‘It only takes a single mistake to expose you as an undercover officer,’ my new boss says to me before I drive off.  ‘Don’t let it be mine for sending you on this assignment.’

I nod and agree with him as I wind up the window, cutting him off as he says something else.  I’m on courier pickup and delivery, standard basic mission.  There’s a bit of trouble with my package; it’s a bit big for the little Yaris boot.  When a couple of gentle attempts to shut it fail, I get strong and slam the boot down hard.

I’m on my way to the rendezvous when there’s a detour from my assigned route to collect a flash-drive from the Golden Palace Restaurant.  Don’t be fooled by the name.  It’s not Golden and certainly no Palace.

It’s meant to be a quick stop, but the owner demands I have a drink with him.  I tell him I’m driving.  He laughs and says if I want the flash-drive, I’ll have one.

Or two.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m walking a little sideways from the restaurant.  I tell myself it’s tiredness and not the chilled Pinot I downed to hasten my escape.  I push the flash-drive further down into my jeans pocket and try to walk a bit straighter towards the car.

There’s a massive Range Rover parked next to me, black all over with tinted windows.  It looks like a hungry spider, fat and furtive, waiting for me to get close enough to jab me with its stinger.  It could eat my little car and keep me for dessert.

The black Range Rover is parked so close, I wonder if I’ll be able to get in the driver’s door.  I might have to move everything off the passenger seat and sling it on the back seat, then get in that way.  The boot’s already packed full with my first pickup.

‘Oh for … Why park here when there’s empty spaces everywhere else?’

Those glasses of wine have loosened your grip on the situation.  Get it back.

I had a single glass.

You had two glasses.

Which might have been topped up.

I take a deep breath and set to work sliding between the two vehicles.  I reach my door and pull it open hard, pushing it against the Range Rover as I squeeze inside.  After slamming the door shut, I look across to see if I’ve left a red scuff mark behind.  I can’t see anything in the hard shiny surface; maybe a little one.

‘Shouldn’t have parked so bloody close,’ I say and start up the engine.

I look again for a mark but see only light reflecting off the ice-cool blackness.  It glints with accusing eyes at my bump and scuff, so I speed off towards the exit, determined to escape any retribution coming my way.

Not too fast.  Remember not to draw attention to yourself.

‘Yeah, course.’

I put my foot down a little more and approach the first roundabout at a good speed, taking it with ease.  I’m pleased with my skills, so I push it a little faster towards the next one, gaining speed down the empty black road.

I close in fast on the next roundabout, slowing just before I get there.  I turn the wheel just far enough round and then accelerate out of the corner, gripping the road to balance the momentum.

You’re supposed to be a discreet courier.

‘I’m making up time’ I say.  ‘Couriers do that.’

I accelerate towards the third roundabout.  It’s a big one this time, many lanes, multiple traffic lights and at this time of night, not much in the way of other vehicles.  The lights are red as I approach.

Without slowing down, I decide I’ll make the lights turn green using the power of my mind.  I glare out at them as they resist me, refusing to do my bidding.  I’m aware of another car racing up beside me, also daring the lights.

As we approach the point of no return and I’m about to take my foot off the accelerator, the traffic lights turn green and I glance a smile at the other car as we take off.  I pull away at speed and disappear down the third junction.

No it isn’t.

Yes it is.

Really?

Oh.  Hang on.  This doesn’t look right.

I take my foot off the accelerator and sit up, peering out at the shadowy road and its dark buildings as the car slows.

This is the wrong turn-off.

‘Dammit.’

I hesitate to make a U-turn where the signs are telling me not to.  I’ve already made one mistake tonight, drinking and driving.

Two mistakes, if you count the number of glasses.

And now I’ve made another one.

I hear a cheap burst of static from the radio transmitter and brace myself for the bollocking to follow.

‘You deviated from your route.  What happened?’

I pick up the scuffed plastic receiver and depress the button.

‘It was a mistake.  I took the wrong turn-off.  There’s nowhere here to turn around.  I’ll find somewhere further down the road and – ‘

‘Turn the car around now.’

