Troubleshooter

Chapter 39 - Peckinpah

PAUL TOOK the elevator down to the ground floor. He glanced at his watch. Could he risk a taxi to drive him to Kendall's house, or should he take the Tube? He stopped for a second to recheck the location of Kendall's home. Canary Wharf Tube station was just a block away; Kendall's home was not far away from a Tube station either. And traffic was deadly at this hour.

The Tube it is, he decided.

"Tube," Arnie muttered when he saw Paul Trouble passing the taxi stand at the curb. They all were now in their public fighting gear, a must in today's London surveillance density. Each wore glasses with tinted lenses, had put up the jacket collars, and wore silly looking Beatles-style wigs. From experience, he knew that almost all CCTV cameras were shit these days and at best showed a fuzzy something of a person somewhere in the back of the scene. But better safe than confronted with your own picture at a crime scene later.

Arnie called Toni. "Where are you?"

"Coming right up. Fifty yards away." The car was a stolen vehicle from a residential neighborhood, not likely to be missed until later that night.

"Listen, he has to cross the street to get to the Tube station. Run over him. If he survives that, we will deal with the rest."

"Cheers."

Arnie speed-dialed Danny-Boy. "We are about to hit our man. Will it take you long?"

"In front of the office now. We will be down in about five minutes, max. Bet you a fiver that we'll be faster!"

Arnie rolled his eyes and hung up.

Paul walked briskly toward the Tube station, just across the street. He looked right and left and crossed the street. From his peripheral vision, he noticed a dark car moving fast and heard the motor revving up. As Paul turned to assess the situation, he realized it was impossible to hurdle himself out of harm's way—the car was coming too fast. He saw a single man in a bomber jacket, tinted glasses, and an old-fashioned haircut behind the wheel.

Paul's training kicked in instinctively, even though it had been years and years ago. "Roll it," had been the instruction, "to minimize the impact." All Paul managed in that fraction of a second was to jump up and get his legs out of the way. The front of the car went under him, and Paul glided across the hood and hit the windshield with his upper body, his hips and legs hurting from ripping the wipers from its hinges. Paul made two rolls, flew over the roof, and then landed behind the car on the asphalt, feeling every bone in his body when he hit it with his back.

His mind was still processing the physical impact and tried to assess the danger he was in. Another car to run me over? No! Someone approaching? Yes. Good guy or bad guy? Paul turned just in time to see two heavyset guys in tight jeans, bomber jackets, and red heads with equally outdated haircuts coming toward him, while all other bystanders were still looking shocked.

Hurt or not hurt, Paul got up. Just in time to see the knife in the hand of the left guy.

The right guy said, "Don, be careful. He is quicker than I—"

It was probably the first time that Don came across an opponent who did not go backward when he showed his knife. Instead, Paul jumped one step forward, bypassing the initial knife thrust and turning at the same moment. He locked Don's right arm under his own right armpit, pulling him close. Paul continued the momentum and rammed the back of his head into the face of the man called Don. Blood was spurting like a geyser from Don's nose and broken left eyebrow, effectively blinding him. Don howled like a baby.

Paul turned around with Don's arm still locked tightly under his own arms to locate the second man, who was clumsily freeing a revolver from behind his back. In one trained movement, Paul brought his knee up and Don's arm down. With a crunch, Don's lower arm broke, and the knife fell free. Paul he felt a gun in Don's waistband, but he was sure he had caused enough pain and damage to gain a few seconds.