The second thief was about forty metres away, walking back and forth, covering the gaps between two lines of containers. He would walk away from the operating forklift, assess the furthest open space, before returning to the closer gap, his eyes focused on the distance. As he walked away from me I made my move, standing up and sprinting as fast and as quietly as I could, my goal the shadow on the furthest side of the first gap. The noise of the forklift covered my footfalls, the half-light made me hard to spot, even if my quarry had been facing me. I flattened myself against the container, hiding in the shadows at the corner, and waited. I counted the seconds, calming my breathing: thirty, forty, fifty. Then the soft crunch of boots sounded just next to me, my heart leapt into my mouth, doing its best to abandon ship. Then the man appeared, walking past me.
I fell in behind him. His face registered shock as he turned, shock that turned to terror as my knife/hand plunged into his side, penetrating deep into his heart. I dragged him away with my left hand, scuttling backward, making sure he was out of sight.
Three down, three to go.
The other two thieves on guard were on the opposite side of the loading space. I would have to cross open ground and risk being spotted by the armed forklift driver. If there was one thing losing my leg had taught me, it was that crossing a road in a war zone was dangerous. Well, that and that having an artificial leg meant you had to pack many legs for different occasions. Instead of crossing the open ground, I backtracked and circled round, going the long way. The forklift came to a stop as I came back to the action. My trip had taken too long.
What to do?
It was hard to tell how much time had elapsed since the police had been called: what seemed like hours was probably only ten or fifteen minutes. That meant the police should be close, I should hear a helicopter at least. But I couldn't risk these thieves escaping. No one equips themselves with seven hundred dollar knives and exotic sub-machine guns for a simple heist. This was big and I had a duty to stop it, plus, in for a penny, in for a pound. I'd just killed three guys, what was another three to my murder trial?
A shout from the driver. It was an alarm: he'd spotted that his lookouts were down.
The remaining two guards sprang into action, looking very serious and deadly with their firearms strafing the surrounds. The closest man was seconds away from spotting me, so I did what any rational person would do: ran straight at him, bellowing a roar as I neared him.
Shock struck him. Realising that someone was attacking from his blind side, he tried to whirl quickly to face me. I crashed straight into him, knocking him down like I was a rugby player and he was a badminton player wondering what the rugby guy was doing on the court. My knife/hand slashed at his throat, nearly cleaving his head from his shoulders. Then the sound of suppressed gunfire chattered in the night air. I rolled away from number four as quickly as possible, running for the only cover there was: the truck.
I dived to safety behind the front of the big rig as the engine roared to life. Startled, I scampered sideways, as the truck jerked forward and started to accelerate. The forklift driver had decided to make a run for it. I ran alongside the truck, both to try and jump on board and to avoid being shot at by his abandoned accomplice. The foot ladder on the side of the truck's fuel tanks was level with me, but the truck was rapidly gaining speed. The truck lurched slightly as it lost speed with a gear change and I leapt, landing my feet on the lower step and grabbing the rough footholds of a higher step with my good hand.
It took me a moment to balance. Bullets flew at me from the thief who was now, well and truly, left behind. As quick as the firing stopped from him, the muzzle of the driver's firearm barked in my face. The shots were wild and none came close, but the heat and flash seared my face like a welding burn. I pushed up and shoved at the barrel with my good left hand and tried to stab into the open window with my right. The knife was taped into my hand the wrong way around, it needed to be underhand. I heard a scream of pain from the driver as the knife sliced into his gun-wielding forearm.
He lashed out with his other hand, connecting solidly with my face. I felt myself begin to fall and grabbed wildly for the rear-view mirror. Catching the frame, I hung precariously in mid air, half dead, half alive, my grip the only thing stopping me from becoming street art. The driver swerved to try and throw me, only to have the truck start to fishtail. He fought with the rig to bring it back under control. I looked ahead and saw two things: lights and a fence. We'd reached the port road and were rapidly approaching the main gate. On the opposite side were approaching police cars.
The driver was still battling with the steering wheel and missed the gate, instead crashing us through the tall mesh fence. The wire tore and the sharp ends sliced through my clothes and flesh, as the truck bucked up and down over the concrete curbing. I finally lost my grip and tried to break my fall with my face, managing to instead roll like a stuntman in the movies.
Every part of me now hurt. It was hard to tell if anything other than my hand was broken, or if I was just in the early stages of becoming a giant, walking bruise. As I slowly pushed myself to my feet, I saw the police shoot out the tyres on the truck, the driver responded by braking hard, not risking ramming the impromptu roadblock with no effective steering.
Movement caught my eye: I glanced back, seeing a fleeing figure: the other thief.
Without thinking I took off in pursuit. Adrenaline shot into my arteries and all the aches and pains became a dull throb, pushed back by the dark figure who had focused my vision onto my quarry. The man I was pursuing was laden down with his tactical equipment and had already been running to keep up with the escaping truck. Still his pace was quick enough that it took everything I had to close the gap between us. My breath rasped, but I pumped my legs harder. Somewhere my brain was thinking I had the wrong leg on for running, but my body didn't seem to care.
I gained on the thief and made a desperate lunge, managing only to trip him as I fell. It was enough. We both fell heavily but I was on him in a flash, holding him down and wrestling with him, trying to drive my knife/hand into his chest. His arms snaked around me, pulling me into a choke hold. I tried to lever out of it but found myself suddenly weak. I flailed my knife/hand at him, trying to fight, trying not to die.
Air rushed back into my lungs, my vision widened again, as pin-pricks of light fluttered before disappearing. I looked around and saw my adversary grasping at his throat, trying to stem the red spurts of life issuing from him. I sat back and watched him fade away, only now becoming curious as to what these men had been stealing, what they had died for, what they were willing to kill for, what I had killed for.
The next few hours were a blur of questions, bandages, threats, kind words, more threats, and a paramedic that kept shaking her head, clearly not impressed with my splint. It was only when the sun was fully up and the flashing lights and crime scene tape had attracted tourists, that I really came back from my zombie state.
"So Steve, you took out all five by yourself?"
The man who spoke was dressed better than the police I'd spoken with earlier. That meant better pay, which meant he thought he was more important. Maybe he was.
"Guess so." I replied.
"These paramedics want to take you to hospital. Apparently you're pretty banged up."
"I feel like I had a fight with a steam roller."
He gave a chuckle. "It was good work you did."
"Thanks."
"Ex-military, right?" He must have recognised the knee bar move.
"If you could call it that." I said, hinting at my short service record.
"It was well done."