Four Land Rovers bounced and roared through the gates after him. He counted them through his rear view and wing mirror as he calculated the odds. There were more of them and they outgunned him. Then again, the truck was a difficult target. Built to withstand assault. Too huge and heavy to side-swipe him from the access road and on to the rough ground. Most important of all – they had to take him when he was still within New Army territory. If he made it back to the public highway, they could hardly start a firefight against one of their own.
The driver of the first vehicle must have made the same calculation. A roar of engine and it disappeared from his mirrors – bullets embedding themselves in the driver’s door, pinging off the iron mesh against the window. North swung the wheel and the force of the collision travelled up through the steering column and down his spine this time. If the bullet didn’t move after this ride, it wasn’t ever moving. The Land Rover bounced off the road, its front near-side crushed – smoke billowing from underneath the bonnet. One down: four to go.
The other two were on him. Pulling in front in tandem, flooring it. Ahead, they drove as if they were yoked. Together they veered right and left, then turned towards each other, passed and without hesitation floored it again as they headed straight for him. It was a suicide mission. The collision might well wreck the lorry, but it would certainly kill the drivers of the two Land Rovers. They expected him to turn the wheel, take the lorry on to the moorland where its speed would be cut in half. North breathed out. Steady. He had no future. He was counting on the fact his pursuers did. Wives. Girlfriends. Kids. He could see their faces. White and terrified as they pulled their wheels to avoid the truck, bouncing off the road. The vehicle on the left slamming into a low stone wall, driving through it: the vehicle on the right not so lucky, catching the lorry’s bull-bar, rising into the air, spinning, turning over and over before smashing into the ground, rolling again and again, metal everywhere, the bodies of its passengers flying through the air. Sometimes the future didn’t last all that long.
One left.
The road ahead was straight. He rammed Walsh’s Bible on to the accelerator, levering it backwards till it caught beneath the steering column. He jerked out the trailing seat belt and knotted it into a loop before sliding his arm through. It caught on his elbow. He seized the rifle and swung open the door, the trunk of his body immediately hanging out into thin air. He put his eye to the sight of the stock aiming at the Land Rover and pulled the trigger. Missed. The truck hit a pothole and North felt his body rise and jerk, his arm wrenching. Fired again. Missed again. Bullets coming at him as a nasty boy pumped his machine gun. North let go his breath. Fired. Immediately, the hole opened up in the windscreen of the 4x4 behind him as the driver collapsed over the wheel, the vehicle moving faster, veering off the lip of the road into oblivion. North swung back in, the door swinging after him. He checked the mirror. The Land Rover was gone – North didn’t care where.
He spotted the ancient Saab parked up by a footpath leading out on to the moors. He slowed. Maps were scattered over the passenger seat. Hikers. North said a silent prayer for a sunny day. If the weather held and their walk went well, it would be hours before the car was missed.
Half a mile further on and he slewed off the B road, careering along the rough grass – the top of the lorry grazing the underside of the bridge, before it ground to a halt. He broke off branches of a bush to lean them against the tail gate. He was out of New Army territory, but they’d already have more troops looking. The bridge wasn’t much of a hiding place, but it was better than he deserved going into the camp without a plan to get out again.
Maybe Honor did have a point about risky behaviour.
Clambering up the bank, he jogged back to the car, keeping to the scrub, jumping at every bleet and note of birdsong, but the road stayed clear.
As he smashed the window and wrenched away at the plastic moulding to expose the ignition wires, North thought of Jimmy the Sniff. He brought the wires together and twisted the copper strands. The car thief had been right about the New Army taking Peggy. The sound of him hammering up the staircase. “North, mate…there’s someone…”. Jimmy saw something. And instead of slipping out the door and beating a retreat, instead of keeping himself safe as he did when they came for Peggy, this time Jimmy tried to warn him. The ignition caught.
North made the first call at York railway station, using the payphone on the concourse.
The personal assistant to the chief executive of Heathrow Airport put him straight through to James Moss, just as Bunty said she would. She didn’t ask questions after he told her he was Bunty’s brother.
“These people are going to want you to do something for them, Moss. Stop flights out? Stop flights in? I know it sounds insane…”
Moss was a man of few words.
“They warned me that you’d call, Mr North. My wife’s a formidable woman whom I love very much, which is why I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sure you understand my dilemma. I doubt my wife will, but I’m prepared to take that risk.”
And he hung up.