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.
yelled Hammond, racing around the car toward McAuliff at 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’ ‘ @11 “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.”
“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