Instinct by Nick Oldham Page A

American, who said, ‘I want to check the parking lot.’
    The two men headed towards the double doors leading to the car park steps. ‘I’m Karl,’ Donaldson said quickly.
    â€˜Steve. And what are you?’
    â€˜FBI.’
    â€˜And who are we after?’
    â€˜Jamil Akram.’
    â€˜He’s a bad guy, is he?’
    â€˜Ultra bad.’
    Steve, the firearms officer, pushed through the double doors and the two men stepped into a concrete stairwell.
    â€˜Where from here?’
    Donaldson thought quickly. ‘First level, then up through the parking lot, one level at a time.’
    The firearms officer was kitted out in overalls, boots, a Kevlar vest, a utility belt holding handcuffs and a holster (in which was a Glock 17), the MP5 across his chest. He was weighted down like a storm trooper but he went quickly up the first two flights of stairs to level one. As they stepped out on to the concrete a Ford Fiesta shot out from a parking space, tyres screeching on the shiny floor. It accelerated towards the exit, and therefore in the direction of Donaldson and the firearms officer.
    In spite of the reflection on the windscreen, Donaldson saw it was Akram at the wheel. ‘That’s him,’ he shouted.
    The car gained speed, the engine revving.
    The two men separated and Donaldson saw that Steve was already having doubts. What had this man actually done? What are his intentions? Is my life at risk? Are others in immediate peril? What happens if I shoot and kill? Am I out of a job? Goodbye pension. All questions that needed answers.
    Donaldson had no such qualms. Problem was, he wasn’t armed.
    The car sped between them, Akram’s head low over the wheel. As he passed Steve, he dinked the car purposely at him and caught his right leg with a glancing blow, sending him spinning away. But at the moment of impact, the officer had managed to smack the stock of the MP5 into the windscreen, cracking it like a spider’s web across its width. The weapon, though, flew out of his grasp and clattered away.
    Akram sped on.
    Donaldson rushed across to Steve, who was on the floor, gripping his injured leg. Without hesitation, Donaldson expertly flicked the restraining loop on the officer’s holster and released the Glock. Donaldson was familiar with the weapon, had used one many times in the range. He pivoted on his haunches and fired two shots at the back of the Ford as the car veered down the exit ramp.
    Certain he’d put at least one bullet into Akram, Donaldson turned back to Steve who writhed in pain on the concrete floor, gripping his leg tightly with blood-soaked hands. Donaldson prised the hands away, wincing when he saw the misshapen thigh bone. He grabbed the officer’s PR and spoke coolly into it.

SIX
    T hat transmission was the one picked up by Rik Dean, sitting alone in the KFC whilst Henry had gone to check whether Mark Carter had done a runner out back. Up to that point in the day, neither detective had his PR on and Rik had only switched his on for  . . . well, boredom, really. He was instantly transported into a foot chase in Blackpool town centre, consisting of various hurried and worried transmissions, others more measured and calming, and he recognized the gruff but controlled tones of Bill Robbins in amongst them. There were many exchanges between mobile and foot patrols descending on an incident – one which Rik did not immediately understand – and then came the ‘ Officer down ’ message, at which point he had rushed out to Henry, thinking he would want to know about this.
    He found him around the back of the KFC talking to Mark – who had, as Rik guessed, tried to slip out and disappear. Henry was holding Mark’s sleeve and it looked as though the pair were having a few moments of tension. But Rik knew what was important and that he and Henry might be needed elsewhere p.d.q. Mark Carter could be picked up as and when, so