To Sam, it felt like he’d been driving around the rain-soaked streets of the capital for hours. In reality, it had been around twenty-five minutes since he had left Thames House. He jumped, caught off guard by Dave’s voice.
‘Next left, Sam. You should be able to see him, if you’re lucky. Dean Street.’
‘Where’s Mick? He’s supposed to be looking after traffic lights.’ Sam asked.
‘Gone back to hacking Raynor’s server.’ Said Dave.
‘Says you’re close enough to Raynor as to not require his skill.’
‘Fair enough.’ Sam conceded. ‘Just stay on the line.’
Sam indicated and turned left onto Dean Street. The road was clear except for parked cars and the tail light of a motorcycle. Sam’s pulse quickened and he stepped on the loud-pedal. The revs increased and the turbo whirred. He watched as the bike turned right.
‘He’s going right Dave.’ Sam said.
‘I see it. Old Compton Street. Here, do you think Mickey can get real-time satellite feed?’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you think of that half an hour ago?’ Asked Sam. ‘It’s a bit bloody late for that now, don’t you think?’
The bike slowed to take the corner and Sam saw an opportunity. He closed the gap to Raynor, turned onto Old Compton Street and maintained a speed equal to the motorcycle.
He took a deep breath and eased the gas slightly, nudging the back wheel of the bike. The bike wobbled and then started fishtailing. Raynor didn’t stand a chance on the wet road. Sam watched as the bike started to escape its rider, the rear wheel starting to slide from underneath. The bike bucked, managed to escape its rider, and Raynor was off. He rolled down the road and came to a stop by the side of a parked car. The bike continued its break for freedom for another twenty metres before it slid to a halt.
Sam hit the brakes and stopped the car. Onlookers were already starting to approach Raynor. A bunch of twenty-something lads who’d stepped out from a bar for a cigarette watched with astonishment. Sam walked up to Raynor just as he was starting to get up. Without giving him a chance, Sam planted a sidekick straight to his solar-plexus, making him stumble back into the parked car before falling to the ground once more.
‘Fucking hell, did you see that?’ A cry from outside the bar.
‘That bastard just knocked that other bloke off his bike, then kicked him in the guts.’
‘Man, that ain’t right.’
Raynor was stirring once more, so Sam lunged forward and rolled him onto his front. Raynor was still wearing a helmet, so Sam couldn’t render him unconscious with blows to the head and face. The only other option was to immobilise him as best as he could and call for backup.
‘Dave, you there?’ He said.
‘Yeah, still here mate, what’s up?’
Sam was bending Raynor’s arm back at an unnatural angle. Any attempt at freedom would surely result in fracture or even breakage.
‘I’ve got him.’ Sam looked around at the sides of the buildings, looking for street names.
‘Corner of Old Compton Street and Greek Street. I need backup. Now.’
‘Okay, mate, I’ll send the old-bill.’
‘Thanks mate. Call Virani too. Make sure she…’
Before he could finish his sentence he was pulled off of his prey and thrown backwards across the street.
‘What’s your fucking game?’ Asked the shaven-headed man as he pulled Sam back onto his feet. The man was broad but lean. He was well dressed, in smart jeans and Fred Perry polo shirt. Sam recognised the logo on his jeans as Versace. One of the local hard-cases. The modern football thug. Well dressed and well connected, probably dealt a bit in dodgy motors and even dodgier substances. He looked like he was making good money from it too. And he needed to be able to look after himself in such a line of business. His demeanour told Sam that he could.
The man’s nose looked like it had been in these situations before, and possibly not always come out the other side as victor. It had obviously been broken in the past, probably more than once. But that made Sam even more cautious as the other man wasn’t afraid to get hurt. Two more men joined him. Two of the group Sam had seen outside of the bar.
‘What’s going on Dean?’ One of them asked. Just as lean, just as confident. He flicked his cigarette butt towards Sam.
‘Nothing really Gaz. This piece of shit just started laying into the poor bastard he’d knocked off the bike.’
‘No way.’ Said Gaz.
‘Yeah, I know. Was just about to teach him a lesson.’
‘Well, I think he deserves one Dean.’
‘Wait a second lads.’ Said Sam. ‘My name’s Sam Edwards, I work for MI5. That man is Nathan Raynor. The Trashman.’
The three hard-nuts looked incredulous, and then they started laughing.
‘Yeah, course you are mate. And I’m Jack Bauer.’ Said Dean. Sam was weighing them up. Dean was obviously the leader, so he’d need to be taken care of first. Then Gaz, the first lieutenant. The last man in the trio hadn’t spoken or proffered a name, real or otherwise. Sam deduced that he must be a low ranking foot-soldier, simply trying to get in the good books of the main man.
Gaz laughed. ‘Good one Dean.’ He said.
A crowd had started to gather, the pubs emptying as word of the showdown got around.
‘Right, shithead, how am I going to teach you a lesson?’ Asked Dean.
‘I don’t think you are.’ Said Sam. ‘Look, if you don’t believe me, that’s up to you, but I suggest you walk away.’
Laughter again as Dean looked in turn to his subordinates whilst cracking the knuckles of each finger on both hands.
Raynor was sitting up, watching the exchange with his visor raised. A slim, tall, white-stilettoed blonde woman of about twenty-five approached him. She was wearing a mini-skirt, if you could call it that. Possibly mini-scarf would be a better description. Her cropped top could barely contain her excitement. She had a tiny pink leather handbag clutched in her right hand. In her left hand an umbrella kept the rain from ruining her hair.
‘You alright love? Don’t worry, my Dean will sort him out. What a tosser.’
She looked back and smiled, admiring her Dean.
‘Gaz will finish the job when Dean’s had enough.’
She transferred her bag to her left hand, struggling for a moment to hold both bag and umbrella in the same hand, then reached out an arm offering to help Raynor to his feet. She was tiny compared to Raynor, and he wondered how she ever thought she’d be able to lift his bulk.
He forced himself up and gave her a nod of gratitude.
‘Thanks.’ He said, ‘But I think your fella’s just about to get the beating of his life.’
She laughed. It started heartily and disbelieving, but soon turned more to a worried, nervous half-giggle when she realised Raynor was being deadly serious.
Turning back to Dean she shouted.
‘Just leave it, Babe. He’s not worth it.’
Raynor smiled and turned away.
‘You alright?’ The girl asked when he started walking towards his bike.
‘Don’t you want to call the police of nuffing?’ She added, awkwardly jogging behind him, the tight skirt hindering free movement of her legs above the knees.
Raynor turned and said. ‘No, I’m quite happy for your man to delay him for as long as he can.’
She looked puzzled and Raynor leaned in to her conspiratorially.
‘He’s MI5.’ Raynor whispered, ‘And I’m The Trashman.’
He winked at her as he took his rucksack from his back, opened it and removed a brown paper bag. He walked to a litter bin on the side of the street and tossed the bag into it. Then he turned and started walking towards his downed motorcycle.