Page 2 of Savage Justice

Tony exits the shop at a dead run. I see him coming and throw open his door.

“Get in.”

“What the fuck’s going on?” He almost rolls on top of me as I lurch out into the road to a chorus of screeching brakes and road rage.

“Fucker in front just snatched a kid.”

He gapes at me and grabs for his seat belt. “You sure?”

“Course I’m fucking sure. A girl, at the bus stop. About ten, I’d say, with long blonde hair in a ponytail. He spoke to her, and she started walking away. He snatched her and bundled her in the back of his van.”

The van in question is just turning right, about a hundred yards ahead of us. I put my foot down.

Tony stops asking questions. Instead, he pulls out his phone and speed dials our boss, Jack Morgan. He repeats what I just told him.

“Yeah, we’re chasing. The bastard is still in sight. Okay, will do.” He hangs up. “We’re to intercept and recover the kid whatever way we need to. No police, but he doesn’t mind if we leave the fucker for them to pick up later.”

Makes sense. We never directly engage with the police if we can avoid it. We handle shit ourselves and generally do a better job. There’s less red tape using our methods. But once this is all over, and assuming we can get to her in time, the kid will definitely tell her parents what happened. And her family will definitely phone the cops, so they’re going to get involved. But by then, we’ll be long gone, our civic duty done.

“He’s heading out of the city,” Tony observes unnecessarily.

I can see where we’re going, and I don’t like it. We’re passing a load of empty industrial sheds, ideal territory for concealing a prisoner. We should know, we’ve used such places ourselves often enough.

“He knows he’s got company,” Tony breathes.

“Yeah.” The van is weaving between the sheds, trying to lose us. Not a chance, I’m sticking to him like glue. “There’s a rifle under the seat. Pass me it.”

“You can’t shoot at them. What about the kid?” Nevertheless, he’s already reaching for the weapon.

“I’ll take out the rear tyres.”

“On the move?” He checks that the gun is loaded. “I know you’re a good shot, but maybe I should—”

“On the move if I have to. Pop the sunroof.”

I’m not just a good shot. I’m a marksman, a trained sniper. Cut my teeth in the army doing tours of Afghanistan and Iraq before I decided to try my luck in Civvy Street. This should be a doddle.

I hit the gas hard, and the SUV surges forward, gaining a good twenty yards or so. I pick my moment, a long, straight channel between two corrugated concrete walls, and stamp on the brakes. The SUV almost stands on its nose, but I’m up, waist height through the sunroof, and levelling the rifle sight. A moment to lock on to the target, to assess the distance, the wind speed, the continuing motion of the white van. Then, I squeeze the trigger.

The nearside rear tyre explodes. The van careers to the left, then to the right as the driver wrestles for control.

I take aim again, and this time hit the offside tyre. The van spins so it’s now facing us. The driver is clearly visible, still fighting to keep his vehicle moving.

He realises it’s no good and flings open the door. He’s down and running.

I track him with the rifle, my finger on the trigger. It would be such a simple matter, and the bastard deserves it…

“I’ll get him. You see to the kid.” Tony leaps out of the SUV and charges after the van driver. He’s gaining on him with every stride, so it’s not going to be much of a chase. Tony does an hour in the gym pretty much every day, whereas the man he’s following looks like he’s a stranger to a bench press, though not a pork pie, probably.

I drop the rifle on my seat and exit the vehicle as well. I grab a crowbar from the boot, standard enforcer equipment, and approach the van.

“Hey,” I call out, knocking lightly on the rear door. “Don’t be scared. I’m going to get you out of there.” The poor kid must be terrified. She has no idea who I am or what’s coming next.

There’s the sound of scuffling from within, and I think I hear a sob. Christ.

I get to work with the crowbar, wedge one end in the seam between the two doors, and haul on it. The metal creases and buckles, but the lock doesn’t give way.

Fuck. I reposition the crowbar, digging deeper, and wrench it around. The lock snaps, and the door flies open.

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