Free It Lives Again by James Dixon Page B

with the way things were going, sure that everything was well in hand. He knew Davis and his partners had nowhere to go.
    As if to prove him right, Davis heard the whir of the police helicopters above.
    “Looks as if we’re attracting a crowd,” Mallory said, showing his thin smile again.
    Davis looked out and saw the helicopters hovering above. “Why are you trying so hard to do your job?” he asked Mallory. “Why do you get so much pleasure out of it?”
    “I have a very high regard for the human race,” said Mallory. “I’d like it to stick around a while longer, that’s all.”
    Davis was about to say more, but a buzzer went off. He immediately picked up a speaker from the intercom system that linked the front of the mobile unit to the rear.
    “Davis,” he said.
    “We’ve successfully delivered a male,” Dr. Forrest’s voice announced. “Dr. Westley’s been injured, but we’ll proceed with our original plan.”
    “Right,” said Davis, smiling as he hung up.
    Mallory observed Frank Davis’s obvious pleasure. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he remarked.
    “That’s right,” said Davis, intent on the road. Ahead of them was a tunnel cutting through a large mountainside.
    “What was that part about a doctor being injured?” chided Mallory, watching for Frank’s reaction. “How do you suppose that happened?”
    Mallory was not able to see Frank’s reaction, since the front cabin of the motor home suddenly went dark. They had entered the tunnel.
    Above, the helicopters had spotted the mountainside and the tunnel ahead. The young policeman was on the radio, reporting to his supervisors and at the same time instructing the other helicopters.
    “We’ll have to change course, fly over the mountain, and pick up that motor home when it emerges on the other side.”
    “Roger,” said a voice from the main base. “Go get ’em. We got a surprise waiting for ’em just ahead.”
    “Gotcha.” The young policeman smiled as he pulled back on the throttle, and the machine banked suddenly upward, climbing easily up the lofty mountain ahead.
    On the other side of the mountain, not a scant hundred yards from the tunnel’s exit, a police roadblock waited! At least a dozen state police cars completely blocked the road, leaving no possible way of getting through. One important-looking gentleman, who wore the uniform of some kind of officer in the state police, was definitely in charge.
    “Our orders are clear,” he said. “Under no circumstances does the vehicle get through, hostage or not. If we have to lose the hostage, we lose him, that’s it. Understand?”
    After a chorus of mumbled “Yes, sir, we understand,” the contingent of police crouched waiting for the mobile home to emerge from the tunnel. Spotlights, almost unnecessary on this moonlit night, were trained on the tunnel’s exit.
    They waited longer than it would normally take for the motor home to get through the tunnel.
    “What the hell’s keeping those bastards?” moaned the officer in charge.
    “Here it comes,” yelled another man, spotting a pair of headlights deep within the tunnel.
    Above, the helicopters hovered, ready to pounce like giant birds.
    The motor home was now emerging from the tunnel. The state police officer stepped out in front of his men, signaling the motor home to stop. The motor home crept forward until the policemen, at first wary that it might have tried to crash through the roadblock, watched with mounting impatience its slow, turtlelike approach to the roadblock. Finally it stopped!
    Quickly Frank stepped out. Slamming the front door of the motor home behind him, he walked away from the vehicle and, hands in the air, dutifully surrendered as the state police moved in.
    The officer took over. “This is as far as you go, mister,” he shouted.
    Frank nodded as if thoroughly defeated.
    “Where is it?” the officer asked sternly.
    Taking his time, Frank pointed toward the rear door of the motor