The private went around to the center post and placed his hand on the chain.
"Border closed, alert!" the soldier with the phone shouted from inside the guardhouse.
"Ram it," Valentine shouted. Boothe sat frozen, her hands locked on the steering wheel.
The guard by the chain stepped back, fumbling for his rifle as the butt hit the post.
"Christ, go!" Duvalier said.
Valentine opened his door and aimed his pistol through the gap at the white-faced guard, lit like a stage actor by the Lincoln's beams. A whistle blew from somewhere in the darkness.
Pop pop pop-the flash from the pistol was a little brighter than the headlights; the guard spun away, upended over the chain.
The noise unfroze the gears in Boothe's nervous system. She floored the accelerator.
The Lincoln hit the chain, bounced over something that might have been the post going down, or might have been the guard, and Valentine heard a metallic scream that was probably the front bumper tearing.
The Lincoln gained speed.
"Turn the lights off," Ahn-Kha boomed as he looked out the back windows. "Don't give them a mark to aim-"
Bullets ripped into the back of the Lincoln. Ahn-Kha threw himself against the back of the seats, wrapping Gail Foster in one great arm and Pepsa in the other.
"Agloo," Pepsa yelped. Gail screamed.
Valentine felt the Lincoln head up a slight rise, then turn, putting precious distance, brush, and trees between them and the checkpoint.
"Everyone okay?" Valentine asked.
"Some glass cuts," Ahn-Kha said. "Post's mate is hit in the foot. Let me get her shoe off."
Gail yelped again. "I want to go home," she wailed.
"I believe a toe is missing," Ahn-Kha said.
Pepsa nodded at Valentine.
"Pepsa, take my bag. See what you can do," Boothe said.
Ahn-Kha shifted to give her room to get in the back. Valentine heard his friend wheeze.
"Glass cuts?" Valentine said.
"I fear it may be more than that, my David," Ahn-Kha said.
"Who's David?" Boothe asked.
"Just drive, please."
"I could go faster if I turned on the lights."
"No," Valentine and Thatcher said in unison.
"Go left here," Thatcher said. "Good road."
Valentine, smelling blood, his stomach hurting as though he'd been mule-kicked, saw a distant patch of flame; a house burning over by the river. Somewhere there were people dancing in firelight. Somewhere Reapers were asking questions. Boothe made the turn, heading south.
The bumper ground as it scraped the road surface.