bath Road traffic after them. He floored the accelerator, feeling the wheels spin. Careful, he reminded himself. Wheelspin was a sign of nerves, of too much right foot, not enough finesse.

The little Austin A40 came from nowhere, reversing with speed and precision, powering at him like a tiny green rocket, ready to cut off his escape.

Roy used the little drift he had got into with the wheelspin and allowed the back to come round, blipping the throttle and going onto opposite lock. He could see the face of the other driver, flat cap, a mask of hate beneath it. Some do-gooder hero, no doubt, out for a headline.