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 Thirteen
"What the HELL!" yelled an Inyo County sheriff's deputy. "That sonofabitch's doing something like one-eighty! On the CURVES!" His SUV still rocked slightly in the wake of the car that had just passed, a dark-blue streak in the SUV's headlights, a tumultuous engine roar Doppler-shifting to the west. "Is he drunk, or stoned outta his gourd?"
"He's gonna be dead, if he don't slow down," replied his partner, pointing at the car's headlights as they moved up the treeless desert ridge ahead and swerved back and forth. "Look at him take the hairpins! He'll go off the cliff at Deadman's Drop right there…hey!" The two watched for a moment longer, awed, as the headlights swept around the curve and continued up the ridge. "Wow, he ain't half bad. Wish I could hold it to the road like that!"
"Not skidding much…damn, he's got traction to burn. What was that car?"
"I'm supposed to tell at that speed, in the dark? Might've been an old 'Vette. We gonna chase him?"
The deputy peered through his windshield as he tracked the car, a dark blotch racing the moon. "Naw, we'd never catch him. Any rate, he's gonna be Fresno County's problem in about five minutes. Give Randy a call." His partner picked up the radio handset and spoke into it as the deputy watched the car disappear over the top of the ridge, still going like a bat out of hell. "Man. You'd think his best friend was dyin'."
"Naw, I bet his girlfriend's gonna have his hide 'cause he's late for dinner." Both men chortled. "Pussy-whipped, that's it. Crazy bastard."
"Someone's cleaning out the bank accounts," said Smith, throwing a sheaf of documents on his desk in front of Rally. "We froze a couple of them in time, but about ten million dollars went bye-bye early Wednesday morning."
"Brown's accounts? Would it be his wife getting the money out? Where is his family, anyway?" Rally glanced at the papers.
"We don't think it's his wife. Brown didn't tell her anything about his finances, or his day job, for that matter. Just gave her a cash allowance, and she's not the sort who asks questions." Smith sat down and rubbed a hand over his face. "Got to be one of the men. O'Toole or Manichetti…and O'Toole isn't the type he'd let in on the business end. I doubt that guy ever had access to the account numbers—too much of a loose cannon."
"I know what you mean about O'Toole…Manichetti, huh? I saw him every time I saw Brown, but he never said much." She and Smith seemed to see a little more eye to eye today, but Rally wasn't yet willing to make much effort to like him.
"He's a reliable type. Brown took long trips to Asia—Thailand, mostly—and he always left Manny in charge of the family. So he'd know where the dough is."
"Thailand?" Rally had had another phone conversation with an effusively grateful but vehemently pro-gun-control Vanessa Sam, and the subject had wandered onto the Asian sex industry. "Isn't that where they have all the child brothels? Where the Japanese pedophiles take guided tours?"
"Not just Japanese, hon. Americans, Europeans…anyone with money who digs that kind of crap. The pimps buy little girls from poor families and keep 'em chained up until the kids die of AIDS. Why, I read about a fire in one of those places—" He stopped abruptly when he saw Rally's face. "Sorry, kid. That was an awful thing to bring up." Smith gritted his teeth, his face reddening slightly. "But there are a lot of nasty doings in this world, Miss Vincent, and somebody's got to deal with them head on. That's why I'm in this line of work."
On that question, she and Smith were in perfect agreement. "Brown…" Rally's stomach turned over at the dreadful images in her mind. "He said some things, about how young I was…"
Smith grimaced at her. "No shit, sister. He got into that particular kink four-five years ago, after trying everything else under the sun, and I figure that's exactly what he was doing over there, under color of business trips."
"He's got a little daughter! He…seemed really attached to her…Oh, God."
"Makes ya want to puke, doesn't it?" Smith shook his head. "But at any rate, somebody's gathering the assets. Some of the cars have been sold already, through a broker, and the house is on the market. It's going to take a while to seize it, if we can even get a judge to agree. Brown laundered his money damn well. We have no idea where the wife and kid are. We were supposed to pull them out at the same time you went to the pier, but they were gone. Thought Brown had done it, but apparently not, from what you told us. 426 knew, but not Brown."
"Roy told me about the extraction operation. Thanks for nothing on that one, by the way." Smith rolled his eyes with mild annoyance, and Rally leaned back in her chair, tapping her chin. "Brown didn't pull them. O'Toole wouldn't have. That leaves Manichetti again."
"Damn, that's right." Smith snapped his fingers. "He pulled them himself? Yeah, he's got the connections for something like that! He's ex-Mafia. Got in trouble with his capo in about '92 and had to run. Brown picked him up and paid a fine for him. Manny still had a lot of friends in the business, though."
"He was that concerned about Brown's family? And he didn't even tell Brown he was doing it? Why?"
"No idea. Guess he's just a nice guy." Smith grinned. "That partner of yours come in today?"
"Yes, May's with Agent Wesson." Looking for a thick black folder…
"Good. I'll talk to her later."
"I still have that Dragon tracer in my car. I have an idea, but I'm going to need the FBI's help to carry it out. I told you that 426 may be after me because of Huang, and probably since I took care of those assassins, even more so. I need some room to work in."
"Yeah? Ah." Smith smiled in comprehension. "Decoy operation?"
"Exactly. Someone drives my car around town while I investigate elsewhere. The only thing is, I don't have any leads on where to look yet. I don't know where their new HQ is, and neither does Larry Sam."
Smith got up and rummaged in a file cabinet. "We have a list of recently leased and sold properties in the area that would fit their needs. They'd want a whole building to themselves, naturally, so nothing too big or too small. I put red dots against the best prospects." He tossed a sheet on the desk. "Take down the addresses and check 'em out. You seem to have a nose for it. We'll have to loan you one of our cars, I suppose."
"I hear those are sacred objects." Rally jotted in her notebook.
"Yeah, you use a Bureau car—Bu-car, we say—on personal business, and you are hung out to dry." Smith grinned. "No worries. This is official. I'll check out a sports car for you. Don't so much as scratch it, though." He sat and wrote out an authorization form. "Anything else you need?"
"Well, I need someone to drive my car. I don't want to risk May on that, not alone."
"The GT-500?" Smith's eyes went wide and eager. "Hell, you got a volunteer right here."
"Uh…well, thanks, but I think I'll ask Roy."
"Coleman?" Smith looked crestfallen. "Why him?"
"He needs something to do, and he's been looking…I don't know. Not well." Rally shook her head, feeling concern. "All he talks about is Bean. What he's going to do to catch him when we're back in Chicago, and how many years of hard time he ought to pull. I guess he's mad that Bean would believe I stole that money. Or something." She shrugged. "I want to keep him busy."
"Hm. Well, you arrange that. I'll get together a detail to follow him while he drives." Smith picked up his phone.
