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 Sixteen
"Oh, May! You have surpassed yourself! He's gorgeous!"
"Am I a makeup artist, or what?" giggled May. "The FBI disguise expert was SO impressed!" She washed her hands in the conference room's bar sink. "Manichetti's been busy being interrogated—he hasn't seen the final result, but I had some photos to work from. You saw Brown a lot, so check off on him for me!"
Rally walked around the made-up, highlighted, shoe-lifted and extravagantly dressed Agent Wesson as he growled and muttered to himself. "Perfect. I can't add a thing. It's not bad at all, even close up, and if it was dark or at a distance, even someone who knew Brown well would need very good eyesight not to be fooled, for a little while at least." She completed the circuit and looked into a pair of almost-familiar turquoise eyes. "Contacts bugging you, Agent?"
"Little bit," said Wesson, blinking and grimacing up at the ceiling. "It's going to take months for these streaks to grow out!"
"Hey, you get to wear a mighty expensive set of duds! Don't complain." Rally fingered Wesson's Italian silk suit and straightened his iridescent tie, tightening it enough to choke him slightly. "We'll try not to wreck your lovely wardrobe!"
"Do you have any idea how big a chunk of our budget this outfit took? I have NEVER—"
"Worn false eyelashes before? But they're so fetching!" Rally and May giggled, then spluttered, clamping hands over their mouths in the attempt not to laugh too uproariously. "S-sorry…"
"Rrrr…" Wesson tried to scratch his left eye with his right hand, restrained in a plastic cast. May grabbed his arm and tut-tutted.
"Don't mess up the masterpiece! It has to last for a few hours at least!"
Smith walked in and did a double take. "Christ. That's you, isn't it, Bob? That's frigging scary."
"Of course it's me," snarled Wesson.
"Hmm, the voice pretty much spikes the illusion. Don't say anything if you can help it."
"It's not like I had anything to say about this in the first place," Wesson muttered, ripping open the Velcro strips on the cast and reaching for a coffee cup.
"Hey! No hot liquids!" May snatched it out of his hand. Wesson swore and plopped down in a chair, petulantly crossing his arms.
"Gosh, I never thought a little top-to-toe makeover would do so much for a humble FBI agent!" said Rally, still chuckling. "But Brown himself is fake from head to toe, so it's as authentic as he is!"
"Here's the fax," said Smith, handing one to Rally. "The L.A. office got the report about a half hour ago—two-thirty P.M. All of Brown's distributors got the word via email from the official Dragon address, and 426 spoke to Manichetti on his cell phone. We pinpointed the call to the area near USF, but he was passing through in a car at the time. Doesn't prove anything about his base of operations."
He pointed to a paragraph. "426 repeated the same message to everyone he contacted. He has Sarah and Tiffany, and unless Sylvester Brown reveals himself within eight hours, the FBI will begin to get them back. In FedEx envelopes."
Rally shuddered. "Geez. That sounds as if he's totally certain that Brown's alive!"
"It does, doesn't it? Wonder why."
"We'll find out! What is Brown himself going to do when he hears this? What if he's in Europe or something? He can't be back in California in eight hours! Not even if he took the Concorde!"
"All he has to do is contact the Dragons, apparently, and use some kind of code words to confirm that he's the real thing. See, it says something about 'the last time we conversed'. The clock will reset until he's had enough time to get to San Francisco, and he has forty-eight hours, max, to surrender. We don't know the code words or even have any idea of their nature, so although we could certainly simulate his voice, we can't make that call ourselves. Our decoy's good, though; we may be able to get away with just showing him off. I think we'll put him out in public and wait for contact."
"But what if Brown calls 426 in the middle of our operation?"
Smith frowned. "If he does do that, we could be in deep Shinola, but I have to admit I do not have the foggiest if that's going to happen. Manichetti is so adamant that he's dead, I almost believe him."
"I know what you mean," said Rally. "He is not giving us the whole truth, but I some of it is for real—I'm not entirely sure how to sort it out yet."
"So let's keep the plan flexible. We'll have a lot of possibilities to account for, but let's try to narrow them down." Smith pointed at her. "Back me up while we talk to Manichetti—here he comes."
A tall blond female agent escorted Manichetti into the conference room. "This is it," said Smith, clapping him on the back. "We are going to try to get them back within eight hours—well, seven and a half hours by now. That gives us until 10:30 this evening, Pacific Time. Luckily we got a jump-start, thanks to your information, and to Miss Rally's quick thinking and initiative. Our team's already assembled, and we know one of our probable theaters of operation. You drew a map of the house? We're still trying to dig up the plans in the city records."
"Yessir," replied Manichetti. The female agent with him laid down a sheaf of photocopied maps and began to pass them out. A dark-haired male agent came in and sat down.
Wesson leaned forward into the light and took a photocopy, newly dark-blond hair gleaming, and Manichetti let out a cry. "Aaggh!" It wasn't entirely recognition; it was fear, with a superstitious edge. "Holy Mother!"
Smith laughed. "Congrats to you, Miss May. He looks like he's seen a ghost!"
"Certainly does," said Rally, wondering. Manichetti sat down and wiped his face, trembling.
"OK, that's good." Smith took a photocopy and scanned it. "Our decoy is as effective as we could hope for. This map will help a lot. Oh, by the way—this is Agent Wojohowicz, and this is Agent Furillo." He pointed to the blond woman and the dark-haired man.
Roy Coleman came in and sat down near Rally, nodding silently at her and turning his face away immediately afterwards. She had barely seen him since the team had returned from the hospital the previous afternoon after their encounter with Bean. May had said Roy had wanted to talk only to his wife, and she was right—he had not spoken a word to Rally or to anyone in her hearing all day.
"We need all the facts we can handle," said Smith. "And that is your cue, Mr. Manichetti. We want the whole story. Now."
"I…I explained it all to Agent Banacek," said Manichetti haltingly.
"Horse hockey," said Smith, ostentatiously dropping a typed report on the table. "This has holes I could drive a fucking oil tanker through. Tell us why 426 knows—and I mean I knows—that Brown is alive."
Manichetti went white. "He's dead. I swear, he's DEAD."
Rally jumped up and leaned over the table, pointing a finger right at Manichetti's nose. "O'Toole was on the secondary pier, so there was a way to escape the warehouse, and we found the hole anyway. You had the earring box, which Brown had put in his pocket. You didn't come back in there. So Brown came out! O'Toole was crazy about Brown. Loved him, in fact, from the bottom of his teeny-tiny, black heart! He would not have left Brown where he would be in danger! 426, who has excellent sources of information and is highly intelligent, is positive that Brown is at large. So are we. Tell us!"
Manichetti stared at the table, his chin wobbling.
"Where is he?" said Rally in a low, deadly tone.
"I…I don't know," said Manichetti. "I couldn't rightly say."
"So you admit he is alive," Smith grinned.
"He got out of the warehouse alive," prompted Rally.
"He got out of the damn warehouse alive," repeated Manichetti, sagging to the table with a pititful groan. "He did his best to make you think it was so, God help me, but Sly Brown never burned up in no damn fire."
"YES!" yelled Rally, startling everyone in the room. "I am the SUPER-SLEUTH! Wahoo!" She whooped and did a victory sign with her arms, then hugged May.
"YAY!" cheered May, handing out high-fives. "The Gunsmith Cats RULE!"
Roy, Smith, Wesson, Manichetti, Wojohowicz and Furillo stared.
"Sorry!" giggled Rally, and she and May sat down again. "It's nice to be right!"
"How did 426 find out?" Smith asked Manichetti.
"Brown told him," whispered Manichetti, forehead pressed to the table.
"Huh?" said Rally, coming down from her cloud.
"Told him?" said Smith and Wesson incredulously. Furillo whistled.
"He was kinda stoned," said Manichetti, leaning back in his chair, limp, but looking somehow relieved. "Um, maybe I better tell it from the beginning. We all went out to Chicago—"
"Let's stick to the escape for now," said Wesson impatiently. Manichetti took another look at him, shuddering slightly.
"Well, Miss Vincent is right," he began again after a moment. "Tom blew an escape hatch. He had a rope ladder on him, and he let it down under the pier so's the two of them could get out. I had a boat there. I'd brought the guys to beat on Bandit, and then I waited under there, in between the pilings."
Manichetti turned to Rally. "You couldn't see us in there, 'cause the boat was a little stealth number in camo—we got it from the guys who run in to the coast and slip past the patrol boats, and it was pretty dark under the pier. We could see out, you couldn't see in. When you and Bandit got out on the secondary pier and jumped Tom, I could see you there, and soon as Bandit popped you one and—"
"What?" said Roy, startled out of silence.
"Bean hit me on the back of the head to knock me out," said Rally. "I didn't tell you about that, Roy; I'm sorry."
"There were a lot of things you didn't tell me," said Roy, and slumped back into his chair.
"Yeah," continued Manichetti. Apparently the floodgates had opened, and he seemed impatient to tell his story, talking rapidly over interruptions. "Mr. Brown came down the ladder into the boat after watchin' things for a bit. His leg was bad with the wounds, but he had good arm strength—"
"Yes, if he could fire a .44 magnum with one hand, he would have to be strong," said Rally, remembering Brown's tenacious grip on her in the room at the Mandarin Oriental. "Tell me why he screamed and told me that he was dying!"
"Well, uh, he was keepin' an eye on how things were going. Tom went out—he climbed on the supports, under the concrete floor—and he set up on the secondary pier for when people started coming out. I could hear Mr. Brown laughin'. He always liked to set up a scenario—is that what you'd call it? He talked about doin' movies with his dough. I said to him that I saw you guys on the secondary pier. Tom got on your wrong side and took a dive. He didn't swim to the boat, 'cause Mr. Brown had told him to hang in Frisco and take care of you two in case you didn't do it all on your own, and of course he wasn't gonna show you where we were hidin'.
"I could see him headin' out in the water. I was wondering if he was gonna swim to all the way to Alameda. He coulda made it to Treasure Island easy—he was a good swimmer even with that long arm on his back. Then Mr. Brown started up this moaning. I thought maybe the leg wound was hurting him, but he told me to be quiet. He started calling your name, and I saw you guys runnin' to the end of the pier to listen. I started to twig what he was up to, and I thought it was kinda funny, but—"
"Oh, YEAH!" Rally jumped up again. "Bean knocked me out to keep me from trying to rescue Brown! Do you have ANY idea how I felt, hearing him scream? What I pictured when I believed he'd BURNED TO DEATH! ANY IDEA AT ALL!"
Manichetti ducked and stuttered, defending his head with his arms. "H-hey, I also thought it was p-pretty shitty of him! I heard what you said to him about people dyin' like that!"
"Seems he bugged just about any conversation he had!" Rally sat down, shaking, and May took her hand.
"Yeah, he liked to put wires and mics around and have me and Tom listenin'. I could tell you stories—well, I won't now. So I heard you say that about burnin' being the worst way to go. Must be what gave him the idea. So he yells and tells you he's dyin' in there, and you were gonna dive, and Bandit grabbed you instead. I hafta say I was relieved he did, because if you'd swum too close you'd'a seen us. Mr. Brown took risks like that, see? I could see you were pretty burnt up about it—I mean, you looked like this was really upsettin' you.
"I could hear you screamin' at Bandit to let you go. I got to feelin' kinda sorry for you, but Mr. Brown was gonna have his fun, and there wasn't much I could do about it. He screamed so loud, he practically lost his voice, but he didn't care much. When he got down into the boat, he was laughin' his fool head off, all hoarse."
"When I see him," said Rally through clenched teeth, "I am going to belt him SO hard—"
"Uh…well, Tom was way out in the water by then. He heard the screaming, and he started back in. I got Mr. Brown down in the bottom of the boat and covered him up with a blanket, 'cause he was getting a little shocky. Gave him the morphine and helped him shoot it up again. Then I waited for you guys to get off the secondary pier before I took her out from under. You were the only ones in position to see us.
