Operation Hurricane: The Evan Boyd Adventures #1 Read online

  He smiled at the rider before he swerved alongside the bike, lifted his right leg and kicked at the handlebars. The rider shouted in surprise as the machine turned sharply, setting him on a collision course with a stationary car. The man managed to brake enough so that the minor impact didn’t damage the bike, but he was forced to stop and watch as Boyd powered off into the distance.

  Boyd looked back to see the rider wrench the bike back into a straight line and rev the engine. Facing front again, he ducked and weaved between a gang of workmen who were unloading supplies from the back of a flatbed lorry. They shouted after him – the motorbike would have to slow to avoid them too, so Boyd pedalled for all he was worth to create more distance between them.

  Up ahead, there was a narrow fork in the road, and in the middle sat a little restaurant, with doors on both the left- and right-hand roads. Boyd quickly hatched a plan; even as it came to him, he knew it was bordering on crazy, but what choice did he have right now? He would have to let the motorbike get close again. Boyd slowed and the rider cautiously began closing the gap, more wary this time. The big engine popped like a machine gun and Boyd felt a rush of adrenaline, a desperate need to pedal for his life; but he held his nerve and allowed the motorbike to get closer and closer.

  He drifted over to the left-hand side of the road, the motorbike jerked left to follow. Boyd continued to slow as the rider brought the bike towards him. Boyd could taste the sooty, black exhaust fumes at the back of his throat now, but he had to wait just a little longer.

  The motorbike rider was almost close enough to reach out and grab him when Boyd suddenly pinched the brakes on the BMX. By clamping them down for one, short burst he jolted to a halt, as the motorbike and rider darted up the left-hand side of the restaurant. Boyd quickly dipped the front wheel of the bike and went up the road to the right. He slipped his back wheel around in an arc as he stopped in a skid. He heard the motorbike screech to a stop on the other road and knew the rider would take three or four seconds to turn the big machine around and come after him.

  Boyd waited until he heard the motorbike engine roar as the rider turned it back down the street. He lined himself up opposite the restaurant door, then he hit the pedals with everything he had. This was never going to work, surely?

  Just then, a man with a huge moustache appeared, carrying a large box and filling the restaurant doorway. He was looking back inside, talking to someone, laughing and smiling. When he turned and looked up, the joy slid from his round face at the shock of seeing a teenager powering straight towards him on a bicycle. He shouted something in French, threw the box into the air and jumped out onto the pavement. A woman poked her head around the door before looking in total disbelief at Boyd. She ducked into the café just as Boyd pulled the front wheel up over the pavement. He then hopped the back wheel into the air a split-second before it hit the kerb, which lifted him and the bike clear off the ground. He tucked himself down against the handlebars, soared through the double-doorway and into the restaurant. He landed and quickly noticed the place was empty, except for some materials on the floor to his left. This must be where the workmen he had nearly collided with on the street had been unloading their tools and equipment – and they had left the double-doors on the other side of the restaurant wide open; perhaps luck was on his side after all.

  Boyd saw the motorbike charge past the open doors and around the front of the café as he called out an apology to the owners. ‘Sorry, don’t mind me!’ he shouted as he pumped the pedals twice, sailed through the café, narrowly missed the bar, hit the step in front of the doors, and glided through the air onto the street outside. He landed, wrenched the bike hard to the left and was darting back down the street before the motorbike rider even knew what was happening.

  As Boyd swerved the workmen again, he leant out and grabbed a lump of timber that had been leaning against the van. They called after him again, cursing him with some impolite words he recognised in French - but it wasn’t long before their voices were drowned out by the familiar sound of a motorbike engine, getting ever louder and ever closer. The rider was back, but it wouldn’t be for long this time. Boyd sat up straight in the saddle and took a long breath. He stopped pedalling and began to free-wheel down the slight hill. The rider would be alongside him any second now.

  Boyd weaved the bike from side to side and tossed the timber up into his right hand. He shifted his grip and spun the wood around a couple of times, getting used to the weight and feel of it. He knew, like the jump through the restaurant, that he was only going to get one shot at this, he had to make it count.