"Thank you. He may get tailed. According to Larry, and some other things I've heard and witnessed, the Dragons generally drive new, imported luxury sedans, even the lower ranks."
"Yeah, that's right." Smith put down his phone. "OK? We done here? I can get this decoy operation going about one this afternoon and keep it up for four-five hours."
"That should be fine. I wanted to ask, have the ballistics tests been finished yet?" Rally bit her lip. "Is there a report? On the bullet that hit Huang?"
"I'd think Wesson has it by now. Ask him. He hasn't said." Smith handed Rally the car authorization. "OK, I'll talk to the kid now and you can brief Bob on Mr. Sam and the hospital fracas. Go and knock on his office door."
He turned to his papers again. Rally had examined Smith's desk carefully, but she had seen no sign of the black folder among the piles of paper. She hoped it hadn't been locked up or sent elsewhere. Walking into the hallway, she saw Wesson's door open and the agent escort May out.
"Hi, sweetie! Agent Smith's ready to see you." Rally suppressed a laugh at May's outfit: a short, frilly dress, very wide in the skirt and supported by lacy petticoats. She had tied her hair in pigtails, put on patent leather Mary Janes, and looked about nine years old. Wesson seemed unsettled, but nodded to Rally and indicated his office. "You tell Agent Wesson all about Bean?" she asked May.
"Sure did!" piped May, winking at Rally and giving her an OK sign. She went into Smith's office and greeted him. Rally heard only a stunned silence from Smith, chortled to herself, and accompanied Wesson.
"So…Ms. Vincent," said Wesson as he sat down, and stopped there.
"Yes?" said Rally innocently.
"Ah…well, I don't have too many questions today. You'll be able to leave soon, I think." He took an envelope out of a drawer. "This is your FBI check to cover food and lodging, retroactive to last Sunday. Two thousand dollars. The SAC signed it this morning." Wesson pushed the envelope towards Rally and she grabbed it, gave it a smacking kiss and put it in her purse.
"Money! I like eating on government dough! Did May give you some good leads?"
Wesson jumped slightly. "Ah… Did she really work in a Chinese…brothel?"
"Uh-huh. You do know how old she really is, don't you?"
"Uh, yes." Wesson mopped his forehead. "Jesus Christ…"
Rally tried not to enjoy his distress too visibly. "Well, let's see…Agent Smith and I were discussing Manichetti. We figure he could be the one who extracted Brown's family and is liquidating the assets. You think he's got some special regard for the wife and kid?"
"Anything's possible," said Wesson absently. "Uh, that is…"
"You feeling OK, Agent?" asked Rally sweetly.
"Yes, yes. Fine. Um, that was quite a chase yesterday, hmm? And then defending a hospital room. Quite a day." He fanned himself with a folder.
"I thought so too." Obviously Wesson couldn't bring himself to utter a compliment, unlike Smith. Rally put a black mark against him and gave a gold star to his partner. "And I called it right on Bean, too, didn't I? Have those poor guys at the airport gotten to go home yet?"
Wesson heaved a sigh. "Yes. A few hours ago."
"No questions? How about that mondo scoop on Larry Sam, huh? Oh, and Agent Smith said you might have the ballistics report on Huang now. I would really like to see that, naturally."
Wesson jumped even more. "Ah…um, a messenger might have left it on my desk." He shuffled a few papers. "No, um, I don't see it."
Rally stared. "Okaaay." You're mighty careless about something that important, Agent Wesson! "How about Brown's body?" she asked. "It's Friday, and they've been digging in that warehouse since Wednesday morning. Hasn't he turned up yet?"
"No, not yet. We've got FBI agents doing the forensic investigation now, and they are being very careful not to disturb things too much. You can go back to your hotel now. We'll drop your partner off there when she and Agent Smith are finished." He waved a nervous hand. "Nothing more today. Mr. Bandit has apparently left the Bay Area."
"Yes, apparently. So I get to go home now, right?"
"Uh…we'll have to iron that out with the SAC and coordinate with Chicago. In a little while, perhaps."
"I'll start packing," said Rally breezily, and left the office to find Roy.
"Tom?"
"Manny? What the hell're ye doin'? Where the hell are ye?"
"Coming up I-5. I'm going to get to Frisco in a few hours, maybe ten-thirty. I got to talk to you." Manichetti tucked his phone between chin and shoulder as he drove a black Range Rover north, heading past a high embankment with the burned skeleton of a 1968 Corvette Stingray lying at the bottom.
"Do ye? Yeh fockin' coward, ye left 'im to die in the fire!" O'Toole choked with grief and fury, clutching his cell phone so tightly his knuckles went white. "Yeh just motored off an' let 'im die!"
"Tom, c'mon, listen to me. There wasn't a damn thing I could do. He wanted to watch the goings-on for a while, so he stayed up at the top of the ladder after ya passed him the morphine. And…uh, then he crawled up through the hole into the warehouse again…like a, just a damn fool. I stayed there as long as I could. I heard him yelling, but I couldn't get up the frickin' ladder, and that fire was hot, naturally. I'm too damn heavy to climb a flimsy thing like that and I still got this sore leg from the throwing knife, you know? I had to beat it. I pulled the ladder and I went soon as Bandit dragged the girl off the other pier. They were the only ones in position to see the boat, but the cops were moving in. I had to beat it, see?"
O'Toole could not reply for weeping.
Manichetti went on. "I'm damn sorry, see? I know how ya felt about Mr. Brown, Tom." His voice thickened. "He died pretty quick, I promise ya. I ain't sayin' I don't blame myself some, you know? But that's the way it crumbles sometimes. Life is shit, my friend."
"Fock ye. Fock ye…"
"Tom, I heard you're with 426 now. Probably told him the girl shot his good friend, eh? Little risky, I think."
"I left the gun in th' boat!"
"He's gonna get the ballistics report, you know, right when the cops get it. 426 doesn't dilly-dally. And then you are going to die a lot slower than Mr. Brown."
"No, I ain't going to." O'Toole let out a strangled chuckle. "I beat it already, now didn't I? Got me a bike and some firepower and I'm on me own. Th' Dragons showed me where everything's kept, and 426 went gallivantin' off somewhere last night. Seems they all get drunk and lay around when the boss ain't watching. I grabbed what I wanted and I left the place. So I'm workin' for meself now, ain't I? I'm goin' ta find that wee bitch and—"
"You're gonna need some help, Tom. You think the Dragons were bein' careless? Don't fucking bet on it. 426's got some reason for you to be on the loose. Like nobody traces the hit to him or you get yourself killed or somethin' like that. You can't do an operation like that without backup."
