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 Twenty-Eight

"Aw, shit…somebody pick up that damn phone!" Rally pulled a pillow over her head to muffle the horrible clanging noise in her ears. Mouth like a busted sand barrel, head like a Yugo: creaking and shaking, spinning out at the gentlest turn and weighing about a thousand pounds.

"Oh, please. Stop it. I'll do anything!" She fumbled for the handset and dragged it under the pillow. "Oh, um, hi—" She coughed and cleared her clogged throat. "This is Rally."

"Uh-oh. I told him I'd be waking you up. How are you feeling?"

"Vanessa?" Rally sat up, regretted it, and lay back down. "Good, um, morning. Oh, crap…"

"Maybe you'd better go drink some water, sis. Sounds like you should wash down a couple of Tylenols too."

"Yeah, yeah…when I can walk. You told who something? Larry?"

"He'd really like to see you before you go. I know you said you were leaving this morning, but the front desk keeps saying you haven't checked out yet, and since it's ten already—"

"It is? Oh, geez. There goes the early start…ow." Rally rolled upright with great care and immediately stuck her head between her knees.

"Can you meet him for brunch? He'll pick you up if you don't feel like driving."

"Oh, God, food? I don't know…"

"Rally, will you please just talk to him for a few minutes? He needs to hear it from you." Vanessa sighed. "You know what I mean. I've been trying to prepare him since about seven A.M, but I don't think he's going to believe his own sister on a question like this one."

"Ohhh, God…all right. I get you, sis. Yes, of course he does." She smacked her lips and tried to moisten her tongue. "Oh, yuck. I'll feel better when I've showered, OK? Just tell me where he wants to meet."

She took down the address, vigorously brushed her teeth, drank six glasses of water, washed up, quickly fixed her hair and threw open the closet to select an outfit. Not too casual since she was eating out, not too fancy—after all, it was Monday morning. Above all, not too sexy. What on earth did you wear to tell a guy you didn't want to marry him?

Finally she put on hose, her usual lace-up leather walking shoes, a tailored pair of Bermuda shorts that reached to just above the knee and a white knit top with little crocheted lace insets at the not-too-low-scoop neck. She got out her beautiful new CZ75, combat-loaded it and holstered the gun and the two extra magazines under a cute embroidered jacket she'd gotten as a gift. After dressing, she knocked on May's door to tell her where she was going and to start packing, because she intended to get on the road by noon.

Driving to the restaurant, she ran over what she was going to say. As long as she stuck to message or light conversation, everything should go as well as any conversation like this could go. Larry would take no for an answer and not make a scene. Every word of his near-proposal seemed to be printed on her brain, but she remained clear and firm on her main point. 'You're a nice guy, but…'

Not so clear in her mind was what had happened after Bean had broken things up and taken over the party single-handed. That was when she had started to drink in earnest. Rally groaned and inspected her tongue in the rear-view mirror, checking for fur. So he'd been working on driving her up a tree—what else was new? Even a straightforward, street-smart woman like Sue Wojohowicz had discovered that Bean Bandit packed too powerful an engine under his hood for her to handle. Rally wondered what that implied about her own relationship with him.

'But I like the not-so-nice guy better, because even aside from the sheer helpless animal chemistry factor, to be perfectly frank I'm not that nice myself and your otherwise potentially sterling career in the FBI might suffer if you had a a firearms nut who engages in only debatably law-abiding bounty hunting activities for a wife; and your parents and siblings, even though they are as nice as you are and seem to like me very much, are sure to pressure me to have multiple offspring and get the guns and ammo out of the house, for heaven's sake; and constantly shake their heads over my association with a cat burglar, a shady information broker and an ex-prostitute with a bomb fetish who happen to be my best friends in the world.'

So why had she ever had the illusion that a nice, normal life was even possible for her? Or that she had ever truly wanted one? It didn't take an attachment to Bean Bandit to figure that out…

Hadn't she chased him down the sidewalk? Called him names…and then told him, more or less directly, that she loved him too much to marry another man?

So much for not weakening. Rally's tires screeched as she hit the brakes for a red light she hadn't seen coming. She put her hand over her mouth and searched through ragged bits of memory.

She'd been drunk out of her skull. Angry, dead tired, running on fumes…she might have said anything. Imagined anything. She and Wojohowicz had definitely fooled around in the bathroom at some point, but at least she hadn't gone to bed with Bean. Rally's eyes went wide. Well, she was pretty sure she hadn't, because if she had let him into her hotel room, he would have stayed right there with her all night.

He'd asked, though, hadn't he? Rally trembled. Had he ever. No matter what else had dissolved in alcohol last night, no matter what she'd thought or said about it, there was no way she could have forgotten how Bean had cradled her in his arms, warmed her to the bone and whispered her name in a hoarse, sensual rasp.

Poor Larry. She spotted him waiting in front of the restaurant, gave him a cheery wave and looked for a parking space.


"So how'd it go?" May looked up from her packing with a tentative grin.

"We had a nice talk." Rally sighed, shut the door and leaned against it. "He's such a sweet guy…"

"But you told him."

"Yes, I told him." Rally advanced into May's room, tossed her purse on the bed and threw her jacket on top of it. "He didn't seem surprised, really. Or angry. He just nodded and looked sad, and he even gave me a present."

"Oh, golly. Guilt trip, huh?"

"No, not at all. He handed it to me right as we were leaving. It was like he didn't want to see me open it. So I stuck it in my purse and went by the Federal Building on the way back. Both Smith and Wojohowicz called in sick this morning." She rolled her eyes. "But Agent Furillo cleared me to use the shooting range for a little while."

"Sighting in the new gun? I hope that cheered you up."

"Yes, I'd have to say it did. Oh, it's a beautiful thing." Rally drew it just to admire it, the steel shimmering in the sunlight reflected through the sliding glass doors. "The levers are just the right length and it feels so stable in my grip. I was putting them all into one half-inch hole at twenty-five yards. Did my heart good." Her eyes widened as she cradled the gun. "Darn, that looks like a little scrape there on the slide. My poor baby!" She breathed on the tiny flaw and rubbed it with a tissue. "Mama will make it all better! Oh good, it was just a smudge."

"So are you going to look at Larry's present?"

"I don't know. Maybe later." Fingerprints buffed away, the CZ75 went back in the holster and she took off the harness to hang it up in May's closet. "I'll help you finish packing, and then you can help me with the Mount Everest of cute outfits and home décor. It's a jungle in there."

"What are you afraid it's going to be, Rally?"

"Best case scenario? More jade jewelry."

"You've got shoeboxes full already."

"Uh-huh. He must know that…oh well. More stock for the thrift store!"

"What's the worst case scenario? Maybe he couldn't return the engagement ring except for store credit?"

"You look straight into my nightmares, don't you?" Rally retrieved her purse and took out the little white box. "Here it is. I guess I'd better get it over with." She tore off the ribbon and opened the lid. "Huh?"

"Ooh, lemme see!" May jumped up to look. "Huh?" she echoed.

Rally took out a folded bandanna, creased and smelling of cigarette smoke. "Larry gave me…Bean's bandanna?"

"Where would he have gotten that?"

"Uh…Bean gave it to him, as a matter of fact. What's in here?" She felt something small and hard inside the cloth. Rally unwrapped the bandanna, making many turns to disengage it from the contents. It wasn't one small hard item—it was two. She tipped them into her palm.

In the sunlight, a flash of darkest blue. "What the HELL?" It was the sapphire earrings, the ones Brown had given her and that she had refused to keep. There could not be two such sets of matched jewels in the world!

"Wow!" May's eyes opened wide.

"Holy shit. How did Larry get hold of—no, wait." Rally sat down hard, still holding the earrings. "Bean. Bean gave them to Larry to give to me. Oh, my God."

"All right!" May looked overjoyed. "You finally got them back!"

"I can't keep these! I have to turn them in to—"

"Who? The FBI? Is that who they belong to?"

"I…don't really know." Rally looked down at the earrings. "Brown bought them for me, and then I gave them right back to him. So they're NOT mine! I wouldn't keep a gold mine if Sly Brown gave it to me."

"He didn't! Tiffany had the earrings when we were being held together—she was playing with them for toys. She told me she gave them to Manichetti, and Manny must have given them to Bean…for some reason. And then Bean—"

"No! Ugh! Why did he have to do that? I'm going to kill him!"

"What's so terrible about having something that looks like it was made for you? Why shouldn't he pass them on to the rightful owner?"

"I guess he's not the sapphire type! Sheesh." Rally held the sapphires glowing in her hand, warming from her body heat. "Oh, hell..."

"You like them, don't you?"

"I would have to be crazy not to like them." Rally swallowed hard, unable to put the earrings down or hide them again in the box. "These are some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. That does not mean that they belong to me."

"Keep them, Rally." May took her hand and folded her fingers over the earrings. "You don't have to wear them if you don't want to. Just look at them sometimes and remember who really gave them to you. And why he did it."

"I don't know why he did it."

"Of course you do. Those are valuable. Worth a lot. He got hold of them. And he wrapped them up in an old bandanna and tried to get Larry to take credit for them. Which Larry didn't do, to HIS credit—though he might have figured you'd know the truth anyway."

