Big City Jacks Read Free

time the car started with a backfire and a plume of blue smoke. Ahead, the man stepped into the road and shouted again. He was joined by a second man who vaulted Colin’s garden wall. Both then began to hurry towards the car.
    Keith rammed it into gear and the old banger lurched.
    In the glow of the fluorescent street light, Keith saw both men reach underneath their jackets. At first, his intention had been to mow them down, but as their hands came out with guns, he had an immediate change of heart and courage. He literally stood on the brake and found reverse gear. Within a second the Escort was slewing backwards, picking up speed, the engine and the gearbox screaming in unison as speed increased.
    Keith’s head swivelled backwards and forwards as he tried to keep an eye on his own rearwards progress and that of the two armed men who were now on their toes.
    He saw one raise his gun. There was a crack and a hole appeared in the windscreen, then a whizz as the bullet almost creased his arm and embedded itself somewhere in the back of the car. They were firing at him!
    Keith yanked the wheel down and the front of the car spun, tyres squealing. The back tyres smacked on the kerb. He heaved on the steering wheel, wishing he had stolen a car with power steering.
    They were closing on him and he was presenting them with a nice wide target. Ducking low again, he forced the gear stick down into first and revved the nuts off the engine as the clutch connected it to the gearbox and, once more, the car did a good impression of a marsupial – bouncing like mad – until he regained control and, then – miraculously without stalling the beast – he raced away.
    Behind him, both men came to a standstill, watching him disappear, their guns held down by their sides.
    Keith watched them in the rear-view mirror.
    â€˜Bastards,’ he said. He punched the air victoriously. Then he saw the bullet hole in the windscreen and his guts churned with a loud, slurping noise.
    â€˜What do we do?’
    The men were panting, but not breathless. They slid their guns back into their waistband holsters and stood side by side in the middle of the road, watching their prey escape.
    It was the older of the two who had asked the question.
    The younger man glanced furtively up and down the street, noticing they were quickly becoming the centre of attention as one or two people emerged from their houses, drawn by the sound of gunfire and the screaming engine.
    â€˜We get out of here and we find him and we sort him – that’s what we do.’
    He was called Lynch. He was young and out to make an impression. He spun on his heels in the street, muttering, ‘Even some of these low lifes might call the cops,’ referring to the nosy householders, ‘so we’d better get gone.’
    Followed by the older man, whose name was Bignall, the two disappeared into the night like spectres.
    â€˜We nearly had him,’ Bignall said as they got into their car parked three streets away. It was a dull-looking Rover 214, nothing special or memorable, just the right kind of transport for the city. The sort of vehicle that fitted in with any background and could be left anywhere and probably not get stolen because it was such a boring car.
    â€˜Yeah, nearly,’ agreed Lynch. He sat in the front passenger seat, next to Bignall who would be driving. His mind was working fast, going over the few snippets of gen that Colin the Commando had divulged in their very short, but fruitful and violent meeting. Lynch looked at his fist and winced at the grazed knuckles, where he had slightly mis-punched and caught Colin’s tin hat instead of his face. It had hurt . . . but it had hurt Colin more.
    Lynch sucked his knuckles thoughtfully. Bignall started the car and began to drive.
    â€˜Where to?’
    Lynch checked his watch. ‘You’re due to start work soon, aren’t you?’
    â€˜Yep – but I could call in