Brute Force

58

The lights changed and I followed the traffic left. As I drove, I swivelled my eyes to check a filling station and shop car parks. Less than fifteen metres from the junction, there he was. The VFR was static between two parked cars. The rider was going through the motions of sorting himself out, but I knew from where he'd positioned the bike that he would have eyes on the junction.

And I knew what he'd be saying into his radio: that I was now heading towards the tollbooths and not turning right and going back into town. In other words, I wasn't doing anti-surveillance.

I pointed ahead. 'We're definitely on the straight now for the toll road, are we?'

'Yep, not far – thank God.' He checked his watch again.

The bike hadn't come with us. There were others ahead, for sure.

The road widened after one K into the toll plaza, as Lynn had said it would. Cafés and shops lined the route to the six or seven booths. So did parked cars and trucks. One in particular caught my attention. It was a dark blue Golf. If you'd jumped out to grab a coffee or a paper, you would have nosy-parked. This one had reversed in, ready to go.

As I drew level, I could see it was two-up. Both sat well back; no conversation, no movement. The side windows were tinted but the windscreen had a direct view of the tollgates. Both guys had black hair, days of growth, black leather jackets. I'd know that look anywhere.

I checked the rear-view as I got to the booth. The Golf cut out into the traffic at the same time as the VFR appeared in the distance.

I took my ticket and the barrier went up. We had two choices: left towards Genoa and the RV, right to head south, further down the coast.

I took the right.

'No, Nick, we want left, towards—'

I put my hand on his to stop him pointing. 'Shut the fuck up.'

The Golf was coming with me.

The Yamaha reappeared as we spiralled up to the autostrada. Good, just the bike and the Golf to contend with so far. With luck, everyone else would have been staking out the RV. Now that we were committed, they would be gunning it down to the next junction.

'We're going the wrong way. We're going to be late.'

'Listen in. Do not look back. Just look at me or ahead.'

He shuffled around in his seat, trying to decide what to do.

'We're being followed, got that? I thought you said Skype was safe . . .'

'It is, Nick. I don't know what's going on.'

'Well I fucking do.'

A sign said the next exit was a K away. I moved over to the right-hand lane, making it easier for them.

'This can't be them. I trust them—'

'Trust them or not, they've stitched us up.'

The Golf had followed us into the right-hand lane.

'We're going to try and lose them, dump the car and then do a runner.'

The slip road curled steeply to the right. The surface was canted; our wheels juddered on the rumble strips that lined the concrete drainage ditch.

Lynn turned to see what I kept checking in the mirror.

'For fuck's sake! Don't let them know!'

It wouldn't have mattered. The Golf came up close, with the Yamaha following. They were coming for us now we were out of view of the autostrada anyway. It was the best time and the only place to do it.

The Golf was going to ram us into the ditch. The rider would then pull up and drop us with a weapon.

'Fucking hold on!'

I rammed the wheel to the left and moved out into the centre of the road then hit the brakes so hard Lynn's head banged on the dash.

The Golf had been coming up alongside. Now it nearly overshot us. The bonnet was ahead.

I hit the wheel hard and sharp, banging into it and turning immediately back to the centre. There was a screech of metal and its rear windscreen shattered. The driver's arms flailed at the steering wheel as the Golf lurched then disappeared into the ditch. It flipped twice, landing on the driver's side.

The Yamaha braked so hard his back wheel smoked as it slid out from underneath him. I racked the wheel hard and clipped him. The bike banged against the concrete wall that towered up to the autostrada. The rider fell off and tumbled end over end along the tarmac. His machine spun in mid-air.

I put my foot down to clear the area, tyres squealing. Little Fiat Puntos weren't made for this sort of thing. I pumped the brakes to slow down before I hit the exit booth, and came to a screeching halt just in time. I handed over my eighty cents to a woman who didn't even glance up. This was Italy, after all. She'd seen worse.

I was pouring with sweat as we hit the road. 'Tell me where to go. Somewhere to dump this fucking thing and get on a bus so we can get out of here. Tell me.'