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 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 Ten
"Physical description—we got the outline from Detective Coleman. You want to add anything?" Smith tossed a printout at her.
DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
INTERNAL INFORMATION—NOT
FOR RELEASE TO PUBLIC
FUGITIVE IDENTIFICATION
SHEET
NAME: Bean Bandit
NOTE: Probable alias
AKA: Bean, Roadbuster
SEX: M
DOB: UNKNOWN, approx.
1968-1972
RACE: Asian/White mix
HEIGHT: approx 6' 6''--6'
8''
WEIGHT: approx 240--250
lbs.
HAIR: Black
EYES: Brown
COMPLEXION: Medium
BUILD: Muscular
DISTINCTIVE FEATURES,
SCARS, TATTOOS, ETC. (ATTACH SKETCH IF APPLICABLE):
X-shaped Scar
over bridge of nose
Large Jaw
WANTED:No outstanding warrants
SSN: UNKNOWN
DL #: UNKNOWN
LAST KNOWN ADDRESS: Chicago, ILL
PLACE OF BIRTH: UNKNOWN
NOTE: Native language
English, American accent
KNOWN WEAPONS: Not known
to employ firearms.
KNOWN VEHICLES (YEAR/MAKE/MODEL/COLOR/ LICENSE # AND
STATE)
1. Late
model customized 2-door, 4-seat coupe, Red, 3UPY666, CA
2.1971 Ford Mustang, Mach 1, Red, THX 1138, ILL
SUMMARY: Works as
freelance courier for a variety of clients. Known as highly
professional and
reliable, therefore picks up contracts for particularly
valuable cargos and
sensitive operations. Known to provide driving
service for criminal
enterprises including bank robbery, prison escape
and interstate
transportation of drugs, weapons, explosives, stolen
goods and currency, other
contraband. Possible resource for clearing
many FBI cases.
NOTES: Could be threatened
with prosecution under Fed. Statutes 1234.12a and
967.1c. Frequents the
Chicago area, but known to make occasional
runs to NYC and other
Northeastern urban centers. May be susceptible
to bribery. Excellent
hand-to-hand fighter.
SHOULD BE CONSIDERED
ARMED AND DANGEROUS.
Do not attempt to
apprehend without backup!
Rally read the entire page. So few words to sum up a man.
"Well?" said Smith impatiently.
"This is...a little sketchy. And this composite drawing doesn't look much like him—it looks like Jay Leno in a Beatles wig. If I didn't know it was supposed to be Bean, I'd never have guessed."
"It was put together from a book of facial features in about half an hour. It was obvious to me Coleman didn't relish the task." Smith chuckled. "You think there's room for improvement? Fine, that's your next job." He picked up his phone and spoke to someone, then cocked an eye at her. "You can't fill in any of the unknowns?"
"Not really... Brown said he was born in 1970, in Michigan, I think, but that's only his word. I could give you a list of his cars that I've seen, but he buys new ones all the time. I used to know where he lived, but the last time I checked the building, it was abandoned. I saw some of his documentation, but it was all false. He's probably got multiple sets."
Smith made a disgusted face. "And for this we let you off the hook for Brown? Try a little harder, sweetheart."
Rally clenched her lips together. "He doesn't tell anyone these things. He's no amateur."
"Neither am I. Start digging, and you better find some nuggets!"
Rally looked at the sheet again, her stomach wrenching itself into knots. "He...he uses a sheath knife most of the time. And he's got other knives handy, in his jacket. I saw him use a pair of throwing spikes...oh, his jacket!"
"Something special about the jacket?"
"It's armored. That's an inadequate term—it's not like an ordinary bullet-resistant vest. He's got layers and layers of Kevlar and plates and chain mail in it. It looks like a black leather motorcycle jacket and it weighs about fifty pounds."
"No shit. How does he manage to wear it?"
"He's got the strength of...Hercules."
"You've been watching too much TV, hon."
"He rolled a car over with a little help! And I've seen him take hits that would have laid anyone else flat, or killed them. Don't ever underestimate his determination. He won't give up until he's unconscious or dead."
"Sounds like one tough mother."
"That's about the size of it. Sometimes it seems like he's nearly superhuman. He's probably going to cause you a lot of—"
Smith laughed contemptuously. "Oh, right. You seem to think we're heading for trouble with this operation. As if a rinky-dink Triad or this Bandit bozo's going to stump the FBI!" Smith leaned forward. "Let me tell you something, little lady. I've been an agent of this man's Bureau for more years than you've been alive, and I was a G.I. grunt in a frontline infantry battalion during the goddamn Tet offensive. I have hunted crooks all over this country for the better part of three decades and I have put them in the slammer just about every time. I have crouched in stinking hot swamps under artillery fire with half a belt of ammo left and my best friend's brains all over my face. I am not ever going to lie down for a bunch of criminal gooks and some oversize driver, no matter how close I am to retirement. Just you keep that in mind, girl."
"Sure," said Rally, disliking him more with every passing second.
"Here. Start listing the cars." Smith tossed a yellow pad and a pencil to her across his desk. "That won't be any use 'til he gets back to Chicago, of course. "
"The big red one's still in the parking garage at the Sandpiper Inn, isn't it?" asked Rally, writing on the pad. "There's a Honda Civic too…" She wrote its license number down on the pad, remembering how she and Bean had joked about the Honda. He had taken such care with her safety…
"I've got a two-man stakeout at the Sandpiper Inn. Discreet, so we won't spook him if he comes back to claim the red car. How likely is he to do that?"
"He spent a lot of money on it. But it's been hours and hours." She looked at her watch. "I got to sleep around noon. It's nearly eight P.M. now. If he hasn't made a try for it yet, it's probably because he knows perfectly well that you're waiting for him. He may be figuring how to retrieve it, and he's got to have a plan for escaping from the city with it and getting home if he's going to have a chance of making it. That's going to take him a little while to set up, I bet."
"OK, makes sense. What's that thing's range, by the way?"
"A little shorter than an ordinary sports car. He had to fill up at about 250 miles, highway. He said he doesn't like to drive it long distance."
"Hah." Smith made a note. "Say, you have any of his stuff? We didn't find any in your hotel room, except a used disposable shaver. We let your partner take your clothes and weapons—well, except that SFPD gun. I think a couple people are going to lose their jobs over that one."
"Oh, no." Rally's shoulders sagged. The damage just kept spreading.
"Well?"
"No, I don't—oh! His duffel bag is still in my car! Maybe there's something—"
"Nope, nothing interesting." Smith pulled out a typed inventory list. "Clothes, mostly. Jeans and shirts and socks. He wears a size fifteen shoe and has the inseam of a basketball player, but we knew that already."
"You searched my car?" So that was why Smith had instructed her to bring it! An attendant at the building's garage had valet-parked it, which she had also found slightly odd, but this was the Federal Building, after all.
Smith was looking at her. "You were expecting something else? They're going over it with a pair of tweezers and a goddamn electron microscope. It's in our impound garage."
"My Cobra? But you can't take away my COBRA!"
