He saw the look of horror on the ex-para's face.
Then the car hit him.
Neville was catapulted ten feet into the air, such was the impact. He crashed earthward, landed on the roof of the car and rolled off, the Steyr falling from his grip.
Doyle slammed on the brakes and tumbled out of the car into the road, aware even more of the unbearable heat, which rolled across the square like a wave.
Blood was running freely from his shoulder and he could feel it beginning to stiffen, his left hand already going numb. He clutched the Beretta in his right hand and advanced towards Neville, who was lying on his back a few yards away.
Doyle stood over him and looked down at the ex-para.
His eyes were open, blood was running from his mouth and nose and, when he tried to speak, all that escaped was a liquid gurgle.
Doyle figured the impact of the car must have pulped his ribs, driven them into his lungs. His face was splashed with blood.
The counter terrorist knelt beside Neville and lifted his head with one hand, groaning with his own pain.
The visor of Neville's helmet had been broken. What remained of it was flipped open.
Doyle pushed the Beretta against the ex-para's cheek.
'Where's the bomb?' he grunted through clenched teeth.
Neville's eyes rolled and Doyle thought he was going to pass out but, instead, he realised that the dying man was trying to direct his attention to something.
'You're looking at it,' Neville managed to say before blood filled his mouth and he coughed, his face twisting into an agonised grimace. As he coughed, blood and sputum showered Doyle.
'Where?' Doyle demanded. 'Don't fucking die yet, you bastard.'
Neville coughed again, tried to turn his head then vomited a foul mixture of bile and blood, most of which spilled down his chest.
'The bike,' he whispered, and Doyle was sure he saw a smile flicker across those bloodied lips. 'It's packed with Semtex. It's all there.' He was gripped by a great fit of racking coughs and Doyle stood back as more blood and vomit spilled from his mouth. Great crimson clots splattered on to the road beside him.
Doyle could hear the wail of sirens more clearly now, even over the roar of flames from the wreck of the blazing helicopter.
'I won,' Neville grunted.
'Fuck you,' hissed Doyle.
He shot Neville three times in the face, each impact causing his body to jerk wildly, every bullet staving in another portion of his features.
'Cunt,' Doyle rasped at the corpse.
He turned towards the bike, running across to it.
Could Neville be bluffing?
He doubted it.
He pulled open the top box.
The entire cavity was filled with long white packages. Doyle drew a finger over the nearest and sniffed. He recognised that marzipan smell of plastic explosive only too well.
He tugged one of the panniers open.
More Semtex inside.
Doyle dragged the bike upright, shouting in pain as he was forced to put pressure on his left shoulder but he finally managed it, opening the other pannier.
That too was filled with Semtex.
He could only guess at where the rest of the explosive was.
Packed inside the fuel tanks? Hidden in the frame itself?
That didn't seem to matter.
What did was that the whole fucking lot was going up in five minutes.
Come on think. What do you do?
His head was spinning, he was having difficulty breathing, as if the raging fire was sucking all the oxygen from the air.
Think.
There was only one chance and that was slim. But it was all he had.
As the first police car pulled into Grosvenor Square, Doyle swung his leg over the Harley Davidson and started the engine.
7.56 P.M.
Doyle saw a policeman gesturing wildly at him as he swept past on the Harley.
Maybe the man thought he was Neville, he mused, twisting the throttle harder, trying to coax more speed from the bike.
His shoulder hurt like hell.
More pain.
But he seemed able to grip the handlebars tightly enough and the sight of blood running on to his left hand didn't bother him.
He had other things on his mind.
Or, more to the point, under his arse.
One hundred and thirty explosive fucking things to be exact.
If he didn't make it he'd be vaporised. The equation was simple.
They wouldn't need a coffin to bury him in next to Georgie, a fucking matchbox would probably do the trick.
He sent the Harley Davidson screaming along
Brook Street, the fire from the blazing remains of the helicopter still sending shrieking plumes of fire into the sky. He passed several fire engines travelling towards the carnage. Ambulances too. They'd find Neville. It might take a little while to identify him with most of his face blasted off, thought Doyle, but by the time they did identify him, it might not matter anyway.
If he couldn't reach his desired destination in time then fuck all would matter any more.
Across New Bond Street, through Hanover Square towards Regent Street he sent the bike.
This had to be the quickest route.
The needle on the speedo was nudging seventy and, when he couldn't get a clear run on the street, Doyle guided the bike up on to the pavements.
Where he could he gestured wildly for those blocking his path to get away. If they didn't he'd ride the stupid fuckers down.
Time?
He couldn't even look at his watch. He could only guess at how close to oblivion he was.
Could only surmise how long he had before the one hundred and thirty pounds of explosives beneath him went up.
He roared into Regent Street, saw the crush of traffic and, again, mounted the pavement.
All along the route people screamed as they tried to get out of his way.
Doyle looked down at the speedo as he sped through Piccadilly Circus, running a red light, almost going under a bus which was moving ponderously towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The driver hit his horn but Doyle barely heard it as he went roaring down the Haymarket.
More blocked traffic.
Again he took the bike up on to the pavement, each jolt causing fresh waves of pain to throb in his shoulder and arm.
He noticed with concern that his left hand was now quite numb. It felt as if someone had dipped the entire appendage in iced water and the feeling was spreading inexorably up his forearm to his elbow. He realised that the bullet must have severed a nerve or tendon somewhere and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it except hang on. Grip tightly to this vast moving bomb which he straddled like some suicidal cowboy.
His long hair flowed out behind him, the wind chilled his face and made his eyes water and, all the time, the numbness crept further up his arm.
He shot across Cockspur Street, past Trafalgar Square, Admiralty Arch on his right.
It should have finished there less than an hour ago. It should never have come to this. But it had, hadn't it?
But very shortly it wouldn't matter.
He chanced a look at his watch and wished he hadn't.
He was about to swing into Whitehall when he realised that Northumberland Avenue would be quicker. It would take him straight to the Victoria Embankment.
Straight to the Thames.
Straight to his only chance of saving himself and Christ knows how many more around him.
He worked the throttle, looking down to see the needle on the speedo touch ninety.
It was as he did that he saw the needle on the other dial.
The one on the fuel gauge.
It was hovering over empty.
7.59 P.M.
Not now, you bastard.