by Crowe, Stan
Sullivan opened her mouth to say something, but Clint quickly dropped to “tie his shoe.”
“Why, yes, actually,” the fifty-something said. “I’ve worked here for at least thirty years.”
Clint adopted a disbelieving face. “No! Surely you can’t be a day over thirty-five!”
She giggled again. Clint was privately amazed that such easy-to-manipulate people actually existed.
“Would you care for some breakfast as a token of thanks, perhaps?” he asked. “Cup of coffee and a pastry at least? My treat?”
The crimson in her face deepened, and she sputtered something about a husband, and about “needing to be somewhere rather soon,” but Clint could see in her eyes that she had already made the decision to go with him.
“Perhaps you could recommend a place,” he said.
The floodgates of praise for a café Clint had never heard of opened at once. He glanced up at his recently-hired investigator with a knowing grin. Sullivan was beside her… Self (Clint chuckled inside at his pun), and with a final shake of her head spun away, and stalked toward the driver’s side of her car, muttering furiously. As he languidly moved to follow Sullivan, the P.I.’s murmurs caught the matronly woman’s ears, whereupon she shouted for Sullivan to stop.
“You will be at Jehr Schiavo’s this morning,” she exclaimed at Sullivan’s back. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get an appointment there overnight?”
Sullivan picked up her pace, but Clint sprinted for the driver’s door, and snatched the handle with his free hand the instant before she could grip it. She jerked her hand back as though Clint were a poisonous snake striking, and shot venom back at him through her eyes. He smiled grandiosely in return, and opened her door with a flourish and a bow, silently grateful that his near-miss with her hand hadn’t been actual contact. The P.I.’s face blanked, but there was no mistaking the slight hardening of her eyes, nor the flaring of the nostrils.
Clint’s smile widened.
“Your father talked Stearns, Smith and Associates into overlooking your… reputation,” the stout executive continued, growing frantic now, “and I will not have you looking like a string-haired mutt when you meet them this afternoon! How dare you even begin to think you can throw that away? After all we’ve done for you, you just—”
The roar of an engine, the shriek of brakes, and tires on tarmac interrupted her sentence. Clint and his ladies looked up to see a flat-black Bentley parked sideways in the middle of the intersection not fifteen yards from where they stood, smoke rising from its rear wheels. The dark tint on the windows reflected Clint’s image like the eyes of a predator staring at a deer in that endless moment before the chase.
And then the chase began.
The passenger’s side window dropped, and so did Clint’s stomach. He didn’t take time to confirm that Jane was behind the silver pistol that leapt from the window and barked fire in his direction. He ducked instinctively, cringing at the sound of ricochets, covering his ears too late to save them from ringing.
This is the absolute worst déjà vu I’ve ever had!
Reflexively, Clint whipped his portfolio around in front of him like a shield and used it to shove Sullivan into the car. She cried out in surprised protest and tumbled heavily into the passenger’s seat, her arms and legs sprawled akimbo. Clint dove in behind her, praying his leather carrying case would be enough to prevent contact with her; not that he had the luxury of an option in the first place.
Grateful for Sullivan’s impatience, Clint triggered the ignition, and put the car in gear without bothering to close his door. The pedal hit the floor and the Audi growled forcefully as it lurched away from the curb. The door slammed shut from the momentum, and Clint mashed the horn repeatedly, startling pedestrians while hauling the wheel over to avoid plowing into the one-way traffic from behind; he noted he could barely hear the horn through the ringing in his ear.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Sullivan screamed.
“Just buckle up!” he exclaimed in reply, groping desperately for his own seat belt.
How did Jane find me?
Miniature bursts of glass peppered the front seat as bullets punched through the rear windshield in rapid succession. Sullivan screamed and curled into a ball. Clint glanced at her to see if she’d taken a round, but didn’t have time to assess the situation before having to dodge a taxi that suddenly pulled over to disgorge a passenger. Clint swerved across a lane, and felt the impact against a car in the adjacent lane. The front of the Audi was shoved back to the right. The shrill of metal-on-metal didn’t help his poor ears. From the corner of his eye, he noted the loss of the passenger’s side wing mirror. His training told him to brake. Instead, he downshifted, eased off the gas for a moment, and then punched it again.
