'Want to go cross-country?'
Josh looked both right and left. The mountains half a mile distant on the right would provide some cover. Maybe they could even find somewhere to hide there. But there was no way they could drive through them. They would have to take their chances on foot. On the left, the scrub was stretching into the far distance, its flat surface punctuated only by cacti and jagged, dangerous-looking boulders. There was nowhere to hide out there, realised Josh. They would be picked up within a few minutes.
'No,' he said briskly. 'Too risky'
Now he could hear the rumble of motors, growling out across the flat scrubland like the first warning of a distant storm. They were somewhere to his right, about a mile distant, sneaking through the mountains. I know that sound, he told himself. The oily roar of an engine revving into life. A motorbike. Maybe a whole bloody army of them.
'All right, I reckon it's Plan B,' said Josh.
Kate looked at him, and even though he could see the tension rippling through her, there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. 'Okay,' she said softly. 'What's Plan B?'
'Run like a rat on roller skates -- and start praying.'
Kate's foot jammed down on the accelerator. The Mustang roared, its engine howling as it started to pick up power and speed. Josh cursed himself for not taking the wheel for this stretch of the journey, but it was too late now.
He checked behind.Three motorbikes were powering down the side of the mountain, driving in a tight V-formation. They were eight or nine hundred yards away but doing at least eighty or ninety miles an hour, and closing fast. A furious cloud of dust was being kicked up into the air as their back wheels bit into the caked mud of the desert. They spun
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out onto the tarmac, hurtling towards the Mustang at well over a hundred miles a hour now.
'Faster, faster,' snapped Josh.
He could see the sweat trickling down Kate's face as she hammered the accelerator. The Mustang's two-litre engine was roaring as she struggled to extract some more power from the machine. By now they had climbed past a hundred, and were touching a hundred and ten miles an hour. The tyres were screeching against the hot tarmac. There's not much acceleration left in this tin can, realised Josh. And the bikers are still gaining on us.
He looked in front. About half a mile ahead, more bikes, four this time, were shrieking out from behind a boulder, their engines already revved up to maximum speed. Two were in front, with two more flanking them as outriders. Definitely Flatner's men, decided Josh. As they sped towards the Mustang, he could see the men riding them: burly, leather-clad creatures, with tattoos on their arms and helmets slung down low across their faces. Except for the leader: he was wearing a Nazi helmet, with a pair of cattle horns drilled into the sides. Not much use if you had a crash, decided Josh. But good for scaring people.
'Which way?' shouted Kate, her eyes swivelling desperately towards Josh.
The bikes five hundred yards ahead were bearing down on them, and the bikes behind were gaining speed.Trapped, thought Josh.
I outwitted these fuckers right after I was shot, he decided. Maybe I can do it again.
'Keep going,' he barked. 'Drive straight into them, then swerve at the last minute and try to get past them.'
Kate's hands were vibrating on the wheel. Josh's stare was locked on the road ahead, tracking the four bikes flanking the road as they sped towards each other.
Four hundred yards, he calculated. Three hundred . . .
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'Turn,' he shouted.
Kate hauled the wheel hand over. Too much pressure, Josh realised the instant she had made her move. The Mustang skidded, its wheels losing contact with the ground. It had gone into a backspin as the momentum from the rear wheels overwhelmed the vehicle, turning it through ninety degrees within a fraction of a second.
'Hold the wheel, hold the wheel,' shouted Josh.
Reaching down, he grabbed the handbrake, yanking it up to try and control the spin. The brake discs howled as they clamped against the wheels and Josh released his grip. No good, he told himself. We'll have to take our chances in the scrub.
A cloud of dust rose up from the side of the road as the Mustang slewed off it. He'd counted seven bikes in total, closing in fast, but now he could see nothing except for the swirling dirt all around them. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air. 'Go forward,' he shouted. 'Just go forward.'
A shot. Josh recognised the sound instantly: the thud of a cartridge fired from a sawn-off shotgun.
The back window of the Mustang crashed inwards, splinters of glass flying into their backs like a hailstorm. Josh felt two shards pricking his skin: one on his neck, the other in his back, and a hot trickle of blood ran down the edge of his spine.
