Hunter's Games (20 page)

“Shit,” she says, realizing what I mean. “So who’s driving?”

“Hang on, I’ll go ask,” I reply, with sarcastic frustration.

We’ve gained a few places thanks to Johnson’s adventurous driving, and we’re only a couple of cars behind the van. We’re driving through the Russian Hill district, and we’re gaining ground on Pellaggio as we hit the 101.

“You’ve almost got him,” I say to Johnson.

The van is just ahead, but he’s goes through a red light causing two cars coming across us at the junction to crash. Johnson just manages to swerve and avoid the collision, but we fall behind again—stuck behind a car that’s slowing down to view the accident.

“Get out of the goddamn way!” yells Johnson, beeping his horn.

We manage to get through the congestion and back on the trail, but he’s way out in front. We converge on Richardson Avenue and follow the 101 as it becomes the Presidio Parkway.

“Christ, he’s heading for the bridge,” says Chambers. “If he gets on there, we won’t be able to stop him without causing complete chaos on the roads and endangering a whole lot of innocent people.”

I lean out the window again. We’re doing fifty, which is no mean feat in this much traffic. But we’re still not gaining enough ground to catch him.

It’s time for a more direct approach, I think.

“Line us up behind him,” I shout.

“What for?” asks Johnson. “There are seven cars between us!”

“Just do it!”

Johnson takes another tight gap and gets us in the same lane as Pellaggio, albeit some way back. With my Beretta in my right hand, I reach over with my left and grab the edge of the roof, pulling myself out of the window further, until I’m practically sitting on the doorframe.

“What are you doing?” yells Chambers from the back seat, but I ignore her. Mostly because I don’t have an answer she’ll want to hear.

I’m lucky, in that there are only cars in between us, so I have an unobstructed view of the larger, taller van.

Using my left hand to steady myself, I take aim with my gun and fire. The first bullet misses the mark, as does the second. But the third hits the wing mirror of the passenger door, which makes the van swerve sharply left. They fishtail back and forth, eventually regaining control, but we’ve been able to make up some ground and we’re now only one car behind them.

The back doors of the van fly open and I see him—Danny Pellaggio! He’s stands holding onto the roof with one hand, and holding an M4 Carbine assault rifle in the other, aiming directly at us.

Oh, shit…

I don’t remember anything about him from when I’d shot him a year ago. I didn’t know who he was, so paid no attention to which of the men he was that I shot or what he looked like. He was just another target back then. But now, as I look into his empty, brown eyes, I can see exactly who he is. He’s quite thin, almost gaunt, but wiry and with some muscle on his small frame. He’s wearing a dark gray jumpsuit and black boots. His skin is a light olive color, as you’d expect from someone with a Mediterranean background.

I look quickly ahead of us, seeing the tollbooth for the Golden Gate Bridge approaching fast. Then I look back at Pellaggio, but before I can aim my gun at him, he flashes me a wicked smile and opens fire.

“Look out!” I yell as I quickly duck back into the car, narrowly avoiding the hail of bullets that pepper our hood.

I crouch down as low as possible behind the dashboard. I look quickly back at Chambers—she’s flattened herself across the back seat. Johnson’s doing the best he can, but he has to keep looking where he’s driving, so can’t afford too much cover. I stick my arm out of the window and fire a few rounds blind, trying to deter Pellaggio from shooting, but don’t succeed.

The car in between Pellaggio and us catches a burst of fire and swerves off to the right, crashing up on the sidewalk and into a building.

This guy is insane! He has no regard whatsoever for innocent life… I’ve got to stop him!

We weave back and forth, trying to make ourselves harder to hit, but we’re so close it doesn’t really make any difference.

“Johnson!” I shout. “Try and draw nearer to him on the right hand side!”

Without question, he does. He puts his foot to the floor and nears the rear right hand side of the van. Pellaggio is still firing, but he’s holding an assault rifle in one hand and has his arm extended almost level in front of him. The strain on his muscles is going to be intense, and he doesn’t look that strong. Sooner or later, he’ll either need to hold it with both hands—which he can’t do, as he’d fall over if he lets go with his right—or stop firing altogether.

More bullets spray into the driver’s side of the car, shattering with window next to Johnson.

“Fuck!” he yells, struggling to maintain control of the vehicle.

He’s doing a great job, considering we’re doing nearly sixty right now.

I lean over him and return fire, this time accurately enough to make Pellaggio stop shooting and retreat into the van.

“You alright?” I ask Johnson.

“Yeah, thanks,” he replies.

I look behind me. “Grace, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says, wincing. She’s been showered with glass and has lots of small cuts across her hands and top. “Focus on stopping him.”

I hear her pick up the phone again, giving details of the license plate of the van as well as a SITREP. Hopefully, that means the cavalry will soon be on its way.

I look ahead of us and see that the traffic’s slowing right down as we come up to the tollbooth. It doesn’t seem to deter the van driver, worryingly. It speeds on and smashes into the back of a car, spinning it out of the way and into some others, causing a pile-up that spreads across the opposite lane.

Jesus, I need to take this guy down and fast!

“Just follow him,” I say to Johnson. “He’s making a path for us through the traffic, so hang back and follow him until we get to the bridge. When we’ve got a straight run, I can take him down.”

“Got it,” he replies, as he drops back and tailgates the van as it ploughs recklessly through the queues of vehicles and reaches the toll plaza. The van clips the rear end of a car, spinning it away to the right as we shoot through the booth and hit the Golden Gate Bridge. It skids off to the left, but the driver regains control and they speed on. We’re just a few feet behind them.

“We’ve got a chopper inbound,” announces Chambers as she hangs up the phone. “ETA—five minutes.”

