Fit For Purpose by Julian Parrott (scary books to read .TXT) 📗

turned to the right and attempted to elbow the second man who grabbed Tom’s right arm with both hands. Tom quickly countered with his left arm, punching hard and down into the man’s groin. The man doubled over and Tom hit him again across his temple putting him out. Smith finally reacted and turned to face the rear seat with a taser in hand. Tom kicked out, hitting Smith’s hand just as he discharged the taser. The taser hit the driver who shook involuntarily, made an odd, sustained, high growl like a small dog, and collapsed on to the steering wheel. The big Range Rover lurched to the left as Smith leant over from the passenger seat, grabbed the steering wheel, and fought to regain control. Smith attempted to steer the car and yanked at the handbrake sending the big vehicle into a slide. The SUV swung across the lane of traffic and was hit broadside by a transit van which stopped it.

Inside the Range Rover, Tom was shaken but moved for the door handle. The door opened and he leapt across the unconscious MI5 man for the opening. As the traffic screeched to a halt, Tom exited the vehicle, hurdled a crash barrier and ran down a short grassy bank and disappeared into a shopping street full of people; his right leg aching, his shirt covered in another’s blood. Smith, still stuck in the Range Rover, dialled his phone.

“Patel, you won’t believe what just happened.”

Tom was operating on adrenaline and fear, fear not for himself but for Nia. He walked along the commercial street past the ubiquitous banks, coffee houses and shoe shops and found a cheap high street clothing store. Already the bloody shirt was encouraging disapproving glances and he buttoned up his jacket to hide it. In the store he picked up a new shirt and a cheap overcoat. He explained to the cashier he had a nosebleed problem. The cashier signalled that they couldn’t care less. In the shop’s toilets, Tom took off his tie and rolled up his bloody shirt. He dumped his shirt and tie in a public waste bin. He put on the new shirt, his jacket and then the new overcoat which he buttoned up to the collar. He exited the store and he moved casually up the street looking for the nearest Tube station. He caught a glance at his reflection as he passed a shop front window. The person who stared back could have been anyone.

The more Tom walked, the more nervous and anxious he became. He felt his limp singled him out, every glance his way became pregnant with suspicion. He wanted to look behind him fully expecting more heavies giving chase. He entered the Tube station and eyed the mass of people on the platform suspiciously, but he could mark no one as Russian or British security services. He was anxious to sit down in the train, take a breather, clear his mind and think. As he took his seat, he eyed his fellow passengers in the train’s compartment. Mostly mothers, a few school children and students, and some pensioners, no one appeared to be a threat. He put his air pods in but selected no music and rested his head on the thick window and the only sight he could see now was his reflection and it looked tired. The adrenalin rush of the fight and the escape had dissipated leaving him exhausted and the constant, melodic rocking of the train was soporifically soothing. What the hell was he doing, he thought?

Calm now, Tom concentrated on his next move. The train pulled in and out of stations until it pulled into Marble Arch. The platform was busier here, full with shoppers, tourists and businessmen and women, Tom began to feel uncomfortable again. He stood as the train lurched to a stop at one of Marble Arch’s platforms and waited for the pneumatic hiss of the doors to open. They did and he stepped out on to the station platform deep within the bowels of London. He immediately noticed the smell; damp earth, old lubricating grease and electricity. Reflexively he stopped and kneeled to tie a shoelace while scanning the platform. There, about two carriages down the platform, a tall man in a three-piece suit and slicked hair, about thirty, stopped too, pretending to read an advertising poster. How did they pick him up again so quickly, Tom wondered?

There was a hiss behind him as the doors closed and Tom immediately jumped back into the carriage, his shadow did the same. The doors closed further, and Tom stuck his foot in the door, pulled them apart and jumped back on the platform. It had been a basic evasion technique and it failed. The tall shadow stood two carriages away, smiling. Tom ran for the stairs. The long escalators were packed but the wide staircase between the up and down escalators was empty and Tom took the steps two and three at a time, his right leg painful and on the edge of buckling. The bland faces of the people on his left and right stole momentarily glances without suspicion or fear. People were often running up and down desperate to catch a train or to get to some pressing appointment in the city. The stairs opened onto a crowded concourse complete with another series of platforms and another escalator and stairwell. Again, Tom made for the stairs, he wanted to get to the streets. Now, with each leap his leg screamed. He glanced backwards and caught a glimpse of the shadow apparently taking the steps two at a time with ease. The shadow was smiling. Tom wondered whether the tail would risk shooting him and his shoulders involuntarily tensed as if expecting a bullet to rip through his back, but none came. The stairs opened out into the main concourse of the station. People queued to get through the ticket gates while