Echo of the Reich

49

27 July 2012

The moment they stepped out of the alleyway, Bronson saw a distinctive white car approaching, the lights on the roof bar flashing blue and red as it carved its way through the traffic. Unusually, the officers hadn’t turned on their siren; for most villains engaged in the perpetration of a crime, the noise simply acted as a two-minute warning and allowed them to make good their getaway before the police arrived. And on this occasion, Bronson would have appreciated that warning as well.

“Someone must have heard something, or even seen something,” Weeks said. “We can’t afford to get caught with these weapons on us.”

“You got that right. Just keep going. They might not be looking for us.”

“Yeah, and I still believe in Father Christmas.”

The police car powered past them, the driver giving the traffic his full attention. But his companion, sitting in the front passenger seat, was scanning the faces of the people on the sidewalk. For the briefest of instants, he locked eyes with Bronson, and almost immediately the brake lights of the vehicle flared into life as the driver dragged the car to a stop.

“He’s made us,” Bronson said, breaking into a run.

“Only you, actually,” Weeks said, matching Bronson’s stride.

“You’re guilty by association. Welcome to the club.”

The sidewalks were quite busy, shoppers wandering to and fro with their usual scant regard for anyone or anything around them. Bronson and Weeks were forced to dodge and weave their way through the crowds, angry shouts and spilled shopping lying in their wake.

Bronson risked a quick glance behind them. The two police officers were pounding along in pursuit, people moving quickly out of their way. One of them had his hand to his collar and was speaking into his microphone, obviously calling for backup. Somehow, they had to stop the two officers, or at the very least slow them down.

Weeks clearly had the same idea, and pulled the Colt 1911 from its holster. Without breaking stride, he swung his right arm around to point behind him, glanced quickly backward and then pulled the trigger.

The bang of the forty-five-caliber cartridge firing was shockingly loud, the report echoing from the buildings on either side of the street. Instantly, screams and shouts of alarm followed, and all around them people either dropped to the ground or ran for cover.

“You didn’t hit anyone, I hope,” Bronson said, panting from the exertion.

“Just scared them. Well above their heads.”

Bronson glanced back again. The two police officers were a lot further back, Weeks’s use of his pistol obviously having shocked them.

“They’ll keep coming, you know,” he said. “And by now they’ll have a couple of ARVs heading this way as well.”

“I know. But my motor’s parked a couple of streets away. Once we get to that, we’re out of here.”

Weeks led the way down a side street, then took the first junction on the left. The moment he reached the building that stood on that corner, he stopped, took out his pistol and waited. Within a few seconds, the two police officers appeared, still running, albeit slightly more slowly than before. Weeks waited until they’d covered a few yards, then stepped into plain view, lifted the pistol and fired another shot. The bullet slammed into the wall of the house a few feet above their heads, and both men instantly dropped to the ground.

“Breathing space,” Weeks said. “And now they know I’m not firing blanks either.”

At the end of the next street, Weeks took out his remote control and pressed two buttons in sequence. Fifty yards ahead, the hazard lights flashed on his Range Rover, followed almost immediately by the welcome sound of the engine starting. The two men reached the car, pulled open the doors and jumped inside. Weeks released the handbrake, pulled the automatic transmission lever into drive, and powered the heavy car away from the parking space.

As the Range Rover accelerated down the road, the police officers appeared again, their approach clearly much more cautious. But they were still following.

“Do you think they got the number?” Weeks asked, punching buttons on the built-in satnav.

Bronson pulled on his seat belt, then turned round in his seat and looked back at the two men.

“I don’t know. But they’ll have a good description of the vehicle, and that might be enough.”

As soon as he could, Weeks turned off the road, Bronson now using the satnav to pick a route that would take them away from the area as quickly as possible.

“We’ll need to lose the car and these clothes as soon as possible,” he said.

“Not a problem. We’ll head out into Essex, find somewhere there.”

“I’ve got a better idea. Keep heading down this road. At the end, take a left turn and then follow the signs for the M25. At the junction, go west. We’ll go to Angela’s flat in Ealing and sort ourselves out there.” He paused for a moment, then chuckled. “I suppose one good thing is that Stratford will now be swarming with armed police looking out for anything suspicious, which is pretty much the result I’d hoped to achieve when I told the Met what I thought was happening.”

But when Weeks braked the Range Rover to a stop at the T-junction, both men knew that getting out of the area wasn’t going to be anything like as easy as they’d hoped.

Weeks spotted the flashing blue and red lights in his rearview mirrors. At almost the same moment Bronson saw a Volvo estate car approaching the junction from the right, traveling very fast.

“I think that’s an ARV,” he said, gesturing toward the Volvo.

“Then let’s hope they don’t spot us,” Weeks said.

Seconds later, before Weeks could pull the Range Rover out onto the main road, a siren on the Volvo began sounding, to move traffic out of the way, and then it slewed across the road, stopping right in front of Weeks’s car, blocking the way.