I heard a burst of laughter and looked down again. Sarah was nowhere to be seen, but a Smokey Bear hat was, covered in clear plastic, shaped so it kept the felt dry. It moved into the woods, above a dark-brown raincoat that stuck out at the sides. State troopers have zips up the sides of their coats to enable them to draw their pistols easily, but this guy wasn't doing that, he was undoing his front zip. I saw his knees jerk as he released himself, then the sound of p.i.s.s. .h.i.tting the tree just a few feet below me. Steam rose in front of the hat. I didn't want to make the slightest sound. I didn't even want to swallow. My fingers were starting to lose their grip on the rain-slicked pole.

I searched frantically for the trooper's mate. I couldn't see him; he must have stayed in the car, as you do when it's raining. I could see raindrops ricocheting off the garage roof, glistening in the light from the Drive Thru sign. The stream of urine against the tree subsided as he finished off, then he let go a resounding fart.

I started sliding. I pressed down hard on the belt with my feet, and gripped the pole like a drowning man. The sounds below had stopped, and I watched him jigging up and down to shake off the drops. He packed himself away, checked his coat, and strode off.

I heard the troopers joking to each other. The car door slammed, and then they drove off. I let out all the air I'd been holding in my lungs, inching myself farther up the pole to increase my range of vision. The cruiser was finally driving into the gas station. Why the f.u.c.k didn't he go in there in the first place? Maybe he was trying to chat up the woman and the last thing he wanted was for her to hear him farting away and stinking the place out.

I reached the top and hooked my left arm around the cross spar. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself down, then looked for Sarah. She was emerging from the bush she'd been hiding in, and I wondered if she knew how lucky she'd been: it looked a very inviting bush, and she might easily have got drenched by old fartypants.

I followed the telephone line to make sure it was the one to the gas station, reached down and retrieved the Leatherman from my pocket. Where these lines come in to a pole, they get hooked up to take the tension from the line, and then there's a nice little loose bit that carries on through. I leaned out, squeezing hard with the mbber soles of my feet, got the pliers part of the Leatherman over the line, and snipped. Then it was just a case of sliding down the pole nice and slowly so I didn't land up with half a ton of splinters in my arms and legs.

Sarah was straight in at me: "Give me a gun, Nick. What if he'd seen you?"

It made sense but I felt uneasy. Giving Sarah a weapon seemed to be a lot like giving Popeye spinach. On the other hand, if he'd spotted me she could have done something about it. I still wasn't sure whether she would f.u.c.k me over, but decided she still needed me too much. I'd let her have it for now.

I got Lance's semiautomatic, 9mm Eastern-bloc thing out of my jacket and handed it over. She said a sincere "Thanks" as she pushed back the top slide half an inch and checked to see if there was a round in the chamber.

The cruiser was driving out of the gas station and coming back in our direction. We both got down, and she used the time to put her belt back on. The blue and white pa.s.sed us heading toward Creedmore; maybe they were helping to man a roadblock or something farther up the road.

I wanted her to stay where she was while I went back to the gas station to hijack a vehicle. She insisted on coming with me.

"Listen," I said, "a man and a woman turning up at a gas station, stealing a vehicle don't you think there's a bit of a chance they'd make a connection with the lake?"

"Nick, I'm coming with you. I'm not going to take the chance of us getting split up and this all going wrong. We're going to stay together."

She was right; without realizing it, she had reminded me what I was here to do. If there was a drama with the police or whoever, and it was obvious I was about to lose control, I would have to kill her before they could get her. Not the ideal option, but at least she'd be dead. Looking at her with my not-happy-about-it face on, I gave in to her demand.

"f.u.c.k it, come on then."

We finished doing up our belts, moved back up the road for more distance and crossed. We turned right and paralleled to a point where I could get a clear view of the pumps and the shop again.

One car, a white Nissan sedan, was already on the forecourt, but it was four up, with two couples in their mid-twenties. The driver had just started the engine and out he rolled. I heard a distinctive ding-ding as the tires ran over a rubber tube sensor. He got to the road, stopped, turned his wipers and dipped lights on, laughing with the rest of them probably about the woman with the corn dog turned left and off they went. We lay there, waiting in the rain.

During the next ten minutes, two news vans with satellite dishes scuttled past along the road, headlights blazing, windshield wipers working furiously, on their way to get the story.

