“They’re on to us,” Cali announced as they reached the head of the line.
The first car wasn’t what Mercer expected or hoped for but it was their only option. The car was a work of art, a 1954 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith with Hooper coachwork. It was painted in dove gray with dark blue fenders that swept gracefully over the wheels. With a wheelbase over ten feet long, the car was the epitome of stateliness and class. Although powered by a four-liter in-line six-cylinder engine, the vehicle was hopelessly underpowered because of its weight. Mercer could only hope they could vanish before Poli and his men reached their own car, because there was no way the British automobile would win any races.
“Cali, you drive,” Mercer said as they approached. A distinguished man with the look of a television news anchor had just stepped from the passenger door. Mercer bulled past him so he could unceremoniously dump Harry inside. “And give me the gun.”
She tossed it over the roof as she ducked into the driver’s seat. The passenger’s protest at what was happening died on his lips when Mercer caught the automatic pistol one-handed and pegged him with a flat stare. Just then a crush of people burst through the hotel’s multiple doors. Many of them were screaming and all wore masks of fear. Like a tidal wave they crashed into the lines of cars, surging around the vehicles and shoving anyone who got in their way.
Mercer jumped into the back of the Rolls.
The rear bench seat was covered in soft Connolly leather and the burled woodwork gleamed in the light cast by the Deco Palace’s marquee. Cut crystal highball glasses were laid out on a folding tray and the decanter next to it held a rich amber liqueur. He knelt against the seat and peered out the rear window. One of Poli’s men was limping but they were coming on fast.
“Mercer?”
“Not now, Harry,” he snapped without turning. “Cali, go!”
“I can’t,” she cried. “The car’s right-hand drive!”
Mercer twisted around and saw that Harry sat behind the wheel. Rather than an export model modified for the American market, the classic Rolls had been built for the roads of England, so the driver sat on the right. Poli and his men were seconds away. They kept their guns from view, but as soon as they were in range Mercer had no doubt they’d open fire.
Atlantic City, New Jersey
“No time to switch seats,” Mercer shouted. “Punch it, Harry.”
Harry mashed the clutch and forced the car into first gear, laying on the horn, which sounded a majestic, almost apologetic tone. The Rolls didn’t exactly shoot from its mark, but in seconds they were outpacing Poli and his men. Mercer watched as the gunmen reached the head of the queue of waiting cars. Poli snatched a young woman out of the seat of her Geo Metro, the next car in line to pull away from the hotel. The gunman with a limp lowered himself into the passenger seat, waving his pistol at the second tattooed young woman who had been about to settle in for their drive home. Poli mouthed an order to his third man and gunned the little car. The three-cylinder engine screamed and the front wheels squealed as Poli took off after the Silver Wraith.
“He’s following us,” Mercer said and smashed out the rear window with the butt of the automatic. He checked the magazine, and was startled to find only two rounds.
Harry glanced into the rearview mirror. His eyes widened slightly when he realized the tiny blue car was what Poli had stolen. “He’s driving that thing? Braver than I thought.”
“Just for the record I’ve got two shots left, so if I don’t get lucky you’re going to have to outdrive him.”
“No problem,” Harry said breezily as he turned onto Atlantic Avenue. “You forget Tiny and I come up here whenever you’re out of town.”
“And take my car,” Mercer added.
While Mercer hadn’t been impressed by Atlantic City’s boardwalk, with its T-shirt shops, psychic readers, and saltwater taffy stands, it was infinitely better than the rest of the city. Just a block from the glitzy multimillion-dollar hotel-casinos the neighborhoods were some of the poorest in the nation. Abandoned houses were covered in graffiti, yards were choked with weeds, and teens loitered in hunting packs like wild animals. Smashed bottles littered the gutters and few of the streetlights still worked. The pall of apathy and despair was overwhelming.
“Cali, honey,” Harry said as they flashed through an intersection. “I need you to focus on the road about a hundred yards ahead. My night vision isn’t what it used to be.”
She nodded grimly and tightened her seat belt.
They had enough of a head start that Harry could keep one turn ahead, but the Rolls was so slow on acceleration that he couldn’t shake the little Metro. He broke out onto a long street and revved the engine, winding out the old six-cylinder until it shrieked and managed to gain a few precious yards.
Mercer watched the Metro wheel around the corner, side-swiping an abandoned sedan. The range was too much for him to waste one of his precious bullets, but Poli’s man had no such shortage. He steadied his pistol out the passenger window and cycled through the magazine. Most of the rounds went wild thanks to the potholed macadam, but two hit the Rolls. One blew off Cali’s side mirror and the other slammed into the trunk, burying itself in a pair of matching Louis Vuitton suitcases that the valet hadn’t had the time to remove.
There was a convenience store on the next corner. Many of the lights in the metal canopy above the gas pumps were out but the place was still open. Neon signs hung in the store’s windows and a tricked-out Honda Del Sol was pulled up to the curb.
Though Mercer had never smoked, he had developed the habit of always carrying a couple of disposable lighters in his pocket. It was the old Boy Scout training, and having them with him had saved his life more than once.
“Harry, get ready to cut through that gas station.”
Mercer pulled the stopper from the decanter of liquor, and stuffed one of the linen napkins that the highball glasses were sitting on into the mouth.
“Hey, I smell booze,” Harry said. “Save me some.”
“Sorry, old boy.” Mercer upended the bottle, soaking the napkin in what smelled like a very good single-malt Scotch. “When we drive through the gas station, I want you to take out one of the pumps.”
“Are you crazy?” Cali shouted.
“Like a fox,” Harry said with delight. He had supreme confidence in Mercer, so he was actually enjoying himself.
Harry slowed slightly to lure the Metro, and then jerked the wheel to the right. The big car bottomed out as it shot over the crosswalk, kicking up a shower of sparks. Cali screamed as he nearly ran over a homeless man sitting on the curb drinking from a large bottle of malt liquor. Like a juggernaut the Rolls raced across the lot, Harry aiming unerringly at the second pump in line. Mercer lit his improvised Molotov cocktail. The alcohol-soaked linen caught fire instantly.
In a maneuver that taxed both his strength and dexterity Harry tweaked the wheel to miss one of the steel columns holding up the canopy, drove the car up onto the island curb, and sent the front fender crashing through one of the old pumps.
The deceleration was brutal. Cali snapped forward, her head missing the dash by inches. The pump was sheared off at its base, tumbling end over end while the gasoline still in the lines splashed to the ground in a dark stain. Mercer pulled himself from the floor where he’d sprawled, the Molotov cocktail held high as if he were an outfielder clutching a ball he’d dived for.