‘Who’s listening? Who knows; who fuckin knows we’re here?’ He moved towards Dave who was trying to push himself back up into the passenger seat.

Joe leant on his drivers’ door handle, more in accident than intent as he cowered away from the madman sat alongside him. He was trying to get as far away from him as possible. The handle moved and the door suddenly opened and the momentum of his weight made him tumble onto the road surface several feet below. Out of instinct and abject terror, he jumped to his feet and ran and stumbled towards the rear of the lorry.

A car and a motorcycle swerved and narrowly missed him. Horns sounded, brakes and tyres squealed and screeched. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. There was no sound of tearing metal no screams of pain. Miraculously, there were no accidents, no motorway carnage.

Joe ran unsteadily along the hard shoulder. Each footstep taking him further away from the mayhem behind. He might die from a heart attack, he thought as the exertion took its toll on his body, but at least he wouldn’t die at the hands of the maniac he had escaped from.

‘You fucker, you’re gonna die.’ Shotgun lifted the sawn off to shoulder height and pulled the trigger. As the muzzle erupted, Dave ducked down and fell to the floor of the lorry. The passenger door window behind him shattered and fragments of glass and plastic door trim sprayed out in a wide arc onto the grass embankment of the Motorway hard shoulder.

‘Be advised, shots fired, repeat, shots have been fired. One male, believed to be the driver, out of the vehicle on hard shoulder approximately one hundred metres to the rear of the wagon. Appears unharmed. Casualties inside vehicle not known, repeat, not known if there are any casualties in the vehicle.’

The two control rooms, and the two Armed Response vehicles, now also stopped on the hard shoulder two miles behind the stationary lorry, listened in stunned silence to the calm, matter of fact, commentary of Steve Wilson as he viewed the scene through the camera lens of the helicopter.

‘The male who exited the driver’s side door is a heavy set man of about 55 years; he is now collapsed on the embankment on the safe side of the Armco barrier on the hard shoulder about 300 yards to the rear of the target vehicle.’

The high powered camera zoomed in to its maximum telephoto capacity.

‘A white Vauxhall cavalier motor car, has just pulled up on the hard shoulder. The driver, a male about 30 years of age and a female who looks to be about 25 years appear to be tending him. The male believed to be the lorry driver is making gestures towards the wagon. He is now being helped into the rear of the cavalier by the female who has climbed in alongside him. The other male is getting into the drivers side of the cavalier. The vehicle has rejoined the main carriageway at high speed and has now passed the stationary lorry. I will maintain my position to the rear of the target vehicle. I am not in a position at this time to give any further details regarding the occupants of the cavalier. Hotel Charlie One to control, please acknowledge this information.’

In many respects, there was no requirement for Steve Wilson to have given such a commentary regarding the unfolding drama as the camera footage was being relayed back live to the Incident Room and the Incident Commander and his team were viewing the same scene as Steve. It was merely normal procedure in the event that the camera failed. Steve’s commentary was also being tape recorded for later transcription in the event that it may be required at any future trial proceedings.

He knew the driver of the cavalier would be stopped at some point up the motorway and that the lorry driver would be debriefed and given medical aid. He would later learn that the cavalier driver and his friend were merely good Samaritans who had nothing whatsoever to do with the unfolding drama. They had seen the driver stumble from his wagon and collapse on the grass verge and had stopped to help.

At the moment, his thoughts were diverted elsewhere. He may have sounded calm, but inside, his heart was pounding. Had Dave Watkins survived the blast?

Dave was crouched on the floor of the wagon. His hand was near the radio. The control rooms heard the shots and could hear him screaming at the gunman. Then, silence.

Chapter 6

Dave thought he was shouting at his attacker, but he couldn’t hear his own words. The blast so near to his ears had stunned and momentarily deafened him. The gunman saw Dave’s hand near to the radio. He had fired the two shells in the sawn off intending to take Dave’s head off and had shattered the passenger window instead. Small pieces of shotgun pellets were embedded in the plastic fascia and metal surround of the door where seconds earlier the glass had been.

He saw the blood coming from his victims’ forehead. As Dave was crouching on the floor of the cab, he hammered the stock of the shotgun onto the radio twice and the plastic casing shattered into several pieces. There was no way that radio would ever work again. He raised the gun again, and violently struck Dave a further blow on the top of his head. He lifted the butt of the gun once more intending to smash his victims head to a pulp. He stopped and looked at the broken and bloody figure below him.

Dave was in severe pain. His head was spinning and he slumped further onto the floor. He looked up and could see that the features of his would be assassin had changed. Gone was the contorted rage and bulging eyeballs to be replaced by a calmness that Dave had not seen throughout his ordeal so far. Ordinarily, he would have been thankful for the change of demeanour. Not now! In that instant, he knew he was about to die. They looked into each others eyes. No words were exchanged as the gunman placed his foot on Dave’s chest and pinned him strongly to the floor. With his right leg twisted under his body and the weight of his attacker pushing down on him, he was still too stunned, too weakened to even attempt to get up. He was resigned to his fate. He knew it would be quick. Two twelve bore shotgun cartridges into his face at this range left little to the imagination.

Johnson broke the barrel of the shotgun and the two spent shells ejected automatically. A little wisp of smoke followed the cartridges out of the barrel and Dave watched silently as they tumbled through the air, almost in slow motion, and exited through the open driver’s door to fall to the road surface of the motorway several feet below. The car driver passing the stationary Lorry on the hard shoulder was oblivious to the drama unfolding several feet away from him and dismissed the double ping noise as a bit of motorway debris as the two shells were thrown further up the carriageway by the front bumper of his car only to be crushed flat by the next lorry thundering behind.

Johnson reached into his pocket and without taking his eyes off his prey, slowly and very deliberately, placed two new cartridges into the breech and snapped the barrel shut in a well practised manoeuvre. He levelled the gun at Dave. He said nothing as his fingers tightened on the trigger once more. He didn’t need to tell his victim that he was about to die. He could see the terror in his targets eyes. He smiled slightly. Being the sadistic bastard that he knew himself to be, he liked to see the power he had. It didn’t matter to him whether or not the victim was animal or human. For him, it was the cries of pain and suffering he enjoyed most.

Dave shouted at him.  ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. I can get us out. I can drive, I can drive.’

Dave stretched his hands out towards the gunman in a futile gesture to deflect the shells as and when the muzzle erupted once more. It was an instinctive action, he knew full well that when he fired, his hands would be ripped off first before the force of the blast continued, taking his head from his shoulders. He felt the pressure of Johnson’s foot ease slightly from his chest. Dave hadn’t realised that he had closed his eyes waiting for the blast which hadn’t come so far. He looked up and saw the gunman look away from him out of the windscreen of the wagon. A sort of distant look as though he was thinking; weighing up his options. The situation had changed dramatically during the last few minutes and he looked around the cab surveying the damage.