Another car rolled onto the forecourt. It was a Toyota, full of a family. I was half up, ready to go for it, like a big cat watching the herd. The car was ideal, a normal family sedan. Dad got out and, avoiding the rain, ran straight into the shop. I saw him give Big Hair a few bills, then he came out again and filled up. I decided against. I was looking at the family two kids in the back, window half steamed up, the kids beating each other up, the mother turning around and shouting at them. There were just too many people in the car. It would be a nightmare to drag two screaming kids from the car.

Ding-ding. They took the Durham road.

Sarah looked over at me.

"I thought we were in a hurry?"

Big Hair was walking across to the machine to get herself another bucket of coffee. She went and sat back by the till, next to the window, looking out, wistfully stirring her bucket with a spoon. I was right, it was packet creamer. Perhaps she dreamed that one day Clint Eastwood would drive onto her forecourt, come in to pay for gas, and bang, The Bridges of Happy Beverage County. Until then, nice work if you can get it.

A sign to the left of the shop entrance announced, "24 Hour Video Surveillance," together with the fact that they carried only fifty dollars in the register and the rest was slipped into a night safe that the attendant didn't have access to. I turned to Sarah.

"When we go to lift the wagon, I want you to get your T-shirt and pull it over your head, so you can only just see out of it."

Ding-ding. Another vehicle drove in toward the pumps from our left.

This time it was a really old van, late Seventies, early Eighties, the sort of thing Mr. T and the A-Team used to run around in, but a very tired gray.

The windows were half steamed up, so I couldn't see how many were inside, but as soon as the driver opened the door I knew this was the one.

He was in his early forties, and the important thing was that he got out and didn't take the ignition key with him, but just waved at the woman.

He must be a local, because he was trusted enough to nil up and pay afterward.

We got back into our big-cat positions, and I studied our prey. He was wearing a pair of green overalls that had seen better days, with oil stains and rips in the knees. His baseball cap should have been white but needed burning more than bleaching now. He was skinny and of average height, with about three days' stubble and four years' worth of wet or very greasy hair over his shoulders.

The tank was fall, the filler cap went back on. I whispered, "You ready?"

She nodded. He turned and, with his hands working their way into his overalls for money, jogged toward the shop. I jumped to my feet and started to run. With my left hand I pulled my T-shirt up over my face, and so did she. We must have looked like a couple of sperm. I kept my eyes moving between the van and the shop. I didn't really bother about what Sarah was doing; the plan was for her to go to the near side of the van, to the pa.s.senger door; I was to go around the rear, because I wanted to hide myself as much as possible, then get in the driver's seat and go for it.

The gla.s.s panels had been smashed out of the back doors and were covered with cardboard, and the whole thing was a rust bucket. I turned the corner of the van and moved along the side toward the driver's door. I had to skip over the loop of the pump lines and slipped on the diesel-stained floor. I recovered without falling and got to the door. Still holding the T-shirt over my head with my left hand, I got hold of the door handle in my right. It was a rickety, rusty old thing, hardly any chrome left on it; I pulled and it all but came away in my hand, hanging on by one edge.

The window on the other side was misted up and I couldn't see what Sarah was doing. All I knew was that she wasn't getting in. She must have the same problem; her handle must be busted.

The driver's window was down about three-quarters of the way. That must be how he got in--just reach in and open up from the inside. I jumped up slightly, got my right hand in ... and then chaos. The furious barking from the back of the wagon made me jump back as if I'd been given the full twenty seconds with a Tazer.

I glanced toward the shop. The guy was staring out, mouth wide open.

Someone trying to nick his van must have been the last thing he expected.

The black thing in the back of the van was leaping up and down, going ballistic. I had to put my hand inside again; it had to be done, I was committed now. I reached in, yelling for Sarah to do something.

I was jumping up and down, trying to find and grab the inside handle, the dog was reacting as if it had had to wait three days for lunch, and to the left of me the distraught owner was coming out of the shop shouting, "My dawg! My dawg!"

"Sarah, f.u.c.king do something!"

She did. I heard a loud, quick double tap from Lance's 9mm.

It couldn't get worse than this. I jumped away from the window, leaving the dog in the van going ape s.h.i.t and ran around to the front of the vehicle.

"Sarah, f.u.c.king stop shooting! Stop!" Then I realized she wasn't firing at the driver, she was drawing down on the two German Shepherds that had come out of the tree line and were now about five meters away from giving us the good news. It had just got worse.

She took one down; it fell over itself and kicked around on the ground, yelping. The other one kept coming. Sarah turned to fire but it was too close to me now. My right hand flew down to draw my weapon at the same time as my left went to pull up my bomber jacket so that I could get to the pistol. It was too late for both of us.

