To one side he sees double doors open and two cops on foot appear. They stop, amazed, with guns lifting to aim at Radford on the speeding bike … Nothing to lose now. He aims the screaming motorcycle straight at the open double door—and goes through it like a bullet, scattering the two cops … All the cops react—astonishment …
In a building hallway Radford on the motorcycle comes roaring through the hall. Several gaping civilians flatten themselves back against the side wall as the juggernaut roars by …
The motorcycle thunders through the law office bullpen, smashing glass doors, and roars down the aisle between rows of desks. Typists leap for safety.
Another hallway—and at its far end a solid closed door, and an armed cop lifting his revolver in both hands, as …
Radford on the speeding bike sees the obstacle and slithers to one side, crashing the bike through double glass doors that disintegrate to let him into—
A designer furniture showroom—and the man on the motorcycle wildly plows through the place, knocking over lamps and statuary, making a shambles of the place—
—Then he’s descending one of the building stairwells—zooming downstairs, bumpety-bump …
Vickers bulls his way out of the unfurnished office in time to see a man on a motorcycle heading straight toward him. This is very fast. Vickers gets off two wild shots but then his nerve fails and he stumbles back into the doorway as the motorcycle roars past. Vickers pushes forward out of the doorway to take aim at the dwindling fugitive, ignoring several cops and civilians who are in the line of fire, but now Clay comes out in time to knock Vickers’ shooting arm up. The bullet goes into the ceiling.
Clay is furious. “How many bystanders you want to kill?”
Vickers glares murderously at her …
In the multi-story garage the street floor is all quiet now. Two cops by the toll booths. The don’t notice when a side door softly opens. They can’t see into those shadows, and aren’t looking for it, but then—
—SMASH of sound as the motorcycle lays down rubber, screams around the backside of the toll booths, up over curbs, through a narrow pedestrian walkway, out onto the street as the two cops belatedly open fire …
On the street Radford whips out of sight around a corner, the cops cease firing, squad cars roar out of the garage in pursuit …
That afternoon the boulevards are totally coagulated with multiple lanes of afternoon rush-hour traffic: nothing moving. Gridlock. Horns honking, angry commuters shouting “Assholes!”
Police cars come up against the tangle of traffic and are stymied, as—
Radford on the motorcycle threads a swift bold path through narrow openings—going the wrong way between a couple of stopped trucks—disappearing …
The stalled police get out of their cars, stand on tiptoe and climb on top of the cars to search for the fugitive. They can’t find anything. They look at one another in baffled dismay …
Two joggers trot by in running suits. They look curiously at all the police activity—and they laugh …
Finally the rest of the motorcycle squad begins to arrive. There’s a lot of pointing and shouting. Helicopters swoop above the buildings, searching.
And nobody knows which way he went.
The helicopter that lands on the City Hall helipad has no official markings.
Vickers climbs out, fuming, followed by two business-suited FBI agents. He’s snarling to them: “I don’t believe these fuck-ups.”
Then, seeing the press approaching, Vickers composes his features into a semblance of a confident smile. The agents break trail for him through the crowd, in which Vickers is not happy to recognize newspaperman Steve Ainsworth. Cameras and microphones are shoved at Vickers. He hears a babble of ad-lib questions. He fires responses: “No, we haven’t got him in some secret hiding place. That’s ridiculous … Don’t spread rumors, Christ’s sake. We know of no conspiracy at this time. We’ve identified one suspect and we’re looking for him.”
He escapes into the building.
It’s a busy hive. Ringing phones. Whizzing printers. Talk. Clay issuing terse orders to a group of cops, including Dickinson. Beside her is Dr. Trong, still in his medical corps uniform. Vickers enters with the two FBI agents, again talking to them: “Armed and dangerous. If necessary, shoot on sight.”
Dickinson overhears this last. He swings toward Clay. “That mean we can shoot on sight?”
“No, you may not shoot on sight. You may not shoot at all unless it’s to save a life … Any fool can shoot people. You’ll get no answers out of him if he’s dead.” She’s looking pointedly at Vickers. He reacts. She takes a pace toward him. “On notice, Colonel. Homicide investigation. My turf.”
“You think this is a two-bit murder case? A very important international figure has been assassinated. We’ve got a world-class political flap—they’ve sent these gentlemen and a lot more like ’em from the FBI. We’ve got the State Department on our backs and the Joint Chiefs have their thumbs on the buttons … The President himself—”
“You’ll have to wait on line. It’s our jurisdiction.” Clay isn’t giving an inch.
Vickers glares. Then he decides to defuse things. He puts an arm confidentially across Dr. Trong’s shoulders. “Look, doctor, the man snipes at VIPs … He seems to have a little attitude problem.”
Dr. Trong politely moves away, out from under the Colonel’s arm, showing distaste for Vickers’ old-buddy nonsense.
Vickers continues to thrust: “This is the same clown that turned traitor and did a propaganda broadcast for Saddam’s goons. Now obviously his elevator doesn’t stop on all the floors. You were his shrink …”
Dr. Trong says, “That mean you want my freehand diagnosis? He was an unacknowledged POW in an Iraqi torture camp. They messed with his head. And he’s got a bullet lodged in here.” He points to his own head. “Poor son of a bitch is a mess. If he was a horse you’d have to shoot him.”
“The man committed treason, Doctor. And now assassination on top of it.”
“You trained him to be a killer, Colonel.”
“I didn’t train him to go on TV for the enemy.”
“The man had a head wound. Indescribable pain. He had no resistance left. Sure he broke. Tell me you wouldn’t have.”
Clay tries to calm things. “Iraq’s a few years ago. We’re dealing with right here, right now.”
Dr. Trong says, “For some people the blood still hasn’t dried.”
In an alley there’s a trashing of cans, bottles, empty cartons. Under the mess lies a motorcycle, almost completely hidden. Radford huddles in darkness. His police uniform is dirty and mussed. He’s far beyond exhaustion. He can hear an approaching police siren but it doesn’t bestir him. The sound dopplers down and fades. Radford drags the two nightsticks into his lap and slowly his face changes—anger and the beginnings of resolve—as purposefully he weaves the nightstick lanyards together …
There’s a loading bay behind a boarded-up store. Radford coasts the motorcycle to a stop, leaves it propped against the building and walks away, stumbling a bit, rubbing his head. He holds one nightstick, and the other swings from it. He’s made himself a nutcracker.
Outside Anne’s apartment court he waits, hidden by the wading pool. Nothing stirs.
Old instincts make him cautious. He moves forward like a soldier in a combat zone, from cover to cover … Finally he reaches Anne’s apartment. He warily eases close to a window and looks in.
It’s empty, silent. The furniture’s still in there but the place has been cleared out. No personal belongings remain. There are no sheets on the bed.
It’s puzzling; he tries to think it out. He isn’t tracking too well. This was his last hope; now he doesn’t know what to do. He stumbles with pain and exhaustion. Finally he moves away …