A bullhorn; they knew exactly what they were doing. Now Devlin heard a shot, and bits of glass fell on the back of his neck. They were going to shoot out the windows, make him cower in the foot well. He had told John that he would try to stay with this car when he returned to the city. Glass started flying everywhere, the rearview mirror spinning into the backseat. Devlin heard fluid pouring on the pavement. They wanted to burn him out? All things considered, an excellent idea. He pushed in the cigarette lighter. More shots and the roof buckled. He’d have to palm the lighter in the hand that held his gun—His gun. The lighter popped out.

“Hey! I want to give up!” He blew the horn. “I quit! Let me get out of here!”

“Keep your hands where we can see them!”

Devlin pushed open the passenger door. They were still behind their cars protecting themselves from their own gunfire. He had to do the unexpected, keep them off-balance a moment more. The lighter burned his palm.

“Chuck the gun! Do it now!”

Gas was flowing toward the side of the road. Devlin tossed the gun and the lighter together into the wetness. Fire boiled up at once. Devlin had to act surprised, even if it meant getting a little singed. Flames erupted from under the rear of the car. Now Devlin moved, running toward the Lincoln. The gas tank exploded with a roar, sending Devlin flying forward. For a moment everything went orange. A piece of sheet metal flew past him and landed on the road with a clatter. Devlin had his arms up in front of his face as he landed in the weeds on his stomach, hard, and felt the wind go out of him. The world was green again briefly, Devlin could smell the earth and the weeds, and then things went black.

The motion of the car awakened him. He thought of keeping his eyes closed, but then he heard someone say he was awake, and so he sat up. The backseat of the Lincoln, where he was not alone. Outside, the hills were steeper than in Dutchess; more cluttered with buildings, too.

“Where are we?”

“On 9W. We’re avoiding tollbooths. You snore, do you know that?”

Devlin didn’t answer. Route 9W was on the western side of the Hudson. The dashboard clock indicated twenty after four—less than eight hours to midnight, when Kevin’s men were going to put Eileen on the plane. The Lincoln was headed south, apparently toward Paterson. Devlin would arouse suspicion if he asked about the Plymouth. He sat up, allowing the change in his position to make him aware of what was in his pockets. Everything seemed to be in place, which told him something about the haste with which they must have departed the scene of the ambush. Of course.

Thank God!

5:06 P.M. …

5:06 P.M. …