"Yeah, yeah…" Rally put the earrings in her purse protected by a tissue. The bandanna she wadded up in her hand, and when May wasn't looking, she took a quick sniff. Smoke, leather. And his own scent, which sent twinges through her thighs and between them. Rally noted her heart rate and the feeling in the core of her stomach. She carefully folded the bandanna and put it in an inside pocket of her jacket, over her left breast.


When May's packing was almost done, Rally went to her room, pulled out the drawers of her dresser and emptied their contents on her bed in preparation for dealing with her heaps of gifts. Her suitcase wouldn't hold much more than what she had brought with her. May had no space to spare, since she had filled all her bags with souvenirs and baby things. Maybe she was going to have to buy a bunch of cheap duffel bags, or just haul a lot of it out to a mailing store and have it shipped home. At this rate, they wouldn't get on the road until midafternoon. She picked up stacks of folded clothes and dropped them into her suitcase.

On top of one pile lay a flattened roll of paper. Rally picked it up to throw away. It unrolled a little way in her hand, and she got a glimpse of piercing eyes shadowed by black hair. It was the mug shot she had helped the artist put together, weeks ago. Since it hadn't been needed after all, she had almost forgotten she had a copy hidden in her dresser. Carefully she unrolled it all the way, smoothing out the creases, and held it flat on the bedspread.

A version of Bean stared up at her, frowning slightly.

Roy had been right about this picture. It was obviously Bean in every important detail, but it was too idealized, too smooth. Of course it was only a drawing, an unshaded outline with simplified features. The hair was flat black, the face flat white, the eyes angled ovals with circles for the irises. Even the scar over the nose looked like a symbol rather than a mark on the face of a real man. She saw nothing of the nuances of skin texture, the tiny flaws and irregularities and surprising beauties that made Bean far more than a collection of lines on paper.

If anyone had only this picture to go on, what impression would come through? It might be hard to imagine that there were contradictions in him that an immobile drawing could not show. That his long, hard angles could change and even soften, that his sharp eyes could turn warm if not exactly tender. Never having heard his voice, smelled his sweat, felt the touch of his hands: without these essentials no one could really know what he looked like.

And even now, knowing what he had been was no clue to what he would be one day. Like a vague map of an unknown road that led to new lands. Rally rolled the picture up again and put it in a corner of her suitcase.

May knocked and came in. "Hey! What can I do?"

"Well, I don't have a quarter of the space I'm going to need." She swept the cluttered room with a gesture. "I think I need to run out for something to hold it all."

"Okay, then you can come with us."

"Who's us?"

"Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I'm going to Union Square and the Galleria with Roy and his wife. She called while you were gone, and we made arrangements. They're heading over here now."

"A shopping trip? We're supposed to leave sometime this century, remember? Your mall-crawls are never under three hours!"

"Come on, Ral! You didn't get to go with me while you were in the hospital, and then you were either feeling tired or the FBI monopolized you for hours every day. Mrs. Coleman wants to hit the San Francisco stores because their plane doesn't leave until seven, Roy won't let her go unless he's there to hold on to the credit cards, and I promised to act as tour guide. Don't you want to have fun blowing some cash?" May waggled her hips.

"Not really, no. Anyway, what cash? When I get back home, I'm going to be flat broke!"

"Well, I have to get some clothes for Southern California, and some more souvenirs of Frisco for Misty, and there was the cutest little baby boutique in Union Square that I didn't get to go in yet, and—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Have a blast. I guess we can leave at dinnertime and drive all night!" She waved bye-bye at May. "Oh, get me three big duffel bags if you see a camping store or a surplus outlet. I'll fit all this dreck in the back seat somehow."

"Ral-ly! You have to come with us! I wanted to show you—"

She groaned. "I am NOT in the mood, OK? If we're not leaving, I'd rather go for a drive. All I am going to buy is gas, and maybe something to eat. If you want to take a day trip, I am your girl. But I am not going to stay indoors any longer. I'll suffocate."

"All right, whatever. At least come say goodbye to Roy. We're all going to have to ride in the wheelchair van if you're not coming."

"Of course I will!" She went downstairs to the lobby with May, where the Colemans had just arrived. Mrs. Coleman wanted to plot the expedition with the aid of a hotel shopping guide, so May consulted with her while Rally accompanied Roy through the lobby.

"Well, I won't see you again until you get home." Roy offered his hand when they got to the revolving glass doors. His wife went through with May, chattering gaily about Nordstrom's. "Have a good trip, kid."

"Thanks, Roy." She leaned down and kissed his cheek. "You have a good trip too."

"If I get enough little bottles of moonshine in first class, I'll be dandy." He touched her shoulder and pressed her forehead to his for a moment. "Thanks, Irene. It's been hell on wheels, but at least we were with our friends."

"You got it." She straightened up and smiled at him. "That's what makes it all worthwhile."

"Want to take me out to the van? I may need a hand with this door anyway. I'll get another half a minute with you, at least. And you can help strap me into the lift. My wife swears it's beyond her capabilities."

"Sure thing." She held the door and guided Roy through and out to the top of the steps. The wheelchair ramp snaked around the side of the building and looked a little steep. Rally took hold of both the wheelchair's handles and provided some braking force while Roy steered. At the bottom of the ramp, she let go and dusted off her hands. Roy rolled on ahead of her while she adjusted the lie of her purse and jacket.

Something made her look up; it might have been a sound or a presence in the air. Maybe it was a scent, something like a warm car interior and the essence of a man. On the narrow garden walk that ran along the side of the hotel stood Bean, hands in his pockets and a composed expression on his features. Perhaps a little too composed. Rally sensed coiled tension under his cool façade, and straightened up.

He gave her a casual nod, as if his presence right outside her hotel could have no particular object. "Hey, Vincent."

"Uh…hello, Bean." Oh, no. What had she told him last night?

Roy turned around and let out a sound that startled Rally. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Bean touched his forelock, not quite in mockery. "Hey, Detective. Heard you were heading out."

"I don't think I'm the one you're here to send off, Bandit." Roy rolled closer and reached out to grasp Rally's arm.

"You got that right." Bean stuck his tongue into one cheek, hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked unconcerned.

Roy frowned, but Rally realized it was half in concentration, not wholly in anger. He examined Bean's face and stance as if he were trying to recognize someone. A child lost in the wilderness, who had emerged as a man. His mouth worked; he clenched his lips together. On her arm, his hand trembled. For a moment Rally wondered if he was going to cry.

Bean's defensive insouciance changed as he took in Roy's naked emotion. His eyes darted a question at Rally. She threw him an awkward smile and examined the sidewalk near her feet. Not for a million bucks would she give Roy's memories away; he'd never forgive her for that.

"Uh…the painkillers messin' with yer head, Coleman?" Bean made a conciliatory gesture. "You don't look so bad, considerin'."

Roy let out a silent gasp and shook his head with his eyes squeezed shut. "I'm all right. I'm fine."

"You sure about that?" Bean took a step closer. "Coleman, you going to pass out or something? Vincent, get his head down or he's gonna tip that thing over and bust his face on the sidewalk." He grabbed one of the wheelchair's handles to stabilize it. Rally put an arm around Roy's shoulders.

"Roy? Should I call the doctor? I'll get your wife—"

He waved a hand. "No. No. Don't scare her. I'll be OK in a minute." He threw his head back and stared right at Bean, who stood next to him with a puzzled frown.

"Don't think he oughta be going on any long plane rides." Bean spoke to Rally, but glanced down at Roy. "If just lookin' at me makes him want to puke, he's not gonna survive five minutes in one of those damn tin birds."

"Where'd you get that scar?" said Roy suddenly.

"Huh? This one?" Bean pointed at the bridge of his nose. "Well, that's a long story—"

"No, not that one. This one." He grabbed Bean's wrist and pointed at a thin, straight line that ran along the back of his right hand and disappeared up the sleeve of his jacket.

Bean freed himself and stood up straight, his face twitching. "What the hell?"

"Answer him, please." Rally put a hand over her mouth and looked away.

Bean stared at them both as if he had unexpectedly strolled into an insane asylum. He gave a bewildered shrug. "I dunno. Always had it, far as I recollect."

"That's a cut from a loose wire in a chain-link fence." Roy half-smiled. "You got it when you were running away from me in a parking lot—twenty-six years ago next week."

Rally had never seen quite that expression on Bean's face before; his eyes went wide, his jaw sagged, and for a moment he looked both panicky and on the verge of asking a tremendous question. "No. No freakin' way."

"He's right, Bean. You owe Roy a box of fried chicken."

Roy chortled, obviously delighted to see Bean speechless and white-faced, and stuck out his right hand. Bean took it automatically. "Rally's got my number, Bandit. You can pay me back when you get home."

"W-wait a minute, Coleman…"

"Sorry, can't talk now. I've got a couple of ladies to chaperone and a plane to catch. Rally, give me a hand." He spun his wheelchair around and rolled out to the street.

Rally avoided Bean's look and ran after Roy. Quickly she assisted him with the lift while the driver manipulated the controls. With Roy safely stowed and her hand on the sliding door of the van, she muttered a vague goodbye to the Colemans and May and prepared to close it. Roy put out a hand to stop her. His gleeful mood had evaporated, and he swallowed hard before speaking.