"Bollocks I can't!" yelled O'Toole. "Yeh fat bastard, just 'cause YE can't even climb a rope ladder wi'out a focking forklift, yeh think I'm—"
"Calm the fuck down, Tom. I want to help ya. Don't be dumb. You need all the help you can get now Mr. Brown's gone. He ain't gonna be bailing you out no more when you get too frisky with some tart. Hell, Interpol and the RUC's gonna nail your ass in double-quick time. There ain't no statute of limitations on settin' bombs in pubs, guy." Manichetti paused as silence filled the car. "You there, Tom?"
"Yeah, I'm here."
"You get my point? Let me help ya. You can kill the bounty hunter if you want to, and stick with me. You can have yer job and get paid. I'm no gunsel like you, Tom. I need ya to guard Mrs. Brown and the kid, 'cause you know 426 wants 'em bad."
"All fockin' right," said O'Toole savagely. "Fock ye anyway."
"Yer welcome. Now tell me what's up and where I can meet you."
O'Toole let out a long, simmering breath. "All fockin' right."
"I wanna see!" yelled Rally as May twirled into the hotel room in her frilly dress, grinning ear to ear. "What did you get?"
"I am the petty larceny queen!" shrieked May, flipping up her voluminous skirt. Under the petticoats hung a large plastic zipperlock bag, holding a black folder and a few stapled sheets of printed documents.
She yanked the bag off the fabric straps that held it suspended from her waist and tossed it onto the bed, then tore it open and brandished the contents. "No one dreamed I was anything but a very strange kid! Wesson went out for a few minutes to get coffee and left me with ALL his stuff—totally against security rules—and he was so rattled at the things I told him that he couldn't pay any attention to his papers anyway. If you want to totally discombobulate him, by the way, mention 'golden showers'!"
"Eww!" said Rally, fairly discombobulated herself.
"Don't knock it! I did get the folder—it's the real thing, because I checked it before I stuffed it up my dress—and I got something else very, VERY cool!"
"Really? What's that document?"
"Ballistics report, honey. The bullet in Huang's head." May waved it under her nose. "This is even BETTER than the folder!"
"What? That's saying something!" Rally took the report with burning curiosity and scanned it for a minute in amazement. "What? WHAT! It didn't MATCH!"
May jumped up and down, whooping. "No match! No match! Hahahhah! You are OFF THE HOOK, BABY!"
"I don't believe this!" Rally flipped all the pages again, looking at the magnified photos of the test-fired bullets and the killer slug. "It was a .32 slug, but it wasn't from that SFPD gun! Not the same striations! Not even close!" Rally whooped as well, hugging May and spinning her around off the floor. "You go, girl!"
"You betcha!"
Rally put May down. "Wait a second—Wesson didn't want to tell me! He knows, and he's scared stiff! Without that, the FBI doesn't have a hold on me—" She broke off. "Brown. There's still Brown, and the money Bean got. Oh well." Rally sat down, feeling a little weak, and dropped the report on the table with a long sigh of relief, letting her limbs collapse. "I didn't kill him…Thank God!"
"That's a giant load off in any case, huh? YOU didn't shoot Huang!"
"But who did, then? Geez—it could only have been O'Toole!" Rally gritted her teeth. "He saw my gun. He knew what its caliber was. And he could easily have fetched a similar one when he left." She shook a clenched fist. "That vicious little…! Brown probably told him to do it, too. It's possible I heard a gunshot right after the explosion while my ears were numb…"
"That Brown guy doesn't seem very dead, does he?" said May, sitting down to pull off her Mary Janes. "Keeps throwing crap at you from beyond the grave!"
"No kidding." Rally sat up straight. "You know… I keep hearing more and more inconsistencies. That might be a theory worth exploring…"
"That Brown's alive? But you were sure he was dead!"
Rally lay back again. "Yes, I was." Screams…dying screams, as she frantically tried to reach him, struggling against Bean's grip. Some of the horror of those moments came back to her, and she closed her eyes in pain.
"Oh, Ral…" May came to her and hugged her, kissing the top of her head. "That must have been such an AWFUL night…"
"Uh-huh." And the worst of it had been Bean. Not the money, not the deaths and carnage. Huang was no longer on her conscience, and some good had come from the attack on the restaurant, however dearly Larry had paid for his new courage. Now her sneaking feeling that Brown's death had not been all it seemed oddly cleared her mind. With the other traumas of that night set aside, she could look more directly at the one that still festered.
Bean. A friend's face, a face she now realized she carried with her like a talisman, a face that had shown compassion and desire and something more: turned into a demonic enemy, twisted in fury and murderous malice. And for what? A banged-up suitcase full of funny green paper.
She cast aside the memory of Bean's misery, the desolate undertone that had prompted her to let him go his way unchallenged. That had been sullen bile at losing all access to her body, she told herself. He'd coveted her for years and he'd known he would never have another chance—he'd thrown away even the slim possibility of it with both hands.
Her anger, which had somehow never really aimed directly at him, began to swell alarmingly. Probably he'd forgotten even that regret in some other woman's embrace by now. She didn't care. It didn't matter. Rally's burgeoning fury at what Bean had done to her without cause began to erase all her objectivity, and even her charity.
Only a small corner of her mind still told her that if Bean ever came back and asked her forgiveness, sadness over their lost friendship—she could not bring herself to name it anything more elevated—would be the only thing that would ever redeem him.
"Someone's gathering Brown's assets," Rally said, trying to calm herself with analysis. "The best guess we had was Manichetti, and that makes only a small amount of sense. No body yet, and the fire might not have been intense enough to kill someone at the bay end of the warehouse. Plus, Wesson said that the roof had collapsed at THAT end, even though I know that the big blast was at the front. O'Toole got out somehow, since he ended up on the secondary pier taking shots at Dragons. And he wouldn't have left Brown in a dangerous spot! That I know for sure, from all kinds of sources."
Larry Sam's story had some resonance here…just how deep was O'Toole's attachment to Brown? "May…if you were going to escape inconspicuously out of a concrete-floored pier during a firefight, from a dead end with no doors, and you had lots of time to set up charges beforehand, how would you do it?"
"Hmm… I'd blow a hole and make a trap door. A small one, just big enough for a person." May moved over to the dresser to put on jeans and a T-shirt. "Small shaped charges in a ring for precision, and smokers to hide the result. If I didn't want anyone to realize what I'd done right away, I might put some charges on the roof to weaken it and set it on fire so it would collapse soon after. And I'd use something large as a covering explosion. With a blast as big as the one you described, no one would notice a smaller one going off at the same time. The FBI should look UNDER the pier!"
"He could have escaped." Rally's heart started to beat furiously. "It's possible. Brown could be alive."
"But you said he screamed in agony! You said you tried to get in to save him!" May ran over and hugged Rally again. "You were so upset, honey!"
"The man was an ACTOR!" Rally spat. "A really good one! He could change personas, accents, vocabulary—on a moment's notice! Screaming his head off would NOT be a stretch! Ooooh!" Rally leaped up and stomped across the room. "If he's not dead, I'm going to KILL him!"