Sullivan’s Audi tore past the car on its left, sending it swerving into the other lane to meet a coupe coming up quickly from behind. Clint’s heart went out to the driver; at least it was a rear-ender, instead of head-on.
Sullivan screamed again, and Clint read naked terror on her face. He honestly felt terrible for her—this was not her fault, and she never should have been involved on this level. But when bullets start flying…
The Audi bounced through a pothole, forcing Clint to deathgrip the wheel and fight to stay in his lane. More gunfire sounded from behind, but Clint was no longer able to see the Bentley; that worried him almost more than having it right on his tail.
Outside, the world blew by like a colored tornado. Clint raced under a pedestrian bridge, past a building under construction, past various restaurants, and across a rapid-fire series of crosswalks. He pumped the horn as he drove, and was met with horn blasts in reply. Up ahead, he noticed traffic bottlenecking as a construction zone narrowed the one-way street down to two lanes. Too late to turn, Clint braked hard. He was almost disappointed that he stopped a full three feet from the car in front of him; it was always supposed to be a near miss of bare inches, right?
I must not be right in the head if I’m upset I didn’t escape by the skin of my teeth.
The light on the one-way cross street was red for now. A quick glance in his rear view mirror showed he had just enough space to try something. Maybe.
Slamming the car into reverse, he floored the pedal, wincing as Sullivan nearly faceplanted into the dashboard. Ignoring the press of cars coming up behind, Clint cranked the wheel hard right and lined himself up with Washington Street. Unfortunately, Washington Street took him away from the Embarcadero—away from the freedom of the freeway.
The driver’s side headlight popped, and more sparks flew as bullets skipped across the Audi’s polished hood.
“My car!” Sullivan cried. “What are they doing to my car?”
Clint wasted no time in launching them forward, and the car responded beautifully. The cramped quarters of Washington left him no room to maneuver, especially when an unwary driver opened her door not thirty feet in front of him. He dodged awkwardly and cut off a car pulling up along his left side. The car’s horn blared as the vehicle bounced over the curb and plowed into a garbage can. Clint managed to dovetail the unintentional stunt into a left turn on the next side street, where he had to brake hard again to avoid hitting the cross traffic. Panting and praying, he willed a gap in traffic that would allow a left turn. The Force was not with him.
Behind him, he saw a black Bentley screaming up Washington. For a breath, he hoped they hadn’t seen his unplanned diversion. Then the brake lights lit angrily, and the tires smoked again as it stopped hard. Fortune smiled on Clint as a stream of cars trundled up Washington Street in the wake of the Bentley, cutting it off from reversing or turning onto his street. The driver’s window dropped, and a sheen of metal appeared.
“Duck!” he yelled.
Sullivan did as she was told, but surprisingly, nothing happened. The light changed, and Clint urged the car forward, wishing the other cars waiting the light would get a clue. Maybe if Jane had shot at him just now, the rest of thes
e people would get the message.
Clint—count your blessings, idiot. You should be glad when she’s not shooting.
He turned left, not bothering to look at the name of the street. He knew enough to know that it was headed east, back toward the Embarcadero and the Bay Bridge.
“W-where are we going?” Sullivan asked, shakily. “And why are people shooting at me?” Tears ran down her face, and Clint’s heart melted. He fought the urge to reach over and wipe her eyes dry.
“Back over the Bay Bridge and to somewhere safe, hopefully. And they’re not shooting at you. They’re shooting at me.” He glanced behind him to see whether Jane had made the turn onto his side street. Nothing yet.
“W-why are they… why… shooting…?”
In the mirror, a dark shape careened around a corner half a block behind him. “Tell you later. Bay Bridge?”