It's pointless trying to evade an attacking dog so close; without a weapon, you can't do anything about immobilizing the f.u.c.ker until it's committed itself to an attack. You've got to let the thing sink its teeth into you, and take it from there.

I had to get him onto me. I turned half left, let go of the bottom of my jacket and presented my forearm, still trying to get to my pistol with my right.

He didn't want to miss this. He leapt up, his jaws opening with a deep growl, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth so he got a good bite first time.

I saw his eyes roll back as he launched himself at me.

I stood my ground and braced myself for the hit. I felt his saliva fly onto my face as he opened up and his head flicked back.

There were probably other things going on, but they were lost on me now. I couldn't hear anything but the snarling of my attacker. I felt the weight of the dog hit me, and then him closing his jaws on my arm. His teeth sank straight through the jacket into the skin of my forearm and I started to shout.

"Sarah! Sarah!" I wanted her to come and shoot this f.u.c.king thing.

"Sarah!"

I staggered backward with his weight, and he came with me. I got my hand around the pistol grip; not completely, but enough to pull it out of my jeans. The dog was jumping up on me, trying to get me to the ground, his hind legs scrambling against my legs and waist. His legs. .h.i.t my hand and the weapon fell.

"Sarah!"

There was fearsome pain as his teeth tore into my skin. It was like having multiple injections with pen-sized syringes. I had to let it happen. I had to make sure the dog had confidence in himself, that he sensed an easy victory. If I went with the flow, he'd keep his teeth in one place, thinking he had me, he wouldn't thrash around all over the place. Forget the old wives' tales about grabbing a foreleg in each hand and splitting them apart: it only works with chihuahuas--and that's a.s.suming you can catch the little s.h.i.t in the first place. In real life dogs are like monkeys, they're much stronger than they look.

I continued to move back under its weight as the German Shepherd jumped up and snarled. I could smell his raw-meat-eating breath mixed with mud and the s.h.i.t on his coat from the follow-up. He took a deeper grip on my arm and I screamed out for Sarah again as I felt more flesh being mangled. She was nowhere to be seen.

I heard several gunshots as I staggered back toward the driver's side of the van. I was trying to look and act submissive; I didn't want to fight this f.u.c.king thing, I just wanted Sarah to come around and hose him down.

The dogs' handler and the police wouldn't be far behind. We needed to get moving.

The animal's growl changed tone as he shook his head from side to side like a mad thing, trying to get a deeper grip. His rear legs were now on the floor, with his front pads on my chest, walking back with me like a circus performer, still attempting to join his jaws together, but through my arm.

Now the black thing inside the van sparked up again as I heard more gunshots, but there was no instant, miraculous release of the grip on my arm.

It wasn't going to happen. I'd have to do it on my own.

The dog was feeling really confident now; he knew he'd got me. I bent down and, with my right hand, grabbed hold of his left rear leg. The limb twitched as if he were doing an Irish jig as he tried to kick away.

I started to pull the back leg up toward me. The dog was confused and p.i.s.sed off, biting more and moving his head from left to right. I was grappling to keep hold of his leg. It was dancing away like Michael Flatley on speed.

I got a firmer grip on the spindly bit at the bottom of the dog's leg and, with my right arm, pulled it up as hard as I could toward my chest, at the same time starting to turn. The dog yelped with surprise, and I started to pirouette, as if I were spinning a child in a game. I did three, four, five turns, and the dog started to rise with the centrifugal force, anch.o.r.ed by its teeth in my arm and my hand on his leg. He had to make a decision, and he did: he let go of my arm. I didn't reciprocate by letting go of the leg; I kept hold now with both hands and swung him around and around as violently as I could. Still spinning, I managed to take two steps toward one of the concrete pillars supporting the forecourt canopy. On the third step, the dog's head connected with the pillar. There was a thud and a weak yelp and I let go. My own momentum carried me on around for another one and a half turns. My head was spinning as I tried to get my bearings.

I found the van. Sarah was sitting in the cab, firing out of the window. I screamed at her, "The door! The door!" She leaned across and opened it up. I looked down; my pistol was by the pump line. Bending down to pick it up, and keeping bent to avoid getting hit, I half jumped, half collapsed, into the driver's seat and slammed the door closed. As I did, the black thing in the back tried to scramble over the driver's seat.

Sarah shouted, "Let's go. Come on, let's go!"

1 was still in a semi stoop over the steering wheel, trying to present a smaller target, when the police started firing back at us.

