Kashmir Rescue. Doug Armstrong
other car, by taking a back road, was not restricting itself in any such way. It would be able to go in any number of directions and so multiply its chance of escaping.
Don covered the last few yards to the end of one of the rows and as he reached the last parked car he skidded to his knees and drew his 9mm Browning pistol. Holding it in a two-handed combat grip, he steadied himself against the car door and brought the gun into the aim, waiting for his target to appear and enter his sights.
There was the sound of squealing rubber and the car roared into view, the tyres spinning as the driver swung it round towards the barrier. Don waited until he had a clear line of sight and then squeezed off a rapid double tap at the rear window, where he was able to make out the silhouette of a man sitting upright in the centre. He saw the glass frost as his bullets found their mark but the car continued towards the barrier.
He dropped his point of aim to the fuel tank and was about to fire another double tap when something stopped him, freezing his finger on the trigger’s fragile second pressure. The image of the girl’s room flashed through his mind. If they were indeed the same men from Bramley Road, then they had taken a hostage. Of course it was possible that she was in one of the other two cars, but there was also the chance that she was in this one. The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for the loss of an innocent life. He realized that the most obvious place for the girl would be in the boot, and even if he managed to avoid hitting her and got the fuel tank instead, it was possible that his bullets could start a fire. He couldn’t take that risk.
He tried to sight on the tyres but it was no use. In his frustration he fired off another double tap through the rear window in the vague hope that one of his rounds might hit one of the kidnappers.
The next second the bonnet smashed through the flimsy barrier, splintering the wooden pole and breaking free on to the open road beyond. Don got to his feet and ran after it. As he reached the ruined barrier he tried to aim at the retreating car again but it was too late. He stared after the fast-dwindling target, the frosted rear windscreen now being punched out by the man who had been sitting in the back seat. In the last moments before it disappeared Don glimpsed a face grinning derisively at his failure.
Don cursed, easing off the hammer of his pistol and flicking on the safety-catch. He slid it back into his holster and turned back towards the restaurant. In the distance he heard the sound of a police siren and far down the motorway he saw a blue flashing light.
It suddenly occurred to him that he was probably the only one present who had made the connection between the various cars, recognizing them as all part of the same terrorist gang. The two that had taken the motorway could not have got far. There was still time to go after them.
He ran back to his car, slipped into the driving seat, gunned the accelerator and shot out for the entrance to the motorway. A hitchhiker stood at the roadside thumbing a lift. Don screeched to a halt and when the youngster jogged up to his car, instead of opening the door for him to get in he wound down the window and said, ‘There’s been a shooting in the service station. There’s a police car coming up behind. Wave them down and tell them there are two cars on the motorway heading west and some of the men responsible are in them. Tell them to block the next exit and get a helicopter in the air. Another car crashed out of the back of the car park. Have you got that?’
The youth stared at him dumbstruck. Don repeated, ‘Have you got that? I haven’t got time to stick around.’
‘A shooting?’
‘That’s it.’
The youth nodded. ‘I’ll tell them.’
‘Good lad.’
Don put his foot down hard and sped away. The cars he was chasing had already pulled away out of sight, so he drew out into the fast lane and put the accelerator to the floor. It felt as though there was a hand in the small of his back pushing him along. He thought briefly of the car that had burst through the barrier. Perhaps he should have chased that one. But no. By the time he could have gone after it the driver could have veered off on to any one of a dozen minor roads. He had a far better chance of catching the cars that had stupidly chosen the motorway.
The road bent into a long, steady curve as it entered a cutting. When it emerged from the far side of the chalk hillsides he had a clear view for several miles ahead. Like a vast fat snake, the tarmac unfolded across the gently undulating countryside and there, way in the distance, he spotted the two cars, one blue and the other red. Both had now slowed to a more normal speed and he assumed that their occupants imagined they were in the clear. After all, it had been the men in the other car who had done the killing at the service station. It was unlikely that anyone had linked them to the shooting. Who could have known that they were all part of the same team?
Don knew. He eased back on the accelerator so as not to arouse their suspicion but continued to steadily close the distance. Mile after mile passed and all the while he drew closer until eventually he was barely three hundred yards behind the rear car. Out in front he could see the blue Honda Accord powering ahead, the red Ford Orion behind it and closer to him. The two cars were separated from each other by about a hundred yards, and Don could see the men in the rear of the Honda turning to exchange hand signals with the driver and front-seat passenger of the Ford. They appeared to be smiling and carefree, and he could make out their cheery waves.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts, you murderous bastards,’ he said quietly, closing the gap a bit more.
He was almost level with the Ford when in the distance behind him he caught the sound of a police siren.
‘Bugger!’ he growled.
He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the blue light of a police car flashing far behind. It was a good couple of miles away and he wondered what on earth the police intended to do from that distance.
‘Nice one, lads,’ he said. ‘You’ve just warned them you’re coming.’
Sure enough, he looked at the Ford and saw the men in the back crane round at the sound of the siren. One of them pointed and said something to the driver, and the next moment the car surged ahead, pulling away fast. But as yet they were unaware of Don’s presence and as they accelerated so did he. He knew it would not be long before he was noticed but he had to keep up with them. The driver of the Ford must have flashed his lights to attract the attention of the Honda in front, because the next thing Don saw was the Honda veering away as well. He eased gently up beside the Ford, keeping his eyes fixed on the road and trying not to look suspicious. But the police car was closing steadily and he knew that at any moment the two cars would have to give up all pretence of innocence and make a break for it.
He glanced at his speedometer and saw that the needle was touching ninety. Surely he couldn’t escape their notice much longer?
The answer came a second later when the Ford swung across into the middle lane and almost rammed him. Don tugged the steering wheel hard to avoid a collision and almost lost control, as the driver of the Ford had intended. Struggling to keep on the road, he glanced across and saw the men in the Ford staring hard at him.
‘Time to forget the pretence, fellas,’ he said through gritted teeth, and steered straight towards them.
In response they accelerated, swerving to overtake an articulated lorry. Up in the cab the driver stared at the two cars in amazement and blew his horn as the Ford swung dangerously close to his front bumper.
To Don’s horror he saw the rear window of the Ford opening and the next instant a pistol appeared, waving unsteadily in the blast of wind. The firer aimed it in Don’s direction and pulled the trigger repeatedly. Over the noise of the engines Don heard the thin cracks of the gunshots and saw the puffs of blue smoke erupt from the muzzle. Although the firing was appallingly inaccurate he knew that there was always the chance of a lucky shot finding its mark. And it wouldn’t even have to hit him. At that speed it would only have to rupture a tyre or other vital component to send his car spinning out of control.
He swung the steering wheel to bring himself directly behind the Ford, cutting the pistol’s direct line of fire.
‘If