«That’s Montego proper. The business area. They’re trying to cut us off at all points. For Christ’s sake, there is nothing else left!»
«What are you talking about?» Hammond had to shout; the screaming tires, the wind, the roaring engine did not permit less.
Explanations took time, if only seconds—there were no seconds left. There would be no explanations, only commands … as there had been commands years ago. Issued in the frozen hills with no more confidence than McAuliff felt now.
«Get in the backseat,» he ordered, firmly but not tensely. «Smash the rear window; get yourself a clear area. When I swing into the park, he’ll follow. As soon as I’m inside, I’m going to swerve right and stop. Hard! Start firing the second you see the Pontiac behind us. Do you have extra clips?»
«Yes.»
«Put in a full one. You’ve used two shells. Forget that goddamn silencer, it’ll throw you off. Try to get clean shots. Through the front and side windows. Stay away from the gas tank and the tires.»
The stone gates to the park were less than a hundred yards away, seconds away. Hammond stared at Alex—for but an instant—and began climbing over the seat to the rear of the automobile.
«You think we can switch cars—»
Perhaps it was a question; McAuliff did not care. He interrupted. «I don’t know. I just know we can’t use this one any longer and we have to get to the other side of Montego.»
«They’ll surely spot their own vehicle.»
«They won’t be looking for it. Not for the next ten minutes … if you can aim straight.»
The gates were on the left now. Alex whipped the steering wheel around; the car skidded violently as Hammond began smashing the glass in the rear window. The automobile behind swerved to the right to avoid a collision, its horn blaring, the driver screaming. McAuliff sped through the gate, now holding down the bar of his horn as a warning.
Inside the gates he slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel to the right, pressed the accelerator, and jumped the curb of the drive over onto the grass. He crashed his foot once again onto the brake pedal; the car jolted to a stop on the soft turf. In the distance strollers in the park turned; a couple picknicking stood up.
Alex was not concerned. In seconds the firing would start; the pedestrians would run for cover, out of the danger zone. Away from the fire base.
Danger zone. Fire base. Cover. Terms from centuries ago.
So then it followed that the strollers were not pedestrians. Not pedestrians at all.
They were civilians.
It was war.
Whether the civilians knew it or not.
There was the sudden, ear-shattering screech of tires.
Hammond fired through the smashed rear window. The Pontiac swerved off the drive, hurtled over the opposite curb, careened off a cluster of tropic shrubbery, and slammed into a mound of loose earth dug for one of a thousand unending park projects. The engine continued at high speed, but the gears had locked, the wheels still, the horn blasting in counterpoint to the whining roar of the motor.
Screams could be heard in the distance.
From the civilians.
McAuliff and Hammond jumped out of the car and raced over grass and concrete onto grass again. Both had their weapons drawn; it was not necessary. R. C. Hammond had performed immaculately. He had fired with devastating control through the open side window of the Pontiac. The automobile was untouched but the driver was dead, sprawled over the wheel. Dead weight against the horn.
The two fugitives divided at the car, each to a door of the front seat, Alexander on the driver’s side. Together they shoved the lifeless body away from the wheel; the blaring horn ceased, the engine continued to roar. McAuliff reached in and turned the ignition key.
The silence was incredible.
Yet, still, there were the screams from the distance, from the grass.
The civilians.
They yanked at the dead man and threw the body over the plastic seat onto the floor behind. Hammond picked up the transistor radio. It was in the «on» position. He turned it off.
Alexander got behind the wheel and feverishly tugged at the gearshift.
It did not move, and the muscles in McAuliff’s stomach tensed; he felt his hands trembling.
From out of a boyhood past, long, long, forgotten, came the recall. There was an old car in an old garage; the gears were always sticking.
Start the motor for only an instant.
Off-on. Off-on.
Until the gear teeth unlocked.
He did so. How many times, he would never remember. He would only remember the cold, calm eyes of R. C. Hammond watching him.
The Pontiac lurched. First into the mound of earth; then, as Alex jammed the stick into R, backward—wheels spinning furiously—over the grass.
They were mobile.
McAuliff whipped the steering wheel into a full circle, pointing the car toward the cement drive. He pressed the accelerator, and the Pontiac gathered speed on the soft grass in preparation for its jarring leap over the curb.
Four seconds later they sped through the stone gates.
And Alexander turned right. East. Back toward Miranda Hill.
He knew Hammond was stunned; that did not matter. There was still no time for explanations, and the Englishman seemed to understand. He said nothing.
Several minutes later, at the first intersecting road, McAuliff jumped the light and swung left. North. The sign read CORNICHE ANNEX.
Hammond spoke.
«You’re heading toward the shore road?»
«Yes. It’s called Gloucester. It goes through Montego and becomes Route One.»
«So you’re behind the Dunstone car … the Mercedes.»
«Yes.»
«And may I presume that since the last word»—here Hammond held up the walkie-talkie—«any of them received was from that park, there’s a more direct way back to it? A faster way?»
«Yes. Two. Queen’s Drive and Corniche Road. They branch off from Gloucester.»
«Which, of course, would be the routes they would take.»
«They’d better.»
«And naturally, they would search the park.»
«I hope so.»
R. C. Hammond pressed back into the seat. It was a gesture of temporary relaxation. Not without a certain trace of admiration.
«You’re a very apt student, Mr. McAuliff.»
«To repeat myself, it’s a rotten school,» said Alexander.
They waited in the darkness, in the overgrowth at the edge of the field. The crickets hammered out the passing seconds. They had left the Pontiac miles away on a deserted back road in Catherine Mount and walked to the farm on the outskirts of Drax Hall, where they found a stream and cleaned themselves up, washing the blood off their skin and soaking their clothes. They had waited until nightfall before making the last few miles of the trip. Cautiously, shelter to shelter; when on the road, as far out of sight as possible. Finally using the tracks of the Jamaica Railway as their guideline.
There had been a road map in the glove compartment of the automobile, and they studied it. It was maddening. Most of the streets west of Montego proper were unmarked, lines without names, and always there were the alleys without lines. They passed through a number of ghetto settlements, aware that the inhabitants had to be sizing them up—two white men without conceivable business in the area. There was profit in an assault on such men.
Hammond had insisted that they both carry their jackets, their weapons very much in evidence in their belts.
Subalterns crossing through hostile colonial territory, letting the wog natives know they carried the magic firesticks that spat death.