Barbish frowned as he reached his left hand down to the appropriate pocket again and withdrew the key ring. He held the ring aloft. “Here,” he said bitterly.
“Thanks,” Hickok said, taking the keys in his right hand and turning.
“Can you drive this thing?” Blade asked.
“Piece of cake,” the gunman responded. “It’s an automatic, just like the SEAL.”
Blade nodded. The SEAL was the impervious, vanlike vehicle constructed by the Family’s Founder prior to World War Three as a prototype. Solar powered, outfitted with deadly armaments, and capable of traversing any terrain, the SEAL was employed by the Warriors on most of their trips into the Outlands or elsewhere. The Solar-Energized, Amphibious or Land Vehicle was unlike any other in existence.
Hickok inspected the key ring, found one he felt would fit, and inserted it in the ignition. He twisted the key and the car’s engine rumbled to life.
“Which way are we headin’?” he asked.
Blade looked at the Dealer. “You heard the man.”
“You can either drive north until we reach Dade Boulevard,” Barbish stated, “and then take the Venetian Causeway across Biscayne Bay to Miami, or you can make a U-turn and go south and take the General MacArthur Causeway.”
“How many Causeways are there?” Blade inquired.
“Four,” Barbish replied. “The Kennedy is fartherest north, then the Tuttle, the Venetian, and the MacArthur.”
Blade recalled the Narc mentioning the first two. Of course, the Warriors had been in northwest Miami at the time, then drifted to the south, eventually taking the Venetian Causeway by bus.
“Which way should I go?” Hickok queried.
Blade debated for a moment. If they went north toward the Venetian again, they would have to pass the Oasis Resort Hotel. The hotel was undoubtedly swarming with Narcs and Dragons, and he didn’t relish the idea of driving past and risking detection. “Make a U-turn,” he instructed.
“We’ll take the General MacArthur Causeway.”
Hickok shifted into Drive, turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, and tromped on the gas.
“Take it slow!” Blade said, but his advice came a second tardy.
The car barreled out of the parking space and shot across Collins Avenue, its tires screeching. Oncoming traffic was thrown into confusion; brakes squealed, drivers shouted obscenities, and vehicles slewed to abrupt stops.
“What a bunch of lousy drivers!” Hickok remarked, grinning as he wheeled the gold car south on Collins.
“Don’t attract attention,” Blade declared.
“Too late,” Rikki mentioned, gazing out the rear window.
Blade glanced over his left shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he spotted a Narc cruiser bearing down on them with its lights and siren on.
Hickok looked into the rearview mirror. “Are they after us?”
Barbish unexpectedly laughed. “Oh! Did I forget to tell you?”
“Tell us what?” Blade responded.
“That U-turns are illegal on Collins Avenue,” Barbish said with relish.
“Too much traffic, you know.”
Blade’s mouth curled downwards. “You told us to make a U-turn on purpose, hoping it would attract one of the patrol cars.”
“Who? Me?” Barbish said, the picture of innocence.
“What do I do?” Hickok asked. “Stop or keep going?”
The cruiser was a block to their rear, moving fast.
“If we pull over,” Rikki noted, “they will see the bodies.”
“Not to mention Barbish,” Blade said.
“Do we outrun the coyotes?” Hickok questioned eagerly.
“You can’t outrun a Narc car,” Barbish informed them. “Their vehicles have high-performance engines. They’re souped up. You wouldn’t get two blocks.”
Blade felt his frustration mounting. He wanted to get out of Miami Beach swiftly, but they were being thwarted at every turn.
The Narc cruiser roared toward them.
“Roll down your window,” Blade directed the Dealer.
Barbish balked. “Why?”
Blade rammed the Paratrooper into the Dealer’s ribs. “Do it!”
Barbish grunted, then hastily complied.
“Lean back,” Blade snapped. He rested the tip of the Paratrooper barrel on the door, his finger on the trigger.
With a harsh blare of its sirens, its lights spinning, the Narc vehicle pulled abreast of their car. A Narc on the passenger side had his window down, and he waved at them to veer to the curb.
Blade fired instead, his initial burst catching the Narc in the head and flinging him backwards. He kept firing as the Narc vehicle started to slow, his rounds punching into the patrol car’s windshield, shattering the glass and riddling the driver.
The Narc cruiser angled to the left, into the opposite lane, narrowly missing a station wagon. Its speed still over 60, the patrol car plowed into a red sedan parked at the curb, the impact thrusting the sedan onto the sidewalk. Both vehicles flattened a number of pedestrians.
Blade looked back to see a fireball envelop the Narc cruiser.
“You bastards!” Barbish said.
“You’re the one who tried to get us caught,” Blade mentioned. “Try it again and I’ll shoot you in the knee. Consider this your last warning.”
Barbish started to say something, but thought better of the idea. If his abductors wanted to go to his Director’s estate, fine. He would take them.
Once there, though, they were in for an unpleasant surprise. He suppressed an impulse to smile. There was no sense in giving away his ace in the hole.
One thing was for sure.
He would piss on their graves!
Chapter Ten
“So where is it?”
“It’s just up ahead.”
“That’s what you said a mile ago,” Blade noted.
“Cut me some slack!” Barbish retorted. “The cutoff isn’t easy to see in broad daylight, let alone at night! Just look for a dirt road on the left. The road leads south to Paolucci’s estate.”
The gold car was heading west on Highway 41, its headlights illuminating the trees and other vegetation lining both sides. Traffic during the hours preceding the dawn was sparse.
“Any sign of a turnoff?” Blade asked Hickok.
The gunman shook his head. “Not yet, pard.” He was driving at 30 miles an hour, hunched over the steering wheel, his gaze riveted to the left side of the highway.
Blade stared at the Dealer, wondering if the man was leading them on a wild-goose chase. He doubted Barbish would be that stupid. Perhaps the cutoff was genuinely hard to spot at night. In any event, he—
“Blast!” Hickok muttered, applying the brakes. “Missed it.”
Blade looked out the rear window, spying a break in the vegetation, a lighter patch of gravel.
Hickok executed a tight U-turn and drove to the turnoff, then braked.
The gravel road receded into the distance without any trace of a light or indication of habitation.
“I don’t see an estate,” Blade remarked.
“We have about ten miles to go,” Barbish said. “Arlo lives in the middle of nowhere, on forty acres surrounded by swamp. He likes his privacy.”
“Keep driving,” Blade instructed the gunman.
Hickok shrugged and accelerated. The gravel road was bumpy, filled with shallow ruts, causing the car to bounce and vibrate with each bump and jar.
“Arlo had this road built,” Barbish commented. “One day he may get around to blacktopping it.”
“Does every Director live out in the country?” Blade inquired.
“Some live in Miami,” Barbish replied. “Some, like Arlo, prefer the rural life.”
“How many guards protect his estate?”
“I don’t know,” Barbish said.
Blade sighed and placed his right hand on the Paratrooper in his lap.
“I don’t know!” Barbish insisted. “I’ve never counted them! I’ve seen a dozen or so, but there are probably more.”