"Bandit swung and popped you one, and carried you off, and I waited until he'd ripped a hole in the fence and taken you through. I motored out with Mr. Brown. Tom wasn't real near. I didn't realize at first that he thought Mr. Brown had really burnt up in the pier. Then he starts swimming towards it and grabbing the pilings, trying to climb, and I got it. I told Mr. Brown, and he said, don't tell Tom different, and I said OK, because…" He trailed off.
"Brown didn't even want his bodyguard to know he was still alive? When the man was in LOVE with him?"
"Uh, well, you're right about that too. Tom had a bad case for Sly Brown, had it for years. When he was sober, he'd never admit it, but when he was drunk, he'd tell me all about what he wanted to do with the boss."
Manichetti rolled his eyes. "I know he never said it to Mr. Brown or nothin', but no way he didn't know Tom was crazy about him. Used to give him a little peek once in a while, take off his shirt or somethin', just to keep him on the simmer. And Tom couldn't never keep a secret. If he thought the boss was dead for real, that would kinda make it more genuine, y'know? I guess Mr. Brown figured it like that, anyway."
"What a bastard! This is just UNBELIEVABLE!"
"I ain't gonna argue that one, Miss."
"So when did he tell the Dragons he was alive?" inquired Smith.
"Little while later. I went offshore and I headed out around Alcatraz to pick up his cabin cruiser that was berthed at Sausalito. We switched over to the big boat and I took him out through the Golden Gate. He had shot up with morphine twice already 'cause of the bullets you put in his leg, and then he did a couple lines of coke for good measure. He was higher'n a kite. Laughing and sayin' you were a perfect patsy—"
"That SOB," muttered Rally. May patted her shoulder.
"He got out the ship-to-shore radio. I was drivin' the boat and I didn't notice what he was doing right away. I didn't realize who he was talkin' to."
"Brown called 426?"
"Called 426, used his real name, for God's sake, and told him he was gonna be dead. I grabbed the radio and told him to go lie down and shut up, and he did. Laughing his goddamn head off. All that trouble to set up his dying and gettin' away; the whole plan, laying the Semtex, finagling the cash, getting Rally Vincent involved to muddy the waters, and he goes and blows it to shit at the last minute."
"I've seen him do that before," said Rally.
"No shit. Smart guy, but that crazy streak'd always bust out. Couldn't hide it forever, and coke generally popped out the cork. He snorted up before he made a move on you, right?"
"Yes, he was stoned." Rally made a disgusted face. "And drunk from trying to get me drunk, and generally revolting—what, you KNEW that? He told you he struck out with me? He sure didn't have a wire in that hotel room!"
"It was part of the plan, Miss. He was gonna sleep with you and like, win you over, and get you to take care of Bandit for us. But I guess that's another story, and it didn't work anyhow, and I'll tell it later, huh?" He looked pleadingly at Smith and Rally. "I answered your question. That's how 426 knows. Please, all I care about on God's green earth is Sarah Brown and Miss Tiffany. Can we just work on getting 'em safe for now?"
"Well, I shit," said Smith. "So we have to count on Brown pulling some kind of fool stunt just as we try to save his family? AGAIN?" His face reddened. "This guy is rapidly losing my sympathy!"
"He used 426's real name?" said Rally suddenly. "That was the last time they conversed! The challenge says the code is something to do with their last conversation!"
"426's real name is the code word?" said Wesson.
"Could be! We'd better ask Larry if he knows it—I bet he does!"
"I'll call," said Smith. "Let's wrap up this informational meeting and get the actual operators together for tactical planning. Anything more for Manichetti, Miss Rally?"
"You don't know where Brown is right now?" Rally persisted. "No ideas?"
"I can't contact him," said Manichetti, biting his lips. "No one—he ain't gonna bust in or try any dumb stunts. Believe me, there's no way you are going to hear from him."
"Not to save his own child?"
"Not this time."
"Hum," said Smith. "I hope you are sure about that, because if you're wrong, the only things you care about could pay for it. Assuming anything you've told us so far has a grain of truth in it! You swore he'd died in the fire. What the hell else are you holding back?"
"Gimme a lie detector. Anything you want!"
"OK," said Rally after a pause. "It's not like we have a whole lot of time here. We have to make some assumptions in order to plan, and maybe Manichetti is right, but I still think we had better keep Brown in mind. We've got our resources lined up?"
Smith ticked off on his fingers. "Infiltration and weapons experts—that's you and Agent Furillo." The dark man nodded at Rally. "Another decoy, to confuse 'em about Sarah Brown—that's Agent Wojohowicz, since she fits the general description: tall and blond; and she's going to help shepherd the hostages to the car and keep the kid calm. We have the car and the driver lined up already—"
"Who is that going to be?" sneered Wesson. "What kind of nut would ask for that monster of a Charger? I certainly hope this is going to be someone you can count on, because he seems to have the automotive taste of Bean Bandit!"
Rally looked at Smith, and Smith looked back with a quirky smile. "You want to tell him, Miss Rally, or shall I?"
"Oh, I will," said Rally, with a smile. "I wouldn't pass up a straight line like that…for half a million bucks!"
"I have not had ANY chance to take pictures of San Francisco yet!" complained May, shuffling through several rolls of developed prints and spreading them out over the table in their hotel room. "There's going to be a week-long hole in the vacation scrapbook!" She pulled out one print and waved it at Rally. "Look! This one of you is pretty good!"
"Huh?" Rally startled out of a daydream in which Bean had followed her car again and taken her to a secluded part of Golden Gate Park. She had tested and discarded several scenarios involving romance-novel picnics and boat rides as utterly vomit-worthy and was in the middle of a modified version of their motorcycle ride, minus the pursuit and the gunshots.
Recalling the feel of Bean's body through his jacket as she clasped her arms around him, the warmth and the muscular force of him…and his hands, and his kisses, and the way he'd spoken to her once, soft and smoky, urging her on top, to take him inside her.
At that moment, she would almost have given anything to live those minutes of sweat and heat and strange tenderness a second time, feel again everything she had felt with Bean. Even the pain, because he had done his best to spare her as much pain as he could. She'd never have him again, not if either of them had any sense at all, so she would have to hold on to the memory, replay it over and over until it had worn itself a space in her mind from which it could not escape. Already she had let go of the dreadful aftermath of that night, nearly forgotten the ugly words he'd used. The only recollection that retained its power was the look on Bean's face as he had watched her reach for orgasm, and the pleasure he'd given her, or coaxed from her body.
Bean Bandit, the most unconcernedly lawbreaking, rigidly neutral, infuriatingly uncommitted person she knew, had made love to her—made love, as if he meant every move of it, and she, Rally Vincent, criminal-chasing bounty hunter, was imagining that he was doing it again. It made no sense at all.
"Man, you are living on another planet! Look at the picture!" May shook it under her nose. "What do you think?"
Rally took it and held it in the light from the window. In the picture, she stood in front of Cinderella's Castle at Disneyland, holding a large blob of cotton candy on a stick and smiling at some of Snow White's seven dwarfs. "Eh. I don't know. I'm squinting into the sun." She handed it back.
"Oh, Ms. Picky!" May looked through the prints again. "Here! How about this one?"
"My hair's all over the place!"
"It looks cute like that! I'll get an enlargement! Oh, hey. This one I'm giving to Ken in an eight-by-ten!" May brandished a shot of herself hugging Mickey Mouse. Her tank top had slipped low over her pregnancy-enlarged breasts, and Goofy seemed to be looking directly down her cleavage. "Nice! This will show him what he missed by not coming along with us!"
"A menage-a-trois with cartoon animals? Kinky!"
"Oh, you are developing a dirty mind, girl!" May laughed, tongue sticking out of her mouth. "Hey…speaking of…heh, heh, so Agent Smith told me that you saw Bean today. Like, twice! He actually begged you to forgive him and was all touchingly eager to do what you asked him to! How sticky did your panties get?"
"May!" Rally blushed and crossed her legs. On the table, she spotted a few pictures of the Buttonkettle Motel 6 —apparently May had been really stumped for something to do there! She wondered if she could sneak one into her purse without comment from her friend. "He wasn't eager! More like, obligated. He hates Brown, and—"
"No, honestly. What did it feel like to see him?"
"Oh, geez…"
"If you are going to sit in a car with him all evening, you had better sort out what's likely to happen! You're the one who set that up, don't forget!"
"Ooogghh…I did, didn't I?" Rally put her forehead into her hands. "I want to talk to him…no, I want to give him the third degree! I can't leave well enough alone. Like a woman whose husband cheated on her and won't let go of it! I have to hear every damn detail and dissect his every motivation, and I know I won't like what I hear, and I still want to! I am SICK!"
"Why won't you like what you hear?"
Rally leaned back with a sigh. "Just for an example, I demanded he explain why he was going to cut my face. It was more than I really wanted to know—I mean, that he got used for a sex toy by a small-time crime queen he later killed in a street fight? Ugh! And I have the impression he hasn't gone back and subtracted two years from his age at the time of every incident in his memory. That means he was FIFTEEN, max! Taken advantage of and taught how to KILL people, at that age! If the rest of his life reads like—"
"Mine?" May shrugged. "You think he's permanently twisted or something? Kids are tough."
"You telling me you're NOT a sick little puppy? Ha!" Rally dodged a pillow May threw at her. "No, I mean…since he was twelve, he's been on the streets! Fending for himself, in Chicago!"
"Thirteen here, honey, and the same mean streets. Honestly, am I a total psychopath?"
"You were lucky! You met Ken, and he took care of you."
"That's the first time you've ever thought my meeting Ken was I lucky!"
"All right, you have a point. Ken may not be my favorite kind of guy, but he isn't nearly as bad as the people Bean seems to have run with."
"Wow, what a compliment!" May looked aggrieved. "He's my man, and he's Junior's daddy!"
"I know, I know; I'm sorry. I know you love him, May, and that ought to be good enough for me. It is good enough for me, OK? I will shut up about Ken."
"But Bean's not good enough for you? Just as he is? I don't necessarily mean as a boyfriend or something—just as a person?"
"Oh, I geez! I have to know what's under all that hard surface—or do I? I have no I idea what I'm going to find, I'm sure, and I can't help doing it anyway! People have done bad things to him, and I'm afraid he may have done bad things to people. Worse than killing a woman in self-defense—a LOT worse. Things I don't want to know—and I'm going to go ahead and pry them out of him anyway, and I think he feels obligated to tell me. I'm as bad as Brown for wanting to rummage around in his head! How am I going to stop myself?"
"Why don't you just read that folder?" said May. "What's the point of my stealing it if you aren't even going to look at it?"
"I think we still need to keep that hidden! It's in the bathroom ceiling?"
"Uh-huh. I lifted up a panel and stuck it in the insulation. I can take it down any time you want to look at it!" May started to get up.
"No, not yet! I want to hear about that ballistics report from Smith first, so I don't let it slip that I've seen it!"
"I destroyed that just in case."
"Good! I think we got some back at Wesson already, though." Rally chuckled. "He's so PRETTY in makeup!"
"Isn't he, though?" May smirked. "I think even he was impressed! From mousy accountant to California golden boy in a couple of hours! I thought I got him looking darn hot, even if it was all fake!"
"That kind of guy is NEVER going to appeal to me! Overdressed, smarmy, sweet-talking bleached blondes? Ick!"
"Yeah, I know what kind of guy appeals to you!" May looked at Rally with sharp humor. "Big, mean, close-mouthed, and fond of black leather! C'mon, how did you feel talking to him?"
