Defender(88)

Lundt spotted the Land Rover. It was screeching to a halt. The rear door burst open and a pair of gloved hands reached out, clawing for him.

Stojakovic raised his weapon.





* * *





Across the park, Morgan watched the battle between Lundt and Stojakovic unfolding.

Morgan was dazed, pain was reaching from deep within, when he broke into a sprint around the edge of the war memorial. He, too, could see Lundt tiring from the contest, and a Land Rover coming in along the edge of the park. The traffic around the Liverpool and Elizabeth Street intersection was clear and the escape vehicle's erratic movement continued unimpeded as it headed to collect Lundt. Morgan could see Stojakovic was weighing up whether to continue with the chase or just shoot. "Shoot, John! Shoot him!" Morgan cried. Stojakovic had him, but Morgan saw that the Land Rover was too close. There was a flash of movement from within the vehicle. Stojakovic didn't see it.

"John! To your right!" Morgan cried, sprinting at the top of his range. "To your right!"

The shot was barely distinguishable above the clamour of the traffic, but the bullet found its mark and Stojakovic buckled. The policeman's hands instantly gathered inwards and, dropping his gun, clutched at the centre of his ruptured stomach. His feet lifted from the ground, his back arched and his jaw clamped shut before he fell forward, flat on his face, and lay still.

Lundt had not turned or even halted at the shot. He kept running those last few feet to the Land Rover. At the front passenger window, a gloved hand retracted, still holding a heavy-calibre revolver.

Alex Morgan was powering on pure adrenalin.

He had forgotten his own injury, ignoring the searing ache forcing itself upon him. Instead, he drove himself on in pursuit of Lundt.

Welcoming hands reached out from the rear of the escape vehicle, pulling Lundt inside. Horns from other cars and buses were blaring in protest. Lundt struggled to clamber in smoothly, and was hauled unceremoniously inside. As they wrestled to get him aboard, they failed to notice the swift advance of Morgan. When they'd seen the cop fall, they'd discounted any further threat. The priority was to extract Lundt and flee the scene.

Then Morgan was upon them; his actions were rapid, deliberate and calculating.

Calling on the depleted vestiges of his energy reserves, Alex Morgan leapt headlong at the open rear door of the vehicle. In mid-flight he reached up above the rear cabin of the Land Rover with his still functioning left arm and his straining fingers mercifully closed around a custom-built, rooftop luggage rack. He held on with all of his strength; his right arm hung limp.

"Alex," came a cry from the back seat. "Alex!"

Morgan's heart sank as he caught a fleeting glimpse of Arena's blue eyes before she was thrust roughly back down to the floor by one of Lundt's lieutenants.

The rear cabin of the Land Rover was a gaggle of disorder. Lundt and another man were a tangle of limbs, struggling to regain their poise.

"Shoot the fucker!" Lundt was yelling. "Shoot him! Shoot him!"

Morgan's face was a mask of rage. He had just seen Lundt murder the young guy before his eyes, and God only knew what shape Stojakovic was in.

In Malfajiri and elsewhere, Morgan had seen the results of the legacy of Victor Lundt and too many others like him - the deaths, the mutilations, the lifelong psychological trauma inflicted upon innocent people already struggling to survive. The small nations of the world were easy prey for big governments and big business. To Morgan, the very thought of allowing Lundt and Johnson to profit from more bloodshed repulsed him. Now, on top of it all, there was Arena, a hostage within his grasp. In those split seconds between latching onto the luggage rack and summing up the confusion around him, Morgan's mind was awash with images of Lundt: Lundt of the past, Lundt of the present and, prophetically, of the future.

No!

Morgan was decided. The man had forfeited his right to live long ago.

With his left foot braced hard against the rear running board and clinging on for dear life, Alex Morgan raised a heavily booted right foot as high as he could. Then, in the blissful elation of pure, unrestrained retribution, he kicked ferociously at Lundt's exposed back and head. Hammering his heel angrily with each and every pile-driving blow, Morgan grew more and more enraged. When the other man tried to fend him off, Morgan struck at him too, alternating his feet as he flailed his victims. His onslaught was brutal. He could almost feel their ribs breaking beneath every strike.

By now, the Land Rover was forcing its way into the traffic on Liverpool Street and had made some distance before the driver even realised what was going on behind him or even heard what Lundt was calling out. In the heat of the moment, he assumed that Lundt was safely inside and that it was clear to take off. But the unexpected sight in his rear view mirror of a demented man kicking viciously at the others caused him to swerve violently, striking hard up against a huge furniture lorry in the adjacent lane. Immediately, there was an angry chorus of horns, and with the abrupt impact Morgan almost lost his footing. The Land Rover was forced left and went careening into College Street, heading north.