“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” he screamed, and fired off a trio of shots into the Chinese boy’s belly and then shoved him aside. “Get him!”
But McCracken was already sprinting down Beach Street through the crowd of stunned bystanders, many of whom were ducking for cover. He had glanced back at the sound of gunfire and was revolted by the little man’s excessive response, blaming himself for involving the gang in the first place. But he’d have to save the lamenting for later. The little man had steadied his pistol Blaine’s way when another of the gang members slammed into him. A club smacked against his wrist, and the dandy’s gun went flying. McCracken had gazed back over his shoulder just in time to see the little man twist from the next blow and launch a deft flurry of fists and kicks. With the rest of the boys converging on him, he became a whirling dervish wielding a vicious round of blows from the center, no longer the feathery dandy taunting Blaine from the rear.
McCracken moved faster, catching only glimpses of the rest of the gang members falling or fleeing.
“Get him!” the little man’s still-high voice repeated.
A series of gunshots thundered Blaine’s way and chewed red brick from the storefronts around him. Another now-familiar sound reached him from behind.
The pair of Rollerbladers in their fluorescent spandex rolled down the sidewalk in his wake, scattering pedestrians in all directions. Cars braked and swerved to avoid them as they darted into the street in frenzied pursuit. Blaine heard metal crunching, glass breaking.
And bullets slamming all around.
A quick glance to his rear was all Blaine needed to show him the submachine guns in both the riders’ hands. They were gaining steadily and were already drawing a bead on him. He came to the intersection where a left off Beach led to a steep climb up Polk Street. Blaine saw a cabbie just coming back to his car with a grinder in one hand and a Pepsi in the other. The man squeezed the soda can to his chest and had his hand on the door when Blaine tossed him backward and ripped the keys from his grasp.
“Sorry,” McCracken said.
He gunned the engine and tore off up Polk’s steep grade.
Blaine was able to breathe easy only until he caught a glimpse of a bus turning up Polk behind him. Holding on to either side of its rear were the Rollerbladers, machine guns dangling from shoulder-slung straps. When McCracken avoided a traffic snarl by swinging right onto the level North Point Street, another quick gaze into the rearview mirror showed the young men disengaging themselves from the bus. They kept up with the traffic, weaving their way between and around cars when the flow allowed.
Closing the gap.
Before him the traffic light turned yellow and then red. McCracken jammed the cab’s brakes abruptly. Three cars lay between him and the intersection with Van Ness, which provided another steep grade for his pursuers to manage. He drew his eyes to the rearview mirror and saw the Rollerbladers only a dozen cars back now. Well behind them, the familiar blue van had just turned onto North Point.
The Rollerbladers were bringing their submachine guns up once more.
McCracken twisted the taxi’s wheel to the left and lurched onto North Point’s left-hand side against the flow of traffic. A car that had just swung onto the street clipped his fender, but Blaine kept right on going. He swung left onto Van Ness and gunned the engine to speed his climb. Order had barely been restored when the van smashed its way through a narrow opening toward the Rollerbladers.
To McCracken, escape seemed as close as Lombard Street and the curvy one-and-a-half-mile jaunt to the Golden Gate Bridge that it offered. He turned onto it with the rearview mirror clear.
The first stretch of Lombard is formed of nonstop tight curves and tough corners. Blaine took them at dangerously high speeds. The taxi’s suspension system squealed in protest. The road began to level off after a steep decline, the Golden Gate coming into clear view. The rearview mirror remained clear, but once over the bridge he’d be able to lose his pursuit for good. He had just caught sight of the bridge toll plaza a hundred yards ahead when a sudden snarl of traffic forced him to a screeching stop. At first he thought it was the routine delay caused by the collections process. Then he saw that construction had shut down one lane of the Golden Gate in both directions, accounting for a backlog of traffic that would linger through the entire day.
McCracken’s eyes locked on the rearview mirror. He caught first sight of the Rollerbladers when they emerged between a pair of tractor-trailers fifty yards behind him. He could no longer see the van they must have ridden up Van Ness holding on to, but they posed enough of a threat all by themselves. Watching them weave their way forward through the stuck traffic, Blaine resolved that he had no choice but to abandon the cab and continue on foot.
He threw open the door and stuck his hand under the seat. Cabbies often stowed weapons there, and the operator of this taxi was no exception. McCracken’s fingers closed on a tire iron. He slammed the door behind him and rushed down the last stretch of Lombard Street, Route 101 now, leading onto the bridge.
The Rollerbladers continued to close on him, not rushing to use their machine guns since they believed they had him trapped. McCracken kept his body low as he ran to utilize the frames of the stalled cars for cover. He moved in an erratic zigzagging motion, anything to confuse the aim of the spandex-clad young men.
Just fifty feet away, the Rollerbladers sped toward Blaine in single file down a narrow channel between the stopped cars. He turned to face them, the tire iron gripped low by his side. The lead skater brought his submachine gun up. McCracken tossed the tire iron, not high for the obvious head strike, but low at ankle level.
The tire iron crashed into the wheels on the lead Rollerblader’s skates. He was tossed airborne instantly, landing hard on the hood of a car. He bounced once and then crashed to the road directly in the path of the other skater, who spun out of control trying to avoid him. But the second Rollerblader recovered his balance quickly after bouncing off a trio of cars and surged forward, machine gun leveled once again.
McCracken seized the momentary advantage he’d gained by continuing with his original plan, albeit on foot instead of behind the wheel. There was no other option at this point.
The Golden Gate Bridge offered his only chance for escape.
Chapter 5
Blaine reached the start of the bridge and rushed down the wide right-hand sidewalk toward the sounds of a jackhammer chewing up asphalt. As he closed on the roped-off construction area, he saw that a man in an orange vest was waving his flag frantically in an effort to make him veer away.
“Get down!” Blaine screamed as he dove past the man.
Too late. The fresh barrage from the final Rollerblader’s submachine gun slammed into the man’s midsection and blew him backward. McCracken was reaching for him when he saw that just beyond the spot where the flagger had dropped, the entire roadbed was missing — eaten partially away by the elements and then jackhammered into oblivion to make way for new asphalt. This hole that dropped straight to the waters of the bay below lay between a circle of sawhorses.
Bullets clanged off the steel support rails of the bridge. Construction workers scattered in all directions. Frustrated drivers ducked low beneath their dashboards. Blaine heard screaming coming from every direction. Daring the spray of automatic fire, he darted outward and tossed the sawhorses enclosing the missing chunk of roadway aside so he could feign taking cover behind them. Before him the Rollerblader snapped home a fresh clip and picked up speed before opening fire anew.