The last tiny flecks of shattered filament drifted downward as Ian raced to the Volvo. The Saint was already shifting gears and positioning the vehicle for an unobstructed route out the front drive. The swing of headlights when the Saint threw the Volvo into reverse revealed Alisdare on all fours searching for the lost shotgun, two thugs on the ground commiserating over their mutual discomfort, but no Milo. Simon was not actively concerned about the gimp’s whereabouts until Ian and the limping lacky appeared simultaneously at the open passenger door.
For an instant, the Saint almost expected Milo to repent of his past misdeeds and request a ride as far away from Duvall as the Saintmobile could carry him. Instead, Milo grabbed Ian by the throat.
The Saint retrieved the .38 from his lap, but Dan was between Simon and Milo, as was the strangled and struggling Ian. Daniel instantly grasped the situation’s logistical complexities. And that, as they say, was that. Less than five seconds later Ian was gulping air in the front passenger seat; Milo, minus two of his yellow rat-like teeth, was flat on his back in the dirt, and Dan sat in the back seat massaging his sore knuckles.
“I couldn’t have knocked him colder myself,” admitted the Saint, and Dan didn’t bother to suppress a smile of adventurous pride.
The Volvo spat dirt and gravel from its back wheels as Simon gunned it from the clearing to the front drive. It was a long, one lane blacktop, and they were up to 40mph as they took off for the exit.
“Who were those guys?” asked Ian weakly, “I mean they really ticked me off big time.”
The Saint was incredulous.
“You mean you don’t know that was the SeaQue Salvage liar I told you about?”
“Oh, your Costello Treasure buddy,” exclaimed Daniel. “Nah, they never explained anything. They just kidnapped us, blindfolded us, brought us here, and the little guy asked us stupid questions.”
“The nut kept demanding information about our gang,” Ian added derisively, “and he carried on about talons, diamonds, and somebody named Buzzy.”
“Then ratface made us watch dirty movies.”
“The first one was the better of the two,” clarified Ian needlessly, “at least it had a plot.”
Nearing the intersection of Alisdare’s private lane and the secondary road, a set of headlights suddenly blazed in the distance.
“Who’s that?” gasped Ian, pointing at the two bright bulbs growing bigger and brighter, filling their windshield.
“Maybe it’s a bus load of movie critics coming to offer second opinions,” muttered the Saint.
The oncoming vehicle appeared to increase speed, bearing down on them with unrepentant intensity.
Ian gulped and griped the cloth upholstery; Dan brushed some shattered glass from the back seat and wondered what if his minimal insurance covered damage by gunfire. Moments from potential impact, the Saint discerned the oncoming car’s distinctive BMW emblem, slammed on the brakes, and twisted the steering wheel hard to the left. The BMW took the opposite evasive action, and both cars screeched, skidded sideways, bounced backwards off the narrow lane, and came to temporary repose directly across from each other. Beam to beam, they faced each other.
“Is that the Berkman lady?” asked Ian hopefully.
“It shouldn’t be,” answered the Saint, “but it certainly looks that way.”
Simon fished the .22 in the plastic bag out of his jacket pocket and tossed it to Daniel in the back seat.
“Keep this safe for me.”
Dan and Ian shot each other looks of dismay, then stared at the Saint.
“Just because you’re out of the basement doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods,” explained Simon quickly. “Old pink-ears and I still have unfinished business, and you have time to complete the last item on your errand list.”
“Then what?” It was Daniel speaking, his tone even and unshaken.
“Then,” said the Saint optimistically, “we will glory in our romantic outlawry.”
“Personally,” commented Ian dryly, “I’d settle for a pepperoni pizza.”
“This is where I get out,” said Simon. He put the Volvo in neutral, switched the dome light switch to the off position, and left the engine running. “When I slam the door, go for it.”
The BMW driver door swung open, as did that of the Volvo. The Saint emerged with Milo’s .38 in his right hand. The piercing lights made discerning anyone behind the glare impossible for either party.
Ian spoke sotto-voce from the driver’s seat.
“Saint, where are we?”
“Duvall,” stated Simon softly “Turn right at the road, right at the end, left at the single light. Just drive. You’ll make it.”
The Saint strained his eyes against the dust and headlights. The only sounds were the BMW’s smooth murmur, the Volvo’s low rumble, and the distant voices of Alisdare and his incapacitated accomplices.
“Simon?” It was Viola’s voice behind the glare, tinged with tears and trembling. “Oh, God, Simon...” She was abruptly silenced by internal emotion or external pressure.
The Saint raised the .38, slammed the Volvo’s door, and moved into the light.
“Drop the gun, Templar.” It was Snookums who spoke, and his statement was an order, not a request.
The conversation suffered interruption when Ian shifted the station wagon into gear and gave it a rush of octane. As the boys peeled out, their headlights revealed three forms standing by the BMW’s drivers side. One was a woman, the other two were men. The larger of the two men held obvious dominion over his reluctant female companion.
Ian increased speed, swung out the driveway onto the secondary road, and disappeared into the night as a second set of headlights narrowly missed collision with the speeding Volvo and turned in on Alisdare’s road.
The Saint stood in stark relief against the dark Duvall night, his right hand holding the .38 at eye level, his left hand resting on his hip. The very blood in his veins seemed to freeze, and his bright sapphire eyes frosted with iced intensity.
The newly arrived vehicle slowed to a stop ten feet away and flicked on its high beams. Simon noticed, but did not divert his attention from Viola and her captors who now moved haltingly in front of the idling automobile.
Snookums held Viola roughly by the hair, the point of an authentic Stiletto pressed into the soft white of her throat. In the double illumination of the two cars, every detail burned into Simon’s consciousness — Viola’s nylons tattered and shredded, blouse torn to embarrassing exposure, lipstick smeared clownlike on her lips, mascara in tear streaks down her cheeks. Despite the distance between them, their eyes met in intimate communication. Her exterior may have been abused and violated, but her inner core remained defiantly her own. He knew what she expected of him, and he would not disappoint her.
“We’ve got the girl, Templar, give it up.”
“I’ve got the gun, Snookums, give her up,” countered the Saint, and his voice carried an inflection of perky unconcern.
“I could slit her throat in a heartbeat,” insisted the giant harshly.
“And you’d have a bullet in your empty head as a souvenir of the occasion,” explained the Saint as if delineating a basic scientific principle.
“He’s a remarkable shot, honest,” added Vi helpfully, tilting her throat back farther from the blade’s point.
“Shaddup!” demanded the giant, and he glared intently at the Saint.
The silence between them stretched with increased tension. At length, the Saint spoke. “Your turn,” prompted Simon, “Really, you must keep up your end of the conversation.”
“You expect too much of him, Simon,” added Vi bravely, “I was similarly disappointed...”