The Pure

leading the way. They had taken the bait. The chase was on.
    There was no real contest. Uzi’s motorbike was superior in every way, and it ate up the tarmac hungrily. The gap between him and his pursuers widened as bus stops, cars, trees, traffic islands flashed by. His comms device crackled and a voice came through into his ear: ‘I can see they’ve found you, over.’
    ‘Too right,’ said Uzi excitedly, ‘the fuckers don’t stand a chance against this thing. Over.’
    ‘Try not to lose them. We want them to keep you in sight, over.’
    ‘Copy that.’
    Uzi turned left, and his pursuers were out of sight for a few long seconds. He was home and dry, he thought. He should kill his speed, allow them back in the game. But just as his motorbike was screaming through the network of flyovers and slip-roads on the Marylebone Road, something unexpected happened. Another two motorcycles shot down the slip-road from the flyover, swerved in parallel across the intersection, and fell in directly behind him. Where had they come from? They were close, too close; their bikes were chunkier, faster than the others. He opened the throttle, the huge back tyre squealed, and even at this speed the front wheel of his bike sprang into the air as it accelerated. But the two riders behind him accelerated too, and their front wheels rose as well; he was not going to lose them so easily. He heard a dull pop and something grazed his helmet, throwing his head to the side and making his bike swerve then right itself. He glanced in the rear-view mirror: one of the riders was aiming a gun at him. From the sound of the shot, and the fact that his helmet was still intact, he guessed he was using rubber bullets. He hoped.
    Instantly Uzi pulled his bike off the road and on to the pavement, narrowly missing a cluster of pedestrians, and took a sharp left on to Lisson Grove. This gained him some advantage; his two pursuers overshot the turning slightly, and lost speed as they veered from one side of the road to the other, trying to keep up. As he approached the zebra crossing he made another unexpected turning and sped down Harewood Row. This was a narrow street, and the howl of Uzi’s engine echoed deafeningly off the flat-faced apartment blocks on either side. But the Office riders could not be fooled twice, and they lost no time in turning after him. There was about twenty metres between them; that was all.
    At the end of the road he swerved left, then right, and screamed along the road that led past Marylebone Station, front wheel lifting off the ground. Just as he approached the wrought-iron canopy that stretched across the street at the entrance to the station, a black taxi pulled out in front of him. Uzi pulled the handlebars to the right; for a moment his leg dragged against the flank of the taxi, and then he was away amid a volley of honks and shouts. He glanced in the mirror, just in time to see one of his pursuers swerving around the taxi, mounting the pavement and colliding with the pillars at the station entrance. The man rose in the air as the bike somersaulted beneath him, then he spun like a dancer against the wall, landed hard on the pavement, and skidded several metres before coming to a halt. Believe.
    The chase was still on. The Office had its prey fully in its jaws, and Uzi’s ploy suddenly looked about to collapse. Perhaps he had gone too far this time. Perhaps he had been too audacious. But it was too late; all he could do now was ride for all he was worth. The remaining Office rider was pushing his machine hard, staying close to Uzi and looking for the opportunity for a clear shot. In the mirror Uzi could see that he was riding a red Kawasaki, a Ninja he thought, and wearing a red helmet. He raised his gun and Uzi ducked; there was a succession of pops, but nothing hit. Uzi wove erratically, mounting the pavement and then back into the road, turning corners without warning, keeping his speed as high as he could.
    ‘Everything all right?’ came the voice on his comms device. ‘You’ve taken a couple of detours, over.’
    ‘I’m handling it, over,’ said Uzi, surprised at the volume and pitch of his voice.
    ‘Are they shooting? Over.’
    ‘Rubber bullets, I think, over.’
    ‘Don’t shoot back. We need them to follow you all the way. But for fuck’s sake don’t get shot, either. Over.’
    ‘Copy that.’
    The rush hour was approaching now, and the traffic was beginning to thicken. Uzi turned down Great