The older gunman's name was still elusive, but some fragments of his rap sheet had been filtering back. Extortion ... arson... murder.

He was Mafia, a "made guy," right.

It figured.

Joey Something crawled in on the passenger's side, while his companion settled in the back seat, covering Hannon from behind.

"Where to?"

"I'll let you know," the front-seat gunner told him. "Get on Seventh, going south. And take it easy."

Hannon got the Buick rolling, followed orders as he pulled out of the garage, merging with the traffic. A sleek black Firebird almost cut him off, but Hannon forged ahead, refusing to be buffaloed. The sportster fell in line behind him, any parting gesture from its driver hidden by the tinted windshield.

Bearing south, they passed the twenty-story Omni, new Miami's unofficial centerpiece. The shotgun rider guided him beneath the 395 interchange and past the gently rolling greenery of Bicentennial Park, the ocean on their left now.

A group of tanned, bikini-clad girls were playing Frisbee on the grass, and Hannon felt a pang that pierced him like a knife. It struck him as obscene that children should be playing games while he was on his way to die.

The gunners meant to kill him, Hannon was certain. This had all the earmarks of a classic one-way ride, its only consolation being final proof that he was getting close. So close...

Survival was the first priority, and Hannon's mind was occupied with the mechanics of escape. They'd be heading out of town — away from any crowds — and there was a chance that he could get away when they cleared the heavy downtown traffic. He could bail out, risking any oncoming vehicles. There was a chance, if he could take the mafiosi by surprise.

If their reaction time was slow enough to let him leave the speeding car alive.

If no one driving home from work plowed him under like a rabbit on the highway.