"It's not being confiscated. More's the pity." Smith smirked. "I'd claim that beautiful brute in a moment if it were. What the hell is a little lady like you doing with a genuine Shelby Mustang?"
"Driving it," said Rally with as much of a snarl as she dared.
"Shit, that thing deserves a man at the wheel. Way too much power for a woman."
Rally's fists flexed. "I want it back. I need MY CAR." She and Smith indulged in a staring match for a few moments, then the agent grunted.
"Yeah, we'll get everything we need. You can take it back to the hotel tonight. But you aren't driving home just yet. You've got work to do."
"I can't fill in any more blanks on the ID sheet. I'm short on hard facts. All I have is impressions."
"No? How about scars and marks?"
"Scars? The one on his face is listed already—"
"Ones not visible in street clothing." He chortled.
Rally clenched her jaw, but stared Smith in the eyes until his gaze slid away and he smiled half-apologetically. "Nine-month-old bullet wounds all along the left side of his chest and shoulder, and three-month-old ones on his right arm and hand. He's got a recent gunshot in the right thigh. Nothing else distinctive."
"OK." He made a few notes on the printout. "How do you know the dates of these wounds?"
"I was there when he got them. I've got a question."
"Yeah?"
"If you know he has one Japanese parent, how come you don't know all this other stuff? As far as I know, you would have to do a lot of digging to know who his parents are. You would have found out a lot of other things on the way."
Smith looked taken aback, which she hadn't seen before. "Ah…well, I don't think it's all on this one. It's an old one."
"Really? Why would you give me an old one if you want to get all this correct?" Rally looked at the desk when Smith rearranged a folder over another one, a little too casually.
"Oh, somebody fucked up. You got anything else?"
"Mmm…Bean changes plates all the time, by the way, so don't rely on license numbers for identification. He brought a black Corvette Stingray along on the trip, but he crashed it out, so he won't be driving that." She tried to sound unconcerned, but she took a good look at the folder Smith had covered. Black, thick, dog-eared. It didn't match anything else on his desk.
"If he's got a head on his shoulders, he's busting that road back to Chicago right now. We put out a bulletin for stolen cars trending east."
"Does that mean you're going to let me go home soon?"
Smith smiled reprovingly. "I'm not handing you over to the Chicago office, hon. This is my baby."
"But...but I have a business to run! I'm spending my own money on hotel rooms—how am I supposed to—"
"Should have thought of that before you got up to your neck in San Francisco."
"Agent Smith," said Rally through gritted teeth, "it is not going to help your investigation when my Visa maxes out in two days or so and my friend and I end up thrown out on the street!"
"Oh, fucking Christ!" he growled. "I'll get a requisition going. Blood from a stone—this is going to come out of my goddamn budget..." He thrust the ID sheet back into its folder and got up. "Come with me. There's someone I want you to meet."
They went down the hallway to the elevator and rode up three floors, then got off in an area marked FORENSICS and walked to a reception desk. "Put her in with Roberta," said Smith to the receptionist, and thrust the folder at Rally. "I'm going to go catch dinner. Give her back to me when she's done."
The receptionist said "Yes, sir," and picked up a phone. A man with a badge ambled out of the cubicles and indicated that Rally should follow him. He took her to an enclosed office and knocked on the door, which immediately opened. Expecting another dour agent, Rally was a little startled to see a petite ponytailed woman with glasses and a friendly smile.
"Hi, I'm Roberta." The woman shook Rally's hand and ushered her inside. "I hear you're working with an investigation."
"Uh...yes. Hi. Um, I'm Rally Vincent."
"Pleased to meet you, Rally. Did Agent Smith tell you what this is about?"
"Not really."
"Well, I'm a forensic artist. I do mug shots, among other things." She smiled and rocked a thumb at a computer that stood on a desk, surrounded by folders. Photographs and drawings decorated the walls. "I've got a big library of noses and mouths and stuff, and I can put them together any way you say they should go. I'll be asking you to relax and visualize this person that you saw, and the situation that was taking place, and describe him or her as well as you can. I don't do this exactly the standard FBI way, with the mug book—I won't show you the images until the face is put together, and then you can kibitz it as a whole. It avoids contaminating your memory." She pulled out a cushiony chair and shut the door.
"I don't think...that's going to be a problem. He's...he's someone I know. Pretty well."
"All the better, then." Roberta held her hand out for the folder. "Here, sit down. Let me just do a quick scan of the ID sheet." She opened the folder and sat at her computer. On the screen sat a neutral oval with a neck, surrounded by menu bars and covered with crosshair guides, but she spun the monitor around so that Rally couldn't see it. "Bean Bandit? This is not the guy's real name?"
"No. I don't know what that is."
Roberta looked up. "You know him, huh? Is he a friend of yours?"
"Not...any more."
"Rally...are you OK?"
"I'm fine."
"Sergeant Smith pushing you a little hard? You look tired."
"Is that what you call him? I was up all night, I guess."
"You want a cup of coffee or something? I brought a big thermos from Starbucks. Lowfat latte with hazelnut."
"Oh...God, that sounds wonderful."
"Here you go." Roberta filled a foam cup and handed it to her. "Keeps me awake and juiced for the all-nighters. I've been reconstructing a face based on a skull...well, you don't want to hear about that. It's a little grim."
"You'd be surprised what I hear about in my line of work."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a bounty hunter."
"Really? Wow." Roberta looked honestly impressed. "Are you going to be hunting for this guy?"
"M-maybe..."
"Can you tell me something about him? About the case? Usually the agent would fill me in, but obviously he hasn't done that. And usually I get descriptions from witnesses to a crime, not someone who knows the person I need to draw. You don't have any photographs of him...?"
"No. I've been traveling and rooming with him for the last few days. But it wasn't exactly a vacation."
"Oh, no." Roberta put a hand out on the desk, as if she would like to give Rally a comforting touch. "Are you his victim? Darn that Smith—he's got the sensitivity of a rhinoceros—wait, it says he doesn't have any outstanding warrants?" The artist looked nonplussed. "What has Bean Bandit done?"
"Oh, plenty. But they want to make him into much more of a criminal than he is already—" Rally stopped. "Sorry. I'm not supposed to be complaining about this."
"I'm not an agent, you know," said Roberta. "I'm a freelancer. They bring me in for some special jobs, but I'm not on the FBI payroll." She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Don't worry about it."
Rally smiled faintly. "OK, I won't."
"What is this Bandit guy to you?"
"I...don't know. Not any more." She took a deep swig of coffee, which was just the right temperature. "You want the scoop? We became lovers last night. Screwed our brains out, right after I shot a drug dealer I was trying to bring in, and then Bean took half a million bucks from me and told me he'd kill me the next time I got in his face. You have a definition for that relationship?"
Roberta had paused with her own coffee halfway to her lips and seemed speechless for a moment. "...Holy crap."
