Across from the wading pool, in the opposite direction from Radford’s earlier angle of approach, Harry and Gootch wait in hiding, armed. Gootch is complaining sotto voce: “How the hell’d he get away from that fat cop?”
Harry whispers, “Son of a bitch must be able to handle a dose that’d put an elephant into a coma. Maybe built up a resistance from those pain drugs he takes … Maybe we should’ve thought of that.” Now he sees something; reacts; stiffens. “We got him, Gootch!”
Because that’s Radford across the court, cautiously poking his head out to search.
Harry lifts his gun to aim it.
But Radford is skittish and ducks back out of sight.
“Get the car,” Harry whispers, and heads toward Radford’s corner while Gootch wheels back toward the street.
Radford, passing under a half-open casement window, catches a reflection in it of Gootch running toward the parked car, the same car in which Harry drove Radford to the shooting range. Alerted, Radford fades from view.
Harry runs to the corner of the building and eases past it for a look.
It’s a mess of back yard fences and narrow passageways. The guy could’ve disappeared down any of them.
Harry knows they’ve lost him for now. “Shit.”
Fading with exhaustion Radford returns on foot to the loading bay behind somebody’s shuttered store. The motorcycle’s still here—well that’s not much of a surprise; even a Neanderthal knows better than to steal a police bike. “Which makes me a little sub-Neanderthal,” Radford thinks, not amused, as he gets the motorcycle started and gently pulls away into a street—down which is rolling Harry’s car.
Harry and Gootch are in it. They spot Radford at the same moment he spots them.
Radford peels away—just inches ahead of Harry’s car. The bike and the car squeal away as if welded together … Harry tries to run down the motorcycle. Radford zigzags just in time. The car fishtails after him … Gootch in the car is shooting at Radford … This is a terrific high-speed pursuit through alleys and sidewalks until—
The river. A deep wide concrete channel, bridged by a tubular pipe the diameter of an oil drum. Radford’s cycle roars up onto the conduit and zooms across the span—a spectacular high-wire balancing act …
Harry’s car slides to a stop. Gootch savagely keeps pulling the trigger of his pistol but it’s empty …
The motorcyclist flies off the far end of the pipe, slams down on the frontage road beyond, nearly falls over but then rights himself …
The two men glare in frustration as, across the viaduct, the cyclist disappears …
At sunset Radford rides the motorcycle gently around behind a gas station and stops. The place is closed up—deserted—its pumps taped off from the street. Construction equipment stands around, parked for the night. Radford dismounts, his face weary with pain in the sunset glow. He sags back against the wall, nearly passing out with the pain. His head lolls back and his eyes roll up …
In sudden bright sunshine we’re in the desert. Barbed wire and bomb-damaged huts.
Watched by Charlie and several Kurdish prisoners, all of them manacled hand and foot, a uniformed Iraqi aims his rifle at Radford, who sits on the ground shaking his head stubbornly “no.” The Iraqi begins to squeeze the trigger. Charlie is horrified. The rifle fires … The bullet slashes a streak across Radford’s temple. Blood spurts. Radford drops. Charlie turns his head away in anguish.
A small crowd of officials and techs is swarming around the inside of Radford’s flophouse bedroom.
Dickinson is looking at the illuminated screen of his handheld computer—scrolling down from Radford’s photograph (a fairly old one) past fingerprint boxes and vital statistics. “What’s ‘C.W.’ stand for?”
“Nothing,” Vickers says. “Just initials.”
“Kind of got shortchanged,” Commander Clay observes.
Vickers is glaring at Dr. Trong, who’s looking around the room with curious interest. Vickers says, “It doesn’t fit. You claim the guy’s practically catatonic but he went through that building full of officers like a chainsaw.”
Dr. Trong says, “He was a natural athlete. Under pressure it must’ve come back. But that’s the operative term—pressure. An assassin cares about something, even if it’s only his own rage … That profile doesn’t fit C.W. He barely exists. Barely feels. He doesn’t want to hurt anybody. He just wants to be left alone.”
Clay says, “Somebody’s robot, maybe? Wind him up and put a gun in his hand.” She’s reading the label off a prescription sheet. “Pain meds. You prescribed this.”
“I did,” Dr. Trong agrees. “And he’s about due for a refill. Look, Commander, this just doesn’t fit his pattern. One thing he’d never tolerate is someone trying to use him again.”
Vickers snorts. “The man’s a traitor and a murderer. I’m going to nail him.”
Clay says, “Yeah. Well good luck, Colonel.” Then, to Dickinson, “Walk me out.”
Outside in the night Clay and Dickinson walk toward a car. Clay hands the prescription slip to Dickinson; she says, “He forgot this. If he’s run out, maybe he’ll look for a street retailer.”
Dickinson takes the slip of paper and turns back; Clay gets in her car and drives off. That’s when the reporter, Ainsworth, intercepts Dickinson. “What’s really goin’ down, you old hairbags?”
Dickinson waves the sheet of paper in front of the reporter’s nose, then pockets it too fast for Ainsworth to make out what it is. “A clue,” Dickinson says smugly.
Ainsworth muses: “The federal agent and the lady cop—I see a story in that. I mean aside from the story everybody’s covering. I could use a sidebar byline.”
“Get out of here, pest. No press.”
Ainsworth poises a stylus over the screen of his palm computer. “Chief of Detectives, Commander Denise Clay is a legend. In some quarters she is regarded as incorruptible and virtually superhuman. And now, into her previously unchallenged realm, we see a potentially explosive conflict in the arrival of a new outside authority …”
Dickinson turns and, walking away, says cheerfully, “Blow it out your bottom, huh?”
In the cafe kitchen, Don the waiter prepares a tray. Charlie fries burgers. From outdoors, Radford enters in his mussed police uniform. He’s exhausted—haunted—in great pain. He carries the tied-together nightsticks: the nutcracker.
Don sees him, is galvanized—reaches for a handgun hidden in an ankle holster. Radford reacts—at first sluggish, but he expertly tosses the nutcracker. It tangles in Don’s ankles and trips him. Radford is on top of him at once—disarms Don, recovers the nutcracker, clamps it tight around Don’s wrist and squeezes. He can see in Don’s face the agonizing pain this device causes.
“Move one inch, you’re dead meat.”
Radford’s voice is like a tumble of coal down a metal chute: the new authority in it is enough to convince any tough guy that he means what he says. Don sweats, and lies still …
Radford picks up Don’s revolver—a compact hammerless pocket .38. Radford says to Charlie, “What’s he doing with a piece?”
“Beats shit out of me. Ask him.”
Don says, faint with pain, “Police officer. Wallet …”
Radford yanks out Don’s wallet and flips it open. Sure enough there’s a police badge in it. “And you’re undercover in Charlie’s place here for—?”
“Uh—drug enforcement. Vice.”
“Try again.”
Don begins to regain his bravado. “That’s my badge. You don’t question me, Radford. I question you.”
Radford gives the nutcracker a twitch. It sends beads of pain-sweat to Don’s forehead. But he’s tough enough. “You ain’t on the need-to-know list, C.W. I can’t tell you shit. Even if I did, where would you take it? They got a federal fugitive warrant out on you—know what that means? Dead or alive. Like John fucking Dillinger.”