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  Death

  Games

  Book 8, Jon Spicer Series

  CHRIS SIMMS

  Other novels by Chris Simms:

  Psychological thrillers

  Outside the White Lines

  Pecking Order

  Supernatural Thrillers

  Sing Me To Sleep

  Dead Gorgeous

  Jon Spicer series

  Killing the Beasts

  Shifting Skin

  Savage Moon

  Hell’s Fire

  The Edge

  Cut Adrift

  Sleeping Dogs

  DC Iona Khan series

  Scratch Deeper

  A Price To Pay

  Copyright © 2017 Chris Simms

  The right of Chris Simms to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1541136608

  ISBN-13: 978-1541136601

  To that big kid I play with on a Sunday morning.

  PROLOGUE

  ‘We’ve got the clock towards Stockport.’

  ‘Roger that, 873CK. You’ll be clockwise on the M60. How long ‘til you’re on it?’

  The passenger in the Tactical Intercept Vehicle was readying a large print version of Manchester’s A to Z across his lap with one hand. In his other was a cappuccino. Six minutes earlier, their brightly marked BMW 330 had rolled slowly into the car park of the McDonald’s beside the A57 in Gorton. Now the driver was gliding back round the curving road that led from the fast food outlet. The traffic lights ahead switched to green and his right foot sagged against the accelerator pedal. The passenger felt like he was in a slingshot as the car rejoined the main road at almost 50 mph.

  ‘Two minutes.’ He held the cup over the foot well, drips detaching themselves from its base as he shot a glance at the driver. ‘Twat. If the lid wasn’t on, that would be everywhere.’

  The driver grinned. ‘But it was.’

  The radio sounded once more. ‘912CK, we’ll take the anti-clock towards Oldham.’

  ‘Roger that, 912CK. How long til you’re on it?’

  ‘Less than a minute.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘807CK, we are stationary at junction 3, can go clock or anti-clock.’

  ‘Roger that, 807CK. Maintain your position and await further instruction.’

  ‘Anyway,’ the driver said. ‘You and that stupid map.’

  ‘You and that stupid map,’ the passenger parroted back in a childish voice, placing the cup in the drink’s holder to his side and then sucking foam off one knuckle. ‘Nothing beats a bit of motorway orienteering, mate.’

  ‘Motorway orienteering,’ the driver scoffed. ‘You were a boy scout, weren’t you? Admit it.’

  ‘Right up to Explorers.’ Lifting his eyes from the map’s pages, the passenger spoke towards the ceiling mike. ‘Control: when did the ping come in?’

  The voice on the other side of the speakers took a moment to reply. ‘One minute fourteen seconds ago.’

  So he’s not far in front, thought the passenger. ‘Could just be joining the motorway. What’s the stolen?’

  ‘A silver BMW Z3. Registration Tango, Zero, November, Yankee, Sierra.’

  ‘That spells Tony’s,’ the driver murmured. ‘Not Tony’s now, is it? Some little scrote’s got it now.’ The way he mouthed the words without moving his head, he could have been talking to himself.

  The passenger spoke once more. ‘What’s the score with it?’

  ‘Taken in a burglary from a residence in the Northern Quarter half an hour ago. Aggravated.’

  The passenger glanced at the driver’s profile. That meant they were dealing with potentially violent offenders. Ones who would certainly not want to be caught. ‘How many in the car?’

  ‘We’re not sure.’

  Above them, the gantry holding the Automatic Number Plate Recognition camera that had registered the stolen car’s plates glided smoothly over their heads. The passenger examined the road in front. In the early hours of a Friday, there was only a light smattering of cars. In fact, at that point, their main risk was from a drunk or drugged idiot driving home from a night out. The sight of a police car racing up behind them with the word ‘Interceptor’ emblazoned across its jet black bonnet had been known to provoke stupidity.

