herd.
“ That’s some kind of crazy,” Earl said, and then Undertaker’s Jeep swerved left. The sudden jerk was too much for the top heavy car and it rolled onto its side, then onto its top as it slid off the road, toward the breaking waves. He slowed down, taking his foot off of the accelerator, downshifting into second as the Mercedes ahead spun around and took off like a rabbit running from the fox.
Unlike the Jeeps sold in America, the one sliding into the sea was built with a hard, square, boxy back. Earl noticed the hardtop right off. If his backup survived it would be the hardtop that saved his life.
“ Undertaker is down. Lost a game of chicken with your boy and is sliding into the surf as we speak,” Earl said into the radio. “Should I stop and offer assistance?”
“ Negative, keep after your quarry. I’m a minute behind. If he’s alive I’ll assist.”
More like put a bullet in the poor bastard’s brain, Earl thought, but “Affirmative” was all he said, as he stepped on the gas and took off after the Mercedes. It was about a quarter mile ahead. Earl punched the button on the glove box and took out her chrome-plated thirty-eight. Looked liked a pussy weapon, he thought, pretty and glittery, but deadly.
Up ahead the Mercedes squealed around a corner, headed toward the ocean. He wanted more speed, but his foot was on the floor. Then he was at the corner. He gave the brakes a quick tap, slammed in the clutch and threw it down into third, screamed around the corner and lost control as the Escort howled in protest, bouncing and slamming on a dirt road. The small car whipped around in a tight circle, but Earl managed to stop it without rolling it.
The road ended at the beach. The Mercedes was stopped ahead, with its doors open. The two men were running toward a dark group of abandoned buildings.
Broxton ran toward a Budget Rental sign, Ramsingh ran along with him, matching him stride for stride. The building was boarded and vacant, they hadn’t been renting cars for quite a while. Broxton tried the door, but he knew it was futile before his hand touched the knob. He was heaving air in and out and he could only imagine how the prime minister was doing.
“ I’m okay,” Ramsingh said, as if reading his thoughts.
“ We gotta move,” Broxton said. Then he heard the roaring engine and was captivated by the scene before him. The small Ford Escort spun around and was charging backwards toward the Mercedes. If we’re lucky, Broxton thought, but they weren’t lucky and the car stopped before the collision.
“ Quickly,” Ramsingh said, jerking Broxton’s eyes away from the two cars.
“ Right,” Broxton said, and together they ran along a series of closed, boarded and graffiti covered buildings. A small book store, a beauty shop, a tee shirt and dress shop, and a souvenir shop. Then he saw it. A huge monolith extending into the night sky. Dark, with a single light winking out from about the fifteenth floor. A failed hotel sitting smack on the beach, and there was a door on the ground floor, open wide and inviting. There was no place else to go.
“ I can make it,” Ramsingh said without waiting to be asked, and together the two men sprinted toward that door. Somewhere inside, down a corridor, a dim light beckoned. There was somebody in there. Hopefully not a trigger happy security guard, Broxton thought, as his feet slapped the hard ground. He was worried about Ramsingh, but the prime minister actually quickened his pace and Broxton had to fight to keep up, pumping his arms, forcing his feet to keep the rhythm.
Ramsingh burst through the door first as a gunshot ricocheted through the night and off the wall above the door.
“ Down,” Broxton screamed, diving forward and tackling the prime minister. They were both in the building, both down, both scrambling forward on hands and knees, when two more shots rang through the night. Broxton heard the bullets slam into something ahead in the dark.
Ramsingh crawled through a door on his right and Broxton pushed in after him. Ramsingh was on his feet first and he offered Broxton a helping hand. “We should keep moving,” he said.
“ Yeah,” Broxton said, and he led the way across a darkened banquet hall that must have hosted many conventions in the past. Would it ever host another? The moonbeams slicing through the hall gave the room a ghost-like quality, as if it was set up for a party that never happened. They weaved through chairs and tables to a door on the opposite side of the hall. Ramsingh pushed on through a swinging door into a full kitchen.
Bright, clean, stainless steel counters reflecting the moon’s rays gave the kitchen an even more supernatural appearance than the dining room. Spotless white tile, stainless steel pans hanging on stainless steel hooks around two stainless steel stoves, wide overhead skylights and spotless, white porcelain sinks all combined to chill Broxton’s spine.
The hotel had obviously been closed for a long time, judging from the state of the graffiti covered businesses outside, but someone was keeping it up, keeping it ready.
He heard the sound of running behind them and Broxton tapped Ramsingh on the shoulder. They crouched behind a long counter that ran through the center of the kitchen, almost to a second door at the other end. The door that Broxton and Ramsingh were going to have to get through if they were going to get away.
“ Lawman, Lawman. Undertaker here, how copy?” Broxton heard the unmistakable sound of a radio. There were more of them.
“ I thought you bought it, good buddy,” Lawman said. Now he had a name, Broxton thought and he recognized the Texas accent.
“ Where are you?” Undertaker’s voice cracked over the radio.
“ There’s a big abandoned hotel, real spooky, down by the beach. I’ve got them trapped in the kitchen.”
“ Remember leave the bodyguard alive,” Broxton heard the radio voice crackling through static. He thought the accent was White Trinidadian, but it could have been British.
“ Shithead,” Lawman said into the radio. “He might have heard.”
“ Fuck,” came Undertaker’s reply.
“ You coming?” Lawman said.
“ Two minutes,” Undertaker said.
There were cabinets under the counter and Broxton started feeling around for a door handle, found it and eased a door open, hoping it wouldn’t squeak. Inside he found plates and bowls, enough to set table for an army. He picked up one of the plates and tapped the prime minister’s arm to get his attention. Ramsingh turned and Broxton showed him the plate. Then he pointed, first to the other side of the room, then toward the door, a long ten or fifteen feet away.
Ramsingh nodded, understanding the message.
Broxton didn’t know what kind of weapon the man had and he didn’t know if he had spare ammunition. He figured six shots for a revolver and eight, possibly more, for an automatic. The man had used up three. Broxton was counting on a revolver. A lot of counting, a lot of hope.
He held his breath for a mental four count. One for the money. He grabbed the plate, like it was a Frisbee, firmly in his left hand. Two for the show. He raised his head till his eyes were barely above the counter and he saw the man standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the room. He wasn’t looking in his direction and he held a shiny gun in his right hand. Shiny meant revolver, at least Broxton thought it did. Three to get ready. He stood, loose as an alley cat, surprised that he wasn’t afraid, surprised that the tingling at the base of his neck was gone, surprised that he was calm under fire. Four to go. He flung the plate across the room and it sailed as true as any Frisbee he’d ever thrown on a Southern California beach during a hot Sunday afternoon.
Then he slapped Ramsingh on the shoulder as the plate crashed through a window on the opposite side of the room, but the prime minister needed no urging, he was up and running as gunshots rang through the ghostly kitchen. Broxton heard both the shots and the explosions the bullets made as they ricocheted off of stainless steel pots and pans. He counted three and he hoped that meant the man was out of ammunition, because he was running right behind Ramsingh, protecting the prime minister with his back.
Ramsingh flew through another swinging door with Broxton right behind. They ran down the hallway, sprinted through a door at the end of the corridor and found themselves in another banquet room. “There,” Ramsingh said, and they dashed toward a door on the far side of the room, dodging and weaving between more tables and chairs, with Broxton again protecting Ramsingh with his back.
“ Stop,” Broxton said as Ramsingh reached the door. “Me first, in case there’s someone out there.” He