‘But the sign says not – ‘

‘NOW.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I hit the brakes hard and bring the bright red car to a shuddering stop.  The cargo in the boot thumps into the back of the seat, thank goodness for knockout drugs.  Everything on the passenger seat shoots in the footwell.  I wonder if there are cameras watching as I make my illegal U-turn in the middle of the road, then head back toward the roundabout.

‘No more mistakes.’

‘Sir.’

The radio returns to static.  I can feel my face has turned the same bright red as my car.  I hate making mistakes.  I had this whole journey planned down to the last detail and now this.  Two mistakes in quick succession.  If only I hadn’t been made to stop at that restaurant and then made to drink that wine.

Who made you drink that second glass?

I glower out the front window at a world of old shadow and streetlight.  My grip on the steering wheel is tight and moist, white knuckles highlighting the red-scraped skin on my punching hand.  I make myself relax and unstick it from the steering wheel, stretching out bunched fingers.

I look ahead for the traffic lights, for the roundabout.  I see a Range Rover coming down the other side of the road.  Its large body is sleek and black, just like the one in the restaurant car-park.  With bright and glaring blue headlights.

‘There’s one on every corner,’ I mutter, watching it come closer.  I look down at the number plate, squinting my eyes against the blue-glare.  I want to see if it’s the same one, feeling somehow that it is, even before it’s come close.

Trust your instincts.

The number plate comes into focus and it is the same one.  Has it followed me from the restaurant because the owner wants compensation for the red scuff on his shiny black car?  Do people really hunt you down for things like that?

We pass each other and I try to see if it’s me he is looking at but the tinted windows make it impossible.  I keep my speed steady, fighting the urge to race away.  I watch the Range Rover’s progress in my rear-view mirror and realise I’m almost at the roundabout again.

I come to a slow and cautious stop at the red lights.  I must take the next road over, the actual third junction, but my gaze keeps flicking from the red lights in front of me to the large black Range Rover in my rear-view.

I watch as it moves further down the road and away from me.  I’m sure it will stop and turn back.  Then another vehicle comes up behind me and blocks my view.  As the traffic lights turn green, I’m still trying to see my stalker but there’s only the car behind, so I go.

I keep my attention focussed on the road ahead and over-check my current position, making quite sure, am I sure, I’m on the right dual carriageway and heading for my final rendezvous.

I keep my speed low to make sure I get the job done right this time.  Cars come up behind me, fast and eager to get to where they’re going and then roar past me at high speed, overtaking close enough to feel the backwash.  I’ve had enough of speeding for one night, so I sit back and let them go, unwilling to join their race.

There is a large green sign coming up which indicates a main junction turn-off.  I know that it leads to a garage, a church and a graveyard.  Though it’s not the one I’ll be taking.  I can be sure now that I’m on the right road.

From here, I can take any exit along this route, up to and including the one that leads to my rendezvous.  I know how to navigate all roads that lead off this dual carriageway, where they lead and how to get to my final destination.

Shame you didn’t practise the roundabout a bit better.

I am about to reply when an over-bright glare grabs my attention in the rear-view mirror.  It’s coming up fast behind me, with dazzling round headlights like staring blue-eyes.  It’s coming up so fast it looks like it might just drive over me.

But rather than overtake me at the last second and speed past with great noisy machismo, it lurks behind me.  The undimmed headlights make me squint and I angle the rear-view mirror down.  That doesn’t help.

‘Who’s this idiot?’

Remember your training.

I take a deep breath and focus.  From the angle of the sharp blue headlights it’s a high vehicle, 4×4 probably.  It could be the big black Range Rover from the restaurant, caught up with me at last.  It has the same headlights, but then they all do.

It could be joy-riders; a car full of lads looking for a good time, who have followed me since the restaurant.  Lads who think they can target a girl travelling alone, get her off the main road and do what they like to her.  But if they’d followed me down the wrong turning I took, then that would have been the best place to smash and grab me.

It could be the police out looking for potential drunk drivers, stalking me after my glass of wine.

Two glasses.

Blue-glare headlights used to mean emergency services, but it’s not just them anymore.  They could’ve been alerted by my mistake at the roundabout, but they would’ve stopped me after my illegal U-turn.  The vehicle drops back a little but remains behind me.  Its over-bright headlights invade my car-space, creating sharp shadows on the dashboard, defining me.