"Now they want to get him into a secret organization of murderers so they can take credit for breaking it, whenever they might manage to get their stupid territorial concerns and ego squabbles put aside, while he is probably going to end up gutted like a fish and dumped in Lake Michigan when the murderers decide they don't need him any more, and I am going to get put in a cell with the female equivalent of Jeffrey Dahmer unless I jump through all the hoops that the Two-Gun Twins hold out for me, so even if I get to go home sometime this year, Bean will try to stick a bowie knife through my skull and I will try to cut him in half with a ten-gauge before he gets his hands out of his pockets, but not before asking him whether every man who's just had the present of a woman's virginity reacts quite that badly when he realizes that maybe she isn't going to fall down and worship at the Temple of the Oversize Cock, even when she had three orgasms and was beginning to think that she'd actually been missing something, though it was scarier than anything else I've mentioned to find out that a hard-case, rough-trade man like that can get so mushy on such short notice. May the best one win." She drained her coffee.
Roberta's blue eyes had gone huge and round, and she blinked them several times. "Oh."
"You want to get started?"
"Uhhh...sure. Hey, I'm a professional." She reached into her desk drawer and took out a flask-size bottle of Jim Beam. "Want a drink? Goes fine in coffee." She poured from flask and thermos.
"Bottoms up." They clinked foam cups.
"OK, I have the basics here—big man, muscular, black hair." Roberta turned to her computer and clicked her mouse a few times. "Rally, I'd like you to conjure him up for me. What do you call him?"
"Just Bean."
"OK, think about Bean. Imagine he's standing right in front of you." She dimmed the lights in the office, leaving the computer screen as the main illumination on her small round face. "Look at him carefully. Recall as many details as you can. See him as sharply as possible..."
Rally bit her lips. "All right."
"Bean can't see you," said Roberta softly. "It's one-way glass. He doesn't know you're looking at him." Rally let out a breath, the tightness in her chest easing. "That's it. He will never know you saw him. Us girls are checking him out together."
"Heh...OK."
"He's part Asian?"
"So they tell me. It's not immediately obvious, though it had occurred to me once or twice...he's got the coloring."
"So what impression does he give you, overall?"
"Big. That's the first thing you notice; his height and the width of his shoulders. Then his hair and his jaw. He startles people—the first time I saw him, I was in a crazy firefight. I'd almost been killed, I was wounded and I was pretty jazzed. But the moment he came into view, all my attention went his way."
Rally stopped, shifting awkwardly. This seemed so personal. Describing Bean to someone else, even a sympathetic ear? She had the feeling of describing out the contents of her own head, a secret compartment of her personality; the version of Bean she carried around with her, built up over many months of turbulent acquaintance, a great deal of thought, and a few days of chaotic anger and passion. She blushed, recalling details she didn't want to think about at that moment.
"Good. Now, tell me...about his hair. How does he wear it?"
"Long."
"OK. How long?
"Seven or eight inches."
"Good. Please, give me all the details you can think of. Nothing's too small. Just keep talking until you run out of things to say. You won't bore me."
"Ah—all right."
"So about his hair...?"
"It's thick...and very black. Dead black and straight. It goes a little past the base of his neck and kind of tapers off...it looks like he cuts it with a knife when it gets in his eyes."
"Does he comb it back or part it?" Roberta was jotting notes.
"He combs it straight back, unless he has his headband on."
"Headband?"
"Yes. It's a couple of inches wide and it ties in the back. Bulletproof—it's saved his life more than once. All his hair stands up by itself when it's on. Like a horse's mane. A little messy."
"All right. Good. Now look at the shape of Bean's face. Is it more round or more rectangular?"
"Um...kind of a long rectangle. He has a really big jaw—long, not wide—and a little bit of underbite."
"Bony, fleshy...?"
"More on the bony side...his cheekbones and brow ridges stand out."
"What's his nose like?" Roberta turned to her computer and started to click and drag the mouse.
"Sharp. Not very large. Depressed bridge. I guess that makes him look a little Japanese after all..."
"His mouth?"
"Thin lips. Close to his nose. He keeps his lips closed most of the time. When he gets roused up, his teeth show."
"Any teeth missing or crooked?"
"No, they're straight—like a fighting mastiff's. Very white and sharp. Scary."
"He looks mean?"
"Well...um, maybe. Sometimes he does, sometimes he's just...impressive. I'm not sure..."
"Whether he's a mean guy?"
"Yes." Rally swallowed. "I mean, last night...first he was callous about what had happened, with the drug dealer, and then he tried to comfort me, you know, in his way. I hurt his feelings when I screamed at him, but he didn't take it out on me. He just left and got drunk. Then he...he..."
"...What?" asked Roberta softly.
"He made love to me. I begged him to because I was so upset. He was so...tender. It surprised the hell out of me."
"That he had that in him?"
"Yes."
"And then he threatened to kill you?"
"When he found this suitcase of cash that someone stashed in my car. I still haven't figured exactly when...but Bean decided I must have been trying to steal it from him, and he turned into...some kind of monster. I thought he was going to throttle me right there. He looked like a demon. I was so shocked I could hardly fight, or even think. I thought the worst things I'd ever heard about him had to be true...but now I'm not sure again. He didn't actually hurt me, you know." Rally rubbed her throat. "I mean, here I am. He could have killed me with his bare hands, but he didn't."
"That makes all the difference, sure," said Roberta, and smiled. "Ears?"
"Huh?"
"His ears—what are they like?"
"Oh, um...big and round. They don't stick out much."
"Eyes?"
Rally closed her own eyes. "Green and brown mixed. Deep set. The lids don't show."
"Does he have any epicanthic fold—you know, the flat skin over the eyelids that Asians have?"
"Not really, no. Like I said, you don't think 'Japanese' right away when you look at him."
"OK, good. How big are his eyes, in proportion to his face?"
"Not large or small. His eyebrows are very straight, and they slant a little bit. Solid black. He wears sunglasses a lot of the time, as if he knows the effect it has when he takes them off. There's something cold and sharp about his eyes. He can cut right through you."
"Hmm..." Roberta clicked and slid the mouse around, her eyes darting over the hidden screen. "What's the overall look of his face? Unusual? Average?"
"Not average. You'd notice him anywhere."
"Ah. Would you call him a handsome man? Well proportioned?"
"Uhh..." She felt her breathing catch. "Yes. Not pretty at all, not with that jaw, but striking. Masculine."
"Mm-hmm. And he has a scar over the bridge of his nose?" Roberta pointed to the ID sheet.
"Yes. It goes from about here to here." Rally indicated on her own face, drawing an X with her finger. "It's whiter than his skin, but it looks old and shallow. Someone put a mark on him with a knife."
"What color is his skin?"
"Umm...kind of light tan. Lighter than mine. Most people would take him for Caucasian."
"What's your background, by the way? Are you Indian?"
"No, my dad was Pakistani...is Pakistani." Rally looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. "He married an Englishwoman. I was born in England."
"That's interesting. You don't have an accent, though...?"
"We moved to Chicago when I was a kid. I lost it pretty fast."
"Yes, you sound like a native. Does Bean have any accent?"
"An American accent...a working class guy. But you can't do a voice on this, can you?"
Roberta laughed. "No, I just like to get a complete picture, so to speak. Voices and faces tend to fit together, personality-wise. How does he sound—I mean, what is his voice like?"
