This story is based on the 'Gunsmith Cats' manga by Kenichi Sonoda, with a few elements from the 'Riding Bean' OAV (1989). It is set after the last published manga in English as of March 2005.
Tell me what you thought of it, no matter what you have to say. I'm a big girl. :) I always welcome reader reactions, especially ones that go into detail. Please email me at MmeManga "at" aol dot com (address spelled out because this site strips all email addys and URLS) or leave your comments here.
NOTE: The complete version of this story is housed at my Livejournal, which is linked on my main page on this site. I have removed large sections of chapters Two, Eight and Thirty from the postings here because of the current site rules, although this story existed on the site long before those rules went into effect. I am sorry for any inconvenience to readers; this factor is unfortunately not under my control. The complete version will also be posted at Mediaminer. My former dedicated Gunsmith Cats site no longer exists.
DISCLAIMER: Characters of RALLY VINCENT, BEAN BANDIT, MAY HOPKINS, ROY COLEMAN, KEN TAKI copyright Kenichi Sonoda. All other characters, and story, copyright 2000--2005 by Madame Manga. Contact by email at MmeManga "at" aol dot com. Do not sell or print for sale without the express written permission of the author. Do not archive. Permission is granted to circulate this text in electronic form, free of charge and with this disclaimer and the author's name attached. Do not plagiarize, alter, or appropriate this text in any way. This story is intended for personal entertainment purposes only. No infringement of any copyrights or other rights is intended.
ADULT CONTENT WARNING IN BOLD CAPS!
This story is not for kids or the easily offended. It contains explicit violence and extreme profanity. If you object to reading such things, do not read this story.
Chasing the Dragon
by Madame Manga
Chapter Seven
"So she's off." Roy put down the hotel phone and crossed himself. "Our Father, who art in—"
"What?" barked Smith across the room, speaking into his cell phone. "Aren't they all deployed yet? This has to go simultaneously or we are well and truly fucked. You deal with it, you whining SOB—OK, call me when it's done, and let's make that some time before the crack of the millennium." He clicked off and tossed the phone onto the bed. "Some kinda problem, he says. Don't ask me what they call a rescue operation in La La Land. That bunch've Academy rejects—" Wesson threw a look at him. "What's up your ass, Bob?"
"You feeling a little stressed, Pete?" murmured Wesson, turning magazine pages.
"Damn straight I am. You think I like having to count on Detective Coleman's baby girl? Not to mention a big part of the operation going on half a state away. God, I wish I was out there with an assault rifle and a good squad..." Smith stamped restlessly across Roy's hotel room.
"This isn't Vietnam," said Wesson mildly.
"She can do her job," said Roy. "But I really think you should have told her—"
"She doesn't need to know. It'd only complicate things."
"To know that you're pulling out his family too? Don't you think she deserves to have some idea of the whole operation?" Roy was keeping his temper with difficulty. "If something goes wrong because she didn't have complete information—"
"All she has to do is bring him out and bring him here." Wesson pushed up his glasses. "What she doesn't know won't worry her."
"Yeah," snorted Smith, "we don't want to overtax that pretty head."
"Now just a minute—"
Smith's cell phone rang and he put it to his ear. "Smith. Yeah? What are you talking about?" He listened for a moment, then his ruddy face took on a different tinge. Wesson stood up. "What do you mean they're gone? What about the Dragon cordon?" His teeth gritted. "Great; then 426 knows. Hoo boy. Shit's gonna spray." Smith punched a program button and spoke to someone else. "It's Smith. Just got a call from Rivera in L.A. The wife and kid were gone already."
Roy let out a hissing breath.
"Yeah, they flew the coop without benefit of the Justice Department. ...Well, I don't know, but I can guess. Who the hell else? After all that jaw, Brown didn't trust us to do the job. Apparently the Triad men found out a couple minutes before we did...Oh, no shit." He laughed sardonically. "I just wonder if Brown realizes that 426 is going to have his ass on buttered toast; and I don't mean that in a pleasant way."
"I oughta just go in on my own, Vincent. There ain't no reason—"
"Oh, sure! He says something to tick you off and the FBI ends up with a few pulpy remnants instead of a witness! Not a chance, Bean! Frankly, I'm beginning to think YOU should stay in the car."
Bean put Buff into park and snapped off the ignition. They sat in a small alley between two waterfront buildings a block south of the Dragon pier. "I ain't a freakin' cab driver. This is my deal. And I don't like you struttin' in there with those damn high heels and one popgun. What if we get split up? You ain't even got a wire!"
"May didn't exactly bring her entire surveillance kit with her to California!" Was he actually concerned about her safety? She wasn't sure whether to be touched or indignant.
"What about the Feds? Didn't they offer you any hardware?"
Rally disentangled her purse from her seat belt. "No."
"Generous of 'em."
"They don't have such a high opinion of me, according to Roy. They aren't sure I can pull this off. But they don't have a choice, since Brown contacted me and not them. And neither do you."
"I ain't worryin' about your technique, babe. I've seen you take out a room full of hoods without breakin' a sweat. I just don't trust that bastard Brown."
"Neither do I. That's why you're on the scene at all!"
"Oh, doin' me a favor? Well, thank ya kindly," said Bean with a touch of sarcasm. "Damn, I want to cream a few more Chink gangbangers." He cracked his knuckles through his driving gloves.
"The word is 'Chinese'." Rally got out of Buff and yanked her dress down, working the holster around and snugly up into her crotch. "And that's not the point. It's to get you your money, remember?"
"My two hundred and fifty thousand bucks? Yeah, I guess I better concentrate on that."
"Yes, your—huh?" Rally stared at Bean. He gave her a one-sided grin and eased himself out of the car.
"I can tell you ain't giving up on that one, babe. It's a fair split. Especially when you waltz into a mob hideout dressed in nothin' but two inches of stretch material and a pound and a half of lipstick." He consulted the big tank watch on his left wrist. "Let's get moving. It's six minutes to eleven."
"Thank you, Bean." Rally put out her hand. He shook it with a controlled smile, then gave her a thumbs-up.
"Knock 'em dead, sweetheart."
"They're at the gate." O'Toole pointed at a flat-panel video monitor with barely controlled excitement. "Lookit that big bastard pantin' at the wee bitch's heels." Manichetti took a glance, but seemed preoccupied. "We better get inta position." He straightened up and punched a button on the desk; the monitor retracted into the ceiling. "Sir?"
"Yes?" said Brown dreamily, reclined in a leather chair on the other side of the office. He had his good hand over his eyes. Beside him on a glass table sat a razor blade, a short straw, and a few grains of white powder in a vial. "Here on schedule?"
"Yes, sir. Just like ye said—both of 'em. She's all got up in a blonde wig, but it's her, all right."
"How amusing. I suppose that will fool the guards...all the better. We don't want 426 to twig what we're up to." Brown sat up and stretched. "I'll give you as much time as I can, Tom, but do be quick about it once you've left. Yours is the crucial part." He rose and crossed to a safe in the wall, spinning the combination with his left hand. "There, it's open. Be sure to shut the door and let it lock."
"Yes, sir. I got it all mapped out." O'Toole paused and grimaced. "Sir, I gotta say to yeh..."
"What is it, Tom?"
"Why cannae I just shoot the pair've 'em? Take care of it here and now?"
"Tom, Tom..." Brown shook his head, laughing. "We tried that before, remember? Even taken by surprise, neither of them would be an easy mark, and we will never take them by surprise. They will be very much on their guard tonight, and they are working together. Keep in mind as well that we may expect observers, who have a great interest in defending him, at least. Sometimes it's far better to wound the enemy than kill him outright; an injury takes up attention that death doesn't warrant. I won't say I'm not tempted to let you have your way, but I've thought this out very carefully. Far better to let the drama unfold, and monitor the results...and of course, if I should have miscalculated, you can always use a more direct approach later. Plans within plans…"
"Yes, sir. I know yeh've got it better figured than anyone."
"How about what she told you?" said Manichetti. "That the hit is tonight? You think 426—"
"I'm supposed to take her word on it?" scoffed Brown. "She's been in town two days—who could she get that from? I've been promised a week, and nothing's happened to cancel the grace period. My family's still in place and so are you two. Smith promised me they wouldn't start until 11:20, so nothing could have tipped off the Dragons yet. Let's trust the FBI to get the job done."
Manichetti looked as if he wasn't reassured, but nodded and moved away. On a glass shelf mounted to the wall sat a large framed photograph of Brown's wife and daughter, the little girl's dark eyes filled with laughter. Manichetti glanced back at Brown, then reached out and picked the photograph up, putting a fingertip to the child's face. His eyes closed briefly and he muttered under his breath, "Holy Trinity and Blessed Mother, protect and preserve..."
Brown picked up a phone on the desk and pressed a button. "Brown. I need the coordinates." He listened for a moment. "Ah, it hasn't moved from the hotel. That means they took his car, as I surmised they would. Very good." He put the phone down. "Still in the parking garage, Tom. You should have no trouble finding it. How providential that 426 volunteered the existence of the transmitter." He laughed, a little hysterically. "He did say he thought the plan might succeed..."
"Wires are all strung, sir. Don't go standin' near the landward wall." O'Toole gestured out the glass wall of the office to the darkened warehouse below.
"No, indeed. Manny?" Manichetti turned around when Brown addressed him. "You'll be leaving with Tom. This entire absence of personal security I am going to explain as a gesture of trust towards Mr. Bandit. Where did you tie her up?"
"Rental slip at South Beach Harbor. Tom says they'll be waiting."
"At the ballpark construction site at China Basin, yes. Then it will take you...fifteen minutes?"
"Yessir, once I get there and get loaded."
"Excellent." Brown checked his watch. "I believe we are as ready as we can be. Greet them at the door, please." He sat down and put his hand over his eyes again.
"I am in your debt, Huang." 426 took off a pair of headphones. "If it were not for your electronics skills, we could never have intercepted his personal line. It was well shielded."
"Sir!" Huang blushed and bobbed his head. "I was not able to record any intelligible conversations until after our meal. You are too generous. My modest efforts—"
"Have been pivotal in this matter. I will hear no more of this 'modesty'." 426 stood and put his hand on Huang's shoulder, looking into his face with warmth. "I will recommend you for full membership at the next initiation. Speak up for yourself, and everyone will know about your worth."
"Thank you, sir!" The young man beamed. "I don't deserve this honor—uh, I am deeply honored and hope that I may live up to your good opinion of me, sir."
426 smiled with warmth. "You realize how highly I esteem you, do you not? I don't wish you to always speak to me as a numbered Triad." His finger stroked Huang's cheek. "Have you something more personal to say to me, Huang? Yet?"
"Sir...I mean—" The young man blushed more deeply. "I have been wondering..."
"Go on. Speak up for yourself."
"Uh…I asked why you had personally chosen me as your assistant so soon after I arrived, and some of the numbers laughed and told me I was lucky that you had respect for, um, innocence, and when Madame Lum brought the girls to the banquet for the new recruits, you didn't take one, and…and you looked pleased that I hadn't either. I wondered if that meant…"
"Yes, it does." 426 smiled again. "I enjoy your society, Huang. You renew me. It only remains for you to tell me the same."
"But I never realized that you...would want me to say..." Huang looked up, his lips trembling in anticipation. "My esteem for you is beyond measure. You have taken me into your confidence, and I have hardly dared to wish—"
"It is my wish as well." 426 leaned down and kissed Huang on the mouth, caressing his face again. "You are so shy, my sweet boy, that I was not sure if you felt as I do. I am sorry I did not speak earlier. Obviously this is not an opportune time for personal matters. We will have dinner again tomorrow night, and talk about things more pleasant than that son of a whore, Brown." They kissed again, deeply, and when their lips parted, 426's face had been nearly transformed. Younger, softer, the eyes even warm. "I invite you to accompany me to my personal residence after dinner tomorrow. If that is what you would like."
