The grim alternative was certain death, and Hannon had already come to terms with that reality. If all else failed, he was determined now to take the gunmen with him. He would smash the Buick into anything available — a bridge abutment or a semirig — before he let them lead him like a lamb to slaughter.

Suddenly it came to him.

The gunner's name was Joey Stompanato.

Hannon's memories were flooding back as if the file lay open on a desk in front of him. They called him Joey Stomps, a nickname dating back to when he used to muscle for the local shylocks, breaking legs and skulls as an enforcer for the mob's elite collection agency. He was suspected of a dozen homicides in Florida alone, but Stompanato's only time inside had been the thirty days he served for battery in the sixties.

Joey Stomps was lethal, right. And at the moment, he belonged to Tommy Drake.

That told the ex-detective everything he had to know, and it increased his grim resolve to take the killers with him as a last resort.

They were merging onto Flagler, running to the west, when Hannon spied the tail. His back-seat passenger had shifted, and Hannon saw the Firebird shadowing them. It might have been coincidence, or Stompanato was professional enough to bring a backup team, in case of some mishap. If there were other guns behind them, then his freedom leap was doomed before he made the effort. Even if the crash got Stompanato and his sidekick, number two would swerve and crush the life from Hannon as he bounced across the street.

Okay. The enemy was closing out his options, leaving him with only one alternative.

The traffic started thinning out, and Hannon took advantage of it, tromping on the accelerator. Stompanato jammed the .357 Magnum hard against the ex-detective's ribs, thumbing back the hammer.

"Slow down, goddammit! We're not taking any tickets."

Hannon grinned and kept the pedal down. Don't worry, Stomps, you bought your ticket when you came aboard. One-way, to the end of the line.