Danielle Ramsay - Vanishing Point

He tried to steady himself, his mind racing as he realised the magnitude of what was taking place. He had swerved between believing Ronnie Macmillan and his henchmen, Visa and Delta, were responsible for Simone’s attack, then back to the Dabkunas. He now understood that they were in it together.

‘Oh Christ!’ he muttered under his breath.

He heard a noise and shifted his attention. Paralysed, he watched as Ronnie Macmillan buzzed down his window and barked an order at his men.

Whatever he said prompted Visa and Delta to walk over to the boot of the Jag.

Brady stood up and stealthily walked along the edge of the toilet wall trying to get as close as possible without being seen.

But before he knew it, they had spotted him

It was over with before he had a chance to react.

The black van screeched into reverse, swung itself around and sped past him at 60mph. Brady saw the same men in the front. The same men that had been filmed kidnapping Melissa Ryecroft. The Dabkunas brothers.

‘Fuck!’ he cursed.

He turned to get back to his car. He needed to radio for assistance. God knows where Harvey and Kodovesky were.

But before he had a chance to move a gunshot fired out.

Brady crouched down and watched as Nick came out from nowhere and floored the Lithuanian Ambassador, shielding him from the gunfire.

‘Fucking bastard. You set us up with the fucking pigs! I said if there’s any police we’ll kill her!’ threatened Ronnie Macmillan.

More gunshots rang out in Nick’s direction.

The Ambassador’s driver retaliated.

Suddenly, the Jag took off with Visa and Delta in the front. Tearing past Brady at breakneck speed.

Brady saw his chance and ran over to Nick.

‘What took you so long, Jack?’ demanded Nick as he looked up at Brady. ‘I gave you enough fucking clues!’

Brady couldn’t answer. He had too many questions.

‘Move it, Jack,’ ordered Nick. ‘She’s in the boot of the Jag.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Brady, searching his brother’s contorted face for answers.

He could see that Nick had taken a bullet to his left arm. Otherwise he could tell from the anxious look on his brother’s face that he would have taken the Ambassador’s limousine and gone after Macmillan.

Everything was moving too fast. This wasn’t what he had expected.

He stood, frozen to the spot.

He had no idea how many bullets his brother had taken for the Ambassador. Let alone what kind of undercover work he was doing for him.

He couldn’t think straight. His mind had gone blank.

‘Her name’s Monika. She’s the Ambassador’s daughter!’ Nick shouted at him in an attempt to make him move. ‘She’s been held for ransom, Jack. You don’t get to Macmillan he’ll kill her. Now fucking move it!’ urged Nick desperately.

‘I … I haven’t heard about any ransom. Nothing’s been reported to us?’ frantically questioned Brady.

‘Of course it fucking hasn’t! Stop asking questions like some dumb fuck and go after him like I said!’

Without thinking, he did as he was instructed. He ran, not feeling the pain in his ribs and thigh, numbed by adrenalin.

Nothing mattered. Answers could come later.

He had to get to his car and catch Macmillan.

Brady sparked the ignition of the Granada. Sparks and the metal components of the V8 growled in perfect unity. He slammed the gears into reverse, and looked quickly around as the tyres carved a black scar into the fresh tarmac. He pushed the gears into first and felt the car’s power thrust him back against the black leather seat.

He swung out onto the dual carriageway at about 80mph, his eyes glued to the red tail lights of the black Jag, speeding away from him. He threw the gears into third along the dual carriageway. The rear wheel drive almost slewed him into the grass bank. He managed to hold it and thrust his foot down hard.

‘Fuck!’ cursed Brady, narrowly missing a Nissan Micra as it pulled out on him from the Brierdene Pub, swinging out across the two lanes in a U-turn. He caught a glimpse of the oblivious grey-haired couple inside as he passed them at 98mph on the wrong side of the road.

He had no option. He’d spent too long doubting what the hell was going on instead of just trusting Nick and acting on it.

The Jag ahead dropped into a lower gear and pulled away. Brady breathed in heavily and put his foot down, aware that the Jag had forty years of improved tech. He somehow managed to reach for his phone to contact Conrad.

‘Black Jag, southbound, Links past Brierdene Pub, at speed,’ he shouted.

‘On it, sir,’ replied Conrad.

‘Chopper,’ ordered Brady. ‘We’re not going to lose this bastard.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Coming up towards the roundabout by Monkseaton Drive.’

‘They’re heading in your direction. You’re going to have to block them off,’ instructed Brady

Silence. Brady wasn’t surprised: he knew the price Conrad had paid for the Saab.

‘Conrad!’ yelled Brady, as he watched the Jag approach the roundabout. ‘They’ve got a fucking girl in the boot!’

‘Yes, sir.’

Brady threw his phone down on the passenger seat and slammed his foot to the floor, thrusting the car even harder. He could see Conrad’s Saab approaching the roundabout at the same time the Jag was approaching from the opposite direction. Brady reached the tail lights of the Jag as it braked before it swerved hard, taking the corner.

He watched as Conrad took an extreme right onto the wrong side of the road to block the Jag. He heard the furious collision of hot metal and then the squealing of tyres as the Jag tried to swerve to avoid the Saab. It hit the right-hand wing of Conrad’s car with a heavy swing that sent it lurching across the kerb into the Rendezvous Café car park.

Brady looked at Conrad to make sure he was alright. His cold, steel-grey eyes confirmed that he wasn’t injured. Or if he was, he hadn’t noticed. They were narrowed, his jaw was set. He was determined that Macmillan and his suited thugs weren’t going anywhere fast.

Brady thrust the Granada after the Saab and Jag, spinning it round so it blocked the exit.

In the distance sirens screamed full pelt. Lights flashed, closer and closer.

Brady wasn’t sure whether they were coming to his assistance or the Ambassador’s. Not that it mattered right now. The only thing that concerned him was apprehending Ronnie Macmillan before he disappeared.

Brady could see steam coming from the front end of the Jag. Fluorescent green coolant was pissing all over the car park like a Newcastle fan after thirty minutes extra time.

The Jag was fucked. It was going nowhere. That much was clear. He watched as the driver attempted to turn the engine over, again and again. It was futile.

Ronnie Macmillan realised as much and bailed as the sound of sirens gained.

Brady watched as Ronnie pulled out a hand pistol.

‘Fuck!’ muttered Brady as he watched Macmillan make a run for it.

He had no choice but to go after him.

He threw himself out the car, rolling in a ball to protect himself from the shots being fired in his direction.

He looked up to see Conrad revving the Saab’s engine.

‘Conrad! Get the fuck down, will you?’ ordered Brady as he saw his deputy throw his car into gear and swing it towards the Jag and into the direct line of fire.

Brady used the distraction and sprinted after Macmillan, ignoring the shots and the screaming grind of metal against metal. He heard one more shot before it was over. He didn’t have time to turn back and make sure Conrad was alright. Breathing hard and fast, ignoring the crippling pain in his thigh, he sprinted after Macmillan. Before Ronnie knew it, Brady had rugby-tackled him, grabbing him by the legs. Macmillan went down with force. Face smashed hard into the jagged ground. Brady knew his nose was broken before he saw the blood.