I could pull over and see if they follow, then deal with whoever they are.

Joy-riding boys are easily disabled, especially in a drunken group.  But while it remains true that there are many ways to kill a man, or a group of boys, I’d rather not.

I’d never hurt a member of the police force.  Well, not badly.  We’re all brothers, or sisters or whatever, and whether they know it or not, we’re on the same side.  I gave up the life of a daylight police officer to walk this dark and unseen road.

My road, my choice.

But the police wouldn’t see me as a fellow officer anymore, they’d see a woman who’s had a glass or two of wine, and then got behind the wheel of a car.  Combine that with my other mistakes tonight and that’s more than enough reason to pull me over.

A single glass shouldn’t put me over the limit, but that second might.  Then they would have to take me to the station for processing and I might be recognised.  I can’t allow that.  I would have to disable them and their car before making a run for it.

Then there’s my third and least favourite option; the owners of my stolen cargo.  If they catch up with me, then it’s all over.  They’d take me away for interrogation and whatever remains of my short life would be painful and full of questions I’d refuse to answer.

At first.

It wouldn’t just be words, though, and I know how they get results.  Not first-hand, of course, but I’ve seen what happens.  They showed us one of the bodies, a former female undercover who’d been beaten, strangled multiple times, and violated with a variety of objects I don’t want to imagine.

How long would you hold out under such circumstances?

Just thinking of that makes me want to pound the accelerator and get as far away as possible.  But then they’d have a reason to give chase and, in that car, they’d catch me.  And they’d want to kill any police in their way, uniformed or undercover.

Hold your nerve.

It was supposed to be all planned out, so they wouldn’t know who was being kidnapped or where he was being taken, until it was too late and I’d made the rendezvous.  But there was that detour.  Could that have given them enough time to discover his disappearance and track me?

The car is still behind me, waiting for me to do something.  I want to put my foot down and go.  I want to escape.  I slow down a little to see if it will overtake me, but as my speed gets slower it remains the same and the headlights come closer, unblinking eyes in the darkness.  I worry for a moment that it will hit me.

I dare to keep at my slowed speed for a moment or two, but it stays there behind me and I begin to increase my speed back to where it was before.  It keeps pace with me, never lessening the distance between us nor taking the impetus to go past.

I change tack and speed up to put some distance between us, reaching the speed limit and keeping it there for a while.  It speeds up and comes towards me, getting closer and closer, and this time I think it will go around me, but it drops back to its original position and stays there.

‘No getting rid of you, is there?’ I ask the rear-view mirror.  I catch a glimpse of my eyes and look away.  It’s just the adrenaline.  It’s just the bright, bright lights behind me.  Not fear.

Fear is natural, just don’t let it overtake you.

I’ve never been very good at convincing myself of a lie in the face of truth, so I set myself the task of finding a way out of this situation.  At least my cargo is behaving himself in his unconsciousness.  So he should be, after the punch I gave him to knock him out and the shot to make him sleep.

Well, he punched me first.  All they said was I had to get him to the rendezvous alive, they said nothing about undamaged.  They’ll take their time interrogating him for information, so one bruise upfront won’t matter.  Nor will the broken nose.

The turn-off I must take is coming closer.  There’s the turn-off sign coming up.  It’s next.  But my follower is still behind me, watching my every move.

There is another option.

I’ll indicate that I’m taking this exit off the dual carriageway, as in the original plan and then I’ll change my mind at the last moment.  This will flush him out if he really is following me and get rid of him if he isn’t.

There’s a flaw in your logic.

Either he will be forced to take the turn-off and will have to catch me up at the next on-road.  Or he will change his mind too, keep following me and I’ll know it’s me he is after.  Or it will get rid of him if he isn’t and I can turn around at the next junction and head back to make my rendezvous.

What if he’s the distraction?

I engage the indicator and look in the rear-view mirror to watch for his.

After a moment, it comes on.