"Every one of them was a child once," he said so quietly it was difficult to hear him. "It's damn hard to remember that under some conditions, but every hood, every dealer and rapist and killer I've ever picked up off the streets was a babe in arms once upon a time. It doesn't mean anything, unless it means that every one of them is a human being."

He looked over at her, his eyes shining with tears. May was listening with wide eyes, apparently grasping something of what he meant. "I guess this case-hardened old cop should be grateful that he's probably never going to forget that again."

She couldn't reply, but squeezed his arm in farewell.

"Goodbye, Rally." He gestured for her to close the door. "I'll see you in Chicago." She waved as the van drove away.

Rally waited where she was, cleaning the nails of her right hand with the thumbnail of the left. Bean's footfalls came up behind her and stopped. She turned as slowly as she could manage and looked at him with care.

He'd cleaned up, washed his hair, and combed it back from his face. Instead of his flak jacket and blue denim he wore a charcoal-gray sport coat, open-collar white shirt and black pants. She recognized the jacket—she had bought it for him when his clothes had been ruined in the ambulance. It didn't fit him too badly.

"You're looking sharp, Bean. What's the occasion?"

He shrugged, but his expression had a hint of amused guilt. "Nothing. Everything stinks like smoke or else it's got bullet holes in it."

"Where are you staying, anyway—oh, never mind. I didn't ask that."

Bean smiled. "Want a lift?"

"I wasn't really going anywhere."

"Neither am I. So I guess we're goin' in the same direction." He cocked a brow at her. "Maybe we ought to carpool, seeing as it's California."

Rally laughed uneasily and fiddled with the embroidered flowers on her jacket. "Oh…I'd prefer to drive myself. I just got my Cobra all fixed up and—"

"Want to give my 'Vette a spin?"

Rally's eyes dilated; she salivated at the very thought. She would love to get her hands on the wheel of that little beauty. But—

She swallowed and made a face. "I don't know, Bean."

"You take it out, I'll take it back." He didn't look her straight in the eye, rocking slightly back and forth, heel to toe. "Just a little way if you like, or as far as you want to go."

Could he have proposed anything that could have tempted her more? This was blackmail, and he knew it. Bean indicated a direction with his head.

"I'm parked right down the block. If you wanted to take a look-see or anythin'."

"Um…OK, I'll come take a look at it. You know, just to admire it."

Bean suppressed a smile and moved down the sidewalk. She followed him for a few paces, then spotted the glint of the sidepipes in the shade under a tree and broke into a jog. She beat him to the car by a good five seconds. There it stood with the top off, gleaming dark, with leather seats the color of butterscotch and a bright red flash on the power bulge.

After staring open-mouthed with an urge to fall down and worship at the altar of General Motors, Rally found her voice. "Bean, that is one of the most beautiful cars I have ever seen. It's gorgeous. If you aren't very careful, I'm going to shoot you and take it for myself. How much did you pay for it?"

"One hundred twenty large."

"Oh, my God." She walked around the car stooping to examine every detail, her hands hovering just above the jewel-like wax job. Not a speck on the chrome, and the upholstery was immaculate. The thing looked like it had been detailed that morning, and probably it had.

"Aw, I'd have given him the whole damn suitcase if he'd insisted. That dough was kinda burning a hole in my pocket anyway."

"It's a big-block...427," Rally read the engine badge on the power bulge. "What, is it an L-71, or a 72?"

"Nope. Better." Bean dug in his pants pocket and brought out a big steel ring of keys.

"Better than an L-72?" Her face fell slack. "Don't tell me it's a—"

"Yep. It's an L-88."

Rally clapped both hands to her cheeks. "Holy shit, Bean!"

He was grinning at her as if he had saved up his genuine smiles for a week. "It's a 1967 L-88 convertible with all the bells and whistles. M22 rock-crusher, Positraction axle, the works. They made twenty of 'em, all told. You want the keys, Rally?" He dangled them on his forefinger with the air of a fisherman testing an exotic lure.

"God, Bean, I could kiss you!"

The light that flashed in his eyes made her take a step backwards. Well, of course that what this was about. But nothing short of an artillery barrage could have kept her from taking him up on the offer, so she grabbed the keys from his hand and unlocked the driver's door.

"You don't mind? You are really going to let me take this eighth wonder of the world out into San Francisco traffic?"

"'Long as you don't mind some passenger-seat drivin'."

"Considering that you are among the few people in the nation who might be able to teach me something about how to handle a car, I promise not to belt you too hard." She tossed her head with a merry laugh at Bean's expression and jumped behind the wheel.


It was hard to keep from bouncing up and down in the Corvette's driver's seat from pure childish joy. Rally bore down on the accelerator and spun the polished wooden steering wheel through her hands, the wind swirling her hair. One of the previous owners had modified this formidable racing version for street driving, so the car was not as rough a ride as it had been off the line in 1967. But she wouldn't have cared if it jolted her to bruising; it was an L-88!

Bean sat back and watched her drive with a covert grin, fingering his upper lip. He mentioned one or two idiosyncrasies of the brakes and gearbox, but otherwise kept his own counsel.

They made an elegant dark-blue streak through downtown, along the curving avenues of Golden Gate Park and out past the windmills to Ocean Beach. Heads snapped around at every intersection. Even the cops gave them a nod and a wink as they zoomed by, though Bean scrunched down somewhat and casually covered his chin with his hand. The wind off the ocean blew fresh and cool, whipping up bits of foam like cream on the water. Surf rolled and tumbled to their right as they drove down the Great Highway and south.

"So where do you want to go?" She had to shout to be heard over the wind and the aggressive throb of the engine.

Bean shrugged. "Out of the city, anyway. Pick a road."

Rally pointed to her purse, which she had tossed aside, and he pulled out her Northern California guidebook and found a page with a map. This road went up into the hills that formed the spine of the peninsula of which San Francisco was the head, and not too far from here there was a turnoff out to Highway 1 and the coast. She decided to continue in that direction.

Soon they descended a winding highway that offered tantalizing glimpses of a steep valley, ocean coves and sea stacks. Sun glittered on the whitecaps far out to sea. The road was narrow and two-way at this last western reach of the continent, sometimes veering very close to the brink of high cliffs, but Rally raced along with high glee only heightened by a whiff of danger. Once they got through a medium-sized town, there was little traffic. Rally crept up to exhilarating speeds just to hear the engine roar.

What a perfect day for a drive! And in the perfect car. She stole a glance at Bean, who seemed to be watching the scenery. This driver's dream wasn't going to last forever—at the very least, she was eventually going to have to relinquish the wheel to him. So nothing would bother her while they were out on this road, on this glorious afternoon. Absolutely nothing.


Rally finally pulled over at a state sign overlooking a rocky point and a series of small pebble-strewn beaches. Another sign pointed inland: Pescadero, population 670. A road ran east into a valley filled with marshes. SUVs and minivans were scattered in the rutted dirt lot at the top of the cliff, and a few families and couples waded in the water or looked at tidepools. But the place didn't seem over-populated. The clean breeze, the blue-green expanse of ocean and the warm sun made room for everyone. Fishing birds clustered on the more remote rocks and seals peeked at the sky here and there in the outer surf.

Rally tossed the keys to Bean, got out and stretched, then sat on the top of a picnic table. Bean unfolded himself from the passenger seat and followed her. They lounged in amiable silence for a few minutes while seagulls investigated for signs of handouts.

Should she even start the conversation, and on what subject? Not the earrings. She didn't entirely trust herself where those jewels were concerned, and she meant to turn them in to the government in any case. She decided to mention something else she had wanted to ask about; the urge to tease him wasn't the smallest reason to bring it up, though Bean's new Corvette had brought it to mind soon after she had taken the wheel.

"So, uh, Bean…you remember how we got here? Driving up I-5 from Los Angeles?"

He looked at her with mild surprise. "Kinda hard to forget it, lady."

"Well, of course, but I mean when we crashed…well, I was sorry about your LS-7, but now you've got an L-88, for crying out loud!" Rally took a deep breath. "Bean, did you keep me from rolling over the edge?"

"What?"

"May and I were talking to Manichetti. He said he saw you steer left when I hit you. He claimed you saved my car from rolling, and rolled yours instead. Did you do that?"

He made a noncommittal face. "I dunno. Don't recall doing much thinking right at that moment."

"You mean you did it without thinking?"

"You sure that's what I did?"

"I know my car didn't roll, and that yours did. You lost that car—and you nearly lost your life, too. Did you do that for me?" She pursed her lips, raised her brows and avoided meeting his eye.

"Doubt I figured it that way." He was attempting to suppress a grin. "You trying to claim I saved your life?"

"Well…did you?"

"Kinda seems like braggin', doesn't it?" Bean wore a complacent look and locked his hands over his stomach as he leaned back against the table.

"Oooh, you shithead..." Rally took a swat at him and he dodged, laughing. "Admit it!"

"Well, if you press me, I guess I have to." He rubbed his chin with a thumb and looked at her sideways with a smile. "Figured I could take it, but a little gal like you..."

Rally stuck out her tongue at him, and he laughed again.