"I'll second that motion!"
"So maybe he faked his death! THAT'S why he pulled me into his defection! That is what it was all about…no, wait."
"What?"
"I wondered about that. Brown seemed to want me to shoot him. O'Toole herded me back towards Brown when I tried to escape, and when he had me pinned, he called Brown out of the office…out of cover. He'd said 'just do it myself and that'll have to do', something like that, and Brown said that was too much to ask. O'Toole loved Brown. LOVED him, and of course Brown knew it. Asking him to shoot Brown would have been too much to ask. Probably would have shook so hard he'd have ruined his aim! But Brown had to get shot! By me, or at least with my gun, and they wanted me to stay alive and escape with it, because O'Toole could have simply killed me and taken the gun. He had lots of chances."
"This is heading somewhere," said May, looking scared. The black folder lay forgotten on the bed.
"You bet it is. Ballistics."
"Ballistics?" asked May, picking up the report.
"They wanted a spent bullet from my gun. One that had been fired into a body, because bullets deform differently according to what they strike. Hitting Kevlar or a solid surface flattens them much more than hitting flesh—the difference is blatant. I shot a lot of bullets in that warehouse—into the office ceiling, into the solid wooden wall, into O'Toole's armored vest, and four through the glass wall, of which only the last one or two hit Brown. There are spent bullets of mine lying all over in there. But O'Toole was going to set a fire, which would quickly melt the lead. The only way they could be sure of having a properly deformed bullet, identifiable as mine, was to have it in someone's body. Someone who was going to escape the place before it went up. It fit Brown's plan to fake his death for that person to be him."
Rally let out a long, heated breath. "My God. He was braver than I gave him credit for, even if it was in a cause like that."
"But… how could they know you were not going to KILL him?" gasped May.
"I don't kill people unless I absolutely have to, May. I'm not a murderer. Brown had to know that about me. I operate on the principle that even a scumbag like him deserves basic human consideration, for my own sake if not for his. I wouldn't shoot him in a fatal spot, because he was already crippled. I would shoot if he were about to kill me or someone else—which he was, through O'Toole—and even then I would go for a disabling shot if at all possible. I'm one of the best target shooters I know, and it carries over to combat situations, even with a lousy little gun. I don't miss what I'm aiming at. Brown worked all that out and made it happen because he was, or is, a dead-on self-taught psychologist, an amazing researcher and an excellent actor, which are very nearly all the same thing."
"This guy sounds like a totally meticulous planner. This does not sound like a guy who would accidentally die in a fire after he set up all the factors."
"Nope, it doesn't. But that's not what I'm truly wondering about. Brown and O'Toole didn't realize that the mini was a loaner. They thought I was going to keep using it after that night, and that it would be plausible that someone else would die with a distinctively striated .32 through the head or the heart in the near future. What I really want to know is…for whose murder was I going to be framed?"
"This gives me the creeps, " said May, looking around and shivering as Rally deposited her FBI check into an automatic teller on a busy street outside their hotel. Shoppers and office workers streamed by on the sidewalk and the noontime traffic moved slowly. "It feels like big, shapeless, invisible things all around us. Conspiracies and plots and…malice. Or something."
"You sound like you need some lunch, sweetie."
"My tummy's BAD." May rubbed it, making a tongue-out expression of nausea. "Yes, let's eat."
Rally took out a hundred dollars in twenties and tucked them in her purse. "We're set for food. Want to eat somewhere nicer today?"
"Sure! How about Thai?"
"Oh, no…" groaned Rally. "Not Thai!" Visions of children chained to beds… "Sweetie, you are so lucky you had a CHOICE about working where you did!"
"Man, you have developed a lot of food prejudices lately!"
"OK, OK—you pick the restaurant! I have no say in this whatsoever, and it's your stomach, anyway!" Rally threw up her hands.
"Sounds like yours is growling, too!"
"Huh?" She heard a distant rumble, growing louder even above the noisy street traffic. "That's not my stomach. Sounds like…a Harley."
Rally looked around and spotted it coming from the southeast. "Oooh! Looks like a brand-new Night Train. Nice bike!"
The rider seemed smallish for such a big raked-fork machine, but barged through traffic with little caution, splitting the lanes and heading right up the street toward them. He wore a black helmet with a face panel that entirely obscured his features. "He's not going to keep that bike shiny for long, riding it like that—"
Rally looked at the rider more closely as he came within fifty yards. A wiry little man in a dark green jumpsuit, his movements quick and sure. Her heart jumped and began to beat faster. "May, get back! I think I recognize that guy!"
"Who?" May retreated into the architectural recess around the automatic teller machine and peered out.
"O'Toole!" said Rally. The rider was barely ten yards away now. "Watch it!" He jumped the curb and barreled straight at her, pulling an Uzi as the pedestrians fled and screamed. Rally threw herself backwards out of the motorcycle's path, drawing her CZ75 at the same moment, and their shots went off simultaneously.
KRAK! Rally's nine-millimeter hit O'Toole square in the chest, punching a hole in his jumpsuit and sending up a puff of dust from the armored vest underneath. BRAAP! His burst plowed into the automatic teller behind her and smashed holes in the screen, and he zoomed past close enough to touch, his snarling face faintly visible under the dark plexiglass face panel. "May! Do you have any of your—"
"Two confetti bombs, that's all! Everything else is in the car!"
O'Toole rammed through the crowd and over the curb, made a turn about twenty yards away and swerved back, aiming directly at them again. "He's making another pass! Get ready!"
May threw her confetti bombs, but O'Toole ignored them and drove through the cloud of pink smoke without swerving a millimeter from his course.
"Damn!" Rally fired into the smoke and heard a bullet carom off O'Toole's helmet. It hit a parked car. "Oh, no, the helmet's bulletproof! I'm going to send ricochets into the crowd!" BRAAAP! He let off another burst at her, which barely missed her head as she ducked, and threw fragments of glass and metal from the automatic teller all over.
"May! Run into a building! NOW!" Rally shoved her partner toward an open store entrance. May gave her a glance and ran.
O'Toole paralleled her, knocking people aside with the big black Harley and aiming directly at her blonde head. Rally fired. KRAK KRAK went the CZ75, the Uzi acquiring two holes through the receiver and jamming as he tried to fire.
O'Toole threw it down and drew his Colt .45 as he skidded to a J-turn stop, facing Rally from about fifteen yards down the sidewalk.
May made it through the door and slammed it behind her. Rally ducked into the architectural recess as the machine groaned and whined, beginning to spit out twenty-dollar bills at a great rate. O'Toole put down the kickstand, got off the motorcycle and leveled his .45.