I keep to the same speed and see the designated marker showing three hundred yards to my exit.  The vehicle behind me keeps to the same distance and speed.  I feel my heart rate begin to quicken and I take a long slow breath to calm it.  It doesn’t work.

As I approach the two-hundred-yard marker I release the accelerator pedal a little and begin to slow down.  The car behind is slowing too, keeping his distance now he thinks he has me.

At the one-hundred-yard marker I suddenly lean forward, knowing he can see me, and pretend this is the wrong exit.  I turn off the indicator signal and increase my speed along the main road.

Moment of truth.

The car behind me does not waver, but carries along down the off-road.  I watch as the large black Range Rover disappears down the exit, away from me.  It does not speed up as if to jump the roundabout and seems to have no intention of catching me at all.

Red wheel trims.  Roundabout streetlights reveal red wheel trims.  It was a different car after all; the one at the restaurant had black wheel trims.  Perhaps it was a police car after all.  Their headquarters is at one of the buildings off this exit.

‘Just eager to get back home for tea and biccies,’ I laugh, a little shaky.  Everything feels lighter now the car is dark once more, and we’re alone.  I let my breath out long and slow as I continue along the dual carriageway.

Your journey’s not over yet.

He could still return to the dual carriageway at the next on-ramp.  I watch all those joining my road, but no Range Rovers with black or red wheel trims.  I’m still on edge when a static blast from the radio crackles it into life, making me jump.

‘You didn’t take your assigned exit.’

I pick up the receiver and press the button down, ‘I thought there was someone following me.’

‘Are they still there?’

‘Negative, they took my exit.’

‘How’s the cargo?’

‘Still unconscious in the boot.  I’ll get off at the next exit and double-back.’

‘Good.  Get to the rendezvous.’

‘Sir.’

I indicate to take the next junction ahead.  After the mistakes I made earlier, I’m pleased to have escaped a confrontation and that I’ve almost completed tonight’s mission.  Before I know it, the exit is counting down and I smile as I put the indicator on.

I leave the dual carriageway and speed down to the bottom of the road, moving to the right-hand side so I can turn around under the dual carriageway and re-join it on the other side.

I am halfway through the black and lightless tunnel, when I see the lorry blocking my path too late.  I hit the brakes hard and fast, hearing them squeal and judder beneath my feet, but it’s not enough.  I brace myself for the inevitable crash.  The airbag explodes in front of me and I take a moment to rest my pounding head on the white bag.

Then hands are yanking at the doors, metal grinding against metal as they heave them out of their way.  They are pinning me to my seat as the seatbelt is cut away, then many hands are pulling me from the vehicle.

This is not Emergency Services.

They would have identified themselves before now.  Asked my name.  Told me what was happening and not to worry.  But I am worried.  The Range Rover that was behind me may have been police officers, but this lot make it clear that they’re not.

No words are spoken as I’m dragged onto the rough tarmac, then dropped.  A couple of them are searching me with rough thoroughness.  One of them thrusts unwanted hands into my jeans pockets and takes it from me; the flash-drive I was detoured to collect.

I look across and see them opening the boot of my car to retrieve their cargo.  I didn’t damage him too much, but they won’t care about that; they’ll only care that he’s alive, though he’ll be stiff from being confined in the boot of a Yaris.

A sharp sting in my neck tells me all I need to know.  They are doing the same as I did to their man a short while ago, but they’re better at it than I was, more efficient, more manpower.

They pick my sagging body up and start to drag me over towards the two large black Range Rovers that have pulled up, blocking the road behind my broken car.  I blink, either I am seeing double again or there are two of them.  No, it looks like three.

I blink again.  There are three; one with red wheel trims, one with black, and one with white.  They were all following me, hunting me tonight, covering all possible exits.  I was never going to escape.

They are dragging me across to the all-black one, the one that was there at the restaurant, waiting in the dark to carry me off and now it will get its chance.  In a place where no-one will see me disappear, not at a public restaurant, not on a public street with cameras.  The number plate is doubling and fuzzy, but I already know what it says.

It says you’re going to be interrogated, tortured and you’re not going to be able to take it.  The numbing injection that’s making you compliant will wear off.  Then the pain will start and it can only end one way; in your death.

All because of your mistakes.