I turn to Josh. “I don’t suppose…” I start, but he cuts me off.
“…I went to your hotel and retrieved your bag and guns?” he offers. “Yes, they’re in my Winnebago.”
I smile. “You’re so pretty,” I say.
“Ah, shucks — you sure know how to make a gal blush!” he replies.
We chuckle to ourselves, but a voice bellows across the room, interrupting us.
“Hey! If you two have finished blowing each other, maybe you could join us and try to look like you give a shit about what’s going on here?”
It’s Agent Johnson, trying to exert some authority over the two people most likely to rebel against such things. We look at each other, and Josh gestures for me to go on ahead. We approach the group of agents, who have fallen silent following Johnson’s outburst. I can’t tell whether they’re simply embarrassed on his behalf, or if they’re genuinely interested to see how I’ll react, given my reputation, which everyone is now clearly aware of. I ignore Johnson completely, making a point of turning my back to him as I look directly at Agent Chambers.
“What are your plans?” I ask.
She seems reluctant to answer, knowing that telling me probably violates too many rules to list.
“Hey, regardless of what you say, I’m free to go whenever I want,” I say when she doesn't reply. “I’m here because I want to help. This guy’s after me, and I’m going to sort my own shit out, alright? But believe it or not, I don’t want anyone to get caught in the crossfire that doesn’t deserve to, so if there’s anything I can do to help you guys out, tell me.”
“Well, regardless of what you think, Adrian,” she replies, “you’re in an FBI Field Office. Which means the FBI are in charge, not you. I know you’ll help out, because I’m telling you to. And if you think you’re walking in there and doing everything the way you want, you can forget it. Around here, we focus on saving lives, not settling scores.”
I like her.
She’s by the book for sure, but she has a little twinkle in her eyes when she speaks that makes me think she’ll come through for you when it counts, rulebook or no rulebook.
Still, it’s ultimately my fight and consequently, I consider myself responsible for those kids. And unlike all these desk jockeys stood around watching me, I’m not restricted by procedures and regulations, which means I’m able to do what’s necessary, not what’s appropriate.
“How far away is this place from where we are?” I ask.
“In traffic, about twenty minutes,” she says. “It’s near Golden Gate Park. Our Hostage Rescue Team won’t make it in time, so we’re liaising with the San Francisco PD and mobilizing our SWAT team as we speak.” She checks her watch. “They'll be on site in fifteen minutes,” she adds.
I look at one of the clocks on the wall. “We’ve got just over three-quarters of an hour until his deadline, so we better get moving, eh?”
“You two aren’t going anywhere on your own.”
“You’ll only slow us down, and I’m better equipped to handle this than you are.”
“How do you figure that?” asks Johnson.
“I think we’re all done flirting around the subject of who I am and what I do. Under the circumstances, I suspect you’ll overlook all the things you know you can’t prove and let me help you any way I can. If this Shark guy is anywhere nearby, he’ll be shooting at me pretty much on sight. Which means his focus won’t be on you guys, so you’ll then be in a better position to save those kids. Whereas if you try to confront him directly, you’ll have to stand there beating yourselves off waiting for all kinds of authority to give you the green light to even think about pulling a trigger. I have the luxury of doing what I want if I need to. You guys don’t.” I turn to Josh. “Come on, we’re going.”
We both head for the main corridor but Chambers runs over and blocks our path. She stands in front of us, arms folded, thinking about the best move.
She sighs reluctantly. “If you screw up, it’s my ass that gets fried, so watch your step, okay?”
I smile. “I will do what I can to make sure your ass remains intact,” I say.
She almost succeeds in holding back the smile, but it slips out a little. She looks over at the huddle of agents.
“Wallis. Johnson. You’re with the Two Stooges here.” She smiles at us both. “Play nice boys. We’ll be right behind you.”
We walk out of the office, back down the corridor, down the elevator, through the entrance hall, and outside to the small plaza in front of the building. It’s late afternoon, and the sun is shining brightly, reflecting all around off the windows of the surrounding buildings. Josh checks his watch.
“We’ve got just about forty minutes,” he says. “We best get a move on.”
Special Agents Wallis and Johnson appear behind us.
“You’re riding with us,” says Johnson. Wallis moves past us, taking his car keys out of his pocket.
“Dream on,” I say. “We’ll go in Josh’s car and meet you there.”
“Agent Chambers said—”
“Agent Chambers isn’t here,” I say, interrupting. “Why don’t you boys live a little?”
“Come on,” shouts Wallis from over by his car, which he's parked close by to the entrance. “We’re wasting time.”
“Fine,” Johnson says to us, with resignation. “But don’t be skipping town or anything.”
He walks off toward the car. Josh looks at me.
“What a dick.”
“Aren’t they all?” I reply. “So where’s your ride?”
I scan the street, seeing nothing but government-issue sedans, with the occasional civilian vehicle thrown in for good measure, parked along the sidewalk. Then my eyes rest on a dull, dirty, cream-colored Winnebago with a huge aerial sticking up from the roof and a windshield that’s so filthy, I’d be surprised if you could see anything through it.
I look at Josh, who’s standing smiling like a proud father. “Really?” I ask.
“What?” he says.
“The money we make and you have that piece of shit?”
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”
“I wouldn’t want to knock it at all — it might fall apart.”
We walk over and get in. Josh starts it up, on the third attempt, and we set off toward Golden Gate Park.
“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask.
“Yup.”
“Is my stuff in the back?”
“Yup.”
Inside the vehicle is open plan, meaning you can get out of your seat in the front and walk into the back area. There’s a worktop fitted against the left hand side with a ridiculous amount of tech on it. There’s a bar stool just in front of it. Adjacent to that on the right, separated in the middle by the door, is another worktop, also brimming over with equipment, printouts, and maps and God knows what else. Against the back window is a battered sofa with my bag on it.
Bingo.
I open it up and retrieve my babies. My custom twin Beretta 92A1 pistols. Each one is metallic silver with an ebony plate fitted either side of the butt. On it, embossed in silver, is an upside-down pentagram. Helpful in keeping the ‘Adrian Hell’ persona alive and well. I take out my back holster and fit it around my waist, sliding the Berettas into place. I make my way back to the front cab and sit beside Josh.
I check the clock on the dashboard. We’ve got just under twenty-five minutes left before The Shark’s deadline expires.