All around him, people hollered into their cell phones and ran, but the crowd was still thick. A few people even tried to retrieve some of the flying money. KRAK KRAK KRAK crashed the .45 into the bricks right in front of her face, spraying dust and shards everywhere and into her unprotected eyes. She was half blinded!
Blinking and tearing, Rally yanked her trigger as O'Toole advanced, firing again and again at his chest in the hope of slowing him down a little. He staggered—he didn't have Bean's imperviousness—but he kept coming.
Rally's blindness worsened, her eyes burning and stinging so much that she could barely open them to tell where O'Toole was. There wasn't a chance that she could take off his trigger finger with a random shot, and she couldn't see well enough to aim at anything other than his general shape.
She slid down the wall, trying to get a lower vantage point. Bills fluttered around her head, which didn't help the visibility one bit. O'Toole came up, moved around the wall to her and aimed. Rally fired straight up at him, at the gap between vest and helmet, and the bullet hit the lower edge of the helmet, deflecting into the padding and through it.
"Arrgh!" O'Toole bellowed, and tore off the helmet, seizing his face in his left hand. His rusty hair stood up in sweaty spikes, his mouth bleeding profusely and his lower jaw oddly out of alignment. The bullet had probably broken it, but he was still standing and in commission.
Incoherently, O'Toole screamed at her, his eyes filling with tears of pain, and fired wildly, bullets hitting the sidewalk and wall behind her as she rolled out of the way. KRAK KRAK KRAK KRAK!
Rally lunged for his knees and knocked him down. They fell to the sidewalk together with a severe jolt, Rally cushioned by O'Toole's body as he hit the back of his head on the concrete, and she sat hard on his stomach, holding his arms down with her knees.
She struck him across the face with her CZ75 when he struggled, and then yanked at the zipper of his jumpsuit and tore at the Velcro straps to open his bullet-resistant vest. It slipped and she glimpsed a strange burn on his upper chest. Sirens started to whine in the distance.
"Ooaaggh!" yelled O'Toole through his broken jaw, trying to aim. Rally got a foot on his right hand and stomped the .45 to the concrete as she stood up, aiming her gun down at his exposed chest. A twenty soared down like an autumn leaf and rested on the strange burn.
"Give up, O'Toole!" she shouted, her vision still blurry. His answer was not understandable, but he whipped his left hand around and grabbed her left ankle with a movement so swift she couldn't avoid it.
Rally barely saved herself from falling as O'Toole jerked her leg and rolled over. He crouched on the sidewalk and fired at Rally as she dodged. KRAK KRAK! One bullet whistled through her hair, another grazed her shoulder.
Rally wiped her eyes on her sleeve and finally recovered some clarity. O'Toole's head was exposed, and she drew a bead on his right eye, the sulfurous iris glaring at her. He fumbled with his .45, popping the clip and pulling out another nine-round magazine to replace the empty one.
Rally shot it out of his hand. "Freeze!" she yelled. "Throw away the gun!" The sirens came nearer. Instead of staying where he was, O'Toole launched himself at her quick as a striking cobra, grabbing for her CZ75.
They wrestled for a moment, O'Toole's sour breath in her face and his hands corded with effort. Strength versus strength, he had more muscle than she, and her gun began to part from her grip.
Rally gritted her teeth with a touch of panic, trying to twist the barrel around to aim at him. She couldn't, and her fingers slipped, weakening. As well as he could with a broken jaw, O'Toole grinned bloody-toothed, eyes burning with pain, fury and dawning triumph.
Rally drove a knee into his testicles, and he let out a gasp, grip loosening. Again she whipped the CZ75 across his face, hitting his broken jaw, and he howled in agony, doubling over. Rally tried to slam her gun into the back of his head, but O'Toole recovered, karate-kicked her in the stomach and staggered her.
Breaking free, he dashed for his Harley. May emerged from the store with a long clothes-rack pole and swung it at him as he revved the engine. She hit him and lost the pole, but O'Toole kept his seat and zoomed past Rally, jumping the motorcycle off the curb into the street.
She took a snap shot at his rear tire, gasping for breath, but put out a tail light instead. Rally and May ran for the Cobra, parked at the curb, and followed with squealing tires and a cloud of flying money behind them. Pedestrians converged on the malfunctioning cash machine.
May turned on the FBI radio and yelled into the handset. "O'Toole! Heading northeast on Market from Kearny! Black Harley-Davidson Night Train!"
"We got the call from the SFPD!" came Gonzales's voice. "Police heading your way!"
"He's evading me!" said Rally. "He can get through all the gaps on that bike!" O'Toole had accelerated to about a hundred miles an hour in congested traffic, slicing between stopped cars, and Rally had no chance of keeping up. "This isn't going to work!"
"There are units about to head him off," said Gonzales.
"He's way ahead now—going fast," said May. "Oh, no! What's that?"
A black Range Rover had pulled out from the curb, and started to run interference for the Harley. Two SFPD cars approached from the opposite direction and attempted to block the motorcycle's path, but the Range Rover bumped them and created enough gap to let O'Toole through, then reversed towards the Cobra.
"Who the hell's driving that?" For a cold, horrible instant, she was sure it was Bean. Rally looked and saw the face in the rear-view as the Range Rover came closer. A thick, jowly man with sunglasses and dark curly hair—Manichetti. "Shit!"
The Range Rover leaped forward again and swerved into a small cross street as the Harley receded into the distance. Rally knew she could not pass the damaged police cars in the road, and took the right after Manichetti instead. She could see him glance at her in the mirror.
Both of them accelerated up a narrow road lined with parked cars, barely enough room for one lane left between them. The Range Rover crossed an intersection just in front of another car, which screeched to a stop, and Rally had to brake to avoid hitting it since there was no room to swerve around. Manichetti gained two blocks on her before she could squeeze past and pursue him again.
Suddenly, far ahead, he took a hard right in the middle of a block, seemingly into a brick wall, and vanished.
"What the hell? Where did he go?" Rally passed a series of louvered metal garage doors set into the wall of the building. All of them were closed. "Damn!" She slowed down and circled the block, hoping to see him emerge, but saw no Range Rover.
"He went into a garage, 800 block of Octavia Street," said May into the radio. "It looks like a factory or a warehouse—private property."
"Who cares!" said Rally, braking and looking for a parking spot. "I'll just barge in there and—"
"You can't do that, Ms. Vincent," said Wesson over the radio. "You have no search warrant, and that's not a public garage."
"What? I'm a bounty hunter! I don't need a search warrant!"
"You are on official FBI business, I would remind you. That makes you technically a law enforcement officer, for now. You must observe the legal rules. I must say, your methods are not only sloppy, they border on—"
"Oh, SHIT! Not only am I the FBI's property, I have to go by the BOOK!" Rally's fury knew no bounds. "Wesson, I KNOW I'm not the one who killed Huang! SO KEEP YOUR GODDAMN GOVERNMENT SCRUPLES TO YOURSELF, YOU—!"
