A moment before impact, I yanked my left leg upwards. The front end of the Dodge hit the side of the bike’s frame just about where my knee would have been, and kept on coming.
The Buell was whipped viciously sideways by the force of the collision. Weighing less than one of the car’s axles, it never stood a chance. As I hiked my leg up over the tank, the bike started to disintegrate under me, scattering aluminium and plastic like shrapnel. And all the time, the dreadful screeching noise drilled into my brain.
I never had a second’s suspicion that this was a simple traffic accident. I didn’t need to flick my eyes to the two occupants and see the ski masks covering their faces, but I did it anyway, just to be sure.
Then I was hitting the ground hard enough to jolt the air out of my lungs, the bike partially on top of my right leg as we skated across the asphalt. The Dodge’s horns were locked into the tangled machine that had once been my pride and joy and it wasn’t letting go.
There was nothing I could do to stop being ploughed across the deserted intersection, so I kept my arms and head tucked in as much as I could to avoid injury and waited until they deemed I’d gone far enough. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot else I could do.
Fortunately, the jacket and jeans and boots I was wearing had been designed with just this kind of road contact in mind. They kept skin and bone intact, so when we finally slid to a stop almost at the far kerb, the only damage was to my nerves and my temper.
My right foot was still pinned by the bike, which itself was half underneath one of the vehicle’s front wheels. I kicked at it with my left leg, but I was totally trapped. Heart pounding, hands suddenly cold as fear squirted adrenaline into my system and primed my body to run, the only course left to me was to fight. I scrabbled for the SIG, but I was lying awkwardly, sprawled on my back, and the way the rucksack had been dragged underneath me as I’d been scraped along the asphalt meant I couldn’t quite get my fingers to the gun. I reached for the KA-BAR instead, ripping it free of the tape that held it in place to my boot.
The car doors slammed and two figures converged from either side, looming over me. The driver raised his arms, hands clasped. I had a flash image of Torquil’s paralysed fall on the beach, and instinctively knew what was coming.
Oh shit – not again …
The last time I’d suffered direct contact with a Taser I had not enjoyed the experience. It was only as the driver’s hands tightened that I realised he had something altogether more permanent in mind.
Even with body armour, taking a round to the chest at close range hurts like a bitch. I dropped the knife and doubled around the point of impact, gasping. The second man stepped over the ruined tail of the bike, kicking the KA-BAR away as he did so, and slashed through the straps of the rucksack, dragging it off my shoulders roughly. They backed away.
Ironically, removing the rucksack freed up my access to the SIG. Still panting, I snaked a hand behind me and freed the weapon, but the two men were already out of eyeline beyond the car’s bonnet, climbing back inside. I couldn’t even see the windscreen from down there, so I went for the softest available target, putting four rounds straight through the front grille.
The engine was hot, the coolant system under pressure. The rounds punctured the radiator and sweet yellow-green antifreeze sprayed out like blood. As the Dodge reversed rapidly, bumping down off the mangled remains of the Buell, at least I had the satisfaction of knowing the wounds I’d just inflicted on the car in return were mortal.
I tracked its retreat with the SIG, firing into the glass as soon as it became visible. The vehicle lurched into a messy J-turn and gained speed. I kept firing until the slide locked back on an empty mag, then snatched up the Glock from behind the broken front fairing, but stayed my hand.
The Dodge was too far for legitimate damage, and even though the street had been deserted when the ambush began, the sound of gunfire had brought people to windows and doorways. The chance of hitting bystanders was too great.
I let the muzzle of the Glock drop, dumped it into my lap and finally wrenched off my helmet and dragged the screaming earpieces out. The whining buzz continued, but at least my ears weren’t actually bleeding. Neither was my chest, although it felt like they’d hit me with a damn truck. I took a deep breath and satisfied myself that, whatever the undoubted bruises, the armour had absorbed the impact without cracking any bones in the process.
The bike didn’t want to release me. My boot was staked by some part of the frame underneath, and from that angle I couldn’t lift it off me single-handed. I stretched across to turn off the ignition and patted the tank, regretful. Like a faithful warhorse who’d seen its last battle, it lay tangled on top and around me, bleeding fuel and lubricant in a slimy trail into the gutter as it died. Now I thought about it, I was bloody lucky I hadn’t ignited any of it.
I was still lying like that ninety seconds later, when the first of Gleason’s chase teams reached me.