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She spun forward and ran harder, pumping her arms.A bullet whizzed by her. Then another.Oh, God. Hes shooting!She had to get out of the alley. Had to find people. He wouldnt just shoot her in front of a lot of people.Would he?She veered right back onto the street. The car was there. Yates sped toward her. She rolled over a parked car and onto the sidewalk. They were at the old Pabst Blue Ribbon factory. Soon it would be gone, replaced with yet another no-personality shopping center. But right now the broken-down ruins could be a haven.Wait, where was that old tavern?She swerved to the left. It was down the second alley. She remembered that. Olivia did not dare look behind her, but she could hear his footsteps now. He was gaining. Stop! Like hell, she thought. The tavern. Where the hell was that tavern?She turned right.Bingo, there it was!The door was on the right. She wasnt far from it. She ran hard. She grabbed the handle as Dollinger made the turn. She pulled the door open and fell inside. Help! There was one person inside. He was cleaning glasses behind the bar. He looked up in surprise. Olivia stood and quickly threw the bolt. Hey, the bartender shouted, whats going on here? Someone is trying to kill me. The door shook. FBI. Open up! Olivia shook her head. The bartender hesitated, then gestured toward the back room with his head. She ran for it. The bartender picked up a shotgun as Dollinger kicked the door open.The bartender was startled by the size of the man. Jesus H. Christ! FBI! Drop it. Lets just slow down, buddy... Dollinger pointed his gun at the bartender and fired twice.The bartender went down, leaving only a splash of blood on the wall behind him.Oh my God oh my God oh my God!Olivia wanted to scream.No. Go. Hurry.She thought about the baby inside her. It gave her the extra spurt. She dove into the back room where the bartender had gestured.Gunfire raked the wall behind her. Olivia dropped to the floor.She crawled toward the back door. It was made of heavy metal. There was a key in the lock. In one move she pulled the door open and twisted the key so hard that it broke in the knob. She rolled back into the sunlight. The door closed and locked automatically behind her.She heard him twisting the knob. When that didnt work, he began to pound on the door. This time the door would not give way easily. Olivia ran, keeping off the main streets, looking out for both Yatess car and Dollinger on foot.She saw neither. Time to get the hell out of here.Olivia walk-jogged for another two miles. When a bus drove by, she hopped on, not much caring where it took her. She got off in the center of Elizabeth. Taxis were lined up by the depot. Where to? the driver asked her.She tried to catch her breath. Newark Airport, please. As the door closed behind Bond with a pressurized sigh, the golden gun halted in midwhirl and sighted on Bond's stomach. Fellows, said Scaramanga, mock boisterous, meet my personal assistant, Mr. Mark Hazard, from London, England. He's come along to make things run smoothly over this weekend. Mark, come over and meet the gang and pass round the canapes. He lowered the gun and shoved it into his waistband.James Bond stitched a personal assistant smile on his face and walked up to the bar. Perhaps because he was an Englishman, there was a round of handshaking. The red-coated barman asked him what he would have, and he said, Some pink gin. Plenty of bitters. Beefeater's. There was desultory authentic nfl jerseys from china wholesale talk about the relative merits of gins. Everyone else seemed to be drinking champagne except Mr. Hendriks, who stood away from the group and nursed a Schweppes Bitter Lemon. Bond moved among the men. He made small talk about their flight, the weather in the States, the beauties of Jamaica . He wanted to fit the voices to the names. He gravitated towards Mr. Hendriks. Seems we're the only two Europeans here. Gather you're from Holland . Often passed through. Never stayed there long. Beautiful country. The very pale blue eyes regarded Bond unenthusiastically. Sank you. What part do you come from? Den Haag. Have you lived there long? Many, many years. Beautiful town. Sank you. Is this your first authentic nfl jerseys from china with paypal visit to Jamaica? No. How do you like it? It's a beautiful place. Bond nearly said Sank you. He smiled encouragingly at Mr. Hendriks as much as to say, I've made all the running so far. Now you say something. Mr. Hendriks looked past Bond's right ear at nothing. The pressure of the silence built up. authentic nfl jerseys from china Mr. Hendriks shifted his weight from one foot to the other and finally broke down. His eyes shifted and looked thoughtfully at Bond. And you. You are from London, isn't it? Yes. Do you know it? I have been there, yes. Where do you usually stay? There was hesitation. With friends. That must be convenient. Pliss? I mean it's pleasant to have friends in a foreign town. Hotels are so much alike. I have not found this. Excuse pliss. With a Germanic bob of the head, Mr. Hendriks moved decisively away from Bond and went up to Scaramanga, who was still lounging in solitary splendour at the bar. Mr. Hendriks said something. His words acted like a command on the other man. Scaramanga straightened himself and followed Mr. Hendriks into a far corner of the room. He stood and listened with deference as Mr. Hendriks talked rapidly in a low tone.Bond, joining the other men, was interested. It was his guess that no other man in the room could have buttonholed Scaramanga with so much authority. He noticed that many fleeting glances were cast in the direction of the couple apart. For Bond's money, this was either the Mafia or K.G.B. Probably even the other five wouldn't know which, but they would certainly recognize the secret smell of The Machine, which Mr. Hendriks exuded so strongly.Luncheon was announced. The Jamaican headwaiter hovered between two richly prepared tables. There were place cards. Bond found that, while Scaramanga was host at one of them, he himself was at the head of the other table between Mr. Paradise and Mr. Rotkopf. As he expected, Mr. Paradise was the better value of the two, and as they went through the conventional shrimp cocktail, steak, fruit salad of the Americanized hotel abroad, Bond cheerfully got himself involved in an argument about the odds at roulette when there are one zero or two. Mr. Rotkopf s only contribution was to say, through a mouthful of steak and French fries, that he had once tried three zeros at the Black Cat Casino in Miami but that the experiment had failed. Mr. Paradise said that so it should have. You got to let the suckers win sometimes, Ruby, or they won't come back. Sure, you can squeeze the juice out of them, but you oughta leave them the pips. Like with my slots. I tell the customers, don't be too greedy.

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