'Get him! Hold him.'

His legs got hit. They had him from both sides now, between his car and the truck. He turned back, chopped at the arm that held his neck and heard a crack. The surge abated for an instant. He raised a leg onto the truck's running board and hurled himself over the roof of his car, rolling and coming down kicking by the street, twisting his ankle.

But there was a hole. He could get through. He punched another man, straight-armed again and had a clear break. A couple of steps, the ankle giving under him, but he could force it. He had to.

But then a car, turning onto 2nd Avenue, out of nowhere, was blocking his way.

He slammed up against it – more honks now, and the squealing of brakes – was somebody finally going to help him? Panting, he broke left, up 2nd, but the crowd had overflowed onto the street, screaming 'Get him, get him!'

There was a crushing hit from the side of his knees – somebody who had been trained to tackle – and he went down, skidding five feet on the pavement, ripping the leg of his suit and the skin off his leg. A bunch of the beer-smelling men were pinning his hands and feet. He couldn't get any movement.

With disbelieving horror, he realized that somebody was forcing a rope over his head.

At the periphery of the mob, Kevin Shea decided he couldn't let this happen.

The jerk, the lunatic – he guessed it was still him – had thrown one end of the yellow rope – almost glowing in its brightness – over the arm of the first streetlight up 2nd Avenue. Now some of the men were jumping underneath the free end, trying to grab it, while the rest of them were chanting, 'pull him up, string him up!' He had to move.

He put a shoulder down and pushed. He got pushed back but everybody's attention was on the scuffle on the street and he kept pressing into the tight mob.