Get Real Page 9

  Mob war indeed.

  But what could Marco do but continue the operation? After all, this was the beginning of his process of proving himself. What better way to begin than under fire?

  “Proceed,” he said.

  He watched as his soldiers—also in casual clothes like him—moved through the crowd on all sides and converged on the small ginseng shop, one of the many establishments under Big Paul’s grip in Chinatown. There were three men, and they all drew their guns when they were a few feet from the entrance.

  And then something phenomenal happened…

  More men came out of the crowd. More men with guns.

  And the guns were aimed at his guys.

  There were screams of Police! Hands in the air!

  Again Marco had only a split second to make a decision.

  So he ran.

  A couple miles away, at Fisherman’s Wharf, cops swept in as Alfonsi men attempted to storm a popular seafood restaurant that was known to be a meeting place for Fair associates.

  Nearby, at Pier 39, other Alfonsi men were handcuffed and thrown to the ground among the crowds of tourists after rushing a fudge shop that was a drop-off point for Fair protection payments.

  Farther away, in Forest Hill, more men were thrust into the back of squad cars after they’d been intercepted before breaking into a stretch of homes that served Big Paul’s prostitution ring.

  All around the city, more takedowns occurred. The attacks had been synchronized. And so was the unexpected and well-coordinated police response.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dale yanked Yorke down, positioned them behind the fruit stand, the same stand that had absorbed the bullet. Both Dale and Yorke had been sprayed with fruit mush when the bullet struck.

  Dale’s heart pounded in his chest, and he kept his hand on Yorke’s shoulder as he stole a glance above the stand. All around him, people were screaming, running. They bashed into Dale and Yorke as they fled the area. From where the people were looking and pointing, Dale could tell that the shot had come from the building across the street.

  It was a quintessential Chinatown building—classic Chinese styling, signs with Chinese characters on the front. All around the building was a mass of hysteric bystanders, fleeing. It was five stories in height. Lots of open windows. The shooter could have come from anywhere—any of those windows or among the swarming mass on the sidewalk.

  Dale quickly scanned the building and saw a glint of light coming from above.

  The barrel of a rifle. With a scope.

  “On the roof,” he said to Yorke. “A sniper.”

  He could just barely see the man. White. Brown hair. Olive drab jacket.

  Dale drew his Model 36. Yorke took out her piece as well.

  There was a tremendous roar. Dale’s ears were instantly deafened. Yorke was blasting rounds at the sniper.

  Bam, bam, bam!

  Dale looked to the roof. The rifle barrel disappeared as the sniper ducked below the parapet.

  Dale grabbed Yorke’s shoulder and gave it a tug. She stopped firing.

  “Save your rounds! His rifle was custom-made. That’s a pro, a hitman who’s after Fair. If he’d been trying to shoot us, we’d be dead already. It was a warning shot. He was trying to pull us away from … shit, Jonathan Fair!”

  Dale whipped around to locate Fair. He’d momentarily forgotten his main objective. Being fired upon will do that to you.

  Fair was getting back into the Chevette. The passenger door slammed. The tires screeched immediately, and the car pulled onto the street. Its horn blared at the frantic, frightened people crossing in front of it as Kimble tried to push his way through them.

  Dale quickly turned to Yorke. “I’ll go after them. You get the sniper.”

  There was a moment of pause from Yorke. That lack of self-conviction again in her eyes.

  “You got this,” Dale said.

  He took a deep breath.

  And stood up.

  He knew that the sniper could, in theory, bring him down. But he also knew that the guy could have taken him down already and that, as a pro, the guy was smart. By firing, the man had already revealed his position. The man would understand that people would be looking for the shooter. Choosing to fire upon anyone at this point would be incredibly stupid. Shooting a cop would be especially stupid. And this guy would have likely already pegged Dale as law enforcement. Under the current set of circumstances, the sniper would only risk letting another bullet fly if the intended victim was his paid target.

