Heck didn’t even look to see how badly Gemma was hit, he just threw the car into reverse and revved it backwards along the track, mud and grit flying in front of it. A third arrow struck the vehicle, ripping through the bonnet, leaving a gouge the length of a human arm.
‘Oh … my God,’ Gemma stammered. ‘Heck …’
The dirt road was perilous at this speed, especially in reverse and with a deflated tyre. The BMW was all over the track as Heck divided his attention between the rear-view mirror and his passenger. She sat rigid, shaking violently. The arrow had buried itself in her right shoulder; blood was pulsing out.
‘This is Heck,’ he bawled into his radio. ‘Urgent message … we’re under attack at the Old Pavilion! Gemma’s suffered an arrow wound and is losing blood fast! All units get in here now, including Trojans … and get an ambulance!’
Every jolt and bounce was a hammer blow to Gemma. She tried not to cry out, but it was almost impossible. ‘Oh my Goood!’
‘Just hang on!’ He kept his foot to the floor, rounding bend after bend, twigs and leaves crackling along the BMW’s bodywork. They still had at least two miles to go to the main drive, but they ought to be out of arrow range by now, so he could stop and turn around – at which point another car appeared in front of them.
At first Heck spotted only a bright orange flash – they were accelerating around tight corners at breakneck speed – but then he saw it again; the MG convertible from the vehicle port. Astonishingly, it was being driven by the carrot-topped kid he’d seen at the school. Standing up in the back, his athletic legs braced wide apart, was archery champ, Doug Latimer. A packed quiver hung at his hip, and his hi-tech hunting bow was again at full stretch. Even as Heck gawked at him, Latimer loosed another arrow. It whistled at them with speed and accuracy, only missing because the BMW was in mid-manoeuvre. Again they rounded a bend, the car hitting the verge and almost tipping. Two hubcaps hurtled into the undergrowth; heavy branches threshed the vehicle’s flank.
Gemma’s breath was ragged and stuttering. She’d managed to claw a handkerchief from her jacket pocket, and clamp it to the base of the arrow, but the makeshift poultice was already a sopping, crimson mess.
‘We need back-up now!’ Heck howled into his radio. ‘I repeat, we are under fire!’
The MG swept into sight again, just ahead. It was much closer, less than sixty yards away. Latimer loosed another arrow. His ride too was jolting, he swayed and tottered, but his aim was unerring. The missile hit the weakened windscreen square-on, passing clean through the interior, missing Heck’s cheek by inches, thumping into the backrest in the rear.
Heck floored his pedal even though they were on another murderous curve. The suspension shrieked; a third hubcap went spinning away. But the next time the MG came in sight their problems would really begin. Only the turns in the track had saved them up to now, but the last mile or so was a straight stretch. That was where the MG would catch up and where, for a marksman like Latimer, they’d be sitting ducks.
Heck risked another glance at Gemma. She was icy-pale, drenched with blood and sweat. Her eyelids fluttered, but he could see that she was doing everything in her power to resist fainting. One hand still clutched the crimson dressing to her wound; the other was jammed against the dashboard. It was an impressive feat of courage, but it wouldn’t count for much if Heck didn’t do something soon.
He made a desperate decision.
They swerved, screeching, around a final bend. The MG briefly fell out of sight – and Heck jammed his brakes on, the BMW shuddering to a slantwise halt.
‘Get down,’ he shouted at Gemma.’ You’ve got to get down!’
‘I’m … pinned to the damn seat!’ she stammered.
She was telling the truth. Only half the feathered shaft was visible. The rest had gone straight through her into the upholstery behind.
‘This is going to hurt,’ he said, grabbing her collar and yanking her forwards. Gemma’s cry went beyond pain into horror and anguish, but behind her, the embedded arrowhead was torn free, bringing out chunks of fabric and foam-rubber. ‘Stay there!’ he said, pushing her down across her lap, throwing the car into first and hitting the gas, before moving swiftly up into second, third and fourth.
The last thing the two schoolboys were probably expecting when they rounded that final bend was to find their prey barrelling towards them.
The collision was explosive.
The smashing impact hurled Heck and Gemma forward with incredible force, but their belts held them and their airbags cushioned them. Meanwhile, the car’s crumple zones collapsed; in the blink of an eye, the entire vehicle changed shape. But the smaller MG took the worst of it. It was crushed to pulp beneath its bigger adversary, hammered into mangled scrap.
Its two occupants only survived because the roof had been folded back, and both were thrown clear.
