Lenny veers to the left. The alley is narrow; the van shoots through it at high speed, knocking over garbage cans and crates. The response from the cops is immediate. Half the cars jam into the alley in pursuit. But half is better than all, and locked in behind us as they are, the cops can’t fire at us so easily.
Unfortunately, the alley crosses several streets. Fortunately, it’s midnight, with almost no traffic. At the first street we’re lucky. But we lose two police cars to a collision. At the second crossing we’re also fortunate. But as we drive into the third cross street we smash sideways into the only vehicle on the street, an open produce truck loaded with oranges. The fruit spills over the van. Lenny has bumped his head on the steering wheel and appears to be dazed. He gets another bump on his head when a squad car smashes into us from behind. This is what I wanted—a pileup.
“Come on!” I call to Joel.
I jump out of the side of the van and raise the machine gun and fire a spray of bullets at the cars piled up behind us. They are pinned down, but I know it won’t be long before a herd of fresh cars comes around the block. The suddenness of my attack causes them to scramble from their vehicles. Overhead, the chopper swoops dangerously low, the spotlight momentarily focused straight on me. I look through the glare of the light and see a marksman stand in the open doorway and raise a high-powered rifle. Pumping the shotgun, I take aim at him and pull the trigger.
The man loses the top of his head.
His lifeless body falls onto the roof of a nearby building.
I am not finished.
My next shot takes out the spotlight. My third hits the small vertical rotor at the rear. The blade sputters but continues to spin. Pumping the shotgun, I put another round in it, and this time the propeller dies. It is the vertical rotor that prevents fuselage rotation and also provides rudder control. In other words, it gives stability to the helicopter. Immediately the flying machine veers out of control. To the horror of the watching police officers, it crash-lands in the midst of their line of cars. The explosion is violent, crushing several officers, setting a few ablaze. I use the distraction to reach in and pull Joel out of the van. We run down the block, faster than any human could.
All this has happened in ten seconds.
So far, not a single shot has been fired at us.
A second line of cop cars comes around the block.
I jump into the middle of the street and pour two shotgun rounds into the window of the first one, killing both officers inside. The vehicle loses control and crashes into a parked car. The police cars behind it slam on their brakes. A spray of bullets from my machine gun makes them scramble out of their vehicles in search of cover. I run toward the second car, shielding Joel with my body. To the police, I know, my movements appear as nothing more than a blur. They can’t get a lock on me. Nevertheless, they do open fire and a hail of bullets flies around me. My flak jacket takes several rounds, causing no damage. But one bullet catches me in the leg above my left knee and I stumble, although I don’t fall. Another shot hits me in my right upper arm. Somehow, I reach the second police car and shove Joel inside. I want to drive. I am bleeding, and the pain is intense, but I am in too much of a hurry to acknowledge it.
“Keep your head down!” I snap at Joel as I throw the car in gear. Peeling out, we are treated to another shower of bullets. I take my own advice and duck. Both the front and rear windshields shatter. Glass pellets litter my long blond hair. It will take a special brand of shampoo to get them out.
We escape, but are a marked couple in a highly visible car. I jump on the Harbor Freeway, heading north, hoping to put as much distance between us and our pursuers as quickly as possible. I keep the accelerator floored, weaving in and out of the few cars. But I have two police cars on my tail. Worse, another helicopter has appeared in the sky. This pilot has learned from his predecessor. He keeps the chopper up high, but not so high that he can’t track us.
“We can’t hide from a chopper,” Joel says again.
“This is a big city,” I reply. “There are many places to hide.”
He sees I am bloody. “How bad are your injuries?”
It is an interesting question because already—in the space of a few minutes—they have completely healed. Yaksha’s blood—it is an amazing potion.
“I am all right,” I say. “Are you injured?”
“No.” He pauses. “How many men have died since this started?”
“At least ten. Try not to count.”
“Is that what you did after a few thousand years? You stopped counting?”
“I stopped thinking.”
I have a goal. Because I know we cannot stay on the freeway long, I decide that the only way we can escape the helicopters is to get into one ourselves. Atop several of the high-rises in downtown Los Angeles there are helicopter pads with choppers waiting to whisk executives to high-level meetings. I can fly a helicopter. I can operate any piece of machinery humankind has developed.
I exit the freeway on Third Street. By now I have ten black-and-whites on my tail. Coming down the off ramp, I see several cop cars struggling to block the road in front of me. Switching to the wrong side of the street, I bypass them and head east in the direction of the tallest buildings. But my way is quickly blocked by another set of black-and-whites. We must have half the LAPD after us. I am forced to swerve into the basement garage of a building I don’t know. A wooden bar swings down to block my way, but I don’t stop to press the green button and collect my ticket. Nor does the herd of law enforcement behind me. We all barrel through the barricade. A sign for an elevator calls my attention and I slam the car to a halt inches from the door. We jump out and push the button. While we wait for our ride to higher floors, I open fire on our pursuers. More people die. I lied to Joel. I do count—three men and a woman take bullets in the face. I am a very good shot.
The elevator comes and we pile inside.
