Gemini Man--The Official Movie Novelization

by Titan Books

  His breath went out of him in a painful whoosh. Damn, he kept getting the wind knocked out of him today. At least it wasn’t another grenade. Nonetheless, it took every bit of effort in him to roll over and get to his feet. As he reached for the rifle, something zipped past his hand and kicked up some dirt. Henry didn’t bother looking up before he dove behind a mango tree. Junior Hitman, right on cue—or maybe just ever so slightly late. Two seconds sooner and the round would have gone through his chest. After a few moments, he risked taking a peek around one side of the tree.

  Gunfire shredded the foliage, took chunks out of the trunk. Junior Hitman was now coming down from the roof by way of the fire escape and shooting all the while. Henry decided not to stick around to see how he managed the last ladder. As soon as there was a break in the gunfire, he vaulted over the rough-hewn stone wall behind him and landed in a cluster of bushes on the other side.

  Thorn bushes, of course—was there any other kind? Henry tore himself free and ran forward, into yet another square. Damn. Squares were definitely the big thing in Cartagena, squares and cafés, Henry thought. This one was paved with red clay tiles that were surprisingly clean and bright. Henry wondered who took care of them. Maybe all the café managers—Cartagena was a tourist destination, after all. Which was no kind of a damned thing to be thinking about right now. He looked around for something, anything that might help him—

  Behind him a motorcycle engine suddenly roared into life. Henry felt his heart leap as he turned to see a small cluster of bikes parked under a mango tree between two buildings. A man was sitting astride one of them, strapping on a helmet while he chatted to a woman sitting in a car beside him. In spite of everything, Henry broke into a broad grin. The colors and design told him the bike was a Honda Enduro—just what he needed. It would go from road to off-road and back without missing a beat. Henry rushed at him, ignoring the pain in his legs and his ribs and every other part of his body.

  The guy was saying goodbye to the woman and preparing to roll forward when Henry leaped, planting both feet in his back and sending him over the handlebars in a clumsy somersault. The woman gave a shocked screech and grabbed Henry’s arm as the rider scrambled on the ground, shouting furiously in Spanish. He started to get to his feet, then suddenly cut off. For a moment, he goggled at Henry with an expression of fear and astonishment. Still trying to get out of the woman’s surprisingly strong grip, Henry turned to see Junior coming over the stone wall without landing in the thorn bushes, rifle in hand, and that dumb baseball cap still on his head. Henry drew the Glock and squeezed off a shot. The woman gave him a hard yank; the shot ripped through the bushes and hit the wall, well wide of the kid.

  Dammit, he just couldn’t get a break, Henry thought. He twisted out of the woman’s grip, gunned the engine, and sped away.

  CHAPTER 11

  As he flew down a narrow alley, Henry was as grateful for the Enduro’s bark busters as he was for its maneuverability. The hand guards saved the skin on his knuckles as he swerved around cars and trucks driven by people who apparently took street parking literally—i.e. stopping wherever they were. They didn’t seem to notice him zigging and zagging around them at high speed.

  But now he really wished he’d paid better attention to the streets. Once he lost his lookalike assassin he wanted to get back to Baron’s, if for no other reason than to put together another burn bag. With any luck, Baron and Danny would have left for parts unknown by then so he wouldn’t be putting them in the line of fire. Although now Baron had to find somewhere else to live; Henry was going to feel bad about that for the rest of his life. Baron had made a beautiful home for himself, and he’d still have it if Henry hadn’t dragged him into his problems.

  Meanwhile, it was the start of the business day in Cartagena, which meant more traffic on the streets. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Henry spotted an incline leading up to a sea wall that seemed to be as wide as a lot of the alleys he’d been through, if not wider. He just hoped every other biker in Cartagena hadn’t had the same idea. Also, that it was too early for tourists—he had a sudden mental image of people in straw hats and Bermuda shorts toppling over like bowling pins as he zoomed past them.