  The rider eased off the throttle. Boyd was waiting until the motorbike got close, knowing his pursuer would be out of patience and wanting to end this for good. So, Boyd made it look like he was too tired to continue. He looked at the rider again – beneath the goggles, a thin smile was beginning to stretch out across the man’s face. Then, all at once, the pleasure froze as he saw the ruthlessness in Boyd’s pale blue eyes.

  Boyd drew his right arm across his chest and slammed the length of wood down into the spokes of the motorbike’s front wheel. He then quickly clamped down on the back brake of the BMX and skidded sideways; the bicycle slid out from under him and Boyd scraped along the icy concrete on his backside, before coming to a halt.

  The rider wasn’t so lucky. The block of wood spun around in the spokes until it hit the forks that held the front wheel, then jammed and stopped the motorbike dead. The engine screamed like a wounded animal as the back wheels flew off the ground. The rider gripped the handlebars in shock as he and the bike took off and flipped through the air, end over end before both came crashing to the street in a haze of snow and smoke.

  Boyd stood up, grabbed the BMX, and casually pushed off, hoping the bike still had something left to give him. Like Boyd himself, it was battered but still up to the job. He skirted around the motorbike where the rider groaned, his limbs flapping about under the wreckage. Boyd powered away and didn’t look back.

  He rode into the square and slowly headed towards the café he had left only a few minutes earlier. The fight had drawn a large crowd; it’s not every day two men leave a café through a window, wearing a table. They were up off the concrete now and arguing with two rather unimpressed policemen. Boyd allowed himself a little smile, before scanning the crowd. He’d never seen the person he was supposed to meet, but he had been given a description. His eyes danced across the sea of faces but he saw no sign of them.

  Then, as if in slow motion, the weasel-faced man glanced over in Boyd’s direction before quickly nudging his huge colleague. In the middle of a discussion with a policeman, the man-mountain turned sharply towards Boyd; his bulging, black eyes widened as his huge features contorted into a grimace.

  ‘Oh, give me a break.’ Boyd immediately pushed out into the road and headed away from the café. As he did, Bakker suddenly burst into a run with Frisbeck not far behind. There was a tram just setting off from the other side of the square; it was his best chance, and he had a head start. He would get away and then somehow come back to meet his contact.

  As he carefully wove the BMX along the pathway and through the busy square, he risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Bakker literally throwing people aside as he quickly started to gain on him. Once Boyd was free of the crowds, he pedalled as fast as he could and got himself alongside the back of the speeding tram. He was edging close, getting ready to leap onto the platform at the back, when he heard a horn blare out and his eyes shot forwards; there, heading right for him, was an oncoming tram!

  He had just seconds to get off this bike. Boyd grasped desperately for the rail on the back of the tram car. Just as he felt the cold metal bar in his grasp, his feet started to spin wildly and the bike weaved violently beneath him. The chain had come off but he was still sat in the saddle, being pulled through the square by the tram as the oncoming 40-tonne vehicle was now bearing down on him like a charging elephant.

  There was nothing for it: Boyd l
aunched himself and pulled with his arms for all he was worth. His body clattered down on the platform as his feet dragged along the road; he looked back in time to see the bike wobble on its wheels before being smashed into pieces by the oncoming tram.

  Boyd hauled himself inside. The people on board looked at the dishevelled boy lying on the floor, puffing and panting. ‘Good morning,’ Boyd said as he pulled himself to his feet. ‘Tickets please.’

  They stared at him, mouths open. ‘Tough crowd,’ Boyd said, exhausted. He looked out of the back window and saw Bakker and Frisbeck closing in. ‘Excuse me, pardon me, coming through.’

  Boyd moved as quickly as he could through the packed carriage, accidentally kicking at shopping bags and treading on toes. How was he going to get out of this one? Just then, a scream erupted from behind him. Boyd’s eyes shot down the carriage – Bakker had leapt onto the tram and was holding out an arm for Frisbeck. The stocky little weasel was running for all he was worth.

  Boyd moved to the front doors, then jumped up and out. He grabbed hold of the metal railing running around the roof of the carriage and swung his legs up just as a growling Bakker arrived at the front door.

