Henry accelerated and passed a display of an old cannon half a second before Junior Hitman’s stolen Enduro hit it and burst into flames. Yeah, the cops were going to be very impressed by that trick, Henry thought as the sirens screamed to a stop behind him. He hit the brakes hard and turned to watch.
Two motorcycle cops had just pulled up in front of the kid, who was standing on the wall and staring at Henry with obvious fury. This should be good, Henry thought, especially if the kid tried to sell them a story about having to lay it down to save it. But before the cops could draw their guns, Junior Hitman leaped down from the wall and banged their heads together, knocking them out. Then he grabbed up one of their bikes—another Honda Enduro. Apparently this was the bike of choice in Cartagena. Henry yanked hard on the throttle and got the hell out of there.
He headed away from the main road and back into the narrow streets of Old Town but the kid stuck with him all the way. If he couldn’t lose him, Henry thought, he’d just have to knock him off the damned bike. One shot hadn’t done it but five or six might.
Henry sped over a wood bridge well ahead of Junior Hitman, startling people walking on either side. He skidded to a stop, facing the way he had come, drew the Glock, and waited. A second later, the police bike appeared. Henry opened fire, sending everyone on the bridge into a shrieking panic as they ran or dropped to the ground, arms covering their heads.
Junior Hitman reared the bike up on its back wheel, practically dancing as he dodged the bullets—another miss. Henry took off again. The mirror on the left showed the kid trying to draw a bead on him, then giving up and gunning the bike forward as people ran for cover again.
Henry followed the road and found himself back on the highway with a stretch of sea wall on his left. This one was wider but Henry couldn’t see any way to get up on it. He was looking around for something else when his right-hand mirror disintegrated in a burst of glass and cheap plastic. He ducked as low as he could and waited for something else to blow apart, hoping it wouldn’t be his head.
Nothing happened. In the left side mirror, he saw Junior squeezing the trigger over and over, his face contorted with rage. Son of a bitch was finally empty. Henry had begun to think he had one of those magic movie pistols that never ran out of ammo. The roar of the engine behind him grew louder, rising in pitch as Junior closed the gap between them.
Another grim smile spread across Henry’s face. The kid might be out of ammo but he wasn’t—not yet, anyway—and he had no intention of wasting it on empty air. He swerved around the car in front of him and as Junior Hitman started to follow, he twisted around and shot the car’s left front tire.
As soon as he did, however, he was sorry. Henry caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s terrified face as the car spun out of control, tires screaming and sparks spraying up from the wheel rim grinding on the road. Junior Hitman veered into the next lane and kept going, not even glancing over his shoulder as the car collided with an SUV.
Great, Henry thought, pulling harder on the throttle; he’d just caused an accident and it hadn’t even slowed the kid down. His moment of guilt was suddenly eclipsed by déjà vu. This stretch of road looked awfully familiar. Were he and Junior Hitman going in circles now?
No, that wasn’t it, he realized, his heart sinking as he saw an even more familiar bright yellow house up ahead. Please let Baron and Danny be inside, or better yet, far away from here, Henry prayed. But of course they weren’t—still no breaks today. Baron and Danny stood together as he blew past, their faces utterly astonished. Yeah, they’d recognized him all right, and they were going to recognize Junior Hitman, too.
Henry took another turn and headed for the heart of Old Town again. Maybe if he could get Junior into one of the narrower alleys—
The police sirens seemed to be getting closer. Henry wondered what was taking them so long as Junior Hitman drew even with him on his left. A cold chill swept through him; he could see the intent on the kid’s face—his own face, his own expression, his own posture on the bike—and he was still trying to believe it was real when Junior Hitman jerked the handlebars and hit him.
Guys had tried this kind of Demolition Derby crap with him before; he had learned how to shift his weight along with the angle of the bike relative to the road. Henry felt a surge of intense gratification at the shocked expression on the kid’s face. I told you it wasn’t going to be that easy, Henry thought at him silently. And if you thought that was a shock, get ready for this. He swerved and knocked his bike into the kid, throwing in a hard left jab to his shoulder for good measure.
Junior Hitman went wobbly for a few seconds but he recovered his balance and kept the rubber side down, making it look as easy as flexing a muscle. Henry had been about his age when he had first learned the balance-counterbalance trick. It had taken a lot of hours of practice and he had sanded off a lot of leather and a few layers of skin in the process. Now he hoped having almost thirty years of experience on the kid meant he was thirty years better.
And if all else failed, Henry thought, he had the element of surprise. Junior Hitman hadn’t thought he’d have such a hard time with a so-called old guy. Easing off the throttle, Henry dropped back and came up on the kid’s left. Okay, youngster, let’s see how you do on your weak side. I’ve got twenty-plus more years of tricks, hacks and moves—what have you got?
Reflexes, Henry discovered as Junior Hitman smacked him with his bike again, throwing a left jab at his head. Henry felt the kid’s arm brush the top of his hair as he ducked, swerving away from the kid to stabilize himself. Except the kid came right with him like their bikes were tethered. He slowed, only to have the kid slow at the same moment, accelerated, and found the kid was right there with him like his reflection, or like they were doing some kind of synchronized dance at eighty miles an hour.
You little bastard, Henry thought at him, furious. But when he glanced over, Junior Hitman didn’t look smug or pleased with himself at getting under the old guy’s skin—he looked as if Henry was freaking him out.
Time to end this. Henry reached for the Glock in his waistband at the exact moment Junior surged forward and pulled over so he was directly in front of Henry.
Everything happened in only a few seconds, but later Henry’s memory played it back in slow-motion:
The back wheel of Junior Hitman’s Enduro suddenly rose up to eye level and wagged to the left. Henry sat back, trying to dodge it, and it smacked his shoulder. The sensation of spinning rubber shredding his shirt was brief but vivid as Henry went down with the bike, just as vivid as the feeling of the road scraping away his jeans and the upper layers of his skin. At that particular moment, however, the only thought in his head was the hope that he wouldn’t end up becoming an organ donor.
The outer side of his right leg felt like it had burst into flames but Henry shoved the sensation as far from his awareness as he could and concentrated on checking himself for broken bones. Nope, no fractures. He could file that with no wife, no son, no Paris, he thought, and rolled onto his belly, preparing to push himself to his hands and knees.
A crowd was gathering on the sidewalk, growing larger by the second. Apparently no one in Cartagena had ever seen a guy who’d just gotten his ass kicked and they were fascinated. Judging from their expressions, they were also squeamish. But not too squeamish to get him on video. Very few of them were actually looking at him directly; most were seeing him through their phone screens, although a couple of tourists had actual cameras. Monroe had been right; an hour from now, he’d probably be viral. Motorcycle Maniac Lays It Down To Save It. (Poor beagle.)