Page 52 of Thief

Ten more paces into the darkness, and the Mercedes perfectly tuned engine rumbled to life mixing with the youths’ fading cackles.

Shit! Where the hell is John?

Was he baling out on her? Had he left her and chased after the jewels alone like he’d wanted to all along? The abandonment thoughts were raining down like bullets when she heard her name whispered from a dark doorway.

“Hurry up, will you!” John thrust her leathers towards her.

Kat didn’t hesitate. She was so relieved he hadn’t dumped her. Quickly, she shoved her legs into the trousers, hitched her thin dress into the waistband and whacked her arms into the jacket sleeves. The bike’s engine fired but the lights stayed off.

“Quicker!” John instructed as the Mercedes glided past them; Carlos’s bald head silhouetted as he sat with his hands casually on the steering wheel.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Kat puffed, dragging up the zipper.

“Go faster,” John growled. He revved the engine and flicked the stand up.

Kat wriggled her feet back into her high heels and yanked the helmet over her head, by which point John was rolling out the doorway cursing. “Ready.” She threw her leg over just as the bike flew off.

Linking her fingers at his waist, she leant forward and pressed her helmet into his back as they bumped down from the pavement. The headlights flicked on, and she settled in for the ride.

* * * *

By the time they’d hit the road, Carlos had turned the corner of the High Street and was out of sight. John whacked the bike to full throttle to reach the end of the street at double the speed limit. He hoped the cops he’d seen patrolling earlier had been called to business elsewhere. They were the last thing he needed right now.

He cursed Kat again for the fact he’d lost sight of Carlos. She’d seriously slowed him down by insisting on coming with him. But the Mercedes was a big noticeable car, and he reckoned Carlos would be heading for the motorway. In anticipation, John skipped the lights and swung to the left. Racing under a tall brick railway bridge, he opened up the engine for a few hundred yards as he approached a flood lit roundabout.

There he is.

John rammed on the brakes, and their bodies slid forward with deceleration. Carlos turned—as John had predicted—towards the motorway and London.

Once on the M1 he fell back so they wouldn’t get noticed. Ducked and dodged, mingled and became invisible, inconspicuous. John relaxed into the job, knowing it would take a while. He felt his adrenaline release slow down and became aware of Kat's arms tight around him and her helmet pressing against his back. He soon got into a rhythm of staying several cars behind the Merc, letting other vehicles swing in and out of the lanes between them and using them as cover.

Carlos, John noticed, kept the car in the slow and middle lanes. Indicating his changes carefully and following lane discipline rules to the letter. He stayed a good distance from the cars in front and was being careful not to draw any unwanted attention to himself.

The street lamps whizzed continually past, and the dazzling headlights on the opposite lanes seemed never ending. But, finally, they hit North London. A few high rises and warehouses later and Carlos exited the motorway. He headed for the North Circular, travelling in an easterly direction.

John followed, keeping a red Royal Mail van between them. The roads got smaller after several sets of traffic lights and an interchange. He continued to keep a generous distance, switching lanes and slipping behind other vehicles when the post van had taken a different route from theirs.

Eventually, he brought the wheels to a quiet roll in a street devoid of lampposts. Flicking the lights off, they came to rest behind an overflowing, rotten smelling skip.

The left side of the street was made up of several small, scruffy warehouse units, all in complete darkness. Dotted amongst them were a couple of abandoned, boarded up shops, and at the end, facing them, was a short row of two up, two down terraced houses. A dull light shone from one, an upstairs window with ragged, haphazardly drawn curtains.

Along the opposite side of the street ran a high corrugated fence propped up with iron girders, and in peeling, white paint, a shaky handwritten sign advised ‘Private Property. Keep out!’

Carlos had brought the Mercedes to a halt beside large metal gates. He kept the engine turning over and the lights on but made no move to climb out.

The front door of the end terrace house swung open, spilling a puddle of bright light onto the street. A tall, gangly youth shot down the double front step and into the road. He was dressed in green overalls and had a backwards baseball cap perched above his long, thin face. He took several rushed paces towards Carlos with his hand delving into his baggy overall pocket. He ground to a halt at the gates, fiddled with the padlock then swung them open.

Carlos manoeuvred the stolen car through the gates and slunk into blackness.

Kat slid off the motorbike.

John followed, pulling at his helmet. “Well, we know where Carlos’s yard is. Now, let’s go and get my Porsche.”

* * * *

Kat snapped off her helmet and studied the imposing, sharp gates. She didn’t fancying going anywhere near Carlos again tonight. She was just about to voice this when John grabbed her around the waist.

He dragged her behind the skip and crouched his body over hers.

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