The Pure

crossings, skips. In his mind he was constructing a map of what he saw: an obstacle here, a short cut there, an opportunity to double-back around that corner. Preparation was of the essence: he was approaching the race of his life.
    Uzi turned on to the Edgware Road in the direction of Maida Vale. The traffic was denser here, and as each minute passed and the rush hour approached, the traffic got denser still. When he arrived at Little Venice, he slowed, swung the monstrous bike round and killed the engine. The buildings were low and the pavements broad, and the trees were losing their leaves. The sky spread like a great grey canopy above, gathering the light of day. He slipped his hand into his pocket and turned his comms device on.
    ‘OK, I’m in place,’ he said. ‘Do you copy? Over.’
    There was a pause. Then a voice in his earpiece: ‘Copy that. Stand by. Leaking your location now.’
    He sat back in the saddle and lit a cigarette. He had minutes, only minutes. His mind felt fresh, focused, ready for danger. A woman walked past with a dog on a lead, mumbling incomprehensibly to herself. Across the road, a man slept on a bench. A bus rumbled past, sending little tremors up Uzi’s legs. He smoked.
    ‘OK,’ came the voice in his earpiece, ‘location leaked. Prepare for interception. Good luck. Over.’
    Instinctively he glanced at the circular mirror attached to one of the handlebars. Nothing, of course. Even the Office couldn’t mobilise that quickly. Nevertheless, he lowered his visor, leaned forward and started the engine. It throbbed beneath him. He was ready.
    Two minutes passed. He swung the bike at a right angle to the road to maximise manoeuvrability; there was no telling whether the Office would come from the north or the south. Uzi knew they would try to box him in, so in all likelihood they would approach from both directions at once. As soon as they came into view, he would need to decide on his move instantly and execute it with precision. There could be no hesitation. He was already gambling that they would try to take him alive rather than shoot him on sight. The margin for error was zero.
    The woman with the dog disappeared around the corner; the man on the bench still snored. Another bus groaned by, half-full with half-asleep Londoners. Uzi looked up and down the road, north, then south, then north again, looking for signs of the Office. They would come on motorbikes, he knew that. It would be stupid to try to chase down a bike with cars in a built-up area like this. But they didn’t know what he was riding; the only information that had been leaked was his location and the fact that he was on a motorbike. This high-performance machine would come as a surprise, and – at least, this was the plan – give him the edge he needed.
    The first sign of his hunters was invisible. The buzz of engines, perhaps three or four, in the distance, growing in volume. Behind his visor, Uzi gritted his teeth and blinked hard to clear his vision.
    And there they were. On both horizons at once, north and south, as he had expected, the morning light glinting off their helmets. They were approaching fast, but at this distance he was unable to see what sort of machines they were riding. He rocked his bike off its stand and drove slowly into the middle of the road, trying to judge distances. Yes, the two bikes coming from the city would reach him first. He waited. A single drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face like a spider. This was it. He was confident of the preparations he had made, and the machine he was riding. So long as they didn’t open fire at him, this had a good chance of success.
    Just as the motorbikes were almost upon him, he twisted his throttle aggressively and his bike sprang into life like a beast. He swung it round and accelerated towards them, the front wheel lifting off the ground as he gained speed. The two riders in front of him swerved in surprise, and Uzi jinked between them and roared off down the Edgware Road. In his wing mirror he saw them looping their motorcycles around and joining their comrades who had been approaching from the other direction. Then all four sped after him in pursuit. Uzi let out a whoop, deafeningly loud inside his helmet. He was alive – he was alive. The first phase of the operation had gone according to plan. His timing had been perfect, and the Office could not box him in now; his pursuers were strung out behind him, and he was the one