“That might be too long,” I reply, as another car crashes into the side of the bridge. “This guy’s insane, and a really shit driver. I’ve gotta try to stop them now.”

On cue, Johnson pulls away to the side, faking right, then going left, trying to get alongside the van. I lean out of the window again and fire three rounds. The first two hit the wheel arch and the driver’s door. The third blows out the front left tire.

“Fall back!” I yell, as the van slides out of control and does a three-sixty spin in front of us. But Johnson sees it a fraction too late, and the van slams into the front of our car as the driver fights for control.

“Oh, shit!” shouts Johnson.

“Hang on!” I say.

The collision sends us spinning left and into the barrier along the edge of the bridge. The van spins away from us and skids to a halt farther along the road ahead on the right. We manage to keep control of the car, but the front end’s been smashed beyond repair. The hood has crumpled up and pieces have flown off the car and into the road. Chambers grunts in pain from the back as she flies forward into the back of my seat, catapulting me forward against the dashboard and smashing my ribs against it just before the airbag inflates.

The screeching of tires and the sound of crushing metal stops, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the occasional horn of a car and distant sirens.

I sit back, wincing as pain shoots through my ribs with every breath I take. I look over at Johnson, whose head is resting on the wheel. I tap his arm.

“Hey, you with us?” I ask.

He groans and sits up slowly, revealing a nasty, deep gash across his right eyebrow. A thin line of blood is trickling down the side of his face.

“My bad,” he says.

I smile. “Hey, you did good, Johnson. But we gotta get out of here.”

I look over at the van, which has spun around to a stop and is now facing us. The grill and the hood look damaged beyond repair. I can’t see any movement, but I’m not taking any chances.

I hustle myself out of the car and make my way cautiously over to the van, my gun in my right hand, ready to shoot. The broken glass crunches underfoot with each step I take, sounding loud in the silence, and growing louder as Chambers and Johnson exit the car and follow me.

I approach the passenger side door in a wide arc, gun raised and ready. I smell the burnt rubber from the tires, and a faint odor of gasoline. I can see inside the van—the driver is resting against the wheel, as Johnson had been. Except this guy’s not moving.

There’s no sign of Pellaggio… He must’ve gone through and out the back, which means he might have that Carbine locked and loaded.

Shit.

I hold back, edging slowly further out to the left, trying to get the angle to see.

“Erm... Adrian? I think we’ve got company,” says Chambers behind me.

I look over my right shoulder, back at the others, and see them standing, guns drawn, looking down the bridge, back toward the toll booth we’d just come through. I follow their gaze and see two more vans, similar to Pellaggio’s, speeding toward us.

I look back just in time to see Pellaggio walk around from behind his van, Carbine in both hands, aimed right at me.

“Put your fucking gun down, Adrian,” he says with an evil smile.

I quickly look back behind me and see the other two vans pulling up side on to us. Four men get out of each, all carrying similar-looking assault rifles.

Shit...

I turn and look at Pellaggio, sighing heavily.

Double shit…

I relax and let my Beretta hang loose from my index finger by the trigger guard. He walks over and takes it from me with his left hand, before snapping a short left elbow into my face. I stagger backward a few steps, but don’t go down.

He throws it to the ground.

“And the other one,” he says.

I do the same with the one still at my back. He tosses it aside.

“Now, tell your FBI friends to drop their guns too,” he says.

My jaw muscles clench as a fresh wave anger hits me. Every cell in my body is urging me to rip this bastard’s throat out… but right now, I know he’s simply got us beat.

“Guys, do as he says,” I shout over. “We’ve got no move here.”

“Now get over there with them,” he orders.

I turn and walk over, standing in between them with Chambers to my left and Johnson to my right, facing the eight guys who have just arrived.

Pellaggio walks in front of us, eyeballing each one of us in turn.

“Who was driving?” he asks.

I say nothing, hoping the other two will do the same. Straight away, I know where this is going... I look around quickly for inspiration—any sliver of hope that will allow me to stop this from unfolding exactly how I know it will… but I’ve got nothing.

Triple shit.

“I was,” says Johnson, after a moment.

I close my eyes and look away down at the ground.

Why the hell did he have to open his mouth?

That stupid…

I sigh.

I’m getting angry, but not at him. Not really. I’m angry at myself because I’ve allowed myself to be put in this position—where I’m completely helpless and can’t do anything to stop what’s happening.

I hate it.

Without a word, Pellaggio raises his rifle and opens fire, riddling Johnson with bullets. He aims low and raises the gun as he fires; the sickening, dull squelch as the bullets pound into Johnson’s body is muted by the staccato roar of the Carbine. He’s hit in his thighs, his stomach, his chest, and eventually, his face. His whole body spasms and jerks around in a crazy dance. His arms flail up and down as his body flies backward from the impact and smashes into our car. He bounces off the side and lands on the road, rolling and finishing face down; his features contorted from the agony he endured in his final breath and his eyes wide in a vacant gaze.

“No!” screams Chambers. I quickly put my arms around her to stop her doing anything stupid like running at Pellaggio. That was my instinct too, but I know better than to let any emotions cloud my judgment in a moment like this.

“Now,” said Pellaggio, looking at Chambers and myself in turn, as he rests the Carbine over his shoulder and smiles. “To business.”

16.

15:16

I LET GO of Chambers and we stand side by side facing Pellaggio and his eight hired guns.

There’s a cool breeze coming off the Bay, whirling the lingering smell of gunpowder around us from the Carbine. The sun is high and there’s very little cloud in the sky. I glance over at Johnson’s body, slowing drowning in a pool of blood on the road.