Knife Edge

7.42 P.M.

'This wasn't supposed to happen,' PC Duncan Clark panted, gripping the back of his seat as the helicopter swung low between two buildings before rising sharply again, always following the fleeing motorbike.

'We were told to get Neville,' Butler reminded him. 'We've got to.'

The pilot looked down at the small infra-red image showing on the console beside him, checking that Neville was still within their reach.

The Lynx was flying at around a hundred feet, rising and dipping where necessary, McBride constantly aware of the proximity of so many buildings.

Neville was roaring up St James's Street now, hunched low over his handlebars, the Harley Davidson swerving in and out of traffic as if it were on some kind of maniacal slalom.

Butler pulled the HK81 up to his shoulder once more and squinted into the telescopic sight, trying to draw a bead on Neville.

'Take her down a little.'

'I can't take her any further, we'll hit something,' McBride told the marksman.

Butler tried to hold the rifle steady. His finger pressed more firmly on the trigger as he waited until he had Neville squarely in the cross-threads of the sight.

The bike veered left slightly and Butler lifted his finger from the trigger.

'Jesus,' he snarled. 'I can't get a clear shot.'

Clark was breathing hard, his heart pounding madly against his ribs.

He raised his own rifle and drew a bead on Neville.

He tried to swallow but it felt as if someone had filled his throat with chalk.

There were so many other vehicles in the road. So many other targets he might hit by accident.

Dare he shoot?

He kept the rifle pressed to his shoulder.

The chopper dipped low once more.

As Doyle roared along in pursuit of Neville, he could see the Lynx above him, drifting up and down like some toy dangled on a string. Many of the pedestrians he sped past had stopped to look at the spectacle hurtling past them, marvelling at the wildly moving helicopter and the speeding motorcycle it pursued.

Fucking police, Doyle thought angrily.

They were told to keep out of it.

Without their interference he'd have got Neville.

Fuck it. He had him. Helpless before him until the bloody chopper arrived and fucked everything up.

If Neville got away the police would be to blame.

Let that bomb that was due to go off in just over fifteen minutes be on their conscience.

But where?

One hundred and thirty pounds of Semtex. Where the fuck had Neville hidden such a prodigious supply of the explosive?

Doyle shook his head as if to clear away the thought, concentrating his mind on the fleeing motorcyclist, using all his skill to weave a path through increasingly heavy traffic.

The counter terrorist knew that Neville had an advantage.

His manoeuvrability.

The Nissan Doyle was driving was fast but cumbersome compared to the swiftly moving Harley Davidson. If the ex-para should swing the bike off a main road then Doyle knew he was fucked.

Ahead of him two cars were blocking the road.

Doyle twisted the wheel and sent the Nissan hurtling up on to the pavement.

He heard someone scream, saw a dark shape dive away from the onrushing car.

Doyle stayed on the pavement, realising it would give him easier access along the thoroughfare.

There was a loud clang as he struck a waste bin, ripping it from its position on the pavement.

It flew into the air, spinning, sending its rotting contents scattering in all directions.

He hit the next one too and heard one of the Nissan's headlights shatter.

Still he drove along the pavement, finally guiding the vehicle back into the road as Neville reached the junction of St James's Street and Piccadilly.

The lights were red.