Hunter's Games

by James P. Sumner

  “Seriously?” I reply. “Is now really the time?”

  He kind of smirks and walks on, so he’s in between Chambers and me.

  I figure it was his attempt at light humor, so I think nothing more of it.

  We walk past another truck parked up in front of the warehouse before Pellaggio’s. It’s empty, and there’s no one else around.

  Pellaggio’s going to be long gone. We’re all thinking it. I just hope we find something useful inside. Ever since I spoke to him, like everyone else, it’s had me worried exactly what he might have planned. Since the beginning, we’ve assumed this entire thing has been about taking revenge on me. And I think it still is, to a point. But if the game he’s playing with me is just a small part of something bigger, then we’ve been purposefully distracted, so we wouldn’t figure things out sooner.

  Ahead, Chambers raises her left arm, bent at the elbow with her fist clenched, signaling for us to stop. We’ve reached the entrance to the warehouse.

  She puts her first two fingers together, like a gun, and whips them repeatedly forward in a gesture for Johnson to run on ahead and cover the other side of the entrance. I fall in behind her, no stranger to the tactics of breaching a building. Both Chambers and Johnson lean against the wall either side of the entrance, which is a large metal roller with a smaller door etched into it, their guns held out low in front of them, arms locked. I kneel behind Chambers, a couple of paces back, holding my Beretta firm but with my arms loose.

  She gestures to the handle and Johnson leans forward and grabs it.

  “On three,” she whispers.

  She counts up on her hand. When she hits three, Johnson thrusts the door open for me.

  There’s no way Pellaggio is still here…

  I walk in, casually; my gun by my side, my arm relaxed. Johnson follows and heads to the right, taking a few steps inside then crouching down to cover. Chambers is last in, doing the same, but to the left.

  I look at them both. Their operational tactics are sharp and accurate. Textbook, almost. But I fear it’s un-necessary.

  I look around the vast expanse of the warehouse. There are no partitions or makeshift rooms—it’s just one big, empty building. The far wall is all old brick, except the top few feet, which is a large, dirty, plastic window that’s bathing half the floor in natural light. There’s nothing on the left hand side except the odd piece of old timber and large puddles. Along the right hand wall, toward the back corner, is a pile of old wooden boxes—probably been there for years. You can smell the damp and decay that’s been eating away at them over time.

  In the middle of the area is a workbench, of sorts—three tables arranged into a loose U-shape, with a few sheets of paper scattered across them. My eyes rest on the large pile of wooden crates just to the right of it. They’re new. And they’re open.

  “Guys,” I say, gesturing to the middle of the room. “Looks like we’re too late.”

  They both stand, each having a quick look around before turning to me.

  “Goddammit,” says Chambers, visibly frustrated—although I figure that’s more because we had an idea what we’d find and didn’t wanna be right about it.

  “Shit! We missed him,” adds Johnson.

  “We expected as much,” I say, walking over to the workbench. “Don’t take it too personal.”

  They both follow me and we all stand in front of the table that runs horizontally between the other two, looking down at the papers.

  “Check this out,” I say, picking up the top sheet and holding it out for them both to see. “Looks like a blueprint for chaos.”

  She takes hold of it and looks at it briefly. It’s a detailed sketch of the California Academy of Sciences entrance, with markings that clearly detail where the bombs were.

  Chambers takes out her phone and walks slowly off to the side dialing a number. Johnson moves over to inspect the crates. The top one of the pile is about chest high and the lid is resting open. I watch him slide it off fully, letting it drop to the floor. He looks inside and his eyes go wide with horror.

  “What is it?” I say, rushing over.

  “We’ve got a major fucking problem!” he says.

  I look inside and see a very large bomb resting on a bed of wood shavings. It’s got multiple wires coming out of it, and an LED timer that’s counting down…

  It’s showing 00:19 seconds...

  “Oh shit!” I turn and start running, knowing Johnson is right behind me. “Grace, we gotta go! Now!”

