Bonfire by Mark Arundel

looked back over his shoulder. He knew we were chasing him and he knew he was running for his life.
    Frantically he searched for an escape route. His head turned rapidly, one side and then the other. Desperately his eyes sought for a way out. He knew if he stayed on the road, we would catch him in seconds.
    Open ground between the houses was his only route off the road and he took it. We followed. The ground was hard and dusty, but not dusty enough in which to hide.
    He steered tightly behind the buildings searching for an exit. We were almost touching his back wheel. Desperate, evasive action was necessary. Forcefully he turned the handlebars and despite the bike snaking, he found just enough agility to dodge our bumper. The manoeuvre took him away between the buildings and back towards the road. Relentlessly Cakes pursued. The man looked back at us as he left the rough ground and then again before he turned fast onto the tarmac.
    Neither he nor the car saw each other. It was a glancing blow. The car’s solid wing struck against the man’s leg. The bike wobbled and then went down and the man came off. The bike threw out death throw sparks and then lay on its side motionless. The man was still trying to escape. Dragging his injured leg, he was desperate to reach cover. He was never going to make it.
    Cakes revved hard past the fallen scooter and then braked hard alongside the limping man. I was out of the car even before it had stopped. The man saw me and pulled a knife. I rushed him and he lunged. It was the strike of desperation. The block was simple. I stepped inside, grasped his forearm, twisted his wrist and the knife fell from his hand. To make obvious my displeasure at having a knife pointed at my stomach I elbowed the man in the throat and then heel-kicked him in the chest. He went down and stayed down.
    Mick was now beside me. Together we lifted the man from the ground and then dragged him towards the BMW.
    The driver of the car with which he had collided was standing next to his open door watching nervously. He spoke rapidly in Arabic without receiving a response.
    Mick held the man against the car while I searched him for any weapons concealed or otherwise. He had only been carrying the knife, which remained on the ground where it had fallen. The remote detonator, which I found in his pocket, was a weapon, of course, but one that he had already used.
    Mick released the bomber, I threw him onto the backseat and I got in beside him. Mick jumped into the passenger seat and then Cakes, clearly pleased with the outcome, raced us away.

10        The best way to keep loyalty in a man's heart is to keep money in his pocket.
     
    It was hard to tell whether the expression on the face of the man beside me on the backseat of the BMW saloon was fear or pain. Most probably, it was a combination of the two. He certainly smelled of fear. It was a mixture of sweat and dust blended together with hatred and murder. The damage to his leg must have hurt. Blood had seeped through the khakis and was staining the cotton.
    ‘What’s the plan?’ Mick asked. He turned in his seat and studied our captive.
    ‘Can you fix the tracker system?’ I said.
    ‘I’ll look at it,’ he replied.
    I tried to imagine what the man seated next to me was thinking. He must have been trying to work out who we were and whether he stood any chance of escaping with his life.
    I was wondering whether he spoke any language other than Arabic. Could he be of any use to us?
    ‘Cakes, find somewhere isolated so we can ask our new friend some questions,’ I said.
    ‘He’s not going to tell us anything useful,’ Cakes said, ‘We should just kill him, dump his body and then get out of here. The tracker system doesn’t work and Jerry Lombroso isn’t answering your calls. Mahmoud al-Barouni is either dead or gone for good. Staying any longer is a waste of time. Hayes, it is home time.’
    Everything Cakes said was right. He knew it, Mick knew and I