"Ohh…all right, fine. I talked to Bean, and he was behaving…like he cared what I thought of him, and…and he kept mentioning how much he'd wanted me, like forever, and he looked awfully disappointed when I told him I wouldn't have slept with him any more even without his acting like an idiot over the suitcase, and then everything he did and said kept reminding me of what it was like to do it with him and it started getting obvious to me that I had wanted it too, not to get at him or make him comfort me—I just wanted, I wanted… I him, and when it did I got all upset and blew up at him and he turned around and told me things he's probably never admitted to another human being since they happened, and…and…"
"You are bright red, girl!" May cocked a brow at her. "And practically incoherent! This looks like a major case, and for you, that is SERIOUS!"
"I guess it is!" Rally wailed, flailing her arms and pacing the room. "OK, it's a major case of serious physical lust, and it's on both sides, and…and has been for a while, since from the moment we stepped into that motel room all I could think of was sex, and I basically invited him to make a move without thinking for one SECOND about the consequences, so if he hadn't stopped, I would have let him do anything he wanted to right then and there...and I'm still not sure why he stopped, since he kept making comments about it, or more than comments, for two whole days, and it stayed in the air until we actually did it, and now it's worse, not better, though I never knew sex was like that, and it's obvious it did something to him that I never expected it would, and if I didn't know it would hurt both of us, I might even want—"
May had a wide, knowing grin, and Rally continued with an agonized shriek. "OK, I admit it! I thought about it! I've been imagining doing it with him again and I'm just burning up with it! If he kissed me now, I'm afraid I would tackle him flat! It doesn't make sense; it's just the way it is! Are you SATISFIED?"
"Doesn't sound like YOU are!" May chuckled, lips pursing and pulling in as if she were suppressing the impulse to say more. "You better be I care-ful!"
"I don't seem to be able to, around him! What am I going to do?"
"You sure you want to do something about it?"
"Huh? Why wouldn't I? I can't have a…relationship like that with Bean Bandit! I—I'd get all involved and stuff! I'm not the kind who could go on sleeping with a man and stay detached, the way he stands aloof from everyone—though I don't think it's a superficial thing for him either—" Rally broke off, choking. "No. I am not going to think about that, because it's too darn scary! It's physical, because he likes the way I look or something, and since I guess it's the same for me, or the way he smells, or how good he is at…oh, i God…"
May looked down and began to sort photographs again, shrugging casually. "Hey, you have to do what makes sense to you." She glanced up in a way that conveyed secret glee. "It's I only physical? So treat it as a physical attraction. You're just not open for business transactions. No BFD, right?"
"FINE! I will, though I can see you've got something else in mind!" Rally got up and fetched Larry Sam's file box, dropping on the table with a thump. "Here! Look through this, if you're in the photo-gazing mood! You said you thought you could have met a Dragon or two."
"Could have, yeah." May put her vacation photos aside and opened the box. "Where are the mug shots?"
"The folder marked 'Dossiers'. It's all well organized." Rally pulled it out and May opened it, examining the typed sheets and pictures. "I have to meet Bean downtown at eight with the Charger, so I'm going to leave my car here and take a taxi to the Federal Building. You take a look at the Cobra while it's here, OK?"
"What for?" said May, turning pages.
"Pete Smith hinted that it was bugged."
"Huh?"
"And it must be a recorder, not a broadcast, since I think they have to retrieve the tape or chip or whatever. I do NOT want Agent Wesson listening to what I said to Bean this morning, though the most delicate part of it wasn't said near the car. It's just not for anyone else's ears."
"Uh-oh!" May looked up. "Did we talk about stealing the folder in the car?"
"Eeek!" Rally's mouth dropped open. "Uh…let me think…I told you about it when we were walking—and then you gave it to me in here. N-no, I don't think we did. Wesson didn't know what had happened to the thing—he asked Smith about it in my presence. I think we're OK—I hope!"
"Man, I hope so too! What's the penalty for stealing FBI information?"
"I don't know, and I don't want to find out! See why I want to keep the folder under wraps?"
"Yes, I see your point!" May let out a slightly relieved breath and patted her chest over her heart. "You know, I think I'll just take a nice big electromagnet and pass it all over the Cobra. I doubt I'll be able to find an FBI bugging device without ripping things apart—those are out of my league and they can disguise them as car components anyway. But I bet I can mess up whatever's on there right now." She glanced around and at the ceiling fixture. "Just as a precaution, I'll ask to have this room changed for another one. I swept it a couple of times already, but it never hurts to be careful!"
"Good thought. You do that." Rally peered over May's shoulder. "Does anyone look familiar?"
"No, not yet. Red Mountain? You mentioned him."
"He seems to be the most senior member in the USA."
"All the leadership is in here…and subordinate leadership; but there's no picture of this 426 guy. Just a fact sheet—no, two."
"Larry said there weren't any pictures of him. He had a long friendship with the guy, but I guess he never took any—426 probably wouldn't have liked that."
"Maybe he doesn't show up on film! Woohoohoo!" May made a spooky sound, and they both laughed. "He's a vampire! A creature of ancient evil! Bwahahah!"
"Yuck! That's a comforting thought! God, but it almost fits him… They'll probably get that forensic artist to do a portrait." Rally shivered. "I think Roberta is going to run screaming out of the room when that guy shows up on her monitor. I don't think a photo would show the essence of the man anyway, but one of her mug shots—hoo boy."
"Why don't you describe him for me? Just in case."
"OK…let's see. Late forties. About five-ten, looks very fit, but not lean—rough estimate, one hundred and sixty pounds of muscle. He was wearing a business suit with a loose cut, probably to help hide a holster, so his build wasn't really visible, but his neck was corded and his face was spare—no extra flesh, but not skeletal. Kind of…restrained. Just enough meat on him without being bulky. If he smiled, he might be sort of attractive, but he didn't really smile...no, now that I think about it, I don't think I'd want to see one of his smiles! Face is fairly tan, and clean-shaven. Hair's about one-third grey, especially around the temples. Cut pretty short, not more than an inch and a quarter. Asian, of course—I mean, entirely Asian. He doesn't have any European characteristics visible, though I hear that Macanese are frequently mixed-race, and Red Mountain looks it. The eyes…"
"Yes?"
"I think you'd know him from the eyes alone, if he let it show. I once or twice thought I saw something nasty under Brown's surface, but it was nothing compared to 426. Larry Sam said something similar. Like…I saw a picture once, in a book. It was a combination of a dozen photographs of mass murderers and genocidal heads of state. Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, John Wayne Gacy, Charles Manson, and so on. The separate faces didn't have much in common. But the eyes…"
"Oh."
"Yeah. That chill, like someone walking over your grave, except that he's standing right in front of you. You know what I mean, May. You'll recognize him."
"Yow. I guess I will. At least he won't hit on me if I do meet him!"
"Yeah, small blessings." Rally had a sudden thought. "Gosh…he's gay, and it's pretty obvious that O'Toole was also gay…in a sense."
"In a sense?"
"He hated women, which isn't the same thing, and liked to sexually assault them, or at least beat them up. But you heard what Manichetti said—he was devoted to Brown, and wanted him. I guess you could define that as a homosexual love, though the guy seems to have been utterly conflicted about it himself, and the standard labels aren't always true to life. O'Toole loved Brown, not men in general—Brown was the only person he had ever loved, I'd imagine. But I wonder if 426 picked up on that? The way O'Toole kept talking about his 'darlin' lad'."
"That ugly little creep? I thought 426 liked handsome young Chinese men!"
"No, not like that! Just…a thing they might have in common. Maybe 426 was going to kill O'Toole, but ended up only burning 'Retribution' into his skin because he felt some kind of sympathy for him. I've been wondering about that from the moment I saw it. I mean, that's a totally weird idea, but it's the kind of thing 426 would notice."
"You're right. That IS totally weird."
"They both lost their lovers that night…well, not their lovers. People they wanted, but never got to have. There's a lot more than grief operating in a case like that, especially considering who these guys are."
"Maybe you're right." May kept looking through dossier pages. "I can't say I ever wanted someone I didn't get to have." She smiled at Rally. "I don't know about you."
"Uh, well, I…"
"Say, did you use your camera at all on this trip? I forgot to ask if you had any rolls to develop."
"I think I've taken about six pictures, max." Rally shook her head. "Still have eighteen to go on the first roll."
"You didn't take any of Bean?"
"Huh? No!" Rally groaned. "We were working! I don't think he'd have appreciated it any more than 426, anyway. Even the FBI doesn't have any recognizable photos of Bean."
"I'm not surprised. He's probably careful about that." May picked up her camera and pretended to take a shot. "I'd like a picture of the two of you together. So I can get an enlargement and put it on the wall and imagine…well, I'm a romantic."
"Oh, no! You are still trying to cast me and Bean in your personal soap opera! Not going to happen—unless you put it all together in a computer or something. The FBI artists can do perfect fakes."
"Oh, cool! Well, I have lots of shots of you, so all I need is one of Bean. Maybe I'll get one of those digital cameras." May cackled and turned over the last dossier page. "Huh. That's all of them, and none of 'em looks familiar. Are there any other photos in here?"
"No other mug shots—there's a set of shots taken at banquets and things in the Miscellaneous folder."
May extracted it and flipped through it. "No…none of these people either. Looks like a strikeout…whoa!"
"What? Someone you know?"
"Hell, yes! But I know this isn't a Triad member—this isn't a man. They do NOT initiate women!"
"Who is she?"
May held up the picture for Rally to see. "That woman—the one with the bun and the square chin. She visited the house in New York while I was training there. Her name is—"
"Lum," said Rally, grimacing.
"You've seen her too?"
"She's the one who searched me at the pier! Reminded me of a prison matron!"
"No kidding! She was a real tough disciplinarian. Madame Lum…wow, brings back old times." May shook her head. "Not really GOOD old times, though! Even Granny Hao thought Madame Lum was an iron-assed bitch—well, in Chinese she said 'water buffalo with a brass cunt', but close enough! I was SO glad I didn't have to work in a house SHE ran!"
"That's the impression I got! Brown said she ran the vice businesses on the West Coast. I guess she doesn't have to be an initiated member to do that—she must have male relatives in the Eight Dragons."
"She's come up in the world, then! She was kind of a regional supervisor and procurer in New York, though I didn't know exactly who for. Brought in girls from Asia and Russia…not always ones who wanted to work in whorehouses, either. You are right about my being lucky to have a choice about that." May looked sober. "I told you the girls helped each other out. I helped some girls get out of the trade, as a matter of fact. I had enough money to loan them so they could pay off their debts."
"I am learning things about the global sex industry I NEVER knew…hey, there's an angle." Rally held up a finger. "If you want to pursue it, that is. It could be risky."
"What? Renew my acquaintance with Madame Lum?"
"The FBI doesn't know where the Dragons are hiding out now that their HQ is abandoned. They are probably scattered all over the city, or even the whole Bay Area. If we knew where the leaders are, especially 426 and his thugs, we would have some way to predict their movements while we rescue Sarah and Tiffany Brown."
Rally looked at her watch. "Wesson does the decoy thing at nine or nine-thirty when it's good and dark, and it's five P.M. now. I would be willing to bet that a madam who provides girls for all the leadership would know exactly where they're staying. Naturally 426 doesn't go for girls, but certainly the bigwigs do. Do you think you could contact anyone by the time we have to move in?"
"You know, I probably could." May bit her lip in thought. "I know where to check, at any rate! I can ask around in the mother tongue, so they'll take me seriously. I'll have to dress the part, though!" She looked down at her T-shirt and shorts, her round belly swelling the waistline of the shorts. "I'll have to pick something concealing—let me model for you!" May jumped up and opened the closet, pulling out clothes.
"Thanks, honey! Can you take anyone along? I don't want you haunting the Chinatown dives alone!"
"Uhh…well, I could take another woman, if she looked like the type, or I could take a man, if he would play pimp!" May pulled off her shorts and put a dress over her head. "Does this one hide the bulge? I want to look like I'm in the market for a randy old Triad!"
"Take Roy with you, then. He's done undercover. Though he's about the polar opposite of the pimp type! Maybe he's your driver or your bodyguard, which would be true anyway!"