"Of course, sir," said Huang, suffused with happiness.
426 straightened and his manner changed, but the warmth remained in the room. "To business. It is well that I intended to have my men on alert tonight, and that I selected the guard detail for the pier. I could not persuade Red Mountain that Brown's outing with that bounty hunter was grounds for immediate termination, but I have better evidence now, thanks to you. I smelled something rotten the moment he told us he had an appointment with Bandit, and this conversation with the girl only confirms my worst suspicions. Prepared for surprises, indeed."
"Surprises for whom, sir?"
"He will not be returning home, he said, which means I should pull my team from there. Could he actually be planning to escape?"
"If he does, sir, he will leave his family in our hands," said Huang.
"I do not think he will do that," mused 426. "His reaction to the news that they were under guard implied otherwise. Still, it is possible—"
A phone rang, and Huang picked it up, speaking a greeting in Cantonese. He listened for a moment. "Sir, it is the team leader in Los Angeles. He says it is an emergency."
"Eh?" said 426, startled. "Put on the speaker.'
"Honored sir!" squawked an urgent voice. "This is 213. Our cordon has been bypassed. Sarah Brown and her child are gone. I admit my incompetence—"
"How? When?" said 426 through his teeth.
"Some time after six this evening. We have been guarding an empty house for hours! A gardening truck entered the grounds at six—the bags they took away must have been—"
"Find them. Don't rehash your mistakes to me. I want that woman in my custody. Do it!" He turned off the speaker, stiff with icy rage. His transformation was as if it had never been.
"He has had them extracted?" said Huang in astonishment. "But he's still at the pier! We must inform our superiors!"
"No, we will go there now. Call the team at the house and tell them to come to the pier as quickly as they can."
"Yes, sir. But Red Mountain—"
"I don't care." 426 pulled on his gloves with savage intensity. "I will not clear this with the high numbers. They will debate it for another week, and by the time they make up their minds, it will be too late. I take full responsibility. It is easier to gain forgiveness than permission." He looked at his assistant. "Come."
"Sir," said Huang. "I would not have thought it of him, but I suggest that Sam is the likely—"
"At this moment, that is beside the point. Obviously Brown is not telling us the truth about his plans for the pair of them. I doubt that he is telling them the truth about his plans for himself, either." 426's eyes flickered. "His females have slipped from our grasp, for the moment. He has not. We will execute Brown and the bounty hunter at the pier—we will make it look like jealous murder and suicide. But we will have to hurry, because it occurs to me that if he is not truly attempting to recruit Bean Bandit, the most expeditious way to deal with the situation, from his perspective, will be to kill him too."
The only thing that kept her heart from hammering its way out of her chest was the fact that she had already seen this place and had a good idea of its layout. The pier was about two hundred yards long and twenty yards wide, a straight projection east into the bay with a secondary angled groin pointing northeast. On the main section, a huge old wooden warehouse took up all but narrow walkways that ran about halfway along the sides, from deck-level doors at the midpoint to the courtyard in front. The secondary part was bare decking dotted with sheds and one larger building, and in poor repair, apparently unused. At high tide, the water reached to within ten feet of the lower underpinnings of the pier, lapping audibly at the huge pilings; bundled, barnacled timbers that supported the entire structure over the muddy bottom of the bay. They clustered so densely under the planking that it was difficult to see through to the other side.
"So you're my girlfriend for the week?" Bean took her arm while they crossed the broken pavement to the waterfront. "Where'm I s'posed to've picked you up?"
"In a bar, I guess." Rally shrugged. "I doubt anyone's going to grill you about it."
"Ain't it a little strange, takin' a pickup to a meetin' like this?"
"Yes, but you figure they'll humor you. They want you pretty badly.'
"'Least somebody does..." muttered Bean.
The street entrance to the warehouse sat back behind a pair of flanking buildings, lit with small bulbs over the doors, but otherwise dark. Rally and Bean paused at the front of the southern one, looking to the right into a gated driveway. It passed between the buildings and came up short against a fifteen-foot steel barrier. Beyond the gate and courtyard, the landward wall of the main warehouse loomed up, nothing but a slim thread of light showing around the edge of a shuttered window high up on the facade. An attached ladder ran up to the window, the lowest part slid up and padlocked.
"Bean," she said low.
"Yeah."
"Take this." She hooked a thumb into the garter, eased it off her thigh and lifted her foot to disengage it. "I want you to hold on to this for a minute."
"Your gun?" said Bean in surprise, taking the holster, which looked tiny in his palm.
"Put it in your jacket. Quick."
"Whatever you say, babe." He unzipped an inside pocket and tucked it away.
"I just got a feeling." She looked up at the light coming from the window again. "I told him where it was going to be hidden, and I don't want anyone to find it there, because it will be obvious who I am if they do. They know you've been working with a female bounty hunter. I doubt they'll search you really well. Too insulting."
"Hope I can get it back to ya before ya need it."
"Me too." Rally peered at the gate and tugged on Bean's elbow to pull him forward. "This isn't a place I want to walk around in unarmed." They went down the driveway and reached the gate. In a way, she was looking over the border of another country. The wind came up off the water and stirred through her stiffly lacquered wig, the little jacket almost no use against the chill and fog. She looked up at the sky and saw no stars.
"Can I help you?" said someone out of the dark, and a flashlight beam hit her in the face. Rally glared for a moment, then remembered her role and poked Bean hard in the side.
"Yeah, I'm here to see Brown," he said.
"Who're you?" The flashlight moved to Bean.
"Th' Roadbuster, out've Chicago." He grinned.
The guard came a little closer to inspect them through the bars, and Rally saw with some trepidation that he was one of the men they had fought outside Larry Sam's restaurant—the one with the gold stud in his ear. His right arm hung in a sling and his face was dark with bruises. Would he recognize her, wigged and made-up as she was? "OK, I remember you. Who's the broad, then?" He looked narrowly at her.
"I just got her along for the ride. This ain't gonna take all night." Bean smiled dismissively.
The guard's dirty smirk as he inspected her provoked a wish to slap the smile off his face, but Rally shrugged and tossed her curls. He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and put it to his ear. "This is 81. The guy's here, and he brought somebody." A short pause. "Yeah, a woman." He glanced over at her again, then turned his back and spoke lower. "No, but...height…Probably." He laughed. "Yeah, I'll call." He put the walkie-talkie away and took out a cell phone. "This is the gate. Your appointment's here, Mr. Brown." He listened for a few moments. "OK, I'll hold 'em here. Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
"Yeah?" said Bean impatiently.
"Somebody's coming down to check you out." He tucked his free hand into his jacket pocket. For a few minutes, there was silence, broken only by Rally's tapping foot. Problems? Suspicions? Had Brown inadvertently given something away? It didn't matter how well she played her part if he had cracked under strain... She began to shiver, a deep apprehension building in the core of her mind.
"Man, it's cold!" said Rally in her high-pitched falsetto. She clutched Bean's arm and looked around. "What is this dump, baby? We don't have to hang out here too long, do we?"
"Nope," said Bean, amused.
"It's freezing out here by the water! I thought it was July!"
"You gotta be from L.A.," said 81. "This is San Francisco summer." Eventually footsteps approached from the direction of the main pier, and Manichetti emerged limping from the darkness, a business-suited Chinese man two steps behind him. Brown's driver wore a handsome black leather car coat and tailored slacks over his big-boned but doughy frame. His eyes glittered at her as he stood in the edge of the flashlight beam, examining her in silence. Something odd in that look, something as bleak as the black water behind him. Rally's eyes narrowed as she met his gaze. His skin looked grey, the lines between nose and mouth deep and harsh. Brown had said nothing about his henchmen. Were they defecting with him? How long could they last in the Eight Dragon Triad on their own if they weren't? Perhaps he had an auxiliary plan for them, or perhaps he was abandoning them to their fate, with their consent or not.
Manichetti nodded at the guard, who took out a key and unlocked the gate to let her and Bean inside. "This way, Bandit," he said in a strong Brooklyn nasal. "Mr. Brown's waiting." The gate clanged shut and was locked again. The Chinese man with Manichetti smiled faintly. Rally prickled with a deep chill, her eyes darting from one man to the other. She felt like an antelope facing a pride of sleek lions. But she had walked into the Dragon's lair in full knowledge of the possible risks. The lack of any weapon on her person made her feel naked as they moved to follow Manichetti into the darkness.
Her eyes struggled to adapt to the dim surroundings, the pier lit only by small security lights and the general city glow reflected from the cloudy sky. The warehouse had windows up high on the facade, but only one of them was lit. Last night they had all been bright. A lot of bustle and activity, and then nothing. She and Bean had staked out a position across the street for a while and then circulated closer after the last truck had left at about one in the morning. The guards had not spotted them. Rally, being more concealable and lighter on her feet than Bean, had done hand-over-hand on the fence along the pier and made it around the back of the smaller buildings to scout the layout. More lights had been on last night, and that along with the waning gibbous moon had let her spot all the important outside landmarks. Now, the place seemed almost abandoned. Manichetti used an electronic key card to open the small door beside the big louvered truck entrance, and shut it behind her once she had stepped through. The solid click of locks echoed through the huge, dim, empty interior.
Up high, halfway along the length of the pier and centrally placed, was a row of large glassed-in offices, one brightly lit. Supported with huge steel beams, their construction seemed independent of the wooden warehouse, much newer. They sat forty feet above the floor, the warehouse roof twenty feet above them. A concrete-tiled walkway ran in front of the window walls. Steel catwalks crisscrossed the width of the warehouse at regular intervals, linking lengthwise walkways that ran beneath the offices. Manichetti paused and held up a hand to indicate that they should stop. The Chinese man moved in another direction and went into a smaller office on the ground level, one without windows. After a moment, a Chinese woman in a skirted business suit emerged with the man at her heels. Both of them walked straight up to Rally, and the woman looked her over carefully from all sides, circling her with a sharp glance. She looked about forty, stocky and solid, with long hair pulled back into a knot. When she stood in front of Rally again, she stared her in the face for an interminable minute.
"Take jacket off," she said in a strong accent. Rally complied, baring her shoulders and the deep decolletage of the red dress. The Chinese man made a low whistle, and the woman shot a glance at him. He fell silent. Manichetti did not react, but Bean shifted his stance.
"Please, only routine," said the Chinese man, bowing slightly to Bean. He touched Bean's arm and ran his hands quickly along his sides, then stepped back and bowed again. "You have weapon?" Bean produced his bowie knife. The man examined it and gave it back. Bean raised his brows and tucked it away.
The woman took the jacket and examined its seams, then handed it to the man. "Give purse," she said and held out her hand for it. She took out Rally's flats, which she felt and bent backwards and forwards; a lipstick, which she opened and swiveled up; the earring box, which she shook and tapped and opened, making an appreciative, raised-brows sound at the contents; a crumpled tissue, a hotel key and the tactical light. Handing the rest to the man, she held up the tactical light and clicked it on, aiming it at the ceiling. Its intense beam shot all the way to the curved hangar-like roof, unimpeded by rafters. The woman turned it off, thrust it into the purse, and stepped forward. She hooked two fingers in Rally's cleavage and pulled the dress out, looking down her body. Rally gasped, but the woman grabbed her breasts and felt them, then ran her hands down Rally's torso and between her legs.