Heck, ears ringing and head spinning, loosened his belt, pivoted around on his backside and kicked with both feet at his door. It was so warped that at first it resisted, but a second blow sprang it open. He leapt out, wafting his way through clouds of escaping steam. Carrot-Top was still rolling in trackside leaves and mulch. He looked stunned by what had just happened – but when he saw Heck looming towards him, he found his feet and lurched away around the back of the MG, heading along the track towards the main drive.
Heck followed, only to find Latimer sprawled in his path. The archery champ had taken a harder fall than Carrot-Top – his nose was badly bloodied, though he too was conscious. He groped towards his bow a couple of feet away. But Heck had reached him in two strides and kicked him across the face, knocking him cold, before grabbing up the bow and twisting it out of shape. Carrot-Top had only made it twenty yards. He might be young, but he was limping. He glanced back as he staggered past the shattered BMW – and never noticed when Gemma kicked the passenger door open into his path. He caromed away from it and fell sideways into the foliage. A second later Heck was on him. The kid squirmed violently, clawing and kicking out. He left Heck no option but to drag him to his feet by the belt of his pants, ram him back against the trunk of a tree, and cuff his hands behind it.
‘Alright!’ came an aggressive voice. ‘Everyone down! Hands where I can see them! Hey dipshit, you in the suit … I said get fucking down!’
Heck half-turned, sensing that a gun had been drawn on him.
A Trojan unit, a heavily-armoured police carrier, had arrived from the main drive, and stopped in front of the two wrecks. Specialist firearms officers, or ‘shots’ as most cops knew them, were spilling out. Kevlar body-armour was strapped over their black, flame-retardant coveralls; only the black and white flashes on their visored helms revealed who they were. Several had drawn pistols or MP5s, and were advancing warily. Behind their vehicle, an ambulance had also arrived, but was waiting there helplessly, its passage blocked. The SFO who’d spoken was the closest, and now sidled forward. He was an older but fit-looking, broad-shouldered man, wearing inspector’s pips. He had Heck square in the sights of his Kurtz submachine-gun.
‘Better late than never,’ Heck told him.
‘I said hit the deck! Are you fucking deaf?’
‘Watch out, boss!’ an SFO sergeant shouted. ‘No clear shot!’
‘I’m DS Heckenburg, you stupid bastard!’ Heck retorted, hands spread. ‘Look … I’ve just made an arrest!’
The SFO inspector only flicked the briefest glance at the manacled schoolboy. ‘Don’t know you or him!’
‘If you let me reach for my pocket, I’ll show you.’
‘One-handed. And slowly … very fucking slowly.’
Heck reached gingerly into his inside jacket pocket, extracting his warrant card. On seeing that it wasn’t a weapon, the firearms inspector lowered his Kurtz and came forward, lifting his visor. By his hard unimpressionable face, he still wasn’t convinced they were dealing with one of the good guys. He all but snatched the card, determined to scrutinise it for any sign it might be a fake. When he handed the warrant card back, Heck decked him.
It was a swift right-hook to the jaw, and it dropped him like a sack of spuds. ‘Next time I say get a move on, get a fucking move on!’
‘You fucking slimy bastard!’ the sergeant bellowed.
Heck pointed at the troop carrier. ‘Shift that pansy wagon so the ambulance can get through, you knuckle-dragging wankers!’
The firearms sergeant was about to retort in kind, when he caught sight of Gemma crawling along the verge on all fours. Her hair hung in a sweaty mop. She was covered front and back in bloody froth. Half a foot of aluminium arrow jutted at an angle from her right shoulder.
Even the hardened shot’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, shit …’
‘Get over here!’ Heck shouted past the troop-van to the paramedics in the ambulance. ‘This area’s safe …’ He was interrupted by the growl of a heavy engine from the near-distance. He spun around. ‘Bloody artic … Jesus Christ, they’re going to get away!’
Instinctively, he started running along the track. A shout sounded behind him.
‘Get those medics on the job!’ Heck called over his shoulder. ‘The rest follow me! The bastards are making a break for it!’
Running in leather-soled shoes was never easy. Heck tripped and slid, but somehow kept staggering forward. None of the shots followed him initially. He glanced back as he ran. A couple were aiding the medics as they tended to Gemma but, ridiculously, the rest were attempting to shove the two wrecked cars off the track, presumably so they could get their own vehicle past. Heck swore, but charged on.