She jumped off the table and jogged over to a rail fence right at the crumbling cliff edge. Where the fence ended, a badly eroded path led down to the beach and the rocks. Most of the soil in the steps had washed right out from the railroad ties reinforcing them. The footing looked more than a little uncertain…but then, families with small kids had made it down there already. It couldn't be that hard to negotiate.

Rally climbed up the fence and sat on the top rail to survey the beach. Waves rolled in with their endless tumbling rhythm and sloshed pebbles and seaweed back and forth in the clear jade-green water near the shore. Bigger surf broke on the outer rocks, sometimes sending up high white fountains of spray. She wondered if the tide was out or in, and decided it was probably out since she could see children far out on the rocks flanking the point.

"So how's ol' Coleman?" Bean strolled up and leaned on the fence. "I guess he's gonna live, anyhow."

"He had some surgery, and he's due for more when he gets home. But he's not permanently stuck in that wheelchair. He'll be back to work by next year."

He looked down at the thin scar on his right hand and worked his jaw. "Rally, you want to tell me what he was talking about? Twenty-six years ago…?"

"You know what, Bean? I'm going to let him fill you in on that one. I don't think it's my place." She gave him a smile.

Looking out to sea, he nodded in acknowledgment. "Guess he'll get some dough for his pains, anyway. The blue boys take care of their own."

"He already got a check for five thousand dollars from a relief fund. But he didn't keep it."

"What?" Bean looked disbelieving, and she told him what Roy had done at the banquet.

"Five thou? That ain't an amount he can sneeze at."

"Not at all. But he gave it to the people who needed it most, he said. I think that was…just wonderful of him." She hugged her shoulders and scanned the sky. "Gosh, it's a gorgeous day. I was hoping I'd get to the beach when it wasn't foggy."

"So what would you do with a chunk of cash like that?"

"A windfall? Well, that would depend on where it came from! Smith says I'm due for a finder's fee on that Dragon treasure, and I hope he's right. I could use it."

Bean meditatively stuck out his lower lip. "And you were gonna give that quarter mil to the Feds, since it was drug money."

"Yeah, that's just what I did with it. Put it right on Smith's desk. Thanks for paying that back, by the way."

He shook his head. "I owed it to ya. I don't need any thanks for doin' what I agreed to do in the first place."

"All right, if that's how you want it." She wondered what his point was, but decided not to bring up the twelve million-odd dollars of missing cash—that might only start an argument, and she couldn't bear to spoil the weather. Maybe later she'd broach the subject, but not now. Bean headed over to the path and descended, walking sideways in some spots where the path was almost nonexistent. Rally followed him down to the beach and out to the surf in the inlet closest to the shore. Bending over, Bean picked up pebbles from the sand. He tossed most of them away while selecting a few.

"What are you doing?"

Bean stood up with a handful. "Count 'em for me." He hefted one stone, waited for a lull in the surf and skimmed it out over the water with a deft flick of the wrist. It skipped five times before it sank. He looked at her with a smile.

"Well…I guess that's not bad." Rally looked around for suitable stones. "Here's a nice flat one—bet I can do better!" They alternated rock-hunting and skipping for a while, keeping score. Bean won, but only by two skips. Rally gave him a round of applause and on a wicked impulse dumped a handful of sand on his head when he let his guard down for a moment. He raked it out of his hair and gave her the evil eye.

Looking around for a refuge, she backed away and ran for a little cove farther out towards the ocean. She scrambled across rocks surrounded by water, climbed a few boulders, jumped down a small cliff and almost stepped on a basking seal. It looked at her with reproof in its large brown eyes and hunched down to the surf.

Bean appeared at the top of the cliff; she watched the seal swim out to sea, enchanted with its graceful dives and the cute whiskers on its face. He looked at it with some degree of interest when she pointed out the bobbing head. The tide seemed to be coming in; they had better go back across the rocks before they got their feet soaked. She really wasn't dressed for the beach, or she might have gone wading. Bean gave her a hand to help her up the cliff, but slipped a fistful of cold wet sand down her neck before she realized what he was doing. Rally yelped and clawed at her dampened shirt.

"All right, turnabout is fair, but that's enough. No more sand in my clothes! Ugh!"

He laughed with heartless triumph, but his face changed when she pulled out her shirttails and popped a button off the waistband of her shorts.

"Darn it." She found the button, which luckily was the inside one, and stuck it in her pocket. "I'll have to remember to ask May if she can fix that." Rally scooped sand out of her waistband and yanked on the tops of her bra cups through her shirt to dislodge the last particles. While tucking her T-shirt back in, she caught Bean's eye.

Hands jammed down the back of her shorts and the dark circles of her tense nipples half-showing through the stretched wet fabric of her shirt, she stopped short and turned red. Bean was looking at her the way he had looked at her in the motel the first night they had spent together. No, not quite the same way, because this time her clothing mishaps were not premeditated, and this time, they already had some idea what it felt like to sleep with each other. Rally dropped her hands and stood up straight.

They stayed gaze-locked for what seemed like minutes, neither of them moving. The human passion in every line of Bean's face and body struck her with far greater effect than the manufactured beauty of a car. A man, a member of her own species, a partner and not a tool. He was not subject to her in any way except exactly as she was subject to him; they had to deal with each other as equals or not at all. Confused desire hit her with a shock like a high cold wave. So much had changed since that night, but the attraction between them had only gained focus and power.

Oh God, he knew exactly what she was thinking right now, didn't he? She felt as transparent as water.

Bean looked almost as agitated as she felt. He turned his back on her and stalked away, hands tenting out his pants pockets. After a few moments Rally followed and picked her way over the rocks to the shore. A surge of the incoming surf rose a little too high for comfort, and she jumped to dry land not quite in time to avoid a splash of salt water on her shoes. Bean headed towards the path, walking rapidly with his head down.

She felt piqued and disappointed; this hadn't been her fault and Bean's sulk threatened to cloud her perfect blue sky. If he wanted to brood about his physical urges, that was his problem, but why didn't he just come right out and say what he had to say?

OK, then what about her? Rally flushed. Could she put it all into a few pithy sentences right now? Wouldn't she at least need some time to think it over? Maybe she wouldn't want to say anything until she knew more about what he had in mind, or what he really wanted from her. Bean surely felt the same, but even more so. They were probably at an impasse.

Fine, then. She'd rather nothing was said at all, if it came right down to it, and she could certainly outlast him in a test of wills! The remnants of desire still trickled through her body, disturbing that theory, but she tried to ignore them.

Two men appeared at the top of the cliff and headed for the precarious steps. Bean glanced up and halted near the base of the cliff to let them go down before he went up. Rally approached him, but stood off a little way. In order not to look at him, she looked at the men coming down the path. Her eyes narrowed.

Dressed a little formally for the beach—all right, so were she and Bean. They didn't match each other in the way friends or business associates might. The first man was balding, with a nondescript face and a round Slavic skull. His shapeless business suit looked like it had seen plenty of travel, but he moved with economical precision. The tall, gangly second man, who worked his way down the higher steps with some awkwardness, wore an unbuttoned lightweight jacket with the sleeves rolled up over tanned forearms. His highlighted dark-blonde hair had just the right amount of wave. He didn't otherwise resemble Sly Brown, but surely it was his Southern California playboy air that had given her that deep little shiver.

Bean slowly walked away from the lower end of the path, more or less sideways. Rally looked at his face in profile; something about the two men had given him an alarm as well, though apparently not one that required immediate action. His eyes weren't on the playboy, however. The Russian had reached the sand and stood waiting for his companion.

The playboy jumped off the last and highest step to the shelving ground below. His foot skidded and his jacket flapped out. Bean spotted the swinging holster at the same instant she did. He didn't look at her, but he moved further backwards and to her left, flanking the two men. One hand went to the small of his back, under his jacket.

Conceivably they could be cops or federal agents; drawing on them first would be a serious mistake if that were true. Rally moved to the right and shrugged her left shoulder, adjusting the new holster slightly forward. Or they might be dealers or gangsters, planning to talk on the shore with the sound of the waves to drown out the details for bystanders. This beach wasn't wide—she reached the surf line in only a few steps and could go no farther without swimming.

She caught Bean's eye from thirty yards distance. His thoughts were obviously tending the same way, though with more reason to avoid law enforcement and less reason to interfere with criminal activity. He pointed his chin at the path and skirted the base of the cliff. Rally circled around the men to meet him there. They nodded pleasantly at her and the playboy gave her an appreciative scan up and down through his expensive mirrored sunglasses. Head tilted back, the Russian examined the featureless sky.

If they were up to something they shouldn't be, she wasn't in a good position to figure out what it was or to do anything about it. Perhaps when they got back in the car, she would give Smith a call. He might know these guys, and if he didn't, he might appreciate the tip. Rally put her foot on the high step just as Bean came up to the base of the path. A touch on her elbow—Bean was offering her a hand up.

"Please come with us for a short walk," said a neutral voice with an accent. "You, Miss Vincent, and Mr. Bandit. We'd appreciate it if you did not make any sudden moves."

That was the voice of someone who wasn't particularly worried about trouble. But not because all he had in mind was conversation. She knew without looking around that both the hitmen had silently drawn and aimed. The smallest twitch towards her gun would probably finish both her and Bean.

