Xion Island Zero: Chapter 30

Nash was wired from a rush of adrenaline. He couldn’t mess up again. He had to get inside Bernstein’s head, be him, and think methodically.

The guard was dead, and Alan Taylor had been taken prisoner by Bernstein posing as a cleaner. The oldest trick in the book. This was a shit show and in less than two minutes, Travis had evaporated with his hostage like a magician playing with mirrors.

Nash gave orders without once raising his voice, and the team sprang into motion, scrambling for cars.

‘Renshaw, you’re with me.’ Nash attached a blue light to his unmarked car and drove himself, which was rare. He could beat himself up and long to indulge in junk food and vomiting—after thirty years in recovery, the cravings never left him—or he could take his frustration out behind the wheel of a car. He only stopped long enough to fold his funeral top coat and put it in the boot.

Before he left the rear car park, Molly flung herself into the backseat and slammed the door. ‘Drive,’ she shouted. ‘There’s no way you’re leaving me with the paperwork on this.’

Nash slammed his foot to the floor as the tyres squealed out of the debrief car park. He talked clearly into his radio. ‘We have a breach. Suspect in motion with a hostage,’ he said.

A voice crackled through the comms. ‘Possible ID on the getaway vehicle. Motorbike. A black Harley-Davidson, driving at speed through town. No plates.’

 ‘Could be Alan’s bike. He was big into them at one time and might have it stored locally. I’m trying to confirm that now,’ Renshaw said as he checked if Alan Taylor was the registered keeper of a current motorbike.

Nash swore. ‘Why the hell does a man abroad most of the year keep a Harley rusting in a shed?’

‘Because he thinks he’s bloody Keanu Reeves,’ Molly said, scanning the street. ‘He reckons he’s twenty-five.’

They careened around a corner, and Renshaw slammed against the window. ‘We’re not paid enough for this,’ he said, clutching the door handle like the guard-bar of a rollercoaster. ‘Now I know why I drive, and will never complain about it again.’

Nash’s hands were tight on the wheel, his eyes darting to every street and alley. The roads were thick with midday traffic. Hundreds of people were returning home after lining the streets to get a glimpse of the funeral procession. The press were out in force, alert to good footage and honing in on pockets of activity. Nash checked his rearview mirror as he hammered his horn, telling people to get out of the way as an addition to the blaring siren. He saw journalists scrambling, excited at the thought of more trouble, and, as he turned his attention back to the road, he saw a cameraman falling over himself trying to fold his tripod to chase the new development.

A burst of static preceded a voice over the comms. ‘Control, this is 21-Charlie, we’ve got a match on your BOLO—black Harley with two riders, just blew past us on Dalton Lane. One of them is wearing a dark suit.’

‘Confirmed visual,’ another voice snapped in. ‘Unit Four is tailing from a distance. Heading for the New Road.’

‘Phil, get Norton on it,’ Nash said through a tight mouth as he concentrated on driving. Renshaw grabbed the mic.

Another voice jumped in. ‘Visual on Harley. Heading east out of town, two-up. Passenger matches Bernstein. Black cowboy boots, jeans, leather jacket.’

Nash grabbed the car’s mic out of Renshaw’s hand and didn’t bother with call signs. ‘Norton, where are you?’

‘On the road. Vehicle in sight. Keeping back until I can get an advantage.’ She was breathless over the roar of her bike. ‘Sod your naff police bikes,’ she shouted. ‘I’ve got the Tiger out.’

Molly laughed. ‘She named her bike after herself?’

‘It’s her Triumph. She doesn’t usually risk scratching it,’ Renshaw said.

Nash spoke again, ‘Norton, you’re in the best position to track. Watch him, he’s slippery. Stay safe and be ready.’

‘Born ready.’

‘She’s in her bleeding element,’ Brown said. ‘Get him, Blight.’

Nash hit the bypass and weaved through traffic until he had Norton in sight. He manoeuvred into clear road until he was two vehicles behind her, the one in front was an armed response unit brought in for the funerals. He heard the Tiger’s engine roar and the world narrowed to the width of his windscreen, filled with asphalt and the breath of pursuit.