Rally closed her eyes again. "Kind of deep and smoky. He burns about a pack of high-tar a day, and you can hear the cigarettes in his voice."
"He's wrecked it already?" Roberta looked at the ID sheet. "Only thirty or so?"
"Twenty-nine, I think. No, he hasn't ruined his throat. His voice isn't really harsh unless he's angry. He can sound gentle when he wants to, though he sure doesn't look it."
"Hmm. Does he wear a mustache or beard?" Rally could see something in the reflection of the monitor on Roberta's glasses, but all she could make out was a pair of eyes.
"No. His sideburns are long, about to the joint of his jaw, but he's clean-shaven otherwise."
"Stubble?"
"No. He must have been shaving, and he might not have much beard anyway. He's actually fairly well groomed, for a guy who always wears jeans."
"Not a grubby guy, huh?"
"He dresses like an outlaw, but he still looks like a professional, which is what he is. Keeps himself showered and his hair clean."
"How does he dress?"
"Jeans, T-shirt—white or olive drab, and his jacket. Black motorcycle boots, size fifteen."
"What kind of jacket?"
"A black leather one, armored—he's got several in slightly different styles, but they're always waist-length and have a lot of zippers. He turns back his cuffs on warm days—and once in the summertime I saw him with a sleeveless vest. His arms are just huge..."
"Does he look like he works out?"
"Probably. He's got some definition to his muscles." Rally had a sudden picture of Bean naked in the motel in Buttonkettle, mixed with the memory of the time she had hidden in his closet, and felt her face warm.
He hadn't taken much clothing off in her car the night before, but his body had still left a brand on hers. She crossed her legs, trying to push away the remembered sensation of Bean's hands on her breasts, her body rocking with his, his lips soft on her face and mouth. The recollections overtook her and she closed her eyes in mingled pain and sharp arousal, hugging her shoulders and digging her fingers into her flesh.
"Rally?"
"Sorry. I'm just...he...oh, God, it was only last night, and now he hates me. He was a wonderful lover. I still can't believe he could be so gentle, when I'd been so mean to him..."
"He must—" Roberta stopped. "Well, you know him better than I do. But it sounds like he was very attached to you."
"He was...he was a good friend…" Rally burst into tears. Roberta pushed a box of tissues into her reach and waited with a compassionate smile. Obviously she saw a lot of this kind of thing. "Sorry…"
"It's OK, Rally. I think I understand. I'm going to work on this—you've given me a lot to do." She turned back to the computer, and Rally blew her nose on a tissue. A few minutes passed in silence, Roberta clicking busily away.
"I'm going to give you the whole thing now," she said finally. "You have a great memory, Rally. Please fix him in your mind and then give this a glance. Tell me what's wrong with it." She swiveled her monitor around.
It was something like him, but— "Not enough jaw. It's longer than that."
Roberta clicked on a menu and made a selection. "Like this?"
"Bigger." The artist clicked again and dragged the jawline down. "Uh...bigger. There."
"OK." Roberta shook her head and gave an amused grunt. "That must precede him into the room by half a minute."
"Yeah, just about."
"OK, give me a minute here..." Roberta swung her monitor around again and worked for several moments. "So...maybe he's a mean guy, and maybe he's not." She seemed to be speaking to herself, and made an exaggerated fierce face, then slowly smoothed out her expression as she clicked and dragged, clicked and dragged. "Here." She swung the monitor back.
The face stared out from Roberta's screen, uncannily familiar, with a slight frown and a penetrating look in the eyes that seemed meant for her. Rally shivered. "Oh, my God."
"Close? Don't worry about hurting my feelings here. What doesn't match?"
"It's awfully close. Maybe...his hair flops over a little more. And the strands separate. His mouth's a little less wide, and the end of his chin squares off a little more." Roberta made the changes and the face moved slightly. "He's usually either smiling, just a little, or he's got a scowl, like he's thinking. His brows go down really low..." Sweat sprang out on her forehead as the face seemed to react to her presence. "That's him. That's Bean."
Roberta pressed a key, and the laser printer next to her monitor began to whine. "Here we go. Thank you, Rally, you're very observant." The printer kept chugging. "I can't recall the last time someone could give me such a good, quick description. Usually it takes hours and a lot of concentration."
"I guess I was paying attention." Rally finished her alcoholic coffee. "I didn't realize how much..."
"Can I ask a personal question?" Roberta took the printed picture, nearly life-size, and looked at it. "...Wow."
"Uh...what kind of question?"
"Rally...how long have you been in love with Bean?" The artist had a sympathetic, rueful smile, and tucked the printout into the folder with the ID sheet.
"Whaaat?"
"Hasn't it occurred to you?"
"No!"
Roberta raised her brows. "You told me you slept with him."
"I was only...I felt awful about the deaths and I wanted someone to hold me. He was there! It wasn't because I was in love with him! And then he told me he'd KILL me! How could I love someone like that!"
The laser printer whined again and spat out a second copy of the portrait. "OK, Rally," said Roberta quietly. "I wouldn't want to have a case for someone like that either. He doesn't sound like a good guy to have around."
"I don't ever want to see him again, for all kinds of reasons."
"I have the feeling..." The artist rolled the page loosely, secured it with a clip and put Bean's portrait directly into Rally's hands. "I have the feeling...that you will be seeing this face again, one way or another, for a long time to come. You might want this. It's not actually him, of course, since it isn't a photo." She picked up her phone. "I need an escort for a visitor, June." She put the phone down. "It's a picture of someone you hold inside your head, Rally. I've been doing mug shots for ten years and I've never seen anything like this one."
The man with a badge came to the door of the office, and Roberta touched Rally's shoulder for a moment. "Good luck."
"Thanks."
In the elevator, Rally began to unroll the printout. She got as far as the eyes before she thrust it into her jacket and hugged herself, the paper crumpling against the curve of her left breast.
"May, the next time I go to the Federal Building, I want you to come too."
"Huh? Why?" May took her soda from the counter of the sandwich shop and picked up her change.
"Because I would like you to practice a little petty larceny."
"That's redundant. What tiny thing do you want me to steal?"
Rally unwrapped her turkey sandwich and took a bite. "A folder." They headed out through the swinging glass doors and walked along the street towards the Sandpiper Inn. The mid-day sun shone brightly in between occasional clouds. Here and there remained a puddle or a backed-up storm drain from the rain that had passed through two days before.
"OK, that sounds easy to hide. How am I going to find it? Are they even going to let me in?"
"I told Smith last night that you knew Bean too and could give him some information. Think of something to tell him—it doesn't matter what."
"All right, I will. Can you tell me more about this folder?"
"I told you that Brown claimed he knew everything about Bean, right? Well, I think the FBI has his folder, with all the research he did. Brown said he had documents and clippings. I asked him for it on the night of the fire and he said that the Dragon assassin had it. I can't think of any reason he would have given it to that guy. I can't think of any reason he would have given it to the FBI, either, but since he obviously had a lot of contact with Smith and Wesson that he didn't tell me about, there must be one. And I heard something via Roy that only Brown and the Dragons knew before Brown told me." Rally smiled. "It's clear as crystal."
