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led to the Paradise East guardhouse, Gaffan sat in a dented Daewoo minibus that he’d stolen from a McDonald’s parking lot four hours before. The Daewoo had seen better days. Its odometer read 243,538, and even in kilometers, that was a long way on Jamaican roads. It was high-sided and square, and had a gash along the left side painted over in beige paint that didn’t match the original. It had a manual transmission whose handle was covered with a worn tennis ball. It reeked of stale pot even with the windows open.
    Gaffan still didn’t understand why Wells was insisting on catching Keith Robinson without help. He didn’t understand much about Wells, what drove him. But he trusted Wells. Wells had been everywhere and done everything. Gaffan had been with him the night he’d found the nuke.
    Between the two of them, they should be able to handle this guy.
    Gaffan saw the Audi’s lights moving up the side of the hill, a Cheshire cat smiling in the dark. The sedan itself remained invisible, its black bulk hidden under the trees. Gaffan put the bus in gear, rolled slowly down the hill, the rosewood and mahoe arching overhead. The Audi came up at him. Behind them, Gaffan saw Wells turning off the A1, maybe thirty seconds behind.
    Gaffan heard the Audi grinding up dirt and rock from the unfinished road. Then, at last, he saw the car. The Audi blasted its brights at him, honked, slowed but didn’t stop. It swung left, away from the centerline, to make room to pass. In Jamaica, like Britain, cars drove on the left.
    Gaffan flipped on his own brights, swung left, but not enough to allow the Audi by, trying to buy enough time for Wells to close the trap on Marley. He didn’t want to be too obvious about what he was doing, not yet. Gaffan was wearing a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead. He raised a hand as if he were shielding his eyes from the Audi’s brights. In reality, he was hiding his face to keep Marley from recognizing him.
    The Audi stopped, honked again. Gaffan put the Daewoo in reverse, backed up, as if trying to make more room. Marley edged forward.
    Then Gaffan saw Marley’s eyes open wide in surprise and recognition. Marley reached under his seat. Going for a pistol, Gaffan figured. Gaffan put the bus into gear, floored the gas, steamed downhill. The Daewoo jumped ahead, smashed into the Audi, obliterating the interlocking rings on the front of the grille. The whine of tearing metal and the high clink of breaking glass echoed through the rain. Birds poured out of the oaks beside the road and disappeared into the night. Gaffan was thrown against his seat belt. In the Audi, a half-dozen airbags exploded, the white balloons filling the sedan, bouncing Marley harder than the collision had. The steering wheel airbag covered his face like a man-eating pillow. He wrenched back his head to free himself.
    Gaffan floored the minibus’s engine. The bus ground into the Audi, pushing it backward down the hill. The steering wheel’s airbag deflated. Again Marley reached down below his seat. Gaffan laid off the gas, slammed the bus into reverse. Metal shrieked, tore, as the minibus and the Audi separated. Gaffan tapped the gas, backing up as Marley came up with a pistol. Gaffan ducked low as Marley fired blindly through his windshield, the shots high and wild, echoing in the night, scaring up more birds. One flew directly at Gaffan, its breast a shocking iridescent green. A foot from the windshield, it pulled up and disappeared over the minibus. Gaffan raised his head and chanced a peek at the Audi and saw that Marley was scrambling for his seat belt, which seemed to be stuck.
    And Wells’s van appeared.
     
     
    WELLS HAD HEARD THE crash not long after he turned off the A1. So had half of Jamaica, probably. Gaffan was supposed to block Marley from getting by for long enough to let Wells get behind him. But Marley had spotted the trap too soon. Wells bounced up the hill, the Econoline sliding sideways on the mud. He