  Nope, no tourists immediately ahead of him, and no other bikers, probably because riding on the wall was illegal. Well, they’d just have to add that to his rap sheet, Henry thought. Much farther on, where the wall made a kind of dogleg to the left, he saw a set of stone stairs coming up from the lower level. The Enduro could take them—it would be a rough ride but the bike could handle it. All he had to do was hang on.

  He looked over his shoulder and then slowed to a stop so he could scan the traffic on the road in both directions. Had he finally lost the arrogant little son of a—

  Nope, no such luck. Henry heard the sound of another motorcycle engine approaching quickly and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the pissed-off Enduro owner coming after him on a borrowed ride. The engine was growing louder but he couldn’t quite pin down the direction—

  Abruptly, something flew at him on his left. Henry shot at it by reflex, not recognizing it as a motorcycle helmet until afterwards. If Cartagena had a helmet law, he’d just violated it twice over. As he stuck the Glock back in his waistband, he heard the engine rev again; in the next moment, he saw the kid bouncing up the stone steps on a stolen Honda Enduro of his own.

  Henry didn’t wait to see if the son of a bitch stayed in the saddle. He pulled the handlebars in a sharp turn and yanked the throttle to make the bike pivot on its rear wheel, and headed back the way he had come. A bullet whizzed past his left ear and he accelerated, crouching low over the handlebars, keeping one eye on the road and the other on Junior Hitman’s reflection in the left-hand mirror.

  He zoomed down the incline, pulled a hard left and shot across two lanes of traffic in an effort to put as many vehicles as possible between himself and the kid with his face. Just as he swerved around a brightly colored bus, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of his side mirrors. His face was covered with plaster dust, dirt, and streaks of blood, a lot of it from the gash on his cheek.

  Good God, I look more like a homicidal maniac than the guy who’s actually trying to kill me, Henry thought. No wonder the guy he’d stolen the bike from had seemed scared. He probably thought he’d been jacked by a psycho killer hurrying to his next mass murder.

  Another bullet zipped past on his left side, so close Henry thought he smelled gunpowder. He worked the Glock out of his waistband, wrapped his arm around his body and returned fire. Junior Hitman gave a jerk as a round hit him in the ribs but it didn’t send up a spray of blood or throw him off the bike, or even loosen his goddam baseball cap—the thing must have been superglued to his head. Although judging from his expression in the side mirror, it had pissed him off.

  He was wearing Kevlar, of course, that was no surprise. But the impact of the round should have punched him right out of the saddle. Junior Hitman was one tough little bastard. Henry stuck the Glock back in his waistband and cut across two lanes of traffic with the kid still on his tail.

  He made a sharp turn into another narrow alley, flying past an enormous colorful painting of a curvy lady that ran the length of a building. Henry turned again, zipped diagonally across a square, sending a flock of pigeons into startled flight, and into another street barely wide enough for the motorcycle to pass through before coming out on a main road.

  Contemporary urban Cartagena was on his right now; after brightly colored Old Town, the ultra-modern skyline was jarring, a shock to the eye. Henry drew his sidearm again, tried another shot, and discovered he was out. Dammit, he thought, dumping the empty magazine. He put the pistol back in his waistband so he could get a fresh magazine out of his pocket and reload, while Junior went on taking potshots at him.

  He stuck the magazine into his waistband and managed to get it into the Glock one-handed without dropping either of them or losing anything down his trousers. Baron had once bet him a hundred bucks he’
d never be able to do that under fire. If he actually made it out of this with his head intact, Henry was going to enjoy telling him he was wrong. Although he should probably wait to collect on that bet until after he bought Baron a new house. Another shot flew past his shoulder; Henry checked his mirrors but Junior Hitman was gone.

  Except he couldn’t be—the goddam bullets were still coming and Henry could hear the roar of the bike behind him. He looked around frantically, checked the mirrors again. For a moment, he had an absurd mental image of Junior Hitman leaping the Enduro from one rooftop to another. From all-terrain to no terrain, he thought, swerving around a bus. Finally he caught a glimpse of the other bike’s front tire in the right side mirror—but not on the road. Junior was speeding along the top of a wall barely wide enough to accommodate the bike’s wheels.