"What!" said Wesson in similar fury. "How did you—"
Rally bit her tongue. She'd almost given May away! "Just a lucky guess! I saw how rattled you were this morning when I asked for the ballistics report! So there!" She shut off the radio and kept circling the block.
"God, Rally," said May, turning a little pale. "I know you don't like the agents, but you have got to be more careful."
"I'm sorry! My lips are sealed!" Three SFPD cars came up, and Rally rolled down the window to speak to them, pointing at the garage doors. "Hi, officers! This is the building."
"We'll keep an eye on it, ma'am. Black Range Rover, California plates?"
"Exactly. And the driver—white, name of Manichetti, about forty, six-zip, two hundred and eighty. Brown and brown."
"Got it."
Rally took a deep breath, her adrenaline beginning to ebb. "Officer, do you know a patrolman named Tony White?"
The cop looked up from his notebook. "Yes…"
"Is he OK? I know he was hurt yesterday. And the armorer at the main HQ? What's going on with that?"
"Armorer's on suspension. The guy who runs the firing range got a reprimand. The police union's fighting both judgments."
"All right. And White?"
"He's in the hospital. Got surgery and he's all racked out on a frame to keep his back straight. Maybe he'll walk, maybe he won't."
"Thank you," said Rally quietly, and drove May to lunch.
"We're all set," Smith told her over the phone. "Coleman's at your hotel and ready to start from there, and we'll have two cars following. Me and Wesson, and Gonzales and Bui in the other. You take care of that Miata, now."
"Sure will, Agent." Rally patted the FBI car's dashboard. "It's a cute little thing!"
"Nothing compared to the Cobra, I know. But you don't want to be too distinctive, of course."
"No." She wanted to ask Smith if he had seen the ballistics report yet, but decided to wait until she saw him in person. Preferably with Wesson in the room. It was almost certain that Smith knew nothing about it, since she doubted that he was the kind to keep such a thing from her. Of course, on the other hand, he had not told her about the rescue operation in Los Angeles.
She had left May at the hotel, telling her to hide the black folder in a safe place until later, and although May had looked disappointed, she had agreed to keep it concealed and not read it until a safer time.
Rally had picked up the Miata at the Federal Building and given her Cobra to Roy, who had perked up slightly when she'd told him his help was valuable. He had a haunted look, patting her shoulder frequently, though gingerly, and could not get off the subject of Bean and his various malfeasances.
Rally checked her list of properties. "OK, you told me that the garage Manichetti went into is owned by interests connected to the Mafia, not the Triads."
"Yes. We're getting a search warrant now, but I warn you, it's not likely he's still there, even with the SFPD stakeout. Some of those old buildings have tunnels connecting the basements, and the Mob seeks them out."
"Oh, great. Hmm…that would seem to say that Manichetti and O'Toole are not working with the Dragons. But I saw something on O'Toole's chest…a fresh burn. It wasn't a random blotch. It was a drawing."
"A drawing?"
"Like a Chinese character. Of course, I don't read Chinese. I copied down what I could remember. May's not sure what it was, since she never learned to write more than a few characters. But there's only one person I can think of who could, or would, have done that to him."
"You thinking of 426?"
"Yes. That must have been done with a blowtorch, and he would have been howling in pain when it happened. Looked very fresh. The question is, why didn't 426 just kill him, if he had hold of him?"
"Don't know. Not like 426, I admit…I've talked a little to Mr. Sam today. When I could get through the well-wishing crowds, that is. The Asian business community has taken up a collection for the Sams, and it's pushing a hundred thousand dollars by now. They should have no trouble setting up anew in any location they want."
"That's wonderful, Agent Smith."
"Hey, call me Pete, huh? You and the FBI may be working together for a while longer, Miss Rally."
That prospect did not bother her nearly as much as it once had, except in regard to Smith's partner. "OK, Pete." Rally smiled. "I will see you later, when I've finished my real estate tour."
"You OK with just the cell phone for contact?"
"I think the radio would be too obvious. And I can't carry it anyway. I might as well use the phone."
"Your call…literally." Smith chuckled. "Be careful, now."
Rally clicked off and consulted her city map, circling locations. Most of the buildings were in the business district and south of Market, and she decided to park the Miata in the general vicinity and do most of the tour on foot. She had already discovered how difficult it was to find spaces to park in that area, and it would speed things up, even considering the walking time.
She cruised down a busy street, enjoying the little car's pep, and circled for a few minutes until she saw another car pulling away from the curb. Rally snagged the space and got out.
She had dressed in her professional outfit of short black skirt, collared shirt and tie, and wore black flats and a tan jacket to hide her holstered CZ75. There was the first building, right at the corner, and she had ten to check off the list. Rally took a deep breath, walked through the front door, and got started.
"Ooaagghh! Ooooaaarrrggh!"
"Keeh-rihst, Tom. You're gonna wake up the kid." Manichetti looked through the door of the tract-house kitchen and shook his head. "Didn't ya give him something, Doc?"
"Two entire ampules of morphine," said the sweating doctor, trying to hold O'Toole's head still on the table and fit a wire brace to his broken jaw as he screamed. Blood spattered the vinyl floor. "Doesn't seem to have much effect."
"OOOOAAGGGHH!" howled O'Toole.
"Give him a few shots of whiskey," said Manichetti, and ducked his head around the corner to look at someone down the hall. "He's just kinda hurting, ma'am. Hasn't got much pain threshold for a guy in his line."
"Please, Manny," said a feminine voice, and an elegantly slim blonde woman looked around the corner, her lovely face creasing in reluctant sympathy as O'Toole continued to howl and thrash. "Can't we stay somewhere else? Do we have to…" She lowered her voice. "I don't like having him around. Not just the noise, Manny. You know what I mean."
"Don't I, though," Manichetti replied, guiding her into the hallway. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I thought he'd come in handy. Not like I have a lot of choices in bodyguards right now. The Dragons don't fool around."
"I know." She looked at him, her cornflower blue eyes trusting and ingenuous. "Sly never told me how much danger he was in, and this is something I have even less experience with. You know best, Manny." A small voice murmured, and a bedroom door eased open. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry it's so noisy. Mr. O'Toole got hurt."
"He gets hurt a lot," said the child, wrinkling her nose. "He smells bad, too."
"Come back into your room, baby." Sarah Brown patted the girl's dark-blonde hair. "Come with Mama, Tiffy."
"I don't wanna take a nap. I don't like this room. I like my old room. It was bigger. I want to talk to Daddy." The girl hugged her stuffed animal. The adults looked at each other with trepidation.
