by Erik Carter
El Vacío would need to hold back, study the target more, make additional assessments. And this angered El Vacío because he knew that his client—who claimed to be well acquainted with Fair—would be aware of whether or not Andy made frequent appearances.
El Vacío had one rule. And everyone knew about it.
One goddamn rule.
His mind flashed on his client. And he wanted to crush him. But he would give the man the benefit of the doubt for now. He would continue doing his homework.
There was one thing that could potentially hinder his observation of Jonathan Fair, though.
El Vacío had spotted a cop.
Plain-clothes—jeans, brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses. The man stood on the corner, watching The Sapphire Dragon. Likely he would swoop in when Fair made his attack on the restaurant.
And El Vacío would have to stop it.
The man had a thin, clear, coiled wire slipping up his neck from under his shirt to a concealed speaker in his ear, and he’d been talking into a microphone clipped inside his collar—covertly, but El Vacío had noticed. He also wore a fake beard. It was an excellent fake, but El Vacío knew a fake when he saw one.
El Vacío had planned on eliminating Jonathan Fair right in front of the cop. He had a good escape plan through the building he was perched upon. But now that he wasn’t going to kill Fair, he’d have to do something about the cop.
He swung the rifle around.
The crosshairs landed on the cop.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dale nodded at Yorke as she strode up to him then quickly returned his gaze to the car.
“Jonathan Fair just tried to get out of the brown Chevette,” Dale said, motioning subtly with a nod toward the car. “The driver screamed at him and pulled him back in.”
“What the hell?”
Farther down the street, the argument in the car continued. It was so intense with their wild gestures that the Chevette was rocking. The passenger door opened, and Fair stepped out again.
Dale could just hear Fair’s voice as he said to the driver, “Our agreement is terminated.”
The driver yelled out to him. “Felix, wait!”
Fair stopped, put his hand on the roof of the car, and ducked his head inside. Their conversation continued, voices muffled by the distance.
Dale gave a quick glance to Yorke. Her mouth was open. Complete confusion.
And for a moment, Dale remained confused as well. But then a realization came to Dale.
A sick, stomach-dropping realization.
It had been the way that the driver had screamed at Fair. That’s what tipped Dale off. The man’s commanding, violent tone. The complete lack of respect.
This assignment had presented Dale with an absurd amount of abstract questions, each more baffling than the last. Was Jonathan Fair really acting as another person? Was he seeing the world through 1906 eyes? Could it be coincidence that he was striking establishments that belonged to the rival crime family?
Now, like so many times when Dale had a breakthrough moment during a case, all the questions were getting answered in his head. The dark fog of confusion was giving way to bright, piercing reason.
“Conley...” Yorke said, eyeballing him. “What’s with that look?”
He turned to her.
“Yorke, we’ve had this all wrong. Felix doesn’t have help. Felix is being used. He’s been hitting Alfonsi establishments. Someone understands Fair’s condition and is exploiting him to attack the Alfonsis, convincing him that he’s attacking Abe Ruef.” Dale pointed toward the Chevette. “Fair isn’t the one behind all this.”
It was the big break in the case that Dale had been hoping for. But he was having a hard time savoring it.
Because there were few things Dale despised more than seeing a helpless person being manipulated.
Yorke nodded slowly, agreeing with his conclusion, as she continued to watch the car. Her eyes suddenly went wide. “Look!”
Dale whipped back around.
The driver stepped out of the car, pleading with Fair to get back inside.
“It’s Lee Kimble,” Yorke said.
Dale recognized him. The man from the mugshot he’d studied back at the Hall of Justice. Round cheeks, round nose, curly hair. One of the other escapees from the Second Alcatraz. The former assistant district attorney.
“Come on!” Dale said.
They darted toward the Chevette.
It was then that the bullet struck, inches from Dale’s hand.
Chapter Twenty-Four
There were screams from a couple blocks away—the sounds of chaos—and Marco jumped off the wall he’d been leaning against. The people on the sidewalk around him pointed to the east. Gasps. Rapid, frightened Cantonese.
Marco had been trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he casually rested against the building, wearing nondescript clothing—corduroys, a polo shirt, shades—but now he had to risk drawing some attention to himself. He quickly pulled his walkie-talkie from its concealed position.
“Was that us?” he said. “Was that us? They were supposed to wait for us, goddammit! We were supposed to go at the same time!”
Another team had been positioned a couple blocks away from Marco’s, poised to strike one of Big Paul’s tourist shops.
There was a slight pause before the response came. Sounds of concerned voyeurism surrounded Marco as people continued looking to the east.
“Negative,” a voice said from his walkie-talkie. “Something’s going down outside The Sapphire Dragon. Shots fired.”
“The Sapphire Dragon?” Marco said. “That’s one of our joints. Jesus Christ, the Fairs are hitting us at the same time we’re hitting them!”
Marco thought this over. For only a moment. There was precious little time. The two families were simultaneously attacking each other. Only blocks apart.