She said nothing, and Clint ground his teeth in frustration. He’d have to make his own way. He spurred Sullivan’s mount forward, vainly begging the drivers in front of him to speed up. Cars lined either side of the road, leaving him no way around the small pick-up truck puttering along at twenty-five. Thankfully, he noticed Jane wasn’t gaining ground either.
“Sullivan—quickest way to the freeway.” Maybe she’d answer this time.
“Freeway?” she squeaked.
“Yeah. You know, the big road without stop lights and pedestrians?”
“I know what a freeway is,” she replied, obviously incensed.
“Fantastic. Now how do we get there?”
“Which d-direction?”
“I don’t really care at the moment. Quick!”
She flinched, but composed herself quickly. “Turn right at Kearny,” she said hurriedly. “We’ll take that to Market, and then right again on Market. Then—”
“One at time, please,” he growled. The sign for Kearny Street was ahead, but they were practically crawling now. And then the light in front of them went red. Clint stopped, and honked several times from sheer frustration. More honking sounded behind him, along with the keen wail of an engine in low gear and a cacophony of screams. Clint shot a look over his shoulder.
“Oh, joy…”
“What?” Sullivan asked, frantic.
He answered by yanking the wheel left and thrusting the car up and onto the sidewalk with a hard bounce. Sullivan yelped again. Wide-eyed tourists and a cluster of Asians leapt aside as the Audi cut past the line of traffic waiting at the light, the Bentley a mere second behind.
“You said right on Kearny?” he asked hastily.
“Right.”
“Right?”
“Yes!”
“Kearny is a one-way street!”
She recoiled, and then blushed. “Oh… yeah.”
It was too late to turn right, and Clint cringed at the glaring fact that the stream of cross traffic left no openings large enough to admit a bicycle, let alone a sports car.
“Brace yourself,” Clint murmured fervently, releasing the wheel, and doing his best to bury himself sideways in his seat.
“What? Wait…,” she said. Clint only hoped she understood.
His feet pounded the brakes into the floor and he threw the car into first gear with his good hand. The squeal of tires echoed off the buildings to their right, and smoke wafted angrily from the pavement around the Audi.
Then the Bentley hit.
Clint had heard about how painful airbags could be. All the stories were right. The shock of impact went all the way through his body. He was certain he’d jarred loose whatever had healed since his fall from his bathroom window. Not bothering to check on his passenger, he fought the airbag down, wincing every time his left arm moved. The traffic light was green now, and he accelerated into the intersection even before the offending balloon of safety was out of his way. The Bentley nipped at his bumper as he careened down the narrow lane, but he made the next street in moments. He hauled the wheel to the right and simply made an opening in the traffic. Behind him he heard at least two collisions. Jane’s ride drifted hard into the turn, and slammed sideways into one of the vehicles Clint had forced off the road. The black luxury car paused like a dazed grizzly, and then took up pursuit, snarling through its crumpled snout. It wasn’t much, but it had bought Clint time.
“Alright. Which way now?” he asked.
Silence.
He glanced over to see Sullivan’s face pale and panicked, small rivers pouring down it. The left side of her face was badly bruised, and her hair was splayed all over her floppy airbag. Another pang of sympathy beat through his veins, but he swallowed it. “Sullivan? Self? Hello?”
“I told you not to call me Self!” she snapped, through hot tears.
“And I asked you,” he said, “how we’re supposed to make the freeway. I think your ego can take the bruising better than your body can if we can’t ditch Jane.”
“Who’s Jane?” she half sniffled. Wait. Was that… jealousy he heard in her voice?
“Old girlfriend,” he muttered sarcastically, sneaking a sidelong glance at her. Her eyes widened as if offended, but he ignored it.
“Please tell me you dumped her.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “The freeway, please? We can talk about my failed love life over coffee sometime. Maybe, oh, once we’re not being chased by a crazy lady!”
Sullivan stomped down a sob, and snorted. “Right on Market. I already told you.” She was venomous now. “We’ll take a left on Fourth and that will put us on southbound One-oh-One toward San Jose. Or we could head north across Golden Gate. It’s too late to try the Bay Bridge now and northbound traffic shouldn’t be too bad this time of morning.”
