Rules of Honour (14 page)

His decision to follow was a no-brainer. But he wasn’t about to drive through a bunch of cops and firefighters who might spot him and note him for later. He backed up and spun the wheel, taking him on to the intersection where he raced to the next block over. He paralleled Takumi’s street, racing the car along it to make the next intersection. Something must have slowed the stranger down because his Chrysler was only now crossing the next intersection up. At the next block they’d both be back on Geary Boulevard and he was confident he could tuck in behind the stranger there and follow him to wherever he was going. He pushed across the intersection as soon as the silver car was out of sight, giving the sedan throttle and beating the other to the main road. He was fortunate in that there were no other cars ahead of him, because the traffic lights were on stop, but he nosed far enough into the junction so that he could see the Chrysler turn and come down the hill towards him.

As it happened the stranger was halted by a red light. That made things awkward. They were now stopped at right angles to each other, and a simple glance from the man could be his undoing. He wasn’t that concerned: the man had no hope of recognising him now, disguised as he was. But there was a more pressing problem. His light had turned green. If he stayed put he’d probably attract attention, some impatient driver behind him would begin honking a horn to get him moving. He had no option but to turn left. Due to his positioning on the road though, it appeared that the stranger was heading down Geary past Peace Plaza, so once he was a block down he pulled in and parked at the side of the road. Within thirty seconds the Chrysler drew up at the next lights down, and he found himself peering at the stranger from no more than fifteen feet away. Luckily the man did not glance over at him – he was talking animatedly, probably on a hands free telephone that he couldn’t see from this angle. Pedestrians crossing the road were oblivious of the man, wrapped up in their own worlds, and did not notice that he looked like an old-time chimney sweep, his face soot-blackened.

The lights changed and the Chrysler swept forward. Another car came in behind it, then a truck emblazoned with Kanji symbols, but after that a gap presented itself and he pulled out sharply to continue the pursuit. While the lights had stopped the Chrysler, he’d memorised the number plate. He had his ways and means and would find out who the car was registered to later. But only out of interest, so he could learn his name, because he fully intended killing the man beforehand.

He followed, trying to decide his best strategy. Should he wait until the man returned to his employer so he got a full idea of who was trying to protect himself from him? He could kill the stranger – beat the living crap out of him – in front of his employer just to prove a point. Or just do the man at first opportunity and have done with it? He decided on the second: why complicate matters? He was going to kill every last one of the murderers, and having this man in his way was only slowing him down.

He pulled out his pistol and placed it in his lap, and, as he drove, reached for the glove compartment and pulled out the sound suppressor he’d employed on previous occasions. The silencer was a little corrupted, but out here on the noisy streets it wouldn’t make that large a difference. At the next stop he fixed the suppressor in place and laid the gun across his lap. Then he followed once more.

He was surprised when the Chrysler took a right and headed for the north end of town. He had expected that the stranger was heading back to either Faulks’s or Parnell’s place, but now it looked like he had another destination in mind. He glanced at the clock on his dash. Time was counting down; he had to be somewhere in a little over an hour and a half. No time like the present then.

He moved across lanes, paralleling the Chrysler, but two vehicles back. Then he began to speed up. He lifted the gun, readying himself. He was coming adjacent to the stranger’s car, could see him in profile. He lifted the gun a little higher, waited for them to approach the next intersection where the lights were turning red. Excellent, he thought. But it was a fleeting emotion, because sitting on the corner was a SFPD squad car. He quickly dropped the gun in his lap, and faced ahead. He’d be forced to pull up alongside the Chrysler. He continued to stare forward, sure that he was being scrutinised by both the stranger and the cop on the corner. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, digging his fingertips into the leather, cursing under his breath.

