Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

The co-driver whistled. “That new?”

Saskia said impatiently, “Yes, that new. Do you see him?”

“Could be. Can’t be that many Moirés on the M4 this time of night being driven by a weekend rider. This year’s registration. Fair-sized luggage container on the back, too.”

“A weekend rider? What are you talking about?” asked Saskia.

The co-driver seemed unable to detect any edge to the question. She was calm. An easy day’s work for her, Saskia guessed. “He couldn’t ride a bike to save his life. Obvious from the way he’s sitting on it.”

“Pull him over,” said Saskia.

“Easy, tiger,” Hannah said. “We can’t pull over every bike we see. How many bikes have we seen tonight, Teri?”

“Five or six,” replied the co-driver. “What to you want to do? He’s moving lane. Shall we pull back?”

Saskia laid a hand on Hannah’s arm. “Scottie, pull him over. It will cost us five minutes if I’m wrong, but if I’m not…”

Hannah expelled a great breath of air. His lips flapped. “Fine. Dan, pull him over.”

The Fugitive

The co-driver activated the siren long enough for it to whoop once. Their headlights flashed. The rider glanced over his shoulder, wobbled, and changed lane. They were alongside the hard shoulder. The rider seemed uncertain whether to pull onto the hard shoulder or come off at the next exit. Teri gave him a clue and the siren whooped once more. Their little convoy crossed onto the hard shoulder and rolled to a stop.

The driver, Dan, opened his door. The interior light was abrupt and dazzling. Saskia said, “Be careful. He may be armed.”

He froze. “You sure?” The rider was sitting motionlessly. He had not looked around since stopping.

Saskia groaned. British police. No guns, but ready to be very disappointed. “Wait here.”

She slipped from the car and shook the life back into her legs. She unpopped the gun’s fastener and rested her hand on the butt. She moved forward until she was standing between the police car and motorcycle. With the car headlights on either side of her, it would be difficult for the rider to see what she was doing. She knew, instinctively, that it would make him more careful.

“I am armed,” she shouted. “Switch off the engine.”

Nothing happened. The man held on. The engine revved. Behind her, Saskia could hear people stepping from the car. She felt their eyes.

Stay in the car, she thought. I’m in control.

The footsteps stopped. She exhaled and took a pace closer. “Armed police. Turn off your engine and show me the key.”

This time a gloved hand plucked itself from a grip. It disappeared behind the rider’s torso. Was he reaching for a gun? The engine spluttered to a halt. Saskia’s fingers drummed the gun. She had to think slow, think relaxed. She was in control. She was behind the suspect and she had a loaded gun; she was ready to draw it and ready to fire it. She ignored the expectations of the Brits behind her, the occasional car tearing by, the flashing blue lights. The rider’s hand appeared again. This time it held the keys. The fingers opened. The keys dropped to the ground and lay there, forgotten.

Saskia stepped forward again. She barked commands and, as she spoke, the rider did exactly and precisely as she instructed: “Put down the stand. Get off the bike. Take three steps to the right. Face away from me. Remove your helmet. Slowly. Place it on the ground that it cannot roll away. Lie down on your face. Put one hand behind your head, the other one over the small of your back. Cross your legs.”

Only at this point did she glance behind her. The three men stood there, tense. Teri and Dan had shotguns trained on the suspect.

“Finished, dear?” Hannah asked. He walked past, gave her wink, and sat on the suspect. He produced handcuffs and worked on the man like a sailor on a knot. Throughout, everyone was silent.

Saskia called, “Well?”

“See for yourself.”

She walked over. Her heart thumped. The man’s head came into view. He was black and in his early forties. He was breathing heavily. Spit hung from the side of his mouth. For a moment, their eyes locked. She smiled apologetically. He looked away.

Hannah climbed to his feet. “Satisfied?”

“OK.” Saskia turned to the uniformed officers. “It’s not him.”

“Great,” said Dan. They gave their shotguns to Hannah, who took them back to the car, and began to release the motorcyclist. Saskia walked with him. She felt drained and faintly embarrassed. She overheard Dan’s raised voice. They were giving the rider a hard time. He would be less likely to complain.

“I did not think British police were armed,” she said.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

They leaned against the bonnet and watched the traffic. The air was crisp and smelled of exhaust gases. Saskia buttoned the fastener on her gun holster. “Sorry, Scottie.”

He snorted. “Come on, we had to take the chance. What if it had been Proctor?” He took a deep breath. “Besides, I needed the exercise.”

Saskia smiled. She watched more of the traffic. A police car fired past. Its blue lights were a racing heartbeat. Seconds later, she saw another motorcyclist. Was it Proctor? She would not cry wolf again and she had no confidence that they had second-guessed the fugitive. She expected to spend the next six hours in a vain computer search.

David saw the parked police car, with Saskia and Hannah against its flank, and the parked motorbike. His speedometer read 65 mph. He dropped to sixty.

Heathrow

It was midnight when David rolled into the car park of Heathrow’s Terminal 5. In the distance he could see the main building and its two satellites. There was one runway on the left and another on the right. He rode into a parking space and stopped. As the engine died, he slid off. He used the last drops of his strength to push the bike over its lay stand. When he finished, he was breathless. He leaned on his kneecaps