He settled back to rest and wait.

He was awakened again a short time later as the truck lurched violently to the left and began to bounce about as though it had just left the road. It went slower and slower, making many turns, and eventually lumbered to a stop. Napoleon rose stiffly to a crouch just inside the back doors.

Several seconds later there were clanking noises around the area of the latch, and he tensed his aching muscles for the leap. He remembered to squint his eyes just at the instant the doors swung open and a flood of daylight rushed in upon him.

There were two men, both with automatics, standing a few feet below him, on the ground. While their light-accustomed eyes peered into the darkness of the truck, Napoleon was gauging their distances and angles from him. Before they had more than realized their prisoner was crouched just within the door instead of flopped against a wall, he had leaped out upon them, flailing arms and yelling.

But his bruised leg betrayed him as he landed, and buckled as he tried to sprint for cover. Before he could regain his balance the guns were leveled at him, and a patient voice was saying, "Back on your feet, now, and try not to fall over again."

Napoleon slowly worked himself upright, and looked around at his captors. "What exactly is going on here?" he finally asked.

"You've been wanting to find out about Johnnie Rainbow," said the patient one, "so Johnnie has decided to find out more about you. The difference is he knew where to find you."

"Couldn't he have found out without bringing me in for a personal interview?"

"Possibly he thought you could tell him more. I don't make policy for the gang, I just do what I'm told. You should try it… you'll find it makes life ever so much simpler. You can start by walking over there."

"Over there" was the edge of a cliff, and somewhere far beyond the grassy knoll that led up to it Napoleon could hear and smell the sea. As he crossed the twenty-odd yards and climbed to the brink, he saw a wooden railing and a small platform which turned out to be the top of a flight of steps zigzagging down the face of the cliff to a narrow strip of pebbly beach some seventy-five or a hundred feet below him. A small motor launch bobbed on the water of the little cove, and figures were visible moving about the after deck.

Napoleon looked down at it and murmured, "A floating headquarters? Ingenious, but restrictive."

"That's not headquarters, you nit," said the second man. "That's a boat. Come on - down the stairs. They're perfectly safe."

"After you," Napoleon said, stepping back politely.

"But we insist," said the first. "After all, you're the guest of honor. Remember, if we'd wanted to kill you we've had plenty of chances. If you'll cooperate it'll make things easier all around - I don't especially want to have to carry you down these steps, and you likely don't want another clout on the head."

Solo felt the back of his skull carefully, and agreed. He brought his hand down unexpectedly in a crisp chop across the wrist of the nearer man, and one gun flipped into the undergrowth. At the same time his opposite leg flashed up and caught the other man's gun hand in a demonstration of coordination that would win applause on any vaudeville stage. This audience seemed singularly displeased with it, however, and let out simultaneous howls of complaint. One was silenced an instant later as Napoleon's other hand, slightly bent and rigid, chopped through a short arc which ended on the side of the nearest neck.

Agony shot through his wrist as he connected, but the pain was compensated by the sight of half his opposition collapsed on the tough marsh grass.

The other half had jumped back, clutching at his own injured wrist, and Napoleon felt a moment of sympathy for him. But he was unarmed, and there was no telling how distant help was. He decided not to press the engagement.

Resolutely ignoring the twinges that shot up his legs and through his back, Solo broke and ran for cover. The truck stood empty and unguarded, but the first gunman, who no longer looked as patient as he had, stood between him and the open door of the cab. A motorized escape was out. Dodging and ducking, Solo was out of sight among the trees within five seconds.

There were shouts behind him, as the driver of the truck summoned help, probably from the boat. Napoleon hoped so; it would take them some time to climb those steps and to get their breath back afterwards. He glanced over his shoulder to establish the direction of the cliff, and hurried in the opposite direction.

They had turned off the main road - or at least a paved road - somewhere back this way. It couldn't be more than half a mile, he thought, judging from how long it had taken and how slowly they had been going. Half his muscles were stiffening up already, but with a combination of will power and fear of capture driving him, he was able to keep going.

He heard the pursuers long before he saw them, crashing through the brush and swearing. They were audible enough to give him both location and direction; as soon as both had been established he swung at right angles to their course, moved quietly some twenty feet, and stopped, listening.

They shouldn't be making that much noise; they weren't fools, by any means. More than likely, a few men were trying to beat him into the arms of the main group which was moving quietly in the opposite direction. He didn't think they were clever enough to create a second-order deception, the main body making the most noise so he would think it was a trap. He took the situation at face value and doubled back, heading roughly towards the major source of racket.

As he approached, he became more cautious. They sounded only about fifty feet away now. He crouched low behind a bush and, parting the branches cautiously, peered out from his covert.

There they came - only two men, talking together as they came and brushing branches aside all about them, making quite a satisfactory racket. Napoleon pulled down into a tight little ball behind the bush, and tried to breathe as little as possible as they went by, less than fifteen feet away from him. After they passed, he began counting quietly to himself.

He counted off two hundred and fifty, and then looked around very slowly. There was no one else in sight. Very quietly and carefully he rose from his position of concealment and looked around again. Still no one. He took a cautious step, and then another. Eventually he was striding on through the woods, all pursuit left far behind him.

He became aware of the road shortly before he could see it, as the sound of a well-muffled engine and the unmistakable hiss of tires on pavement came to him. He hurried forward, his feet silent on the tufted grass, up a slight rise and past another line of bushes, in time to see the rear end of a big old battleship-gray Bentley disappearing around the next curve. Too bad he'd missed it - he needed a ride to the next town. No way of telling how far it was, or in which direction.

His main problem would be staying out of sight of the men hunting him while still remaining clearly visible to anyone coming along the road who might offer him a lift. He decided to compromise by remaining in hiding under a convenient clump of something green until he heard another car coming.

It was several minutes before he did, and then it didn't sound quite like a car. It was loud, like a racing car, but had a peculiar deep-throated sound it took him a moment to identify. A motorcycle - and a big one, too.

There were still no signs of pursuit as he stepped onto the road. The cycle was approaching from his left, and he hurried across the pavement to meet it. The sound of the engine dropped a few notes as the bike slowed for the curve, then came booming into sight. Napoleon stepped out in front of it and waved his arms.