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The old, rusty trestle bridge had been blown up at some point. New girders and railroad ties had been cobbled together to close the gap.
"Don't worry, we've taken trucks over it," Thatcher said as Boothe slowed. Valentine checked the magazine of Thatcher's 9mm, then chambered a round.
They made it over the gap with no more than the sound of tires rumbling across the ties.
A lighted guardhouse at the other end had a couple of uniformed men in it. The Lincoln's headlights revealed two chains, running from either side of the bridge to a post in the center, more of a polite warning than a serious obstacle. Yellow reflective tape fluttered from the center of each length, looking like a dancing worm in the headlights' glare.
"I'm supposed to be asleep now," Gail announced, an angry tone in her voice.
"Oh great, we have a med-head," Duvalier said.
"Keep her quiet in back, there," Valentine said to Ahn-Kha. He heard a squeak.
Boothe rolled down her window as they approached the checkpoint. She swerved into the left-hand lane to pull up to it.
"Hey there, Cup," Thatcher called. He passed over an ID card. Valentine didn't know if it was Ordnance slang or a nickname, but the man's shirt read "Dorthistle." "Five and a lost Grog going to Beaudreaux's. Back by sunup."
The sentry looked at the card, then placed his flashlight beam on Thatcher.
Boothe began to glance around and Valentine stiffened. If he was on the ball, the sentry would notice the fight-or-flight tell. She was looking for a direction to run. Valentine yawned and returned his hand to the butt of the pistol next to his thigh.
Valentine heard the phone ring in the guardhouse.
"Line's up again," the man inside said. "That was quick."
Shit shit shit.
"You going to unhook or what, Private," Thatcher said. "It's Halloween and we need to raise some hell."
A soldier inside picked up the phone.
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.