"Hey!" Rally squeaked, trying to remember that she was a light-skirted airhead and not a professional bounty hunter. She wondered; why had Brown detailed someone who could search her so thoroughly, since he already knew she was going to be armed? The woman frowned and said something in Cantonese to the Chinese man, who shrugged and replied in a few sentences. She continued to frisk Rally and yanked her skirt up, revealing the black lace thong she had on underneath. The Chinese man cleared his throat.
"Bean-sie!" wailed Rally, pushing her skirt down again. "What is this shit? You didn't tell me I was gonna get strip-searched!" Bean looked disturbed; she couldn't tell if he was angry or trying to suppress a laugh.
The woman chuckled unpleasantly. "Shoes off," she said, and ran her hands inside and over the heels when Rally gave them to her. Looking for wires, apparently. It was just as well that May hadn't had her kit with her—Rally's cover would have been blown even more thoroughly than by a gun if she had brought any kind of mic or radio equipment. The woman handed the shoes back, snapped her fingers at the Chinese man, and started back towards her office, getting out a cell phone and seeming to report in to someone. The man gave Rally back her jacket and purse and followed the woman. Rally hurriedly put her shoes back on, hopping on one foot since she didn't care to bend over. The jacket and purse she left clutched in her hand, since Manichetti pointed his chin at a staircase that rose to the catwalks and led the way. Bean took her arm again and gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze.
Manichetti's shoes sounded heavy and metallic on the steps as they followed him, his big hands hanging at his sides, slack and inert. In Hollywood, he hadn't seemed energetic or courageous, but now he looked worse: utterly despondent. They reached the lateral catwalk and went along it to a secondary staircase that climbed about ten steps to the offices and their separate walkway. At the lighted office door, he paused on the landing and knocked. Rally saw a figure cross the light inside through the full-length frosted glass. The lever handle turned and a shorter, slighter man opened the door. Red-headed, the color faded to dull rust like old blood. He had a sharp, weathered face with broken veins in the nose and unnervingly light green eyes, almost yellow. This had to be O'Toole. In contrast to Manichetti's tailoring, he wore a black turtleneck and a dark green nylon jacket with multiple pockets. His trousers were the same material, tucked into boots of lace-up military style. But he was not visibly armed.
"Rally Vincent," he said in a deep growling voice, the Irish lilt faintly discernible. "More or less on time. And 'er pet puppydog, eh?" He and Bean slitted their eyes at each other, but Bean said nothing. O'Toole looked her up and down with an ugly expression, his eyes on a level with her upper chest—he might be about five foot six, considering that she stood nearly six-two in four-inch heels. Rally felt the growing heat of resentment, her teeth clenching, and she put her hands on her hips and stared him down. O'Toole slid a look over to Manichetti, then back to her. "Got a firearm on yeh, girlie?"
"He has it," said Rally, and held out her hand to Bean. With a glance, he fished the little Guardian out of his jacket.
O'Toole snagged it out of the holster as Rally reached for it and gave it a heft. "Know how ta use this, girlie?" He popped the magazine, pushed it back in, sighted along the tiny barrel and spun the gun on his forefinger, then tossed it carelessly to her. She caught it out of the air, spun it forward and in reverse, snapped it into her grip and aimed between his yellow eyes. Her finger was clear of the trigger, but the bodyguard's arched eyebrows went up. "Fancy. Just the thing for fightin' off the boys that get too eager. Well, jam it back between yer titties and let's get this show on the road." Rally slid her skirt up a few inches, strapped the garter on and put the Guardian away. O'Toole's eyes darted down to her hemline and he showed a few nicotine-stained teeth in an ironic smile.
"Mr. Brown's in 'is office," he said, and pointed to a half-open interior door a few steps down the corridor. His hands were corded and muscular, devoid of rings, but scarred with small white patches and rifle calluses. Manichetti let out a long breath through his nose and turned to the exterior door. O'Toole clapped him on the back with a reassuring air. "Cheer up, Manny. She can do 'er job." He held up his bandaged left wrist. Both of them looked at her again, Manichetti still bleak, O'Toole with dark humor. "Time we faded into the woodwork," he said, and started to move out the door.
"Just a minute!" hissed Rally. "I told Brown to leave you two out of it! What the hell is going on?"
O'Toole smirked. "We're leavin', right? Ask himself if ye've got a complaint."
He gave her a lascivious wink and clanged down the metal stairs with Manichetti. What now? What if she gave in to her gut feeling and walked out of here? She would have to pass Brown's two men, the office by the door, and the guard outside. Even if they let her go, she would then have to face Bean and the FBI without either Brown or his half-million. Rally took a deep breath and walked down the hallway to the open door, Bean following. Peering around the corner, she saw a large expanse of thick floor-to-ceiling glass wall, a row of stylish track lights on the ceiling, and a plush off-white Berber carpet.
"Brown?" She moved forward a step.
"Please come in," said Brown, sitting with his back to her in a swivel chair that faced a small computer desk. "Just a moment—I'm sending some email." He clicked his mouse with his left hand, swung around and got up. "Hello, Rally—Ms. Vincent." His face went a little pale as he looked at Bean. "I'm very pleased to see you again, Mr. Bandit."
"Yeah?" said Bean ironically. "Can't say the same to you."
"Ah..." Brown turned back to Rally. "Do sit down, please. What an interesting outfit. Not your usual look."
"No, but this time I picked it out all by myself."
"Touché. May I take your things?" He laid her jacket and purse on a small leather sofa. "How did the guards treat you?"
"I was so thoroughly searched I feel like a crime scene. Why did you assign that prison matron to guard duty?"
"Prison matron?" Brown looked out through the glass.
"A woman, with a real professional technique."
"Ah. Hair in a bun, square chin?"
"Yes, and she wasn't shy at all." Rally adjusted her strapless bra through her dress. "Isn't she yours?"
"No, she's not. I don't assign the guards. But she's never been on guard duty here before...she oversees the vice businesses on the West Coast. Her name is Lum."
"Great, so I've been checked out by a big-time madam. OK, basically, that means someone knew I was coming, or made a good guess. And the gate guard was someone who's seen us before—he's got one arm in a sling, so they sure didn't choose him for his physical prowess. What's going on here, Brown? It's starting to seem like they know what we're up to."
"I really don't think so." He was moving towards a bar cabinet. "May I offer you anything?"
"No, thanks." Rally shut the office door.
"Mr. Bandit?"
"Nah," said Bean, looking around at the office and its furnishings.
"I'll have a whisky, if you don't mind." He poured two fingers of Laphroaig into a crystal glass and toasted her with his left hand. "To success."
"Yeah, fine," said Rally. "Shall we go?"
"Oh, not so fast." He smiled and downed the liquor. "You came here for more than just me. Let's get the suitcase and satisfy you as to its contents first." He glanced at Bean, who smiled humorlessly.
"Oh. Yes."
"You must be feeling very tense, Ms. Vincent. I sympathize." He chuckled. "I've been sitting here for two hours thinking about Chinese assassination techniques."
"Oh."
"Seeing that you've made it safely inside does make me feel better. So far, so good, huh?"
"I suppose so. What are your men doing here? I told you to keep them clear."
"I apologize if they startled you." Brown looked a little sheepish, which became him rather well. "O'Toole's not the most polished of men—I heard the conversation in the hall, of course. But I've sent them away now. They won't be an impediment."
"Oh, speaking of bad manners..." Rally dug in her purse. "Here." She produced the earring box and tossed it on his desk. Brown looked confused for a moment, then offended. "No complaints from you. You know why I don't want them!"
It looked as if he didn't know, but Brown picked up the box, opened it for a moment, and put it in his pants pocket with a sigh. "Very well. I defer to your sense of propriety."
"Good." Seeing him suitably chastened and those dratted earrings off her hands lifted her mood. Despite herself, she began to relax a little. Everything was under control. This office was not menacing in the least—it was in elegant, rather European good taste, filled with sleek, comfortable-looking furniture and sophisticated artwork. Only its obvious expense reminded her this man was a gangster. That silk jacket couldn't hide a holster, and he had none that she could see, nor any armored vest. O'Toole had left. Bean was with her, for once keeping his mouth shut, and Brown wouldn't dare do a thing. He wasn't stupid, but for some reason he had chosen a criminal life. And Bean had chosen one too. Was there one single thing else they had in common? Bean next to Brown looked like a battle tank next to a Ferrari. The thought gave her an inadvertent giggle. Brown smiled at her with a whimsical question in his expression.
"Oh, nothing," she said. "What about your wife and your daughter? You never told me if you were sending them away, and now that you're going to defect—"
"No need to worry," said Brown. "They're being..." His expression veiled slightly. "They will be safe soon. I was just sending a message to my wife's laptop to...confirm that you had arrived."
"We're not out of here yet."
"No. But there isn't really any reason to rush." He glanced out the huge glass window wall, though nothing was visible through it because of the office's bright illumination. "The observers will assume that I'm...getting acquainted with Mr. Bandit and his lovely companion." Rally cast a quick look at Bean, but he only flicked his gaze past Brown as if he didn't exist.
Brown's smile held nothing but humor, though his eyes were opaque. "Please have a seat. I'll get that suitcase." He indicated the small leather sofa and armchair between the door and the window wall. A gracefully sculpted cast-glass table, like a piece of frozen waterfall, stood in the center of the group. Rally sat on the sofa, keeping her knees together and giving her dress a discreet yank. Bean stayed by the door. She took the opportunity to survey the room; Brown had occupied most of her attention until now. From entry door to opposite wall, it was about forty feet long. Thirty feet deep, the width of the cantilevered bridge that held all the offices. The back wall was conventionally finished in sheetrock, as were the widthwise walls for about half their extent. The remaining parts of the walls were made of white sandblasted glass, etched in irregular patterns like ice or flowing water and meeting the window wall. In the corner opposite the entry door sat a satiny rosewood desk and executive chair, backed only by glass. Brown moved to the back wall and rolled a large abstract painting aside, revealing a wall safe. He spun the combination and opened it. Inside was a dark rectangle with rounded corners—a big suitcase of black-anodized aluminum. Battered and scuffed, it looked out of place in Brown's hand. He put it on the floor, closed the safe and moved the painting back into place. Rally noted that even though he was doing everything left-handed, he hadn't yet seemed notably awkward, only slow. He'd had very little time to get used to the injury, which must be painful still. She could only chalk it up to natural grace.
"How's your hand?" she asked, to her own surprise.
Brown glanced up as he picked up the suitcase again. "It's not my greatest concern at the moment."
"Worried about the Dragons?"
"Oddly, no. I think I've read them correctly. As I told you, I'm not so bad at that, most of the time." He came over to where she sat and put the suitcase on the glass table. "When I've been wrong, I've acknowledged my mistakes and asked for forgiveness. Or I've paid for it. Care to count the cash?" He sat opposite her in the leather armchair and put one ankle on the opposite knee, his slim Italian shoes so new they had no scuff marks on the soles.
"That would take a long time."
"But you certainly want to see that this isn't full of cut newspaper." Brown crinkled his turquoise eyes at her, ignoring Bean, who approached and stood behind the sofa Rally sat on. "Please do open it. Or I can do the honors if you prefer." He leaned forward.
"No, that's OK." Rally laid the suitcase flat on the table and pressed the catches inward. The lid sprang up to reveal close-packed wads of hundreds. Each had a paper band around the middle. There would have to be five thousand bills in this case to make up the total. She picked one wad up and flipped the ends. Fifty hundreds, five thousand dollars in a wad. Some were old-style, some had the newer design, and their condition and crispness varied. Eight wads across, three down, packed four deep, plus four more along the bottom. It was all there. So much cash all at once hardly registered as real money. Her emotions kept insisting that this was only a case full of funny green paper with portraits of Ben Franklin. Rally lifted a sheaf of wads, hefted it and put it back, smelling the inky fragrance, feeling the silken, tough texture. Half a million dollars...enough to solve every cash flow problem she would have well into the next millennium. Rally shut down the thought, and closed the case. "Looks good. Bean?" She glanced up to see his reaction.