  Henry bared his teeth in a grim smile. It figured; the kid just couldn’t resist showing off while making a kill. The problem was, the end of the wall was twenty feet ahead and it was at least ten feet off the ground—even an Enduro couldn’t take a drop like that and keep rolling. Unless Junior Hitman could sprout wings, his pièce de résistance was going to end in pieces.

  Now he heard police sirens and they sounded awfully close. Maybe Junior Hitman would try to impress them, too. As if the kid had caught something of Henry’s thoughts, Junior suddenly laid the bike down on its side while gunning the throttle. The bike skidded off the wall without him and into the air, flying straight toward Henry.

  Henry accelerated and passed a display of an old cannon half a second before Junior Hitman’s stolen Enduro hit it and burst into flames. Yeah, the cops were going to be very impressed by that trick, Henry thought as the sirens screamed to a stop behind him. He hit the brakes hard and turned to watch.

  Two motorcycle cops had just pulled up in front of the kid, who was standing on the wall and staring at Henry with obvious fury. This should be good, Henry thought, especially if the kid tried to sell them a story about having to lay it down to save it. But before the cops could draw their guns, Junior Hitman leaped down from the wall and banged their heads together, knocking them out. Then he grabbed up one of their bikes—another Honda Enduro. Apparently this was the bike of choice in Cartagena. Henry yanked hard on the throttle and got the hell out of there.

  He headed away from the main road and back into the narrow streets of Old Town but the kid stuck with him all the way. If he couldn’t lose him, Henry thought, he’d just have to knock him off the damned bike. One shot hadn’t done it but five or six might.

  Henry sped over a wood bridge well ahead of Junior Hitman, startling people walking on either side. He skidded to a stop, facing the way he had come, drew the Glock, and waited. A second later, the police bike appeared. Henry opened fire, sending everyone on the bridge into a shrieking panic as they ran or dropped to the ground, arms covering their heads.

  Junior Hitman reared the bike up on its back wheel, practically dancing as he dodged the bullets—another miss. Henry took off again. The mirror on the left showed the kid trying to draw a bead on him, then giving up and gunning the bike forward as people ran for cover again.

  Henry followed the road and found himself back on the highway with a stretch of sea wall on his left. This one was wider but Henry couldn’t see any way to get up on it. He was looking around for something else when his right-hand mirror disintegrated in a burst of glass and cheap plastic. He ducked as low as he could and waited for something else to blow apart, hoping it wouldn’t be his head.

  Nothing happened. In the left side mirror, he saw Junior squeezing the trigger over and over, his face contorted with rage. Son of a bitch was finally empty. Henry had begun to think he had one of those magic movie pistols that never ran out of ammo. The roar of the engine behind him grew louder, rising in pitch as Junior closed the gap between them.

  Another grim smile spread across Henry’s face. The kid might be out of ammo but he wasn’t—not yet, anyway—and he had no intention of wasting it on empty air. He swerved around the car in front of him and as Junior Hitman started to follow, he twisted around and shot the car’s left front tire.

  As soon as he did, however, he was sorry. Henry caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s terrified face as the car spun out of control, tires screaming and sparks spraying up from the wheel rim grinding on the road. Junior Hitman veered into the next lane and kept going, not even glancing over his shoulder as the car collided with an SUV.

  Great, Henry thought, pulling harder on the throttle; he’d just caused an accident and it hadn’t even slowed the kid down. His moment of guilt was suddenly eclipsed by déjà vu. This stretch of road looked awfully familiar. Were he and Junior Hitman going in circles now?

  No, that wasn’t it, he realized, his heart sinking as he saw an even more familiar bright yellow house up ahead. Please let Baron and Danny be inside, or better yet, far away from here, Henry prayed. But of course they weren’t—still no breaks today. Baron and Danny stood together as he blew past, their faces utterly astonished. Yeah, they’d recognized him all right, and they were going to recognize Junior Hitman, too.

