The filth’s helicopter circling above, then leaving - the last thing he heard before drifting into sleep, grinning.
He was woken by an engine growling. Dizziness gripped him. Dizziness, from being driven somewhere. Driven? Well, what about that for luck? Escaped the pigs and some poor - ooh, the world lurched - some poor bastard was driving him to freedom. He’d have to top ‘em, obviously, but there’d be no bad feeling, no offence.
Crusher didn’t understand. He frowned. He wasn’t being driven, no. Even in the darkness he knew this wasn’t the noise or the feeling of tyres on tarmac.