"Beautiful," he replied, a smile in his voice. Rally returned the smile.
"You appreciate beauty, do you?" Brown chuckled. Bean narrowed his eyes. "Alas, that's not for me to know."
"Brown..." said Rally in a warning tone.
"Yes, of course." Brown put up his hands. "I beg your pardon."
"You're forgiven. But I'd advise you to keep quiet, because we still have a way to go before this is over." Rally started to stand up. "All right, it looks like we're set. Bean, you carry the suitcase, and I'll—"
A loud rap sounded on the door. Everyone in the office started, and Brown put a hand on the suitcase. "Yes?" he called.
"Mr. Brown," replied a youthful voice. "Red Mountain 531 and Red Gourd 492 are here to meet your guest. Red Pole 426 has also just arrived."
"Good God," breathed Brown. Aloud he said, "One moment."
"Why are they here?" Rally whispered fiercely, springing from her seat. Bean gritted his teeth.
"I...I don't know." Brown clenched his one good fist. "But I can't delay. I have to let them in." He crossed to the door and opened it, simultaneously bowing low. In walked two elderly, respectable-looking men, attired in conservative suits. Behind them came another Chinese man, middle-aged and similarly dressed, and two young men in their twenties, one carrying a couple of bottles of expensive California wine.
Of the five, the one that caught Rally's attention was the middle-aged one. The older ones were smiling benignly; the younger ones kept their gazes cast down. The other looked directly at her and at Bean, the expression of his eyes holding something far colder, more remote and even more dangerous than anything she had ever seen on Bean's face. His appearance wasn't distinctive in any way; his cropped hair had a sprinkling of grey and his brows were wide and heavy. But she let her eyes linger on him a little longer than she should have, trying to make sense of him. He seemed to look straight through her disguise, but he also seemed not to care a great deal. It was as if he had known exactly who she was long before he had come here and had dismissed her out of hand. Rally broke the look and stepped back, closer to Bean.
"Brown," said one of the elderly men in a gentle tone. "Will you not introduce us?" His British-tinged accent had the precise ricochet quality of a native Chinese speaker, but his face was not entirely Asian; his eyes looked European in shape and in color—a lighter brown.
"Uh..." Brown licked his lips and put on a smile. "What a pleasant surprise, sir. I had not expected this honor."
"This must he be, yes?" said the other elderly man, eagerly smiling at Bean and speaking in a heavy Chinese accent. "Goodness, he extensive individual!"
"Mr. Bandit," said Brown, finally regaining some poise, "these are the two most senior members of the Eight Dragon Triad in this country. Bean Bandit; Red Mountain 531 and Red Gourd 492." The man with the not-quite-Asian face bowed his head at the name of Red Mountain. Red Gourd stepped forward and extended his hand to Bean. No one paid any attention to Rally, which suited her very well.
Bean looked uneasy, but shook hands with both men. "Hey there. Call me Bean."
"A-and," stuttered Brown, "this is Red Pole 426." The middle-aged man inclined his head and stayed where he was.
"We are honored to meet you, my good man," said Red Mountain. "The tales of your exploits have amazed us for some time. It is our great hope that you will consider our offers in a favorable light. How do they strike you?"
"I ain't heard none yet," said Bean.
"Ah...I see we are premature," said Red Mountain. He looked at Brown. "We do not mean to interrupt your conference, but there is no hurry. Please, allow us to take over the interview for a little while, and gain an acquaintance with this most fascinating person." He snapped his fingers at the young men, who had not yet been introduced. "Huang. Assist Wo with the wine." The young men bowed and left the room.
"No...hurry?" said Brown. "What do you—"
"The hours will pass at the same rate in any case," said 426. "A week—or five days—a great many hours will pass in that time." The lights went on in the next office, towards the center of the warehouse; they shone through the section of sandblasted glass that looked like ice. Rally saw Brown shiver. Was this the man who would have killed him when the week was up? She felt sure that he was.
"Please, Mr. Bandit," said Red Mountain, "come with us. There is a suitable room next door, my former office, which is being prepared. Will you take some refreshment? Have you eaten?"
"Yeah, I ate," said Bean. "Look, Red, I didn't think I was gonna get the third degree tonight, and I ain't in the mood for it. Can I get a rain check?" He didn't look at Rally, but he did glance at the table where the suitcase lay.
"You have another affair tonight?" said Red Gourd, crinkling up and nodding. "Such man must apprehend his women!" The old men chuckled and looked at her cleavage. "She is very comely, yes? And makes energetic in the act of intimate congress?"
"Uh…yeah, hotter'n a pistol," said Bean. He slipped an arm around Rally's waist. "So I ain't hangin' out here all night, see?" Towing her along, he made a move for the table. "You coming, Brown?"
"How friendly you have become with the man who cheated you and tried to kill you," remarked 426. "All differences forgotten?"
"Working on it," said Bean. 426 had casually stepped into his path, so he halted. "Pleased to meetcha, but I gotta go." Rally felt him squeeze her side; his muscles had gone taut as wire. Bean and 426 stared into each other's eyes. Of all the people in this room, probably 426 had the best idea of what might happen in a few moments. She placed her right hand close to her thigh, where the little Guardian snuggled heavily. Thirteen shots; that was what she had to work with, and she had no doubt that all the new arrivals were armed.
"We will not keep you long," said Red Mountain. "There will be no third degree. I will toast your health, and we will drink to your good fortune, and perhaps ours." Huang came back into the room. "All is ready. Mr. Brown will be glad to keep your woman company, I believe. One drink, yes?"
Bean hesitated, his eyes flicking from one man to another. Rally put her hand on his back and moved it slightly up and down. It was all right, she tried to convey. If these old gangsters just couldn't let him go without acting like a couple of starstruck groupies, so be it. All it would cause was a delay. She thought about Roy waiting in his hotel room with a couple of impatient FBI agents. Well, it couldn't be helped. Bean's tension eased slightly, and he patted her rump. "OK, I'll drink with ya. Keep it warm for me, baby, 'cause I'll be right back." He let her go and preceded the old men out the door.
426 remained for a moment, looking at Brown. "You have indeed been honored by this visit, Brown. I had not anticipated it either."
"No?"
"I did not accompany them here. When I arrived, their limousine had just pulled up in front of the pier. Their driver is waiting; they will not stay long." He made an expression that on another face might have been a smile, and went out the door. Huang followed, shutting it behind him. Rally let out a long breath and flopped down on the sofa.
"Oh, fuck," said Brown softly, sitting in his desk chair. "God damn it all to hell..."
"You can say that again," said Rally.
"It seems you were correct about the hit. Thank God, Red Mountain and Red Gourd got here first."
"Before Red Pole 426? Now that is one scary guy."
"Yes," said Brown. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you all I know about him. He is the Dragon chief assassin, and he would like nothing better than to carry out my sentence. He burned a man to death once. With a blowtorch."
"Eww!" said Rally, clenching her teeth and pulling her lips back in disgust. "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy! That's about the most horrible way I can imagine for someone to die!"
"I would have to concur with that," said Brown with conviction.
"We can't leave until the bigwigs do, can we?"
"Absolutely not. A dreadful insult." He checked his watch. "But 426 can't do anything until they leave, either, so it balances out. For the next ten minutes or so."
"They just wanted to meet him? What's that all about?"
"I told you they were very insistent that I hire him." Brown wiped his damp face with his pocket square. "I didn't realize they were such big fans." He let out a shaky laugh, then got up and fumbled with the bar cabinet. "I need another whiskey—I just went stone cold sober."
In point of fact, she felt distinctly limp. "As long as you're pouring, give me one too. Put some water in it." Brown made her drink and passed it to her, then poured himself a stiff slug. They tossed the liquor back and put the glasses down. The stuff burned a warm streak all through her. She breathed out a little cloud of Laphroaig and put her feet up. "That's better. Now we just wait for them to get through drinking, huh? Maybe they'll escort us out to Bean's car!"
Brown looked at his watch. "It could be a little while, I'm afraid."
"Not if Bean has anything to say about it."
"True," said Brown, smiling. "I believe they're rather in awe of him."
"That was pretty funny," said Rally, beginning to snicker. "I wonder if they'll ask for his autograph?" Brown laughed out loud, and she joined him.
"I can't imagine he's encountered this before," mused Brown after a moment. "He must be feeling rather self-conscious. Not a man who wants to be the center of attention in a social gathering."
Rally only snorted. He wasn't going to draw her into personal conversation this time, if she could possibly help it.
"The woman I interviewed—I believe I mentioned her?—said he never wanted to go anywhere with her. No eating out, no going dancing, not even a movie once in a while. His interest in her lay in only one direction—well, she put it more baldly than that, but I'm sure you get the picture. The relationship lasted about six months. I gathered that she enjoyed his sheer physicality at first, but that she also felt the need to have a meaningful conversation once in a while. He likes to order in and watch videotapes." Brown reclined back in his chair. "I can't say that would be to my taste, but to each his own."
There he was, talking about Bean's sex life again. "Really? I guess that sounds pretty dull to a big-time Hollywood pusher who likes to blow his drug profits out on the town with young, expensive mistresses. How does your wife feel about that, Brown?"
"Ah...now, Rally, I'm not that bad. Truly."
"Pull the other one, Sly. I can't believe that's your real name. It fits you too damn well."
"I'll admit I was a playboy before I married. If I told you the names of some of the women I dated, you'd put me down as an insufferable egotist."
Now that she thought about it, she was almost positive she had seen a picture of him with Madonna in 'People' magazine a few years back. "I already have, so no problem there."
"Ouch." He looked plaintively at her. "Do you have that much contempt for me, Rally?"
"Well, let me see... Yes, I do. But I told you—I don't care. I don't have to put up with you past tonight. Talk all you want; I'll just let my mind wander."
Brown heaved a sigh. "I deserve that. Neither you nor Bean will stand for cocktail chatter. I shouldn't have tried to impress you, or give you things you had no desire for. Obviously it was futile, and I apologize. "
"Hmm...you know, there is one thing I want from you. I might think a little better of you if I get it. How about it?"
"What is it? If it's within my power—"
"Your file on Bean. You said you had clippings and documents. I want them."
Brown raised his brows and blew out his cheeks. "I'm so sorry; I don't have it with me. You would like to give it to him?"
"Yes, I would. I think he deserves it. Frankly, it's more his than yours."
"You may have a point there. Unfortunately, it's not here, and I can't get hold of it now. If I'd known a little earlier..."
"Who's got it? The Dragons?"
"Ah...yes. It's in another office across town...426's office, in point of fact." Brown shrugged. "I'm afraid I won't be able to retrieve it."
"Damn." She sat back on the sofa. "There's only one copy?"
"Yes, there's only one. But, Rally, I have studied it very thoroughly, and much of the information I have is stored only in my head. I know the answers to all the questions that can be answered. Would you like me to tell you more of what I know about Bean?"
"Yes, I would. One thing, though..."
"Yes?"
"Keep it to the straight and narrow, Brown. I don't want your prurient speculations about his personal life, or his sex life, or about how bad a boyfriend he might have made once upon a time. I want to know the facts, and that's all. So leave your dirty mind out of it."
Brown flushed a little and tightened his lips. "Very well."
"Begin at the beginning. Who adopted him?"
