four cars between them.
'The Mercedes is heading west on Gloucester,' said Holcroft, breaking in on Alex's thoughts. 'They said Gloucester... Another car is to proceed along... Sewell...' Holcroft translated 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 off at all points... For Christ's sake, there is nothing else left!'
'What are you talking about?' Holcroft had to shout; the screaming tyres, 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 back seat,' 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 tyres.'
The stone gates to the park were less than a hundred yards away, seconds away. Holcroft 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 Holcroft 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 own horn as a warning.
Inside the gates he slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel to the right, pressed the accelerator, and jumped the kerb 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 picnicking 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 in the park were 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 tyres.
Holcroft fired through the smashed rear window. The Pontiac swerved off the drive, hurtled over the opposite kerb, 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 Holcroft 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. Holcroft 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 pulled 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. Holcroft picked up the transistor radio. It was in 'on' position.