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.