  Speed now over seventy, the driver gave each vehicle a wide berth. As they reached the junction with the M60 it all became a question of luck. If the stolen car had stayed on the A57 by going straight across the roundabout, the interceptor’s presence on the motorway that encircled Manchester would be a waste of time. If, however, the thief had decided the M60 was his best bet, they might come across him. At that point, they would take tactical control on the ground and start coordinating all other interceptor units in the area. The aim of the game was to anticipate the stolen car’s movements, block its route and bring an end to the chase before it had a chance to start.

  The driver hugged the inner edge of the roundabout, knowing if he kept above forty, he’d make it through the successive sets of lights as each went to orange. The towering Denton Rock sign came into view and he straightened the wheel to join the slip road onto the motorway.

  Red rear lights of about a dozen cars were strung out over the next few hundred metres. The interceptor kept to the inside lane, both occupants eagerly scanning ahead for anything small, silver and sporty. Both were also listening to the open channel, their fear of 912CK radioing in a sighting on the anti-clockwise lanes nagging at their minds. That would mean turning round and trying to play catch-up. At best, they’d be the secondary unit, merely following the lead car’s orders.

  ‘I can only see members of the public,’ the passenger stated.

  ‘Yup.’ The driver ghosted out into the fast lane, passed the first few vehicles then settled back into the slow lane. They started scanning again.

  ‘Over there,’ the driver stated. ‘Middle lane, two cars in front.’

  ‘You sure?’

  He closed the gap with the car ahead of them in the slow lane, waited a few seconds, then strayed fractionally out for a clearer view. ‘Registration says it’s Tony’s.’

  The passenger spoke up. ‘Control, this is 873CK. We have sight of the bandit, clock on the M60, about one mile from the Bredbury exit.’

  Control came back on. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘I’m a passenger in an interceptor being driven by an Advanced Pursuit Trained Driver. We’re in a liveried vehicle, at a safe distance behind a stolen car. The occupants of that car are not known to us. Exterior conditions: visibility excellent, road surface dry, surrounding traffic light. Do I have authorisation?’

  ‘Authorisation given.’

  The passenger knew the patrol car heading anti-clockwise would have already started looking for an opportunity to turn round, but he went through the motions anyway. ‘912CK this is 873CK, please join the clock motorway at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘912CK, am doing.’

  The passenger was studying his map, even though he knew every aspect of the motorway system around Manchester. ‘807CK, are you still stationary at junction three?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Plain or stripey?’

  ‘Stripey.’

  Good, thought the passenger. A liveried car would at least let the bandit know he was hemmed in. ‘Can you get into position at the exit to the A34?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He addressed the driver. ‘Enough under the bonnet to take that thing?’

  ‘A Z3?’ The driver snorted.

  ‘807CK,’ the passenger said more loudly, ‘let’s try and do it that way. Have the stinger ready. We’ll close on him and then attempt
to herd him your way. 912CK, what’s your location?’

  ‘Still a good four minutes behind you.’

  They would be at junction three before the support car caught up. If they couldn’t get the bandit to come off at that point, he would join a stretch of motorway that soon split into the M56 and the M60. Their job would then become a whole lot harder. ‘OK, he seems happy in the middle lane at the moment. Let’s stay tucked in and see what he does.’

  They continued along in silence, the passenger using the opportunity to gulp back as much of his coffee as he could. The lane for the Bredbury exit began to branch off. To their relief, the stolen car ignored it. One of the cars behind it drifted into the fast lane, giving the driver of the interceptor a better view of his quarry. ‘Looks like just the one person inside.’

  A minute later, the ghostly blue glass sides of The Pyramid appeared to their left. The building occupied a prominent position at the exit which led into Stockport: the stolen car’s last chance of leaving the motorway before junction three, where the trap awaited.

  Both men’s eyes were glued to the Z3, now about one hundred metres in front.

  The radio came to life. ‘Control to 873CK.’

  ‘Go ahead, Control.’

  ‘Word from the bobbies at the address where the car was taken. The house owner is on the way to the specialist head unit at Salford Royal. A nasty one, apparently.’

