The alert would have gone up by now, he needed to hurry. He passed the bemused receptionist who had taken a shine to him earlier. One look from Mann told her not to touch the phones. He strode straight to the front. He carried Becky up to the trike riders. He threw his full wallet at a driver, grabbed his keys from him and slid Becky in the sidecar whilst he took off in a swirl of sand. He looked across at Becky. She was stirring. She looked a mess. Her face was bloodied and swollen. He wished the trike had gears, its max speed was thirty and that was on a downhill. He looked behind him. He could see a saloon coming at speed, hurtling down the sandy lanes behind them. Mann looked into the mirror. He saw Fat Harry sitting in the front, English Bob in the back, but the driver wasn’t Stevie. No sign of him. They were gaining. Mann would have to outwit them. The road was busy. Mann drove up on pavements, took out fruit stalls. The car hooted for people to move. The trike was smoking, screaming.
