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The leader of the Detroit Lions is standing with a group of Mexicans in front of a large canvas tent pitched in the centre of the track. He is shouting, and clearly he is very angry, although you cannot hear what he is saying above the mechanical din of the generators that are supplying electricity to the track’s floodlights. An assortment of vehicles is parked haphazardly around the tents, and at least fifty clansmen, perhaps more, are hovering in the area. They all seem very nervous, many of them glancing repeatedly at their wristwatches as they pace back and forth. You look at your own watch and see that the time is 0225; no wonder they are so edgy—the convoy is late.

Illustration XIX—Clearly he is very angry, although you cannot hear what he is saying above the din of the generators.

‘Look over there, Captain,’ whispers Knott, pointing at a large, six-wheeled truck that is parked at the side of the track, close to the dog traps. ‘It’s an old Defence League three-tonner, just like the one I used to drive in Brownsville. They ain’t fast but they can take a lot of punishment. It might be just what we need if we have to ram our way outta here.’

‘OK, Knott. You’ve convinced me,’ replies the captain. ‘She looks like she’s been left unguarded, so you get on over there and get aboard. We’ll join you as soon as the mines are set, so you just be sure she’s ready to go, y’ hear.’

‘Yessir,’ says Knott. He is about to leave the group when the captain grabs him by the arm. ‘Hold it, you’d better give the sergeant your contact mine.’

Knott fishes the device from his haversack and passes it to Haskell. Then he leaves, and all three of you watch as he makes his way slowly around the perimeter, using what cover he can find. He reaches the truck and climbs aboard. Moments later there is a tremendous noise—a siren that fills the race track with a deafening clangour.

Turn to 164.