  She sees us running and follows without question. We cross the warehouse floor at full speed and make it to the entrance. I’m trying to keep count of how long we have, but I lost track as I was running.

  We all file through the metal door and out onto the pier.

  “Run!” I yell, but the word barely passes my lips when a deafening explosion goes off behind us, tearing through the warehouse, and drowning out my voice.

  The force from the blast sends us flying off the edge of the pier and into the Bay below. I take a large breath in as I’m falling—my survival instincts kicking in and protecting me while my brain freezes, trying to understand what’s happening.

  If you’re ever going underwater, the best thing to do is take a deep breath before you go under. If you simply hold your breath, it means that you have to breathe in as you re-surface, which causes you to inhale all the water that splashes up with you. If you have a lungful of air already, you simply breathe out and avoid choking.

  I plunge into the water back first. I turn and move quickly underwater, looking around to make sure the other two are okay. I can see them twisting and turning and thrashing, dealing with the surprise of what’s happened and the shock of the water. They’ll be fine.

  I think for a brief moment how insane it is that I can be so used to things like this happening… I get blown up way too much!

  Above us, the cloud of fire from the explosion is still billowing out over the water. I look again at Johnson and Chambers, who have managed to compose themselves a bit more and are looking around for me. Our eyes all meet and I give them the ‘okay’ signal with my hand, which they return. I point up and swim to the surface.

  My head breaks the surface, and I exhale a long breath, before taking some quick ones to regulate my heartbeat once again. The others do the same.

  “Well, I’m no expert,” I say as I swim over to them. “But I think that might have been the trap we were talking about.”

  “Jesus Christ!” yells Johnson.

  I look at Chambers, who hasn’t said anything. She’s pale and her eyes are wide, darting around from side to side rapidly. It looks like she’s going into shock.

  “Grace, talk to me. Are you alright?” I ask.

  She’s taking in quick, deep breaths, but she manages a nod.

  I focus on my breathing for a moment to compose myself.

  Yet again, someone has taken the time to find a new way of pissing me off. The door keeping my Inner Satan at bay was blown off its hinges with the school bus full of kids. Now, Pellaggio has just walked inside and slapped him across the face.

  Enough is enough.

  “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Your official methods got us this far, and it’s been a great team effort to figure out where this bastard was hiding. But I only stick with a plan until it gets me blown up. Now, we do things my way.”

  “Adrian,” Johnson begins. “This is still an FBI invest—”

  “I’m not asking,” I say, interrupting him. “I’m gonna get out of this water, hunt that sonofabitch down and put a bullet in his fucking head. That’s what’s going to happen next. Whether I end up in prison afterward or not when all this is over is up to you. But I’m done playing nice.”

  Johnson looks over at Chambers, as if expecting her to back him up, but she’s too busy trying to control her breathing and deal with the shock, and she simply shakes her head.

  I swim over to the edge of the pier, where there’s some rope netting tied
to one of the wooden struts. I pull myself up and climb slowly back to the pier. I look down to make sure they’re both behind me.

  I reach up and place both hands flat on the pier. With a final push of my legs, I heave myself up and over, resting on all fours. I need a minute to catch my breath.

  I’m getting too old for this shit…

  I look behind me at what’s left of the warehouse. The blast has blown the roof almost completely off, as well as most of the wall that’s facing the Bay. Debris is scattered everywhere and the heat coming from the building is intense.

  I look back up the pier, to see if there’s been any collateral damage to neighboring buildings. That empty white van is still parked outside the next warehouse over.

  Wait a minute…

  It’s not empty. There’s a head poking out of the passenger side window, staring at me. I can’t quite make out the exact features, because of all the smoke around, but I can see the smile on their face. It’s a sick, evil smile.

  Danny Pellaggio.

  15.

  14:58

  “Hey!” I SHOUT, scrambling to my feet and running toward the van. I reach behind me to draw a Beretta. “Pellaggio, you piece of shit!”

