Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

"'Ere we be." Adrian was turning onto what at first looked like a continuation of the uneven path they had followed. Closer observation revealed dirt-colored pavement, cement or asphalt, Jason couldn't be sure. Whatever the material, it served to join a series of tooth-loosening potholes.

At least here there was small chance of unexpectedly hitting a stone larger than the car. As it was, the road was carved from the hills that formed the spine of the island, a serpentine, narrow two-lane that looked barely wide enough for two medium-size vehicles to pass.

Over Adrian's shoulder, Jason could see the speedometer wavering around eighty-five kilometers, less than fifty miles an hour. Even so, he nearly hit the headliner with each bounce.

He tightened his seat belt to the limit, noticing Maria doing the same.

Through teeth clenched for fear of biting his tongue, Jason asked, "Where're we going?"

"Cagliari," Adrian answered, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Where?"

"Cagliari," Maria said. "Provencal capital. Italian naval base."

"Only town of any real size on the island," Adrian added. "Figgered you could head to wherever you were goin' and I could drop Mother off, send her home to visit with the wee grandchildren back in Scotland until all this blows over."

"You need to figger again," Clare said. "I'll not be shipped off like some mail-order parcel, not after th' years I spent waitin' for you while you were in the service, waitin' to see if you came home upright or in a box." "But y' kenna come along," Adrian argued. "There's people back there mean us all harm."

"I'm no more in danger than th' lass," she said, referring to Maria.

Swell.

Barely escaped from Eglov's killers and Jason was listening to a domestic argument that sounded like which child would get to use the sole ticket to the county fair.

He was about to speak up, thank Adrian for his implicit offer to help, and decline, when the interior of the Volvo was filled with light from behind.

"Jesus wept!" Adrian grunted. "You'd think this was the bleedin' M4. Somebody's drivin' way too fast."

It didn't take a clairvoyant to guess who.

Jason guessed Eglov and his men had reconnoitred the area well enough to know the paved road was the likely, if not only, escape route. They had also obtained a car with a lot more power than the aging Volvo. It was gaining quickly, already well within range of the AK-47s.

"Anywhere we could turn off, maybe lose them?" Jason asked.

"Na' but winding road for the next ten kilometers," came the reply.

A burst of gunfire, this time close enough to hear, came from the right front of the pursuing car and went wide right.

Jason involuntarily ducked.

The swaying, bucking motion of fast travel made any sort of accurate shooting unlikely. Whether the silver- bullet-firing six-guns from Silver's back by the Lone Ranger or a Walther PPK from a speeding Aston Martin driven by James Bond, a hit was the result of far more luck than skill. The sudden shifts in wind, direction, and elevation all made a moving gunfight more spectacular than deadly.

Nonetheless, Jason felt compelled to fire a few shots in return, with equal lack of result.

"They'll be right up beside us in minutes, Jason observed. "Got any ideas?"

Adrian nodded. "Aye. In a moment we'll reach a wee straight. Remember the bootleg?"

Jason did.

He sat back down in the seat to cinch his seat belt tighter. "Ladies, I'd make sure your seat harness is supersecure."

"Jesus!"

The sudden expletive made Jason forget his seat belt.

The edge of the headlights was reflecting from a truck pulled across both lanes of the narrow road.

The Eco men must have had a backup crew farther down the road, one that could commandeer the truck now effectively hemming the Volvo in. They also could not have picked a better spot: to the right was sheer wall, to the left the abyss.

Adrian slowed as though to surrender. Jason knew what was coming and hoped Clare and Maria had followed his suggestions to make themselves secure.

"We have enough room?" Jason asked, instantly wishing he had kept his concern to himself.

"Na' matter," Adrian said, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as the car behind closed the gap. "Goin' over th' edge's better 'n what those sods have in mind for us."

At a point no more than fifty feet from the truck, Adrian hit the gas, momentarily gaining on the surprised driver of the pursuing car. Just as the gap started to close again, Adrian stood violently on the brake, at the same time snatching the wheel toward the emptiness of the road's outer edge.

The snap of the steering mechanism broke any adhesion between rubber tire and paved road. At the same time, centrifugal force threw the automobile's rear end outward, causing a spin.

"Chicago! Al Capone!" Adrian chortled. "Elliot Ness!"

The maneuver had its origins in Prohibition bootleggers' moonshine-filled cars dodging pursuing revenue agents, one of a number of driving tactics taught in commando training worldwide, perhaps the only one with truly American roots. Although Jason suspected the trick was more at home on the winding dirt roads of Appalachia than the streets of Al Capone's Chicago, he had to admit Adrian executed it perfectly.

At the exact moment the car was facing the opposite direction, Adrian hit the accelerator, regaining traction, and the Volvo leaped like a springing cat in the direction from which it just come. Jason had only an instant to see astonished faces as they whizzed past the chasing vehicle.

Unable to stop or turn so unexpectedly, the car that had been behind-it looked like an older Mercedes as it flashed past-skidded into a sideways drift. For an instant the two left wheels pawed empty air, and Jason thought it might roll over.

But there was no time for a roll. Instead, Mercedes met truck with a crash of splintering glass and tearing sheet metal.

"Hold it; stop!" Jason yelled.

Before the Volvo was entirely still, Jason bolted from the rear, dashing toward the mass of metal that was hissing and steaming like the death throes of some mythical dragon.

Jason sprayed the carnage with nine-millimeter bullets until the Sten's firing pin clicked on an empty chamber and the barrel burned his hand through the canvas cover.

Slamming another clip into the weapon, he took two steps forward before he was restrained by Adrian's hand on his shoulder.

"No time to put a bullet in each of 'em, laddie. We canna ken if there's more about. Best we make our way while we can."

Jason reluctantly agreed with the wisdom of the observation, if not the sentiment. He would prefer not to chance facing any survivors later, survivors who would be less than appreciative of his bounty in letting them live.

Il Giardino de Mare Risorte

Sardinia

The next afternoon

After the highway was effectively blocked by the collision, Adrian had been forced to reverse course, taking an all- night alternate route to put a protesting Clare on a flight to Edinburgh via Rome and London. Like it or not, she would visit with her grandchildren for a few weeks.

Jason was as happy to have the Scot join him as Adrian was to see action once again. The pastoral life, though simpler and potentially longer, lacked excitement, the addictive narcotic from which Adrian had not entirely withdrawn since his retirement from SAS. Neither man knew what to do with Maria, a question largely mooted by her stubborn refusal to join Clare out of harm's way, and the fact that she would provide the introduction to Dr. Calligini as well as translate the questions Jason had.

The one thing the remaining three had agreed upon was that a couple drew far less attention than two men and a woman. Adrian had set out for Turin while Jason and Maria would follow in a day or so.