The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [167]
“Did you see that girl? Do you think he was going to fuck her? I would have fucked her. She was fit. I mean, wow, she made Jenny Cruikshank look like a slag. Do you think he’s going to do it?”
Rafiq tells him to shut up. “Put your seat belt on. We don’t want to get picked up.”
Syd giggles. “You think they’re going to worry about my sodding seat belt, when they see the hardware we got in here.” He picks up one of the guns.
“Put that away!” says Taj. “What if someone sees you waving that thing about? They’ll call the cops. We’ll never get to London.”
Syd puts down the gun and leans back in his seat, sipping on a can of Red Bull. It’s raining. The wipers are slapping against the bottom of the windscreen, air blasting on the inside of the glass. Taj has to crane forward, trying to see the electric red smears of brake lights. London is still an hour away but already the traffic is building.
Syd leans forward again. “A thousand fucking people—how cool is that? The place is going to be packed. I feel like a fucking soldier. What are you going to do with the money? They reckon fifty grand will buy you a palace in Pakistan. That’s what I’m gonna do. Then I’ll bring my mum and dad over. Show them my palace. Tell my old man he can shove his fish-and-chip shop up his arse.” He crushes the can. “Are you going to bring Aisha over, Taj? Did you tell her? What did you say?”
Taj doesn’t want to talk about Aisha. Their last words had been harsh. He had never seen her in such a temper, so adamant that he was wrong. She had thrown the money at him. Spat on it. Tried to tear it into pieces. She would change her mind, he reasoned. She knows her place.
There’s a three-ton truck in front of him that has slowed right down and another in the left lane, side by side like the drivers are talking to each other. Taj indicates to overtake, but another truck cuts him off. Slows down.
What are these tossers doing, he thinks. He looks in the rear mirrors. The road is clear. The nearest cars are a hundred yards behind. That’s odd, he thinks. Then he notices the opposite carriageway is empty. Deserted.
“Something’s wrong,” he says.
“What?” asks Rafiq.
“The traffic.”
“Just go round these guys.”
“I can’t get past.”
“Hit the horn.” Rafiq turns and looks through the rear window. “Where has everyone gone?”
“They’re on to us.”
“What do you mean?” says Syd. “I can’t see anyone.”
“They’re fucking on to us!”
“Settle down,” says Rafiq. “Maybe there’s an accident.”
The three trucks in front have slowed almost to a halt. A fourth passes on the verge, squeezing against the safety rail. They all have roller doors at the back. Taj nudges the brakes and stops thirty yards from the nearest truck. Then they notice the police cars on the other carriageway. A military chopper is overhead.
“Go back!” says Rafiq. “Reverse.”
Taj struggles with the gears. Where’s reverse? There it is. Pedal down. The roller doors have rattled up. A dozen men in black body armor are crouched in firing positions. Taj spins the wheel, sending the van into a slide. It’s facing in the opposite direction, driving the wrong way. Ahead, a row of police cars. Lights flashing. Armed men behind the open doors. Guns drawn.
“Ram them!” says Rafiq.
“They’ve got guns.”
“Go back!” says Syd, wiping the fogged windows, looking for some means of escape.
“We’re fucked!” says Taj.
“We got the guns,” says Syd. “We can shoot our way out.”
“They’re going to kill us.”
“I’m not going to prison,” says Rafiq. “You heard what the Courier said. A week is going to feel like a lifetime.”
Taj has stopped the van a hundred yards away from the police cars.
“You want to run, you run,” says Taj. “I’ve had enough.”
“We made a pact,” says Syd.
“We’re not the three musketeers.”
Taj opens the door. Steps out. Holds his hands above his head. Walks slowly down the middle lane, watching his shadow in the beams of the headlights. Rain pours down his face, into his eyes and mouth. He can’t hear Syd and Rafiq arguing any more.
In the next instant