"A married couple of working-class origins. They are both dead now, but they were residents of eastern Michigan. The wife died first, of lung cancer, and the husband two months later in a botched armed robbery—they had been bankrupted by medical bills. Their adopted son went to relatives of the husband in southern Illinois. Four months later, he turned up in a parking lot, as I told you. Half starved, and showing signs of constant beatings. His custodial family never claimed him—one or two of its members might have been arrested if they had. He went into the county foster care system but eventually was transferred into homes in Chicago where space was available. He was an indifferent and rebellious student, except in shop class and athletics, and was always large for his age...his medical records show his growth rate throughout childhood as far above the 90th percentile, and that was with an incorrect age estimate. Recall that he is two years younger than he believes."
"I told him."
"Naturally, you would have. You do seem very fond of him."
"Brown..."
"Sorry." He looked out through the window wall. "It's just that I...well, I am in awe of the relationship you have with him. He seemed so impenetrable, and you have him eating out of the palm of your hand. And the poor man hasn't earned even a kiss from those cruel lips? I will count myself lucky—"
"Will you shut up? You must watch a lot of bad movies."
"Please, tell me he hasn't been entirely deprived. Surely he's—"
"I'm about to pistol-whip you into silence, Brown!" Rally was so angry she lost her head for a moment. "Yeah, he kisses a hell of a lot better than you do, you child molester! Satisfied?"
"Good heavens, Rally. Please try to keep your temper." Brown didn't try very hard to suppress his smile.
"It'd be a lot easier if you kept your promises! Get back on the subject! I want to know who his parents were. What did you mean by racially mixed, and does this have something to do with why the Dragons want him so much? You said that you could tell him how to defend himself against them. Why do you think he needs something for defense other than himself? What's in that pretty head of yours, Brown?"
Brown's desk phone rang. He picked it up immediately and put it to his ear. "Brown." Listening, he left his eyes on her. "It's a supplier of mine," he said, putting his hand over the receiver. "Excuse me." He turned his chair to look out through the window wall. "No, the deal will go through. Yes, very important, but high numbers are not our only concern. We may have to sacrifice some longer-term goals for immediate profits...How many?...That ought to do, though I admit it's a struggle to forecast demand. Has the delivery been made? If it doesn't end up being paid for as expected, you will have to reclaim it. Please execute the larger order as soon it arrives, if at all possible—yes, I know that is a change of plan. The other one we should handle in-house. I will expect a report soon." He put down the receiver and spun the chair back to face her. "I'm still considered a decision-maker, you see. That courtesy won't be extended too much longer."
Rally turned her head, her senses prickling. What was that sound outside? Something was making noise at the landward end of the warehouse, as far as she could tell. It had approached for a while and stopped nearby, engine going. It might be a truck pulling up, though it almost seemed to come from below. But the office's soundproofing was too thick to let her make out the details.
"There's some loading going on," said Brown with his eyes on her face. "A local shipment."
"What of? This place looks completely cleaned out."
"That's correct. The Dragons are abandoning it soon. I'm the only executive who hasn't been transferred to the new offices yet." Brown rose and strolled over to the bar cabinet again. "Mind if I smoke?" He opened a humidor and took out a cigarette.
"Because you were targeted for termination?"
"Apparently so." He picked up a sleek gold desk lighter and took a few draws on the cigarette between his lips, smoke puffing into a small cloud around his head.
"Let's get going, Brown. I don't like hanging around in here." Rally rose and grabbed her jacket and purse. "I'm sorry to insult the bigwigs, but we have got to move. Bean can take care of himself. We can get to the hotel in ten minutes, even walking."
"Not so fast." He shook his head with a smile. "I...would prefer to wait until the truck leaves."
She took a hard look at him. "All right. But if they're not gone in five minutes, I'm leaving anyway. And you are going to come with me."
"But...what about the money?" Brown gestured at the suitcase on the glass table. "We can't leave it here, and walking through this district at night isn't safe. Mr. Bandit might become perturbed if we took it and left without him, in any case. Perhaps he'd be afraid that you and I alone in a hotel room…" By now his smile was thoroughly nasty.
Rally let out a furious breath and seized the handle. "He'll figure it out. I don't want to stay here one moment longer, no matter what's going on outside. If you don't get a move on, your Mr. 426 is going to get his wish. And then you can just merrily burn in hell, Sylvester Brown." She lifted the suitcase—it wasn't light—and turned to the door.
"No, I don't think so," said Brown. "I'd far rather it was you."
"If that's a joke—"
"About as funny as this one." He turned to the glass wall and clenched his fist.
And the whole heavy expanse of glass leapt out of its frame, bursting inward in a spray of diamond fragments like a crystal waterfall. Slow, graceful, it seemed to her suddenly combat-alert senses. The rifle report stretched out into a roll like thunder, and crashed again, and again.The suitcase went spinning—only the handle remained in her grasp. Shot off! Rally dived for the rosewood desk. Grabbing her purse by the strap, she drew the Guardian and rolled between the heavy drawer pillars.
Brown stood stock-still, smiling at her while the glass pattered around him. BKAM BKAM BKAM went the rifle. The slugs plowed into the carpet right in front of her. And then it stopped.
Shouts next door, dimly heard through the wall. "RALLY!" bellowed Bean. "What the fuck—"
She heard several excited voices speaking Cantonese and then heavy footsteps pounded along the corridor. The door opened and one of Bean's boots came in sight from her vantage point. BKAM BKAM BKAM BKAM. She heard lead hit bone and flesh, and gasped.
Bean let out a sharp grunt, and the door opened all the way, someone leaning heavily against it. The man slid down the door and fell, one arm flinging out. It was Huang, crying in pain. Bean seemed to stumble in the corridor; then his footfalls ran towards the outside door and clanged down the steps.
"RALLY!" he yelled again, loud and clear through the shattered window. "I'LL GET THAT FUCKING MICK—YOU TAKE CARE OF BROWN!"
Huang groaned and kicked his legs in agony. The Cantonese voices went on, then moved in the other direction along the offices. Apparently there was an exit at the south end too. What was 426 going to do once he got the old men to safety?
Rally centered her sights on Brown's heart and squeezed the trigger. He turned to face her full on, his hands in his pockets and the cigarette between his lips. The Guardian's stiff trigger began to move—and then she snapped the shot up over his head and into the ceiling. BAM.
He wasn't armed. She couldn't possibly kill a crippled, unarmed, unresisting man. She took a deep breath and prepared to make a dash for the door.
Brown made a gesture. BKAM. Another slug buried itself in the floor and she flung herself back under the desk with such force that she hit the chair behind it. It rolled three feet backwards and went over the edge, unimpeded by the few shards of glass remaining embedded in the sill. A moment later she heard it crash on the concrete forty feet below.
"He's very good, you know," said Brown conversationally. "O'Toole, I mean. He's made head shots at nine hundred and fifty yards with a crosswind off the Irish Sea. He hits what he means to hit."
She put the sights back on Brown. "What's your game? Just to kill me and Bean?"
"I'd assume they'll accomplish the latter posthaste, now that he's heading outside. A pity to waste all that ferocious animal energy, but he was just too dangerous."
"No!" Rally scoffed, disbelieving but with rising apprehension. "You'll never kill him—he's got his jacket—"
Brown cocked his head as if listening. Outside and far away, someone was shouting. "Surveillance camera." He walked to the desk to click a switch, avoiding the area within Rally's reach.
A panel slid back on the ceiling and a screen descended, oriented towards the desk. A sharp black-and-white picture flickered in, soundless. Rally peered at it, her pulse throbbing in her throat.
The screen showed the open area behind the gate and in front of the warehouse, with a slice of dark water visible beside the pier. Many figures struggling—about six, but the confusion of scrambling bodies made it difficult to count them. Two men lay sprawled, unconscious or dead. One broke free from the pack and staggered to his feet, a tall man with a shock of black hair and a broad streak of blood down his face. Bean went down again under three attackers.
"Sixty seconds." Brown consulted his watch. "There are eight well-trained mercenary thugs on him, as you see—some friends of Mr. O'Toole's—and therefore the fight shouldn't last too much longer." Brown blew a wreath of smoke from his cigarette, the tendrils drifting across the screen. The fight continued behind the silhouette of his head, the pile of men heaving and struggling with their quarry. "Touching, really."
A knife flashed a slice of light into the camera. Bean's arm slashed downwards and a man spun away with a silent spray of black blood from his throat. Another aimed a silenced weapon and fired, and as Bean warded off the slugs with upraised arms, a third man swung a weighty-looking sap at the back of his head.
Outside, Rally heard muffled zips and a heavy thud. Bean jerked and his shoulders hunched up. He tried to swing a fist and collapsed. The remaining men converged on him, picked him up by both arms and both legs, carried him to the railing, heaved his long limp body over and dumped him into the water with a tremendous splash. He sank instantly and did not come up.
"Just like a movie, isn't it?" said Brown. "I really should have become a director."
She felt a lump rise in her throat, an awful catch in her breathing. "Oh, God."
"Yes, Rally, he's unconscious and sinking to the bottom of the bay in that weighty flak jacket. He's dead, or will be in a few minutes. The only obvious cause of death will be drowning, to which even he is scarcely immune." Brown grinned merrily. "And your friend May Hopkins, five months pregnant with her first child, is currently asleep in her room at the Park Hilton, one floor up from Detective Roy Coleman, who flew out from Chicago to meet you. He is waiting in his own room for you to return there with me. There are two FBI agents waiting with him. Eventually they will give up and leave when we don't show. Coleman will probably consult with May, as she is expert in the use of tactical explosives, and they will leave the hotel in search of you. Probably they will come straight here. When they do, they will end up at the bottom of the bay with Bean. And you."
"You bastard! You bastard!" She lunged forward, then stopped.
"Feeling betrayed, Rally? Perhaps by love of money?" Brown laughed and glanced at the suitcase, lying handle-less on the carpet. "For a share in this, and for the reward on me? Or have you done all this for love of that man? Maybe you should've screwed him after all, huh?" His accent changed, his face took on the cheap snarl she remembered from Hollywood. "He's gonna be an ice-cold fuck tonight, you little whore."
Her sights trembled on him. He wasn't more than fifteen feet away from her. She'd used only the bullet in the chamber. Six rounds in this magazine, six more in the spare. She could punch a neat circle through his black heart, she could fill his braincase with lead and put out both those icy turquoise eyes, which were probably colored contacts, the vain bastard. It would be so easy.
But he wasn't armed and he hadn't made a single move for a weapon. With his crippled hand, he couldn't have used a gun anyway. But he was commanding O'Toole's rifle, which was placed high up and about a hundred yards away. The Irish sharpshooter couldn't be closer than the landward facade, since the trajectory of the bullets had been too high for him to be on one of the catwalks. Of course that range hardly mattered with a good sniper rifle. He could take her out in an instant now that the window was gone, if she showed herself. Wasn't that the same as if Brown himself held the gun on her? Wasn't it?
Couldn't she at least drop him writhing beside Huang with a nice painful slug through the guts? He woudn't die if she picked her target carefully; he was well-conditioned and healthy, and O'Toole would be distracted by the need to help him. He'd come down from the high window and run to the office. Manichetti was probably waiting to help them escape and would abandon his post too, so wounding Brown might be the best way to get out of here unmolested, if she moved fast.
Her finger tightened on the trigger again, but something held her back. She had a gun loaned to her by the SFPD because Roy had vouched for her. If she shot Brown now, handicapped as he was and clean of weapon in this cleaned-out warehouse...
That was what all that activity the night before had been about. The place had been scoured. Why? What could that mean? She glanced back over her shoulder as she crouched under the desk, out at the blasted window wall and the concrete walkway in front of it, six feet out and four feet down.
"Waiting for something, Rally?" Brown chuckled. "Inspiration? Cavalry over the hill? Or was the white knight supposed to be Bean?"