If nothing else, the SFOs were super-fit. They soon gave up trying to move the cars and pursued him on foot, and had almost caught up by the time he’d reached the Old Pavilion. He stumbled around to the rear, panting and soaked, but the HGV was missing.
‘This is Heck!’ he shouted into his radio. ‘Tell me someone’s covering the west gate?’
‘That’d be me, sarge,’ a voice replied. It was Gary Quinnell.
‘Be advised, Gary … there may be an articulated wagon coming your way. Check with PNC for the index. Gemma ran it twenty minutes ago. But you can’t miss the bloody thing. It’ll probably stop for nothing, so no heroics, okay? Just follow it till it runs out of fuel. In the meantime, get an all-points on it. If Central Counties Air Operations have got a chopper spare, that would help as well.’
‘Roger that,’ came Quinnell’s reply.
Heck was about to say more when he smelled smoke. The shots had noticed it too; they’d removed their ballistics helms and were glancing around, puzzled. Then there was a shout and fingers were stabbing. Fire writhed behind the grimy windows at the rear of the Pavilion.
‘Fuck!’ Heck shouted, galloping around to the front.
The shots joined him, and the front door, which had been locked, was smashed down under a hail of boots and shoulders. Intense heat whooshed out; acrid smoke billowed in their faces. Heck wafted his way forward, coughing, shielding his eyes. The entire rear wall of the Pavilion interior was already a sheet of flame. Other items were also blazing: piles of boxes, racks of garments. Windows cracked like gunshots. A set of shelves collapsed, numerous bits and pieces catching fire as they scattered away from it.
‘Better get out of here!’ the SFO sergeant shouted. ‘Place is going up like a tinderbox.’
‘We’ll lose a treasure trove,’ Heck replied, pushing forward. ‘Over there! Look!’
On the left, a table had been pushed against the wall, flanked on either side by filing cabinets. A desktop computer and screen sat on top of it, alongside documents, books and other stationery, and even what looked like a pair of night-vision goggles. A huge diagram – a homemade map of some sort – was pinned to the wall above, covered in marker-pen. All were blackening in the face of the inferno.
‘We’ve gotta save as much of that as we can!’ Heck said. ‘Especially the computer.’
All the way there, he fought gusts of oily smoke and clouds of sparks – halfway over, a portion of the smouldering timber floor collapsed. It was a flimsy trapdoor, and he found himself gazing down a cylindrical pit about twelve feet in depth, with bare brick walls. It might once have been a well of some sort, though by the stench it had more recently been used as a dungeon. At least there were no prisoners down there now.
Heck himself pulled the map down from the wall and folded it under his arm. One of the shots snagged the computer, and two others managed to lug a filing cabinet back towards the entrance, before the intensifying heat beat them back. Once outside, they could do nothing but stand back, agog, as roaring flames engulfed the ancient, sun-dried structure.
Heck’s mobile began chirping.
‘It’s me!’ Shawna said.
‘What’s happening?’
‘We’re at the school, and we’ve got it locked down.’
‘Good girl …’
‘Don’t thank me yet. Most of the birds have flown.’
‘What?’
‘Seems that about half an hour ago several pupils – we haven’t got an exact number – absented themselves from lessons without permission. When a teacher tried to remonstrate, she got a punch on the nose for her trouble.’
‘What about Enwright?’
‘He’s still here. Locked himself into an antechamber at the back of his office.’
‘Break the bloody door down!’
‘We’ve tried, but he must have piled stuff against it.’
‘Alright, hang fire … I’m en route.’
Heck glanced around. Some of the shots were still fixated on the blazing Pavilion. Others were mopping sweat and muttering together. He set off back down the dirt track at a jog. The ARV was where they’d left it. But various local uniforms and CID officers had now arrived and were in conflab with the SFO inspector, who looked bruised around the chops. Charlie Finnegan was also there; he’d taken custody of Carrot-Top, but was on the phone to somebody. None of them noticed as Heck veered towards the troop carrier, whose burly, bearded driver was standing on the road, smoking a cigarette.
‘Need to get up to the school fast,’ Heck said.
‘Call a fucking taxi then.’
‘Wrong answer.’ Heck stepped around him and climbed nimbly into the cab.
‘Oi!’
The key was still in the ignition. Heck twisted it and the engine rumbled to life. He swung the heavy vehicle around in a massive three-point turn, uniforms and plain clothes scattering on all sides. The driver in particular ran shouting alongside him, threatening everything under the sun, until Heck gunned the ARV ahead and he fell far behind.