Nevertheless, the heavy container grudgingly yielded to the insistent pressure from his straining thigh muscles and began to slide. As it crept up the length of the rails the resistance steadily decreased, and at the halfway point, gravity became his ally. The brown dumpster tilted and began to slide independent of his efforts. A moment later, it crashed noisily along the back of the truck before banging down onto the pavement.
Irene was maintaining a good speed and a straight course, using the horn as she entered and crossed intersections under solid red lights. New York drivers answered with angry gestures and blasts from their own horns, but did not attempt to assert their legal right of way. Kismet knew she was going to have to make a turn at one of those intersections, and quickly, so as not to lose any advantage he might have gained with the dumpster maneuver. He cautiously rose to a crouch, peering over the end of the truck to see if his ploy had achieved the intended results. The container had stopped bouncing and now rested on its back, straddling the broken white line in the center of the avenue. The pursuing vehicles had been forced to take evasive action, but were quickly recovering and again closing the gap. It was time to take the next step.
Before he could move from his perch, another intersection flashed by — the perfect opportunity, but already lost. Sliding cautiously toward the right side of the cab, Kismet lowered himself onto the running board. Before he could open his mouth to speak however, something cracked against the outer wall of the refuse canister, pinging away in a flash of sparks. Someone was shooting at him. He pressed himself tight against the door.
"Irene!"
"Now?" Her voice was barely audible.
"No! Take the next right! Got it?"
There was a brief silence and Kismet repeated himself, and then heard her shout an affirmative. He risked a forward glance, marking the distance to the next traffic signal, and then turned his attention to the next part of his plan.
When they had first commandeered the truck, Kismet had spied the mobile control box hanging from a bracket just behind the passenger door. He had suspected its purpose even then, filing the information away without really knowing why. Now he knew. He took a moment to study the switches so there would be no surprises.
The engine revved loudly as Irene depressed the clutch prematurely, her other foot still holding the accelerator. Kismet looked forward again, realizing that she had misunderstood his instructions and was turning down a narrow alley instead of waiting for the next major intersection. The mechanical whine subsided after a moment and Kismet felt the truck slowing as she braked. He mentally commended her for not panicking and more or less getting it right, but his relief turned sour in the next instant.
Irene tried to steer and shift at the same time, and failed to do either very well. The truck angled toward two o'clock, not enough to make the right hand turn, and continued to lose speed. Gears shrieked in metallic agony as the clutch engaged, and then the truck stopped dead. A moment later it lurched forward again, throwing Kismet against its side and nearly dislodging him from his foothold. Only a fierce grip on the frame of the side mirror kept him from spilling into the street.
As the truck began to move again with painful slowness, Irene threw her strength into the labor of turning the steering wheel. The vehicle grudgingly complied and crept into the narrow side street.
Kismet turned back to the avenue behind them. The first of the chasing cars screeched into view. It lost some traction as the driver attempted the turn too fast, but he knew what he was doing and corrected, regaining control without sacrificing any speed. Kismet knew he had to act immediately or his efforts would be for nothing. He pushed the button.
Twin hydraulic cylinders lifted the hatch covering the back end of the refuse canister, exposing its cavernous interior. Kismet's fingers danced toward a different switch, activating a much larger device.
The front end of the enormous tank-like structure began swinging up and immediately the contents of the container were vomited into the alley. A number of plastic garbage bags burst on impact with the street, spewing a foul-smelling mixture of food refuse and other debris into the path of the oncoming vehicle.
The driver of the Buick evidently failed to appreciate what this would mean in terms of road surface. Undaunted, he aimed the car into the heart of the growing obstacle and sped forward. The front bumper plowed into the mound of trash, but then the tires lost traction and the car skidded haphazardly across the narrow street. The sedan's rear end crashed into the wall of a six story apartment building, leaving a trail of sparks as metal scoured brick, before it came to a halt, effectively blocking the street. A second car screeched into the alley, and its driver hit the brakes too late to avoid plowing into the first sedan and disabling both vehicles.
Kismet's triumphant grin lasted only a second. Irene suddenly stomped the brake and the garbage truck's wheels locked. This time he was caught unprepared and was thrown forward, landing on his shoulder and rolling several yards down the street. The fabric of his suit jacket afforded some protection but was nearly shredded by the rough asphalt.
"Damn it, Irene," he rasped, struggling to his feet. "What the hell—?"
As he looked down the alley he saw why she had stopped. Illuminated in the beams of the truck's headlights, behind a fence of blue and white wooden barricades, was a mountain of steaming rubble. A glance to the sidewalk revealed that one of the structures had recently burned and been gutted. Furniture, appliances and other large pieces of debris had been dragged into the street, where they now effectively blocked the way.
Kismet sagged in defeat. Irene's head popped out of the open door of the cab, her face desperate for an answer to the question she framed. "What now?"
Behind them the doors of the wrecked sedans flew open, disgorging seven armed men eager to finish the pursuit on foot. They were less than half a block away.
"Looks like you were right," Kismet muttered, turning to his companion. "I can't be right every time, and I'd say my luck just ran out."
FIVE
The first of Grimes' men to attempt the mountain of garbage found the obstacle more daunting than he had anticipated. After only a few steps, he lost his footing and vanished into the heap. Seeing this, his comrades approached the slippery mass with more caution, but they too had difficulty crossing. Kismet could hear them shouting to one another that the best course lay in trying to go around the perimeter of the spill. Time was running out.
"You've brought us this far," Irene urged. "Don't give up now."
He darted toward the driver's side door of the truck and snared Irene's wrist, pulling her without explanation from behind the wheel. "Right. We're not dead yet."
Despite his assurance, he had not yet settled on his next course of action; he only knew that they had to keep moving. He glanced at the heap of rubble, then at the street around them. Just ahead was the shell of the building that had been ravaged by flames. Its windows were boarded over and smoke stains were visible on the brick of the upper three stories. The skeletal remains of a fire escape hung mockingly above the entrance. Because the edifice shared walls with adjoining buildings, the fire damage had spread out, blackening the exteriors of the neighboring apartments. The damage appeared extensive enough that the structure was almost certainly vacant. As he took stock of his surroundings, the thread of a plan materialized. With Irene's hand locked in his own, he charged toward the steps.
"Where are we going?"