The World in My Pocket

He thought: well, she wouldn’t think I’m so damned brave now if she could see me lying here, and not doing anything about saving the truck just because I haven’t the guts to turn over on my side. She certainly wouldn’t think much of me now. There were two things he could do to save the truck: one was to set the radio signal going and the other was to press the button to scramble the time lock.

The scrambler button was near the steering wheel. To get at it, he would have to sit up and lean forward and what that movement would do to his shattered jaw made him sweat just to think of it.

Carrie would expect him to save the truck. His wife, Harriette, wouldn’t. She would understand, but Carrie had standards, and he would no longer be a hero to her if he didn’t try to save the truck. The Agency too would expect him to save the truck. If he did manage to make the effort, they might prove generous and take care of his wife and Carrie. You couldn’t be sure what they would do, of course, but it was pretty certain if these thugs broke into the truck, the Agency would think he hadn’t done his duty, and that might make a difference when it came to paying out a pension for Harriette: it might make a hell of a difference.

He thought: well, go on, be brave. The radio signal is the most important. Get that going first. All you have to do is to turn over on your side and reach up. The switch is just above your head. Push that down and, in half an hour or less, there’ll be a flock of patrol cars on their way and you’ll be a hero. Try it anyway. What’s a little pain?

But it took him some minutes to screw up his courage to move, and when he finally did, the flash of pain was so intense that he fainted again, and he lay still, his hand beyond the clutch pedal.

The unexpected sound of hammering brought him to and he opened his eyes.

Facing him was the steel shutter covering the driver’s window. He could see a slit of daylight now coming through the shutter. As he focused his eyes, he saw the end of a tyre lever being forced between the shutter and the window frame.

He thought: so they are coming to finish me. Well, that’s okay by me, but I’ll take one of them with me if they give me a chance. That’s the least I can do. Mike wouldn’t think much of me unless I hit back for him. I’d like to take two of them, but the way I’m placed I’ll be lucky to get one.

Weakly, his hand groped for his gun which he hadn’t a chance to draw when Morgan had shot him. The gun was a .45 Colt automatic, and as it slid out of its holster, it felt very heavy; so heavy that Thomas nearly dropped it.

He made the effort, and got the gun down by his right side, the sight lifted and pointing at the window. He thought: well, come on, you punk! I’ve got something for you that’ll surprise you. Don’t keep me waiting. I’m not going to live much longer, so hurry up!

He heard someone say sharply, ‘Someone’s coming! Hold it!’

There was a long pause. He felt his consciousness beginning to leave him, and it was only with a tremendous effort of will that he fought off the feeling of faintness.

He muttered under his breath: ‘Hurry. Hurry.’

Then he heard a man say, ‘If this punk starts shooting, they’ll hear the shot.’

Another voice said, ‘It doesn’t matter. They must hunt in these woods. They’ll imagine it’s some guy after game. Come on! Let’s take him!’

The gun in Thomas’s hand was growing heavier, and he realized that he could no longer keep the sight on the window. He would have to wait until they opened the door. He would have a good chance for a body shot then.

He heard the tyre lever creaking as someone on the other side of the shutter bent his weight on it, and he waited, pain making it difficult for him to breathe, but intent and as dangerous and as vicious as a cornered and wounded lion.

‘Get another lever,’ a voice said, ‘and help me.’

Another lever end appeared through the opening. There was more creaking, then a sudden snapping noise and the shutter slid up.

Both Morgan and Bleck kept away from the open window.

They stood either side of the door of the cab and listened.

They didn’t hear anything and they looked at each other.

‘Do you think he’s foxing?’ Bleck asked, breathing with difficulty.

‘He could be,’ Morgan said.

Still keeping out of sight, he slid his arm through the open window and groped for the door handle.

Thomas watched him, his eyes half shut, his finger tightening a little on the trigger of his gun, taking in the slack.

Morgan got the door open. It swung Bleck’s way, preventing him from looking into the cab. Morgan looked in quickly, ducked forward and immediately pulled back. He had a brief glimpse of a man lying huddled on the floor of the cab, his eyes closed, his face the colour of wet clay. Morgan’s breath hissed through his teeth.

‘It’s okay,’ he said to Bleck. ‘He’s dead.’