The only exit from this place was through the interior door and the hallway out to the north catwalk. The other way had 426 at the end. She would have to cross thirty feet of carpet to reach the door, and she'd have to climb over the wounded Huang's body. O'Toole could riddle her with bullets in that time. And even if she made it, she would be exposed on the catwalk, on the stairs and all the way across the bare concrete floor. If he were placed in a window high up on the facade, he could swing around and fire at her even after she left the building. The odds were astronomically stacked against her.
She looked out the shattered window wall into the darkness beyond. Forty feet above concrete, cantilevered out into the middle of this huge, echoing, empty warehouse.
Hell, she'd taken a better fall than that only two days before. Rally holstered her pistol, kicked off her heels and executed a fast backward shoulder roll. Over the edge, and into thin air.
"They killed him," cried 81. "They killed the Roadbuster!" He dashed across the street and hung on to 426's coat as the limousine door slammed. The driver took off, leaving 426 and 81 crouching behind a black Mercedes in front of the pier. Wo got behind the wheel of the Mercedes, keeping low, and started the engine. "Honored uncle, I couldn't stop them. They came up over the side—there must be a boat—"
426 looked over the hood at the gate and brandished a black Sig P221 in his left hand. A masked figure appeared, peered around the corner of one of the smaller flanking buildings, then dodged back into cover. "Bandit did not escape?"
"They sapped him and dumped him in the water. He didn't float. Uncle, what are we going to do?"
"Get into the car." 426 half stood to open the rear passenger door of the Mercedes. 81 crawled inside and huddled in the foot well. "Red Mountain will be very displeased. So am I." He put his free hand into his coat.
81 flinched. "Sir?" He looked at the sling on his right arm. "I couldn't do jack. There were eight of them. I beat it so I could tell you what—" He trailed off into a soft sigh, his eyes glazing. A spot of blood on his collar spread and suffused his shirt front. 426 moved back and let him fall sideways on the seat, the blood pooling under the body. He wiped his stiletto on 81's shirt, replaced it in his coat.
"Take us to the rendezvous point," he said to Wo. "My team will be there in five minutes; we will return with them and sort out this mess. Perhaps Huang is still alive and we may get him to a doctor." He had to kick 81's feet aside to close the door before he got into the front passenger seat.
"Won't the police have arrived by then?" Wo pulled out into the street and sped away.
"No. The shots will not have not been heard outside. However, we will have to fight our way through the men at the gate." 426 reached into the back seat and retrieved a case. He popped the latches and eased out a sleek black MP5K. "I am afraid that will make quite a bit of noise."
"Fock, man, she DISAPPEARED!" O'Toole howled down to Brown, his voice crackling through a speaker in the office. Broken glass tinkled down from the shattered window; she heard Brown's shoes crunch in the fragments. "Didn't hit the floor, didn't land on the walkway! Where's the wee bitch GONE!"
"I don't know. I only saw her go over the edge. Get down here and get underneath the offices! Could she be hanging on to the support beams?"
There wasn't any other place she could have gone, of course. Rally found another handhold and inched closer to the walkway. When O'Toole left his post, she would leap to it and make her break.
She could not think about Bean. Not dead, not bleeding his life away into the cold black water. Her own life was the only one she could save right now. That empty cavity in her chest might turn into a pierced heart if she let herself feel it too much.
Her arms and hands were already starting to ache. She clung for life to the I-beam, the hard edges of the steel cutting into her palms. Her muscles tensed, biceps bulging as she fought to keep her elbows flexed and her body snug up against the underside of the structure. She had her feet drawn up under her, knees to chest, to avoid exposing herself to O'Toole from his high perch. Now that he was coming down, she would have to pull herself up even closer to the structure to keep him from spotting her as soon as he got to floor level. And she had to turn around and face the walkway—her backwards roll had left her facing towards the bayward end of the warehouse.
Rally went hand over hand towards the center of the office bridge, aiming for a strut that connected the offices to the walkway. Once there, she pivoted to scan the inside of the facade.
O'Toole descended from his high window, his feet in their military boots hitting the wall of the warehouse with echoing thumps as he rappelled down with a rope and harness.
Rally wrapped a leg around the walkway strut and touched the little Guardian in her garter holster. He was much too far away for her to have a prayer of hitting him without a rifle. Nearly a hundred yards to the landward facade. Her bullets wouldn't even fly that distance without falling to the floor. All the marksmanship in the world didn't matter if the cartridge itself wasn't up to the task. And it was nearly certain that he would be wearing armor: a bullet-resistant vest or even a helmet. Brown had talked and jousted with her long enough for O'Toole to equip and ready himself in every conceivable way.
He landed on the floor, cast off the harness, and ran straight down the middle of the floor. Of course he knew exactly how far her reach extended. He'd seen and handled her only weapon. As long as he stayed thirty yards away from her, O'Toole had nothing to fear, and even at ten yards, she had less than an even chance of effectively hitting her mark in the dimness. This wasn't a shooting range. Paper targets didn't fire back, and they didn't move or dodge. Rally waited until he had jogged eighty yards, then took a deep breath and swung herself forward to the concrete walkway and up over its railing.
Her landing vibrated the whole length of the walkway with a deep thrumming note. Instantly O'Toole stopped in his tracks and unslung the rifle he carried on his back. He aimed it straight in her direction. But the concrete tiles blocked his view of her and would deflect any possible shot. Unless of course he was firing armor-piercing rounds... She crouched low and scrambled for the south wall of the warehouse.
"Where you going, girlie? Come out an' play!"
She wasn't even tempted to reply. The little bodyguard ran along the floor parallel with the walkway and twenty yards away.
"Pretty girlie, titty an' thigh..." chanted O'Toole in time with his strides. "Kissed big Bean and made 'im cry..."
Rally gritted her teeth, noting that he'd listened in on her conversation with Brown.
"When the men came out to play," mocked O'Toole, "Little girlie ran away!"
Where was Manichetti? Of course, he wasn't a fighter. It wouldn't make much sense for him to be part of the assassination squad. But where was he? Rally descended the short stair to the steel catwalk, reached the south wall and hugged it. She slid her shoulders along the planks towards the landward facade until she came to a large square timber support post that forced her to move out from the wall.
"Now, now," said O'Toole somewhere below her. "Wrong direction." BKAM!
WHIZZ-THUNK! A rifle round sank into the wood next to her ear. Rally gasped and crouched down, scrambling back towards the staircase to the offices.
Bullets crashed through the pierced steel plates under her feet. She reached the concrete walkway and lay flat on it, panting. Through the shattered window of Brown's office, she caught a glimpse of him peering out at her with a tense snarl, but he ducked inside again and the lights went out.
The two offices at this end of the bridge were dark as well, with windows intact. She heard O'Toole's running feet on the stairs at the north side of the warehouse, and in a moment he emerged on the catwalk that led to the office stairs and the walkway on which she lay.
He was too damn fast—he moved like an ape. Rally rolled to the side and off the walkway. She clung to the railing and dropped to a handhold on the support I-beams just as she had done under Brown's office.
How long could this go on? She could keep under cover for a while, but not forever, and Brown might simply call in a few more riflemen who could hem her in from all sides. While O'Toole was the only one she had to deal with, she had to make her move. Rally swung her legs up to hook her feet into the underpinnings of the walkway, drew her pistol and held tight with the left hand.
O'Toole's strides on the walkway made it bounce up and down as he approached her—and passed her. He slid down the south staircase, looped a leg around the railing and leaned out with his rifle, which was black-stocked with a distinctive target grip.
With a chill of horrified admiration she instantly recognized the make. A Heckler and Koch PSG-1, one of the best sharpshooter's weapons ever made, and the only semi-auto with the lethal accuracy of a single-loader. The magazine on O'Toole's was unusually large, at least thirty rounds capacity; obviously custom made. She couldn't have been more outgunned if he had been packing Sidewinder missiles.
He hadn't spotted her position yet. Rally took a careful sight on his trigger finger just as he snapped his head around in sudden recognition and swung the rifle. BAM.
The shot hit the rifle stock and knocked the weapon awry. O'Toole wobbled on his perch. But he did not drop the rifle since the sling held it in position. For a moment she looked him full in the face from ten yards away. This time he wore no mask. He had an avid smile like a hunting animal, his yellow eyes hot and aroused over the scope. Rally yanked her trigger.
BAMBAMBAM. Fibers flew from O'Toole's chest and shoulder, and he jerked off a shot from the rifle that whizzed past her head. He was heavily armored, her hits hammering his body but not penetrating his bullet-resistant clothing. She aimed for his head.
BAMBAM. He threw himself back over the railing and landed upright on the base of the stairs, and her bullets drove themselves into the wooden wall behind him. Her first magazine was empty!
"Ooh, that stings," said O'Toole with a laughing gasp, and let off a rapid burst of fire in her direction, forcing her to cling tightly and swing her legs up out of the way. "Haah!" He let off another burst, concrete fragments flying from the edge of the walkway into her face. Rally jammed the Guardian into its holster and fumbled for her purse.
O'Toole leaned over the railing again, smiling. "Out of stingers, girlie?" He drew a bead on her forehead, then moved the muzzle down over her body as if running a hand down her torso. "Why don't yeh pull yerself up to the walk before I spoil that pretty face with a big ugly .308? Slowly, now."
Rally froze, hand in her purse.
"Drop that bag first, girlie." O'Toole nodded at her purse. Rally brought her hand out and brushed the strap off her shoulder. The purse fell forty feet and the contents scattered over the warehouse floor. "Good. Now throw yer gun up on the walk where I can see it." Rally moved her hand down to her hemline and scooted the dress up to reveal the holster and magazine pouch. O'Toole's eyes flicked down.
She shone the brilliant beam of the tactical light she had concealed in her palm straight into his face, and he flinched away with an involuntary "Ugh!"
With a frantic heave, she pulled herself up to the walkway and tumbled over the railing. In midair she yanked out the Guardian and changing magazines. Catching the light in her teeth, she fired directly at him.
Two trigger pulls, one to chamber the round and one to fire. Her shot was perfectly placed to the middle of the face. But in the split second interval between pulls O'Toole jerked to the side and the bullet tore his right ear instead.
A flap of flesh swung loose along his jaw. He yelled, the blood spurting through his fingers. "Yeh bitch!"
Rally ran along the walkway and up the horizontal bars of the railing like a ladder, then launched off of it for the roof of the offices.
BKAM BKAM BKAM BKAM said the rifle. Shots went wild and shattered the rest of the glass window walls. Rally landed on the roof and rolled. The shots whizzed above her head, and she flattened.
O'Toole's footsteps ran along the walkway again and she heard a door open. Brown's voice, agitated, and a furious snarl from O'Toole. Then they fell quiet for a moment. Rally stuck the tactical light into her cleavage and crept along the flat steel roof until she was directly above Brown's office. She could hear them talking urgently, but too low for her to make out the words.
She had five shots left in the little Guardian. Five shots stood between her and a fate like Bean's. In spite of the danger of the moment, she choked at the thought of his murdered corpse sinking in the black muck somewhere beneath her. All that ferocious animal energy wasted, Brown had said. The sharpness of the emotion cut at her heart and lungs.
Bean was dead. She would never hear his smoky voice again, never see his hands spin a steering wheel with casual precision, never feel her heart jump as he grinned at her. To her horror, her vision blurred with tears and her throat tightened. Her breath came in hurtful gasps, muffled by the hand she clapped over her mouth.
What had she felt for Bean while he was alive? What was her loss now that she knew he could never threaten her equilibrium again? The route ahead seemed dull and empty now that the Roadbuster had taken his final exit... Rally swallowed hard and wiped her wet cheeks with her hand.
