The Running Man

MINUS 019 AND COUNTING

“Mr. Richards?”

“Yes.”

“We are over Newark, New Jersey.”

“Yes,” Richards said. “I’ve been watching. Holloway?”

Holloway didn’t reply, but Richards knew he was listening.

“They’ve got a bead drawn on us all the way, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Holloway said.

Richards looked at McCone. “I imagine they’re trying to decide if they can afford to do away with their professional bloodhound here. Imagine they’ll decide in the affirmative. After all, all they have to do is train a new one.”

McCone was snarling at him, but Richards thought it was a completely unconscious gesture, one that could probably be traced all the way to McCone’s ancestors, the Neanderthals who had crept up behind their enemies with large rocks rather than battling to the death in the honorable but unintelligent manner.

“When do we get over open country again, Captain?”

“We won’t. Not on a due south heading. We will strike open sea after we cross the offshore North Carolina drilling derricks, though.”

“Everything south of here is a suburb of New York City?”

“That’s about the size of it,” Holloway said.

“Thank you.”

Newark was sprawled and groined below them like a handful of dirty jewelry thrown carelessly into some lady’s black-velvet vanity box.

“Captain?”

Wearily: “Yes.”

“You will now proceed due west.”

McCone jumped as if he had been goosed. Amelia made a surprised coughing noise in her throat.

“West?” Holloway asked. He sounded unhappy and frightened for the first time. “You’re asking for it, going that way. West takes us over pretty open country. Pennsylvania between Harrisburg and Pittsburgh is all farm country. There isn’t another big city east of Cleveland.”

“Are you planning my strategy for me, Captain?”

“No, I-”

“Due west,” Richards repeated curtly.

Newark swung away beneath them. “You’re crazy,” McCone said. “They’ll blow us apart.” “With you and five other innocent people on board? This honorable country?” “It will be a mistake,” McCone said harshly. “A mistake on purpose.” “Don’t you watch The National Report?” Richards asked, still smiling. “We don’t make mistakes. We haven’t made a mistake since 1950.” Newark was sliding away beneath the wing; darkness took its place. “You’re not laughing anymore,” Richards said.