"OK, that sounds fine. Give him a call—I think he's in his room." May pulled the dress off and put another one on. Rally picked up the phone and dialed Roy's room number. It rang four times, then was picked up.
"Yes?"
"Hey, it's Rally. May and I have a job for you, if you'd like to do a little underworld investigation! Want to come up to our room and we'll fill you in?"
Roy didn't answer for a moment. "All right," he said quietly, and immediately hung up. Rally was caught in the middle of a phrase, mouth open, and looked at the phone.
"Sheesh. There is something eating him, big time. May? Did he say anything to you?"
"When?" said May, muffled in a dress she was pulling over her head. "About what?"
"I don't know. Did you see how silent he was in the meeting this afternoon? And how he just got up and left when I told Wesson about Bean being the rescue driver, between giggles? I think he is really upset…maybe with me."
"With you? Oh—about Bean!" May's head emerged from the dress. "Oh, my gosh! I've been so silly and babbling about true romance—what must he THINK?"
"I guess he's not thinking happy ever after! Oh, no. Poor Roy. Well, that settles it—I I have to know what went on yesterday when Bean followed my car and they tried to arrest him. Something to clear up what Bean told Roy about, um, 'consensual sex'. No one seemed to want to explain that one."
"All he told me was that it wasn't rape. Frankly, he didn't seem too relieved, though of course he was. He said he was glad you hadn't been attacked, but I don't think he was glad you'd had sex with Bean."
"Geez, why would he be?" Rally rolled her eyes in chagrin. "He told me to be careful too, but not the way you mean it. Like Bean was going to be dangerous, which of course he is, but not that way. He's just not the rapist type, you know?"
"Yeah, I know," said May with a sigh, smoothing her latest dress and twirling the skirt down. "I just didn't think you were the SEX type! It was easier to believe Bean was a creep!" She stopped her whirl and looked at Rally. "I was really surprised, remember? I got over it fast! But Roy—"
There was a knock on the door, and Rally opened it. Roy nodded at her and came a few steps into the room. "OK, kids, what's the job?" A note of false jollity, as if he realized he'd been abrupt and distant all day. "I'm game—not that I have a whole lot of time on my hands here, with all this sitting in meetings and assisting the FBI to make photocopies."
"At least they'll let you off the hook soon," said Rally reassuringly. "When we get back to Chicago, you won't have to help the FBI arrest Bean, because the whole thing about getting him into the Triad is gone by the board."
"Help the FBI arrest Bean?" Roy's face twisted. "Hell, no. I'm going to do it all on my goddamn own!"
"Uh…sorry, I shouldn't have…um, Roy, could I ask you a question?"
"What about?"
"What did Bean tell you yesterday? When you accused him of attacking me? Why was everyone so evasive…?"
"Don't ask me! Don't ever ask me that!" Roy gritted his teeth, all humor gone, his voice harsh and savage. "Did you have some kind of job for me?"
May put a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. After a stunned silence, Rally picked up her purse. "I'm going out. Um, for a while. May, you and Roy take care of it. Call me if you…um, bye."
She put her jacket on and left, tears of pain starting in her eyes. Once out on the street, she leaned against a wall for a moment to recover herself. "Oh, God... Roy, I'm so sorry…but I can't help it. I promise, I'll do everything I can to fight it. But I'm so afraid I might have already lost …"
"I have some pictures to show you, O'Toole," said 426 through the darkness of a stifling room. "Are you awake?"
"Yeh…"
"How is the pain?"
"I'm so glad ye care, yeh filthy Chink sodomite…" Through the wire brace on his broken jaw, his voice was restricted and blurred.
426 chuckled. "I am going to turn on the light." He snapped it on, the harsh white glare making O'Toole flinch. The little man lay on an iron bed with a sheet-covered mattress, his right foot chained to the uprights. His left leg was truncated in the middle of the thigh, the stump swathed in bandages, and his hips were entirely obscured with surgical dressings.
He was otherwise naked, what remained of his lower body blotched with red and black burns and most of his hair gone. Both arms, relatively unscathed, were strapped down. A catheter, colostomy bag and drain tubes clustered around his groin and he had a permanent IV shunt in his neck, a bag of blood plasma dripping into the vein. "I will order your caretaker to increase your morphine dosage, if that is what you need."
O'Toole rolled a bleary yellow glare up at him. "I need to kill ye, that's what I fockin' need."
"Because I have instructed that you be kept alive?" 426 trailed a finger over the character he had burned into O'Toole's chest. "You have not yet accomplished your purpose. You cannot die at this time."
"How in God's name am I to accomplish fock all?" O'Toole raged, sparse tears wetting his cheeks. "How'm I to walk, or even take a fockin' pee? I've lost me leg, in case ye ain't noticed, and me dick's gone the way of all flesh! I'm nothin' but a piece of half-roast meat!" He strained at the straps, arm muscles bulging. "At least I got me trigger finger still! Just give me a gun and let me blow me fockin' brains out!"
"The doctor tells me you have about a week of life remaining, O'Toole." 426 sat down in the bedside chair, holding a manila envelope marked 'Huang, H. K.' and stamped with a San Francisco County coroner's seal. "Your injuries and your burns will kill you in that time, he says, especially since you lack the will to live."
"Music to me ears. I'll be with me sweet lad, and I won't care if it's roastin' in the fires o' hell. At his side again." O'Toole closed his eyes.
"Do you know," said 426, opening the envelope, "what Henry Huang was to me?"
"Huh? Yer surveillance and electronics monkey, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he had great talents in that area. I mean, do you know what he was to me personally?"
"Yeh fancied him, yeh mean?" O'Toole rolled his eyes. "Don't care to hear about yer filthy perversions, do I?"
"It is ironic that the only thing we have in common is so disgusting to you, O'Toole." 426 took out a stack of eight-by-ten color glossies, put on a pair of reading glasses and sorted the photographs into a different order. "That you owe your life in part to your own 'filthy perversion', as you put it, is even more ironic. But no matter. Please look through these pictures." He unstrapped one of the prisoner's arms and held the photographs out.
"What the hell is this?" said O'Toole after taking one. "Christmas dinner?"
"These, of course, are the autopsy photos and coroner's report on Huang. I have not, alas, been able to obtain a copy of the ballistics report."
426 looked at O'Toole, who stared back. "Yes, this is the man I loved." 426 examined some of the pictures, his face barely changing. "Here he is, laid out upon a table and opened. That is his heart in a steel container."
"So he's a fine-lookin' lad on the inside as well, isn't he now?" sneered O'Toole. "What's it to do with me?"
426 flipped through the coroner's report. "You saw him die, you say. Killed by a bullet fired through the glass wall by the bounty hunter. Yes?"
"That's it."
"Please look at the third photograph. It is of the entry wound in Huang's head."
"That's a nasty hole, to be sure." O'Toole laughed.
"The bullet was extracted, proved to be a .32 caliber, and was handed over to the FBI lab. They are carrying out the ballistics tests and other forensic investigations themselves. I have the FBI preliminary report on the scene, obtained from the San Francisco authorities. I do not have the ballistics test results, however, since they are apparently being kept confidential even within the Bureau. Unfortunately, it is far more difficult to buy or steal FBI information than it is to bribe underpaid county clerical workers—nearly impossible, in fact, unless one has the budget of the KGB and a volunteer mole. Until the FBI releases the ballistics results to the San Francisco police, I have little chance of obtaining them."
"Well, then." O'Toole chuckled to himself. "Ye've got my word on it, haven't ye?"
"I have checked your story independently," said 426. "And I have read the report and examined the autopsy photographs very carefully. Everything agrees with your account. The bullet's caliber, the angle of the wound, the confirmation of the witness, who in fact offered a plausible explanation of deliberate motive on the bounty hunter's part. It all fits. All except one or two facts that have emerged only with the autopsy report."
"Eh?"
"There is gunpowder in the wound."
O'Toole said nothing.
"It is possible that since the glass wall had already been shot through several times—there were four shell casings in the adjacent office—that gunpowder was able to accompany the bullet into the wound. The glass did not collapse, as it is very thick—the first two shots served mostly to batter a hole through it. But that hole is no larger than three inches in diameter on the entry side.
"She had cut her hands on the broken glass of the office window—her blood is on the window frame and forms handprints on the carpet and elsewhere. Still, her marksmanship was precise enough to place the shots in a relatively small group. The first bullet was deflected to the floor, where it was recovered by the police. The second and third were not found, and your account places them in Brown's left leg. Certainly the blood near the window would bear that out. The last—"
"That's the one that hit 'im!" O'Toole's face sprang out in sweat. "That last one!"
"Since it was not found in the wall or the floor, I have not ruled out the possibility on that basis. But although Huang's body was disturbed after death, apparently by Bandit, the bloodstains on the carpet prove that he originally lay considerably to the right of the hole in the glass wall. If the last shot hit the left edge of the hole, it could have been deflected to the right and down into his skull.
"But if the bullet changed trajectory so radically, it is unlikely that the amount of powder present in the wound would have been carried along with it. That is more likely with a straight shot that directly entered his head. In addition, the characteristics of the entry wound are those of a medium-close-range shot, not those of a deflected shot that has lost some of its momentum. This is of course only the pathologist's opinion, based on his experience with such matters."
426 paused and looked at O'Toole. "The motive I mentioned, which was to silence him on the whereabouts of the half-million dollars, would make the direct shot more likely, at any rate, though no casing was recovered in Brown's office. Are you certain that the shot through the glass wall killed Huang?"
"Uh…now that yeh put it that way…"
"Mmm."
O'Toole shook all over, his lips working. "It was the wee bitch, sir. It was her."
"It would seem that you are eager to live after all, and that the fires of hell still hold terror." 426 smiled. "Well, in the absence of conclusive evidence either way, it is still probable that the bounty hunter killed him. The cash constitutes an excellent motive, and my witness is reliable. In any case, I have work for you."
"But…what th' hell can I do?" O'Toole looked down his body.
"You will be briefed shortly. It will doubtless cause you pain to be moved, but I will see that you have all the drugs you need. As you say, your trigger finger is intact, not to mention your eyesight; and your hatred for the bounty hunter must now have reached such a pitch as to be unbearable." 426 glanced down O'Toole's ruined body. "It is essential that you do exactly as I say."
"Anythin' at all," said O'Toole. "Sir."
"How long is this gonna take?" Bean eased the primer-spotted black Hemi Charger backwards into the dark driveway of a palatial Pacific Avenue house and cut the engine. "Do I take a nap, or stay on my toes?"
"We wait until Smith calls to say Wesson's in place and the fish are nibbling." Rally checked her watch in a thin beam of streetlight as she unbuckled her seatbelt. Across the street and down a few houses, Brown's mansion stood, the windows dark. Bean tapped his fingers on the wheel. "About a half hour or so, since it's eight-twenty already and there's only two hours to go on the deadline. Brown hasn't surfaced to date. Furillo and Wojohowicz are tuned in to the same frequency, so we can all coordinate."
She picked up the radio handset. "Batmobile to Adam-12. We're in place. What's the update?"
"Adam-12 here," said Wojohowicz. "We're parked half a block east of you as arranged, and we've been here for about forty minutes. The surveillance squad says one delivery came in the back about seven, and that the parabolic mic is still picking up conversations in the basement. We know the little girl and her mother are both there. The best estimate says there are four guards indoors and two on the roof. They don't seem to have made us, and the lookouts are sleeping on the job.
"Agent Smith says most of the best Dragon operatives seem to have ended up in the hospital or are otherwise out of commission —a big gang fight outside a bar this afternoon accounts for it, apparently—and they are using some of the least experienced of the thug squad for guard duty. The better-trained ones are probably bodyguarding the higher numbers."
"Lucky for us! We'll have to thank the other gang, whoever they were!"
"You bet, Vincent. Agent Furillo and I are going to go up the driveway of the brick-trimmed house. How about you?"
