'Where the hell does he think he's going?' PC Garside mused aloud as the police car sped along in pursuit of the fleeing motorbike.
Brenner, still hunched over the wheel, didn't answer, his only concern being keeping Neville in sight.
The ex-para glanced over his shoulder and saw the pursuing vehicles, sirens blaring, lights flashing brightly.
Russell Square was just up ahead.
Neville smiled.
He eased up on the throttle slightly, the needle of the bike's speedo slipping towards forty.
Thirty-five.
'He's slowing down,' Brenner said triumphantly.
Thirty.
'We've got the fucker,' the driver snarled.
Twenty-five.
He saw Neville reach behind him, flip open one of the top boxes.
Brenner pressed down harder on the accelerator.
Behind him, the other police car was also drawing nearer.
Neville was coming up to a comer, guiding the bike almost gracefully around it into Southampton Row.
As he straightened up he pulled something from the top box.
'Oh Jesus,' gasped Garside.
He saw the Steyr gripped firmly in the ex-para's fist.
Brenner saw it too and all he could think to do was accelerate.
Ram the bastard.
Knock him off before he opens fire.
Before he…
The first fusillade drilled holes right across the front of the Astra, blasting out both headlights, puncturing the radiator grille in several places and smashing in the windscreen.
Glass flew back into the car and both men tried to shield their faces from the projectile shards.
Garside shouted in pain as one slit his left cheek to the bone.
Other fragments of the shattered crystal peppered his hands like translucent grapeshot, pieces sticking in the flesh.
Brenner struggled to control the car which skidded madly across the street.
The shriek of burning tyres was instantly eclipsed by the staccato rattle of a second burst from the subgun.
Bullets struck the car once more.
Brenner was slammed back in his chair as one of the 9mm slugs powered into his chest.
It felt as if he'd been struck by a hot hammer.
The bullet tore through him, burst from his back and lodged in the driver's seat.
He slumped forward over the wheel, still conscious, bleeding badly.
Garside grabbed for the wheel, trying to keep the spinning vehicle under control.
There was a terrifying impact from behind as the second police car rammed the first, the metal of its chassis simply buckling. The front bumper tore away in the impact.
Neville glanced once again over his shoulder and saw the two stricken emergency vehicles, the second ploughing into a parked car as the driver wrestled with the wheel.
In the Astra, Garside shouted in horror as he felt the car flip.
It struck the right-hand kerb doing thirty, its momentum causing the two offside wheels to rise off the ground.
In one manic second, the Astra was on its side.
Garside fell against his companion, looking down at Brenner who was bleeding badly from the bullet wound in his chest. Blood bubbled on his lips every time he tried to breathe through his mouth.
The driver of the second car, his head split from hairline to eyebrow, staggered from the vehicle clutching the wound, blood pouring through his fingers.
He stood in the centre of the road glancing around him.
Shocked. Dazed.
Garside pushed his way through the shattered windscreen of the Astra and fell forward onto the pavement.
His head was spinning. He knew he was going to pass out.
People were walking towards him, as if in slow motion.
He could see the other wrecked police car, the driver now on his knees in the road, his head bloodied, his companion still slumped in the passenger seat, motionless.
Garside wondered if the man was dead.
He glanced back into the car and saw Brenner, head lolling uselessly on one side, blood dripping from his mouth.
And somewhere, it sounded like a million miles away, he heard the crackle of the radio.
'Puma three, come in, over.'
The world was spinning before him. His cheek hurt where the glass had cut it and, when he looked at his hands, he saw that they were like red gloves, pieces of glass sticking out of the flesh in many places.
'Puma three, come in, over.'
The voice on the radio was insistent.
Garside didn't care.
There was nothing he could do about it.
The people around him were still moving in slow motion but they seemed to be running now.
Some of them.
'Puma three.'
Fuck off, Garside thought.
He fell forward onto his face, the stink of burned rubber and petrol still strong in his nostrils.
We lost him, he thought, but the words wouldn't form on his lips.
We fucking lost him.
Garside blacked out.
Of Neville there was no sign.