16
They got up at five-thirty with a wake-up call from the hotel. Cahill picked up the phone in a daze and said hello before he realised it was automated. He grunted, slammed the phone down and went for a shower.
Logan got up straight away and opened the curtains because he knew that if he stayed in bed he would doze off again. He’d slept fitfully, his stomach flip-flopping at the thought of what the morning to come might hold for them. He boiled the kettle and used a sachet of branded coffee. Drank it strong and black.
Cahill spent a brief five minutes in the bathroom getting dressed then came out. Logan went to the bathroom and sank to his knees at the toilet, jettisoning the coffee and what was left of the food he ate yesterday into the bowl. He hacked out a cough when his stomach settled.
‘You shouldn’t go,’ Cahill told him, standing in the door of the bathroom and pulling his shirt over the holster fixed to his belt.
Logan stood and went to the sink to brush his teeth, knowing that the bitter taste in his mouth would persist no matter what he did.
‘I’m fine,’ he told Cahill, not sure if he meant it himself.
Cahill stayed at the door, flattening his hair with his hands.
‘I’m scared too,’ he told Logan.
Logan stopped brushing his teeth and looked at Cahill. He looked the same as always.
‘I’ve learned how to deal with it, that’s all.’
Logan finished brushing and rinsed his mouth.
‘Did you used to get nervous before?’ Cahill asked. ‘I mean, going into court or whatever?’
‘Different thing.’
‘Then you did?’
‘Of course I did. But there was no risk of me getting shot and killed, was there?’
‘Did you throw up the first few times?’
Logan didn’t answer.
‘Look, I’m not trying to embarrass you, Logan.’
‘I know what you’re doing. It won’t change how I feel right now.’
‘I’m only going to let you go with me if I can be sure you’re okay.’
Logan looked at his friend for a moment.
‘I’m going with you.’
Cahill nodded and went back to the main part of the room.
Cahill insisted that they eat something and walk down to check out the area around the diner. All that they could find in the room were a couple of biscuits so they shared them, Logan glad that he was able to keep them down.
‘Put on a jacket that you can pull down over your belt to hide your gun,’ Cahill told Logan. ‘Don’t want to be too obvious.’
Logan fitted the holster to his belt and when he had that in place around his waist he grabbed a light jacket and pulled it on. It hung long enough and loose at his waist. Cahill wore something similar.
‘Follow my lead,’ Cahill said. ‘If it gets nasty, shoot to kill.’
Logan nodded, his jaw muscles bunching as he clenched his teeth.
‘Try not to hit the Feds. Or the cops.’
Cahill smiled. Logan couldn’t manage one in return.
It was six-thirty. Ninety minutes to go.
17
The armed response unit screeched to a stop outside the flat, followed by a traffic car which had been in the area and responded to the call.
‘In the building,’ Irvine shouted at the armed police as they got out of their car. ‘Officer shot upstairs.’
She had time to see the body of the woman who had run from the flat lying on the grass. She had fallen face down after being shot, exposing the ugly exit wound in her back where the bullet had torn out of her after destroying her insides. Blood had soaked into the grass.
The driver of the traffic car, a powerful BMW, opened his door. Irvine shook her head and ran towards him waving him back into the car.
‘No. I’m coming with you. Let’s go.’
She got in the rear of the car and told them to go, pointing in the direction she had seen Butler drive off.
The cop in the front passenger seat got on the radio and asked for aerial support. He gave his position to the dispatcher, talking in short bursts.
Irvine tried to breathe, put her hand against her chest and felt her heart hammering inside.
She closed her eyes and listened to the radio chatter: more cars on their way to join the pursuit and then a voice from the helicopter. It was already in the air overhead. At the first report of an officer shooting, every spare resource had been deployed.
When she opened her eyes again they were racing down a ramp to join the eastbound carriageway of the M8 motorway. The passenger turned to look at her.
‘You okay?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to talk in a steady voice.
The helicopter pilot’s voice came on the radio telling them that Butler’s car was about a half-mile ahead of them. Irvine saw the speedometer press on past a hundred.
She realised that she didn’t even have her seatbelt on, grabbed at it and took three attempts to click it into place.
‘There he is,’ the driver said, pointing at a car weaving in and out of the traffic up ahead.
‘Boy doesn’t have the power to outrun us,’ his partner added.
He got on the radio and alerted all other cars to their exact location. Activated the lights and siren. It was louder than Irvine remembered.
Cars in front of them started to slow and pull out of their way and they gained quickly on Butler. He was pulling the car recklessly across the road, almost colliding with a big four-by-four.
‘He’s going to get someone killed,’ Irvine shouted.
‘So long as it’s only him,’ the driver replied.
They passed another on-ramp and Irvine saw two more police cars with their lights flashing get in line behind the car she was in.
They pulled to within fifty yards of Butler.
We’ve got this guy now, she thought.
He swerved hard towards the outside lane to avoid a car slowing ahead of him. Didn’t quite make it.
The rear panel of his car clipped the back of the other one. It sent Butler’s car spinning through the central barrier and into the path of a truck on the opposite carriageway.
Irvine watched smoke billow from the truck’s tyres as the driver slammed on his brakes. Thought she saw Butler’s face looking back at her.
Then the car was obliterated.