  ‘Roger that. It looks like just one person driving.’ The passenger glanced to the driver. ‘More resources for this? If he doesn’t come off at three...I’m thinking NPAS two one.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘873CK to control, what’s the status of NPAS two one? We could do with air support if the stolen makes off.’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  The turn off into Stockport was almost past them when the car they were using as a screen suddenly signalled left and steered up the slip road.

  ‘Shit,’ the driver breathed.

  The passenger looked at the road behind them. The nearest vehicle was a good two hundred metres away. They were caught in the open.

  ‘Think he’s spotted us.’ The driver’s voice was tight. ‘He’s starting to accelerate. Definitely spooked him.’

  ‘Still a couple of miles to junction three,’ the passenger replied. ‘Light it up?’

  ‘No time for anything else. And turn the dash-cam on, will you? I want this recorded.’ The driver flicked his controls and the siren started its painful shriek, blue light surging like a force field around their car.

  The Z3’s speed increased, but not recklessly so. Accelerating across into the fast lane, the interceptor driver rapidly closed the gap, hoping his position out wide would encourage the stolen car to make a dart for exit three.

  ‘873CK, the bandit’s seen us. We are now in pursuit, attempting to herd him off at your junction.’

  ‘912CK, we are three minutes behind.’

  ‘Is the stinger ready for deployment, 807CK?’

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘OK. We’re thirty seconds off, max.’

  The Z3 was refusing to budge from the middle lane, despite the interceptor getting closer and closer. Signs for exit three appeared overhead.

  ‘You’ve got no chance,’ the driver mocked. ‘Take the exit like a good boy.’

  They were now almost level.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ the driver mused.

  The passenger could see the silhouette of the driver’s head. Short hair, thin neck. ‘Juvenile?’

  A verge sign appeared. Junction three, half a mile. They were within twenty metres of the stolen car. The driver glanced back, face lit for a split second by the flash of the interceptor’s roof lights. Fourteen or fifteen. Sixteen at most. And he looked petrified.

  ‘873CK to Control, solitary male occupant. Appears to be a juvenile.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  The passenger sucked breath in through his nose. High speed pursuit of juveniles was not permitted; on being chased, many started to treat it as some kind of challenge. It was just too dangerous. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Terminate the pursuit.’

  Their speed immediately began to drop and the passenger slapped the flat of his hand against his knee. ‘Bastard!’

  The driver had to steer left as a row of bollards started to angle in, blocking off the fast lane. Some kind of roadworks up ahead. He turned the lights and siren off. As exit three went past, the Z3 was sixty metres ahead, the distance opening with every second.

  Then his brake lights showed red.

  He swerved between the bollards into the closed-off fast lane. Workmen clustered on the central reservation straightened up in surprise as he steered towards a flat bed truck with a single light revolving on its roof.

  The interceptor driver’s eyebrows lifted. ‘What the fuck is he doing?’

  A workman, the strips on his orange tabard and trousers shining silver, began to wave both arms above his head.

  The passenger pointed. ‘They’ve taken out a section of the central barrier. He’s not going to – ’

  The Z3 aimed straight for the gap, rear lights juddering as it crossed the rough strip of ground separating one flow of cars from the other. Headlights of at least five vehicles were heading in the opposite direction. Now across the central reservation, he entered the closed-off fast lane on the other side and started to nose the vehicle into the middle lane.

  Directly into the path of two cars, both doing about sixty.

  The driver of the interceptor involuntarily hunched his shoulders. ‘Oh Christ.’

  The first car jinked into the slow lane and was past the danger in a blink of an eye. The second car – suddenly presented with a vehicle blocking its way – hit its brakes. A split-second of tyre squeal before it connected with the Z3’s rear. The bang was like an artillery cannon going off. Fragments from both cars flew outwards. The impact caused the approaching car to veer into the fast lane, directly at the missing section of central barrier. Somehow, it passed between the workmen, all standing like mannequins. Its front left tyre hit a sack of gravel and reared up.

