Now.
He leaned back into the car seat and braced himself. The two men on either side sensed his movement and looked to see what he was doing.
Balthazar quickly pulled both legs up to his chest, then kicked forward as hard and fast as he could, lifting his hips and slamming the balls of his feet into the back of the headrest.
It snapped clean off, smashing into the back of the driver’s head.
The driver instantly lost control of the car, which began to spin. He lurched forward, then backwards, grabbing at the steering wheel as the car skidded across the road. The gunmen on either side of Balthazar flailed wildly trying to hold onto something to stabilise themselves.
Balthazar leaned back again and shot his legs forward once more.
This time he made solid contact with the back of the driver’s head. He flew forward, slamming his forehead into the steering wheel, knocking himself out.
The front airbag exploded with a loud bang.
The car spun around, hitting a bollard, then careered in the opposite direction. The G-force pushed Balthazar first into the tall gunman, then the wiry one.
The Mercedes smashed sideways into a parked white Dacia SUV, bounced off, shattering the passenger windows on his right side, showering Balthazar and the others with broken glass. The Mercedes finally stopped moving and the Dacia’s alarm started howling.
Balthazar felt sick and dizzy from the impacts. Unlike the driver and the two gunmen, he had known what was coming and had braced himself. But knowledge was still not adequate protection against the G-forces that had slammed him back and forth and shaken his brain as the Mercedes impacted.
He blinked for a moment, trying to focus. He gasped as a sharp pain shot down one side of his back, as though someone had stuck a needle into the muscle and was gouging it back and forth. Something was pulled, even torn, but he ignored the pain and forced himself to move.
Both of the gunmen were half dazed, trying to understand what was happening. They had been thrown forward against the front seats with the first impact, then sideways against the car windows as the car spun. The car had no rear airbags, but Balthazar’s seat belt had locked and somehow the gunmen’s bodies had also cushioned him from the impacts.
He lifted his right foot and ignored the knife of pain cutting through his back.
He slammed his heel edge down as hard as he could onto the arch of the tall gunman’s left foot, through his leather boot.
The gunman gasped in agony, letting rip a stream of abuse. While he was swearing, Balthazar delivered the same strike to the other gunman’s right foot with his left leg. He was wearing training shoes and Balthazar felt the bones of his foot move as his heel impacted.
Balthazar threw his arms forward, rubbed the duct tape around his wrists back and forth against the jagged glass in the door frame where the window had shattered, felt it tear, then sat back and drove his arms back on either side of his ribcage. The duct tape tore slightly but his hands remained bound.
The tall gunman tried to punch him in the head but, jammed against the door frame on one side and Balthazar on the other, he could not get proper leverage for his fist.
Balthazar ignored the glancing blow. He quickly extended his arms forward again, slammed his elbows back again in the car seat. This time the duct tape tore with a loud ripping sound.
His arms free now, Balthazar undid his seat belt. He turned leftwards on his hip to make space then smashed his right elbow into the side of the tall gunman’s face, then moved rightwards and slammed his left elbow into the other gunman’s cheek. Had he been standing, the blows would likely have fractured their cheekbones and knocked them out. Jammed between the two men he could not deliver the proper force, but still both lurched back from the blow, grunting in pain.
Balthazar then bent his fingers in half, locking the tips against the top of his palm. He swung around from side to side, twisting his hip sideways for more reach, his hands flying across his body, smashing his right palm into the wiry gunman’s face and his left into the tall gunman’s nose, a human flailing machine, delivering bone-crunching blows one after another. The two men lolled forward, both semi-conscious, blood pouring from their broken noses.
All this had taken place in less than a minute.
Balthazar leaned across the tall gunman and took his weapon, then did the same with the wiry gunman. He stripped the magazines from both guns, threw them out of the car window and retrieved his pistol and his mobile.
Balthazar leaned across the tall gunman, opened the car door, then climbed out.
He staggered for a moment, suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness and nausea, his head drooping, but he knew he had to get away.
He looked up to see two policemen both pointing their guns at him in the firing position.
‘Police officer,’ Balthazar shouted. ‘I am a police officer. Do not shoot.’
‘Put the gun down,’ shouted the older policemen. ‘Now.’
‘I am doing that,’ said Balthazar, slowly lowering his Glock to the floor.
By now a small crowd of onlookers had gathered. A teenage girl with bright-purple hair started filming, and others soon followed.
One of the policemen gestured for Balthazar to follow him to their nearby vehicle. The other picked up his Glock and walked behind Balthazar and the other cop. Balthazar looked at the two men as he headed to their car.
He knew most of the beat cops in District VII and VIII but these two were unfamiliar. His sixth sense suddenly kicked in – there was something not quite right here. Or maybe he was just strung out from being bounced around in the car crash, fighting the two men inside and then walking away?
Balthazar turned to the policeman next to him. He was young, in his early twenties, pale and skinny, but with several days’ growth of stubble, Balthazar saw, which was against regulations. ‘Which station are you from?’ Balthazar asked.
‘Eight. Your old stomping ground. We’re heading back there now, for a debrief. Then we’ll get you home,’ he replied, his eyes darting right and left.
‘Great. Call Tomi bacsi and tell him to get some of his strong coffee on,’ said Balthazar.
For a second doubt flashed across the young-looking cop’s face.
‘Tomi bacsi, the custody sergeant,’ said Balthazar, his adrenalin starting to flow again. He was so focused on the conversation that he did not notice the second cop take out a can of spray and move towards him.
‘Of course, yeah, Tomi bacsi,’ the young cop said, moving to stand behind him. ‘I’m gonna call him from the car.’
Just as Balthazar turned to run, the second cop held out his spray in front of Balthazar’s face, making sure to turn his own face to the side. A squirt of white mist hit Balthazar’s mouth, nose and chin.
Balthazar raised his hands, tried to wave away the spray, braced himself for what would happen next: he would not be able to breathe properly, his eyes and nose would burn, his muscles would turn floppy and he would quickly be gasping for air.