As the lights changed, he was a little heavy-footed in his frustration to get away and the car lurched ahead, gaining distance on the Chrysler. Not to worry, he thought, because being in front of his quarry there was less chance the stranger would make him. The fact was he’d just earned a positive advantage. He gave the car gas and sped on, aiming to make it through the next lights before they turned and get a couple of blocks’ lead. The traffic was heavy this far down into town, but still flowing along sharply. At his first opportunity, he swerved into an empty space, jammed his gun inside his jacket and stepped out on to the sidewalk.

Standing out of sight he waited, watching as the Chrysler came down the hill towards him. The car wasn’t coming at great speed, but that pleased him: it made for an easier shot.

Chapter 18

The big man caught my eye. He was wearing some kind of uniform jacket, over black trousers and black boots. His hair was hidden beneath a ball cap, emblazoned with a motif I couldn’t make out from here, and his aviator-type sunglasses obscured much of his upper face.

It wasn’t his clothing, or even the fact that I couldn’t see his features under the peak of the cap and glasses that drew my attention. It was the feeling I’d seen him somewhere before, and very recently. I was just mulling his appearance over when he appeared to stiffen as I drove towards him.

He stepped out from the doorway where he’d hidden, and I saw his right hand grab towards his jacket, then make a snapping motion downwards, before the hand began to come back up. Subconsciously my mind was working on hyper-drive.

His action wasn’t something that many would even notice, never mind recognise for what it was, but I’d been on both ends of an attempted hit enough times to instantly yank down on the steering wheel. It was an injudicious move in that it sent the car sideways into the oncoming lane but at least I was moving away from his line of fire. The bullet he fired starred the windscreen. It also ripped a chunk out of the passenger seat headrest and buried itself in the upholstery of the seat behind. At least it missed my head and I was still alive. That of course could change any second.

It was approaching midday, and the traffic was in full flow. There were cars in the oncoming lane, plus a bus loaded with tourists, and a wagon hauling livestock. Hit any of them and the bullet would have done its trick anyway. I sawed the wheel, whipping around the first car, seeing the astonished face of its elderly male driver peering back at me. A younger man drove the next car, and maybe he saw my driving as a challenge because he also started yanking down on his steering. Luckily he went one way and I went the other, but our back ends clipped and for a moment it felt like my Chrysler went airborne. Professional that he was, the bus driver was already braking, his tyres sending up black smoke, but it wouldn’t make much difference if he broadsided me. I hit the throttle, streaking by the front of the bus towards the sidewalk, which thankfully was clear of pedestrians. The high kerb almost ripped my tyres from the rims, but I made it up on to the sidewalk just as the bus rammed the back end of my car. The Chrysler spun with the impact, rocking me wildly in my seat, the belt snapping tight against my collarbone. The noise was horrendous, but while I still had hearing it meant I wasn’t badly hurt – even though some say it’s the last sense to leave a dying person. The collision kept my car moving, throwing it around, and now the other side took the brunt of the hit as it slammed into a metal signpost. The post wasn’t enough to check the car, and it continued on its awkward trajectory and only halted when the back end caromed into a boutique selling women’s lingerie.

Stunned, I watched as the bus continued forward another thirty yards or so, juddering to a halt with fresh jets of black smoke spurting off the asphalt. There was more noise and I snapped round, seeing the livestock truck bearing down on me. The driver had locked up the brakes, causing the rig to jackknife. I could imagine the panic-stricken bellowing of the cattle inside it as it teetered on one side, sliding unchecked towards me. Any second now and tons of metal and beef would be joining me among the bras and briefs. There were too many variables working against me: the seat belt; the door jammed tight against the shop front; the two or three seconds until the truck hit. But I had to try to save myself. I didn’t go for the belt or the door because there was no point. I did what most people would do out of instinct: I threw my hands over my head and scrunched low in the seat.