"Daddy's not here, honey. He took another trip. Please go take your nap, or you'll get all tired before dinner, baby. Just for Mama, honey?" She bent and kissed one rosy cheek, and the girl sighed, looking up at Manichetti with a luminous gaze, big brown eyes rimmed with dark lashes.
"Does Manny say I got to take a nap?"
"Yep," said Manichetti, and picked the girl up, bumping the bedroom door open with his knee in a practiced motion. "Miss Tiffany has got to take her nap. C'mon, I'll read you a story."
"Read me a story, Manny," said the girl, cuddling in his arms. "I want a story."
"You bet," he said, and he and Sarah Brown went into the child's bedroom, closing the door behind them. About twenty minutes later, the yelling from the kitchen having ceased, they tiptoed out and gently closed the door again. "Hope she sleeps a while," said Manichetti. Smiling, he looked at Sarah Brown. "This'll be over soon as I get the papers and the cash, ma'am. We can all get to Switzerland and meet up there. Mr. Brown arranged everything."
She nodded, also smiling, and reached up to smooth a lock of hair from his forehead. The look in his eyes threatened to spread to his entire broad face, but he made an effort and tamped it down. "You might want to get some rest too, ma'am. No telling when we might have to blow town."
Sarah Brown nodded again and went into another bedroom. Manichetti turned around to see O'Toole leaning alone against the kitchen door, his jaw wired partway shut and his eyes bloodshot. He raised a large tumbler full of whiskey and downed half, dribbling it along his cheeks as Manichetti watched. "Somethin', Tom?"
"Ain't the snip gettin' sweet on ye," said O'Toole in a venomous tone, muffled by the wire brace and a drunken slur. "Wraps ye around 'er little pinky finger, don't she? Why don't ye lick 'er boots and be done with it?"
"Shut the fuck up, Tom," said Manichetti. "You are fucking drunk."
"Like I got a choice? Fockin' bitch broke me fockin' jaw an' it focking hurts. I hate women. Hate 'em. I hate that nigger bitch worse'n any woman I ever knew. Even me old ma, God blast her black soul, didn't never shoot me in the fockin' face." He started to cry. "Paki bitch burned me sweet lad. I didn't never love no one in me life 'til I met Sylvester Brown. Fockin' woman took him from me. He's gone, me darlin' lad. Didn't never get to kiss his sweet lips…"
Manichetti rolled his eyes. "You gonna be so drunk you'll tell me your goddamn sex fantasies, do it someplace else. Don't do it around the kid. She don't know her daddy's dead, and we aren't going to tell her yet. So shut up and get out've the house until you're sober."
"Yeah, why should I be hangin' around, anyway? Why would I want ta work for the snip an' the brat without me darlin' lad about? I didn't sign on ta nursemaid that hoity-toity bitch—I'd like to see 'er all spread out an' beggin' for more, wouldn't I now?" He let out a sloppy laugh, drawing a large knife. "That'd put 'er in 'er place, now wouldn't it? Give 'er me hard nine inches and watch 'er…oogghh!"
Manichetti had punched him in the stomach, his eyes blazing dark fire. The whiskey splashed the wall as the glass rolled across the carpet. "Get out've here! And don't bother coming back, you fucking savage! Guess the fucking Micks never got out've their caves!"
"Yeh greasy wop sodomite!" O'Toole got out, gasping and waving the knife. "Yeh fat bastard Eyetalians all fuck yer mothers, don't ye now? Ye like going in where ye came out?"
"Get your shit and get out," said Manichetti, drawing his .40 Beretta and cocking it with a deliberate click. "I don't want to see your ugly face again as long as I live."
O'Toole gave him an evil look, sheathed the knife and lurched down the hallway to the garage door. A few minutes later, he emerged with a duffel and his rifle strapped across his back, slammed the front door open and left. The roar of a big Harley started in the driveway and receded, the tires skidding irregularly.
Manichetti let out a long sigh of equal parts relief and foreboding, holstered the gun, and knocked gently on Sarah Brown's bedroom door.
"And this is the Web designer's area," said an eager young man, showing Rally around the sixth property at which she had inquired. "See, we have a juke box and a pool table, and the pinball machine's over there. The vending machines are all subsidized." He picked up a quarter from a basket full and put it in the slot of a Coke machine. "You want something to drink?"
"No, thanks," said Rally, politely but a little wearily. "Uh, I don't see a lot of actual work going on." Several other young men, most of them badly out of shape and dressed in T-shirts advertising video games, stood around the pool table drinking sodas and laughing loudly. "Isn't it a little late in the afternoon for lunch breaks?"
"Oh, we have a flexible hours policy," said the young man. "Some of these guys stay here all night. Sleep right under the desks—there's Mark's camp cot."
"I can see why," she remarked, glancing into one of the cubicles. A twenty-inch television with enormous speakers sat on the desk, and three more young men, two of them Asian, and one woman were watching a videotape of 'Big Trouble in Little China'. "I doubt they have all this cool stuff at home."
"Yeah, you have a point…um, are you a journalist or a venture capitalist?"
"Freelancer," said Rally, and gave him a card.
"Bounty hunter? Wow—like Steve McQueen in 'The Hunter'?"
"Yes, exactly like that," said Rally with sweet sarcasm, and left. Out on the street, she looked at the sun declining behind the high-rises and checked her watch. Nearly four. She would go to one more place and call it a day. Taking out her cell phone, she tried to call Smith. The phone was dead.
"Aw, crap." She'd forgotten to charge the battery the previous night, so it hadn't lasted. Rally put the phone back in her purse and headed down the sidewalk.
Her car was now about one and a half miles distant, and she groaned at the prospect of walking back all that way, her feet starting to ache. But the next address, 108 Redwood Lane, was only a block away, and she might as well check it first before heading back. The discreet sign out front said 'World Trade International'.
All the businesses she had checked had been utterly innocuous, though she might have put Internet enterprises on the questionable list, and her instincts told her nothing as she moved through a revolving door and walked up to yet another reception desk with yet another security camera behind it. "Hi."
The woman behind the desk was Asian, as had been three other front-office people, and she smiled at Rally. "May I help you?"
"Oh, I'm from out of town. Just getting a feel for the business climate in the Bay Area. I'm thinking of relocating. Could anyone tell me about the facilities here?" She'd told a slightly different story in each place, but generally got the best results with a smile and an easy manner, no matter what the pretext might be.
"Oh, the building manager's here. He's got some other properties for lease. He'd be glad to talk to you." The receptionist picked up a phone and spoke into it. "He'll be right out."
Rally took a seat in the lobby, glad to take the load off her feet for a moment. In a few minutes, a thirtyish man emerged from the double doors behind the reception desk; a bleached-blonde Caucasian wearing an earring and a casual suit. "Hello there. I hear you're interested in the building. Well, I'm interested in keeping that interest, Ms.—?"