Rally spread out her map of the house and peered through the windshield. "I'll stay close to the Brown house in case the lookouts wake up. I see I'll have to scale a gate to get to the cellar door, but there are trash cans I can use for a boost. You OK with the side entrance? It looks clear?"
"Fine," came Furillo's voice. "I'm loaded with baton rounds and twelve-gauge solid slugs, and I've got my SIG P226, though I doubt it will come to that. Wojohowicz has her ten-millimeter, the listening equipment and the armored vests. Is your driver backing us up or staying with the car? I don't recall anyone mentioning that in the meeting."
"I guess not." Rally looked over at Bean. "But Bean usually prefers to keep out of the action, since he values his neutrality. Doesn't pick fights." Bean smiled ironically. "What?"
"Nothin'. I'll stay with the car."
"Roger," said Furillo, signing off.
"It's the two of them and me in the house, then, until we get the hostages into the car," Rally explained to Bean, pulling her ten-gauge out of the back seat. "We shouldn't be more than six minutes—we timed it out. Then you take over, and I ride shotgun, and Agent Wojohowicz is in charge of the girls. Agent Furillo will take his car in the opposite direction to confuse pursuit."
"I take 'em to this little park?" Bean pointed to his city map. "You got the troops lined up there?"
"Yes, there will be a couple of dozen FBI agents waiting at the staging area, with a crapload of firepower and armor. Smith's coordinated that. It's not very close to the house, so the guards and lookouts won't realize what's going on before we move in. You have to make it about a mile and a half, up and down some pretty steep hills—well, the route is up to you, of course, though they're going to alert the SFPD to clear the area for FBI activity.
"This house and most of the others on the block have been quietly evacuated. No one's going to escort us, so that you can do your stuff unimpeded—I had to argue that one, or you'd have been sandwiched with FBI vehicles as soon as we got two blocks away from the house. Naturally this car isn't bulletproof, so speed is going to be our main defense. We've got vests for the girls and I'm wearing my armored leathers." Rally flipped the lapel of her driving outfit. "So you do it any way you like, as long as we make it to the park."
"Sure, whatever. I'm gonna beat it soon as all my cargo is out."
"Smith promised me that you won't be arrested. But I guess that's sensible anyway."
Bean grunted, but said nothing; she had a sense that he meant 'at least that's one sensible thing I'm going to do today'. She'd been in this car with him, alone, for half an hour, and he had barely spoken two sentences until now, though she had outlined the entire rescue plan and waited for comment. Bean had given her nothing but a shrug or two, and as many grunts, and Rally had taken the hint and not said much other than what was required for the operation.
She could understand his not having much enthusiasm for rescuing Brown's family; he loathed Brown for very good reason. But his present indifference to her bothered her almost as much as Roy's anger. She resolved anew to fight her attraction to Bean. Despite her fear that she would ask him too many questions, she had no desire to ask a single one at the moment. The tension between them was thick enough as it was.
Bean reclined his seat back and put one ankle on the opposite knee, folding his arms with a creak of heavy leather. Rally shifted and looked out the passenger window. Perhaps he was thinking along the same lines as she was— this is hazardous, this is not compatible with my way of life or my philosophy or with my best friends or best enemies, so I will have to ignore it as well as I can, or failing that, rip it up into shreds and flush it… Her cell phone vibrated. "Yes?" she said, taking it out of her jacket.
"Hey, sweetie! How's it going?"
"Waiting for Smith to radio. Nothing to report yet…nothing at all." Rally took a glance at Bean, who seemed to be ignoring the conversation. "How about you?"
"I'm in the private bathroom of a very nice Triad-owned nightclub! The manager's private bathroom! How's that for making contact?"
"Oooh! Sounds promising."
"You betcha! We rented a tux and a Rolls for Roy and he looks totally sharp—he's my bodyguard—and i I am the well-known courtesan coming out of retirement! It's Saturday night and the moon is out! We're making a big splash in the Frisco nightlife! I spotted two old customers of mine the moment I got us past the doorman!"
"Wow!"
"They are all being so sweet to me! I think I can get the conversation going the way I want pretty soon—though you don't just come out and ask, 'where is the fugitive leadership of the Eight Dragon Triad hanging out these days?'" May snickered.
"Be careful there, girl! Did you two clear this operation with—"
"Smith? Uh, no, we didn't."
"Why not? Isn't Roy—oh."
"Yeah, like that. Consulting the FBI about his every move, when he's been a cop for twenty-eight years? I know you're getting along pretty well with Smith, at least, but Roy is about at the end of his rope with them. I'm really happy we thought of something independent for him to do—he's brightened up some. Getting into it, with a 'dese, dem, dose' accent and everything!"
"I am SO glad to hear that, sweetie! Keep me posted."
"Oh, I will. Call you when I have something—assuming you aren't in the middle of something else more important! Say…nothing to report? Do you mean that in the way—"
"Yes, I do. It's, uh, totally quiet around here."
"Oookaayy… talk to you later." May clicked off and Rally put the phone away, still set on vibrate. Bean began to crack walnuts.
"Um…so, did you want to know why May called me?" Rally ventured. Bean shrugged. "Well, she's checking Triad haunts for clues to where the Dragons are hiding. I might get another call soon."
He grunted and crunched nuts between his teeth.
Rally sighed and tapped her fingers. Some time passed without another word, the silence growing larger and heavier. She considered and discarded several opening gambits, ranging from the Charger to the week's changeable weather to the operation itself.
Eventually she settled for leaning her head back against the seat and looking at Bean, trying to use ESP to gauge his state of mind. She didn't make headway. The light was dim, streetlight mixed with moonlight, and few headlights came along the street. Bean was an outline, hair slicked back and jacket collar pulled up, his wraparound mirrored sunglasses concealing his eyes.
"So…where did you get that mid-year?" she finally asked. "That one I saw you driving?"
"Want ad," said Bean through a mouthful of walnuts.
"Oh, like the Honda? I figured it couldn't be from a dealership…not with an all-cash purchase that large."
"Nope."
"What happened to the rest of the cash? The half million? That wasn't a cheap car, but it wouldn't have cost i that much. I'd appreciate it if you'd give the FBI the $250,000 you agreed—"
"Lost it."
"What?" said Rally in disbelief. "Down a sewer?"
"Close."
"Excuse me?"
"In Vegas."
Her mouth dropped open. "You lost all that money playing the machines?"
"Craps," corrected Bean.
"You lost all that money at CRAPS? Four hundred large, more or less?"
"Three hundred and twenty-two, five hundred. And change."
"You…you just threw it all away? After insisting it was all yours and fighting over the split until the last minute?" Rally sat up. "That money you 'sure could use'? That Brown owed you by right? That you stole from me?"
"Yep."
"What, because it was stolen? You actually felt bad about stealing it?"
Bean shrugged.
"Well, that absolutely takes the cake," said Rally after a moment, giving her door an exasperated whack. "Of all the things you could have done with it…"
Bean grunted and leaned his head on one hand, massaging his temples as if he felt a migraine coming on. "I got fifty-seven thousand, four hundred and eighty-nine left out've it." He felt in a pocket and dropped a key on the console. "Safe deposit box, main Bank of America branch on Market. The number's on the tag."
Rally looked at the key and put it in her jacket. "So you owe me, or the FBI…uh, one hundred and ninety-two thousand, five hundred and eleven."
"Yep."
"Manichetti told me that the other half million, the cash we saw in Brown's office, is hidden somewhere and that only he knows where it is. That's the money the Dragons think i I have, and when the FBI finds it, they're going to keep it."
"Yeah."
"How are you going to come up with that kind of dough?"
Bean shrugged.
"Wonderful. You do realize I'm in dutch over that?"
Bean grunted.
Rally sighed. "Why hasn't the Triad come after me yet? Why did I have to walk in their front door to tangle with them? They think I have half a million of theirs, and right now I bet they could use every bit of loose cash, having lost their HQ because of me, and 426 may even think I shot Huang to death. Why don't I see Dragons every time I turn around?"
"Dunno."
"Oh, that's i so helpful, Bean." Jerk! Dice-throwing idiot! Who would ever want to fantasize about YOU?
"Sorry."
Rally groaned irritably. "I see, you don't want to talk to me. I am just a royal pain in the butt you have to tolerate because you did me so wrong and you owe me big. I know you hate carrying debts, so naturally you'd resent whoever holds your marker for the better part of two hundred grand. Well, fine. Don't talk to me." She opened the door and got out of the car with the idea of stretching her legs.
"Thanks for talkin' to me this morning," said Bean quietly.
"Oh…uh, sure." Her own resentment suffered a setback. "You're welcome."
"Why'd you let me go when you saw me on the road with the 'Vette? When I'd just tried to kill you and yer partner?"
Rally put her hands on the top of the open door, resting her chin on them and gazing across the street. "Uh…I guess, because I knew you were going to find out you were wrong. I thought it might help you realize it sooner. Before you went and joined the Triad or something. Did some more things you might come to regret, or…or got killed by 426."
"Ya cared about that?"
"Of course I did. I wanted to give you a chance to think it over. Did it help?" She bent to look at Bean as he still sat behind the wheel of the Charger.
"Yeah. Not right away, but it all kinda fell into place. 426 knew about your rifle, and I remembered you hadn't ever had it out've the trunk, and then I kinda…" He looked at the scabbed knuckles on his right hand.
"Oh! Of course, O'Toole saw my arsenal when he jimmied the lock and put the suitcase in! He was the only person other than you and May who knew those guns were there." She took a look at her rifle in the back seat; she had finally decided to put it into action since she was basically a deputized FBI agent, and Smith had not objected. "He went straight to the Dragons when he thought Brown was dead, and he told them everything he knew."
"Yeah. He was a gabbler. I gotta tell you something, Vincent. I told 426 you did Huang."
"You did?"
"Yep." Bean took off his sunglasses, slowly, and met her eyes. "He asked me and I told him. I still thought you might've done it to shut Huang up, and that's what I said. Seemed like he already thought so anyway—guess O'Toole told him it was your bullet, but I think I must've confirmed it for him. Like, now he's got no doubt."
"Oh…my God."
"I know there ain't no way to even out somethin' like that, Vincent, and I never should've opened my fool mouth. I know ya never meant to kill the guy. It was an accident an' all."
"But…I didn't do it."
"What?"
"I didn't do it. Huang was not killed by a bullet from my gun. It was a .32, but the ballistics tests proved it wasn't from my gun."
Bean's eyes narrowed, brows descending, and a snarl lifted the corner of his lip. "That little shit of a Mick."
"Exactly."
"Well, that ain't so bad then." His snarl began to relax. "426'll have seen the test results too, and he'll know it wasn't you. The Mick's dead already, so—"
"He hasn't seen the results."
"Hey, that guy gets all the info he wants."
"Not this particular bit. The FBI hasn't disclosed the results even to me—I only know it because May stole a copy of the report from Wesson, who was hiding it. Not even Smith knows yet. I've done my best to hint to Smith that he should investigate, but the rescue is much more on his mind right now. I really doubt that 426 knows I'm innocent. If that would even make a difference to him."
Bean's gaze slid away from hers, his teeth clenching. "Damn," he said, lips barely moving.
"Bean…if O'Toole told him the same thing, it's not like it's your fault 426 blames Huang's death on me."
"You let me figure what's my damn fault on my own, Vincent."
"OK, you feel guilty on your own agenda, then! The way you rank your priorities—you don't seem to think that threatening to kill someone over money is any problem at all!"
"I told you, the rules—"
"Yeah, the rules." Rally sighed. "It's not like anyone ever taught you better morals than the underground street code." She had to get off this subject, or she would start interrogating him about his past and probably destroy whatever communication they had now. "Is O'Toole really dead? It occurred to me…he wouldn't necessarily have been asked about Brown's houses, not until they lost their HQ. I know Brown had good security systems—O'Toole put them in. Would the Dragons have risked breaking into this house and setting off alarms? Doesn't it make more sense…that O'Toole is still alive, and was able to disarm the systems for them, or at least tell them how?"
