Chapter 23
1243 Words
23
I go for it, veering through the tightest of spaces between truck and traffic. I snap off a line of wing mirrors, including both of my own. I bump and scrape a fair few cars, but we make it out.
The police patrol car tries the same, only to scrape to a stop as it gets wedged in the narrow gap.
I’m thinking that’ll block the others behind, but in my rear-view, I see ‘em fly around the inside of the truck.
The bullets in the rear of the BMW confirm it.
Now it’s a straight race to the courthouse. We break off the motorway and onto the start of the ring road back into the city.
I pull left up a slip road, overshooting a line of traffic queueing to make a left at the large roundabout ahead. I take the right lane and cut across the nose of a silver Honda. I swerve off the first exit on the left, causing a pileup.
For once, there’s a stretch of clear road ahead.
It soon runs out. A long line of bright orange cones in the left-hand lane forces traffic down to a funeral pace.
Fuck that.
I plough straight into the cones. They bounce up and over the windscreen, thudding off the roof. They rat-a-tat-tat into the windscreen of the BMW behind. A couple get caught under the front bumper of the car. The driver panics and slams on. Frogger’s car shunts into the back of it and it swerves off onto the pavement, smack-bang into a lamppost.
In my rear-view, I see the lamppost snap in two and smash into the roof of the BMW.
One down. One to go. And only a short stretch of Deansgate road left now, as we enter into the thick of town. Buildings rise high. Suited and booted workers flood a pedestrian crossing.
Some of ‘em might be lawyers, I think. I don’t mind mowing ‘em down one bit. But I promised Cassie, so I thump the horn and flash my lights full-beam, scaring ‘em out of the way.
Most of ‘em move in time. A few others I swerve around.
Now I see it’s Tony behind the wheel of Frogger's car. Tony's a damn good driver. He weaves through the gap I just made.
The court is coming up soon on the left. It sits behind a place called Spinningfields. A big swanky gathering of glass buildings full of offices, bars and snooty restaurants.
An Armani store takes pride of place out front, with an open square where they sometimes set up markets. I keep beeping the horn and veer off the road onto the stretch of perfect paving in front of the Armani store. I cut down the left of it. People scramble out of the way.
The kid shouts and swears as we come up to a large set of stone steps leading down to a lower level.
“No-no-no. Don’t do it, man,” he says.
“Shut up and hold on,” I say, braking hard.
As the kid braces, I lock my arms stiff against the wheel.
I am f*****g Jason Bourne.
We fly off the top step and bounce down the rest of the staircase.
It doesn’t go well. The impact mashes the front end of the car to pieces. I jar half the bones in my back.
Yeah, we make it to the bottom, but in one written-off piece that won't steer straight. The engine dies too and we cruise left, straight through the plate-glass window of a handbag store.
Shattered glass rains down over the bonnet. We lurch to a stop, parked halfway in the store.
I eject the belt off the kid and drag him out of his seat, through the empty driver door frame.
Our feet crunch over the glass. A young shop assistant with a ginger ponytail stands open-mouthed.
I shrug at her and shuffle low towards the rear of the car.
Behind us, a corridor of glass buildings leads to an open courtyard. Beyond that courtyard sit the courthouses. The old part and the new part.
The new building rises highest. Glass shipping-container-shaped pods stacked on top of one another. The older and more pompous Crown Court sits in front. A long, wide stone building with a set of huge wooden doors and high-rising windows all the way along it.
I know it well.
The inside and the outside.
It’s tempting to make a run for the court right now. Sirens are wailing again and the media are already out on the stone steps. Waiting for Rudenko no doubt, but with cameras now angling our way.
I motion to the kid to stay down and stay put.
I edge out around the boot of the BMW.
Frogger’s car didn’t make it either. It lies on its roof at the bottom of the stairway. Wheels slow-spinning.
I see Tony in the front. Bloodied head in the steering wheel. The airbag deflated. The windscreen smashed. The bonnet crumpled and smoking.
But there’s no sign of Frogger.
Just an open passenger door.
I tuck Price’s spare piece behind my back, in the waistline of my suit trousers. One hand on the butt. The other hauling the kid up.
“Move your skinny arse,” I say, running him through an alley of stores and across the courtyard.
I keep my head on a swivel all the time. The kid held close. I keep expecting gunfire from behind. But it looks like Frogger’s done a runner.
And here’s Mr Rudenko on the steps of the court, with his legal team. Face the colour of ash.
The doors to the court are open. A handful of police are filtering out. To my right, I see two cop cars pulling to a sudden stop. Uniformed pigs piling out.
I run the kid up to the steps.
“Danny!” a podgy redhead in a suit calls out. She stands with a bald man in glasses. Both middle-aged. Briefcases in hands.
“You know them?” I ask the kid.
“The prosecutors,” he says.
“Good,” I say. I push him towards them as the prosecution team call for security.
The police won’t do anything here. No matter how crooked.
Rudenko knows it. He knows he’s done. I can see it in his face.
But the kid hesitates a moment. He turns towards me. “I can tell them you helped me,” he says. “Come in with us.”
“In there?” I say. “No thanks." I back away. Hand on my weapon. Eyes on the cops. “Get him inside,” I shout to the lawyers.
They pull him away and up the steps.
“Thanks,” he says, as he’s led up the stairs.
“Make it count,” I say.
The kid nods. I back up along the left of the courthouse. Cops coming running. Shouting for me to stop.
I pull out the gun and let off a couple of rounds in the air. The cops scramble for cover. I know their moves. They’ll wait for the armed response.
It should give me enough time to make it out.
So I leg it down the side of the courthouse. But as I break into a side street around the rear of the building, I almost take a bullet. A pistol shot twice.
I reverse up against a wall and peep around the corner. I see Frogger. I jump out and return fire. He moves fast and low behind a parked car. A red Astra with a fresh bullet hole in it.
Frogger dashes round the back of the building.
My instinct is to run. To clear the scene and put some distance between myself and the cops. But something stops me. I’m in this mess because of him. I can’t let the dickhead get away.
So I go against all my better instincts.
All common sense.
I go after Frogger.
- Writer