All the windows were steamed up, probably from the dog's panting, which was good for us, because at least it hid us from the video. Just as well, as the T-shirt ploy had gone to rat s.h.i.t the moment the dogs arrived on the scene.

I hit the ignition and the engine turned over, but it failed to engage. It sparked up on the second go. Sarah fired a few more rounds toward the tree line. The mutt behind me wasn't biting, but it was making more noise than the weapon reports.

The shots that hit the van reminded me of being in a helicopter under fire; because it's so loud inside the aircraft, you don't know you're being attacked until you see holes suddenly appearing in the airframe, accompanied by a dull ping as the rounds penetrate.

The driver was screaming his head off inside the shop, jumping up and down, but no way was he coming out until the shooting stopped. The woman was on the phone, shouting into the useless receiver, and as we rolled off the forecourt the driver started running along inside the shop, keeping up with us, his arms waving in the air as he screamed at the top of his voice. It was wasted on us. He was inside the shop and his f.u.c.king dog was making enough noise to drown the roar of a helicopter.

Ping. Sarah was still screaming, "Come on, come on, come on!" And the dog was adding his tuppence worth. He wanted out. Didn't we all.

I turned left onto the road. There was a coffee-holder on the dash, with a half-full poly cup of coffee in it, a cigarette b.u.t.t floating on the top. As the van lurched, the whole lot went over my jeans. Then, surreally, the radio suddenly came on of its own accord. Sarah fired a few more rounds into the tree line. There was a return.

I looked in the wing mirror. The police were on the road, a.s.suming proper firing positions. I put my foot down.

I jerked my thumb at the dog and shouted at Sarah, "Sort that nicking thing out!"

I turned left again and started to drive up the hill. I looked behind me and saw this big black mangy thing. f.u.c.k knows what it was, just a wet, dank dog in the back, jumping up at the newspaper Sarah was trying to hit and distract it with, barking and yelping away at us both.

We started to take the right-hand bend in the road. The moment we were out of sight of the junction and shop I hit the brakes. I yelled, "Get that f.u.c.king thing out!"

"How?"

"Just get it out!"

She opened the door and tried to grab hold of the dog, but it was already scrabbling its way out, its claws tearing against her seat. It clambered over and f.u.c.ked off. It probably hadn't been trying to have a go at us at all, it had just been frantic to get back to its owner.

She closed the door and I hit the gas pedal. I'd noticed some bags and stuff in the back.

"Why don't you check that out?"

She didn't need telling again. She was straight in there.

"Is there a map?" My arm was killing me as I gripped the steering wheel.

The wagon's heating system wasn't up to it, so I used my sleeve to wipe the condensation from the windshield. Even the wipers only worked on half speed. At least now I could sort of see where I was going, even if I wasn't too sure where that was.

The bend eventually straightened out and trees loomed up on either side. Above them, all I could see was thick gray cloud. Great; the worse the weather, the less the chance of the heli still operating.

"Nothing, just c.r.a.p." Sarah was back in her seat. She wound down the window and started to adjust the wing mirror to keep a check behind us. I kept my foot down, but the vehicle was making only about 60 mph with the wind behind it, the threadbare tires not exactly gripping the road big time. All the s.h.i.t in the back was rattling, and bits of paper were flying around in the draft rushing through the open windows. I just hoped the brake pads were in better shape than the bits of the wagon I could see.

She tried to pull open the glove compartment on her side, which probably hadn't been done for years. It gave way, and out spilled bits of fishing wire, lighters, greasy old garage receipts, all sorts. But no map. She shouted, "s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!" I kept quiet, letting her frustration play itself out.

I drove on for about three miles, during which we didn't say a word to each other. We got to a T-junction with the same sort of road. There were no signposts. I turned right.

I was feeling exposed. I didn't know if the police back at the gas station had com ms which would depend on whether they had relay boards in the area to bounce radio signals off. I couldn't help a smile: Metal Mickey's head would have come in handy.

I shouted at her so I could be heard above the noise of the wind.

"Did you drop any of the police?"

She was wiping the wing mirror. She seemed to have calmed down a bit.

"I don't know, I don't think so. Maybe."

I started to feel even more depressed. Whatever had happened, if we didn't get out of the area very soon and hide up, we'd be in a world of s.h.i.t.

Less than two minutes later the chance came when I saw dipped headlights in front of us.

"I'm going to take it, Sarah. Make sure you don't say a word, OK?"

She nodded.

"What do I do?"