  That’s sure as hell what Dale hoped, at least.

  A woman crashed into Dale, and he pushed his way around her. He dove deeper into the crowd. Arms shoved him, pulled at him as pandemonium set in. In front of Dale, parked on the side of the street, a few cars up, was Arancia.

  He dashed past another clump of people, quickly unlocked the door, and fell into the driver seat. He dropped his Smith on the seat beside him, turned the key, and Arancia’s massive V-8 came to life with a metallic bellow.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  El Vacío’s pulse was racing.

  Pure adrenaline from being fired upon. One of life’s sweetest sensations.

  He suppressed his dark grin as he continued to crouch on his stomach in the gravel of the rooftop, hidden behind the parapet. He had his rifle beside him, and he stole a quick glance over the edge. The male cop had gotten into an orange De Tomaso Pantera. Its siren was now blaring, and he was giving long, loud blasts of the horn at the people around him, trying to pull out onto the street. Farther up, Jonathan Fair and his driver were already partway down the block in the brown Chevette.

  Which meant that El Vacío needed to take off too.

  El Vacío had seen the male cop call off the other’s brazen, gut reaction—her gun blazing at the rooftop. He saw him reason with her, which only meant that he’d figured out that El Vacío was a pro and had intentionally missed them. And now the man had split the two of them up.

  El Vacío was impressed with the man’s thinking under fire—quite literally. When he’d first seen him, he’d not given the man much credit. He was a pretty boy, and El Vacío wouldn’t have thought him to be a master tactician. But experience had taught El Vacío that the strongest adversaries typically came in the least likely of packages.

  Another glance over the parapet, and he saw that, while the male cop had gone to the Pantera, the female was coming toward his building.

  El Vacío needed to make an escape.

  He needed to become the shadow once more.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  People ran all around Jane. Total panic.

  But she didn’t move. She stayed right where she was. Watching.

  The brown Chevette rolled past, pushing its way through the people. The passenger door zipped by, only feet away.

  And there was John. There was her brother.

  They made eye contact. For only a moment. Then John looked away.

  There had been no recognition in his eyes. None at all. He was Felix again, and Felix had purposely forgotten her.

  Jane had heard a siren moments earlier, and now it was louder, coming from behind the Chevette.

  She turned.

  Jane was a bit of a sports car girl, and she recognized the sleek vehicle as a De Tomasso Pantera as it lay on the horn at the panicked people crossing the streets, closing the gap with the Chevette.

  And chasing down her brother.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Even with the siren wailing, the panicked crowd pushed in all around Arancia. Dale smashed the horn again, and the group of people crossing in front of him jumped then hurried to the side. He burped the gas and closed the gap between him and the Chevette.

  There were two pieces of good news.

  First, the crowd was slowing the Chevette down dramatically. Second, Lee Kimble evidentially wasn’t a completely ruthless bastard, as he wasn’t plowing people down.

  The bad news was, by the jerky motion of the vehi
cle, it was clear that Kimble was itching to make a run for it at the first opportunity.

  And that opportunity had just presented itself.

  There was a blare from the Chevette’s horn as it swung to the right and onto California Street.

  Then it bolted away.

  Dale slammed the gas—tires chirping—and took off after it. This was what Dale had been hoping for, an unencumbered race where his Pantera would easily consume the other car. The only problem was, while he knew he could easily catch Kimble, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to stop him.

  Especially considering a court of law had determined the man to be insane.

  But Dale needed to come up with a solution fast because the stakes couldn’t be higher—there were plenty of civilians in all directions. California Street was a major thoroughfare slicing through the city, and it was packed with mid-afternoon hustle-bustle. Passenger cars, taxis, sidewalks full of pedestrians. California was also one of the streets with the city’s famous cable cars, tracks cutting down the center of the road. One of the cable cars was directly in front of the Chevette, and another approached in the opposite direction, making its way down the hill

  Dale closed on the Chevette. Before him, the road went straight up Nob Hill, climbing dizzily into the blue sky.