"Alive? When a gas tank blew between his legs?" Bean made a snorting, ironic laugh in his throat. "Don't think I'd i want to be alive after that!"
"He wasn't at the scene of the crash. The cops didn't see him. The Dragons left their dead behind on the night of the fire. The only reason they would have picked O'Toole up, since he wasn't exactly an elite member, was that he was still alive."
She saw Bean grimace, his teeth showing white in the darkness. "Not that I'm cryin' about it, but he ain't in real good shape, if he's still kickin'."
"No. He's not going to make any more moves in this game. I don't think. Though he might be recovering somewhere under the Dragons' protection."
"Yeah, or they might've just beat it out've him and tossed him in a ditch somewhere."
"I would not put anything past 426," said Rally. "The stories Larry Sam's been telling to Smith…"
"I heard some about him, calling around. Like, he don't care if he kills kids." Bean showed his teeth again. "More like, he gets off on killin' kids."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Bean cracked his knuckles and picked at a scab. "But he'll kill anybody, naturally, and he does it nice and slow any chance he gets. Electricity and blowtorches and piano wire, stuff like that. Got lots'a gadgets that he makes for the purpose—a real handyman. His rep alone makes the other Chink gangs get the hell out've the way."
"But you… Bean, did you think you were going to have to stay behind while I escaped?" Rally sat in the car again and turned to him. "In the Dragon's parking garage, when you got me my gun? When you knew what 426 was like? Did you figure you would I exchange yourself for me? What if they'd captured you alive?"
Bean shrugged, still picking at scabs and rubbing a little of his blood into his fingertips.
"Oh, come on! Talk to me!"
"Wasn't like I was gonna figure all that into it. It had to get done, so I did it."
Rally covered her mouth, taking a gasping breath. Forgiving him for what he'd said? It was beginning to look distinctly inadequate. "Bean, did I thank you for saving my life?"
"Yeah, but I was just coverin' my obli—"
"Thank you for saving my life, Bean. I bet they were going to try to find out where that missing money was, too, weren't they?"
"Yep. When I called in, they said you were there, and that no one was gonna get to kill you 'til 426 got the info. The guys were supposed to soften you up first, but that was it. I said OK, I understood, so when I made like I was gonna shoot you, they figured I was just jokin' around. Like, playin' a mock execution before gettin' the ball rollin'—uh, so to speak."
"O'Toole didn't think so."
"Nah, I guess they didn't tell the Mick much." Bean laughed quietly.
"So you not only saved me from gang-rape, you saved me from being tortured to death by a man who really enjoys his job and thought I'd killed his young lover!"
"Lover?" Bean's tone expressed mild derision. "The Chink's a faggot, huh?"
Rally's rising opinion of him suffered a slight puncture, and she touched a couple of knuckles to her mouth, trying to phrase it correctly. "Bean, I am only going to tell you this once more. I don't like all those racial slurs and other impolite terms you use. I understand that's just the way you talk, and I doubt you actually care enough about what other people are, or do, to be a genuine racist or gay-hater or anything, but I don't like it. O'Toole called me a—a Paki, and I have to admit I'm a little sensitive about that kind of thing."
"Oh. Uh…what's that mean, anyway?"
"It's a crude way of saying Pakistani, which is what my father is." Bean did not seem to link the name to anything with which he was familiar, looking from side to side and squinting as if at a very fuzzy mental map of the world. "Pakistan. It's between India and Afghanistan and Iran and it has a northeastern border with China. South Asia?" He shrugged. "Never mind. He was born in England anyway."
"Other side of the freakin' planet, lady. I'll stick with the States." He looked out the windshield with the hint of a sigh. "Chicago, if I got my druthers."
"I sympathize, Bean, because I want to go home too!" Impulsively, without thinking, Rally patted his shoulder. He turned his head abruptly and their eyes met. Even in the darkness, she could see the startled question in his expression.
The last time she had touched him had been with a fierce slap in the face, her lips still tingling from the impact of his. Instantly she withdrew her hand, face burning. "Ah…uh…"
She looked away, hearing Bean let out a breathy sigh. Rattled, and resigned too. At least he knew the score, because she was blowing hot and cold on him again. Rally gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. Hadn't she made a decision here? That no matter how disturbing she found him, she wouldn't let it affect her judgment? He was as out of bounds as he had ever been—more so. When she opened her eyes, the radio light was on.
"Oops!" Rally picked up the handset. "Batmobile!"
"You falling asleep there?" said Smith. "It's nine P.M. and we're making our move. We got the code words, we got the actor to do the voice, and 426 bit the bait. He's promised it's just negotiation, but naturally we know better. Wesson and Manichetti are heading to the meeting place he specified, as are a phalanx of agents. When I call you next, it's H-hour."
"We're ready." Rally loosened her CZ75 in the holster; she had not been able to replace the lost spare mag with another pre-ban 15-rounder, so she had two nine-rounders in addition to the full-size one already in the butt.
"We're ready," echoed Wojohowicz over the radio. "We can roll any time."
"Good," said Smith "Hold that thought."
Rally's cell phone rang again. "It's me," said May's voice. "We switched nightclubs, at the invitation of one of my old customers…and we have struck gold!"
"Great! You're just in time!"
"What?" said Smith.
"That's May on my cell." Rally tucked the phone between jaw and shoulder. "We're getting ready to go, May. What have you heard?"
"I know where 426 is! I recognized him from your description!"
"What the hell is she doing?" barked Smith. "Where the hell is she?"
"In a nightclub with Roy. You saw 426, May? Where?"
"Halfway across the room! He came in and sat down not five minutes ago! I scuttled to the can as soon as I could!"
"What? Oh, my God! May, the decoy operation is going down right where you are! Get out of there!"
"Huh?" said May and Smith simultaneously.
"Wesson and Manichetti are going to meet 426 there! It could be BAD!"
"But…but it's going to attract attention if I just pack up and go! I've been the belle of the room ever since I got here! 426 doesn't know me anyway."
"Don't be so sure! He's got good information, according to Bean, and…look, a Dragon saw you in Buttonkettle, when he put the tracer in the Cobra! Probably Huang! 426 KNOWS who you are!"
"Oh, shit!" Rally could hear May's breathing accelerate. "OK, OK—I have to contact Roy!" She clicked off.
Rally let out a shaky breath. "Oh, damn." She put the phone away and touched a hand to her forehead. "Please, let them get out of there all right…"
"I'll second that!" bellowed Smith. "They could fuck this whole thing up! Why the hell didn't they clear this stunt with me? That halfwit bumbler of a so-called police detective! I'm going to have his balls on a plate!"
"It's my fault, Pete! I suggested it! There is nothing we can do about it right now from where we are, so I'd suggest you calm down!"
"Aw, Christ! I thought you had some SENSE!" Smith seemed to be winding down, but his voice still grated on her ears. "Sending that little baby girl out on a sniffing expedition! Sweet fucking Jeezus…"
"OK, Agent, if you've yelled enough by now, go get a cup of coffee or something and think over the next move! Talk to us when you have something useful to say—like, 'Go for the house'!"
"Rrrr…"
"Oh, and tell me the code words before you sign off!"
"Uh…aw, crap…Lin is his name. Lin Shaoqi—that's 'shouw-chur', more or less, and he has sometimes gone by 'Alexander Lin'. Straight from Larry Sam."
"Thanks, Pete. Over and out!" Rally put the handset down and scribbled the name in her notebook. "Alexander? Like, the conqueror of the known world? Don't sell yourself short, Lin Shaoqi!"
"The squirt's catchin' Dragons?" said Bean. "Shee-it."
"Neither of us had any idea that 426 would go nightclubbing right now! Why did he pick that for a meeting place? Oh…probably because it's Triad turf, so Brown won't try anything funny. Best he could do for now." Rally closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, lacing her fingers and stretching her arms out to relax her tensing muscles. "I did not need to find this out right before we have to go…"
Bean grunted.
"No, I am not so worried that I'm going to fall down on the job! That's not your concern anyway. All you have to do is drive." Rally checked her guns and flipped the CZ75's safety on and off.
"Yep."
The radio light blinked and Smith came in again. "I've warned everyone about Coleman and your partner. No word from them?"
"No. I'd imagine they are sweating pretty hard right now."
"Serves 'em damn right. We'll do what we can to help. May not be much."
"That's honest of you."
"I got to call it the way I see it. Bean there?"
"Sure. Where else?"
"Put him on."
Rally passed Bean the handset, then put on a small radio headset and tested her channel to Furillo and Wojohowicz. "Batmobile."
"Adam-12," said Wojohowicz. "Roger."
"You want to say somethin', Smith?" said Bean.
"Bandit, I'm sure Miss Rally has told you I'm not going to arrest you. This time."
"Yeah."
"That promise will hold, in my case, for twenty-four hours after this operation terminates. Get the hell out of my territory before that deadline expires. Understand?"
"I heard you."
"And you do not give a shit." Smith chuckled. "I knew that. Just giving you fair warning. I like to play by the rules."
"Fine with me." Bean gave the handset back to Rally.
"OK, the task force is at the nightclub," said Smith. "Wesson and Manichetti both have wires, so I can monitor every word. Listen up."
"Roger."
"They are past the doorman—big tip from Wesson. My poor goddamn budget…ha. They see 426 with three flunkies."
"How about May and Roy?"
"Not yet…no. Your friends are not in the main room."
"Whew."
"426 sees Wesson. Now's the moment of truth." There was a tense silence, which drew out like a held breath. "He seems to buy it. He thinks it's his good friend. They're still fifty feet away in a dim club. Obviously they can't get much closer without trouble, so here's where the dance begins. Keep your fingers crossed, because Bob's going to need all the luck he can get. 426 is signaling to his flunkies and speaking into a cell. Everyone's getting up."
Bean cracked his knuckles.
"OK, we've intercepted his call…translator's speaking—he's ordering every Dragon in the area to converge on the nightclub. We'll wait for them to assemble, and come down on 'em like a ton of bricks! We have them! This is the last of the Eight Dragon Triad!"
"Yes!" Rally pumped a fist in the air. "It worked!"
"OK, give 'em five minutes to get on the road—mark."
"Mark." She let the seconds tick off, heart accelerating. Four minutes, three, two, one. This was it!
"You are cleared for action, Adam-12, Batmobile," came Smith's voice at last. "Dragons concentrating in Chinatown! The biggest fucking bust in my fucking career!"
"Adam-12 in action," said Furillo.
"Batmobile in action." Rally sprang out and slung her shotgun.
"Hit 'em hard, sugar. Godspeed." Smith signed off.
Rally stepped lightly to the top of a plastic garbage can and boosted herself over the gate at the side of Brown's house. On the other side were more garbage cans, in the parking area in front of the huge detached garage, but the drop was only eight feet, so she landed softly with bent knees and went into a defensive crouch.
The Bugatti was here, and the Diablo, and a number of other cars more notable for expensive design than engineering. On the other side of the house, she heard a slight sound—Furillo and Wojohowicz breaking in. All the windows facing her were dark and curtained. Rally kept low and scrambled for the cellar door in the rear.
This was a venerable house, going on a hundred years old—it had sunken basement windows in a stone foundation and a slanted pair of wooden doors over a large exterior cellar opening. It was locked, as she had figured, and she waited until she heard three quick taps over her earphone. Three quick taps back were answered by one.
Rally knocked gently on the cellar door with her shotgun butt and flattened against the wall of the house, partially concealed by a bush. Someone unlocked the door from inside and eased the right-hand one open an inch. Rally grabbed the handle and yanked it, exposing a surprised young Vietnamese with a Glock-7.
Before he could yell, she jumped out and rammed her shotgun butt at his face, hitting square. He grunted and fell halfway out the opening, his gun skiddering across the concrete of the parking area. Rally chopped the edge of her hand at the nerve point at the base of his neck, and he went limp.