  Henry took another turn and headed for the heart of Old Town again. Maybe if he could get Junior into one of the narrower alleys—

  The police sirens seemed to be getting closer. Henry wondered what was taking them so long as Junior Hitman drew even with him on his left. A cold chill swept through him; he could see the intent on the kid’s face—his own face, his own expression, his own posture on the bike—and he was still trying to believe it was real when Junior Hitman jerked the handlebars and hit him.

  Guys had tried this kind of Demolition Derby crap with him before; he had learned how to shift his weight along with the angle of the bike relative to the road. Henry felt a surge of intense gratification at the shocked expression on the kid’s face. I told you it wasn’t going to be that easy, Henry thought at him silently. And if you thought that was a shock, get ready for this. He swerved and knocked his bike into the kid, throwing in a hard left jab to his shoulder for good measure.

  Junior Hitman went wobbly for a few seconds but he recovered his balance and kept the rubber side down, making it look as easy as flexing a muscle. Henry had been about his age when he had first learned the balance-counterbalance trick. It had taken a lot of hours of practice and he had sanded off a lot of leather and a few layers of skin in the process. Now he hoped having almost thirty years of experience on the kid meant he was thirty years better.

  And if all else failed, Henry thought, he had the element of surprise. Junior Hitman hadn’t thought he’d have such a hard time with a so-called old guy. Easing off the throttle, Henry dropped back and came up on the kid’s left. Okay, youngster, let’s see how you do on your weak side. I’ve got twenty-plus more years of tricks, hacks and moves—what have you got?

  Reflexes, Henry discovered as Junior Hitman smacked him with his bike again, throwing a left jab at his head. Henry felt the kid’s arm brush the top of his hair as he ducked, swerving away from the kid to stabilize himself. Except the kid came right with him like their bikes were tethered. He slowed, only to have the kid slow at the same moment, accelerated, and found the kid was right there with him like his reflection, or like they were doing some kind of synchronized dance at eighty miles an hour.

  You little bastard, Henry thought at him, furious. But when he glanced over, Junior Hitman didn’t look smug or pleased with himself at getting under the old guy’s skin—he looked as if Henry was freaking him out.

  Time to end this. Henry reached for the Glock in his waistband at the exact moment Junior surged forward and pulled over so he was directly in front of Henry.

  Everything happened in only a few seconds, but later Henry’s memory played it back in slow-motion:

  The back wheel of Junior Hitman’s Enduro suddenly rose up to eye level and wagged to the left. Henry sat back, trying to dodge it, and it smacked his shoulder. The sensation of spinning rubber shredding his shirt was brief but viv
id as Henry went down with the bike, just as vivid as the feeling of the road scraping away his jeans and the upper layers of his skin. At that particular moment, however, the only thought in his head was the hope that he wouldn’t end up becoming an organ donor.

  The outer side of his right leg felt like it had burst into flames but Henry shoved the sensation as far from his awareness as he could and concentrated on checking himself for broken bones. Nope, no fractures. He could file that with no wife, no son, no Paris, he thought, and rolled onto his belly, preparing to push himself to his hands and knees.

  A crowd was gathering on the sidewalk, growing larger by the second. Apparently no one in Cartagena had ever seen a guy who’d just gotten his ass kicked and they were fascinated. Judging from their expressions, they were also squeamish. But not too squeamish to get him on video. Very few of them were actually looking at him directly; most were seeing him through their phone screens, although a couple of tourists had actual cameras. Monroe had been right; an hour from now, he’d probably be viral. Motorcycle Maniac Lays It Down To Save It. (Poor beagle.)

  His grief for Monroe threatened to come bubbling up from where he’d buried it but Henry tamped it down again. There were other things to take care of first, the most urgent of them being to clear his head. He felt dazed and a little dizzy—no, a lot dizzy, he discovered as he struggled to his knees and then to his feet. Moving slowly, he straightened all the way up and immediately fell sideways, catching himself on a parked car. His inner ear didn’t seem to know the ride was over—it couldn’t decide whether he was still sliding along the road or spinning around in circles. The police sirens screaming in the distance like it was the end of the world didn’t help.