  The Chevette peeled to the left with a loud screech of its tires. Then it quickly darted back to the right, just as the other cable car lumbered past in the opposite direction. Kimble had done one hell of a job threading the needle.

  Dale smashed the brakes. Arancia shuddered, her rear end kicking. When the oncoming cable car passed by, he swung Arancia around the other one he’d been stuck behind. As he over took it, he expected to see the Chevette.

  But there was nothing there...

  Where the hell could Kimble have gone? He hadn’t passed any side streets.

  Dale didn’t spot the Chevette until it was too late.

  Kimble had concealed himself in front of the cable car, creeping along to match its pace.

  They made eye contact. And Kimble raised his arm.

  A gun.

  Kimble fired. Missing.

  Dale hit the brakes, allowing the cable car to pull ahead of him on the right, concealing himself from Kimble.

  Screaming from the sidewalk and from the people hanging off the side of the cable car.

  There was a loud, metallic screech of brakes, and the cable car began to slow.

  From his position alongside the rear end of the cable car, Dale couldn’t see the Chevette, which meant that Kimble was braking too, still matching the cable car’s momentum.

  Dale grabbed his gun.

  He pushed the brake. Like Kimble, he matched his speed to that of the cable car. He tightened his hold on the Smith.

  Chances were, when the cable car stopped completely, Kimble would floor the Chevette and take off up the hill.

  Or he might jump out of the car with his gun blazing. Or maybe he’d take a prisoner from the cable car.

  Dale had to be prepared for all scenarios.

  And he had to be ready to take Kimble down.

  The cable car’s brakes let out the last of their squealing. It rocked to a stop. People flooded off, ran for the buildings.

  Arancia halted as well. Dale eyed the front of the cable car. His palms sweated on the grips of the Model 36. He slowly eased Arancia forward...

  And then it happened.

  There was a horrible squeal from the Chevette. Smoke came from the tires.

  And its reverse lights came on.

  It came right toward Arancia.

  Dale gunned the gas again, zipped to the side, into the oncoming lane. A van was headed toward him, and it shimmied hard as it came to a stop. The Chevette whooshed by.

  Dale looked in the rearview.

  The Chevette was flying down the steep hill.

  In reverse.

  Dale gritted his teeth and pressed the clutch then gave Arancia a big burst of gas. The engine roared. Dale pulled the steering wheel all the way to the left. Then he dumped the clutch.

  With a piercing screech and the pungent stench of burnt rubber, Arancia’s entire rear end spun around. Dale corrected with the wheel and held on as the rear tires spun, threatening to throw him off course. He maintained and bolted down the hill.

  He was on the Chevette in a split second. It continued flying down the hill in reverse, jerking about violently. Through the windshield, Dale could see both Kimble and Fair.

  Dale had to admit—Kimble was doing a damn good job driving that thing in reverse down a hill. San Franciscans, understandably, were excellent at driving on hills.

  But Dale had only a moment to admire Kimble’s skill.

  Because Kimble had pulled his gun again, and he aimed it out the window.

  There was no hesitation. Kimble squeezed the trigger.

  “Shit!” Dale said and yanked the wheel to the side.

  The shot cracked.

  Arancia thrashed about, nearly sliding into the cars parked on the side of the street. Dale yanked her back around, got in behind the Chevette again.

  Just as Kimble hadn’t hesitated, Dale had not a a moment to spare. He stuck the Model 36 out the window. Its nickel-plating shined in the bright sunlight. Dale wasn’t the best shot in the world—especially left-handed—but the saturation theory rarely failed him. He took aim at one of the Chevette’s front tires.

  And fired. Three times. Rapidly.

  A deafening roar from the gun, and a loud pop as the tire exploded. The car immediately peeled to the side, violently, and Dale yanked Arancia over to avoid it. He smashed the brake pedal and pulled up on the handbrake.