She bound his wrists with a plastic flex, taped his mouth, turned on the tactical light attached to her ten-gauge and aimed the shotgun through the cellar door, moving slowly to avoid creaking the wooden stairs. At the same time, the two black-clad FBI agents advanced down the kitchen stairs with their own tactical lights, and they and Rally moved between piled boxes and gardening equipment towards the concrete-block-walled section of the basement Manichetti had drawn on his house map.
It had one door, one barred window, and a dirt floor. Built as a cell, apparently, more recently than the field-stone basement walls. She didn't want to think about what Brown had done with a cell in his basement.
She could smell something already—the pit toilet the guards had dug in the floor to avoid using the water and setting off the utility meters. The whole basement reeked of it. Rally wrinkled her nose and pointed to the hinge side of the inward-opening door.
Furillo took up position where she had indicated, his shotgun ready, and Wojohowicz stealthily placed a microphone on the lower part of the door. Listening for about sixty seconds, she moved her eyes back and forth, then nodded, gave Rally a thumbs-up and moved behind Furillo, drawing her ten-millimeter. Rally crouched and counted down with three upraised fingers. Index, middle, ring—
WHAM! Furillo kicked the door open, yelling "FBI! FBI!" and Rally rolled inside, immediately followed by the agents.
BOOM! Furillo fired a baton round at one of two startled guards who rose from chairs drawn up to a battery-operated television set. The mother and child huddled on a cot, ankles and wrists duct-taped, and the other guard lay on a cot at the opposite end of the room.
BOOM! Rally fired her own baton round at the other television watcher and pumped the grip. She had one baton more in the magazine, and then buck loads. Both guards were struck, and fell gasping. The one who had been lying down lunged up, yanking out an automatic as Rally swung the shotgun to the right and reached into her jacket, her CZ75 flashing out almost too quickly to be seen, aiming and pulling the trigger in one smooth movement.
KRAK KRAK said the CZ75 as Wojohowicz flung herself at the cot where the mother and child lay, shielding them with her body. It was a gallant but unnecessary act, for the gunman had already lost his right thumb to a nine-millimeter. He dropped his gun and screamed, and both Furillo and Rally nailed him with baton rounds.
"FBI rescue squad!" said Wojohowicz to the hostages. "We're here to free you!" She ripped their bonds with a knife and jammed it back into her ankle sheath as Rally and Furillo secured the guards. "Put these on!" Unlimbering a backpack, she gave Sarah Brown a Kevlar vest and pulled a small one over Tiffany Brown's head.
Rally took a quick look at them; she recognized both from the photograph in Bean's wallet, though Tiffany had filled out a little. Beautiful blond woman, her loveliness nearly unmarred by dirt and tear-streaks, and a pretty, rosy child wearing a torn dress. Their eyes were wide, the mother's fearful and the girl's sparkling with excitement.
Rally smiled at them. "Let's go!"
Wojohowicz picked Tiffany up. "I want Baby Bear!" the girl yelled, struggling. "Rescue Baby Bear too!"
"What?"
"Baby Bear!" She pointed at a stuffed animal under the cot. Rally picked it up and tossed it to her, then led the way to the cellar stairs, Wojohowicz carrying Tiffany and the girl cradling her teddy.
With a careful scan through the dark yard, Rally waved the group up the stairs. Furillo split off from them and headed up the block to his car, and the women dashed across the street to the Charger with the little girl.
Bean turned on the ignition as they approached but not the headlights, to avoid spotlighting them. On the flat roof, the two lookouts yelled and wildly fired shotguns, pellets zipping through the air.
Rally turned and fired her ten-gauge. BOOM! BOOM! The huge buck loads broke a third-floor window, scarred the parapet and peppered the lookouts. They dropped behind the parapet, yelping. Wojohowicz hustled the Browns into the back seat, buckled them up and piled in as Rally got into the front passenger seat.
Almost before the doors were closed, Bean leaped the Hemi Charger out of the driveway with a tremendous roar—425 horsepower nearly taking them airborne as the equivalent torque grabbed the wheels.
Rally struggled to fasten her seatbelt and took her prized SIG SSG 551-P sniper rifle from Wojohowicz as the Charger landed in the street and swerved left. Twenty rounds in the translucent plastic magazine and twenty more in each of two other clips secured to the sides of the first—it was possible that a mile-and-a-half ride would require more than sixty shots, but it seemed unlikely.
Rally rolled down the window and checked the view through the starlight scope. Nearly as clear as day. They were still accelerating, Bean aiming the Charger down a hill, and suddenly took another left at about ninety. SKREE! sang the tires. Bean pulled the wheel around and back in a swift, even motion, letting it spin through his gloved hands with a whistling note barely audible over the engine's massive sound.
They had a pursuer, taking the turn after them—no, two. One BMW Z3, one Porsche 911. That was it. The Dragons had been caught flat-footed with the decoy operation going on at the same time! Just as intended!
Rally picked up the radio handset to report in to Smith. "Batmobile to Commissioner. We're on the road, with two bogies on our six. All personnel intact!"
"Good!" replied Smith. "Adam-12 reports two on his tail as well. We're moving cars to intercept him. You are running free!"
"Batarangs away," said Rally, sighting on the right front tire of the Z3 and squeezing the trigger. KRAK! Her .223 penetrated the tire—to no visible effect. "What? Oh, boy! Run-flats!"
She peered through the scope again. Driver, one passenger, the Z3 taking swerving evasion and falling behind. The passenger slid a rifle out the window and fired at the Charger. ZIIP! The bullet skimmed the roof with a whining scrape. "Shit! I'm going to have to fire at the people, not just the car!" The mother hugged her little girl tightly, squeezing the teddy bear between them.
"Baby Bear feels squished!" Tiffany complained.
"You ain't tellin' me you got a problem here?" said Bean.
"No." Rally gritted her teeth, sighted, and fired twice. KRAK KRAK! The Z3's windshield exploded, the driver's arm flinging over his eyes and the car veering wildly. The passenger dropped his rifle, grabbed the wheel, and coasted to a stop as the 911 passed the BMW. Headlights coming up the street towards them. Civilians or otherwise? Probably otherwise, but she couldn't shoot unless she knew for sure!
"Out of the game?" said Bean, looking in his rear-view and pressing the accelerator, taking the Charger up to about a hundred and thirty on the straightaway.
"Glass in the eyes, I think!" Rally aimed at the Porsche just as Bean took a third left to avoid the three oncoming cars. KRAKKRAKKRAK! Three-round horizontal burst into a single tire—it might have been run-flat or not, but a trio of .223s would blow anything! It exploded and flapped, and the Porsche, trying to make the turn, ran up on the curb and slammed into a parked car.
The oncoming cars overshot the intersection and pulled spinning reverses to make the turn, hurtling after the Charger. More Dragons, for certain! Rally put the crosshairs of the starlight scope on them. SKREEE! Bean took a right at about a hundred miles an hour, tires screaming, and she held her fire until she would have a clear shot again. The radio light blinked.
"Problem," said Smith. "Wesson is blown already!"
"What?"
"He was going to keep his distance and draw the Dragons outside where the other agents could take over. Didn't work! 426 was pretty suspicious, it seems, got too close, realized it wasn't kosher, and there's a firefight going on inside! No one's seen your friends, inside or out!"
"Oh…shit."
"You do what you need to do! But expect every damn Dragon in the city on your ass, because 426 is issuing orders to that effect!"
"All right, we will!" KRAK KRAKRAKKRAK! The lead BMW approached; she took windshield and front tire out, and it hit a tree and flipped. The next car hit it as it tumbled across the road, and the third slowed and evaded the pileup. The buildings changed from expensive houses to ground-floor stores and apartment buildings.
Bean roared up a precipitous hill, the third car gaining as the Charger slowed on the slope, and dodged cross traffic at a lighted intersection. These streets were narrow four-laners, rutted and patched, with cable car tracks in the center and the curbs lined solid with parked cars. They came out at the top of the hill at high speed, barely missing a Muni bus, and jumped the crosswalk with a crash, suspension nearly bottoming out. The Dragons followed at a prudent distance.
"Oh…Oh, my GOD!" screamed Sarah Brown. "H-he's insane! This driver is a crazy man! Stop! I want to get out!"
"Calm down, ma'am," said Wojohowicz, smiling at the back of Bean's head. "My boss says he knows what he's doing, and he ought to know!" Rally wasn't entirely sure where they were, keeping her concentration on the remaining pursuer. The passenger had a cell phone pressed to his ear and an automatic in his right hand. Descending an equally precipitous downslope, Bean wove through traffic and scraped the tailpipes at every flat-graded intersection.
"Shocks are about gone," he said, and took a right. "This jalopy's gonna need a real restore job! Too much engine for the suspension!"
"You still aiming for the staging area? This is way out of the cleared zone!"
"We're a little out of our way," said Bean, grinning. "Headin' in the right direction, though. This is turning out kinda fun." He skimmed the shoulder of the hill and blasted through knots of traffic, horns honking at him. The pursuer stayed back, the passenger still calling in their location, and Rally grimaced. Far too many civilians around for gunplay!
"I get the feeling we're going to have some more company in no time," she said. "Did you do that on purpose?"
"More the merrier." Bean applied the brakes as the traffic grew thick. Rally felt a slip in the mechanism and shot a look at him. "Yeah, they're balky, like Smith said. Oughta hold out for a while."
"They'd better! You overconfident—!"
"Me, overconfident?" Bean looked at the rear-view. "We got two more, babe. Rockin'!"
"Where are we going?" said Tiffany's small voice, not sounding particularly frightened. "I like going fast."
Rally saw Bean grin slightly in the rear-view. "So do I, kid."
"This is too much!" wailed Sarah. "This isn't safe! I want to get out of this car!"
"I want to ride some more!" said Tiffany. "Baby Bear likes going fast, too." She held her teddy bear up to the window. "Look at the stuff going by fast!"
"Aaaahhh!" shrieked her mother, flattening on the seat as Bean swerved violently to the left to avoid another Muni bus and slipped between it and a panel truck. "Aaaaahh! We're all going to die!"
"Be quiet, ma'am," said Wojohowicz, sounding nearly as excited as the girl. "Not too much farther. Here, while we can—change clothes with me."
"E-excuse me?" stammered Sarah.
"To confuse the Dragons about which is which, dear. Just in case. You take my fatigues." Wojohowicz began to unzip her jumpsuit.
Sarah looked the muscular, broad-shouldered FBI agent up and down. "Uh…my blouse and slacks are awfully dirty…"
"Come on, lady, strip!" shouted Rally, looking in the back. "She doesn't care!"
Bean raised his brows with a smile as both women shed their clothes down to underwear and re-dressed in each other's clothes. Wojohowicz wore a beige sports bra and briefs, her abdominals washboard-tight, and Sarah Brown had a slim, creamy-skinned body, her perfect breasts cradled in an deep-scooped pink lace underwire bra. Her panties were a little more modest, but nearly exposed the crack of her behind. Bean checked the mirrors, grinning at every flash of bare skin.
"Hey! Eyes on the road!"
He laughed, darting a sly look at Rally. "This job's got some perks!"
"Lech!" she spluttered.
He kept laughing. "Jealous, babe?"
"Bean!" yelled Rally suddenly, pointing at two large dark cars that converged on an intersection directly ahead of them. "They're going to T-bone us!" Bean seemed to make a lightning calculation and pumped the brakes. SKREE! SKREEEEE! The Charger stopped reluctantly, pulling slightly to the right, and Bean reversed, steering right and making a 180 in the street. The two Dragons followed, and the car that had been pursuing roared towards them.
Would they be trapped between the three? The car ahead started a J-turn, obviously to block them, and Bean swerved right, two wheels jumping the curb, and squeezed by. A pair of SFPD patrol cars approached, sirens going; Bean split the lane between them and cracked off their rear-view mirrors as he went by.