  The big man snarled as Boyd’s feet disappeared out of sight. Turning to the panicked driver, he grabbed him by his jacket and threw him straight out of the door after Boyd. The tram filled with gasps as the driver rolled twice between two cars before he quickly scrambled out of the road to safety.

  Frisbeck arrived and Bakker shoved him behind the controls. The tram had levers and dials – none of them made any sense to Frisbeck.

  ‘Sit here, keep an eye on these,’ Bakker growled. ‘Make sure nothing blows up when I do this.’

  ‘When you do what?’ Frisbeck replied.

  Bakker pushed the heavy, gold lever that controlled the speed and the big tram suddenly lurched forward, accelerating into the back of the car in front. The passengers were thrown backwards and the tram filled with screams and shouts.

  On the roof, Boyd had just got up on his feet as the tram’s speed rocketed up. He fell flat onto his stomach and slid along the frosty, metal roof towards the edge. He shot over the side headfirst. If he fell off now, he would end up under the wheels. He threw his arms out and desperately grabbed for something, anything to stop him going over the side. Then his fingers caught hold of the railing on the roof, and he clamped them down. His legs flew over and he clattered against the side of the tram with a thump. Another car sped by, only just missing his feet, the driver holding down the blaring horn.

  Boyd’s face was tight against one of the tram windows. On the other side sat a man, chewing a large blob of gum and staring at him inquisitively. Boyd raised his eyebrows as the passenger lowered a set of curious-looking orange foam headphones. ‘Any chance you could open the window?’ Boyd asked. The man continued to chew his gum and slowly nodded, obviously not understanding a word he said, just smiling at Boyd like he was a madman. ‘Thanks mate, you’re a big help.’

  Boyd felt his fingers starting to slip, he couldn’t last much longer. He looked towards the front of the tram and saw Bakker’s head poke out the front door, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. The big man suddenly ducked back inside. Another car whooshed by; it was travelling so fast that it knocked the breath out of Boyd. He tried to get a better grip but his hands were freezing cold against the metal railing; he held on, teeth gritted. The oncoming traffic was thick with cars and trucks, and the tram was going so fast now, he couldn’t risk jumping off.

  Through the window he saw Bakker pushing his way between the panicked passengers, right up to where the smiling man sat, still staring out at Boyd. Bakker grabbed the passenger by the collar and threw him out of the way, before pointing a big, dirty finger at Boyd from behind the window. ‘You’re mine, boy!’ the big man shouted.

  ‘Boyd!’ another voice called out; not Bakker and not from inside the tram. It sounded like it was coming from behind him.

  Boyd flicked his head around and there, alongside the tram, was an old-fashioned army Jeep. Boyd was in no doubt, the woman behind the wheel was his contact, Rose. She was currently trying to edge the big, metal Jeep as close to the tram as possible whilst avoiding the oncoming traffic.

  Suddenly the Jeep dropped out of sight as Rose slammed on the brakes and moved back behind the tram. Another line of cars and trucks sped by on the other side of the road and Boyd had to tuck himself in as a truck whizzed right by his back. His fingers wanted to give up on him – they ached so much they were practically numb – but he had to hold on just for a little while longer.

  He carefully walked his feet up the side of the tram and put them on the window frame, his legs spread. Once these cars had gone by, the next time Rose got the Jeep close, he was going to try and jump for it. Boyd looked back inside the tram and saw an over-sized fist coming straight for him. Bakker’s lumpy knuckles smashed into the window and it exploded, spraying shards of glass inside and out.

  Boyd arched his back and sucked his stomach in as Bakker’s hand, as big as a shovel, swiped at the air in front of him. The Dutchman then threw his right hand out towards the window frame and grabbed Boyd’s ankle.

  ‘You should have come quietly when you had the chance!’

  Boyd saw that smile again; the big teeth were all different shapes, like the man had a mouth full of chipped stones.

  ‘Boyd!’ Rose called out again, as she weaved the Jeep back to the side of the tram. There was only a small break in traffic; Boyd needed to jump now.

