Back Track (44 page)

Once the garage shutters were halfway open, Bishop switched on the headlights and backed out. He swung the wheel hard to the left until he was pointing towards the airstrip. In the distance, he saw the plane was still on the ground. The tanker was still out there, too. There was still time. But not much. A plane that size would only have about a five hundred gallon fuel capacity, so they’d be finished refuelling the thing any second now.

He put the stick into Drive and stepped hard on the gas. The BMW took off over the bumpy ground, the hangar soon whizzing by as he increased the speed. No time for subtlety any more. It was the direct route or nothing. That’s why he’d chosen the SUV over the limo. A four-wheel drive had a much better chance of smashing through that fence. Then it was just a few hundred yards further to the plane. He’d make it. He
had
to.

Bishop had got the thing up to seventy and was just reaching the end of the hangar when he saw a large, dark shape suddenly come out of nowhere from the left. Less than five yards away and on a collision course. The second fuel tanker.

Bishop swore and stamped hard on the brakes with both feet, at the same time yanking the wheel all the way to the left. But he was going way too fast. And the tanker was too close. And no room to manoeuvre. The SUV went into a four-wheel drift, still heading for the tanker at speed. They were going to collide. Bishop had just enough time to relax his body in readiness for the pain to come, then the BMW smashed broadside into the side of the tanker at fifty miles an hour.

It was like hitting a brick wall. Or any other immovable object. The noise from the collision sounded like the end of the world. Bishop’s body jerked so hard against the safety belt he felt a rib crack. At the same time, the front airbag exploded from the steering wheel like a shotgun going off, slamming him back in his seat and smothering him in less than a second. Bishop had time to see the right-hand side of the SUV instantly flatten against the tanker like paper, then everything turned white.

Silence.

Bishop breathed out and opened his eyes. He was still in one piece. Just. The airbag immediately began to deflate and he turned to his right. That whole side of the vehicle looked as though it had just been inserted partway into an industrial crusher. The .38 was gone, sucked into the mess and probably half its original size now. And Neeson in the back. He must have died immediately on impact.

The only noises were the sound of the truck’s idling engine and a heavy drumming on the SUV roof. And he smelled gasoline again. Not kerosene. Probably Avgas, the highly flammable aviation fuel used to power piston-engined aircraft like Poleina’s. The force of the crash probably ruptured the tank. Bishop figured it had to have been Hallaran driving. Bastard must be serious about making sure Bishop was dead.

Bishop unlatched his seat belt and shouldered open the door, the move instantly inflaming the pain in his rib. Then he fell out the car onto the gas-soaked ground. More splashed onto his clothes in a steady spray from above.

Have to get up. Have to finish Hallaran and get moving. The plane won’t be there much longer.

Bishop heard a crunching sound nearby. Then a boot suddenly smacked into his right side, forcing the air from his body and knocking him onto his back. Bishop wrapped an arm around his cracked rib and looked up. The figure he’d seen before was standing over him. Hallaran. He was unarmed. Behind him, Bishop could see the damage the crash had caused. There was an uneven fissure running down the centre of the tank and the contents were spraying out in a wide are, drenching everything within range. Including both men.

‘I told you you’re too late, Bishop,’ he said. ‘She’ll be airborne in a minute, by which time you’ll be beyond caring anyway. Tell me, how does it feel to have gone through all this effort for nothing?’

‘It’s over, Hallaran,’ Bishop said. ‘You’re done.’

‘You think?’ Hallaran smiled. ‘All you did was speed things along, that’s all. Another year like I planned would have been perfect, but I’m already richer than God, and thanks to you I don’t even have to share any of the profits. But you still stuck your nose into my business, and that’s something I can’t let you get away with.’ He gave another hard kick to Bishop’s stomach. ‘Come on, get up. It’s no fun if you don’t try, and I want this to last. I want you to see that plane take off and know how close you came before I finish you.’

Bishop winced and slowly raised himself to a sitting position. Making as though he was still sluggish from the crash. Then his left hand darted down towards his ankle holster and pulled his knife free. He lunged forward and stabbed at the man’s legs. But Hallaran had anticipated the move and was already stepping back out of the way. He kicked out and his foot struck Bishop’s inner wrist. The knife flew from Bishop’s hand and he saw it skitter along the wet soil and finish up under the wreckage of the car.