  He laughs as he disappears back inside the van. It quickly speeds off; its tires screeching as people who have gathered at the far end of the pier, near the entrance, scatter to avoid getting ran over.

  “Fuck!”

  Chambers and Johnson appear next to me, confused.

  “That was him,” I say, setting off running back to our sedan.

  “Pellaggio?” asks Chambers.

  “Come on! I’m not letting him go now!”

  We all run back to our car. I jump into the passenger side. I much prefer shooting than driving. Johnson takes the wheel and Chambers clambers into the back seat behind me. We shoot off in pursuit, following them up The Embarcadero and left on Lombard Street. Johnson hits the sirens. I lean out the window, yelling and gesturing at people on the sidewalk and crossing the street to move out of the way, as we speed past. Behind me, I can hear Chambers on her phone, calling for back up.

  “See if we can get close enough to ID the plates,” she shouts to Johnson.

  “Doing my best,” he replies tersely as he navigates the busy streets at high speed.

  The van is a few cars in front of us.

  “Adrian, did you get a look at him?” she asks, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “I didn’t get a good look,” I shout back. “But I know it was him.”

  Johnson moves sharply to the left, narrowly fitting into a gap in the outside lane, causing the nearby drivers to beep their horns.

  “Jesus, Johnson! Who taught you how to drive?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Just trying to get you near enough to shoot the bastard, alright?” He throws me a sideways glance and I can see he’s not happy about it, but knows what has to be done. I nod in acknowledgement.

  “We’ve got another thing to consider,” I say over my left shoulder to Chambers. “Pellaggio was in the passenger side.”

  “Shit,” she says, realizing what I mean. “So who’s driving?”

  “Hang on, I’ll go ask,” I reply, with sarcastic frustration.

  We’ve gained a few places thanks to Johnson’s adventurous driving, and we’re only a couple of cars behind the van. We’re driving through the Russian Hill district, and we’re gaining ground on Pellaggio as we hit the 101.

  “You’ve almost got him,” I say to Johnson.

  The van is just ahead, but he’s goes through a red light causing two cars coming across us at the junction to crash. Johnson just manages to swerve and avoid the collision, but we fall behind again—stuck behind a car that’s slowing down to view the accident.

  “Get out of the goddamn way!” yells Johnson, beeping his horn.

  We manage to get through the congestion and back on the trail, but he’s way out in front. We converge on Richardson Avenue and follow the 101 as it becomes the Presidio Parkway.

  “Christ, he’s heading for the bridge,” says Chambers. “If he gets on there, we won’t be able to stop him without causing complete chaos on the roads and endangering a whole lot of innocent people.”

  I lean out the window again. We’re doing fifty, which is no mean feat in this much traffic. But we’re still not gaining enough ground to catch him.

  It’s time for a more direct approach, I think.

  “Line us up behind him,” I shout.

  “What for?” asks Johnson. “There are seven cars between us!”

  “Just do it!”

  Johnson takes another tight gap and gets us in the same lane as Pellaggio, albeit some way back. With my Beretta in my right hand, I reach over with my left and grab the edge of the roof, pulling myself out of the window further, until I’m practically sitting on the doorframe.

  “What are you doing?” yells Chambers from the back seat, but I ignore her. Mostly because I don’t have an answer she’ll want to hear.

  I’m lucky, in that there are only cars in between us, so I have an unobstructed view of the larger, taller van.

  Using my left hand to steady myself, I take aim with my gun and fire. The first bullet misses the mark, as does the second. But the third hits the wing mirror of the passenger door, which makes the van swerve sharply left. They fishtail back and forth, eventually regaining control, but we’ve been able to make up some ground and we’re now only one car behind them.

  The back doors of the van fly open and I see him—Danny Pellaggio! He’s stands holding onto the roof with one hand, and holding an M4 Carbine assault rifle in the other, aiming directly at us.