I press the top button. Number twenty-nine.
“Can they halt the elevator from the basement?” I ask as I reload.
“Yes. But it’ll take them a few minutes to figure out how to do it.” He shrugs. “But does it matter? They’ll surround this building with an army. We’re trapped.”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
We exit onto the top floor. Here there are expensive suites, for law firms, plastic surgeons, and investment counselors. But there is too much high-priced real estate in Los Angeles—several of the suites are empty. Kicking in the door of the nearest vacancy, I stride up and down beside the wide windows, studying the neighboring buildings. I will have to cross the block and move over a few buildings to reach a high-rise that has a helicopter pad. I curse the fact that I am not a mythic vampire from films, capable of flying.
Yet I am able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Joel moves to my side. Below us, we watch the forces of righteousness gather. Two more helicopters have appeared in the night sky. Their bright beams rake the sides of the building.
“They won’t come up the elevator after us,” Joel says. “They will only come when they have us surrounded top and bottom.” He pauses. “What are we going to do?”
“I am going to set a new Olympic record.” I point to the building across the street. Its roof is only three stories below where we are. “I am going to jump over to it.”
He is impressed. “That’s far. Can you really do it?”
“If I get a running start. I’ll come back for you in a few minutes, in a helicopter. I will land it on the roof of this building. Be waiting for me.”
“What if you miss the roof of that building?”
I shrug. “It’s a long way down.”
“Could you survive the fall?”
“I think so. But it would take me time to recover.”
“You shouldn’t come back for me,” Joel says. “Steal a helicopter and escape.”
“That is not a consideration.”
He speaks seriously. “Too many people have d
ied. Even if we escape, I can’t live with this slaughter on my conscience.”
I am impatient. “Don’t you see how dangerous you are to the human race? Even dead. They could take your blood, inject it into animals, into themselves—just as Eddie did. And they will do that, after witnessing what we can do. Believe me, I only kill tonight so that the world can wake safely in the morning.”
“Is that true, Sita? You would die to save all these men and women?”
I turn away. “I would die to save you.”
He speaks gently. “What did you sacrifice to keep me alive?”
I would weep, I think, if I could. “I told you.”
“I didn’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.” I turn back to him. “There will be time later for these discussions.”
He touches my hair—pieces of glass fall to the floor. “You miss him.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know what he meant to you when I watched him die.”
I smile sadly. “Nothing is really known about a person until he or she is gone.”
“I cannot take his place.”
I nod weakly. “I know.” Then I shake my head. “I need to go.”
He wants to hug me. “This could be goodbye.”
“It is not over yet.”
Before launching my daring leap, I kick out the window that blocks my way. This alerts the buzzing choppers but I don’t give them time to zero in on me. I back away from the windows, taking only the shotgun with me, giving the machine gun to Joel.
“Are you afraid of heights?” he asks.
I kiss him. “You don’t know me. I am afraid of nothing.”
Taking a deep breath, I begin my hard approach. I can accelerate sharply and be at full speed in less than ten strides. My balance and ability to judge distance are flawless. I hit the shattered bottom edge of the window perfectly and all at once I am airborne.
The flight across the gap between the buildings is breathtaking, even for me. It seems as if I’ll float forever, moving horizontally, in defiance of gravity. The searchlights on the helicopters are too slow to catch me. I soar in darkness, a huge bat, the cool air on my face. Below, the tiny figures raise their heads skyward, blinking at the impossible. I almost laugh. They thought they had me trapped, silly mortals. They thought wrong.
My landing is not entirely smooth because I have such momentum. I am forced into a roll as I skitter across the rooftop. I am bleeding as I finally come to a halt and jump up. Overhead the choppers are frantically maneuvering to open fire. I am not given a chance to catch my breath before moving. Leaping for the next rooftop, I watch as a line of bullets rips a path in front of me.
The ensuing jumps between buildings are all on the same side of the street and not so dramatic as the first one. Yet the last leap, to the skyscraper with the helicopter pad, is to be the most dramatic of all. Because I cannot jump to the top of a building twenty stories up, I do not plan to land on top of the skyscraper. I will jump into it, through its wall of windows. I only hope that I don’t hit the steel and concrete between floors.
Once again, the choppers approach, their machine guns blasting.
Once again, I take a running start.
The windows of the skyscraper rush toward me like a hard black wall. An instant before contact, I lean back and kick out with my feet. My timing is perfect; the glass shatters around the lower part of my body, sparing my face and arms. Unfortunately, I land awkwardly on a row of secretarial desks. The shock is incredible, even for me. Coming to a halt in a pile of ruined PCs and paper clips, I lie still for a whole minute, trying to catch my breath. I am now covered with blood from head to toe. Yet even as I grimace in pain my flesh wounds begin to close and my broken bones begin to mend.
I have company on the outside. One of the helicopter pilots has taken it upon himself to come level with the hole I have punched into the side of the skyscraper. The chopper floats just outside the shattered window, scanning the office with its bright searchlight. There are three men, including the pilot, aboard the craft. Peering through the wreckage, I notice that the machine gunner has an itchy finger. I think to myself how much more I would prefer to have a police chopper than a civilian one. But the pilot is not reckless. He keeps the chopper constantly moving a little from side to side. For me to try to leap onto it would be risky. I opt for the more conservative plan.