There was an irony attached to what I saw as my impending death, insofar as it was going to be much worse than if I’d just taken the shot to the head that was originally on the cards. Distractedly I watched it coming from under my laced forearms. The trailer hit the row of shops, collapsing walls and doors and shattering plate glass. The day was full of glittering shards of light as glass rained everywhere. The slatted box containing the cattle was wrenched into an absurd angle but at least it didn’t flatten and squash the poor beasts inside. The cab kept coming, and still it was enough to destroy my car. The cab hit, crunching the back end of the Chrysler into a concertina, but this also served to wrench the front away from the shop front. Then all movement ceased and I slowly unfolded my arms from over my head. I was looking into the dark space formed by the triangle of jackknifed truck and trailer, my car wedged firmly, but almost untouched, at the front.

Against all the odds I’d survived, but how long would that last if I stayed put in my seat? The man who’d taken the shot might try again: except I couldn’t see how, considering I was completely surrounded by the wreck of the truck and the collapsed storefronts. I took a moment to check for injuries. There was fresh blood on my forehead, but a quick dab of the finger showed me it wasn’t serious, just a few shallow nicks from the flying glass. My shoulder hurt like hell, a result of the seat belt bruising the flesh – or maybe from the tumble I’d taken earlier. The air bags had performed, but now they’d deflated and lay like withered balloons throughout the interior of the car. Pale dust and particles of glass still hung in the air. I blinked some clarity into my vision; saw that I was well and truly jammed inside the car. With some effort I extricated myself from the seat belt and hauled my legs out from under the steering column. Leaning over the seats I saw where the round had cut through the headrest then buried itself in the upholstery. It was the only evidence of what had just occurred, but I wasn’t going to mention it to the police who’d already be en route to the scene of the collision. Remarkably – but for the bullet scar – the windscreen had survived the series of smashes. I chambered my right knee, kicked back; finishing off what the bullet started and smashing the windscreen. I went backwards through the hole, trailing nuggets of glass with me, and rested a second or two on the steaming bonnet. Then I sat up, looking for a way out.

The truck’s cab was wedged firmly to the back of my car, as well as buried a foot or two in the boutique shop, while its trailer made a wall that held me in and was likewise jammed into another storefront beyond me. Big brown eyes rolled my way from between the slats, and here and there I saw a pink tongue flecked with froth. The cattle appeared largely unhurt, which I was happy about; it was enough to suspect the poor things were on their way to the slaughterhouse without them becoming ground beef beforehand. Maybe the accident had won them a reprieve . . . I wanted to think that was the case.

Clambering off the bonnet, I felt the effects of the smash in my muscles. It was going to hurt tomorrow, worse the day after that. While I was able, I crouched low and looked for a way out under the trailer. On the far side I could make out the feet of other road users rushing to aid the truck driver, but they were almost obscured by the curtain of urine and dung splattering on the asphalt. I didn’t relish crawling out that way, so decided to head the opposite direction, through the lingerie shop. First though, I grabbed my cellphone from the cradle in the front. It concerned me that I’d to leave my gun behind, but it was under the spare wheel in the trunk, and the trunk was a squashed mess of metal.

Under normal circumstances I had an aversion to dealing with cops. It had nothing to do with a dislike for them, in fact the truth’s the exact opposite because I respect them for doing a thankless and dangerous job, but we don’t always sing from the same hymn sheet when it comes to dealing with the criminals of the world. It didn’t escape me that Gar Jones was already champing at the bit to find something he could use against me, so I’d no desire to hang around and wait to be taken downtown while he tried to find some way to blame me for everything. I looked for a back way out of the shop, and had found my way into a rear stock area filled with boxes and hanging garments when I stopped.

The Chrysler was registered to me at the rental company, and if the cops found it empty then Jones would assume my guilt, decide I’d fled the scene of the smash because I had something worse to hide and would hunt me down like a sick dog. Shit, I could do without the hassle. But then again, if I went out there on the street and waited for the cops to arrive, what was to say that the gunman wouldn’t try for another shot? Ordinarily I’d welcome the chance at getting even with him, but not while there were so many innocent civilians around. It ill behoved me to admit it, but it made sense to hold tight and let the cops do their thing. It wouldn’t be out there though, where I might draw gunfire.