"Victor," said Rally. "Ruth Victor."
"Oooh, sounds tough. You must be an aggressive negotiator." He had a salesman's manner, but that was to be expected. Rally smiled back at him and got up to follow.
Through the double doors, a featureless corridor ran to the back of the building, broken by occasional doors. "This is just my storage and maintenance rooms on the ground floor," said the building manager. "The offices are upstairs, and the garage goes down three levels, though it doesn't cover the entire architectural footprint. There's a partial basement that's fireproof and earthquake proof—there was going to be a bank vault in there."
He nattered on for several minutes, listing every amenity. "Lots of employee parking, and even living quarters on the second and third floors. Now about the seismic upgrades—"
"Living quarters?" Rally chuckled. Now that seemed to be going a bit far, even in a world of camp cots in cubicles. "This World Trade International have flexible hours or something?"
"Oh, something like that. They have a big sales force that goes out on assignments all the time. People here all around the clock." The manager assumed a confidential air. "Now, don't tell anyone I told you, but I'm not sure they're entirely on the up and up."
Rally's mind gave off a slight alarm. "How so?" Probably he meant that they took investor's money and spent it on pool tables, but maybe she was getting warm at last.
"Well, they generally pay the rent in cash. Always on time, and they don't ask for every little thing to be fixed. I'd have to say they're good tenants. But I keep getting hassles from the bank about the big cash deposits. Some dumb law."
"You mean, the anti-racketeering laws? Not so dumb."
"Oooh, you're into law and order? Sounds exciting."
"Totally," said Rally, looking around with every sense alert. "Any chance I can see the garage? Or this basement vault?" She'd get a feel for the place, maybe some actual confirmation, and scoot—the FBI could do the rest.
"Not the basement. They say there's some hazardous materials in there, but they have all the permits, so I don't care. The garage is no problem."
The manager took out a ring of keys and unlocked a door. "Stairwell. The fire exits are all up to code." Rally followed him down the stairs to the bottom and through another door to the garage. It was well-lit and new-looking, partially filled with sleek cars. "They must pay well, hmm? Look at these jalopies."
She did, noting that they were almost uniformly imported luxury sedans. Over in a roped-off section, however, were a number of motorcycles and SUVs. Rally walked over to them, checking makes and models.
Behind a large Ford Expedition stood a black-on-black Harley-Davidson, the logo shining silver on the gas tank. A big Night Train, looking brand new except for some scrapes along the sides and a shattered tail light. Someone had left the keys in the ignition, as if too hurried or distracted or in too much pain to remember to take them. A few smears of blood were visible on the handlebars.
"OK, I've seen enough. Thank you so much. May I have your card?"
"Yeah, here you go. Give me a call, or there's the fax number—" He broke off, glancing over her shoulder. Rally's sixth sense flared, finally, when she could tell it was already too late.
The person ten yards behind her spoke, slurring with fading drunkenness and a injured jaw, but familiar, deep and growling with a hint of Irish lilt.
"And if it ain't the pretty girlie," he said. "Little Paki bitch."
Rally turned around, slowly, and watched eight Dragon men approach from another door, spreading around O'Toole with drawn automatic weapons, Uzis and Tek-9s. If she tried to run, they would cut her into pieces in an instant, and probably kill the petrified building manager as well.
O'Toole grinned at her, his nicotine-stained teeth rimmed in dark yellow. "Yeh killed me darlin' lad. An' just look at this damn wire on me handsome face, an' me poor ear. What ought I do to ye?"
He looked at the building manager, who beat a hasty, cowardly retreat to the stairwell. His steps clanged up the stairs and faded.
Two of the larger Dragons came forward and grabbed her arms, taking her CZ75 and the .25 from the wrist slide. One man decocked them and put the .25 in his pocket. He replaced the CZ75 in the holster, draping it over his shoulder.
"Try letting me go, O'Toole," said Rally, mostly succeeding in keeping her voice steady. "The cops and the FBI know I'm here."
"Bollocks they do. They don't send little girlies to do a man's job." He unzipped his nylon jacket and nodded at the men who held her arms. "Put her flat." They forced her to her knees, then prone, her arms bent behind her. Each man knelt on the back of one knee, heavily and painfully. Was he going to shoot her in the back of the skull?
O'Toole's feet were right in front of her face. He caressed her cheek with one booted toe. "This won't take long, fellas, an' then ye can all have yer turns, those that care to. We'll save a few bits for the latecomers." Drawing back the boot, O'Toole kicked Rally hard in the face, laughing at her cry of pain.
"You're going to regret this, you bastard..." she gasped.
"I'm already regrettin' I ever heard yer name, yeh wee bitch. But I'll have me fun, won't I? Me sweet lad's lookin' down from heaven and nodding his approval, ain't he?" O'Toole moved behind her, and she heard his jacket hit the floor.
He knelt on it, between her legs, and yanked her skirt up over her buttocks, then tore her hose apart at the crotch seam. Rally twisted violently, but the men holding her ground her knees into the concrete and forced her face down.
"Oh, I like 'em wiggling. Keep it up, girlie, and I'll be right there with yeh." She heard O'Toole unzip his pants, sick horror bringing the bile to her mouth. With a desperate arch of her back, she lashed her entire body from side to side and dislodged the crushing weights from her legs.
"No! NO!" Scrambling on concrete, she skinned her knees badly, but ignored the pain. Rally got to her feet and ran, steps pounding close behind her. Reaching a support column, she looped an arm around it and launched herself in an arc around and back at her pursuers.
Her shoes took one Dragon in the face and another in the shoulder, and she landed. Two men tried to grab her, but Rally dodged and rammed one elbow into the nearest stomach. The owner went down, gasping. Four more came at her as O'Toole stood back, grinning.
"No exits, girlie. Locked all the doors on the inside. Takes a car or a bike ta trigger the garage gate, so it's no good runnin' that way either. Saw yeh on the security cam and we just had ta come greet ye. Proper welcome, eh?"
Rally fought desperately, knowing exactly what was going to happen to her: inevitably, inescapably. She had no gun, no chance unarmed against so many.
From somewhere deep inside her came a silent prayer, breathed out through clenched teeth. She chopped and kicked, struggled out of clutching grasps and went down at last under three heavy men, her bones jarring on the hard surface. God, help me, she prayed. God, be with me now. God, let me come to you quickly…
"Don't I get an invite?" asked someone a little distance off. "You guys startin' the party without me, when I said I'd be here?"
She knew that voice too. Through her roaring ears, pounding with her own heartbeats, it was hard to make out at first. It spoke again in reply to someone's remark.
"Hey, I may be new, but I know the rules around here. Share one, share all. Glad I called in when I did. Had a long drive this morning and I'm lookin' for a little pick-me-up. How about it?"
It was Bean.