"...just do it meself, sir, dammit and that'll have to do." She caught O'Toole's voice as it raised slightly, cracking with emotion.
"I couldn't ask that of you, Tom!" Brown sounded emotional as well.
"Ye don't even have to ask, sir. Ye know I'd knock on the gate of the Maze tomorrow and ask if they've rooms to let, if that would preserve one hair on yer dear head. I'll do it somehow, me darlin' lad…" O'Toole might have been crying.
"Oh, Tom." Brown let out a long sigh. "As long as it looks right. That's all that matters now."
"I'll take care of that, sir."
"Good man."
Had they forgotten her? Rally moved towards the edge of the roof, wondering what they were talking about. If she reached over the edge and fired into the office, she might be able to take out O'Toole before he realized where the shots were coming from. She had to crawl over a raised beam and her body scraped softly over the steel.
O'Toole hissed something and Brown let out a quick breath. The light in the office clicked on again, throwing a pool of illumination out onto the floor below. Her dark-adapted eyes stung for a moment.
WHAM! A hand seized the edge of the roof and O'Toole vaulted up and landed hard directly in front of her. Rally leaped back and somersaulted. KRAK KRAK KRAK went a .45 caliber automatic in O'Toole's hand. The bullets dented the steel and left craters blasted free of paint in a trail behind her.
She dived over the edge of the roof and landed on the strut that tied the offices to the walkway, preparing to roll under it.
"Freeze, yeh little bitch!"
Rally looked up into the muzzle of the .45. O'Toole knelt on the edge of the roof and aimed right between her breasts.
"One twitch, and I drop yeh to the floor." He wasn't smiling now, and his eyes looked as poisonous as sulfur. With his free hand, he unslung the rifle from his back. "I swear, I may just shoot ye anyway." The upper half of his right ear was gone and his neck and throat were covered in blood. "Come on out, sir!" he called to Brown. "I got her under wraps."
To the south, at the wall of the warehouse, a door slammed open and booted feet thundered on the concrete.
"RAALLLYYY!" It was a tremendous bellow. "GODDAMMIT, WHERE ARE YOU!"
Bean was alive! O'Toole jerked to look to his left, and she quickly rolled under the strut.
"RAALLLYYY!" Bean shouted again, his voice filling the entire warehouse. "BROWN, YOU FUCKIN' SLIME! YOU'VE KILLED HER, YOU'RE FUCKIN' DEAD!"
O'Toole looked for her and made an angry gesture when he realized she was under cover again. He slid from his perch and dropped to the walkway like a leopard, slinging his rifle to his back in mid-drop. With a running leap, he cleared the gap to the shattered window and scrambled into the cover of the office.
Down on the floor, Bean cast a shadow fifty feet behind him as he ran forward into the pool of light. He was streaming wet, leaving a trail of black muck and water, and his face dark with blood and mud. Bullet scars covered the arms of his jacket. Rally jumped for the railing and pulled herself up to the walkway. She ran in the opposite direction from O'Toole. Bean was a sitting duck for that rifle. She was going to have to risk a shout!
"Bean! Get the HELL out of here!"
He stopped dead and looked up for the source of her voice.
BKAM! A bullet whacked right behind her flying feet. Rally leaped for the broken window of the next office and cut her hands on the glass still in the frame. She hissed in pain, but hauled herself into the dark room and rolled upright. The light next door shone through the sandblasted glass wall. She smelled spilled wine.
"CALL OFF YOUR DOG, BROWN!" shouted Bean. "YOU GOT THE WHOLE CHINK ARMY COMIN' ATCHA! QUIT WHILE YER AHEAD!"
"426!" she heard Brown hiss. "Time to blow the—"
BRAAAP! An enormous din of full-auto machine gun fire erupted outside.
"Holy Christ!" yelled O'Toole. "Get down the stairs, now!"
"But Bandit's down there—"
"I'll get him! Hurry!"
Someone stepped closer to the glass wall, right at the edge of the floor. His shadow sharpened with proximity, though it was still difficult to read. At the level of his shoulder rose something long and slim. It must be O'Toole with his rifle! Her cut hands stung like hell, but she fumbled out her gun. The figure drew a bead on Bean, seeming to track him along the floor as he ran for the north stairs, and the shoulders rose with a deep breath.
BAMBAMBAMBAM said the Guardian as Rally fired through the glass, nearly losing it on the recoil because her hands were so slippery with blood. Her aim stank and the heavy glass would deflect the first couple of bullets off their track—she'd be lucky to hit anything.
She heard a scream and the light went out. A barrage of .308s came through the wall as she dived to the side. Someone cried out in a banshee howl. "Oh, name of Jesus! Holy mother Mary!"
"I'm not dead yet," came Brown's voice, ragged with pain. "Help me!" She'd shot Brown, not O'Toole! "Do it now! There's no more time!"
"Cover yer ears!" said O'Toole. Over the crackling racket of machine guns she seemed to hear a tiny klick.
WHABOOOOM!
The shock wave of the explosion threw her flat. Her head cracked against a table leg. For a moment, she saw bright colors and lights, and when she could focus, something bright still lit up the room. A powerful smell of C4 and electrical insulation, starting to mix with burning wood. The pier was on fire.
Her ears were numb from the blast, weird thrumming noises echoing in her head. A dull sound next door—possibly a gunshot. Vibrations shook the floor under her—it was stumbling feet in the corridor. Rally rolled over to the office door in time to see O'Toole supporting Brown as they half ran, half crawled towards the south stairs.
It was dark, but she thought she saw blood soaking the thigh of Brown's pants. He sobbed in pain and O'Toole let out an anguished moan. "I'll get ye out of here! Just a bit farther!"
The sounds seemed to come from a great distance, dull and dim. Smoke boiled through the broken window and the men vanished down the stairs into the roiling clouds. Rally staggered to her feet and headed the other way, to Brown's office. This wasn't any time to pursue them; she had only one shot left and her head hurt. She coughed from the smoke and followed the trail of blood on the white carpet.
Huang lay face up in the middle of the room, dead. Someone had shot him through the temples, probably with a small caliber bullet. O'Toole's handgun was a .45. She stared at him, wondering.
Through the window of Brown's office, she saw that the top of the landward facade was half gone. A few prone figures were scattered on the floor inside. Bean wasn't visible.
"Bean! I'm up here!" she shouted, hardly able to hear her own voice. She looked frantically around the office. The suitcase still lay on the floor. "Come get the money, Bean! We've got to get out before the place burns down!"
Near the north stairs, she saw a movement through the smoke. Bean staggered to his feet; he had apparently been blown off the stairs by the concussion. "What's up next?" he yelled dimly. "A frickin' airstrike?"
Rally laughed in relief, so happy to see him alive she felt ready to kiss him.
"Come up! It's here!" He pounded up the stairs, and she put her head out over the window frame, scanning for foes. Two or three of the prone figures got up; it was hard to tell who they were because of the smoke. She couldn't see Brown and O'Toole, but apparently the men at the front could—they raised weapons and fired down the length of the warehouse. The sound gradually grew clearer as her ears recovered. Rally got up and went out to the landing as Bean arrived at the top of the stairs.
Now she could see all the way up and down the warehouse, a hundred yards in each direction, though the smoke had filled most of the area, hugging the floor. At the bayward end of the building, nearly invisible, were two men, one staggering on a wounded leg. O'Toole lowered Brown to the floor and swung up his rifle. BKAMBKAMBKAM! One of the men firing at him dropped, and the others retreated through the front door.
"What's Brown doing down there?" She pointed them out to Bean. "How are they going to get out?"
"Who cares? It's still in the office?" The right side of Bean's face was entirely red from a bullet crease across his skull and his hair was matted with blood and mud. He stank of bay muck, his jacket and boots squeaking and dripping with wet. He was indescribably beautiful—alive—and she gave him a wide smile.
"Yeah. The handle's off the suitcase, so it'll be hard to carry. But I think you want it anyway!" Rally turned again to look at Brown and O'Toole. "How'd you get out of the water?"
"We can rehash later, girl. Right now I want what I came for!" He brushed past her through the outside door and darted into Brown's office. The roof of the warehouse had caught now and flames spread along the walls toward them.
"Hurry! This place is going to really go up in a few minutes!"
"Where the hell is it? There's too damn much smoke in here, and the light won't go on."
Rally left the landing with another glance down to the end of the warehouse and followed Bean into the office. "It's on the floor—there, in front of the desk." Bean barked his shin on the glass table and swore. She fished out the tactical light and turned it on, playing it over the floor. Huang's dead face looked very young, very surprised. She checked his position relative to the part of the glass wall she had shot out, a horrible suspicion taking form in her mind.
"Loan me the light." Rally tossed it to him. "Hey, there's a hell of a lot of blood way over here. The wall's busted. You shoot the Mick?"
"No," she said faintly.
"It ain't yours, girl?" He whirled to look at her. "You hurt?"
"No. A few cuts." She held up a palm. "I shot Brown by accident. I saw O'Toole drawing a bead on you and I fired through the glass wall. I hit Brown instead. And, uh, I'm starting to think—"
"Fine by me." Bean gave her a feral smile. "Don't think the Feds are gonna appreciate it, though."
"Don't remind me! It's only in the leg, I think. O'Toole helped him down the stairs. But I'm trying to say, I think I might have killed this guy. Huang."
"Yeah, that's 426's boy. We got introduced. But O'Toole shot him when I opened the door. That's how I got this, too." He indicated the bullet crease on his head. "You didn't do it."
"He was only wounded! He was alive when I left the office, and he didn't have a head wound! And my shots went all over—I fired four rounds." She tried to wipe some blood off her hands. "I've got only one cartridge left."
"Them's the breaks. Hope ya won't need it." Bean's foot hit the suitcase and it skidded across the floor. He caught it before it went over the edge. "Hey, this thing's empty!"
"What?" The suitcase fell open, showing the interior. They looked at each other. "Maybe he put the cash back in the safe."
Bean threw her the light and tore the painting off the wall. He stared at the lock for a moment, but then he crushed the drywall around the frame with his fists and pried the whole thing away after plunging his fingers through the wall and under the frame. Steel studs and bolts buckled, and Bean dropped the safe on the floor with a thud that made the offices shake. He drew his bowie knife. With a deep breath, he placed it over a hinge and rammed it through the sheet steel, then yanked it out with a screech of metal on metal and repeated the operation.
The door loosened. Bean got a hand inside and heaved. The corner bent back. "Take a look," he said, panting. Rally flashed the light inside. Empty.
"No, nothing."
"Well, then where the hell is it?"
"I...I don't know. Oh, God, O'Toole's taken it with him!"
Suddenly something beeped behind her, and she whirled. The green iMac on the computer desk. The screen came to life and a cheery voice said, "New mail!" Rally took a step towards the desk. An automatic routine executed and an email screen came up. Big pink and purple letters on a yellow background, the kind of colors a four-year-old girl would choose.
To (Tiffany's Daddy)
Dear Daddy, Love and XXXX kisses. Mama says hello and is Manny driving us to Yerup.
Love 4 Ever, Tiffany
Sent by (Tiffany Maria Brown)
Rally's eyes suddenly teared up—from smoke, of course. That was right, he had a daughter. One who loved him. She couldn't have any idea what her daddy was like; that he was a slimy, doublecrossing, murderous drug dealer. On a shelf over the computer, a large photograph of mother and daughter. A beautiful blonde, not unlike Rally's own mother, and a happy child...not at all like Rally. But her father had committed terrible crimes and would have to go deep underground now—one way or another. If he wanted his daughter to be safe, he shouldn't even see her again. Rally wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Bean shook his head. "What? He's got Brown on his hands and he can still haul five thousand greenbacks? What's he carrying it in if the suitcase's still here? It's gotta be in the office!" Bean heaved up one end of the rosewood desk and threw it over with a crash. "Fucking hell!" He kicked a hole in the drywall.