Bishop kept moving. With one hand on the ground for support, he delivered a side kick aimed at Hallaran’s right knee. Hallaran turned to avoid it and Bishop’s boot glanced off the inside of the leg instead. But Hallaran lost his balance and fell, landing in one of the puddles of fuel. Bishop clambered over and dived on top of him, pressing his elbow against the man’s Adam’s apple, pushing down with every inch of strength while his other hand tried to grab hold of Hallaran’s left arm. But Hallaran used his other fist to deliver a rocket to Bishop’s ribcage.

The pain was unbelievable. Bishop released Hallaran and rolled off, his left arm holding his chest. This was like Abraham all over again. Except now he was on the receiving end. He forced himself to his feet and saw Hallaran already moving in. Bishop had no time to get out of the way as Hallaran delivered a roundhouse kick to his ribs again.

But Bishop managed to clutch the leg just as it made contact and hold on to it, swivelling his body to the left and downwards. Bringing Hallaran down with him. As soon as he hit the ground, Hallaran quickly kicked out with his other foot, catching Bishop perfectly on the chin. A follow-up kick caught him in the stomach and Bishop fell back, winded. Then Hallaran got up and stamped his right foot into Bishop’s groin, causing him to double up in agony.

Hallaran knelt down and rammed a knee into Bishop’s abdomen, and all the air left his lungs in a nanosecond. He only managed to take in a couple more quick gulps of oxygen before Hallaran clutched his throat in both hands and began squeezing. Bishop grabbed at Hallaran’s arms and tried to prise the hands away, but they didn’t budge an inch. He reached for the man’s eyes, but Hallaran simply moved his face out of reach. He punched at Hallaran’s midsection, but it was like hitting bone. He opened his mouth to try to take in more much-needed air, but only ended up swallowing more of the jet fuel raining down on them. He began coughing, gagging, losing what little oxygen he still had left.

Hallaran just kept squeezing, grinning like an idiot as he steadily choked the life from Bishop. ‘Don’t think I can wait for Poleina’s plane to take off, after all,’ he said, panting. ‘I’m enjoying this too much. Been a while since I used my bare hands on a man the way I was trained. Forgot how good it feels. How natural.’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t I say you’d come off worst if you tested me?’

Bishop was barely listening. What strength he still possessed was fast draining away with his air. He was nearly finished. Hallaran was clearly the better fighter. Or at least the fitter of the two. Whichever way you looked at it, he was winning. But Bishop couldn’t give up yet. Not with Selina still out there.

If only I had a gun
, he thought.
Or a weapon of some kind. Something to equalize the odds. Anything
.

And then Bishop remembered he
did
have something. It was still down there in his jacket pocket. And that single spark of hope gave him a sudden surge of renewed strength. He let his whole body go completely limp for a second, long enough for Hallaran’s grip on him to relax a little. Then he grabbed hold of Hallaran’s shirt with both hands, planted his right foot on Hallaran’s waist and used all his strength to roll his body backward, pulling Hallaran up and over in the classic circular judo throw.

He turned and saw Hallaran land on his back and roll forward, about to get to his feet again. Bishop took a deep breath and sat up, both hands feeling around his windbreaker.
There
it was. Left pocket. His clothes were wet and slippery, and he managed to get his hand inside just as Hallaran rose to his feet and turned to him.

Bishop pulled out the stubby orange flare gun he’d used on Baldwin. He aimed the gun at Hallaran’s midsection and pulled back the hammer.

Hallaran’s eyes grew wide. He knew what was coming. He took two short steps back, raised a hand and shouted, ‘
No. Wait
.’

‘No time,’ Bishop said, and pulled the trigger.

The flare hit Hallaran right in the chest. He fell to his knees, hands scrabbling around frantically as he tried to get the white-hot candle off of him. But it was too late. He screamed as his shirt immediately caught fire. It spread quickly to his pants. Then the top layer of skin underneath. Hallaran fell to the ground, his screams rising in pitch as the flames spread rapidly up and down his body. He was still screaming when they engulfed his head.