Fingers dug into her arm. Rally saw Bean's jaw set and his face go cold. His eyes darted to her and then over his shoulder at the men. It was a familiar look. Once before, he had calculated his odds of holding off assailants while she escaped.

"No." She said only the one quiet word to him, but knew he understood. Bean let go of her. Taking her foot off the step, she stood upright and waited.

"You may turn around," said the neutral voice. It had to be the Russian—that was definitely an Eastern European accent. "Don't raise your hands or make any other signal."

They turned around. Rally identified a Glock in the Russian's hand. The other man held a cheap Colt revolver. So they meant to ditch their guns after the hit if necessary. Level-headed, veteran professionals—no vanity about their tools. Who the hell had hired them?

"There's kids around here," said Bean. "You gonna do it with kids watching?"

"If you're concerned about the onlookers, don't create a disturbance that witnesses will notice." The Russian made a slight backwards nod, and he and the playboy moved to the sides just as Bean and Rally had done. Both of them were wearing body armor.

"Walk towards the end of the point, please. We'll go as far out toward the ocean as possible. Hold your hands out away from your bodies and keep your fingers extended."

The hitmen pivoted to keep their guns aimed as Bean and Rally obeyed, and followed them five yards behind, well out of reach. They hadn't even asked for their weapons: too careful to risk letting Bean get his hand on a knife or Rally hers on a gun, and too confident to worry about any sudden moves.

If she thought about it, she could see that there were few better places for a job like this one than a rocky beach. Once they got well out from the shore and into the chasms and tiny coves, no one would be able to tell they were there from more a few yards away. The roar of the breaking surf would cover most noises, and as for disposal of bodies and evidence, there was the Pacific Ocean right in front of them. They might not be found for weeks. If at all.

Rally mulled all this over with a light, calm feeling in her head. Her breathing was slow and full, her heart beating at an ordinary rate. She still had her gun, Bean still had whatever knives he carried in civilian dress. Certainly the hitmen were prepared for that, but as long as she was armed, she hadn't lost. Stealing a glance at Bean, she saw that his face was relaxed and his stride easy. There was no point in sabotaging yourself before you even got started.

"Can I ask a question?" she said.

"Sure," said the Southern California playboy, with a jaunty lilt in his voice. "I'm not going to promise to answer, but go ahead and ask." Their feet crunched in the sand and pebbles.

"Who's paying you?"

"Oh, we're on retainer." He laughed.

"Retainer? You're not Dragons."

"Oh, hell no. The man who pays us is Sylvester Brown."

She heard an irritated sigh from the Russian.

"Vlad, I'm only making conversation. Don't get your panties in a twist, OK?"

"All right," said Vlad.

"Brown's dead," said Bean. "Never heard of a dead man payin' a salary." He jumped down a four-foot drop and held out a hand to assist Rally. The hitmen took the drop one by one, each man covering for the other.

"Well, sure he's dead. We wouldn't be here if Sly wasn't dead."

"Excuse me?" said Rally.

"You ever heard of a deadman's clause? That's what just kicked in, honey. If he happened to die up in Frisco, you two were going to pay the price. It was arranged weeks ago, just in case. His lawyer got us on the horn Thursday."

Manichetti had described this to her, hadn't he? Six or eight ways of dealing with the opposition, a bundle of irons in every fire. Sly Brown's last loophole. His last simple, sneaky, vicious little trap, and he was laughing his ass off in hell with O'Toole grinning beside him. She really didn't want to go to any place that would take Tom O'Toole as a permanent resident.

"So you got the news only a few days ago."

"Naturally. We didn't know he wasn't on the lam somewhere until Manny spilled to the Feds."

"Doesn't he come in for some of this price-paying, considering he's the one who actually killed Brown?" Rally climbed down rough rocks, Bean picking his way just below her.

"Manny? No. The Feds have him, and Sly didn't say a word about him anyway. Just you two."

"Never would have thought it of his driver. I know." Rally's mind riffled through alternatives, examining and discarding them with lightning speed. "So some money's due to you when you finish the last job for Brown? What happens after that?"

"We get new jobs, honey. Matter of fact, with you two on our résumés, I bet those could be some very nice jobs. Vlad, you'd like to work in Florida, maybe? I'm going to try for the Big Apple."

"Yes, I will probably apply for jobs in Florida," said Vlad. "Miami. I spent a pleasant week in Miami once."

"Does he sound like he actually had fun, honey? Listen to him. His dog dies, he wins the lottery, and it's all the same tone of voice."

Proceeding slowly, they crossed potholed, slippery rocks interspersed with tidepools of all sizes. Purple sea urchins, orange starfish, lime-green sea anemones and deep green seaweed: the weathered blues and pearly silvers of the mussels which clustered over the rocks in thick profusion. Every color was vivid and beautiful under the sun, and tiny fish and bright little crabs darted into the shadows as they passed. A family with small boys in tow peered into the pools some distance away, not looking up at the little procession.

"How much are you going to be paid for this job?" Rally raised her brows at Bean, who stared back for a moment.

"Well, not all that much, I guess. But like I say, we were on retainer, because it wasn't like he needed us 24/7. Just whenever he happened to call. And with Brown, a lot of the compensation was in the perks. So no, he didn't pay a whole lot. Compared to some."

"Not a whole lot? That's too bad. Uh…"

Nothing from Bean. Hey, Mr. Twelve Million Bucks of Drug Money? Weren't their lives worth some ill-gotten cash paid out in bribes to underpaid, unemployed hitmen? She wondered how to suggest the idea to him again. He couldn't be that much of a miser…or could he? Was that going to be his epitaph, not to mention hers?

They went up a rise and stopped side by side at the top of a ten-foot drop. No farther to go. The hitmen still hung back by fifteen feet. Rally looked down. Below her, sea palms tossed and thrashed in the white surf. Way out here the water was probably at least fifty or sixty feet deep, and the end of this point was almost completely open to the ocean. With a crashing roar, a large wave broke on the lone rock that sat farther out to sea and drifted spray over them. Birds lifted and glided on the breeze.

"So how is this going to happen? You don't want my purse or anything?" Rally stared at the horizon. "Jewelry?" If someone later recognized those sapphires, just maybe…

"No, I will leave your possessions intact," said Vlad. He reached into a pocket and took out a heavy sap. No wonder his suit looked a little saggy. "It will appear that you were both swept into the ocean, battered against the rocks and drowned. The waves are unpredictable all along the coast. So this kind of unfortunate accident happens to tourists and even unwary locals with reasonable frequency."

"I'll bet it does." No wonder their weapons hadn't been taken; talk about a red flag to murder if the bodies of Rally Vincent and Bean Bandit washed up unarmed! Another big wave hit the farther rocks, forcing Rally to blink the salt out of her eyes.

"They're moving off," said the playboy, apparently referring to the family back among the tidepools. "Probably going to eat their lunch now. Looks like they'll be out of sight in a few minutes."

Was there any faint hope of simply drawing and shooting? Both hitmen still had the drop on them, and these guys were the opposite of amateurs. That was a fool's way out. There had to be something better. But what?

"Bean…"

He slightly turned his head.

"Bean, uh, there's something I'd like to say to you."

"OK."

"I mean, just to you." She addressed the hitmen. "Uh, would you mind? I'd really rather not have people listening."

"Honey," said the playboy, "I'm afraid you're going to have to put up with us. Just for a couple of minutes more, I promise."

She flushed, wishing she could reach for Bean's hand. Wishing she could turn to him, put her arms around him, hear the beat of his heart. Once more. Starting to get shaky—had she really given up with her gun still nestled under her arm? At least she and Bean were together, which was only half of a comforting thought.

"I, um…I regret some things I've done, Bean. Or not done, I guess. Sometimes those are the worst, I think."

"Yeah?"

"I just wanted you to know—I mean, it's not like it's a lightning bolt from the blue for me or anything, I pretty much knew it a while ago, though what Larry says about how it made him feel when he realized it, I mean in his case, of course—well, that wasn't exactly my reaction and sometimes I'm not sure why—"

"You're going to have to put it a bit plainer than that, honey, not to mention more briefly. I don't think you're going to get around to the actual point at this rate." The playboy chuckled; he had probably heard a lot of confessions on the point of death.

"Oh, God—Bean, please, isn't there anything you wish you'd done differently? Haven't you ever felt that way?"

"Sure."

"Well, um, could you tell me?"

"OK," said Bean. "I wish I'd taken a different car today."

Rally's mouth dropped open. That was the greatest regret of his life? "You wish you hadn't taken the 'Vette? What, you're worried about the salt air on the chrome? You cold-blooded son of a—"

"The people have gone up to the beach," said Vlad. "No one's in sight."

"Aw, some punk's gonna rip it off if it stays parked all night." Bean sighed. "I can see him bustin' up the dash to hot-wire it. Probably won't even know what he's got and end up trashing it in a ditch."

"Yes, that's a nice old 'Vette," said the playboy. "A 1967, isn't it? I drive a '98 C-5 myself, but whatever blows your hair back. How much d'you pay for something like that '67?"

"Hundred twenty. She's an L-88."