"Oooh! Everything about Bean? That'd be an interesting read!"
"No kidding. I would dearly love to see that folder. I think I spotted it on Smith's desk; it was thick and black. It wasn't new and it looked like it had been handled a lot. Wesson had a folder like that too, earlier in the day, so they must be passing it back and forth. It's bound to be in one office or the other."
"OK. This could be fun." May grinned. "I haven't done anything illegal for a while!" Rally rolled her eyes and drank some milk out of her little carton as they walked. "How's Roy doing?"
"He's arranged things with the Chicago department, so he's going to stay in San Francisco for a while too. He's officially detailed to work with the FBI now and when he goes home. He's not real happy about it. Seems having a city cop and an FBI agent in the same room tends to cause spontaneous combustion."
"From what you're telling me about Smith, I can see why. Are he and Wesson doing good-cop, bad-cop?"
"Not the classic style. Wesson threatens me with jail, but doesn't call me 'little lady'. Smith tells me gross stories about Vietnam and seems to have a sense of humor, unlike Wesson. I couldn't say which one I'm supposed to get mad at. It's kind of a toss-up." They arrived at the hotel and headed down the ramp leading to the parking garage. "Wesson is the one who thought I should do some lookout duty today. I guess they have to justify keeping me in indentured servitude. So I'm here from noon to six."
"No, we're here!" said May. "I'll keep you company."
"Thanks, sweetie." Rally touched May's hair. "We can finish lunch in the car." The Cobra was parked on the first level again with the ramp in sight. "Then I guess I should put it someplace less conspicuous. But I like seeing some daylight while I eat."
They got in and reclined the seats, unwrapping their sandwiches all the way. Intermittent sunlight mixed with the bright fluorescents that lit the garage.
"Gosh, we can eat in the car today," said May. "I feel so honored!"
Rally gave a little groan, and they concentrated on lunch for a few minutes. A car drove down the ramp, and Rally sat up to examine it. A family with two children. She relaxed down into the reclined seat again. May finished her soda and wiped mayonnaise off her chin.
"So there are two agents on the fourth level watching Buff, huh?"
"Yes. I'm supposed to call them if I see him." Rally indicated a small radio that she had wedged into the console. "They gave me this to use." She clicked it on. "Hey, guys. Just testing."
"Hello, Ms. Vincent," replied a voice. "This is Agent Bui. I'm glad you're here, because I know you'll spot the guy with no trouble. We really appreciate your help, you know."
"Aw, gosh…" Rally felt a twinge of embarrassment. "No problem."
"We've got the controls for the exit gate right here, so when you call us, we'll close it."
"OK, but that might not do a lot of good."
"We'll see. Do you really have a Shelby Cobra GT-500?"
"Sure do. We're parked up top. Come and take a look if you like. I won't tattle."
She heard a chuckle. "No, I think Agent Smith would have something to say about that. Maybe I'll get a chance some other time."
"Sure thing. Over and out." Rally clicked off the radio. There was silence for a while. A car with two women left, and another car entered, with a lone man driving—a short black man.
"This could be a long afternoon," said May. "What do you want to talk about?"
"Uh…we have to establish a subject?"
"No, but I want to keep off subjects you don't want to discuss." May. She pulled in her lips and scanned the headliner. "Such as…"
"You want to talk to me about Bean?"
"Only if you want to."
"May…"
"I won't tell anyone else, if you don't want me to," said May quietly. "But honestly, Rally, I think you ought to talk about it." There was a pause. "OK, that's enough out of me. I'll shut up now."
"Good." They looked out of opposite windows. Another car came down the ramp, containing a young couple. "May, I know you're only trying to help. But honestly, don't. There's no reason—"
"I said I was shutting up, OK? I mean it. The only person I care about in this is you, and you have to do what makes sense to you." May produced a grenade and tossed it up and down. "What makes sense to me, on the other hand—"
"OK, you do what you want to! It's not like I'm going to stop you!"
"Yeah?" laughed May. "I almost wish he'd show up!"
"Hey, what's that?" Rally got out of the car to listen.
Deep below them, seemingly in the bowels of the earth, a roar began. A tremendous crash, and the building shook. "Oh fuck! It's an EARTHQUAKE!" chattered May. "And here we are in the BASEMENT!" The roar went on and grew louder. "Ahhh! Let's run for it!" May jumped out of the car.
"Just a sec!" Rally darted forward and looked down the ramp to the next level. Echoes off concrete walls notwithstanding, she knew that sound. KRAKKRAKKRAKKRAK rattled above it, the sound of two ten-millimeter FBI service weapons discharging at once. The gate started to go down.
And the roar came around the corner with a shrieking, fishtailing skid of tires and a bright red flash. Buff's nose straighened; the car launched up the ramp directly at her. She knew that this time Bean would not swerve to miss her.
The fluorescent glare on the windshield rendered it opaque, but as she threw herself aside to avoid Buff, she caught a glimpse of Bean through the side window. He had his headband on, his hair bristling in a serrated crest over his forehead, and the vicious look he threw her felt like a knife had hit her in the chest. But he gunned Buff up the ramp and crashed through the gate with a scream of rending metal. The bars flew like swords.
No time for thought, no time for plans—Rally ran to the Cobra and revved the engine in an answering roar. Her GT-500 could surely catch Buff, though her CZ75's 9mm rounds would have no effect at all on its armor.
"Wait for me!" howled May. She leaped into the Cobra and slammed the door just as Rally peeled out. She had to make an extreme left to get on the ramp, and May fell against the door, grabbing for her seatbelt.
"Hang on!" yelled Rally. "This is not going to be a Sunday drive!" The Cobra flew up the ramp and emerged into the street. Buff was just turning left. "OK, he's heading for the freeway northbound. May, tell them!"
May grabbed the radio. "He's northbound, for the freeway!"
"Ms. Vincent, keep on him if you can! He slashed our tires! We're calling the SFPD and the Highway Patrol."
"You bet!" Rally took the left with tires squealing. "Make sure they know I'm a pursuit vehicle! May, tell them our license number!"
"Illinois, BRD-529! Bravo Ransom Duke five two nine!"
"There he goes! He's heading up the on-ramp!" Rally swerved around a line of cars and followed. "Highway 280, north!" Bean was weaving in and out of moderate traffic and accelerating. "He's doing about eighty—make that ninety." She speeded up to match him, rolling left and right just as he had. "Damn, I wish I had a siren!"
"That road's going to go to surface streets in a mile," said the radio. "But it feeds onto the Bay Bridge—we're going to get all the squad cars in the area to converge on the approach!"
"Got it!" Rally dodged around a minivan and finally had a clear view of Buff. The thick glass in the back window obscured most details of the interior. Bean was only a silhouette, but she could see his hands yank the wheel to the right. He darted around a semi and accelerated again.
Rally kept to the left and sped up as well. They were doing a hundred miles an hour in city traffic now, angling down a long gradual ramp towards a flatter area.