  The vehicle began to flip.

  For the passenger in the interceptor, everything slowed as a couple of tons of out-of-control metal came tumbling directly at them. The somersaulting car completely filled the windscreen and he squeezed both eyes shut in anticipation of the impact.

  A heart beat of deafening silence.

  With a crash, it landed on the lane behind them. His eyes reopened. The stolen Z3 looked like it was on ice. Revolving with a leisurely grace, it made its way into the slow lane where an oncoming van crumpled its front end. Locked firmly together, both vehicles ploughed onto the hard shoulder, metal grating as they made contact with the barrier beyond it.

  Forty metres behind the interceptor, the car that had missed them by a whisker slid to a halt, wheels pointing up at the night sky. Other vehicles were slamming on their brakes. Several low speed collisions created an erratic rhythm of lesser bangs.

  ‘Holy shit, Steve,’ the passenger said, head still pressed firmly back against his seat. ‘How did that not hit us?’

  ‘Fucked if I know.’ The driver was unwrapping his fingers from the steering wheel.

  The passenger cleared his throat and spoke up, voice shaking. ‘873CK to Control, we have a multi-car collision, both sides of the M60 between junctions three and four. You need to matrix it, red X across all lanes, repeat all lanes, in both directions. The entire motorway needs to close.’

  ‘Roger that, 873CK.’

  He twisted in his seat. The car that had come through the gap in the barrier looked like something from a scrap heap. ‘We’ll need ambulances, both sides of the carriageway. Members of the public involved, possibly Highways workmen, too.’ He turned back to view the far side of the motorway. ‘The bandit is demolished. Send Trumpton – we’ll need cutting equipment.’

  ‘Roger that, 873CK.’

  ‘Paul,’ the driver stated in a quiet voice. ‘Tel
l me the dash-cam was on record.’

  The passenger understood what lay behind the question; he needed to know they were covered. Footage from their car would prove – indisputably – that they had followed the rules of pursuit correctly. The passenger checked the device; its side light was glowing green. Their careers were safe. ‘Yup.’

  Steve breathed out. ‘Thank God.’

  Paul reached for his seatbelt. ‘I’ll take the car behind us. Second unit can’t be far off.’

  The driver nodded. ‘I’ll hop over the other side.’

  Paul climbed out, sounds suddenly sharper. From the far side of the motorway he could hear a man’s shrill screams. Squealers weren’t the immediate concern; it was the injured and silent they needed to worry about. He glanced up at the nearest gantry; a red X was already flashing on each screen. Exhaust fumes mixed with the sour smell of burnt rubber. Further down the motorway a siren was getting louder. Probably 912CK. What little traffic there was on his side had now formed an untidy barrier across the lanes about fifty metres from the upturned car.

  He jogged across the tarmac, tool belt jangling and clinking. The wrecked car was a saloon, dark green in colour. From somewhere beneath the front wheels came a rapidly slowing tick. Unclipping his torch, he crouched down at the driver’s door and shone the beam into the dark interior. Black drips cut through the bright ray. For a second, he feared it was fuel. No, not fuel. Blood. He could smell it. Taste it on his tongue. He lifted the beam and needed a second to process what it had illuminated. A torso was suspended from the seatbelt. He slid the beam down. Smashed-in skull. Arms hung limp. He reached through the remains of the window and felt at a wrist. No pulse. Movement. Another person, slumped against the roof on the passenger’s side. A hand flapped slowly back and forth.

  Standing up, he reached for his tunic radio. ‘873CK to Control. We have one fatality on the clockwise lanes, one injured. Not sure how bad.’

  ‘Life is extinct?’

  Knowing his answer would spark the involvement of all sorts of agencies, including the Independent Police Complaints Commission and Internal Affairs, he said, ‘Life is extinct. Checking the other casualty now.’ He walked quickly round the vehicle, fragments of glass crunching with each step. On the other side, he raised a palm. ‘Stay in your vehicles, please! Get back inside, now!’