I remembered the map I’d studied on the plane. SS340 cut east at Chiasso to Lake Como. I surveyed the terrain on my right. Chuckholey, tough going, but the highway had to be that way. It was off-road or nothing. Backing down to ninety, I pulled into the wilderness, churning up dust like a stagecoach. Dracco’s Harley was now a monster dirt bike.
I dodged the big rocks, kicked up the little ones, and hauled ass toward a rise a half mile ahead. I no longer heard the siren, only the rumble of my engine and the ping of the stones. Felt them, too, smacking my shins.
I slowed as I reached the top, not wanting to catch unexpected air. What I saw was a hundred yards of low- sloping grass and the SS340. Ten seconds later I landed on my new route. No cops. But no Lugano either.The tourists drive by Lake Como at a torturous five miles an hour. There are no back roads to take, no freeways to hop, nothing but nature, cheese shops, and oompah bands.
I inched along in wrenching frustration, wholly disjointed from the festive surroundings. Boarding the train at Lugano was a tragically missed opportunity. It had certainly left the station and was streaking for the St. Roddard Pass. All around me carefree people in sporty haircuts and hiking boots admired that iridescent, deep-blue lake.
The watery vision stilled my mind and I drifted, hooked to a line that dangled from memory’s long pole.
I recalled my first trip through the pass, cruising south from Zurich in a VW bus. After crossing a bridge, we’d entered a tunnel. When it spit us out the other side, I’d noticed train tracks thirty feet below, running parallel to the road.
Suddenly I was back in the jungle. Clear vision, crystalline thought. Goddamn!
I cut west on the road to Gandria, then wound my way towardBellinzona, tooling as fast as the snaky road would allow. If the police were looking for me, they’d be on Highway N2. Checking my watch, I calculated when the train would reach the tunnel. Twenty minutes, tops. I cranked the throttle; my burned hand throbbed. Anger snacked on the pain.
At Bellinzona I got back on the main road at last. Passing everyone as if they were still-lifes, I watched for cops and prayed for train.
I blasted through Giornico. The mountain loomed ahead in the distance—a chunk of rock with two gaping holes.
As I careered around a hairpin turn, my foot peg scraped along the coarse pavement. I was losing the split- second battle for control when I heard the screaming whistle.
With all my strength, I forced the bike up and onto the straightaway. And there it was! At the back of what looked like thirty cars, Krell’s silver Pullman glinted in the afternoon sun.
Hunching down, I gunned the Harley up the ascending parallel road as the locomotive barreled into the tunnel.
Sirens wailed behind me.
Speeding past the Pullman, I saw the curtain pull back and glimpsed Krell’s bald head. The mountain towered above, its open mouth waiting to devour me.
I jerked the bike hard right. The ground fell away as I launched for the rapidly disappearing train. I leaned forward, keeping my body loose, anticipating the impact.
The rear wheel landed first, square in the middle of the car in front of Krell’s. Tromping the back brake, I laid the big bike down, taking the hit on my right hip and elbow as I slid by the air-conditioning unit, just managing to grab hold of it. The eight-hundred-pound motorcycle screeched across the roof of the car, plummeted off the side, and crashed into the brick wall at the face of the tunnel.
Steel fingers and iron will kept me clinging to the train as it hurtled into the darkness. Wind battered me like a cat-o’-nine-tails, deafeningme to all but my inner charge, my mission. I was chin down, spread-eagled, unable to do anything until we emerged from the mile-long tunnel into the sunlight that filled the cavernous pass.
I was about to crawl around the air conditioner toward the Pullman when five men rushed like ants out of a hole onto Krell’s front platform.
I pulled out the Jackhammer, flattened myself against the roof, and squeezed the trigger; the force of the kickback jumped the shotgun out of my hand and off the side of the car as one of the guys exploded like a pinata.
I drew out one of the Sigs, a weapon I knew I could count on, and let loose, directing my fire side-to-side like a lawn sprinkler, emptying the magazine. I heard screams over the sound of the thundering train, then nothing, which gave me a moment of hope, till about a hundred rounds tore through the air conditioner, ripping it to shrapnel.
I fell away, covering my face with my arms, and slid to the side of the car, grabbing the gutter rail. Drawing the mini from my sleeve, I frantically pressed the button for full automatic as the next burst of machine-gun fire ripped the rest of the air conditioner from the roof.
I squeezed the trigger, firing most of the clip of pellets at the two remaining men. A microsecond later, tiny explosions popped like firecrackers. I lifted my head up slowly. Carnage.
I slipped the gun back into the armband; the heat burned my skin. Spidering over the edge of the car, I leapt down into the litter of bodies. I pulled the other Sig from its holster and burst through the door in a low crouch. No one in sight.
“Ginneeey!” I yelled, searching the car.
“Reb!” she screamed from the back platform.
I sprang through the rear door, all rational thought deserting me. Tecci stood behind Ginny in the corner, the