Train tracks on the left, a long bay inlet on the right. Construction going on at the water's edge, and the main train station. She could see people moving across the road at a light about a mile ahead. "Oh, boy. This is going to get sticky in a few seconds." To the radio she said, "Coming down onto King Street. Going to pass the Caltrain station."
Buff emerged from behind the semi, right in front of the Cobra. And braked. She barely had time to swerve around him before she would have crashed straight into his back end. "Shit!"
"Man, he's playing for keeps!" May clung to the dashboard.
"You got that right!" Buff was a block behind them now, and took a sharp left. "Hey!"
"Northbound on Fourth!" May told the radio.
Rally took a left at the next street, Third. "Damn! I do NOT know this city!"
"Well, neither does he!"
"Oh, cripes, he spent the whole day on Tuesday scouting around! He's checked out all the routes!" hissed Rally. "Damn!"
They went under a group of overpasses, braking to avoid traffic in a district of street-level stores and multistory apartment buildings. She heard sirens, and a black and white crossed their path, heading east to the bridge.
"OK, OK—it's all a grid here, kind of northwest-southeast, and he was one block west of us. If he's heading to the bridge—"
She stopped and suddenly made a U-turn in the middle of a block.
"What are you doing?"
"He's not going to the bridge!" yelled Rally into the radio. "That car would have seen him!" She raced back to King Street and turned right, west. "He's taking the freeway south!" Up they went on the ramp again, Rally pounding the gas pedal into the floor. "May, tell them!"
"Rally says he's doubled back! 280 south!"
"I've got a map in the glove compartment! Get it out!" May found it and spread it out. "Tell me what's coming up!"
"This freeway meets another one in about three miles, then goes west for a while, then due south. The other one—101—goes straight south along the bay." May lifted the map and refolded it. "101 goes to the airport and beyond. 280 goes down the Peninsula and through open areas, then through Palo Alto and San Jose. They meet again in San Jose."
"OK, we took 101 up here from the valley. It's all city and industrial. It's a shorter route if he's only heading out to the valley again." Rally considered the question. "He might want to get back on I-5. That's a great place to go fast. But it's all by itself in the middle of nowhere. No place to hide. He'd be easy to catch that way. No, that's not it."
"There he is!" May pointed with a pair of binoculars in her hand. Buff was a distant red dot on the flyover ramps ahead. "Which one is he taking?"
"Looks like 280!" Rally got her speed up to over a hundred miles an hour again. Horns shrieked at her as she passed. "How'd he get into the garage? Oh geez, I bet he paid the black guy to let him hide in the back seat!"
"Not like he's short of money right now!"
"No shit!" Buff looked a little larger now. "Yeah, he's taking 280 west."
"280 west," repeated May into the radio. Rally took the ramp and passed the interchange. The traffic had thinned a little, and she pushed the car to a hundred and thirty.
"We've called the Highway Patrol," said the radio. "They're going to set up a roadblock right after John Daly Boulevard. There'll be spikes on the road."
"Don't bother! He's got run-flats—and I don't!"
"What will stop him?"
"That's a damn good question!" yelled Rally. "How about an M1 battle tank?"
"Sorry, no can do—but boy, I wish!" That was Smith patching in. "How you doing there, Miss Vincent?"
"I'm coming up on him." Buff was about two hundred feet ahead. "But I'm not getting too close! I'm just going to try to keep him in sight."
"That's wise," said Smith. "Don't want him getting hurt, you know."
"What? HIM?"
"He's important, Miss Vincent. Don't damage him."
"Thanks a whole hell of a lot!" screamed Rally. "I don't think he's the one who's in danger!"
"You're welcome. Just keep radioing in. We'll work on the rest."
"Rrrr…" growled Rally. She gripped the wheel and concentrated on her driving. Buff changed lanes occasionally, but didn't make any sudden moves for a few moments. Then Bean suddenly darted right and headed for an off-ramp.
"Ocean Boulevard!" reported May. Rally followed him. A red light popped up. Buff ran it, and so did Rally. She heard furious horns and screeching tires behind them. This was a hilly area, a large mass rising to her right, and Buff took a right onto a curving residential street.
They were doing about sixty in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone, and Rally tensed up, hoping nothing would appear on the street. Buff slowed and and took a left onto a larger road, then an immediate right.
"San Jacinto Way, just crossed Monterey," said May. "Heading uphill."
"Where's he going?" wondered Rally. The road ahead curved to the left, and she lost sight of him for a second. The next second, he came speeding back downhill at her, accelerating as he aimed for her left front.
"Aiighh!" She dodged to the right. "God! He's going straight for me!"
She saw Bean through the side window again as he passed inches away, his expression unchanged. Malevolent, almost a stranger. He roared past and stepped on the gas as she pulled into a driveway to turn around.
"God, he looks awful!" whispered May. "Did you see—"
"Yes, I did! That's what he looked like when he told me he'd kill me!" Rally followed Buff, taking a right after him.
"He looked that unhappy?"
"Unhappy? What about murderous?" This road curved as well, swinging right and then left. Buff gunned it up to sixty and kept going faster downhill. Rally followed suit, hanging a few carlengths back.
"He looks like he wants to cry," said May. "Monterey Boulevard—no, it's Santa Clara Avenue now. Crossing Portola Drive—geez, now it's Vincente Street."
"Are you nuts? That's Bean!" Buff took a hard left with a green light. This was a large, busy road with heavy traffic. Buff muscled its way in and forced through gaps to the right lane.
"South on Nineteenth Avenue," said May. "Passing Stern Grove."
"So he's going to try losing me in the crowd now," muttered Rally. "No way, Bean!"
"Yeah, I know it's Bean. I never saw him look like that before. I saw him looking murderous when Gray was fighting with him, but he didn't look like that."
"Fine, so he looks different!" Rally fought with the traffic to stay near Buff. "Why am I not seeing any cops?" she called.
"We're keeping them out of your way for now," said Wesson's voice over the radio. "We don't want him to realize you're in contact with us."
"Wonderful! When is that going to make a difference?"
"We're working on that."
"You do that!" Rally jammed on her brakes to keep from hitting the car in front of her. Buff was moving slowly as well, half a block ahead. They passed a large shopping mall on the right.
"Probably in less than a mile. The CHP officers who were at John Daly are moving up Highway 1—that turns into Nineteenth south of where you are. They'll block him, if he's still on that street, or they can cut him off on the side streets. Sit tight and wait."
Rally looked ahead. Buff was still moving through the traffic ahead. "Tell them to be careful. That car's armored, and he can bash through almost anything."
"We know. There are six of them, so he shouldn't be able to—"
"Hold on!" said Rally. "He's taking a left, just past the mall. It's a one-way, and he's going the wrong way!" She worked her way over and took the same turn, swerving around oncoming cars. Behind her was a thud and the sound of crumpling metal. "Oh great—we're causing accidents! Thanks a lot, Bean!"
"Denslowe Drive!" said May.
"The CHP are almost there. They'll come up the other way and block him," said Wesson. Sure enough, farther down the street, which ended in a T, came two CHP cars. Rally had just passed an intersection, and two more appeared behind her. "They're going to box him in, they say, and you're in the box." Two more cars came up behind the ones in front of them.