"Calm down!"
"Find that fucking cash, and I'll fucking calm down, girl! I ain't leavin' here without it!" He whipped his head around at her, his teeth glinting in a sharp snarl. Machine gun fire chattered. Rally looked out and saw several men advancing, muzzle flashes cutting through the smoke. No one returned fire. Where were Brown and O'Toole? Dead?
Weeeeooooooh...
Waaaaooooooh...
"The cops are coming, Bean! And the whole building's made of wood—we're going to be crispy critters if we don't get out!"
"Son of a bitch!" He picked up the sculpted glass waterfall table and threw it out the window. It exploded on the concrete. "Thought we'd got home free!" His gaze fell on the corpse. With a stride he was next to it and grabbed Huang by the shirt front and belt. The shattered skull lolled on the limp neck. "Wanna see how big a splat he makes?"
"NO!" Rally shrieked. "Please!"
Bean dropped Huang's body on the carpet again and stared at her. "Hey, you're the one who shot him, babe."
"I KNOW THAT!" she wailed. "Leave him in peace! You have to go!"
"NOT WITHOUT THAT CASH!" roared Bean. He threw the sofa over and stomped the bar cabinet into a mess of splinters and smashed crystal.
Weeeeooooooh...
Waaaaooooooh...
"You're going to get arrested! I'm going to get arrested! I killed a helpless man! YOU HAVE TO GO! It's not here!"
Bean stood panting, his nose wrinkled and teeth showing in an ugly grimace. His eyes seemed unfocused as they darted around the room. The only thing left intact was the computer, still displaying the little girl's bright message. He ripped it off the desk and sent it sailing into space.
"You goddamn barbarian," whispered Rally. The computer shattered forty feet below. Bean's eyes still seemed wild, rolling from side to side as he stalked from one end of the room to the other like an animal in a cage.
"We've lost, Bean. Give it up." He stopped pacing and glared at her, then started towards Huang's pitiful corpse again as if he meant to devour it whole. "Stop!" She slapped him across the face, hard. He shook his head and blinked. "Get out of here!"
Weeeeooooooh...
Waaaaooooooh...
Weeeeooooooh...
Some Dragons with machine guns started up the north stairs. She still heard no return fire.
"Fucking hell." Bean's head snapped around; he seemed to have finally heard the sirens. "Outta here, Vincent."
They ran down the south staircase and toward the door Bean had opened. Rally could see nothing through the smoke, but behind them came a cry, a man choking in anguish. It sounded like someone who didn't know how to shed tears.
Outside, a narrow walkway and railing ran around to the front. Wind blew even more strongly than when they had entered. The next pier lay fifty yards away across the choppy water.
"How are we going to get off this thing?" said Rally. "I'd bet the Dragons are still at the gate."
"I ain't goin' for another swim in that frickin' septic tank. Let's check it out first."
They edged along the south wall. Sparks fell from the roof and flew out over the water. The fire's roaring grew louder every moment. Rally peered out at the courtyard. No one, except the dead. Dragons mingled with mercenaries in heaps; probably ten men lay there, lives snuffed out with blade and bullets.
Her stomach turned over at the firelight flickering in pools of blood, but Bean headed out to the gate, picking his way around the corpses. Lights flashed down the street to the south, coming closer, as did the sirens.
Bean grabbed a crossbar and an upright, braced himself with one foot against the bars, and heaved. The steel gave and twisted, the halves of the gate separating. He heaved again and widened the gap enough to put his shoulders through. "Come on, girl. Cops are almost here." He started to crawl through, then halted when she didn't follow. "Come on!"
"I...I'm staying."
"You nuts?"
"I'm going to talk to the cops and explain what's happened. It'll be better for me if I don't leave the scene. I've got to face the music!"
"Like hell you do!" He strode back and grabbed her arm. Rally shook him off. "Goddammit, girl. You come with me or I'll pick you up and carry you!"
"Don't you dare!"
"Try me. I ain't letting you get arrested!" He bent, rammed his shoulder into her stomach and whipped the arm around her waist, then hoisted her with a light grunt and turned to the gate. Rally wheezed, the air knocked out of her, but twisted up and stuck the Guardian into Bean's ear.
"Put me down, dammit!"
"Get that thing off of me!" He leaned sideways and shrugged her off his shoulder. She landed hard on the ground and rolled up as he pointed a finger at her. "I'm sick and tired of getting guns in my face, babe! The next time you aim one at me, it better be because you mean to fire it."
"Fine!" She pulled up her skirt and holstered the Guardian. Bean flinched. "You were leaving?"
"And so are you. I don't want to hear any crap about facing the music!" He pushed up one sleeve and displayed his huge gloved fist. "Don't make me knock you cold." Rally glared at him.
Weeeeooooooh...
"All right, Bean," she said through her teeth. "I'm coming with you." She slipped through the gap after him.
When he started to cross the street to where they had left Buff, she grabbed his arm. "Don't. There's a black and white at the alley. Someone's seen your car." She pulled him by the jacket and ran to the Y-arm of the pier a short distance to the north, Bean trailing her.
This part was in worse repair, huge gaps showing between the planks, but it had a few scattered structures on it. They scaled the chain-link fence and got into the shelter of an open shed just as the squad cars pulled up to the front of the Dragon pier.
Every window along the length of the warehouse blazed with light and the roof smoked at both ends. She had a good view of the courtyard area across the water as about a dozen policemen emerged from their cars and cautiously began to reconnoiter. A fire engine hung back a few blocks away; apparently they were waiting for the officers to clear out the gunmen and bombs before they ventured near. Five men came out of a door on the north side and came along the walkway towards the front. Rally gasped: were they going to try to shoot the cops? One of them was 426, his face set, oddly, in grief.
She took a deep breath and prepared to give a warning yell, but a shot rang out to her left, from a point to bayward along the pier on which they hid. BKAM-THUNK!
A man jerked, lost his machine gun and catapulted over the railing into the water. The rest of the men dropped flat and crawled along the planks.
O'Toole! He had left the pier and lain in wait for the Dragons to exit so he could kill them like rats fleeing a burning barn! Brown must be with him, then, but how they had escaped the warehouse before the Dragons had left she had no idea.
The police all piled into their squad cars at the shot and pulled back from the gate, sirens going. Rally nudged Bean and pointed to her left. He nodded, and they left the shed and moved quietly down the pier, avoiding the enormous holes in the planking.
She had one bullet left, but O'Toole might not know that. Brown was wounded, so the odds were in their favor, even considering O'Toole's rifle. They crept around a building and saw the little bodyguard lying flat on the planks behind some garbage cans, plainly visible in firelight, tracking the Dragon men with his scope. He wore a pair of infrared goggles. Brown was nowhere in sight.
BKAM! O'Toole fired again and a cry rang out from the men on the walkway. A SWAT truck trundled up and halted half a block away. Assessing the situation, apparently. If she knew procedure, the whole warehouse would burn down before they moved.
The Dragon men got up and ran hell bent for leather to the gate, squeezing through the gap Bean had made, and scattered. O'Toole popped the magazine and reached for a box of shells. Police megaphones squawked at the fugitives and two cars gave pursuit, but Rally was sure they had escaped. Obviously they knew this neighborhood very well.
Time to get O'Toole! She looked at Bean and made a circle in the air with a forefinger to tell him she wanted him to go around the building the other way and come straight at the sniper. Indicating herself, she pointed to a dumpster behind O'Toole's position.
Bean nodded and looked at the dumpster, then counted off on his fingers. Three, two, one. He circled the building out of her sight and she made a quick dash to the cover of the dumpster.
O'Toole had just finished filling the magazine as Bean charged. He looked up and rolled over, sprang to his feet, then swung the rifle as he jammed the magazine into place. He was too fast—Bean was exposed, and she hadn't taken a fix on O'Toole's head yet.
She quickly aimed and pulled the trigger. O'Toole jerked off a shot, or tried to: there was nothing but a dull click. The magazine hadn't been fully engaged on the rifle, and she had knocked it awry with her shot. It hit the planks as it fell, vanishing into a gap and splashing into the water below.
O'Toole made a dreadful face, slung the rifle and launched himself over the side with a larger splash. Bean ran to the edge and looked over.
"He's in between the pilings, swimmin' out to the deep water. Hope he gets a good mouthful of that slime, the little bastard!" Bean spat into the bay, which shimmered in the red light. She was starting to feel the heat from the fire, now bursting through the roof at the landward end of the warehouse.
"If I had another cartridge, I could probably pick him off through the craters in this rotting thing! Damn, I guess he's gotten away. But where's Brown?" Rally looked around her and started towards the largest building on the pier. "O'Toole wouldn't have left him except in a safe place. Maybe he holed up in—"
"What the hell's that?" Bean looked. Someone had called her name, muffled through a wall, but distinctly.
"Rally! Are you there? Can you get to me?"
It seemed to come from the Dragon warehouse. She gave Bean an astonished look and ran down the pier in the direction of the voice. It grew clearer as she approached the bayward end where a window hung open.
"Rally? I hear your little gun. It's me, Brown. I'm still in here, and I can't get out. Can't walk..." He broke off into coughing.
"Brown?"
"You shot me, Rally. I can't walk, and the fire's creeping along the walls. In the name of Christ, you've got to help me get out of here!"
"Oh...my...God..." Her whole body shuddered. "He's going to burn to..."
A human face, withering in flame. The mouth's agonized scream, the hair smoking and blazing; the smell of burning fiberglass and gasoline and human flesh. Her hands shook so much she dropped the Guardian; Bean came up and caught it before it fell.
"Brown! I hear you! I'm going to help you Hang on!" Rally stripped off her jacket and ran towards the edge of the pier. The skin blistering, sizzling; the skull emerging through the skin, the teeth set in a rictus of agony, the eyes— Her sight blurred, her throat tightened, her mind went into a whirl of sick horror and desperation. "I'm coming!"
"Hey! No way!" A hand seized her arm as she tried to dive off the edge. Bean pulled her back and swung her around. "What in the name of hell do ya think yer doin'?"
"The fire's so close, Rally...it's so hot my clothes are smoking..."
"Helping him! The police won't go in, the fire truck's waiting for the cops—I'm the only one who can get to him in time!" She struggled with Bean while he held tight to her wrists, pulling in a frenzy against his massive weight and strength.
"Not in a thousand years, girl! You ain't goin' nowhere!"
"Rallllyyy... Oh God, oh God, no—" The roar of flames grew louder. "Ahhggh! AAAGGHHH!" She could barely hear him now above the furious conflagration. "GODDDD! NOOOO! HELP ME, RALLY! HELLLLP MEEEEE! AAH! AIIIIIGGGHHHH!"
"BEAN!" she howled. "PLEASE! For the love of GOD—!"
"For him? I should let you get yourself killed for HIM?"
"AAAIIIIGGGGHHH! DEAR GOD…RALLLLYYY!"
"Let me go!" She writhed and fought him, her clothes working awry. "I have to HELP him! He's BURNING TO DEATH!"
"There isn't one friggin' thing you can do, girl! Come on!" Bean hauled her up the pier to the fence, dragging her most of the way.
"NO! I can't LEAVE—"
"Raalllyyy...!" The voice died out in choking gasps, drowned in fire.
"Nooo!" she sobbed. "Oh, God, Bean, let me go!" She bit his wrist and broke free; she had taken two steps before something crashed teeth-jarringly into the back of her head, and the firelight faded to black.