Norton held the road at a steady pace. They passed the Ormsgill turn-off with the old pub on the corner, which blurred into overgrown hedgerows and potholes like landmines.

‘Stay back, Norton,’ Nash said. ‘No heroics. We play this by the book.’

He was closing the gap and had his first glimpse of the Harley. It was a black monster, and Alan’s silhouette would haunt Nash if they couldn’t save him. But mostly he saw Travis, big shoulders, narrow waist, and the unmistakable arrogance of the pillion rider’s posture. Even without the cowboy boots, Nash felt he’d recognise Travis Bernstein anywhere.

Norton gunned the Tiger and leaned into a tight left-hand bend. The tyres bit the tarmac, and the engine howled. The Harley screamed on, with Travis leaning and balancing without gripping hold of Alan Taylor. He was comfortable on a bike. The Harley slowed down. Taylor was giving the police a chance to catch up, and Nash winced as he saw Bernstein punch Alan low in the ribs.

This was more than a chase; it was a confession unfolding at 90 miles an hour. The bike swerved, hit the kerb, almost swan-dived, righted itself, and sped off faster than before. Alan dropped his hand to his side for a second, in obvious pain, and the bike lurched. Nash saw him return his left hand to the clutch, sit upright in an unnatural riding position, and he realised that Alan was trying to use his body as a windbreak to slow him down. Nash was impressed and humbled by his bravery. But Bernstein knew what he was doing, as well, and dug Alan in the back to make him go faster. Alan dropped his upper body under the wind, and his funeral jacket flapped behind him in wind ripples.

Like a hawk swooping in from nowhere, Keeley cut across the dual carriageway on the Tiger. She overtook the lead car and closed in on the Harley.

‘Hell fire,’ Nash said. ‘She’s on it.’ He keyed the mic and spoke directly to Keeley. ‘Hang back. Abort. I repeat. Abort.’

‘Not a chance,’ Keeley said into her headset. Nash saw her elbow drop lower as she opened the throttle. The bike screamed, and Nash swerved out of the traffic, following into the outside lane, and forcing his car forward to close the gap.

Somebody yelled through comms at them from the armoured vehicle, ‘Hang back. Repeat. Hang back.’

‘She’s gaining on them,’ Molly said, abandoning her seatbelt and twisting forward to see between the front seats. ‘Atta girl. She’s like Wonder Woman, without the big knickers.’

The Harley veered off the main road, taking the Askam turnoff at the last second. Tyres screeched as it roared down the narrower road. They’d expected it to continue on the fast A590 rather than risk the outlying villages. Only a fool would risk death at the speeds they were doing. The Tiger and Nash’s car were caught in the wrong lane and had to circle the roundabout to take the turning. It costs them some time.  

The armoured vehicle followed the Harley, banking hard and struggling to catch up and make the turn without overshooting it. Two more police vehicles followed, with their sirens screaming. It put Nash three cars behind. He swore and hit the comms, ‘Get out of my bloody way,’ he shouted. It was the first time he’d lost his cool.

A blur passed him in an explosion of engine noise as Norton left the road and tore along the grass verge to pass the cars. Nash inhaled as her back wheel skidded in the mud and threatened to overturn the bike. Molly covered her eyes.

Norton righted the bike, and her voice grunted over the radio. ‘He’s slowing down. He knows I’m behind him.’

‘Careful, Keeley,’ Nash said. ‘He’s expecting this.’

Renshaw shouted, ‘No,’ and Molly screamed as Nash swung the wheel hard right to leave the road and follow Norton on the verge. It was too narrow. Hedges flew past them and scratched the car, a branch hit Nash’s side window, and he turned his head away. The glass cracked and shattered across the interior. Molly screamed again, tossed around the backseat as shards rained down on her.

When he was in front of the armoured vehicle, Nash followed Norton’s path and swerved back onto the road, making the other car hit its brakes in a screech as Nash pulled ahead of them.

‘I’ll have your badge for this,’ a superior officer from MI5 said into the comms.

‘No, sir. You won’t,’ Nash said. ‘You’ll be too busy eating my dust.’

‘Holy shit,’ Molly said, and Renshaw turned to look at Nash with his mouth open.

Nash had the sense to look worried, ‘I hope the wake-up rule applies,’ he said.

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