Free The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run by Christian Fletcher Page A

off? They can’t have blocked this road up on their own.” He turned his head left. “Any other routes around to the city, Jimmy?”
    The expression on Jimmy’s face looked one of hopelessness. “Well, yes there are but I don’t know how long it would take and I don’t reckon we could even get onto the roads. You seen that barrier blocking any way to the north. We’re fucked.”
    “Let’s take a closer look at this damn blockade,” Smith said, opening his door. Cold wind briefly howled through the Range Rover interior before Smith shut his door.  
    Jimmy got out and hurried alongside Smith. Wingate sighed and tilted her head back against the headrest, brushing her hand over her face. Cordoba groaned and squirmed on the backseat. Batfish slumped with her head against the side window, watching the river flow below.
    “Is there any chance we could take a boat across the water?” Batfish asked. “It looks like some kind of Marina down there to the left.”
    I twisted my head for a better view. A pair of buildings with snow covered canopies sat beyond an almost empty parking lot beside the river. I looked along the river bank but couldn’t see any boats of any kind.
    “I can’t even see a dinghy down there, let alone a boat to cross over to the other side,” I groaned.
    “Just a thought,” Batfish sighed.
    I turned back to the front and watched Smith and Jimmy try to dislodge one of the lengths of the iron barrier. The wind rattled over the Range Rover, rocking us from side to side. Smith and Jimmy staggered in the howling gale, struggling to keep standing. They shook their heads and hurried back to the car.
    I winced at the wind and chips of ice blowing through the open doors when they climbed back into the front seats.
    “Well?” Wingate asked.
    Smith sighed and shook his head. “It’s a no go for this route, I’m afraid. Those god damn barriers are welded firmly in place. It’ll take more than our bare hands to rip those sons of bitches off.”
    “What about if we try and ram through it with the car?” I blurted.
    Smith looked at me with an incredulous expression on his face. “Those barriers were designed to withstand vehicle collisions at high speed, Wilde. Your solution would leave us with two things – whiplash and a totaled car.”
    “Sorry,” I said and glanced at Batfish. “Just another idea.”
    “We could try the old Glasgow Bridge to the east,” Jimmy suggested. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to cross over it but I can’t think of any other way around.”
    Smith glanced at Jimmy with a renewed impression of determination. “We’ll give it a shot. Give me directions as we go.” He slammed the gear shift stick in reverse and swung the Range Rover around in a U-turn.
    The back wheels swayed in the snow and the car threatened to fish tail as we drove down the slope of the bridge.
    “You’ll need to get onto the opposite lanes,” Jimmy said, pointing to the left. “We need to get off of the motorway on the next slip road; otherwise we’ll end up back where we started.”
    “U-huh, good call,” Smith said. He bumped up the curb on our left and with no central reservation barriers left in place was able to cross lanes, onto the opposite side of the motorway.
    Cordoba groaned when the Range Rover jolted over the curb, marking the north and south routes of the road. We were rocked around and a rucksack fell from the pile above my head, rolling on top of me.
    “Hey, take it easy, Smith,” Wingate admonished. “We want to keep Cordoba alive in time to make it to the hospital, not kill her on the way there.”
    “All right,” Smith sighed, holding up his hand in an apologetic gesture.
    “Take the next exit you come to on the left,” Jimmy instructed. “We’ll take the A8 route and I fucking pray the roads will be clear, you know.”
    “Let’s hope so,” Smith muttered.
    “You don’t think this is all going to be a total disaster?” Batfish asked. “Is there any