Free Dead Centre by Andy McNab

back seat and I saw him give a silent scream of pain as I turned and legged it down the service road, giving my best impression of a headless chicken. I shoved the lighter between my teeth.
    The Range Rover reversed at speed. I heard the engine roar as it powered into the narrow space. I reached the wheelie-bins, slid behind the last one, back against the wall, and shoved against it with both arms and then my right foot. The bin toppled into the path of the oncoming wagon.
    There was a flash of grime-covered white as Webb stood on the brakes, but he was too late. Metal screeched on metal and the bin clattered off down the road.
    The air-bags kicked off in the Range Rover’s cabin.
    I grabbed the hammer in my right hand and the paraffin container in my left.
    Webb tried to exit but his door smashed against the wall. There wasn’t room for him to get out. I swung the hammer at the bottom left-hand corner of the rear passenger window before they had time to draw down. The safety glass starred, then shattered.
    Shouts of anger and pain came from inside. I shoved the paraffin container against the frame and pushed down on it with my right forearm. There was a fine spray for a couple of seconds, then the rest of the seal gave way and fluid gushed into the interior. The fumes burnt my nostrils and can’t have been much fun for theirs.
    I dropped the container and shoved my left fist through the hole, lighter at the ready, thumb on the roller.
    ‘Show me your hands!’
    They got the message loud and clear. Webb put his straight on the steering wheel. He wasn’t pleased. ‘You’ve fucked up, Stone. Just stand down.’
    ‘Who the fuck are you? What do you want with me?’
    I didn’t get an answer. Maybe I wasn’t sounding crazy enough.
    I cranked it up. ‘What the fuck do you want? Tell me or I’ll fucking torch this. Tell me – tell me now! ’
    I glanced down. The paraffin had mixed nicely with Mitchell’s blood on the tan leather. His leg was a mess.
    I heard a squeal of brakes and the scream of an engine coming towards us from the other end of the service road. Another Range Rover, two up. Black with a blue flashing light on the driver’s side of the roof. That was all I had time to register before I turned and started running in the opposite direction.
    I heard no shouts, no commands to stop, no gunfire. I kept on running.
    Then my head exploded. I went down like liquid. My legs moved like I was still running, but I knew I was going nowhere. Hands grabbed me and dragged my face across the hammer that had dropped me.

12
    IT WASN’T LONG before I was in the back of the undamaged Range Rover, hands secured to my ankles with plasticuffs. I rested my forehead on the leather upholstery of the seat in front of me to try to release the pressure on my wrists.
    My skull had recovered from the initial pain where the hammer had connected, but I knew I was going to have a big fuck-off headache for the rest of the day. I just hoped it wasn’t a fracture and I’d get the chance to sort out the cut. I couldn’t feel any wetness, but I knew there had to be one. Maybe my parka had soaked up the blood before it reached my neck.
    Both wagons backed out of the service road. The driver of mine was a big old Nigerian lad in a blue Puffa. Blue and red beads tied off each braid of his cornrows and he had a shaving rash under his chin. The guy beside him looked like Genghis Khan. He must have come straight from the steppes. He kept turning in his seat to make sure his passenger wasn’t trying to escape – as if I was going to get far even if I did.
    The blue light started to flash. I could see it bouncing off shop windows as we drove down the main. We were heading out of the city.
    I was flapping. None of these guys cared about what I saw or heard, and that wasn’t a good thing. It could mean they knew I was never going to get the chance to tell anybody.
    I checked the dash clock: 11:17. I tried to get a view of the speedo but it was