  ‘And you should have stayed under that table.’ He lifted his right foot and slammed it into Bakker’s big, ugly mouth. The man howled in pain as he fell backwards inside the tram.

  ‘Anytime now would be good,’ Rose shouted.

  Boyd looked at the Jeep – it wasn’t steady and there was a motorbike heading straight for it, with another truck close behind the bike. Rose moved the Jeep over to make a small gap for the motorbike but Boyd knew that there wouldn’t be time for her to come back towards the tram and get out of the way of the truck. If he was going to do this, it had to be now.

  The driver of the truck was already holding his hand on the horn; the bike rider had nowhere to go and started to wobble between the Jeep and the tram. Boyd closed his eyes. He let out a shout as he pushed off with his feet and flew backwards over the top of the motorbike. He spun in the air and landed hard on his stomach on the bonnet of the Jeep with a thud, quickly locking his arm around the big, spare wheel that sat on the top.

  Without warning, Rose pumped the brakes and dropped back behind the tram, the oncoming truck flew by, clipping the Jeep’s wing mirror and smashing it to pieces. Rose snapped a quick look behind, then pulled the handbrake and skidded the Jeep into a turn. Boyd hung on as she slammed her foot onto the accelerator and powered the vehicle back towards the square, away from the tram.

  ‘You might have told me you were going to do that!’ Boyd shouted.

  ‘We didn’t exactly have a lot of time to chat. Are you planning to ride the whole way on the bonnet or do you fancy joining me in here?’

  Boyd pulled himself up and over the windscreen, he fell into the seat next to Rose. He was aching all over and breathing hard, while the 60 year-old woman next to him had barely broken a sweat.

  ‘You must be Boyd,’ she said, smiling. ‘Welcome to 1986.’

  A Class Act

  Oakmead School, Bloomfield, Sussex, 2019

  Boyd was bored. No, he was much more than just bored, he was starting to believe that boredom of this level could actually be lethal. He wasn’t in the mood for school today. He had considered pretending to faint, asking to leave to go to the toilet and then not coming back, but he had tried both of those in the past few months and he knew he was on his last chance. His dad had been called to the school quite a lot already this year. He’d even jokingly suggested to Boyd that they paint his bedroom the same colour as Mr Providence’s office and maybe install a filing cabinet seeing as Boyd liked spending s
o much time sitting across the desk from his headmaster. No, he couldn’t do anything that might get him in trouble. He didn’t want to put his dad through that and he couldn’t bear that look he gave him whenever Boyd had let him down.

  It’s not that he didn’t like school most of the time, it was being around the other people that bugged him. As Miss Oldroyd went over the key areas of the Treaty of Versailles, furiously scribbling on the board, Boyd looked around the class. Pixie Thorn and Courtney Marling were painting their nails whilst Jason Doswell and Colin Straker – nicknamed Doz and Strakes – were flinging pieces of screwed-up paper at the head of a boy called Fitzgerald Tork, whom everyone called Fitz. Lessons were all well and good, but he was expected to learn alongside these idiots, and he had no time for them. The only time he was genuinely happy at school was during cross-country running because it meant he didn’t have to talk to anyone for an hour or so. The cross-country county championship was next week; Boyd was the best on the team and he’d been training like mad. He closed his eyes and blocked everything out, focusing on the fact that the last lesson today was P.E., and that meant cross-country.

  Miss Oldroyd put down her marker pen and turned to face the room. Doz and Strakes quickly stopped bullying Fitz and tried their best to look intelligent while Pixie and Courtney lifted a textbook into place to hide their nail polish. Not that Miss Oldroyd would have said much: she was pretty timid and, much like Boyd, seemed like she just couldn’t wait to get through each lesson and get away from everyone. Class 10B was known for the worst-behaved kids in the school and was also, unfortunately for Miss Oldroyd, her form group. So, every day, as they plodded in half asleep, she took the register and then at the end of the day, she had to try to control them as they buzzed and bounced, desperate to break out into the world. The headmaster, Mr Providence, told her that her form class was just testing her and if she passed, she would get a lovely pay rise. Never mind a pay rise, if she got through this year, they should give her a medal and name a wing of the school after her.