The chauffeur glanced sharply back at Casillas. "I think we're being followed. There's this guy who's been sticking to our tail since just below Forty-second Street."
Casillas cursed softly in Spanish. "What kind of car is it? "
"A black Jeep Cherokee with crash screens and the whole bit."
Gibson swiveled in his seat and peered through the Rolls's narrow rear window. Sure enough, there it was, just as Amadeus had described it, equipped with every kind of exterior gizmo short of machine-gun mounts and finished in a dull black that gleamed dimly as it passed under the streetlights and cheap neon around Fourteenth Street; it might have just been a trick of the light, but the car seemed to carry with it an aura of profound menace.
Gibson suppressed a shudder. "Are they really following us?"
Amadeus nodded. "And making no secret of it, either."
Gibson looked at Casillas. "Do you know who they are?"
The old man's face was tight. "Whoever they are, I don't think they mean us any good."
"Maybe you ought to let me off here."
Casillas didn't even consider the idea. "It's too late for that."
Amadeus glanced into the rearview mirror. "You want me to take evasive action?"
Casillas frowned. "They may be hard to lose."
"I'll do my best."
Amadeus, who up to that point had been maintaining a fairly dignified speed, quite in keeping with the stately demeanor of the Rolls, suddenly put the hammer down. There was no more dignity in the car's engine. The snarl of raw power drowned out the ticking of the clock. Someone had done a superb job on whatever was under the hood. Unfortunately the Jeep also had the horses, and it stuck with them. Now they were down in the Village and the traffic was heavier, complicated by cabs dropping off and picking up in front of bars and clubs and restaurants. Amadeus, however, maneuvered his way through it, swerving and weaving like Steve McQueen in Bullitt, ignoring the horns and the cursing that he left in his wake.
Gibson was now thoroughly alarmed. "Listen, I'm not kidding. I want to get out. Right now."
Casillas glanced behind. The black Jeep was just two car lengths behind."It wouldn't do you any good. On the sidewalk, you'd be a sitting duck. You're much safer with Amadeus."
Gibson didn't care if his voice sounded desperate. "I don't have any beef with these people, whoever they are."
Casillas's expression was politely regretful. "I'm afraid, as far as these people are concerned, you became one of us the moment you got into the car. Guilt by association."
"What do they want?"
"They want us, Mr. Gibson. They want us. Although I wouldn't care to speculate what they intend to do with us if they get us."
Gibson felt sick. "Jesus Christ."
Amadeus turned in his seat and flashed Gibson a broad grin. Three of his front teeth were gold. "Life's a bitch, ain't it, Joe?"
They were through the Village and headed for Canal Street, The three towers of the World Trade Center loomed luminously in front of them. Amadeus ran the lights by the ball court at Houston, but the Jeep came through right behind them in a drawn-out, discordant fanfare of angry New York horns.
Amadeus was shaking his head. "These guys just don't give up. With your permission, padrone, I'm going to swing into the Holland Tunnel and try and shake them on the Jersey side. Jersey got a mojo all of its own."
Casillas nodded. "Whatever you think."
Amadeus left the turn until the very last second and then screamed the Rolls across three lanes in the hope of faking out the Jeep's driver and leaving him racing fruitlessly toward the Battery. Again, the drivers around him leaned on their horns in protest. It was a good theory but it didn't work. As the Rolls plunged into the smell and dirty tiles of the tunnel, the Jeep followed as though it were glued to them. Amadeus swore bitterly, using what sounded like African curses.
"It's like the motherfucker knows what I'm going to do before I do it."
Casillas nodded gravely. "They may have help."
"So when does our side come through with some?"
"We'll just have to wait and see."
"Shee-it. You better hold on in the back there. These guys are coming for us."
Casillas and Gibson grabbed for handholds as Amadeus swung the Rolls from side to side across the width of the tunnel. The Jeep was aggressively jockeying to move up beside them. Something black and cylindrical protruded from a slit in the mesh screen that covered the right-hand passenger window. Gibson's stomach lurched and knotted as he recognized it as the snout of an assault rifle.
"They've got a gun, goddamn it!"
Amadeus grunted. "We're lucky they ain't got a fucking rocket launcher."
A voice shrieked in Gibson's head. Get out of here! Get out of here! It was only the last shreds of a self-destructive pride that stopped him from sliding to the floor of the car and huddling there whimpering.
Amadeus only managed to keep the black Jeep at bay by making it impossible to get past the Rolls in the narrow confines of the tunnel. The tunnel, however, wouldn't go on forever. The two vehicles came out on the Jersey side like twin shots from a cannon. The Rolls howled past the tollbooths and startled faces gaped from the cars waiting for the lights. The Jeep swung wide, running abreast of the Rolls, and muzzle flashes chattered from the weapon aiming out of the side window.
Amadeus was yelling, "Get down and keep hanging on!"
A stammer of bullets raked the Rolls. Gibson now had no reservations about hitting the floor. The old man was crouched beside him. The left rear window starred but didn't shatter.
"Armored glass?"
He found that his voice had gone up an octave.
Amadeus grunted as he wrenched the wheel around and spun the car into a side street. "Inch thick."
He made four more fast turns and then eased off slightly. There was no sign of the Jeep Cherokee.
"I think we may have thrown them off for the moment."
"Don't speak too soon."
Amadeus kept looking back. "I don't see them."
Casillas eased himself back into the seat. "Just keep going, drive around for a while, and then we'll try to slip back into Manhattan."
Gibson was also up off the floor. He looked out of the window. He didn't have a clue where he was except the vaguest idea that they were somewhere in back of the Jersey City waterfront. They were passing factories and warehouses and two-story houses punctuated here and there by the lights of a liquor store, corner grocery, or fast-food joint. After almost twenty minutes of zigzagging through this kind of terrain, Casillas decided that it might be safe to make for the Lincoln Tunnel and back to New York. In just five blocks, he was proved wrong. Once again it was as though whoever was in control of the black Jeep Cherokee could read their minds. They made a turn and there it was, coming straight at them, the wrong way down a one-way street.
Amadeus yelled a warning. "Motherfucker's going to ram us!"
Amadeus's feet tap-danced, heel and toe, across the brake, clutch, and gas pedals as he spun the steering wheel. The moonshiner's turnaround. Gibson had heard of it but never actually seen it done outside of a movie. He was thrown sideways as the car spun on its axis with a scream of tires and tortured suspension. The front wheels were up on the sidewalk. The Jeep swerved to intercept. For a stretched moment of confusion Amadeus fought with the wheel. A lamppost was coming up. Amadeus stomped down on the brakes. Casillas lost his hold and was thrown forward. He cracked his head on the partition separating the driver from the passengers.