“I thought the freeway didn’t run through downtown.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, sagging slightly.
“I hear San Jose is nice this time of year….”
Clint pulled hard right as Market Street came into view. When he was younger, he used to love driving along Market just to look at the cable cars, their rails neatly embedded in the street itself. Now he was dodging those cable cars and the buses that ran off the same overhead crisscross of power lines. Sometimes, it simply wasn’t possible. Stuck again behind slow moving traffic, Clint sweated out the longest quarter mile of his life.
Fourth Street came up on the left. As soon as there was a break in the cars he ignored the “no left turn” sign and zipped into the other lane, flashing his lights and honking like a goose on speed before cutting across the curb and missing the pedestrian light by inches. He frowned as some poor sap had to lay his bike down to avoid getting clipped by the Audi.
“Sorry!” he called behind him, knowing the cyclist would never hear it.
Traffic on Fourth was blessedly lighter than expected, though someone in a truck decided to play “enforcer” by repeatedly swerving to block Clint’s escape. Then three of Jane’s bullets hit the truck; that got him to pull over real quick.
Another half mile, several intersections and at least two red lights passed under burned rubber and low gear, high-RPM maneuvers. Clint was sure he heard sirens from somewhere nearby, though he couldn’t see any cops yet. Maybe he should have called Cal Trans to clear San Francisco’s cramped streets for him prior to running for his life at sixty miles an hour. The freeway entrance was upon them, and Clint cut off a pair of cars that were merging there.
The Audi blazed up the on-ramp and into freeway traffic like a torpedo slipping through water, entirely ignoring the fifty-mile-per-hour speed limit. The Bentley was still too close, and seemed to be pushing Mach one as it started gaining on them. The gunfire was more sporadic now, and Clint forced himself not to think about collateral damage; Jane didn’t seem to mind shooting over or even through a few intervening cars.
Maybe I’ll make the morning traffic report, he thought dryly. Maybe I’ll make the state pen, too…
A chime sounded. Clint looked down, and noted that a small image of a gasoline pump had appeared on the dashboard. His heart sank as he con
firmed that the needle on the fuel gauge was hovering on the wrong side of the letter “E.”
“You didn’t bother to fill your tank this morning?” he called at Sullivan.
Her sheepishness flashed across her face, but she was back on the defensive in a blink. “It was on my ‘to-do’ list,” she spat. “Right under, ‘get abducted by insane client,’ ‘get shot at,’ and ‘buy a new car.’”
They locked glares for a few moments, and then Clint turned his attention back to his driving with the shake of his head. This chase was going to end soon one way or other, and he’d rather not have to trying escaping from Sullivan’s car in the middle of freeway traffic.
“Is there a gas station around here?” he asked quickly.
“A what?”
“A gas—oh, never mind. Nearest freeway exit. Where?”
“Uh…,” and he could hear her mind switching gears away from “I hate Clint” mode. “Right side,” she said. “Maybe a mile up. Maybe two?”
“You don’t know?”
She spitted him with a look. “I don’t have to know! I just follow the signs! They’re easy to read at fifty.”
“Would you like me to slow down?”
“No!”
A jolt shook both of them, and Clint stooped instinctively as more bullets tore through the windows and embedded themselves in the doors. The Audi rocked again, and Clint took a rapid peek at the road ahead as he guided the car away from the Bentley. He was coming up fast on a blue sedan; a slow-moving Cadillac blocked the lane to his left, though Jane was trying to nose it out of the way. A guardrail to his right eliminated any road shoulder he might use to escape. Once again, he was just going to have to go for it.
He switched on his turn signal without thought, downshifted, and wedged himself in front of the Cadillac a heartbeat before passing the sedan that had been blocking his lane with its seventy-mile-an-hour crawl. The limp airbag tangled around his hand, and he barely managed to pull back to the left in time to avoid sideswiping a moving truck next to him.