I get up slowly, limping. My right shinbone is still fractured, but it will be all right in another minute—God bless Yaksha’s blood. Ducking behind the desks, the beam from the searchlight stretching long, stark shadows across the office, I move away from the broken window. The helicopter swoops in a narrow arc, sometimes onto the far side of the hole, sometimes closer to where I’m hidden. The windows are tinted; it is easier for me to follow their movements than for them to follow mine, unless their light were to hit me directly. Yet they seem obsessed with the space just beyond the hole. They must feel that I am in the wreckage somewhere near it, injured and dying.
“Come to me, baby,” I whisper.
On their third swing toward my side, I punch out the window in front of me and open fire. I take out the machine gunner first; I don’t like his looks. The searchlight goes next. I take aim on the fuel tank. As I said, I enjoy fireworks, wicked explosions. When I pull the trigger on the shotgun, the chopper detonates in a huge fireball. The pilot screams, the flames engulfing his body. The other man is blown out the side door, in pieces. The life goes out of the machine and it sinks to the ground. Far below I hear people crying. Far above, to my right, I hear the other two helicopters veer away. They have lost enthusiasm for the fight.
On the way to the elevator, I pass a custodian. He hardly looks up. Despite my blood and artillery, he wishes me a good evening. I smile at him.
“You have a good night,” I say.
The elevator takes me to the top floor, and from there it is not hard to find a private access ladder onto the roof. Not one but two helicopters wait to fly us to freedom. Both are jet powered and I am pleased. They will at least be as fast as the cops’ choppers, if not faster. Unfortunately there’s a security guard on duty. An old guy, obviously working the night shift to supplement a meager retirement, he takes one look at me and hurries over. He has a handgun but doesn’t draw it. His glasses are remarkably thick; he squints through the lenses as he looks me up and down.
“Are you a cop?” he asks.
I don’t have the heart to lie to him. “No. I’m the bad guy. I’m the one who just blew that chopper out of the sky.”
He is awestruck. “I watched you jumping from building to building. How do you do that?”
“Steroids.”
He slaps his leg. “I knew it! The drugs young people are taking these days. What do you want? One of these choppers?”
I point my shotgun at him. “Yes. Please give me the keys. I don’t want to have to kill you.”
He quickly raises his hands. “You don’t have to do that. The keys are in the ignitions. Do you know how to fly a helicopter?”
I turn my weapon aside. “Yes. I’ve been taking lessons. Don’t worry about me.”
He walks me to the closest chopper, a Bell 230. “This baby has a range of over three hundred miles. You want to get far out of town. The radio and TV are babbling about you, calling you a band of terrorists.”
I laugh as I climb into the cockpit. “You do nothing to destroy their illusions. Just tell them you were overwhelmed by superior forces. You don’t want people to know a young woman stole a helicopter out from under your nose.”
“And a blond one at that,” he agrees. “You take care!”
He closes the door for me and I’m off.
Picking up Joel proves to be the easiest part of the night. The police helicopters are holding back—over a mile away. They aren’t used to being blown out of the sky. The fire from the last downed chopper spreads over the front of the skyscraper. In the distance I see smoke from the first chopper. J
oel shakes his head as he climbs in.
“They’ll never stop hunting us after this,” he says.
“I don’t know,” I jest. “They might be afraid to come after me.”
We head northeast. I’m anxious to get out of the suburban sprawl and into the wild, somewhere we can disappear. The nearby mountains are a possibility. Our chopper is fast, capable of going two hundred miles an hour. To my surprise, the police helicopters don’t really pursue us. It’s not just because we’re faster than they are—a fact I have to question. They allow the gap to grow between us to at least twenty miles. The length of the space doesn’t reassure me because I know they still have us under visual observation. Nothing will be gained by plunging low to the ground, below the radar. They are waiting for something, biding their time.
“Reinforcements,” I mutter as we swoop over the sleeping city at an elevation of a thousand feet.
Joel nods. “They’ve called for bigger guns.”
“Army helicopters?”
“Probably.”
“Which direction will they come from?”
“There is a large base south of here. You might want to head north.”
“I was planning to do so after I reached the Cajon Pass.” The pass cuts into the desert, also a nice place to hide. Highway 15 runs through the pass, and if followed far enough, leads to Las Vegas.
“You might not want to wait that long,” Joel advises.
“I understand.” Yet the temptation to put more distance between us and our pursuers is great. It gives me the illusion of safety, a dangerous illusion. But the farther we go, the more the desert beckons me. Being winter, the mountains are covered with snow, and even though I am highly resistant to cold, I don’t like it. At our present speed Cajon Pass is not far ahead. Once over it, we will be clear of the city, able to roam free.
I ask the question I have been waiting to ask.
“Are you thirsty?”
He is guarded. “What do you mean?”
I glance over. “How do you feel?”
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