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Bahama Crisis

My clothing was not really up to the job as I found when I inadvertently plunged into a brier patch. Sharp spines raked my arms and ripped the tee-shirt, and I cursed when I had to go back again, moving slowly. My shoes, too, were not adequate; the rubber soles slipped on mud and one of the sneakers was loose on my foot and I tended to lose it. This also slowed me down because to lose even one shoe would be fatal; my feet were not hardened enough for me to run barefoot.

And so I plunged on. My problem was that I did not know where I was going; I could just as well be running away from help as towards it.

What I wanted to find was a house, preferably with a telephone attached to it. Then I could find out where I w as and ring Billy Cunningham so that he could send one of his lovely helicopters for me – to ring the police and then go and beat the bejasus out of Robinson. There were no houses. There were no roads which would lead to houses. There were no telephone lines or power lines I could follow. Nothing but tall stands of trees interspersed with boggy meadows.

After half an hour I stopped to get my breath back. I had travelled about three miles over the ground, I reckoned, and was probably within two miles of the place where I had been held captive. I fiddled with the shotgun and opened the magazine to find out what I had four full rounds and one fired. I reloaded, pushed one up the spout, and set the safety catch.

Then I heard them, a distant shout followed by another. I went on, splashing up a shallow stream in the hope of leaving no trail.

Presently I had to leave the stream because it was curving back in just the direction I did not want to go. I jumped on to the bank and ran south, as near as I could estimate by the sun.

I went through a patch of woodland, tall trees dappling the ground with sun and shadow, then I came to a river. This was no brook or stream; it was wide and fast-flowing, too deep to wade and too dangerous to swim. If I was spotted halfway across I would be an easy target. I ran parallel with it for some way and then came to a wide meadow.

There was no help for it so I ran on and, half-way over, heard a shout behind me and the flat report of a shot. I turned in the waist-high grass and saw two men coming from different angles.

Raising the shotgun I aimed carefully, banged off two shots, and had the satisfaction of seeing them drop, both of them. I did not think I had hit them because the shouts were not those of pain, but nobody in his right mind would stand up against buckshot. As they dropped into the cover of the grass I turned and ran on, feeling an intolerable itch between my shoulder blades. I was not in my right mind.

I got to the cover of the trees and looked back. There was movement; the two men were coming on and others were emerging on to the meadow.

I ejected a spent cartridge and aimed and fired one shot. Again both men dropped into cover but the rest came on so I turned and ran.

I ran until my lungs were bursting, tripping over rocks and fallen trees, slipping into boggy patches, and cannoning off tree trunks. My feet hurt. In this last mad dash I had lost both shoes and knew I was leaving a bloody trail. I was climbing a rise and the pace was too much. I threw myself to the ground beneath a tree, sobbing with the rasping agony of entraining air into my lungs.

This was it. One last shot and they would be upon me. I put my hand out to where the shotgun had fallen and then stopped because a foot pinned down my wrist. I twisted around and looked up and saw a tall man dressed in faded denims. He had a shotgun under his arm.

"All right," I said, defeated.

"Get it over with."

"Get what over with?" He turned his head and looked down the hill at the sound of a shout.

"You in trouble?"

Someone else moved into sight a busty brunette in skintight jeans and a shirt knotted about her middle. I suddenly realized these were not Leroy's people.

"They're going to kill me," I said, still gasping for breath.

"Chased me to hell and gone."

He showed polite interest.

"Who are?"

"Don't know all the names. Someone called Leroy. Torturing my wife."

He frowned.

"Whichaway was this?"

I pointed with my free arm.

"That way."

He turned to the girl.

"Could be the Ainslees."

"It is." She was looking down the hill.