"Yes, they're here!" The CHP cars turned broadside in the street ahead of them. On the sidewalk, a woman with a stroller stared. Buff sped up and rammed the first CHP car, sending it spinning.
WHAM! It crashed into parked cars and bounced back into the street. Rally slowed down and avoided it, but Buff continued on, speed unimpaired, and hit the second car at fifty miles an hour. KRASSH!
Glass and metal smashed and buckled, and the second car went spinning as well. It nearly hit the stroller, but the woman turned and ran with it. Rally caught a glimpse of a little girl about two years old, looking frightened. "He's not worrying much about kids right now, is he?"
"Doesn't look like it." May grimaced. Buff hit the next two cars simultaneously as they tried to block the street nose to nose, and forced them around to the opposite heading. When he had cleared them, Bean leapt forward. A quick right turn, apparently heading back to Nineteenth.
Rally moved through the gap he had made and followed. "Well, that was a roaring success!" she said to Wesson. The last two CHP cars followed behind her. Bean had almost made it to the intersection when he suddenly slammed on his brakes. SKREE!
Rally, expecting a trick, swerved around him to the right and nearly hit a pair of children crossing the street before she slammed on her brakes as well. He'd stopped to avoid them. Buff reversed past her and rammed the CHP cars coming up behind them. Then, to her shock, he moved beside her, braked—and drove sideways.
"Aiigghh!" yelled Rally.
KRUNCH! Buff crashed into her left side and forced her up onto the sidewalk. The children watched openmouthed. She hit a tree with the right side of the car, pushing it flat, and skidded sideways, Buff shoving her into the side of a building.
"Damn! I forgot he could do that!" The children stood on the sidewalk directly ahead of her. She couldn't move forward to escape him.
"What's happening?" asked Wesson. "I can't raise the CHP!"
"Gosh!" Rally fought to reverse. "Can't imagine why!"
"He's rammed them all," said May. "I don't know if anyone's hurt—" SCRAAPE! The right side of the Cobra made a dreadful sound against the wall as Rally squeezed out from between it and Buff, driving backwards on the sidewalk. She popped out behind him and reversed onto the street. Next to the wall lay some bits of chrome, and the concrete blocks bore a wide blue scar.
"Oooh! He's messing up my CAR!" Rally's blood boiled. Buff accelerated forward and crossed the intersection, taking a left. He was heading to the freeway, and she hung on his tail, truly furious for the first time in the chase. "You're gonna pay for that!" she yelled.
"Left on Nineteenth! Passing Junipero Serra!"
"He's going to 280 again, then," said Wesson. "South, or east?"
"Don't know yet!" The traffic had loosened, and both she and Buff accelerated on a smooth straightaway, passing large apartment blocks on the right. They went under a bridge and began to descend a slope. The southern extent of the city rose in front of them, white houses on a dark green hill. "Where's the on-ramp for east? Ohmigod!"
Buff shot to the left across all lanes, taking an off-ramp the wrong way, but bore to the right and skidded its back end so that it faced east, crosswise on the ramp. And surged forward. Bean sailed over the railing and into thin air, landing on the westbound lanes twenty feet below him with a crash. Cars braked and skidded to avoid him.
"What's he doing?" asked Wesson frantically.
"He…he just got eastbound, on the wrong side of the freeway! I can't follow him!" Rally shot past the ramp Bean had used, looking for a way to take 280 east, but she couldn't see one. "How the hell do I get on 280 east?"
"You're past it! Get off the freeway and turn around!"
"Shit! I'll be ten miles behind him!" Rally aimed for the next off-ramp a mile down the road, then crossed the freeway on a bridge and took the on-ramp north. "OK, I see where to go. Darn, where is he now?" She roared up a flyover and took the freeway east.
"I see him!" May looked through her binoculars. "He's still in the westbound lanes!" Buff dodged head-on traffic far ahead, driving at the right-hand edge of the road. A concrete barrier divided the two sides, which looked too high for him to get over.
"Somebody say he's going the wrong way?" broke in Smith. "Yeehaw!'
"Pete!" said Wesson.
"The guy's got balls, at least! Man, this is getting interesting!"
"He's slowed down, dodging," said Rally. "I might be able to—" She broke off, peering ahead. "May, what's he doing?"
"Um…is that a flatbed tow truck ahead of him?"
"Yeah, in the right lane, there at the curve…oh, shit!"
"What?" said Smith excitedly.
"He's gonna use it to jump the barrier! Yeah, there he goes!" Buff surged forward as the freeway turned to the right, moving into the left lane. The camber of the road was sufficient for him to get two wheels up on the barrier at the edge of the freeway and gun the car forward, leaping into the air.
Buff landed on the flatbed, tires spinning. The road turned left again and a red streak rocketed forward at an angle, clearing the barrier between lanes and landing on the eastbound side.
The road was clear in front of him, and he accelerated so quickly Rally felt as if her car were standing still. The red car rapidly receded, though she jammed the gas pedal so hard her foot hurt.
"Where's he going to go from here? Back into the city, or south on 101?" Rally bit her lip in thought. "I'd bet the freeway! I'll keep chasing, but you guys might want to put up a more substantial barrier!"
"How're the CHP officers?" asked May.
"Alive, but some broken bones," said Smith. "Never mind them! How far behind are you?"
"About a mile and a half. I'm passing—"
"Alemany Boulevard," said May. "Buff's almost to the interchange."
"There are a bunch of motorcycle cops running breaks on 101 and 280 in the city," said Smith. "We're having the CHP barricade the feeder on-ramps and usher everyone off the road. You should have a clearer field in a little while."
"He took the southbound ramp," said May, shading her binoculars. "He's on 101."
"We're sending down a police chopper to help track him," said Wesson. "We're going to patch you in to them." The radio gave out a series of clicks, and a static-y voice announced a change in flight direction.
"Hello," said May. "This is May Hopkins, in the blue Mustang with white stripes. Can you see us?"
"Roger," said the pilot. "That's an affirmative."
"Look, Rally!" May pointed up through the windshield. "There it is!"
"There isn't a good spot for a block until further south," said Wesson. "We need some time, anyway." His voice cut out for a moment. "Yes, there's going to be a set of concrete barrier blocks in a while. I'll say when I know just where."
"You do that." Rally looked at her speedometer: creeping past 140, the highest number on the dial. "I'm going to be leaving the chopper behind in a while, I'm afraid." She took the southbound ramp.
"We'll worry about that," said the pilot. "We've got some oil on board—we are going to try to get ahead of him and dump it on the road. We can cut straight over the hill and the lagoon and get there sooner than he does."
"Worth a try! But tell me where so I'll be ready!"
"Roger."
"A pair of motorcycle cops are coming up on your tail," said Wesson. "They're backup, just in case."
"Oh, thanks! In case I try to hurt Bean?"
"You have the right to defend yourself within reason, of course. But I would remind you that without Mr. Bandit in the game, that agreement you signed is null and void."
