Pock-pock in quick succession as the next one hit the boot and then the three-ply bulkhead and began nosing through the upholstery and I shifted to the right and felt the bloody thing ripping into the sleeve and saw the starburst on the windscreen as the glass frosted over.
Very close and I crawled across the seat to the other side because he'd shifted his aim six inches to the right every time, feeling for me with his gun. Sweat on the skin and the scalp creeping because the situation was not in fact in control and there was nothing we could do and he was going to get fed up in a minute and pull out and gun up alongside and aim for Treader and send this barouche into a shop window and get out of his car and walk across and kick the glass in and empty the whole chamber into the side of the head, unless of course Ferris could bring in his interceptors somewhere north of here and do something useful.
By the look of things we were doing approximately sixty mph and Treader was using the traffic lights as best he could, slowing enough to bring him to the next intersection still fast enough to gun up and go through on the green without losing too much speed. We could -
Pock-pock and the thing glanced off the door pillar and buried the last of its momentum into the sun visor on the forward passenger's side and I moved again, crawling across the seat to the right, little tufts of nylon padding lying around like puffs of smoke, torn away from the leather.
Treader saying, 'OK?'
'Yes.'
Quite a lot of noise suddenly from behind us and I saw headlight beams sweeping across the face of the buildings on the other side of the street and the flush of light under the roof didn't change so it must be Hood in the Honda, some kind of trouble.
'He's lost it,' Treader said.
'Hood?'
'Yes.'
Crumpling noise, a roll-over, the headlights flickering across the shop windows and then going out.
'Ferris?'
'No, sir. he's on the other line. This is Tench.'
'Tell him we've lost Hood. He's crashed.'
'Will do.'
Pock-pock and the door of the cocktail cabinet buckled and glass smashed inside it. I got onto the floor and asked Treader, 'What made him crash, did you see?'
'It could've been the Mazda behind him, sideswipe or something.'
Treader couldn't see all that much because he was hunched down against the seat squab and could only use the outside mirrors and from his angle they wouldn't be showing him a lot more than the top half of Proctor's Corvette, but it was logical to assume that the Mafia hit man in the Mazda had got the Honda out of the running because it had been a threat to Proctor.
We were leaving the park on our right and crossing 16th Street as the yellow turned to red but the Corvette and the Mazda came through without stopping and I gave it a minute, another two minutes at most unless Ferris could get his interceptors into the action because we were a sitting target and it was simply a matter of time.
'Listening?'
Ferris.
I said yes.
'Change of plan.' He sounded quietly impersonal. 'My instructions are to call off my people.'
'To call -'
They won't be intercepting. You're expected to deal with the situation by whatever means. Stay in contact.'
Finis.
I told him I understood. It did not in point of fact take a lot of understanding: Ferris was speaking from his base and Croder must be there too and either he'd only just found out that Ferris had ordered mobile support into the area or he'd given the order himself and then changed his mind. The Bureau gives a great deal of licence to the executives and their directors in the field but there are some rather strict guidelines and one of them is that we don't fight a running battle through the streets of any given city and place the citizenry at risk, and – sirens – and that was precisely what we would have started doing if the interceptors had been sent in.
Shot and then a secondary bang that sounded right underneath us and the limo gave a lurch and Treader said, 'Got a tyre,' and we began weaving and then straightened. There was a lot of noise now as the rubber wrapped itself around the rim and started heating up. The sirens were fading in from behind us, I suppose because of the Honda thing – someone had seen it roll and they'd got on the phone.
I said, 'Treader, we're not going to get any help. They changed their minds.'
'I see.' Trying to sound cool. He knew the score now, too.
Stink of burning rubber coming into the car, I hate that smell, gets on your guts, shot and the rear window frosted over as the slug came through and drilled a hole in the roof, he wasn't firing wild, I think, it was just that the limo was lurching about quite a bit, difficult target at sixty mph with the steering affected. Siren again and this time ahead of us, a patrol car picking up the Honda call from the despatcher and turning south, its lights starting to colour the polished surfaces inside the limo and the siren growing louder. I didn't think it would ignore a limo doing this speed with a burst tyre so I spoke to Treader again.
'Listen, I want you to ditch me. Look for an alley between the buildings or the gates of a yard or a car park -' bright lights now as the police car saw us and started a U-turn with the siren howling – 'anywhere with enough cover to let me run, all right?'
He said he'd do what he could and I found the little chrome lever and got the right-hand door unlocked and waited, pulling out my handkerchief and wrapping it round my right hand, waited, watching the coloured lights reflecting from the inside of the windows, waited, holding my breath against the sickening reek of rubber, sweat on the left hand, the phone slippery with it, waited until Treader told me to get ready and I signalled Ferris that I was making a run and pitched sideways against the division as the brakes came on and the tyres whimpered and we lurched once, twice as he lost the front end and dragged it straight again as the burst tyre came off the rim and the metal screamed on the tarmac and I heard Treader's voice in the background.
'Ditching.'
Pulled the door-lever and hit the door and went through as it swung wide and I rolled into the ukemi with the edge of my right hand making contact with the pavement and the arm and shoulder following and then the whole body curving into the roll and coming out of it with my feet to the ground and enough balance to get me running.
He'd found an alley for me and I checked the environment as I ran because I didn't want to present a silhouette against the lights of the street at the far end: it was a mess back there and I didn't know if Proctor or the man in the Mazda had seen me leave the car but if they'd seen me they'd follow me on foot and I wouldn't have more than a fifty-yard lead and there were high walls here and no cover that could shield me if he came close enough to use his gun.
The alley looked endless ahead, the length of a city block, with the lights of the next street making a bright niche in the shadows. I didn't turn my head to look behind me because it would slow me and if I saw Proctor coming there was nothing I could do – he'd have ample time to break his run and go into the aiming stance and make sure of the shot, shadow down, the slug ripping into the back of the dinner jacket and shattering the spine and leaving the nerves in catastrophic disarray, the muscles of the legs cut off from the brain and the body tilting forward, shadow down.