Instinct by Nick Oldham

of people. The support act.
    Curiosity had drawn him out. If he hadn’t been dark-skinned, Donaldson probably wouldn’t have zeroed in. But he did, and he recognized the face instantly. But it wasn’t the face of the other youth from the briefing, the one who was Sadiq’s friend.
    This was Jamil Akram, the man Donaldson had been hunting for over a dozen years.
    Realization hit Donaldson hard as their eyes locked. Akram immediately saw that he had been recognized and began to fumble through his pockets as Donaldson surged into a run.
    There was another roar from Donaldson’s throat. People spun round to see what was approaching and a path opened in front of him. Akram pulled out his phone but it seemed to dance through his fingers as if it was burning hot, or had a life of its own, and it fell to the ground, splitting into several pieces on impact, the battery and the back panel going in separate directions.
    Akram turned and ran into the crowd.
    Donaldson was only metres behind him, his arms punching like huge pistons. But Akram moved with the agility of a deer. His head went down and he weaved and cornered around people like a skier hurtling down a slalom.
    Donaldson had no finesse in his speed, no grace, and he shoved individuals roughly aside. He was taking the direct route and everyone had better get out of his way.
    Akram, though, was getting further away. Keeping low, he entered Hounds Hill shopping centre and disappeared into the covered mall. Donaldson cursed as he ran in and found himself faced with a dilemma. The mall was a large, curving semicircle, which split to the left and right. There was no sign of Akram, who could have gone either way and ducked into a shop, then used another exit, or a fire escape.
    Donaldson spun on the spot.
    Bill Robbins came up behind him.
    â€˜Lost him,’ Donaldson gasped. ‘Is Sadiq still pinned down?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Bill assured him.
    â€˜And has the phone been seized?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Bill repeated.
    Two more cops rushed in behind, armed and in uniform, wearing peaked caps with chequered bands, and brandishing H&K machine pistols.
    â€˜Who’s the guy you chased?’ Bill asked.
    â€˜Akram – the guy I was telling you about.’
    â€˜Jamil Akram? Shit,’ Bill blurted.
    â€˜Yeah – and he’s gone to ground here – but he won’t be hiding long. He’ll break cover.’
    â€˜I’ll get more people, get the exits sealed.’
    â€˜Make sure you tell ’em to take care. He’ll be armed,’ Donaldson said. ‘And dangerous,’ he added, not caring if it sounded clichéd.
    â€˜Description?’
    Donaldson gave him a glance. ‘I know this sounds racist, but any Asian male, thirty to fifty, in this vicinity needs pulling and slamming down. But he is wearing a black zip-up wind jammer, blue jeans, grey trainers and he’s got a black moustache.’
    â€˜Understood,’ Bill said, and he transmitted this through to comms.
    Donaldson indicated to Bill that he was going to start looking and moved into the mall.
    He prowled slowly, like a predator, but felt that Akram was now likely to be on the other side of the shopping centre or maybe in a car – at which moment Donaldson spotted a sign pointing to the Hounds Hill multi-storey car park, adjacent to the mall. It was only a guess, but Akram had appeared at the scene having come from the direction of the shopping centre, so maybe he was simply retracing his steps to get back to his escape vehicle.
    Donaldson looked back at Bill and the two firearms officers. Bill was still talking urgently into his PR but Donaldson managed to get his attention, pointed at one of the firearms officers and then placed the flat of his hand on the crown of his skull in the old military signal. Come to me .
    Bill nodded and shoved one of the officers in Donaldson’s direction, yelling something in his ear. He ran up to the