  Oh, shit…

  I don’t remember anything about him from when I’d shot him a year ago. I didn’t know who he was, so paid no attention to which of the men he was that I shot or what he looked like. He was just another target back then. But now, as I look into his empty, brown eyes, I can see exactly who he is. He’s quite thin, almost gaunt, but wiry and with some muscle on his small frame. He’s wearing a dark gray jumpsuit and black boots. His skin is a light olive color, as you’d expect from someone with a Mediterranean background.

  I look quickly ahead of us, seeing the tollbooth for the Golden Gate Bridge approaching fast. Then I look back at Pellaggio, but before I can aim my gun at him, he flashes me a wicked smile and opens fire.

  “Look out!” I yell as I quickly duck back into the car, narrowly avoiding the hail of bullets that pepper our hood.

  I crouch down as low as possible behind the dashboard. I look quickly back at Chambers—she’s flattened herself across the back seat. Johnson’s doing the best he can, but he has to keep looking where he’s driving, so can’t afford too much cover. I stick my arm out of the window and fire a few rounds blind, trying to deter Pellaggio from shooting, but don’t succeed.

  The car in between Pellaggio and us catches a burst of fire and swerves off to the right, crashing up on the sidewalk and into a building.

  This guy is insane! He has no regard whatsoever for innocent life… I’ve got to stop him!

  We weave back and forth, trying to make ourselves harder to hit, but we’re so close it doesn’t really make any difference.

  “Johnson!” I shout. “Try and draw nearer to him on the right hand side!”

  Without question, he does. He puts his foot to the floor and nears the rear right hand side of the van. Pellaggio is still firing, but he’s holding an assault rifle in one hand and has his arm extended almost level in front of him. The strain on his muscles is going to be intense, and he doesn’t look that strong. Sooner or later, he’ll either need to hold it with both hands—which he can’t do, as he’d fall over if he lets go with his right—or stop firing altogether.

  More bullets spray into the driver’s side of the car, shattering with window next to Johnson.

  “Fuck!” he yells, struggling to maintain control of the vehicle.

  He’s doing a great job, considering we
’re doing nearly sixty right now.

  I lean over him and return fire, this time accurately enough to make Pellaggio stop shooting and retreat into the van.

  “You alright?” I ask Johnson.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he replies.

  I look behind me. “Grace, are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, wincing. She’s been showered with glass and has lots of small cuts across her hands and top. “Focus on stopping him.”

  I hear her pick up the phone again, giving details of the license plate of the van as well as a SITREP. Hopefully, that means the cavalry will soon be on its way.

  I look ahead of us and see that the traffic’s slowing right down as we come up to the tollbooth. It doesn’t seem to deter the van driver, worryingly. It speeds on and smashes into the back of a car, spinning it out of the way and into some others, causing a pile-up that spreads across the opposite lane.

  Jesus, I need to take this guy down and fast!

  “Just follow him,” I say to Johnson. “He’s making a path for us through the traffic, so hang back and follow him until we get to the bridge. When we’ve got a straight run, I can take him down.”

  “Got it,” he replies, as he drops back and tailgates the van as it ploughs recklessly through the queues of vehicles and reaches the toll plaza. The van clips the rear end of a car, spinning it away to the right as we shoot through the booth and hit the Golden Gate Bridge. It skids off to the left, but the driver regains control and they speed on. We’re just a few feet behind them.

  “We’ve got a chopper inbound,” announces Chambers as she hangs up the phone. “ETA—five minutes.”

  “That might be too long,” I reply, as another car crashes into the side of the bridge. “This guy’s insane, and a really shit driver. I’ve gotta try to stop them now.”

  On cue, Johnson pulls away to the side, faking right, then going left, trying to get alongside the van. I lean out of the window again and fire three rounds. The first two hit the wheel arch and the driver’s door. The third blows out the front left tire.

  “Fall back!” I yell, as the van slides out of control and does a three-sixty spin in front of us. But Johnson sees it a fraction too late, and the van slams into the front of our car as the driver fights for control.