The hitman whistled. "Shit, you got a bargain."

"Yeah, figure I did. Bought it for cash, y'know. Probably sell her for a hundred sixty with no trouble. In another few years, the sky's the limit."

"One hundred and sixty thousand dollars?" said Vlad, obviously impressed.

"Yeah. She's cherry. Real collector's item." He sighed again. "Wish I knew somebody'd appreciate her."

Rally listened with gathering attention, still staring at the horizon.

"Well…" said the playboy.

"That's a great deal of money just for a car," said Vlad. "But I understand the urge to own something unique."

"Hey, Bandit. It's not like I want to impose on you here—I realize this is probably pushing it a little far, considering. But man, I'd take care of a car like that. I love 'Vettes."

"Aw, you like the new ones. So many chips in those, you got to be Bill Gates to open the hood."

"Man, you're right. I used to do my own tuning sometimes, and forget that. Love to get my hands dirty on an L-88. That 'Vette's a beauty, all right. What a color, huh? You left the top somewhere, I guess."

"Yeah, I can give you the address where it is. Little complicated, though—you got something to write on?"

"Oh, and I loan you a pen? No, don't think so." The playboy chuckled. "Nice try, Bandit. I know what you can do with anything that's got a point on it."

"Well, shit." Bean scuffed a boot, looking disconsolate. Rally's rising spirits sank; her stomach cramped.

"OK, screw the top. But you can give me the keys. I mean, car keys could fall out of a pocket into the ocean, right, Vlad? Not like it would be a dead giveaway."

"I guess it wouldn't be," said Vlad.

"Then if it's not too much trouble, hand 'em over. Slowly. And just so there are no unfortunate mix-ups, if I see anything in your hand that I personally consider even a second cousin to a blade, the lady gets it first."

"I got you." Bean dug in his pants pocket; she heard the muffled jingle. "Here you go. Remember, that's my pretty blue-eyed sweetheart." He held up the ring. "She's always come through for me."

Rally's heartbeat pounded like the surf on the rocks. She tried not to tense.

"She'll be in good hands. I'm obliged to you, Bandit, and thanks for not taking this too badly." The hitman approached and held out his hand. "We'll try to make it quick, OK? No, don't move any closer. Here, toss 'em to me."

Bean turned his hand to cup the keys in his palm. He drew his hand slowly back. Then his arm windmilled in a blur and snapped forward like the crack of a bullwhip. The hitman's sunglasses shattered; he screamed.

He went down, hand to his eyes. Rally got a glimpse of blood running down his face, but her CZ75 was already out and braced. She whirled in a half circle to take in the other man.

Vlad fired at Bean and missed his moving target. Bean tackled him above the knees and knocked him down. They went tumbling ten yards down the uneven slope, Vlad underneath. He angled his Glock upwards; Rally shot it out of his hand and it cartwheeled into a tidepool. Seagulls flew off squawking.

He drew another gun from his breast pocket while lying flat and swept it out at Bean. Trying to get up and draw a knife, Bean caught his foot in a hole and fell to one knee. She couldn't shoot off Vlad's trigger finger; the bullet would keep going and hit Bean in the face. From this angle, only a brain shot would stop him quickly enough—there was no choice to make, and she pulled the trigger simultaneously with the thought.

A star-shaped hole appeared in the top of Vlad's bald head and his lower jaw and tongue blew out over the front of his shirt. The playboy got up, still screaming. One bloody hand was clamped to his face, but he fired his Colt at them. Three shots in quick succession, going wild and ricocheting off the rocks. Rally shot off his right thumb.

The Colt didn't fall. He grabbed the wounded hand with the other, uncovering his face, and she saw Bean's key ring dangling from his right eye. With his left hand, he got a shaky grip on the revolver. Rally moved a little closer, covering him in a combat crouch, and the playboy's muzzle wavered from side to side in indecision or half-blinded confusion. Was he out of action now, or about to surrender?

Bean scrambled up the rise, keeping on the man's blind side. Before the hitman could react, he seized the protruding ring in his left hand and yanked. The long serrated key embedded in the eyeball pulled free, along with most of the eye.

The playboy howled. Thick bloody fluid ran down his face to stain his collar. Rally gagged. Bean's back was turned to her, his huge shoulders mostly hiding the other man. Then an elbow jutted from behind him and Rally realized that the hitman had instinctively pointed his revolver even as he screamed in agony. The muzzle had to be an inch from Bean's heart. If Bean had been wearing his armored jacket, he would have had a near-impenetrable shield from the bullets. But today he had only put on a coat Rally had bought for him.

Rally's breath caught and she lunged to the side, trying to get some sort of angle for a shot. Why the hell hadn't she just blown out the hitman's other eye when she had the drop on him? Mercy had never seemed more misplaced. Her foot skidded on a patch of algae and she fell, striking her elbow a hard blow. Her gun bounced from her numbed grasp and slid into a deep crevice between two rocks.

The hitman fumbled for his trigger with his left hand. "Bandit…you son of a whore…"

Rally clawed at her gun, knowing she had lost her chance even as she seized the hot muzzle and extricated the CZ75 from the rocks. She rose to her knees, gasping, and swung around to aim. The hitman made a creaking noise, something like a laugh, and jabbed the muzzle of the revolver against the breast pocket of Bean's coat.

She saw Bean's right arm flash forward and down, pull back, make a quick upwards motion as if he were drawing an emphatic X.

Suddenly silent, the hitman stumbled away from him. Blood surging down his stomach and thighs from a pair of foot-long intersecting knife slashes that had almost gutted him, he tripped on the rocks and fell into the water.

Rally moved to the edge with her gun braced, knelt and looked into the churning foam, but he did not surface. The breaking waves threw salt water in her face.

Seagulls investigated the dead body with interest; one even hopped on Vlad's messy chest and pecked at a stray molar. Bean grabbed his ankles, dragged him over to the edge and rolled him in still clutching his backup gun. Returning, he searched for the Glock, fished it out and threw it after its owner. Then he scanned the rocks. Rally couldn't think what he was looking for until he reached into a crevice and picked up a pinkish object—a human thumb. It joined the rest of the debris with a tiny splash far out in the water. Bean sat on a mussel-covered rock, cleaned his knife and rinsed his sticky key ring in a pool.

Except for the slowly spreading stain in the shallow water, a run in Rally's hose and damp patches on Bean's knees, almost no evidence of the fight remained. Spilled blood was nearly invisible on the spray-wet, algae-mottled rocks, and the incoming waves would wash them clean in another hour. Bean's white shirt was still white—the blood splatter had gone in another direction.

"First blood," she said low, and holstered her CZ75 with a grateful pat to the butt. She had never been so glad that she had not put off sighting in a new gun. The fresh scratches and scrapes in the beautiful finish she barely honored with a glance.

"Yeah." Bean looked up and shook water off his keys. "You OK?"

"Fine, actually." She ran her hand over her face and took a deep breath. "If I hadn't shot him in the head, he would have shot you in the head. Not much of a moral dilemma there."

"Guess not. Thanks, Vincent."

"Thank you, Bean. That was brilliant of you. I admit I was getting measured for a halo for a few minutes there."

He grinned at her. "You sure they got your size, angel?"

"I am going to have to inform someone in law enforcement about this little incident, you know. I think Agent Smith is the obvious guy."

"Yeah, sounds about right." Bean got up and put his keys away, smiling in an abstracted manner. She dialed Smith's personal cell number as they walked back towards the shore, holding a hand over one ear to shut out the sound of the waves. He sounded tired and not entirely recovered from partying hearty. Her own hangover had vanished.

"You're shitting me. Two hitmen from Sly? Now that's one I didn't see coming—sorry, kid."

"I'm fine. Well, we're fine. I'm not going to claim I did it single-handed."

"What? Thought you said Miss May was out shopping."

"She is. I'm with Bean."

A silence, and then a hearty laugh. "Then I won't keep you. File a report at your convenience and if anything turns up I'll have the local police refer it to the DOJ. The state park service will tow their car and auction it if it goes unclaimed. I guess the bodies may eventually drift ashore, but if we're in luck there are some great whites cruising the area. Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"I couldn't agree more."

When they reached the parking lot, Bean pulled her guidebook out of his jacket. "You getting hungry? I think there's a good joint right up the inland road from here. 'Least, the book says so."

"Yeah…I guess I worked up something of an appetite." A good place to eat in a tiny farm town? That didn't seem likely. But then this was California, which seemed to hold plenty of surprises. She hesitated at the car, wondering if he meant to drive now and feeling just a little squeamish about touching the now innocent-looking key ring. But Bean indicated that she should get into the driver's seat and went around to the other side.

She drove past small old houses in varying states of repair, their yards filled with flowers and battered tractors. Small damp fields lined the southern edge of the narrow green valley and white shorebirds fluttered through the reed-choked marshes. This didn't look like a prosperous area, though it was pretty. They reached a small cluster of stores and a gas station at a two-lane intersection, which apparently was the main thoroughfare. A white steeple rose a block or two down the road, there was a small bridge over the shrub-choked creek and that was it—no more town. Most of the buildings were sturdy old construction now worn and a little cruddy. Pescadero was a one-stoplight hole in the wall if she'd ever seen one. When Bean directed her, she pulled up in a tiny parking lot next to a ramshackle brown-painted wood and stucco building. A sign on the front read 'Duarte's Tavern', with a neon cocktail glass perching unlit at the top.