Mob war indeed.
But what could Marco do but continue the operation? After all, this was the beginning of his process of proving himself. What better way to begin than under fire?
“Proceed,” he said.
He watched as his soldiers—also in casual clothes like him—moved through the crowd on all sides and converged on the small ginseng shop, one of the many establishments under Big Paul’s grip in Chinatown. There were three men, and they all drew their guns when they were a few feet from the entrance.
And then something phenomenal happened…
More men came out of the crowd. More men with guns.
And the guns were aimed at his guys.
There were screams of Police! Hands in the air!
Again Marco had only a split second to make a decision.
So he ran.
A couple miles away, at Fisherman’s Wharf, cops swept in as Alfonsi men attempted to storm a popular seafood restaurant that was known to be a meeting place for Fair associates.
Nearby, at Pier 39, other Alfonsi men were handcuffed and thrown to the ground among the crowds of tourists after rushing a fudge shop that was a drop-off point for Fair protection payments.
Farther away, in Forest Hill, more men were thrust into the back of squad cars after they’d been intercepted before breaking into a stretch of homes that served Big Paul’s prostitution ring.
All around the city, more takedowns occurred. The attacks had been synchronized. And so was the unexpected and well-coordinated police response.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dale yanked Yorke down, positioned them behind the fruit stand, the same stand that had absorbed the bullet. Both Dale and Yorke had been sprayed with fruit mush when the bullet struck.
Dale’s heart pounded in his chest, and he kept his hand on Yorke’s shoulder as he stole a glance above the stand. All around him, people were screaming, running. They bashed into Dale and Yorke as they fled the area. From where the people were looking and pointing, Dale could tell that the shot had come from the building across the street.
It was a
quintessential Chinatown building—classic Chinese styling, signs with Chinese characters on the front. All around the building was a mass of hysteric bystanders, fleeing. It was five stories in height. Lots of open windows. The shooter could have come from anywhere—any of those windows or among the swarming mass on the sidewalk.
Dale quickly scanned the building and saw a glint of light coming from above.
The barrel of a rifle. With a scope.
“On the roof,” he said to Yorke. “A sniper.”
He could just barely see the man. White. Brown hair. Olive drab jacket.
Dale drew his Model 36. Yorke took out her piece as well.
There was a tremendous roar. Dale’s ears were instantly deafened. Yorke was blasting rounds at the sniper.
Bam, bam, bam!
Dale looked to the roof. The rifle barrel disappeared as the sniper ducked below the parapet.
Dale grabbed Yorke’s shoulder and gave it a tug. She stopped firing.
“Save your rounds! His rifle was custom-made. That’s a pro, a hitman who’s after Fair. If he’d been trying to shoot us, we’d be dead already. It was a warning shot. He was trying to pull us away from … shit, Jonathan Fair!”
Dale whipped around to locate Fair. He’d momentarily forgotten his main objective. Being fired upon will do that to you.
Fair was getting back into the Chevette. The passenger door slammed. The tires screeched immediately, and the car pulled onto the street. Its horn blared at the frantic, frightened people crossing in front of it as Kimble tried to push his way through them.
Dale quickly turned to Yorke. “I’ll go after them. You get the sniper.”
There was a moment of pause from Yorke. That lack of self-conviction again in her eyes.
“You got this,” Dale said.
He took a deep breath.
And stood up.
He knew that the sniper could, in theory, bring him down. But he also knew that the guy could have taken him down already and that, as a pro, the guy was smart. By firing, the man had already revealed his position. The man would understand that people would be looking for the shooter. Choosing to fire upon anyone at this point would be incredibly stupid. Shooting a cop would be especially stupid. And this guy would have likely already pegged Dale as law enforcement. Under the current set of circumstances, the sniper would only risk letting another bullet fly if the intended victim was his paid target.
That’s sure as hell what Dale hoped, at least.
A woman crashed into Dale, and he pushed his way around her. He dove deeper into the crowd. Arms shoved him, pulled at him as pandemonium set in. In front of Dale, parked on the side of the street, a few cars up, was Arancia.
He dashed past another clump of people, quickly unlocked the door, and fell into the driver seat. He dropped his Smith on the seat beside him, turned the key, and Arancia’s massive V-8 came to life with a metallic bellow.
Chapter Twenty-Six
El Vacío’s pulse was racing.
Pure adrenaline from being fired upon. One of life’s sweetest sensations.
He suppressed his dark grin as he continued to crouch on his stomach in the gravel of the rooftop, hidden behind the parapet. He had his rifle beside him, and he stole a quick glance over the edge. The male cop had gotten into an orange De Tomaso Pantera. Its siren was now blaring, and he was giving long, loud blasts of the horn at the people around him, trying to pull out onto the street. Farther up, Jonathan Fair and his driver were already partway down the block in the brown Chevette.
Which meant that El Vacío needed to take off too.
