SESSION 2

Jeeters proved himself to be exceedingly quick. The man leapt for the door before Jet had managed to take three steps. Of course, the moment Jeeters reached for the knob he recoiled with a yelp. A whiskey glass shattered a fraction of an inch from his fingers.

Spike picked up Jet's empty shot glass and tossed it in the air, to the enraged chorus of cries from the barkeeper! Spike caught it deftly and vaulted off of Jet's vacant stool, which toppled to the ground in a crash. In a heartbeat, he cleared the abandoned table executing a full-out flip and landed between Jeeters and the door, shot glass still in hand. "What part of don't move are you having trouble with?"

Stuttering, Jeeters took a shambling step backward. "How … did … you were … and now you're … "

The remaining patrons of the bar huddled under the tables, even the barkeeper ducked beneath his hands. The only one not bothered by the ruckus was the drunkard, still growing a puddle of saliva on the scarred wooden table. In a second, Spike took all that in. Good, no one else would interrupt. Except … he spied a red-faced Jet fumbling with a set of hand cuffs. But those weren't I.S.S.P. issued.

Something to ponder later. Right now Jeeters appeared to be having comprehension issues. The syndicate suit curled his lip as he regained his composure. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

500,000 woolongs for a piece of shit syndicate flunky who couldn't keep his mug off the surveillance cameras? My lucky day! Spike went for his gun. He never reached it.

Jeeters pulled back his briefcase and swung it in a wide arc at Spike's head.

Anticipating the action, Spike abandoned the effort for his gun and leaned away from the strike. He watched the case glide harmlessly above him and smiled. Oh, a lively one! You wanna fight? Ok, let's dance!

Already off balance as he completed the arc, Jeeters failed to compensate when Spike drove a quick sweep of his leg into the man's shin. He cartwheeled into a table, launching a barrage of shattered wood at an alarmed Jet!

Jet hastily dodged the mess and snarled, "Hands off! This is my bounty!"

Bounty? Spike cocked his head and laughed. "Heh, I get it now! You're a cowboy?"

"Yeah. What of it? I don't need your help."

Driving his hands into his pockets, Spike slid back into the door and slouched against the frame. Nothing barred the way now. "You think so? Let's take a bet, shall we?" He merely pulled out another cigarette and casually lit it.

The moment that the door was cleared, Jeeters scrambled to his feet and shot out into the street like a meteor in flight.

"Shit!" Jet yelled. "Why did you do that?" He barged through the door, already huffing.

Well now, he said he doesn't need my help. Eh, but I could really use the exercise. Shot glass still in his left hand, Spike dashed out the door into the cluttered streets and immediately turned down an alley. It wasn't the way Jeeters had gone, nor the burly pursuer. But Spike had indeed been to this town before. The name eluded him, as well as the name of the hit he'd been on a few years back—but he remembered the mad dash down the streets. He remembered the layout of the intersecting streets. That was the important part, where it all came together.

Blood pumped through him, a sluggish warmth melting the ice. He felt something again in the thrill of the chase. Two weeks of alcohol induced oblivion drained away as he ricocheted off the crumbling walls, pushing past alarmed citizens.

Jeeters is nothing but a fool, probably a fresh initiate. But what else can be expected from a White Tiger loser. Only a moron hides in the slums without shedding syndicate finery. An expertly tailored suit like that doesn't come cheap! He skidded around a tight corner and crossed a rickety bridge. Three blocks to a bolt hole. Couldn't let Jeeter's reach it or the odds got infinitely worse. All he needed was the back-up of a squad of White Tiger goons. Maybe even one who would recognize him. That lumbering tank of a cowboy was going to owe him big time! Without Spike's help, by the time Jet got here, there is no doubt that Jeeters would vanish. Or he'd have enough back-up to pummel a small army. Not that those odds bothered Spike. There were ways to rig any house odds, especially on the streets.

Spike vaulted over a trash bin and rolled into the street just as his target flew by, one block from the bolt hole's scarcely concealed door. He lobbed the shot glass at the back of Jeeter's head. The thick glass popped as it shattered against the base of his skull. Jeeters toppled forward and slid across the asphalt on his chin. He left a scarlet skid mark behind.

Wasting no time, Spike closed the distance. Jeeters flipped over and thrashed blindly. Not hard to dodge wild punches. Spike watched for an opening and with a savage kick connected with Jeeter's bleeding chin. The man's teeth squealed with the impact. His body flopped backward, landing in a crumpled heap on the briefcase.

No one opened the door.

Spike meandered over and sat down on Jeeter's hip, lighting a fresh cigarette. He watched the drifting curls of smoke and passed the few minutes until the sound of panting filled the alley.

Jet came jogging down the street. His breathing punctuated by an odd wheeze. The moment he spied his quarry, he growled.

Spike waved at him with a sly grin. "Hey. Lookin' for your criminal?"

"I … could've … gotten him."

"Mmm hmm. Sure. Now, about our bet—"

"I never accepted it!" Jet knelt down, bringing out the cuffs. "Besides, you killed him!"

"He's still breathing." Spike refused to move. "I seem to remember a bet on identities. It seems I was right. So …?"

"So what? Move out of the way, would ya? This is my bounty to collect."

"And he would have gotten away," Spike tapped the briefcase with his heel, "with this. Now, I'm sure we can come up with some compensation for my legwork."

Jet folded his arms across his chest, gradually catching his breath. "Yeah? What do you have in mind?"

Leaning back, Spike considered his options. Staying on Mars was unwise. It would only be a matter of time before the syndicate learned he wasn't a shredded corpse. And spending the night crammed in the pilot seat of his Swordfish didn't sound like a pleasant experience. If this Jet was a bounty hunter, it stood to reason he had to have ship, a sizable one. He took a long draw off his cigarette before replying, "I could use a ride off this planet."

"A ride? To where?"

He shrugged. "Honestly Jet, doesn't make a difference to me. Do me a favor and cart me and my asteroid racer off this rock and we'll call it even."

Jet raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?"

Spike pulled out his Jericho 941 and placed it firmly against Jeeter's temple. "Good luck collecting the reward with one dead half of bounty."

That did it.

Jet backpedaled and held up his hands. "Hey, easy there!"

"We got a deal?" He massaged the trigger.

Jet closed his eyes. "I swear I'm going to regret this. Now, you caught my name. What's yours?"

He flipped the gun back into the concealed holster. "Name's Spike." He watched for any sign of recognition. There was nothing more than simple defeat.

"Alright Spike. Let's get him back to the Bebop. Can't go until he gives up his partner. My reputation relies on not leaving until I get the full bounty."

Spike stood and watched as Jet cuffed the unconscious man. He ran a hand through his hair. A shower would be nice, a good place to sleep. Even if it meant hanging with some ex-cop. There was no doubt about it, the man had been in the I.S.S.P. Every motion he made betrayed an old association. There was something more, an air of one burnt out. An air he recognized. Tough old codger. He'd have to be careful. But then again, who would care if he died? Nothing really mattered anymore. Of course, a stint in prison didn't sound like a pleasure cruise. Too many there would know who he was, who's lives he had once terminated for the honor of the Red Dragons. They wouldn't give a piss that he had deserted. They'd make him pay for every drop of blood he had spilled, tenfold.

Spike cracked his knuckles. "Great, the sooner we get him talking, the sooner we can go."

Jet hefted the unconscious Jeeter over his shoulder and tossed Spike a curious glance. "You done this before or something?"

"Or something." Spike shrugged and picked up the briefcase.

See you, Space Cowboy!