Bishop thought of all those families of his victims who’d suffered death by fire on his orders. Men. Women. Kids. Now Hallaran knew. He was finally seeing the light.

Bishop got to his feet and moved back out of the danger area, where the ground wasn’t damp. Watching Hallaran’s movements become weaker and weaker as he rolled his body around the ground, shrieking like a banshee, unaware he was feeding the flames further and making his own funeral pyre. The sickening stench of burning flesh filled the air and it wasn’t long before the screams died off. Bishop took his eyes away, then ran round the tanker and jumped up into the cab before it caught fire, too.

The plane was still on the ground. He could see it out there, still pointing west. But for how much longer, he didn’t know. He jammed the tanker’s gear stick into first and pressed down on the accelerator. The truck moved off slowly and gradually picked up speed as Bishop turned the wheel and steered it towards the airstrip.

By the time he neared the fence, he’d got the vehicle up to a decent speed. He kept the pedal pressed to the floor and aimed the truck dead centre between two of the concrete posts. The vehicle struck the fence at fifty miles an hour. There was a brief electrical discharge as the tough fencing tore away from the insulators on each side, followed by an angry sound of stretching and grinding metal that vibrated all the way through his legs. Bishop didn’t slow, just ploughed through the gap, urging the thing to go faster. The truck was his only weapon now. He’d use it to ram the plane and disable it. As long as Selina stayed on American soil, that’s all that mattered. After that, he’d have to improvise.

Through the windshield, he saw the plane at least two hundred yards distant. Still pointing east. Then the wing lights came on. They were preparing to go.

Then he noticed the truck was rapidly losing speed. He pressed down on the pedal and nothing happened. And the metallic grinding sound was back, and getting louder. It hadn’t been the sound of the fence breaking. Something in the engine must have been damaged from the crash. Then Bishop heard a loud crack out front and the engine died completely, leaving the truck to silently rattle along under its own power, slowing with every foot.

In the distance he could hear the sound of the plane’s starter motor as it caught. And the sound of the turboprop engine began rising in pitch. The pilot was preparing to take off.

And Bishop was still a hundred and fifty yards away. With no possible way of reaching it before it did.

Bishop jumped out the moving cab and started running for the airstrip. He tuned out the stabbing pain in his ribcage. It didn’t matter. He had to keep going, that’s all. He’d never given up before and he wasn’t about to start now.

There’s still a chance
, he thought.
As long as you keep your eye on the ball and stay focused, there’s always a chance
.

Almost immediately, Bishop heard the throaty sound of another engine behind him. He turned and saw a dark sedan speeding through the gap in the fence, heading his way. But there was nobody left in the hangar, and it was too soon for the cops. So who was this?

As the vehicle got closer, Bishop was getting ready to jump out of its path when the driver suddenly veered left and the car skidded to a complete stop just a few feet away.

Bishop ran forward, yanked open the passenger door and saw Vallejo looking back at him from the driver’s seat. Her face was haggard, but she was smiling.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t have all night.’

Bishop shook his head and jumped in. ‘You’re really something, Vallejo,’ he said. ‘Back up to the truck first. Let’s take this door off at the hinges.’

‘Right.’ Vallejo didn’t ask why, just put the car into reverse, turned her head round and pressed down on the accelerator. Bishop kept the door open with his hand and watched the tanker getting closer and closer. He pulled his hand back as the car scraped against the side of the cabin at thirty miles per hour. A loud, metallic, screeching sound assaulted his ears as the open door immediately reversed back in on itself and smacked against the front fender. The inner springs and hinges pinged free of the chassis and the door fell away and into the narrow gap between both vehicles.

‘Okay,’ Bishop said, ‘punch it.’

Vallejo braked, slammed the gearshift into Drive and stamped her foot down. They quickly picked up speed as she pushed the engine to its limit. Through the windshield, Bishop saw the plane in the distance turning in a semicircle until it was pointing west. They were still more than a hundred yards away, but closing fast.

‘Tell me you brought your gun with you,’ he said.

‘I borrowed Patricia’s. Mine was empty. It’s somewhere down by your feet.’