World Will Fall

2. Killing Spree

2

Killing Spree

Philippe yanked the owner of the boat away from the wheel and pushed forward on the silver throttle lever. The sudden acceleration threw me back. Another shot rang out, but fell short. I was about to pull the owner of the boat down with me when Philippe threw him one-handed over the side. I watched the poor guy bob up and down in the river, clear of the chasing boat.

“What did you do that for?” I asked.

“He’s safer in the water,” Philippe said over his shoulder.

He wasn’t wrong. More bullets ripped into the side of the boat. I laid low as Philippe weaved left to right, the front end – whatever they call it – slapping off the water. The engine was pushed to its limit, kicking out diesel fumes and spray, soaking me through.

Philippe yelled over his shoulder, “Here, take the wheel.”

I staggered to my feet and switched places. No seat. Just a steering wheel and some basic controls. I hung on for dear life, keeping the throttle pushed forward all the way.

Philippe dropped to one knee and returned fire. A quick glance behind told me Inge was gaining in her super-sleek go-fast boat. I spun the wheel left and right, trying to shake them off, easing back the throttle into each turn. Up ahead, we had traffic – two tour boats passing each other in opposite directions, blocking off most of the river, only a narrow gap in between, shrinking with every second. I rammed the throttle handle as far as it would go and aimed for the gap. We bounced violently off the extra chop created by the two tour boats, barely a foot to spare either side. I turned to see Philippe shoot the JPAC stooge in the chest. It knocked him off the front of the speedboat and into the fizzing white water, where he was swallowed up by the drag of a tour boat. I looked ahead. The gap was almost non-existent.

Closing. Closing. And … through! Phew!

Another anxious look over my shoulder and I saw Inge in her leaner, faster, meaner boat just about squeezing through, too, scraping the paint of someone’s stolen pride and joy.

Philippe took a shot at her head. She ducked instinctively as the bullet pee-yanged off the front deck.

Modern glass buildings dominated the skyline as the river widened and curved to the left. Police boats sat idling by the side of the river, where a flat walkway ran low and close to the water. Armed SWAT jumped on board and they roared after us as a pair – high-powered speedboats with sirens hoopa-whooping. The SWAT looked ready to storm a hijacked plane, with ski masks, body armour and scary-looking rifles held across their chests. Two lay on the front of each boat ready to fire. Inge got smart and eased off, letting the police take up the chase in front of her.

“We can’t outrun them for long,” I shouted over my shoulder, as a rifle shot zipped overhead.

“This is your one and only warning,” said one of the police on the lead boat. “Slow down and pull over, or we will use lethal force.”

“What do I do?” I asked.

“Slow down, or they’ll gun us down,” said Philippe.

More reluctant than a cat at bath time, I brought the throttle back.

“Let it drift under the bridge ahead,” Philippe said, back-stepping towards me.

I turned the key off in the ignition. Our boat bobbed slowly underneath a low stone bridge. Philippe put his gun to my right temple and hooked his left forearm around my neck. He pulled me in tight in front of him.

“What are you doing?” I asked, out of the corner of my mouth.

“Remember the Reichstag?” he said quietly into the back of my head.

“Duh, of course.”

“Same routine. You’re a schoolgirl hostage. I’m the hostage taker. They’ll put us on separate boats, then push you down on the floor. When that happens, close your eyes, hold your breath and wait.”

“What for?”

“Trust me, you’ll know.”

It was dark beneath the bridge. The police boats approached slowly from either side. Engines chugging. High-powered rifles pointing our way. Bright lights shunting into life. Both boats were much bigger than ours.

“Release the hostage or we shoot,” the guy with the loudhailer said, voice bouncing off the underbelly of the bridge.

Hostage. Ha! Either the Reichstag guards hadn’t told the police who’d disarmed them in the dome, or they thought I was suffering from … what did they call it? … Stockholm syndrome. Yeah. That. I guess in all the confusion of a terror threat, people’s wires got in a bit of a tangle.

“You’ve got three seconds,” the cop said. “Three … two … one …”

Philippe released his grip and stepped back, laying the gun down. The boat to our right rubbed up against ours and a SWAT member yanked me away from Philippe and onto their deck, where I was surrounded by an entire team of armed cops.

One of the SWAT members hopped on to the old man’s boat and fired it up, steering it down river. Philippe was already held at multiple gunpoint on the other police boat.

“Down! Down! Down!” yelled one of the SWAT team, pushing me to the deck.

I heard another saying, “Hostage secured. Suspect in custody.”

I closed my eyes and waited like Philippe said, scar grinding against the hard plastic floor. Boots stomping around the deck, perilously close to my head. A cold breeze picked up off the water and sneaked its way down my blouse.

I shivered and held my breath.

I didn’t have long to wait.