"The bullet must have hit a nerve," McLaren's voice answered. "I can't feel anything below the knee."
"I'm afraid Bill and Eddie are in worse shape," Erikson said soberly. I rolled over and sat up. "Well, back in the land of the living."
My throat was dry and there was something the matter with my ears. "Glad to see the U.S. Cavalry made it on time," I croaked.
"On time, hell," McLaren snorted. He was sitting with one leg stretched out straight in front of him. Erikson had moved to him and was probing at the leg. "Bayak was in that limousine," McLaren continued, wincing. "And whoever was with him recovered the AEC package while you were knocked out. The only break we got was that the grenade explosion blew the truck's gas tank right into the limousine and set it afire."
I looked outside. I was surprised to find that the twisted truck body was level with the roadway. Up the road I could see the big car burning fiercely.
"We nailed the man who threw the grenade," Erikson added, "but not before he got the AEC package to Bayak. And Bayak just got away in the car that brought you here. Can you walk?"
I struggled to my feet and tried it. "Sure."
"Then let's go. Jock, hold the lid on things here."
I looked around for my.38 and found it. Erikson took my arm and hustled me to a car parked in front of the truck. Across the road the green panel truck was also burning. Cars were backed up behind the burning truck, not moving. There was no traffic on our side of the road, either. It would have taken a stupid motorist indeed to encroach on the war zone. A body in olive-drab was crumpled across the median. Another lay in the middle of the road with a submachine gun still grasped in its stilled hands.
Erikson slid under the wheel, started the engine, and slammed the car down the highway. Beside him, I still felt partly numb and I was having difficulty swallowing. "That car that Bayak's in still has the bumper beeper on it," I reminded Erikson.
He grunted acknowledgment, took one hand from the steering wheel, and fiddled with a switch on the dashboard. A faint beeping tone sounded. "There he is," Erikson said. "But damn near the outer limit of pickup range." He sounded worried. "If we were in our communications car, I could call ahead and arrange a roadblock, but the comcar was shot to pieces by those bastards. And if we stop to call we'll lose Bayak."
Under the impetus of Erikson's heavy-footed driving the car was doing eighty. The continuous beeping tone became louder. "We're gaining," Erikson said hopefully. "He'll be driving like a law-abiding citizen in order not to attract attention to himself. But with the start he has-"
"There's only one place he can be headed," I said. "Kennedy International Airport."
"The direction is right," Erikson said after glancing at a dashboard compass. "But we can't be sure."
"The hell we can't. We know his next stop is Damascus. You got any.38 ammunition in this ark?"
"Try the glove compartment."
I found a box of.45 bullets and a box of.38's. I reloaded the Smith & Wesson, ignoring the swaying motion of the car as Erikson really pushed it. The speedometer needle flickered near ninety, and the beeping tone increased steadily in volume. "He can't be more than a mile ahead of us now," Erikson said. We had picked up some traffic, and he wheeled the car in, around, and through it with no thought for the brake.
"I saw the AEC package," I said. I made a shape in the air with my hands. "It looks like a gray miniature casket, about this big."
"That gets priority," Erikson stated. "Above everything." He hit the horn in a long blast, and cars ahead of us swerved out of the way. I caught a glimpse of drivers' startled faces as we whizzed past them. "If we catch him, Bayak can claim diplomatic immunity, but at least we'll recover the package from him." The beeping sound suddenly filled the car's interior, assaulting the ears almost painfully. "He must be held up at the toll bridge, by God! We're going to get him yet!"
Erikson rolled down the car window on his side and removed a gold badge from an inner pocket. In three minutes we rolled up on the lights-ablaze toll station with the car's horn blaring steadily. Automobiles scuttled to one side. Erikson picked an empty lane, slowed to sixty, and threw his badge into the collection box as we burst on through. "That'll bring reinforcements," he said when he straightened the car out again after almost driving off the road where it narrowed beyond the toll station.
The volume of the beeping tone had leveled off. "He's pushing it, too," Erikson said gloomily. "And we're getting close. I'll have to call the tower and stop all outgoing flights while we look for Bayak in the terminal. The hell of it is that he'll have a chance to make some other disposition of the AEC package the second he suspects anything is wrong."
"Why didn't the package go up when the grenade went off?" I asked.
"It takes heat," Erikson explained. "Tremendous heat at close range. A simple explosion won't do it:"
"Lucky me," I said.
I could see dawn breaking in the eastern sky. A gray world was emerging from the blackness. We were on a six-lane highway, but I didn't know where. The majority of the traffic lights were still on early-morning blinking-yellow patterns. Those that were on red Erikson ran as if they were green. Each time I tensed in the front seat beside him, expecting the crash that somehow didn't come.
A huge gray mass drifted past on our right. We were past it when it occurred to me that it must be Shea Stadium. We were almost at Kennedy, and there was still no sign of Bayak although the volume of the beeper pings had again increased substantially.
"How many with Bayak?" I raised my voice above the electronic sound.
"He's alone," Erikson replied, swerving around a cab and cutting it off sharply. I turned my head in time to see the driver roll down his window and yell something after us. "He can't be more than a couple of hundred yards ahead of us from the sound of that thing, but we're running out of time."
He edged over to the right lane as a sign said KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT with a pointing arrow. We were still doing seventy when we hit the turnoff. We passed another car that I looked over closely, but it was the wrong type and color. Our tires squealed wildly as Erikson alternately hit the gas and the brakes on the curves.
A dark-colored sedan appeared ahead of us as the passenger car and taxicab access road widened to a broad area in front of the loading and unloading platform. "There he is!" I exclaimed as I saw the bulbous outline of Bayak's head. A slow-moving bus threatened to separate us from the sedan, but Erikson hit the horn, bullied his way with inches to spare between bus and sedan, and curbed the sedan a hundred yards short of the terminal entrance amidst a shrieking wail of blended fenders.
I stared across four feet of space into the pasty, strained features of Iskir Bayak. The doors on my side of the car and Bayak's side were jammed together. The fat man clawed his way across the front seat of his car to the other door which he opened. Beside me Erikson bounded out of our car. The Turk straightened up on the sidewalk as Erikson started around the car after him. When he saw Erikson so close, Bayak, with a roundhouse swing of his arms like a two-handed discus throw, sailed a gray miniature casket-shaped object out into the thickening crush of cars and cabs where it bounced, rolled, and slid.
"Get the package!" Erikson yelled as I slid across the seat to get out on the driver's side. "Get the package!"
I hit the macadam, gun in hand. Erikson was already halfway to the casket-shaped object, dodging traffic. I started after Bayak who was waddling rapidly toward the entrance, his obesity in jellylike motion in his haste. The Turk turned at the sound of my running footsteps, and he had a small derringer in his right hand. I shot him in the wrist, and he howled as the gun clattered to the sidewalk.