He'd been fetched a tremendous blow with an umbrella from Harry.
One of the guards, realising a snatch was in progress, whipped out a baton and smacked it down hard on Bruce's head. Bruce staggered a little, but recovered. The guard, puzzled, raised the baton again. As he did so, Buster swung his cosh and caught the guard in the jaw. There was a sickly cracking sound. He did it again and the man crumpled into a heap. Buster leaned over for a coup de grace when he felt Gordy's hand on his arm. Gordy indicated three prone men, all with blood on their faces, each groaning and out of the game. Charlie, Gordy and Harry were all panting from the short, sharp skirmish. Bruce was pulling the laden trolley clear of the fallen men. The first part of the snatch was over.
'What the bloody hell's going on in there?' shouted the police driver, trying to make sense of the melee through the distortion of the glass windows.
His partner looked up reluctantly from the newspaper and his tawdry fantasies. 'Jesus Christ, someone's havin' it.'
He scrambled to leave the car, extracting his truncheon as he did so, while the driver reached for the radio handset to call it in.
As the copper left the car, Tiny Dave and Ian bent down and stabbed the rear tyres of the police car with the chisels. The Dunlops exploded in a rush of fetid air.
When the policeman turned to investigate this new occurrence, Tiny Dave swung at him repeatedly with his phony umbrella. Under the rain of blows, the copper fell back; two more sharp raps on the head and he was on the deck. Ian, meanwhile, had jerked the driver out of the car and felled him with a blow from the steel bowler.
Tiny Dave gave Roy and Mickey the thumbs-up.
The two Jags swung around the police cars and reversed up to the entrance in a cloud of exhaust smoke, slotting neatly either side of the Bedford armoured car.
The apron outside Comet House was quickly full of men, some of them carrying strongboxes.
'Get the doors!' yelled Bruce.
The rear doors of the Jaguars were yanked open.
They had rehearsed this dozens of times, but Bruce knew amnesia could strike even the most well-prepared team. So he carried on with the instructions. 'Put the boxes where the back seats were.'
The strongboxes, two per Jaguar, were slotted in to form new rear seats.
'Blankets.'
A cover was thrown over the boxes.
'Get in. Move it.'
Three men clambered in and sat on top of each of them. The doors were pulled shut.
Mickey was first away, tyres squealing and smoking, heading west away from Comet House towards the exit gate.
Please God, let them not have replaced the chain, thought Roy as he accelerated after him.
The young receptionist, sure that the robbers had fled, reached over and pressed the alarm button with his undamaged but unsteady hand. A siren screeched around the hallway; he knew a similar sound would be torturing the ears of those down in the strongroom and at the local police station. Then he slumped back down and cupped his good hand over his nose as his palms filled with the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Fear had burst the vessels in his nose.
The felled driver of the police car, his vision still blurred from the blow, managed to crawl back inside the Wolseley and grab his handset. He pressed the transmit button. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the words slurred. It was as if brain and jaw muscles were no longer in sync. But he was certain he could make himself understood. 'Hello, control. Hello, control. This is Romeo Romeo Alpha. Robbery in progress .. .'
Mickey slithered the Jag to a halt next to the exit gate in the perimeter fence. Gordy, primed for action, was out of the car while it was still rolling. He ran to the gate, lifted the chain and pulled at the phony link.
Nothing happened. The chain held.
Roy heard his anguished shout of 'Fuck!' even over the idling engine. As he braked to a full stop, he wondered how long it would take before Gordy abandoned the trick linkage and
One of the guards, realising a snatch was in progress, whipped out a baton and smacked it down hard on Bruce's head. Bruce staggered a little, but recovered. The guard, puzzled, raised the baton again. As he did so, Buster swung his cosh and caught the guard in the jaw. There was a sickly cracking sound. He did it again and the man crumpled into a heap. Buster leaned over for a coup de grace when he felt Gordy's hand on his arm. Gordy indicated three prone men, all with blood on their faces, each groaning and out of the game. Charlie, Gordy and Harry were all panting from the short, sharp skirmish. Bruce was pulling the laden trolley clear of the fallen men. The first part of the snatch was over.
'What the bloody hell's going on in there?' shouted the police driver, trying to make sense of the melee through the distortion of the glass windows.
His partner looked up reluctantly from the newspaper and his tawdry fantasies. 'Jesus Christ, someone's havin' it.'
He scrambled to leave the car, extracting his truncheon as he did so, while the driver reached for the radio handset to call it in.
As the copper left the car, Tiny Dave and Ian bent down and stabbed the rear tyres of the police car with the chisels. The Dunlops exploded in a rush of fetid air.
When the policeman turned to investigate this new occurrence, Tiny Dave swung at him repeatedly with his phony umbrella. Under the rain of blows, the copper fell back; two more sharp raps on the head and he was on the deck. Ian, meanwhile, had jerked the driver out of the car and felled him with a blow from the steel bowler.
Tiny Dave gave Roy and Mickey the thumbs-up.
The two Jags swung around the police cars and reversed up to the entrance in a cloud of exhaust smoke, slotting neatly either side of the Bedford armoured car.
The apron outside Comet House was quickly full of men, some of them carrying strongboxes.
'Get the doors!' yelled Bruce.
The rear doors of the Jaguars were yanked open.
They had rehearsed this dozens of times, but Bruce knew amnesia could strike even the most well-prepared team. So he carried on with the instructions. 'Put the boxes where the back seats were.'
The strongboxes, two per Jaguar, were slotted in to form new rear seats.
'Blankets.'
A cover was thrown over the boxes.
'Get in. Move it.'
Three men clambered in and sat on top of each of them. The doors were pulled shut.
Mickey was first away, tyres squealing and smoking, heading west away from Comet House towards the exit gate.
Please God, let them not have replaced the chain, thought Roy as he accelerated after him.
The young receptionist, sure that the robbers had fled, reached over and pressed the alarm button with his undamaged but unsteady hand. A siren screeched around the hallway; he knew a similar sound would be torturing the ears of those down in the strongroom and at the local police station. Then he slumped back down and cupped his good hand over his nose as his palms filled with the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Fear had burst the vessels in his nose.
The felled driver of the police car, his vision still blurred from the blow, managed to crawl back inside the Wolseley and grab his handset. He pressed the transmit button. When he spoke, his voice was thick, the words slurred. It was as if brain and jaw muscles were no longer in sync. But he was certain he could make himself understood. 'Hello, control. Hello, control. This is Romeo Romeo Alpha. Robbery in progress .. .'
Mickey slithered the Jag to a halt next to the exit gate in the perimeter fence. Gordy, primed for action, was out of the car while it was still rolling. He ran to the gate, lifted the chain and pulled at the phony link.
Nothing happened. The chain held.
Roy heard his anguished shout of 'Fuck!' even over the idling engine. As he braked to a full stop, he wondered how long it would take before Gordy abandoned the trick linkage and
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