James Chase - The World in My Pocket

He watched the guard talk into the microphone. He could hear his voice, but not what he was saying. This would mean their escape time would be cut down, Morgan thought. As soon as the truck went off the air, the Agency would know something was wrong and would set off the alarm.

The guard had now ceased talking and had hung up the microphone. He said something to the driver, then opened the truck door and got out. The driver remained where he was, watching through the windshield.

Morgan wondered what Bleck was doing. From where he lay, he couldn’t see him.

Bleck was sighting the rifle at the guard as he walked quickly towards Ginny, and he was cursing under his breath because his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t hold the rifle steady, and this threw him into a panic.

By now the guard was within ten feet of Ginny, and Bleck knew any moment Morgan would break cover.

The rifle sight wavered on the guard: on him a moment, off him the next.

Bleck heard a rustle of shrubs as Morgan came out on to the road. He did what he shouldn’t have done. He took his eyes off the guard and looked quickly to his right.

Morgan was moving fast and silently up to the on-side window of the truck, his .45 in his hand.

The guard was now bending over Ginny, but not touching her.

Perhaps he had a suspicion that there was something wrong with this setup. Perhaps he felt he was being watched. He suddenly looked back over his shoulder.

Morgan was now at the window, his gun pointing at the startled driver, who sat paralysed.

Ginny sat up abruptly.

The guard whipped around and his hand smashed down on her wrist as she was lifting her gun. His movement was unbelievably fast. With his left hand he hit her across her face, knocking her flat. With his right hand, he whipped his gun out of its holster.

The two movements were too quick for the eye to follow.

His breath rasping at the back of his throat, Bleck pulled the trigger of the rifle instead of squeezing it. The rifle sight jerked upwards as the gun went off. The bullet passed harmlessly over the guard’s head.

As Bleck fired, the driver who had been sitting motionless in the cab, staring at Morgan, suddenly threw himself sideways, his hand stabbing towards the three buttons on the dashboard.

Morgan shot him in the face.

The guard swung his gun on Morgan. As he fired, Ginny, still dazed by the blow she had received, struck at his arm, shifting his aim, but not enough.

Morgan felt a heavy blow against his ribs and then a burning pain. The shock sent him down on one knee, but he quickly recovered. He took a snap shot at the guard who had Ginny now hanging on his gun arm.

His shot hit the guard in the centre of his forehead, killing him instantly. His body slumped down on Ginny, flattening her on the road.

Morgan crawled to his feet, the pain in his side making him grit his teeth.

He was in time to see the driver’s hand creep towards one of the buttons on the dashboard. Before Morgan could move, the fumbling finger reached the button and pressed it.

Steel shutters, moving like the spring of a released mousetrap, snapped down over the windows and the windshield, turning the truck into a steel box.

Cursing, Morgan staggered upright and slammed his gun butt against the shutter, covering the driver’s window, in a vicious explosion of disappointment. As he stood there, panting, he heard through the shutter a sighing groan from the driver, and then the sound of his body rolling off the seat onto the floor.

Bleck came rushing out from behind his cover, clutching the automatic rifle, his face livid.

Morgan turned and stared at him. There was an expression in his eyes that brought Bleck to an abrupt standstill.

‘You yellow rat!’ Morgan snarled. ‘I’ve a mind to kill you!’

Bleck dropped the rifle and waved his hands imploringly.

‘I tried to hit him!’ he cried wildly. ‘I got the sights wrong and then the rifle jammed!’

Morgan suddenly realized he was bleeding, and opening his coat, he saw a great patch of blood on his shirt.

Ginny came unsteadily up to him. Her face was red from the heat of the burning car and her hair was singed.

‘Is it bad?’ she asked anxiously.

‘It’s nothing,’ Morgan said, but he was uneasy, as he was feeling cold and faint. He pushed the whistle into her hand. ‘Get Kitson fast.’

She blew the whistle: a long, shrill blast; paused and then blew it again.

‘The driver?’ she asked as Morgan leaned against the side of the truck, his breathing quick and light.

‘I fixed him. He managed to press one of the buttons, but I don’t think he touched the others. I heard him fall.’

Bleck had come closer and was standing helplessly near Morgan.

‘Frank! You’re bleeding!’

‘Get away from me, you creep!’ Morgan snarled. ‘You’ve bitched up the whole plan. We’re sunk now!’

‘No!’ Ginny said sharply. ‘We can still do it! Come over here and sit down! Let me stop the bleeding!’

As soon as he had sat down by the side of the road, she stripped off his coat and shirt.

Bleck stood staring, not knowing what to do.

Morgan shouted at him, ‘Get the body out of sight! Do something, can’t you?’

Ginny examined the long furrow along Morgan’s ribs. It had been a close thing, but the ribs weren’t touched. She lifted her skirt and wrenched at the hem of her petticoat, tearing off a long strip of material. Then she picked up Morgan’s shirt, tore the part that wasn’t blood stained, made it into a pad and tied the pad tightly to the wound.

‘That will hold it for a while,’ she said. ‘It’ll have to be properly fixed as soon as we get to the camp. How does it feel?’

Morgan got slowly to his feet. He put on his coat, grimacing.

‘I’m all right. Quit fussing.’ He looked across at the truck. ‘We’re sunk. We can’t drive the truck into the caravan now, and time’s running out. If we want to save our hides, we’ll have to get the hell out of here pronto.’

Just then the Buick, pulling the caravan, came fast down the road and pulled up. Kitson, pale, and nervy, got out and looked questioningly at the truck and then at Morgan.

Bleck came out from behind a clump of bushes where he had left the guard’s body.

‘What happened?’ Kitson demanded. ‘I heard shooting.’

‘We’re sunk,’ Morgan said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Wait!’ Ginny said. ‘The Buick can push the truck into the caravan. It can be done! We’ve got to try it! We just can’t leave it here!’

Morgan screwed up his eyes, staring at her.

‘Yeah, what’s the matter with me? Of course.’ He turned to Kitson. ‘Uncouple the caravan and hurry!’

Catching the urgency in his voice, Kitson, bewildered, not knowing what had happened, ran over to the caravan and pulled out the coupling pin.

Morgan yelled at Bleck: ‘Help him! Come on! Come on! Get the caravan turned around. You, Ginny, get the Buick behind the truck!’

As Kitson and Bleck manhandled the caravan, Ginny drove the Buick past the truck, then reversed back so the Buick’s rear bumper came into contact with the truck’s rear bumper. Kitson and Bleck dragged the caravan close to the front of the truck.

‘Block the wheels so it can’t shift,’ Morgan said. ‘Get those crowbars, Ed! Use them to keep the front from tipping.’

Working with desperate speed, Kitson collected several big rocks and piled them against the wheels of the caravan while Bleck dug the end of the crowbars into the road, wedging them against the chassis of the caravan so it couldn’t tip forward.

‘Okay,’ Morgan said, waving to Ginny.

Kitson came to the front of the truck and stood by as Morgan opened the back of the caravan.