"Pete!" Rally yelled into the radio. "Call off the cops! We're way outside the designated zone and they don't realize we're with the FBI!"
"Yeah, I know!" shouted Smith. "We got a hostage situation at the nightclub! I'm heading out there right now! I'll do what I can, but—" He broke off and she heard him yelling at someone else. "Faster, dammit! You call yourself a driver!"
"Hostage? Who—?"
"Your damn kid partner! There's a gun at her head!"
"May's been taken HOSTAGE! What about Roy?"
"Coleman's down, they say."
"What? Is he dead?"
"Don't know—"
"Vincent!" said Bean, pointing out the windshield. Another pair of Dragons approaching! Someone was calling this chase pretty well! Already they were too close for tire shots, the line obstructed by the Charger's bulging hood. KRAK KRAK! Rally angled the rifle out the window and shot twice across the hood, then swung her aim to the right and fired again. KRAK KRAK!
The driver of the left-hand car grabbed his shoulder and veered. The other car aimed at their front right despite a blown-out windshield; Bean swerved to the left into the space Rally had made for him and scraped past the Dragon. BRAAAP! Wojohowicz pushed Sarah and Tiffany down and shielded them as the rear-seat passenger blasted away with an Uzi.
Both of the Charger's rear passenger windows blew out. One of the pursuing Dragons took advantage of the slowdown and roared up on their rear left quarter, nosing to the right and pushing with his heavy Mercedes. Bean stepped on the gas to about seventy miles per hour and slipped out of range, but the passenger began to fire. BKAM! BKAM! Heavy reports, a .44 magnum aimed at their rear tires.
Bean jerked the car back and forth, avoiding the shots, and Rally pulled her rifle in again, switching her grip and shoving it between the front seats, resting the barrel on the frame of the blown-out left rear passenger window. KRAK! She took out the windshield, but the S500 paralleled them again, the passenger aiming the .44 magnum revolver at the engine compartment. Bean braked and fell back, his left front just overlapping their rear right, and slewed to the left, ramming steadily.
The S500's rear began to slide, then the car spun out of control and into the opposing traffic as Bean straightened his path. KRASSH! A taxicab hit the S500 broadside. Three Dragons followed them now, strung out in a line, and Bean took a right, then another a block later, getting back on course.
The Charger's brakes began to fade badly, the calipers screeching and juddering, and Bean sideswiped a parked car on the second corner, the Charger understeering despite his iron grip on the wheel. "Shit," he muttered. For the first time, Rally thought she saw a hint of doubt on his face.
"Pete?" said Rally into the radio. "How is—"
"Can't talk!" yelled Smith. "426's escaping! Take care of your end!"
Two more SFPD cars took a corner and roared up behind them, between the Charger and the Dragons. "Oh, shit!" Rally frantically changed frequencies on the radio and picked up the police dispatcher.
"Perp headed east on Pine! All units—"
"Walnut-47, in pursuit!"
"Bravo-151, in pursuit! It's THAT ASSHOLE WITH THE JAW!"
"THE FUCKWAD WITH THE RED CAR! IT'S HIM!" yelled the first car.
"Shit! KILL him!" said another cop.
"Nail his ass to the WALL!" someone else shouted. "The motherfucker wrecked a couple dozen units! Let's show him what the San Francisco Police Department is made of!"
"Black Charger, license plate B-A-D-C-A-T-Z! Rolling roadblock! Go!"
"This is the Charger!" interjected Rally. "FBI operation! Hostage rescue! Back off!"
"What the fuck?" Two more SFPD cars fell in behind them.
"Stuff it, lady! This is the SFPD! You and your asshole boyfriend are TOAST! Pull over!"
One car tried to push into their rear left quarter, its reinforced bumper scraping theirs, but Bean swerved and evaded it.
"We've got armed gang pursuit and a child in the car!" screamed Rally. "FUCKING BACK OFF!"
"Huh?" yelped a cop. "A kid?"
Bean's face had gone savage; he lashed the Charger's rear into the pursuing police car. Two more police cars falling in behind!
"Don't believe her!" said a furious voice. "She's fucking with you! He's trying to bash us!"
"All units, observe department pursuit policy!" said the dispatcher.
The closest police car tried to push the Charger again. Bean let off the gas, fell back, rammed the wheel to the left and sent the police car into a spin. Another hit it, the others zooming past followed by the three Dragons.
"Bean, NO! Don't mess with the cops!"
"Then get 'em the HELL out of my way!" he yelled back.
"Grind him into paste!" squawked the radio in a chorus of voices. "He crippled Tony White! He—"
"Back off! Back off!" yelled Rally in desperation. "FBI operation!"
"All units, break off pursuit!" said the dispatcher. "The Charger is undertaking an FBI operation! This is straight from the Chief! Repeat, break off pursuit!"
"Thank you, Pete!" said Rally.
"Aw, what is this bullshit!"
"Breaking off! Shit!"
"Morales, break off! You heard!"
"Kiss my ass! He just wrecked two more units! That's no FBI car!"
Rally realized that some of the cops had passed the threshold of reason—their high-racing adrenaline had overcome their training, and they were too involved in the chase as a contest. Not to mention the serious grudge they had against Bean! They'd be disciplined later, doubtless, but in the mean time, they were putting both themselves and bystanders into danger. The Dragons began to move up, edging between the police cars as two of them fell back and two kept pursuing.
"Who the hell is that?" yelled a cop.
"Late model BMW 725i—hey, that guy's got a shotgun!" Rally saw the police car's side window blow out with a buck load, and it veered away. One SFPD car still stuck on the Charger's tail, the driver snarling at them, and bashed their rear end.
"Asshole," remarked Bean, and before she could stop him, he let off the gas and slid back along the police car's side. KRAAASSHH! Bean slewed left and sent the car into the opposite lane of traffic. It swerved back on course, barely avoiding a collision, and the driver's partner aimed a shotgun out the window.
"Goddammit, Bean! Don't do that! That's a cop!"
"He's gettin' on my nerves, babe!"
"Just keep your damn temper!" Rally checked the car's number and yelled into the radio. "Bravo-151! There is a child in this car! DON'T SHOOT!"
Tiffany popped her head up to look out the rear. "That's me! I'm a child!" Wojohowicz grabbed her and pulled her back down.
"Pull the fuck over! Pull over!" The three Dragons were still tailing, right behind the police car, and one more, a black Mercedes, came into view in the rear.
"We can't pull over! Those are gang cars full of armed hoods! Talk to your dispatcher! All of your buddies have seen the light!"
"Pull the fuck over!" the driver screamed, trying to get in position to nudge them.
Rally gritted her teeth, put the handset down and aimed the rifle out the window.
"No!" said Agent Wojohowicz in horror. "You can't take out a cop!"
"He's working on taking US out! Look, it's just a warning shot! I'm not going to shoot a cop, no matter how much of a jerk he is!" Rally sighted and fired twice. The police car's side-view mirrors shattered, and she grabbed the handset again. "Back off! Goddammit, I am serious! You are interfering with an official FBI operation! You do NOT know who you are tangling with here!"
"That's for damn sure," muttered Bean, taking a veering left with brakes nearly useless, driving a hazardous wide line through the corner. "We're almost there. Four-five blocks on a straightaway!"
"Thank God! The FBI can take them all on!"
The Charger aimed down a steep hill, Bean downshifting to control his speed. The brakes did nothing. Soon they were going a little too fast for even Rally's comfort, the night whipping by in a blur of lighted windows and stoplights. Bean's hands held the wheel steady, though, steering the car smoothly around every obstacle, so their brakeless condition didn't panic her. Surely he could handle even this situation, though if something unexpected happened, all bets were off.
Suddenly, a Thunderbird pulled out of a bar's driveway fifty feet directly ahead, the driver looking right at them but seemingly not noticing the speeding Charger and its string of pursuers. She must be drunk!
"Bean!" Rally screamed.
He reacted instantly, rolling the wheel over to the left, but the Thunderbird kept pulling out. The driver sat apparently transfixed at the sight of a battered Hemi Charger, a police car and four large dark European sedans bearing down on her at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. The Charger scraped her front end at an angle with a horrendous GRRONCH of ripping metal.
Only the fact that Bean had turned in time saved them from the full deceleration; they kept going, only slightly slowed by the impact, but with bumpers tangled. The Charger skidded, rear end crossing the centerline into the opposite traffic lanes.
Bean began to straighten the wheel, amazingly cool, but the police car hit them and shoved the Charger into an oncoming truck. KRRAAASSHH! The truck struck the rear left quarter at about forty miles per hour and snapped the Charger into a reverse spin. Bean fought the wheel, his passengers thrown back and forth like dolls.
Rally's rifle flew out of her hands and into the foot well. Tiffany's teddy bear shot into the front and bounced off the dash as Wojohowicz slammed into the back of Rally's seat. Rally, forced forward, lost her wind with the impact and gasped, sharp pains jabbing her lungs. "Oww! BEAN!"
He did not reply, steering out of the skid and throwing the gearshift into reverse uphill to avoid the first three Dragons, who were now on top of him and hemming him in. One car passed them and reversed, pinning the Charger against the police car, and the other two roared up to their sides and boxed the Charger in.
One Dragon leaped out of each car, leaving the drivers behind the wheels, and the last car, the black Mercedes, pulled up and stopped behind the police car. Three machine guns aimed at Rally, Bean, and Wojohowicz. They were covered!
"Freeze," said a Dragon, grinning. "Well, well. The Roadbuster! Hands up, cowboy!" Bean looked right and left. "Drop the guns, bitches. Throw 'em out of the car!"
Wojohowicz, looking stunned and groggy, her nose bloody, tossed her ten-millimeter to the asphalt. Rally held no gun, so merely put her hands up, mind racing. The cops crawled out of their passenger door and waved their service automatics, obviously still overwrought from the chase.
"NO! Officer, DON'T—" Rally tried to snatch her CZ75 and aim at the machine guns in time to knock them aside, but she was too late. BBRRAAAPP! Two full-auto blasts caught the hapless cops in the chests and faces, and they fell, badly wounded, but still alive thanks to their body armor. Rally felt the muzzle of a MAC-10 jam against her right temple and raised her hands again.
"Mommy, that's gross," said Tiffany with some interest, peeking out the broken window at the bloodied cops writhing on the street. The drunken woman got out of the Thunderbird and stumbled to the sidewalk, where she vomited.
"Stay down, Tiffany!" hissed Rally.
"Drop the gun, bitch! Throw it out here!" The MAC-10 poked her, and she let the CZ75 fall out the window.
Another man pressed an Uzi into Bean's skull from behind. "Don't you make a single move, Roadbuster! Keep your hands in sight!"
The doors of the Mercedes opened as the Dragon spoke, and a young man got out of the passenger side and stood guard with a MP5K as one more Dragon emerged from the rear passenger seat.
"Sir! We have them! Both the Roadbuster and the bounty hunter, and the hostages as well! The police have withdrawn and our field is clear!"
"So I see." The senior Dragon stood up, the grey in his short hair gleaming silver in the white headlights; he took out a pair of black leather gloves from his suit jacket and put them on with a deliberate, slow, flexing motion of his fingers.
He looked at Rally, then at Bean, who sat with hands outstretched on the wheel, breathing hard through a furious snarl. "Excellent. All the treasure I seek held in one purse, and in my hand. I may not be able to enjoy it for as long as I would wish—not nearly as long as I would wish. Still, you have done well."
He nodded at the men, then turned back to look at his captives, his eyes displaying that quality Rally had described to May. Something almost pure, almost unalloyed: hatred, cold fury, death. 426's eyes were at that moment the windows to his soul, provided a hell like that could be called a soul. If red flames had burned within them, echoing the pictures Rally's mind called up from the depths of her own nightmares, she would not have been surprised.
"I am pleased." And 426 smiled.