"Uh, you want to eat here? Why? We could just go back to the city, or head down to Santa Cruz—that's bound to have some decent restaurants."

He held out her guidebook. "Says people come out to the coast just for a meal at this place. Worth a try, huh?"

"All right, if you insist! I doubt I'll order much."

Dubiously she followed Bean through the small screen door facing the street. Well, she'd choke down a greasy burger or whatever it was that they served here, and then they could get back on the road.

Behind a tiny glass counter filled with shells and local souvenirs, a young woman took their request for a table. No one else was waiting, but the restaurant seemed busy. Rally peered at the dining room; it looked old-fashioned and funky, with speckled linoleum, mismatched tables and chairs and no tablecloths. The place sprawled out through several oddly interconnecting rooms of random sizes. Battered knotty-pine paneling and mounted game fish on plaques completed her impression of a run-down road house. However, the place was sparkling clean and many of the diners looked well-to-do.

She sat on a built-in bench opposite the counter and looked at a free local events magazine. Eight or ten framed newspaper restaurant reviews were hanging on the wall.

"Table for two?" Another young woman came out of the dining room and led them to one of the smaller rooms at the back. This held only a few freestanding tables and a long built-in bench. She sat them down, handed them laminated menus and poured glasses of water. A couple of startled-looking stuffed deer heads surveyed them from the wall.

"Bean!" Rally spoke in a whisper when the waitress had left. "This had better be classier than it looks! I'm getting indigestion just sitting here!"

He rolled his eyes and lent his attention to the menu. Rally did the same. Lots of seafood dishes, artichoke and green chile soup, sandwiches…and pies. Her eyes grew round. They had more than a dozen varieties of pies alone, along with other desserts, and on the wall she noticed a board with a list of fresh fish catches. All right, she'd give the place a chance.

Bean ordered fish and chips, and she asked for grilled local wild salmon and a fried calamari appetizer that came almost immediately. It was delicious: greaseless and crunchy with homemade tartar sauce on the side, and she ordered another one since Bean stole at least half of it. He attacked his food when it arrived and polished off a big order in not much more than five minutes. She swiped some fries from his plate and nibbled them. Heavenly: hot and crisp and creamy inside. Needless to say, her salmon was perfectly cooked. She couldn't wait to have some pie. By the time she finished her plate, Bean had ordered and devoured another two servings of fish and chips, and put away four beers and six glasses of water. The waitress grinned wider each time he signaled for her to take away another empty plate.

The pie decision wasn't easy—they had everything from pecan to apple to chocolate cream, and Rally lingered over the menu while the waitress patiently stood there with her pad. Finally she settled on a cup of coffee and olallieberry pie, simply because she'd never heard of it, but declined a scoop of ice cream. This hadn't been a low-cal meal, though it certainly was a tasty one. Bean didn't dither. He ordered four kinds of pie and handed in the menu with a flourish. Rally laughed when he winked at her; watching him eat made her strangely happy.


Rally sighed and pushed away the last half of her olallieberry pie. She was much too full, but wished she could eat just a little more. That flaky crust was to die for, and this meal felt like a celebration of life. Crumbs and smears of juicy filling covered her plate and fork. She idly licked the fork and sipped her coffee. Bean's four stacked plates were almost entirely clean, since he didn't use his fork at all; he picked up each substantial wedge of pie and inserted it straight between his jaws. He licked his fingers, reached for her plate and finished what she had left, and contemplated the dessert menu again with an appetite only slightly less apparent. Rally groaned in overstuffed contentment.

"Bean, you're going to explode if you eat any more pie! But I envy you your fat and sugar capacity right now. If I'm ever back in San Francisco, I'm going to drive down here every chance I get. Who knew?"

"Yeah, that kitchen's got their deep-fryin' down to an art." He looked up from the menu. "There's a bar in the back, too. Nice joint."

"Yes, I went through there on my circuitous route to the bathroom. You know this building is more than a hundred years old? I think it just grew itself a new room every time it needed one."

Bean made a slight shrug. "If you want, we could hang out for a while and come back for dinner."

"Hang out and do what? Don't tell me there's a fascinating historic wrecking yard or something." Rally laughed.

"Well, uh, there's some antiques and handcrafts places right down the block, if you like that kinda stuff." He pointed at an entry in the guidebook. "And there's a sort of a little hotel farther up this road."

"Oh, a bed and breakfast? Well, I don't know what there'd be to see at—" She stopped, her heart pounding. Was that his idea of a subtle hint?

Apparently it was. He raised his eyes from the book and met hers, his gaze guarded but suffused with something almost incendiary. Maybe his lips were dry, because he quickly ran his tongue along them and swallowed. "I dunno." Unlike his entire manner, his voice was even and quiet, demanding nothing. "I don't got anything going on, so I don't have to get back to the city any particular time. You decide." He pushed the guidebook at her and sat back, his arms folded. Again his eyes met hers.

Rally felt like a thunderstorm had rolled in from the ocean and soaked her to the skin. So much for her sunny day. Sweat ran down between her breasts. "I, uh, I think maybe we ought to head back. It's getting late, and I'm supposed to be packing." She checked the time just to have an excuse to look away.

"Leaving today, huh?"

"Yes, thank goodness. Finally." She tried a laugh. "And of course on my last day here I find a great drive and a really good place for lunch! I'm almost sorry to go now."

"Yeah." He meant it as a statement, not a question. No matter how polite he was being about it today, obviously he was burning to ask her again if she would sleep with him; both of them surely knew this was probably his last chance. Certainly once they got home to Chicago, something would change in the delicate balance of their relationship. Their lives would fall back into their historic patterns of work and rivalry and that elusive something would vanish forever. Unless they made a decision now, before the sun set on this day, to hold on to what had happened during this long summer vacation, a few brief weeks already receding like a half-remembered dream.

She knew what Bean wanted, then. Did she know what she wanted? He didn't mean something serious, did he? Rally shuddered at the idea of Bean proposing marriage to anyone. No, of course not. He wanted her, just as he'd said last night, but not as a ball and chain. The freedom of her thighs, she had seen it called in Irish sagas—in plainer terms, a fuck buddy.

Once Rally had believed she would never let sex shackle her to anyone. Her parents had shown her all the ways a man and woman could consume each other and everyone around them. Bean might be able to treat sex as a fifty-fifty deal, an arrangement to satisfy their appetites; Rally knew she could no longer afford even to open negotiations. She wouldn't be able to keep anything back from him; her passions lay ready to seize her like an addiction. Given the smallest provocation she would strip herself to the bone. She steeled herself against the longing in Bean's face and got up from the table.

Bean's head bowed for a moment; he took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Rally took a credit card out of her purse and put it down on their bill. No ambiguity there—he certainly wasn't going to pay for the date, not with this in the air. She quickly signed the slip, tore out her carbon copy and walked out to the little parking lot. A few admirers had gathered around the Corvette, but they scattered when its owner approached with heavy tread. He certainly didn't look like he was in the mood for trading pleasantries with fellow car lovers. Rally got into the passenger seat.

Bean slid behind the wheel of his beautiful car without a word. He backed it out with unconscious skill, but seemed to take no particular joy in driving just now. North on Highway 1, retracing the way they had come. The sun crept lower in the west. Bean wasn't driving fast; several cars passed him on the straighter stretches. That alone struck her as odd. He took no notice, resting one arm on his door and keeping his right hand wrapped around the wheel at the ten o'clock position.

At this speed, the road noise was low enough that they could carry on a conversation. If they wanted to, that was. What on earth did she feel like she had to say to him? Her uncomfortable feeling of inhibition grew as they approached the city. When they reached a town that nestled in the steep hills above a beautiful cove and beach, she touched Bean's arm.

"Could we stop?" He looked at her and immediately pulled over to the beach side of the road. A number of parked cars were strung out along here, some with occupants. The late-afternoon light cast golden glows on the heights and violet shadows in the deep recesses of the hills. The surf line gleamed and churned, a few people attempting the waves in wetsuits. She saw windsurfers farther out to sea, their bright sails scudding over the water.

"Kinda pretty." Bean turned off the ignition and looked to the west. "You want to stay here a while, Rally?" He didn't sound exactly cheerful, but his mood seemed to lighten a little.

"You know, uh, Bean, my real name is Irene. 'Rally' just sounded more convincing for bounty hunting."

"Yeah, I heard you say that." He glanced over. "What, you rather people called you by yer given name?"

"Well, no, not exactly…I think of myself as Rally most of the time." She folded her arms and looked at the high sea stacks surrounded by rolling water. Cars sped by them a few feet away, rocking the Corvette slightly. "That name's what I made myself into. Irene's just the name my parents gave me. But, you know, it's not like I hate it or anything. Plenty of people call me Irene. I don't mind."

"OK."

