The Darkest Day

FORTY

He ran. Sweat and rain made his shirt stick to his back. People and cars and buildings blurred in his peripheral vision. He looked ahead and ahead only. He knew they were chasing. Losing speed by looking back would not help him escape.

The cops were laden with heavy belts of equipment and weapons. Even without, they couldn’t run as fast as Victor. Few could. He turned a corner, extending his lead on them. He could outrun these two, but not every cop and federal agent in the city.

A market up ahead offered sanctuary. Traders were doing big business, taking cash, no shutdown electronic registers denying customers. The market was busy, so packed with people it was difficult to squeeze through. Tempers were frayed and Victor received pushes and elbows as he fought his way through.

A man shouted, ‘Watch where you’re going, dick,’ and shoved Victor in the shoulder blades with both hands.

He fell against a stall, knocking merchandise over and on to the ground. The owner yelled abuse at him as he stumbled away. He lost his balance, falling to his hands and knees, taking a couple of teenagers to the ground with him.

He was up and moving again before they had finished cursing at him.

Any moment now the cops would follow. He pushed on, picturing them debating which way he had gone having lost sight of him, but having the sense to know he would have headed for the cover provided by the market instead of remaining exposed and visible on the streets where he could be intercepted by backup.

He headed to a trader selling hats, fighting his way through the crowd. He grabbed one at random — then stopped and spent precious seconds picking a more suitable garment — and shoved bills into the trader’s hands, overpaying by several times to the man’s delight. Victor pulled the cap down over his head. He had no idea whether the motif was for a baseball team, a band or just a logo. He didn’t care. He cared only that the cap was a dark colour and the motif had been the plainest on offer.

He moved on, the brim of the cap pulled down low to help hide his face, but not so low it affected his vision. Disguising himself was no good if he couldn’t see threats coming his way.

The cap would make it harder for the cops to spot him, and even harder for the ones still looking for a man in a suit. Taking off the jacket had proved useful, but he realised he should be wearing a vest. That way he could remove his dress shirt when he was again identified. The scars on his arms would make him memorable, as would his muscle tone, but only at close range. From a distance, a man in an undershirt and baseball cap looked a lot different to a man in a suit.

He told himself if he got out of this situation, he was going to start wearing one.

He changed direction to avoid knocking over an old man, elbowed between two big guys in construction gear and saw a set of stairs leading down. He shoved and pushed and fought his way towards them, leaping over the railing to save a handful of seconds that could be the difference between death or capture at a later point.

He almost collided with a woman coming up them, but she flattened herself out of the way as he rushed past her.

He heard shouting voices nearby, incomprehensible against the background of sirens and the chatter of trade in the market, but he sensed they were police officers, maybe shouting directions or updates at one another or ordering civilians out of the way. Either way, they were near.

They didn’t know if he was carrying a gun but they would know he was dangerous. They would be scared and pumped up and all had handguns at the least or shotguns taken from their cruisers. Even a grazing bullet could end him here. Ripped clothes and blood would make it impossible for him to blend in.

And if they thought he was a terrorist, if they believed he planned an attack — or even if they weren’t thinking straight — they could shoot him on sight.

He collided into a squat cop coming round a corner.

Victor raised his arms, fast, ready to strike and break and maim and kill if necessary to facilitate his escape, but the cop was shouting:

‘Clear the way.’

Victor did as instructed and watched in silent disbelief as the cop rushed away from him while yelling into his radio that he was joining the hunt. The cap and lack of jacket had paid off.

‘Get out of here,’ the cop yelled to Victor without looking back. ‘Shit is going down.’

‘I saw a guy in a suit running towards the river,’ Victor called after him.

The cop raised high a meaty thumb so Victor could see, while he shouted into his radio. ‘Perp was seen heading to the river. Repeat: perp is heading to river.’