Hawke heard the fear in Ryan’s voice as he watched the bikers race toward them.
“This is a dead-end — we’re trapped!” Maria said.
“I’ve got an idea,” Hawke said. “Follow me!”
They moved to the bistro’s entrance and Hawke checked the door — locked. The place had been evacuated in a hurry by the looks of things. The tables — all crumpled linen tablecloths, menus and half-full glasses on novelty coasters, were now abandoned by the terrified customers. Hawke saw the lead Vespa tearing along the mezzanine in their direction. Its rider was steering the bike with one hand and holding the sawn-off with the other as he prepared to fire at them. As he raced along, the police fired on him, but missed.
Hawke shoulder-barged the door open. It wobbled back and forth on its hinges and instantly triggered an intruder alarm which rang out through the building. He grabbed one of the chairs and smashed it to pieces on the floor.
Ryan sighed. “I think they have classes to deal with anger like that, Joe.”
Hawke glanced at him before picking one of the chair’s legs out of the smashed wood. “Thanks for that, but I need this.” He waved the chair leg in his face.
Behind them the first Vespa burst into the bistro. Skidding wildly to the left, the rider corrected his balance and then took a shot at them. The shot pellets sprayed all over the wall beside the fire door and blew out several panes of glass in the windows either side of it as the rider raced past them.
Then Hawke smashed the chair leg into his throat and nearly knocked him off the bike, but the assassin kicked his leg out to stay upright and skidded around in a tight one-eighty to come at them again.
“This bloke never gives up,” Hawke muttered.
“And here comes the other one!” Lea shouted.
She was right — the final biker was swerving to avoid the SFC’s gunfire as he raced toward them along the mezzanine.
“I’ve got an idea,” Hawke yelled.
At the other end of the bistro some French doors opened out onto a balcony and a small patio for al fresco dining. They ran through the doors as the biker spun around and readied for another strike. “Go to the fire escape ladder and wait for me!” Hawke said, and tucked himself against the outside of the restaurant wall right beside the open door.
Lea looked at the chair leg. “Ah — gotcha!”
She ran to the wall, followed by Maria and Ryan and climbed over it on her way to the ladder.
The Vespa raced toward them, one cartridge still left unfired in the twelve-bore. He fired but missed, and at the exact second he passed through the door to enter the balcony, Hawke swung the chair leg like a club at the rider’s neck and knocked him off the bike.
The Vespa drove on riderless, smashing though a table and ripping two of its legs off before crashing into the low wall and coming to a dead stop. With no handle on the accelerator to keep it going, its engine revs dropped to idle.
The rider scrambled to pick up his shotgun, but Hawke slammed his boot down on the man’s hand. It was just an inch away from the gun, but with all of Hawke’s weight pushing down on his gloved fingers it may as well have been the other side of the world.
Slowly, Hawke crushed his boot down and broke the bones in the man’s hand, making the assassin scream out loud in pain. Then he moved his boot and kicked the gun away before grabbing the man’s helmet by the mouth vent and smashing his head back into the paving, knocking him out cold.
“Two down, one to go.”
As he spoke, the third rider bore down on them, gun pointed in their faces. He burst through the French doors and then used the tipped-up table as a ramp, jumping over the edge of the patio and flying through the air like a bird. He hit the ground with a heavy smack and a shower of sparks, but after a short skid he was in control and on his way.
“That was interesting,” Maria said.
“Where did he go?” said Lea, running to the balcony.
“He’s over there!” Ryan pointed over the balustrade as he shot his way through the police line and turned into James Street in his bid to escape.
“Now or never, guys,” Hawke said.
They scrambled to the bottom of the fire escape ladder and ran around the square to James Street to the north.
As they sprinted along the narrow cobblestone street Lea turned to Hawke. “Where are we going, Monsoon or Accessorize?”
Ryan rolled his eyes. Hawke sighed but made sure he hid his smile from her.
“Where’s our little friend going?” Maria said. “There’s another police line set up at the end of the street. He’s trapped!”
Hawke’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “There’s only one place he can go — underground!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Lea said as her eyes tracked the biker. At that moment, he swung hard to the left and skidded toward Covent Garden Underground Station.
“Can’t believe this…” Ryan said.
Lea smiled. “Ah! You’re not just an ugly face, Joe Hawke.”
His reply, which he just knew would be extremely witty, was cut short by the biker who took a shot at them before disappearing into the station. His aim was poor due to the effort of steering the bike over the cobblestones with only one hand and the shotgun pellets missed their intended target and blew out the windows of the Nag’s Head pub instead.
Hawke never even looked back, but darted into Covent Garden Station pulling Lea behind him with all his strength. Maria and Ryan followed, leaving the summer’s day behind for a world of air-conditioning, electric light and the unmistakable smell of ozone and brake pads.
They sprinted past the ticket office and vaulted over the turnstiles. In response to the hubbub a little man in a peaked cap ran out of the office and waved his fist in the air.
“What’s he saying?” Lea asked.
Ryan looked genuinely worried. “I think he’s remonstrating with us for abusing the public transport system.”
“I’m sure he’s dealt with worse,” Hawke said.
“Look out!” Maria screamed.
Ahead of them the biker turned on his seat and aimed the shotgun at them but missed, striking the man in the peaked cap instead. He fell down dead and the biker steered toward the stairs.
“I can’t believe he’s driving that bloody thing down there!” Ryan said.
“Never mind if you can believe it or not,” Hawke yelled. “Let’s get the bastard!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Joe Hawke and Lea Donovan jogged down the circular stairs. Former FSB Agent Snowcat, better known as Maria Kurikova was one step behind them and a step ahead of Former Dropout Ryan Bale. Ahead of them they heard the revs of the final assassin as he tried to flee underground, presumably with a view to vanishing into the tunnels. Behind them they heard the chaotic sounds of the British Transport Police barking orders and terrified commuters screaming in response.
Whoever the biker was, he had a long way to go. Covent Garden Station was one of only a handful of stations on the London Underground which had no escalators. Travellers could only reach the platforms by elevator or stairs, and there were nearly two hundred steps if you chose the hard way.
“Couldn’t you have chased him into another frigging station?” Lea said, breathing hard as they sprinted down the stairs. Below them the rasping sound of the Vespa reverberated loudly and echoed off the tiles in the enclosed stairwell. “I’m knackered.”
“I’d order one of those pink Humvee limos to take you the rest of the way but I’m not sure it would fit down here.”
“Always with the funny, aren’t you?”
“Thanks.”
“It wasn’t a compliment, ya fool…”