For some reason she had hoped he might reciprocate. But it wasn't like her legal name was any secret. If she wanted information, she had to pay for it in better currency. And she longed for information on Bean. That folder wasn't the answer, though some of what she had found in there had threatened to pierce her to the heart. She wanted to hear it from his own lips, whatever it was. Anything, any detail of his life or his thoughts or his reasoning, given to her of his own free will. All of him seemed valuable to her, the entire contents of his mind, like a heap of strange treasures carried in an elusive vessel. Suddenly she ached to tell him, tell him something: about her deep urge to question him, to get to the bottom of him in any way she could, or at least to discover some sort of anchor, a steady rock in his being to which she could cling. With Bean she felt she was always at sea.

Rally looked down to her lap and realized she had been twisting her hands tightly together for several minutes. Bean settled back against the door, watching her.

"So, Rally Irene, you got something you want to tell me?" He looked like he had armored himself against anything she could say.

"Um…Brown, Sly Brown…maybe he's all the way dead at last."

"Yeah."

"Manichetti killed him…I don't know why I wasn't expecting that. He had every reason in the book to rid the world of Sly Brown. But it knocked me for a loop anyway. He dumped him in the ocean just like we did with those scumbags, somewhere way out there…"

The surfers paddled on their boards, rising and falling with the waves.

"But I keep thinking about him. Or about how he talked, you know."

"Enough to drive you nuts, you mean."

"Yes, he didn't shut up too often…he talked about you a lot."

"About me." Bean looked contemptuous. "Yeah, tryin' to poison me, I guess. Not like he'd have known what he was talkin' about."

"That's…that's what I wanted to ask you. About the things he said about you."

Bean inclined his head and shrugged, looking at least partly receptive.

"He was always talking about…your, uh, your sex life." There, it was said, and if he shut her out now, this conversation and all others were probably over for good. "It seemed to be one of his favorite subjects."

Bean curled his lip. "Like I said, how could he know jack about that?"

She wasn't about to mention her possession of the folder, but of course Bean knew that Brown had made a study of him. Every disclosure she had been able to cross-reference had checked out so far. "He did do a lot of research on you."

"All right, shoot. What'd he say?" He spoke with weary patience, as if he realized she needed to settle this to her satisfaction but didn't look forward to the process.

"Well, Brown told me you were pretty busy in that respect. I don't know if that was a lie or not."

"Busy?" Bean had a skeptical scowl.

"That you used prostitutes all the time."

"Shit, no!" He looked disgusted. "Why the hell would I want to pay for it? And I sure wouldn't take it in lieu of cash."

That she could believe. "He said you'd had a lot of one-night stands."

"I dunno. How many is a lot?"

"Umm...well, how many have you had?"

"Like I'm keepin' score?" His voice rose slightly.

"I don't know! That's what I'm trying to find out!"

Bean pulled a face. "I sure as hell am not settin' records for it. I got better things to do."

"Than have sex? Maybe so."

"I don't hang out fishin' for it, that's all." He shrugged. "I get offers. I don't take all of 'em up on it. Some gals like my looks, I guess."

"Such as poor Sue. Obviously she had no idea what she was in for."

"Hey, she's a big girl. I didn't do nothin' to her she didn't like just fine."

"If I were her, I think I'd swear off men again, and this time maybe forever. What did you say to her that made her look like she wanted to slap your face?"

Bean chuckled with an unpleasant undertone. "You really want to hear that?"

"Uh…actually, no." She rolled her eyes. "Though I can imagine. Something like what you might say to the sort of women who usually make you offers."

"Like you, Rally Irene?"

"I didn't make you an—" Her voice rose and she reared up in her seat, then fell back. "OK. OK. Truce. I don't want to make assumptions. That's why I'm asking you about this in the first place."

Bean made an irritated sound. "I guess I messed around some when I was a kid. I got my growth young and I wasn't too shy. But these days I'm busy most of the time. The cars need a lot of work, and I go on jobs four-five times a month. I don't worry a lot about how often I get laid." He showed his teeth to the rear-view mirror; she suspected she was the only woman for many years to have disturbed his equilibrium to such an extent, and she realized not for the first time that frustration and downright torment probably played a large part in how he felt about her. But at least he was answering her questions.

"What about a steady girlfriend?"

"Like how?" He gestured as if the impossibility of this was plain. "She'd want to know all about how I made my dough and get huffy when I wouldn't tell her. She'd want to see my place and I'd get tired of making up excuses. She'd get mad when I'd call and say I couldn't make it out to a date 'cause I had to drive sixteen hundred miles in the next day and a half and the wheels on the 'Cuda needed balancing. She'd tell me to dump the cars or dump her, and I'd dump her."

"Is that a description of someone?"

"Close enough."

"Well, that wasn't really what I meant...but I think it answers the question anyway. You don't want anyone getting very close to you, because of what you do for a living. A woman would be a risk you don't want to take." She almost felt relief. That was that! He had no room in his mind or heart for a real relationship; it was totally out of the question.

"Most women would be. There's a few who wouldn't be so bad...well, there's one I know of."

"Oh…"

"You know if she's looking for a man? He shows up on time if he made a promise in the first place." He turned his eyes on her.

Her heart gave a great, terrified thump. "She wasn't looking, no."

Bean sucked on his teeth. "Does she mind if it was an accident, then?"

"She believes in cleaning up accidents, not in letting them ride. You never know when there's more damage than was suspected at first."

"Guess not." He tapped his fingers on the top of the door, looking drained. She thought she knew how he felt; this couldn't be easy for either of them. "You mind telling me something now?"

"What is it?"

"Did you tell Coleman, about that night…you know, in yer car…" He gestured as if he hoped she would fill in the blanks. "He thought I'd made you do it. Slugged ya and held ya down." A hint of well-controlled revulsion passed over his face. She had the feeling that the mere concept of rape was so abhorrent to him that he had to employ all his defenses to keep from displaying strong emotion at the mention of it. Why was that dislike so powerful? "You know. He said, flat out, that you'd claimed I forced you."

She shook her head in a slow, grim arc. "No. Absolutely not. I wanted to pound him into the ground when I found out what he'd said to you. You didn't really think I'd accused you of rape, not after you thought about it!"

"No. Not like you to do something like that. You leave things out, but you don't make 'em up."

"Guilty." She smiled at him. "I guess you've learned something about me."

The warmth in Bean's eyes made her skin tingle. "Yeah, I guess I already had some idea how you handle that kinda stuff. I just wanted to hear it from you." He gave her an inquiring look. "How'd you find that out, anyway? Didn't think Coleman was gonna confess."

A deep flush heated her cheeks. "Well…uh…there was an FBI recording device in my car at the time…"

"Huh?" Bean's face went blank for a moment. "Oh, fucking hell." Suddenly he shoved his door open and strode a few paces away from the car, stopping when he hit the sand. "Oh, crap." He grabbed his head in both hands and bent over. "Jesus! They played you a tape?"

"Wesson did. He got kicked off the case a few minutes later."

Oh, God, why had she brought this up? Rally cringed down into the seat, her gluttonous meal churning in her belly. The filthiest mouth in the known universe, that was what he had! The fury and humiliation she had felt flooded over her again. She didn't want to shoot him any more, but right now she didn't even want to be sitting in a car he owned.

Rally got out and made a wide circle around Bean, heading out towards the surf. This was a large and uniformly sandy beach, and the going was slow and awkward. She paused after walking a hundred yards in a long curve. With a peek over her shoulder, she spotted Bean leaning on his car, a picture of shame and dejection.

He wouldn't drive off without her, so she decided to wait a while longer before coming back. Rally took off her shoes and ruined her hose wading in the surf. The sun had sunk within a few degrees of the ocean when she put her shoes back on and slogged across the sand again. This exercise gave her time to run over Bean's entire obscene tirade in her mind, work her anger to a high pitch, and then remember how May had not put the same interpretation on it that she had. That softened her feelings a little, but not as much as all that. When she approached the car, Bean was sitting on the ground with one knee drawn up and his back against the driver's door, watching the descent of the sun.

She'd forgiven him once for something far worse: for trying to kill her and May. If he asked for forgiveness now, if he got down on his knees and begged her long and humbly enough, maybe she'd bestow her good graces on him again. Not the way she had earlier today, of course; that degree of intimacy just wasn't possible now.

Bean didn't show any sign of making her an obeisance, however. He got up as she approached and dusted his pants.

"Going my way?" The expression on his face wasn't much like a smile.

"I guess so." Rally went around the back of the car and got in. Bean slammed his door and put his hands on the wheel.

"You know, babe…" He hadn't called her 'babe' all day. "I was talking to other men when I got that little speech off. Smith and his boys cuffed me, Coleman was raggin' on my—"

"That's the damn problem, Bean. You said that to people I knew!"

"What?" He actually looked angry. "You don't want your friends hearing you and I had a good fuck that night? You don't want them hearing you liked it in the sack with me? I only did what you asked me to, Rally, and all I ever got back from you—" Bean pulled a terrible face and clenched a fist. "You fucking little cold-assed bitch."

In shock, she stared at him, her mouth open.

"Damn it, woman, say something to me! I've been eatin' out my guts for—" He groaned as if some parasite gnawed on his living heart. "Say something to me, goddammit!"

Silence, the kind that pierced holes in your eardrums.

"Why don't you take me home, Bean," she said in a very quiet monotone. He started the car and pulled out.