He looked down. Hammond’s hand held a long switchblade. The agent had ripped the Corsican’s stomach open from pelvis to rib cage, severing the belt, cutting the cloth of the brown gabardine suit.
«Get the radio!» commanded the agent. «Run south on the east side of the street. I’ll meet you at the next corner. Quickly now!»
Alex’s shock was so profound that he obeyed without thought. He grabbed the radio from the dead hand and plunged into the crowds crossing the intersection. Only when he was halfway across did he realize what Hammond was doing: he was holding up the dead Coriscan against the pole. He was giving him time to get away!
Suddenly he heard the first screams behind him. Then a mounting crescendo of screams and shrieks and bellowing roars of horror. And within the pandemonium, there was the piercing shrill of a whistle … then more whistles, then the thunder of bodies running in the steaming-hot street.
McAuliff raced … was he running south? Was he on the east side? He could not think. He could only feel the panic. And the blood. The blood! The goddamn blood was all over him! People had to see that!
He passed an outdoor restaurant, a sidewalk café. The diners were all rising from their seats, looking north toward the panicked crowds and the screams and the whistles … and now the sirens. There was an empty table by a row of planter boxes. On the table was the traditional red-checked tablecloth beneath a sugar bowl and shakers of salt and pepper.
He reached over the flowers and yanked the cloth, sending the condiments crashing to the cement deck, one or all smashing to pieces; he did not, could not, tell. His only thought was to cover the goddamn blood, now saturated through his shirt and trousers.
The corner was thirty feet away. What the hell was he supposed to do? Suppose Hammond had not gotten away? Was he supposed to stand there with the goddamn tablecloth over his front looking like an imbecile while the streets were in chaos?
«Quickly now!» came the words.
McAuliff turned, grateful beyond his imagination. Hammond was directly behind him, and Alex could not but help notice his hands. They were deep red and shining; the explosion of Corsican blood had left its mark.
The intersecting street was wider; the sign read QUEEN’S DRIVE. It curved upward toward the west, and Alex thought he recognized the section. On the diagonal corner an automobile pulled to a stop; the driver peered out the window, looking north at the racing people and the sounds of a riot.
Alex had to raise his voice to be heard. «Over there!» he said to Hammond. «That car!»
The Englishman nodded in agreement.
They dashed across the street. McAuliff by now had his wallet out of his pocket, removing bills. He approached the driver—a middle-aged black Jamaican—and spoke rapidly.
«We need a ride. I’ll pay you whatever you want!»
But the Jamaican just stared at Alexander, his eyes betraying his sudden fear. And then McAuliff saw: The tablecloth was under his arm—how did it get under his arm?—and the huge stain of dark red blood was everywhere.
The driver reached for the gearshift; Alex thrust his right hand through the window and grabbed the man’s shoulder, pulling his arm away from the dashboard. He threw his wallet to Hammond, unlatched the door, and yanked the man out of the seat. The Jamaican yelled and screamed for help. McAuliff took the bills in his hand and dropped them on the curb as he pummeled the driver across the sidewalk.
A dozen pedestrians looked on, and most ran, preferring noninvolvement; others watched, fascinated by what they saw. Two white teenagers ran toward the money and bent down to pick it up.
McAuliff did not know why, but that bothered him. He took the necessary three steps and lashed his foot out, smashing one of the young men in the side of the head.
«Get the hell out of here!» he roared as the teenager fell back, blood matted instantly along his blond hairline.
«McAuliff!» yelled Hammond, racing around the car toward the opposite front door. «Get in and drive, for God’s sake!»
As Alex climbed into the seat, he saw what he knew instantly was the worst sight he could see at that moment. A block away, from out of the milling crowds on the street, a tan Mercedes-Benz had suddenly accelerated, its powerful, deep-throated engine signifying its anticipated burst of speed.
McAuliff pulled the gearshift into drive and pressed the pedal to the floor. The car responded, and Alex was grateful for the surge of the racing wheels. He steered into the middle of Queen’s Drive, on what had to be Miranda Hill, and immediately passed two cars … dangerously close, nearly colliding.
«The Mercedes was coming down the street,» he said to Hammond. «I don’t know if they spotted us.»
The Britisher whipped around in the seat, simultaneously withdrawing the Rycee automatic and the transistorized radio from both pockets. He snapped on the radio; the static was interspersed with agitated voices issuing commands and answering excitedly phrased questions.
The language, however, was not English.
Hammond supplied the reason. «Dunstone has half the Unio Corso in Jamaica.»
«Can you understand?»
«Sufficiently … They’re at the corner of Queen’s Drive and Essex. In the Miranda Hill district. They’ve ascertained that the secondary commotion was us.»
«Translated: they’ve spotted us.»
«Can this car get a full throttle?»
«It’s not bad; no match for a Mercedes, though.»
Hammond kept the radio at full volume, his eyes still on the rear window. There was a burst of chatter from the tiny speaker, and at the same instant McAuliff saw a speeding black Pontiac come over the incline in front of him, on the right, its brakes screeching, the driver spinning the wheel. «Jesus!» he yelled.
«It’s theirs!» cried Hammond. «Their west patrol just reported seeing us. Turn! The first chance you get.»
Alex sped to the top of the hill. «What’s he doing?» He yelled again, his concentration on the road in front, on whatever automobile might lie over the crest.
«He’s turning … side-slipped halfway down. He’s righting it now.»
At the top of the incline, McAuliff spun the wheel to the right, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and raced past three automobiles on the steep descent, forcing a single approaching car to crowd the curb. «There’s some kind of park about a half a mile down.» He couldn’t be sure of the distance; the blinding sun was careening off a thousand metal objects … or so it seemed. But he couldn’t think of that; he could only squint. His mind was furiously abstracting flashes of recent memory. Flashes of another park … in Kingston; St. George’s. And another driver … a versatile Jamaican named Rodney.
«So?» Hammond was bracing himself now, his right hand, pistol firmly gripped against the dashboard, the radio, at full volume, against the seat.
«There’s not much traffic. Not too many people either …» Alex swerved the car once again to pass another automobile. He looked in the rearview mirror. The black Pontiac was at the top of the hill behind them; there were now four cars between them.
«The Mercedes is heading west on Gloucester,» said Hammond, breaking in on Alex’s thoughts. «They said Gloucester … Another car is to proceed along … Sewell …» Hammond translated as rapidly as the voices spoke, overlapping each other.
«Sewell’s on the other side of the district,» said McAuliff, as much to himself as to the agent. «Gloucester’s the shore road.»
«They’ve alerted two vehicles. One at North and Fort Streets, the other at Union.»