"That's so damn encouraging, Wesson. You ought to go into the FBI recruiting division."
"Oil will go on the road just past Candlestick—I should say, 3Com Park," said the chopper pilot. "He may even go into the bay there."
"Don't think that you've seen the last of him if he does!" Rally came down a slope and saw the stadium ahead on the left, sitting on a point of land that protruded into the bay. Far ahead, passing the stadium, was Buff. The road was nearly clear now.
As she descended the hill, she saw the chopper hovering low, a spray of oil coming from it. Buff was only yards behind the chopper. Could he avoid the slick?
"He's spinning out!" said May. "He's off in the gravel!" Buff swerved to the left and stopped a few feet from the water on a slight downslope. The rear tires spun and threw gravel, skidding, then caught traction and sent the car up onto the road again. "Nope, he's recovered. But he's closer now!"
Rally steered to the right, veering off the road a bit to avoid the oil. "Yep. Not sure if I like that or not!" The chopper roared above her head and the motorcycle cops slowed to steer around the oil.
"There is going to be a roadblock in San Carlos," said Wesson. "That's about—"
"Twenty miles ahead," said May, refolding the map.
"That's a long way! Who says he's going to stay on the road that far?"
"That's the best we can do," said Wesson stiffly.
"OK, OK. San Carlos." Rally looked at Buff, about a quarter of a mile ahead on a long straightaway that ran between the bay and a large lagoon. Beyond that was a rise, crossing the saddle of a small mountain that sloped down to the bay. "What's coming up?"
She was leaving the motorcycles behind, her speed about one-seventy. The chopper had had a lead on her, but also began to lag. "Hoo boy. Once we pass that saddle, I don't think we're gonna have a lot of backup." Buff began to climb the hill.
"There's an industrial area next to the bay, then the airport. The road comes close to the bay again after that." May looked up from the map. "You know, Rally, if you get close enough, I could toss a couple of frag shells. That ought to do bad things, even to Buff."
"Yeah, I know." Rally reached over and turned off the radio. "You heard what they said. If he gets killed, or even maimed, I'm toast. We can't do that."
May looked at her with hard eyes. "If it comes down to us or him, I'm throwing 'em." She took a pair of grenades from her jacket. "Even jail is better than being dead."
"Sometimes! You didn't hear Wesson talking about putting me in the pen! I've got two deaths on my conscience—and maybe three."
"Three?"
"Nobody's called me about Larry Sam. I can only imagine the worst."
"You are going to have to stop beating yourself up about that," said May. "He did it of his own free will—and for money. It wasn't your fault."
"They probably found out because of what I told Brown! It IS my fault—"
"RALLY!" screamed May. They topped the saddle, and the chopper and motorcycles were far behind. Buff had been a long way ahead when they had seen it top the rise. But as they started down the slope, Bean braked and dropped to a position on their rear left quarter. "Oh, shit!"
"Ah!" Rally tried to accelerate and pull ahead, but Buff stayed with her. KRAASH! Bean rammed her and the Cobra shook with the impact. She held the wheel and straightened out, then hit the brakes.
Buff dropped back with her. In the rear-view she saw Bean's face through the windshield, a little obscured. But his grinning teeth were clear. KRASSH! He hit her again.
"May! Get down!" She pushed on May's head. "Get into crash position!" May bent over with her hands on her head, her rounded stomach keeping her from crouching very low.
"Oh, dear God. Junior!"
Her heart started hammering even harder than it was already going, and she accelerated again. Bean seemed to know her every move before she made it and his position relative to her never changed. "You might need those grenades after all, May!" The embankment on the left side of the road was steep, and fifty or sixty feet high. At the bottom were warehouses and scrapyards. "If he sends me into that…"
Bean moved to her right side and rammed her again. The Cobra jumped to the left and swerved dangerously close to the edge before Rally could correct its path. She breathed a prayer and pounded the gas as hard as she could. On this downslope she must be going one-eighty, but it was to no avail. Buff roared up alongside her and slewed to the left. KRAAASSHH!
"Aaagghh! Rally, what's going on—?"
"Keep down, May! He's trying to run me off the embankment!"
"Oh, shit..."
KRAAASSHH! Buff slewed into the passenger-side door again and the Cobra trembled, skidding sideways. Rally desperately pulled the wheel back to straighten the car's path. "Goddammit, he outweighs me by a thousand pounds, the bastard!"
"This is NOT a fair fight, Rally!"
"Yeah, that had occurred to me!" She braked slightly and dropped back, then rammed the wheel to the right, hitting Buff in the rear quarterpanel. The car fishtailed for an instant, but did not seem out of control for even a moment. "He's got me nailed..."
"I'll knock him out for you, Rally." May crouched in the seat well and brandished a grenade.
"All right, you win!" Rally braked again and managed to drop behind Buff. "But if he gets killed, the FBI will have my hide!"
"Even if it's in self-defense?"
"Especially then! I'm expendable!"
"Not to me, you're not!" May rolled down the window from her crouch, took a quick glance upwards while pulling the pin, counted down and threw. Rally jammed the brakes on and seemed to zoom backwards.
WHRAAKOOM! The grenade went off right next to Buff's driver's window. The heavy glass cracked and shrapnel scarred the paint. Bean braked and dropped back. Rally took a swift look and saw him snarl at her in his rear-view. "You dinged him, May! One more like that and he'll—"
KRAAASSSHHH! Bean completed his backward move and slammed his car against the side of hers. The Cobra skidded sideways again. He kept position, shoving her over to the left. They were approaching the airport and the embankment was much lower now, but her heart nearly stopped. SKREEEEEE! Her tires protested as they were forced sideways.
The left front wheel hit gravel, then grass. Bean whipped his rear end into her, and she lurched to the left and tore through the guard rail.
Rally kept hold of the wheel and managed to steer after a fashion despite the jolting, but the Cobra headed noisily down a slope, half slid sideways, and landed in a grassy plot at the bottom of the embankment. A used-car dealership's chain-link fence stood right in front of her, and she came to rest against it.
"Oh, my—May, are you all right?"
"Fine!" May straightened up, looking dazed. "Wow. Well, at least we didn't crash!"
"No, thank God!" Rally rested her head against the steering wheel for a moment. "Oh, my poor baby…" She patted the dash. "Mama didn't mean for you to get all bashed up again!" At least the car was still driveable, though she would need a winch to get her out of this little swale, unless she cut a hole in the car lot's razor-wire-topped fence.
Rally turned off the ignition and started to get out, but a pain in her right knee stopped her. "Ow!"
May climbed out and came around to Rally's side, which was almost against the fence. "What's the matter?"
"I think I hit my knee on the steering wheel! Ack—I can't straighten it!" She bent and started to massage it.
"Ruh-Ruh-Ruh—" May pointed at the top of the embankment. "RALLY!"
"Huh?" Rally looked up. "What is it?"
Buff. And Bean, who had just slammed the driver's door. She could see the crease from O'Toole's bullet under his headband. A long knife in his hand. And the expression in his eyes.
"Warned ya," said Bean, and started down the slope towards them.
