"No, it doesn't," Cole said. For one crazy moment his finger squeezed on the trigger. He imagined Roberts standing there before him instead of this unknown copper. He so wanted to put a bullet through the meddling fuck's brain, blast out all the bullshit he'd lived through these past twenty-four hours; Natasha invading his mind, the mockery, the two women he had killed, and the ghost of Lucy-Anne that Natasha had haunted him with.

Then he eased back, lowered the gun, sighed. "You, go to the car and get the kid. Back door on this side, away from the road. You do anything other than open the door and take out the baby, I'll shoot your boss."

The passenger, eyes wide, pistol barrel impression a white full moon on his forehead, walked stiffly toward the Mondeo.

"You know there's an armed response unit on its way right now, don't you?" the driver said.

"Of course. That's why I want to get away quickly. And next time I stop they may even be able to help."

"What do you mean?"

Cole shook his head and smiled at the thought of relaying everything that was happening. "You have no idea."

"Well, I can't let you leave."

"You will."

"I can't."

Cole stared at the man and could not help being impressed. "You're brave," he said. "But you're not stupid."

The policeman glanced away, and Cole knew that he had won.

The other policeman carried the baby back to the patrol car, both of them stinking of piss.

"I never meant to take the kid," Cole said. "Tell her father that. Tell him to take better care of her. And tell him … I'm looking after her. And him. And you two as well, if only you knew it. Now step aside." He motioned them away from the police car with the gun, leaned in and put several rounds into the dashboard radio, the steering column and the gearbox. The gunshots woke the baby and she started crying again.

"See how you like that," Cole said. "It's okay for the first three seconds, then it really starts to piss you off." He turned to walk back to the Mondeo.

"Son?"

Cole paused. The driver had advanced a couple of steps in front of his crippled patrol car.

"Son, drop it," he said. "Wait here with us. You can keep hold of the gun, but don't go driving off again. You do that, and you know how all this will end. You don't want to be just another item on the news, do you?"

Cole considered for a moment, thinking of the various strands now drawing together somewhere up ahead. Roberts and the waking berserker girl; Lane and Sophia and their kids, probably even now coming out from their hidey-hole to meet them; Major Higgins and whatever military presence he had been able to muster; the police armed response units streaking this way even now; and him, Cole, a murderer with nothing left to live for other than the obsession that had taken his life.

"No," he said. "No, I have no idea how all this will end." He walked to the Mondeo, took a few seconds to restock the pistol's magazine, then drove away.

Chapter Thirteen

Natasha had said he was getting warmer. Cole was trusting everything he was doing now on the word of the lying little berserker bitch, and he hated every aspect of that. It was almost four o'clock, and soon the sun would be setting. He didn't think he could go another night without sleep.

His head still hurt from where Roberts had knocked him out. Since then he had crashed a car, been attacked by Roberts and been run over, and his body was not thanking him at all. He supposed he should have accepted the pain as a small price to pay for the bad things he had done that day, but it inconvenienced him, made it more difficult to drive, so he cursed every ache. His thighs, especially the left, were swelling and stiffening, and the longer he sat still in the car the less easy it would be to move when the time came.

"Where are you, you little bitch?" he said, hoping that she would answer. Nothing.

He drove quickly. There was no point in trying to avoid being pulled over; the police were after him anyway, and the faster he drove the longer it would take for the armed response unit to catch up. Once they were on him it would be over, no way to avoid them, no way to outrun them, and as he'd already shot up a police car they would be taking no chances.

Damn you, Higgins! If the major had kept his word and taken Cole along, perhaps they'd already be on Roberts and the girl. Maybe the major already was. If he had a helicopter and contact with the police, the final battle may already be taking place. But I don't think so, Cole thought. And not for the first time he wondered just how much information Natasha could pluck out of his head.

It took ten minutes for the armed response unit to pick him up.

He passed a motorway exit, drove quickly under the overpass and drew level with the entrance ramp when he saw the car streaking down from above. Though unmarked, its speed gave it away, and when Cole looked over he saw two faces pressed against the side windows. They were evidently as surprised as him.

Both men turned quickly away, and that confirmed Cole's fears.

He had only seconds to act. He pressed down on the gas and moved forward, drawing level with the police car as it came down the ramp toward the inside lane. They obviously planned to pull ahead of him and then slow down, perhaps nudge him from the road if he failed to pull over. Cole could not allow that. He had one chance to move on, only one, and that was to disable the armed unit here and now. If he got embroiled in an extended chase there would be others, called in from the surrounding countryside to head him off at the next junction. Cole was a good driver, but he was also realistic; he knew that there was little chance of escaping a police chase.

And if they managed to stop him, he'd likely be shot.

He had seen this done in movies, and it always looked easy. But he was not kidding himself. Making sure his seatbelt was clicked in properly he drifted across the motorway into the outside lane, looked left without turning his head, saw the police car move onto the motorway and pick up speed. And then he turned sharply to the left and broadsided them.

The impact was shattering. The steering wheel jumped from his hands and turned to the right, jerking him back across the road. He passed between a lorry and a minibus filled with pensioners, staring at him with grey disapproval. Horns blared, brakes screamed, and Cole only just managed to bring the car under control before it barreled into the central reservation. It skimmed the metal barrier, throwing out sparks and splinters of metal from its front panel. His door buckled inward and punched his leg, and he screamed out loud as the already wounded limb was subjected to more abuse. He looked left and saw that the police car was still there, its side dented and scraped but otherwise unharmed.

The men were looking across at him again, and this time they did not avert their gaze. Cole smiled and turned hard left again.

They were ready this time, and their driver slammed on his brakes. The police car threw up a cloud of smoke as Cole drifted in front of it, and even before he realised what had happened they accelerated and rammed him from behind. He jerked back in his seat, head bouncing from the headrest, and accelerated away, shifting back into the middle lane as the police car pulled up beside him.

Left again, hard, and he caught them by surprise. Perhaps the police driver thought he'd be too shaken to drive straight into them again. Or maybe he had too much faith in his patrol car's speed. Either way, Cole connected before they could move past him. He kept a tight hold of the wheel this time and twisted it to the left, arms straight, elbows locked, foot pressed to the floor. The sound of tearing metal screamed above the protesting roar of the engine. Wheels juddered as they were Tom the wrong way, and the stench of burning rubber filled the car. Glass smashed, cool air whistled in.