Outmanoeuvre him, then – but how? The road was his best chance. It would depend on an elusive passing car, but his run of luck could change for the better, couldn’t it? Another option: double back to the Maserati. Pears hadn’t locked it, but Fox couldn’t remember if he’d left the key. His phone was on the back seat. So was the little recorder he’d borrowed from Joe Naysmith. He’d thrown it there along with the battery pack, having switched it on first. Everything said in the car would, he hoped, be on it – and audible.
But only useful to him if Pears didn’t find it…
Another shot, another miss. Would a farmer maybe hear? A poacher? Sweat was running down Fox’s back. He could remove his jacket, but it was darker than his shirt and he didn’t want to give his pursuer a more inviting target. His chest was hurting. He remembered the stitch when he’d run across the Forth Road Bridge. Stitch or not, this time he had to keep moving.
The fourth shot, however, found its target. He felt the impact against his left shoulder. It went in and out again, numbing him for a moment. His legs almost buckled, but he wouldn’t let them. A burning sensation, and then pain shooting down his arm all the way to his fingertips.
He gritted his teeth. Knew he couldn’t stop, not even for a second. Warm blood, oozing and running. He gripped his left hand in his right, cradling it against his chest.
And ran.
Risked a glance behind him but could see no sign of Pears. He realised he was being stalked. Pears wasn’t panicking. He was being his usual methodical self. He was watching, listening and calculating. He was wearing his quarry down. Let Fox run in circles, then pick him off. Fox cursed his own stupidity and kept moving. Images flashed into his mind: Mitch and Jude; Imogen Vernal and Charles Mangold. Mangold getting him into this in the first place.
No, who was he kidding – he only had himself to blame.
Paul and Alan Carter…
Scholes and Haldane and Michaelson…
Evelyn Mills and Fiona McFadzean…
Players in the drama of his life and death.
Alice Watts morphing into Alison Watson.
Hawkeye hiding behind the eyes of Stephen Pears.
DCI Jackson, caretaker of state secrets.
Chris Fox.
And back to Mitch and Jude again.
They swirled around him as he headed up a noticeable incline. Moss and leaves mulched beneath him. Every breath he drew into his tired lungs tasted of loam.
‘Fox!’
The yelp from Pears told Fox that the man was maybe thirty or forty yards away. It also hinted at irritation, and this gave him a glimmer of hope. He tried to smile but couldn’t. He licked his lips instead, his saliva as sticky as wallpaper paste.
And he ran.
‘Fox!’
Keep shouting, paclass="underline" means I know where you are.
Every movement he made sent another jolt of pain through his shoulder. Blood was dripping on to his trousers and shoes. Thinking about it made him nauseous. He swallowed hard, tasting iron and bile. Emerging into a small clearing, he paused for only a moment to stare at the noose hanging from a tree branch, almost exactly in line with his eyes, one end wrapped around the trunk and knotted fast.
Move, Malcolm.
A steeper bank, a single line of trees and then a gap. He knew it had to be the road. He was forced to claw at the ground with his right hand as he climbed. When he stood up again, he was inches from the tarmac. He looked to left and right. The boot of the Maserati was just visible, the rest of the vehicle hidden around the curve of the road. Fox headed in the other direction. He was out in the open now. Couldn’t hear any traffic or spot headlights in the distance. His eyes stung and he wiped the perspiration from them. He could always dive into the woods on the opposite side of the road. Safer there, but more isolated, too.
Wait…
The sky was brightening. He could make out the treeline, silhouetted against the night. And now he could hear the faint roar of an engine. He remembered the local boy racers, their names scored into the memorial cairn. Would they stop for him? Were their brakes equal to their reaction time? It would be so bloody typicaclass="underline" escape a gunman just to be mown down by a spotty teen in a super-tuned Cosworth.
The roar was definitely getting louder. He was on a nice straight stretch. He started to remove his jacket – the lighter shirt might now be an advantage.
‘Fox!’
Fox turned. Pears looked mightily pissed off. The pistol hung at his side as he emerged from the trees. Seemed to Fox that he had tripped and fallen. A definite limp, clothes and face smeared with dirt.
He took a few deep breaths, straightened up, and started to raise the gun. Fox was barely thirty feet away. But the car was approaching. Fox was waving with his working arm. Pears was aiming at him as the car came into view, headlights flashing from full beam to dipped and back again, horn blaring. A small car with a big engine. Fox was trying to shield his eyes. A half-glance back told him Pears was doing the same. The car skidded to a stop, ending up side-on to the direction of travel. The passenger-side door flew open.
‘You trying to get yourself killed, pal?’
Just a kid, maybe not sixteen yet. Bass booming from inside the car. The driver leaving the engine idling as he too emerged, another car arriving behind him. More kids getting out. More thumping music.
Fox was staring at Pears. The gun was no longer visible, hidden behind him. He was making to retreat, backing away.
‘Is that blood?’ someone was asking Fox. ‘You crashed your motor or something?’
Pears was no longer visible. Fox asked the passenger if he could borrow his phone.
‘Aye, sure.’
But Fox’s hand was shaking too hard, his fingers slippery with blood. So he recited the number instead, the teenager punching it in and holding the phone towards his ear as he started to talk to Tony Kaye.
The Mondeo turned up a couple of minutes after the Armed Response Unit. Fox had given the four officers the lowdown: type of weapon; rounds already fired; direction taken by assailant. The teenagers had stuck around, slightly nervous that there might be some hidden agenda, despite Fox’s assurances. They leaned against their cars, smoking cigarettes and staring at the weaponry. When one tried to take a photo, a wagged finger was enough to deter him.
Tony Kaye was first out of the Mondeo, followed by Joe Naysmith. The last of the armed officers was disappearing into the woods as they walked towards Fox.
‘Does it hurt?’ Naysmith asked, nodding towards the wound.
‘Like blazes,’ Fox informed him.
‘Called an ambulance yet?’
Fox shook his head.
‘You’ve lost a bit of blood.’
‘It’s a graze,’ Kaye stated, giving Fox’s shoulder a cursory glance. ‘Think we should see what they’re up to?’ He gestured towards the woods.
After a moment’s hesitation, Fox nodded his agreement. ‘You lot stay here,’ he ordered the teenagers. ‘And no phones or texting – got that?’
It was quiet in the woods: no voices, no gunfire. Just the crackling of twigs underfoot.
‘You got here quick,’ Fox said.
‘Maniac at the wheel,’ Naysmith responded.
‘What did he have in mind for you?’ Kaye asked, pushing his way past the encroaching branches.
‘Suicide by hanging.’
Kaye shook his head. ‘I thought this guy was supposed to be a pro.’
‘He’s got away with it in the past.’
‘Overconfidence?’ Naysmith guessed. Then: ‘What if we get to him before the ARU?’
‘There’s three of us,’ Kaye growled. ‘Mood I’m in, shooter or no shooter he’s getting a doing.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’ Naysmith asked, noticing that Fox was faltering.
‘Just a bit dizzy.’ Naysmith steadied him. ‘I’ll be fine, Joe, honest.’ Fox wiped sweat from his face with his unbloodied sleeve.
When Kaye looked to Fox for guidance on the direction they should be taking, Fox started to shrug with his one good shoulder, but then stopped as a yell rang out. Sounded like the ARU giving due warning.