El Vacío had seen the male cop call off the other’s brazen, gut reaction—her gun blazing at the rooftop. He saw him reason with her, which only meant that he’d figured out that El Vacío was a pro and had intentionally missed them. And now the man had split the two of them up.
El Vacío was impressed with the man’s thinking under fire—quite literally. When he’d first seen him, he’d not given the man much credit. He was a pretty boy, and El Vacío wouldn’t have thought him to be a master tactician. But experience had taught El Vacío that the strongest adversaries typically came in the least likely of packages.
Another glance over the parapet, and he saw that, while the male cop had gone to the Pantera, the female was coming toward his building.
El Vacío needed to make an escape.
He needed to become the shadow once more.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
People ran all around Jane. Total panic.
But she didn’t move. She stayed right where she was. Watching.
The brown Chevette rolled past, pushing its way through the people. The passenger door zipped by, only feet away.
And there was John. There was her brother.
They made eye contact. For only a moment. Then John looked away.
There had been no recognition in his eyes. None at all. He was Felix again, and Felix had purposely forgotten her.
Jane had heard a siren moments earlier, and now it was louder, coming from behind the Chevette.
She turned.
Jane was a bit of a sports car girl, and she recognized the sleek vehicle as a De Tomasso Pantera as it lay on the horn at the panicked people crossing the streets, closing the gap with the Chevette.
And chasing down her brother.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Even with the siren wailing, the panicked crowd pushed in all around Arancia. Dale smashed the horn again, and the group of people crossing in front of him jumped then hurried to the side. He burped the gas and closed the gap between him and the Chevette.
There were two pieces of good news.
First, the crowd was slowing the Chevette down dramatically. Second, Lee Kimble evidently wasn’t a completely ruthless bastard, as he wasn’t plowing people down.
The bad news was, by the jerky motion of the vehicle, it was clear that Kimble was itching to make a run for it at the first opportunity.
And that opportunity had just presented itself.
There was a blare from the Chevette’s horn as it swung to the right and onto California Street.
Then it bolted away.
Dale slammed the gas—tires chirping—and took off after it. This was what Dale had been hoping for, an unencumbered race where his Pantera would easily consume the other car. The only problem was, while he knew he could easily catch Kimble, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to stop him.
Especially considering a court of law had determined the man to be insane.
But Dale needed to come up with a solution fast because the stakes couldn’t be higher—there were plenty of civilians in all directions. California Street was a major thoroughfare slicing through the city, and it was packed with mid-afternoon hustle-bustle. Passenger cars, taxis, sidewalks full of pedestrians. California was also one of the streets with the city’s famous cable cars, tracks cutting down the center of the road. One of the cable cars was directly in front of the Chevette, and another approached in the opposite direction, making its way down the hill
Dale closed on the Chevette. Before him, the road went straight up Nob Hill, climbing dizzily into the blue sky.
The Chevette peeled to the left with a loud screech of its tires. Then it quickly darted back to the right, just as the other cable car lumbered past in the opposite direction. Kimble had done one hell of a job threading the needle.
Dale smashed the brakes. Arancia shuddered, her rear end kicking. When the oncoming cable car passed by, he swung Arancia around the other one he’d been stuck behind. As he over took it, he expected to see the Chevette.
But there was nothing there...
Where the hell could Kimble have gone? He hadn’t passed any side streets.
Dale didn’t spot the Chevette until it was too late.
Kimble had concealed himself in front of the cable car, creeping along to match its pace.
They made eye contact. And Kimble raised his arm.
A gun.
Kimble fired. Missing.
Dale hit the brakes, allowing the cable car to pull ahead of him on the right, concealing himself from Kimble.
Screaming from the sidewalk and from the people hanging off the side of the cable car.
There was a loud, metallic screech of brakes, and the cable car began to slow.
From his position alongside the rear end of the cable car, Dale couldn’t see the Chevette, which meant that Kimble was braking too, still matching the cable car’s momentum.
Dale grabbed his gun.
He pushed the brake. Like Kimble, he matched his speed to that of the cable car. He tightened his hold on the Smith.
Chances were, when the cable car stopped completely, Kimble would floor the Chevette and take off up the hill.
Or he might jump out of the car with his gun blazing. Or maybe he’d take a prisoner from the cable car.
Dale had to be prepared for all scenarios.
And he had to be ready to take Kimble down.
The cable car’s brakes let out the last of their squealing. It rocked to a stop. People flooded off, ran for the buildings.
Arancia halted as well. Dale eyed the front of the cable car. His palms sweated on the grips of the Model 36. He slowly eased Arancia forward...
And then it happened.
There was a horrible squeal from the Chevette. Smoke came from the tires.
And its reverse lights came on.
It came right toward Arancia.
Dale gunned the gas again, zipped to the side, into the oncoming lane. A van was headed toward him, and it shimmied hard as it came to a stop. The Chevette whooshed by.
Dale looked in the rearview.
The Chevette was flying down the steep hill.
