I do not own the characters, content or creativity of the Fast and the Furious or Martial Law movies. This is a Fan-Fiction written solely for enjoyment and entertainment

Chapter 6

Common wisdom dictates that a person should never harm a cop because the repercussions tend to be catastrophic. When a cop harms another cop, the repercussions have the equivalent of a nuclear holocaust. Orson pushed his Toyota Camry to its limits as he sped down the streets of L.A., while his mind seethed with fury. His face still throbbed from where Hobbes hit him and could feel his cheek beginning to swell. The pain just amplified the fury that was seething within him.

He sped down the 405 Freeway towards Malibu; according to the address on Hobbes' file, the DSS agent lived there in a small apartment near the beach. Dodging traffic and leaning on his horn, he swerved his car like a madman. This would be easier with lights and sirens he thought as he swerved to avoid another car.

Orson hadn't been with the FBI long enough to get the service lights installed in his vehicle. It was on his to-do list but the case had kept him too busy to devote personal time to himself. The irony was not lost on him that he was breaking the traffic laws to catch a law-breaker. Hobbes and I are not alike! He screamed in his mind at some heretofore unrevealed inner-voice debating with him.

As if to underscore his actions, the radio on the passenger seat squawked to life and Orson answered it. Driving while talking on a wireless device, boy I'm really racking them up tonight! He shrugged as he said into the device, "Any news on the raid?"

"The raid netted most of the gang. Letty Ortiz, O'Connor, Mia and Dominic Toretto got away though." The reply came back in a haze of background static.

"What about Hobbes? Anybody got a 'twenty' on him?"

"No Agent Willard."

In disgust, he dropped the radio on the front seat and did his best to slam the pedal through the metal. He wondered what he would do when he caught up to Hobbes. He couldn't remember the last time he was this angry. He'd never been angry enough to go off half-cocked and on his own like this but, there was a first time for everything he figured.

Not only had Hobbs embarrassed Orson, he hurt Dunning and Branford, nearly killed the latter agent. Though he wasn't particularly close to either of them, the two senior agents had accepted and trusted him without question, which counted a lot for Orson given his history. Orson owed the two his loyalty for that and he refused to let Hobbs go unpunished.

Going to Hobbs' house was a long-shot, Orson knew, but it was the only tangible lead he had. Hobbs was a trained DSS agent, an exceptional man-hunter He knew all the tricks of the trade including how to disappear. The young FBI agent knew that he was up against a clock. He figured that he only had 24 hours at the most before he'd lose Hobbs forever. For a man as big as Lucas Hobbs, feat like that was even more impressive to Orson. He was determined to not let that happen.

After weaving around the tight Pacific Coast Highway roads, sometimes nearly going over the edge into the ocean, Orson finally pulled up in front of his destination. Despite his earlier misgivings, he was glad he didn't have sirens when he stopped his car. On the off chance Hobbs was in the apartment or in the area, he didn't want to alert the rogue agent.

His gun appeared in his hand almost of its own volition as he crept toward the apartment complex. Running in a crouch, he went through the breezeway. The entire building was very nice and spoke of great upkeep. But that was to be expected in an area like Malibu. He looked at the directory and saw that Hobbs lived in Apartment 5 which was located on the second floor. The rent must be outrageous here! Orson pondered as he crept up the stairs.

A young couple walked toward him as he approached the apartment and almost gasped until Orson showed his badge. "FBI, please move along and get out of the area or back into your apartment" he whispered. Nodding, the couple hurried past him and down the stairs. Orson noted the attractive woman and felt a pang of envy as she passed him, leaving a faint trace of sweet smelling perfume in her wake. He mentally shrugged that he would be thinking of something like that at a time like this.

Leaning against the left side wall, he put his ear against the door to see if he could hear anything. As he expected, he heard nothing but couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Snarling, he kicked his foot backwards into the door, smashing it open. In the same movement, he whirled around the corner, pistol first. "FBI!" he shouted as he entered the domicile.

Producing a flashlight, he braced his wrist holding the pistol over the wrist holding the flashlight as he scanned the room. The beam of light hit the furniture and wall fixtures but he saw no trace of Hobbs. If Hobbs was still in the apartment, Orson knew that he could be hiding anywhere in the darkness. Adrenaline surged with each beat of his pounding heart as he moved deliberately through the room. He tried to control his breathing through his nostrils and sweat began to bead on his forehead. This sensation was not new to him; the many busts he had been a part of, always produced a combination of excitement and fear within him.