Another shot, then another. Josh heard a ripping sound. A tyre. The Mustang skidded again as first one tyre blew out, then another. The power ^in the engine was starting to fade as the lead pellets from the shotguns ripped through the car's bodywork, smashing into the suspension, brakes and engine.
Josh looked up. Kate was still clinging to the wheel, frantically trying to bring the machine under control. The dust clouds were still obscuring their vision. Josh could just make out some boulders. A ditch that might be a dried-out creek. Then the mountains behind.
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And now, looming through the dust clouds like shadows in the night, the outlines of two bikers.
Death on wheels.
Another shot. This time the bonnet flipped open, the sheet of metal catching in the wind and shooting straight upwards. The engine snarled, then stalled. To his right, Josh could smell petrol leaking onto the ground. 'Get out, get out,' he shouted. 'They're going to kill us if we stay in here.'
The Mustang was slowing fast, down to fifteen or twenty miles an hour, losing power, its steering gone. It was skidding across the surface of the ground, out of control. Josh flipped the door open. He could see moving scrub, the ground pitted with gravel and rock. Just roll out, he told himself. And pray you don't crack open your skull on one of those stones.
'Just jump,' he shouted to Kate. 'It's your only chance. Just jump and run like hell.'
'I'm not leaving you,' she shouted, straining to make her voice heard over the sound of the engine and the gunfire.
'We'll rendezvous with O'Brien and Morant,' shouted Josh.
Josh tightened his shoulder muscles. The trick to hitting the ground at speed was to wrap yourself into a ball so that the force of the impact was deflected throughout your body. You used your arms to protect your face and your head: that was where the worst injuries would be sustained. Go, man, go, he told himself. This is your only shot at saving yourself.
He kicked back from the car wi^i his legs, tumbling out onto the ground. At his side, he could see Kate doing the same as the Mustang ploughed onwards under its own momentum, heading straight for the jagged edges of a massive boulder formation.
The ground impacted against his ribcage first. Josh could feel his bones rattling. None broken, he hoped, although it was impossible to tell through the pain of the fall. He rolled
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one yard, two, then three. The ground felt rough and harsh, grating into his skin. His jeans snagged on something. A rip opened up, then something cut into his skin. He could feel his wound throbbing, the worst it had been for days. Slamming his hands down, he gripped into the dirt, breaking a nail as he dug his fingers into the ground, bringing himself to a halt.
Josh looked up. Kate was already on her feet, running. He could not see where she was heading.
Next, he looked ahead. The Mustang was moving straight for the boulders. As it struck, a horrific noise erupted: the sound of metal being shredded by rock. The vehicle shuddered, then a storm of sparks flew up where the metal was scraping along the boulders. Josh closed his eyes, already aware of what was going to happen next. He heard the air being sucked forwards, then felt the first waves of the explosion brush against the skin of his face. The heat was scorching: a wave of hot air, blowing round him with gale force strength. The fireball rose straight up into the sky, scattering parts of-the car in every direction and sending a huge, oily cloud of thick black smoke boiling up. The sun was briefly blocked out, and the air smelled of petrol, scorched metal and fried dust.
Slowly, the force of the explosion subsided. As the clouds of black smoke cleared, Josh could see two bikes driving straight towards him. The riders were each holding one end of a rope in their hands, sweeping it across the scrubland like a fishing net. Josh stood to his feet, swallowing the pain, and then he started to run. One of his shoes had come loose and was catching on his foot, threatening to trip him. No time to stop, he told himself, willing himself forwards. Another second, and they've got me.
In the next moment, he felt the rope smash into the centre of his back. It started dragging him down, pushing him hard onto the ground. Josh tried desperately to pick
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himself up, but it was too late. The two bikes had screeched to a halt, kicking up a wall of dust, and the rope was pinning him to the dirt, cutting into the skin of his arms, and digging deep welts into his back. The pain jabbed through him.
I'm done for. Dead in a miserable desert, where only the wolves and the vultures will pick over my bones.