  The Chevette arched to the side until it was parallel with the street and then shot like a wobbly rocket toward the sidewalk. The pedestrians who hadn’t heeded Dale’s siren scattered for safety, and the Chevette smashed into a cement trash receptacle. The hood crumpled, and a billow of steam erupted from beneath it.

  Dale hopped out of Arancia. Both hands on his gun. And he slowly, cautiously approached.

  “Get out of the vehicle!”

  Both doors on the Chevette opened. Kimble and Fair stepped out. They looked at him for a moment.

  And then they both ran.

  Dammit.

  Dale holstered the gun and took off after them. But as soon as the chase began, Fair pulled away from Kimble, running down California whereas Kimble headed for a side street.

  Fair had evidently been serious about ending the pair’s partnership.

  And now Dale had a decision to make. Did he chase after Kimble, the man to which Dale had an ascribed yet unproven theory about controlling Jonathan Fair? Or did he chase after Jonathan Fair himself, the man all of San Francisco was hunting?

  Given that Fair was under the world’s microscope, Dale figured—as the rest of law enforcement had—that he also had a death warrant signed by either the Alfonsi family or any number of nutcases looking for instant infamy by bringing down the one and only Jonathan Fair.

  Plus, capturing Fair was what Dale was being paid to do.

  So his decision was easy to make.

  Dale ran after Jonathan Fair.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  El Vacío saw the female cop disappear below, heading into his building.

  And he took immediate action.

  He grabbed the sniper’s rifle.

  Took off the scope. Unscrewed the suppressor. He then unscrewed the barrel and capped it with a small piece of plastic that he removed from the end of the bolt. He slid the tiny action off the stock. Moved a spring-loaded release that held the trigger in position then folded the trigger inside the action. He collapsed the small metal butt. It hinged perpendicular to the stock, which was made of the same tubular metal as the barrel—the only difference being the rifling. He screwed the two tubes together. It was now one length of metal, with the plastic cap on the bottom and the folded butt on the top. El Vacío slid the tiny bolt action, which fit nicely in his palm,
onto the grooves in the butt. It clicked into place.

  His walking cane had been reanimated.

  He grabbed the cane, scope, and suppressor, and crawled through gravel on his stomach away from the edge of the building before standing up. He shrugged off his jacket, stuck his hands in the sleeves, and shook it out, reversing it. The inside was bright blue, and as he put it on, he was now clad in a vibrantly-colored piece of clothing, totally different from the light green article he’d been wearing. It was a means of throwing off identification. El Vacío had some time ago learned that big shocks to the senses like this were an easy way of confusing a person’s memory. Memory was, after all, a very fickle thing.

  He retrieved from his pocket a fake mustache of comparable quality to the beard he’d spotted on the male cop. It was a temporary, and the adhesive was not as good as he would typically utilize. But for a speedy escape, it was exactly what he needed. He peeled a thin strip of clear plastic from the back and quickly but deftly applied it to his lip.

  He dropped the scope and suppressor into his pocket and briskly walked to the door at the opposite side of the building’s roof.

  He stepped into a hallway. Pure chaos. Chinese families along with a few non-Chinese, all pushing, shoving their way out of the apartments. There was the smell of Asian food. Everyone was making their way to the end of the hall. He went with the crowd as it funneled through a single metal door and into a stairwell.

  The confined space within the stairwell made things more cramped and even louder. It was echoey. Dusty. Warm with body heat. Shouting and pushing all around. The mass slowly descended the stairs.

  When he was one flight above ground level, he spotted an individual who was coming up the stairs. Headed right toward him.

  A blonde, Caucasian woman.

  The cop.

  And she hadn’t spotted him.

  El Vacío was a master at concealing his expressions, but inwardly he was smiling ear-to-ear with the thrill of anonymity as he stepped right past the woman.