A few minutes of a hasty, room by room search produced nothing. Satisfied that Hobbs was not in the apartment (as he earlier surmised), he flicked on the living-room light switch and holstered his weapon. He didn't even have to turn around to know there were onlookers, curious to know what was going on. He turned around anyway and again flashed his badge. "FBI! Get back in your homes, this is an active crime scene!" Even he was unprepared for the steel in his voice when he issued his command. Most of the crowd dispersed except for a couple of looky-loos across the courtyard. He knew there was nothing he could do about them so he ignored them and began his search.

Orson knew driving to the the DSS' L.A. Office was a bust; there was going to be a jurisdictional pissing match for the next couple of years over this. Professional courtesy went out the window for the sake of expediency, so any cooperation or hope of getting his hands on Hobbs' files was null and void. He just had to hope that there was some clue no matter how miniscule, that he could use to get a fix on his quarry.

Slapping on the rubber gloves, he tossed the apartment. Furniture and belongings went this way and that as Orson combed the place; he didn't even know what he was looking for, he just hoped it would jump out at him. That isn't very likely, he mentally grumbled as he went about his business.

Thirty minutes of tearing the place apart (which was somewhat therapeutic for Orson), rendered zero results. Luke Hobbs lived a fairly spartan lifestyle considering his choice of living locations. Very early into his search, the impressions that Orson got was Hobbs was extremely disciplined and regimented from the way his clothes hung in the closet and how the shoes lined up neatly underneath them.

"Well, it was a long-shot" he said to himself as he shrugged his shoulders in resignation. He sat down on the now ruined couch and put his head in his hands. Where would I go if I were Lucas Hobbs? He thought furiously.

Something caught his eye which made him glance up. It was a picture of Hobbs with an attractive woman on a tropical island half buried in one of the drawers he tossed. He surmised that it was an old girlfriend. Opening the back of the picture frame, he looked for any writing on it. He hit paydirt and read the inscription that said: "Luke and Alyssa, living the dream. 1998." To Orson, Lucas Hobbs looked extremely happy. Placing his hand on his chin, he pondered.

"He obviously won't go to his family to hide, that would be one of the first places we'd look. But he has to get out of the country forever. He has to disappear but his skills give him the option of going where he wants, undetected. So why wouldn't he go somewhere he knows where he could kick back and remain undetected?" He looked at the woman in the picture and said, "I'd hide out with her."

New inspiration coursed through him. He knew that the entire office was running down every known associate of Hobbs or as much as they could without getting stonewalled by the DSS. Orson wondered how deep the investigations would go? 1998 was a long time ago, almost thirteen years to be exact. As far as Orson knew, Hobbs had no significant other but maybe... "Maybe this 'Alyssa' person knows something? The looked awfully in love in that picture. Maybe they maintained contact?" He knew it was yet another long-shot but slipped the picture into his pocket and rummaged around the apartment some more.

His hunch about Hobbs' feelings for Alyssa were semi-confirmed when he saw some cards in a scrapbook as well as other pictures of her. "The guy scrapbooks?" Orson asked incredulously, trying to picture someone like Hobbs having a scrapbook collection. For some strange reason despite the evidence in his hands, he just couldn't form the image. He took out another picture of "Alyssa," a singular picture of her which to Orson, was an extremely flattering photo and looked on the back. "Alyssa Michaels" it said. I have a name now he thought as he pulled out his phone.

It only took two rings for the FBI's Cyber-Information Office to answer. After giving his name and identification he asked for information on Alyssa Michaels in the state of California.

"Agent Willard, do you realize how many 'Alyssa Michaels' there are in the city of Los Angeles, let alone the entire state?" The agent on the other end of the phone, Bill Fenney asked sarcastically.

"I know, I know!" Orson replied, exasperated. He looked at the tropical photo again and then at a framed piece of paper mounted on the wall. The piece of paper was a diploma from the University of Southern California. "Agent Fenney, try looking through the records of USC, circa 1998 for Alyssa Michaels."

There was an exasperated sigh on the other end of the phone which annoyed Orson to no end. But the important thing to him was that he could hear computer keys clicking which signaled that the agent was doing his job. The thing that grate under Orson's skin the most was the waiting. Logically he knew that it hadn't been a long time since his request but it seemed like ages ago since he made it.

"You're in luck, Agent Willard." Came the reply. "There was an Alyssa Michaels that attended USC around that time frame. I cross-referenced her name with city records and came up with a phone number and an address."

"Give it to me" Orson said, whipping out a pen and writing the information on his hand. Before Agent Fenney could say anything else, Orson hung up on him and copied the information into his phone. Using online maps, he found that her address was thirty minutes away from Hobbs. He didn't even bother turning off the lights or closing the door when he dashed out of the apartment.