The bikers came to a halt, stepping quickly towards him, both men holding an end of the rope tightly in their fists. The leader stood over Josh, peering into his eyes. The horns on the Nazi helmet were glistening in the sunlight. 'Make it easy for yourself,' he muttered, spitting a mouthful of stale breath into Josh's face. 'Try to sleep.'
Josh could feel a fist smashing into the side of his neck -- once, then twice. His eyes began to cloud over, a dazzling mist drifting across his line of vision. He could feel the pain rippling through him. It started in his neck, then ran down his spine, settling in his gut.
Another fist, this time on the other side of his neck. The blow* glanced upwards, the fist colliding with his ear. Josh could feel consciousness starting to abandon him. His mind was shutting down. Before his eyes, he could see a picture. The brunette, the woman he had seen twice now. The little girl with blonde hair, three or maybe four, opening a present, then holding out a Barbie doll. She was saying something. Her lips were moving. But what? If only I could hear as well as see her.
Josh willed himself to stay awake, to hold on to the image. It faded, clouding before his eyes^He went under, blackness overwhelming him. Then, briefly, he was awake again. Someone was lifting him up, one man taking his legs, another his shoulders. The bikers. Where the hell are they taking me?
As his body swayed from side to side, consciousness started to fade and Josh could feel himself going under again. Another image flashed in front of his eyes. This time it was
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Luke. Running. Then the boy was turning around, shouting something. What was it? 'Touch,' realised Josh. He was shouting 'Touch,' plus some other words that were indistinct. Touch, thought Josh, the word rattling through his mind. What the hell did he want me to touch?
The image faded as quickly as it had arisen, and suddenly Josh could see nothing. He opened his eyes, but the vision had gone. He could see only the darkness. Is this what it's like when you die? he wondered. If I've been captured, that might be the best I can hope for.
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FIFTEEN
Thursday, June 11th. Noon.
Where's the cyanide pill? thought Josh.
Where's the sodding cyanide pill?
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, hoping against hope that maybe it was just a dream. As he pulled his eyelids slowly open, it took him a few minutes to adjust to the darkness of his surroundings. He was lying -on a rough dirt floor, his hands bound tightly behind his back and his feet strapped together. A stake had been driven into the ground and the ropes wrapped around his legs had been tied to it, making it impossible for him to wriggle forward more than a yard. The room measured ten feet square, and looked to have been dug out of some kind of dried mud: a hole, driven straight down into the ground. Looking up, he could see that it was covered by some thick sheets of metal. Not a glimmer of light was breaking through. Josh could hardly even see his own body in the darkness.
It was impossible to tell what time of day it was. His watch had been taken from his wrist.
It could by any time of day, any day of the week.
What happened yesterday? Josh asked himself. What the hell happened?
A sudden jolt of cold fear ran down his spine. Christ, not more memory loss.
But slowly, in his mind, he started to reassemble the events of the last twenty hours. He had been with Kate, he remem
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bered that. They had been driving, on their way to meet O'Brien and Morant. They had been attacked. The bikers had been there in force: at least seven of them, maybe more in reserve. It had been impossible to run, and they'd had no weapons with which to fight. The last thing he remembered was Kate running for her life across the open scrubland, while the bikers punched him unconscious.
/ don't even know if she is alive or dead. I don't even know if I'm going to live much longer.
Josh tried to stretch his limbs. Assess the state of the damage you've taken, he decided. His neck hurt badly. The bandage on his gunshot wound had been pulled off, and the punches he'd taken to the side of his head had broken the skin open again. It had been bleeding, he could tell, and some dirt might have got in there, but the flow of blood had staunched itself while he'd been unconscious, and some fresh scabs had started to form. The nerves in his leg wound were throbbing with agony, as if his leg was being drilled open. And his ribs were aching from the fall from the car and-the beating he'd taken from the bikers: none of them seemed to be broken, but the muscles were strained and they ached every time he moved.
So far they haven't roughed me up much at all. Just brought me back and tossed me in this hole. Concentrate, he told himself. Don't give in to despair. So long as you are alive you can pull through this.