at him. Macklin ducked, sidestepped, and brought the stick down on Rambo's back. The nails smacked into Rambo's flesh with a sickening, moist squish. A surprised, agonized cry escaped from Rambo's throat.
"Don't move. Your friend won't enjoy it," Macklin said to the others.
He held the stick embedded in Rambo's back and jerked it once. Rambo screamed, his arms and legs shaking.
"Think of this as a very short leash," Macklin hissed into Rambo's ear. "We're going for a walk."
He and Rambo shuffled towards the car.
Macklin guided the whimpering gang member with the stick and eyed the others warily as he moved into the street. The four men stood fuming on the sidewalk.
Moonface's smashed nose oozed blood down his face. Little droplets hung off his chin and dripped onto his chest. Moonface was clutching his bleeding arm and glaring furiously at Macklin, who edged towards the driver's side door of his black Cadillac.
Macklin jerked open the door. He let go of the stick, kicked Rambo hard in the butt, and ped into the car, slamming the door shut and locking it. Rambo twitched facedown on the pavement.
Macklin was safe inside the hot, stuffy car. The windows were shatterproof and he had reinforced the chassis to withstand gunfire, flames, and small explosives.
The adrenaline of the fight had diminished the potency of the codeine, and pain squeezed Macklin's body. His deep, hungry breaths, from the anxiety and exertion, swelled his chest and pushed against his broken ribs. Tiny knives stabbed his sides.
He jammed his key into the ignition, twisted it, and pumped the gas. Nothing happened.
Moonface let out a raucous shriek and threw something at Macklin's windshield. It bounced off and rolled on his hood.
The distributor cap.
Moonface pressed his bloody visage against the windshield.
"Scumfucker's not going anywhere," Moonface said. "He's gonna eat his balls right here."
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Moonface and his buddies whipped the Cadillac with their chains, Macklin scrounged around the inside of his car looking for a weapon.
The oppressive heat inside the car was squeezing the sweat out of him, soaking his clothes and bandages in perspiration. The temperature in the car was building up. He knew he'd be pressure-fried if he didn't get out of there soon.
It's a damn funny situation, Macklin thought. I'm inside a tank and yet, utterly defenseless.
The two air-cooled, .50-caliber machine guns mounted under the front headlights couldn't do him much good now, unless Moonface obediently lined up his men in front of the car. Or maybe they would be kind enough to stare into his taillights so he could blind them with the halogen burst lamps.
Some tank.
If he survived this, Macklin promised himself he'd add some lethal, and highly illegal, modifications to this 221-inch Batmobile.
Macklin popped open the glove compartment and found some road maps, some .357 shells, a Bic lighter, a Bruce Springsteen tape, and a first aid kit.
Great, Macklin thought. I'll flick my Bic at them, and while they stumble around blind, I'll hit them over the heads with the Springsteen tape and shove bullets down their throats.
Moonface opened his fly and urinated on Macklin's car.
Christ, Macklin thought, is there anyone who isn't pissing on me?
He climbed over the seat and searched through the clutter that had accumulated on his backseat. Old cartons of food, yellowed newspapers, unreturned videocassettes, flight plans, hangers, small grocery bags, and other assorted garbage covered the seat and the floors.
Under the front seat he found an old, eel-skin shaving bag that he had lost months ago. It was his overnighter kit. He'd had one in his car ever since college. After all, he never knew when he might get lucky.
He unzipped it and found a disposable razor, travel toothbrush, sampler can of aerosol deodorant spray, shaving gel, toothpaste, and wintergreen Binaca breath spray.
Macklin squirted the Binaca in his mouth and tossed the kit on the
"Don't move. Your friend won't enjoy it," Macklin said to the others.
He held the stick embedded in Rambo's back and jerked it once. Rambo screamed, his arms and legs shaking.
"Think of this as a very short leash," Macklin hissed into Rambo's ear. "We're going for a walk."
He and Rambo shuffled towards the car.
Macklin guided the whimpering gang member with the stick and eyed the others warily as he moved into the street. The four men stood fuming on the sidewalk.
Moonface's smashed nose oozed blood down his face. Little droplets hung off his chin and dripped onto his chest. Moonface was clutching his bleeding arm and glaring furiously at Macklin, who edged towards the driver's side door of his black Cadillac.
Macklin jerked open the door. He let go of the stick, kicked Rambo hard in the butt, and ped into the car, slamming the door shut and locking it. Rambo twitched facedown on the pavement.
Macklin was safe inside the hot, stuffy car. The windows were shatterproof and he had reinforced the chassis to withstand gunfire, flames, and small explosives.
The adrenaline of the fight had diminished the potency of the codeine, and pain squeezed Macklin's body. His deep, hungry breaths, from the anxiety and exertion, swelled his chest and pushed against his broken ribs. Tiny knives stabbed his sides.
He jammed his key into the ignition, twisted it, and pumped the gas. Nothing happened.
Moonface let out a raucous shriek and threw something at Macklin's windshield. It bounced off and rolled on his hood.
The distributor cap.
Moonface pressed his bloody visage against the windshield.
"Scumfucker's not going anywhere," Moonface said. "He's gonna eat his balls right here."
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Moonface and his buddies whipped the Cadillac with their chains, Macklin scrounged around the inside of his car looking for a weapon.
The oppressive heat inside the car was squeezing the sweat out of him, soaking his clothes and bandages in perspiration. The temperature in the car was building up. He knew he'd be pressure-fried if he didn't get out of there soon.
It's a damn funny situation, Macklin thought. I'm inside a tank and yet, utterly defenseless.
The two air-cooled, .50-caliber machine guns mounted under the front headlights couldn't do him much good now, unless Moonface obediently lined up his men in front of the car. Or maybe they would be kind enough to stare into his taillights so he could blind them with the halogen burst lamps.
Some tank.
If he survived this, Macklin promised himself he'd add some lethal, and highly illegal, modifications to this 221-inch Batmobile.
Macklin popped open the glove compartment and found some road maps, some .357 shells, a Bic lighter, a Bruce Springsteen tape, and a first aid kit.
Great, Macklin thought. I'll flick my Bic at them, and while they stumble around blind, I'll hit them over the heads with the Springsteen tape and shove bullets down their throats.
Moonface opened his fly and urinated on Macklin's car.
Christ, Macklin thought, is there anyone who isn't pissing on me?
He climbed over the seat and searched through the clutter that had accumulated on his backseat. Old cartons of food, yellowed newspapers, unreturned videocassettes, flight plans, hangers, small grocery bags, and other assorted garbage covered the seat and the floors.
Under the front seat he found an old, eel-skin shaving bag that he had lost months ago. It was his overnighter kit. He'd had one in his car ever since college. After all, he never knew when he might get lucky.
He unzipped it and found a disposable razor, travel toothbrush, sampler can of aerosol deodorant spray, shaving gel, toothpaste, and wintergreen Binaca breath spray.
Macklin squirted the Binaca in his mouth and tossed the kit on the
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