Ultimatum

Fifty-nine

20.12

Voorhess heard the faint sound of the bomb blast, but took no notice as he ran through the darkness of the park, keeping to the single line of trees that ran alongside the main path, using them for camouflage. In his youth, he’d been a good middle- to long-distance runner, having always been too big to be a sprinter, and he still jogged four times a week round the rugged coastal paths of the Cape close to where he lived. As a result, he was able to keep his tiredness in check. He’d always found that running calmed him, and allowed him to think. But now, for the first time in a long time, he felt the pressure of what was going on around him.

A police helicopter had already passed close to the edge of the park. If it came directly over, which it would do soon enough, its heat-sensing equipment would locate him, and once he was in its sights it would be locked on to him until he was caught. He had to get back among other people where he’d be just one of many heat sources. It was his only option, because he was terrified of small spaces. Of being trapped. Prison represented a worse fate for him than death itself. At least death was quick. Years held in a cell seemed to him to be the most barbaric form of torture.

He decided then that he wouldn’t be taken alive.

He heard the helicopter turning somewhere behind him, and then the sound of its rotors drawing closer. The southern boundary of the park was barely thirty yards away, and he could see the lights of a car driving past on the other side. He redoubled his pace, sprinting with every last scrap of energy he had.

The gate was locked but he vaulted straight over it. The helicopter was getting closer now. Soon it would pick up his heat source and that would be it. The end.

Twenty yards to his right, a small hatchback car was stopped at a red light, the heavy beat of mindless music booming out from inside. Two other cars were stopped at the lights on the other side, all waiting for a young couple to cross the road. The hatchback was revving its engine impatiently as Voorhess slowed down and jogged over to the passenger door, trying to look as casual as possible, banking that on an old car like this the door would be unlocked. The lights started flashing orange, just as the helicopter came hurtling over the park, and Voorhess yanked open the door and jumped unceremoniously inside, before the driver had a chance to pull away.

The driver — young, white and pimply — stared at Voorhess with his mouth hanging open.

‘Drive,’ growled Voorhess, producing the.22 and shoving it in the kid’s ribs.

The kid stared at the gun, made a pathetic mewing noise, then did exactly what he was told as the helicopter passed overhead, loud and close.