Attack at Dead Man's Bay

by Paul Adam

  Keeping low, he edged forward, then burst out and dashed across the strip of grass. He was crossing the road when a car suddenly appeared around the bend to his right, its headlights momentarily illuminating him before he broke out of the beams and plunged into the wood.

  It was tough-going up the hill. The gradient was steep, almost vertical in places, and the ground was soft, the soil slipping away beneath his feet. Max scrambled up on all fours, using his hands to assist him, clinging onto bushes and tree roots. Down below, the car had stopped and two men had leaped out and followed him into the wood.

  Max tried not to panic. The men were only thirty or forty metres behind him. He could hear them snapping twigs, breaking through the undergrowth. He was hurting badly. His lungs and muscles were burning, crying out for relief, but he didn’t slow down. He made himself keep going at the same punishing pace. To give up now meant certain death.

  He clambered up to the top of the hill and stopped. There was open ground in front of him. At least, that was what he thought at first. Then he saw that it wasn’t ground at all, it was water. He was standing on the edge of a lake.

  He had no choice. Every second he waited the gunmen were getting nearer. He waded out into the shallows, the cold water creeping up his legs. He let it reach his thighs, then dived forward and started swimming – on the surface for a few strokes, then he took a deep breath and ducked under to conceal himself from the gunmen.

  He struck out under the water, but he could feel his muscles struggling. In ideal conditions, he could swim a hundred metres underwater, but not tonight. He was too tired, there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. Fortunately, it wasn’t a big lake. After only a short distance he felt it getting shallower. His fingers touched vegetation, the stems of reeds that were growing along the shoreline. He swam through the stems and let himself float to the surface, making as little noise as possible. He sucked in air and lay there motionless, the reeds forming a screen around him.

  He could see the two men on the far shore. They were scanning the water. They would guess that Max had swum out into the lake, but they couldn’t know exactly where he was now. It was too dark, he was too well hidden in the reeds.

  What would they do? Max wondered. Would they swim out after him? A cold lake in the middle of the night, the water ruining their smart black suits, probably wasn’t an appealing prospect for them, unless there was no alternative. They were obviously discussing what to do, murmuring quietly to each other. Max watched them, wishing they’d make up their minds. It was freezing lying there in the water and he could feel his body temperature plummeting, his teeth starting to chatter.

  Finally, the men seemed to come to a decision. They split up, one going left along the lakeshore, the other going right. Max shivered, and it wasn’t the cold water that caused it: it was fear. The men were going to circle around the lake from both directions and try to pick up his trail on the other side.

  As quietly as he could, he floated through the reeds and dragged himself out onto the bank, lying flat on the ground while he took in his surroundings. There was a dirt path running along the edge of the lake – a flat strip about three or four metres wide. Beyond it, the ground rose steeply up another tree-covered hill. Max couldn’t face a second climb – he didn’t have the strength. He’d have to skirt around the base of the hill where the going was easier.

  Pulling himself to his feet, he paused to glance around. He could no longer see either of the gunmen, which was worrying. He didn’t know how far the lake extended. Were the two men even now reaching his side, trapping him in a pincer movement? He had to keep running, weary though he was. Every second he waited gave them more time to catch him.

  But which way to go? Left or right? It didn’t seem to make any difference. He chose left, jogging away along the path. His clothes were heavy with water, his feet squelching in his trainers. He knew the extra weight would slow him down, but he couldn’t afford to stop to wring them out.

  The path curved around to the right, the hill rising up on one side, the water on the other, the lake following the same curve as the path, never getting any wider or narrower. Its shape was more like a bend in a river than a lake, only it couldn’t be a river, there was no current. Max had the sudden, frightening realization that he wasn’t on the other side of a lake – he was on an island in the middle of one.

  He pulled up abruptly. He could see the faint silhouette of a bridge up ahead, spanning the water from the shore to the island. A man was moving across the bridge. Max was trapped.

  There was no point in retreating, or trying to climb the hill. He would still be on the island if he did that. To have any chance of escape, he had to go back into the water. Dropping to the ground, he slithered down the bank into the lake, gliding out through the reeds, then ducking down beneath the surface once he’d reached open water. He swam slowly and smoothly, trying to conserve his remaining energy, but also to avoid leaving any telltale ripples that the gunman might spot. The lake wasn’t very wide at this point, probably no more than thirty metres. Max’s hands touched the bottom, then found the stems of reeds and he knew he’d reached the other side.

  He lifted his head, gulping in air, and the world erupted suddenly around him – there was a deafening honking noise, a ferocious flapping of wings as a flock of geese he’d disturbed lifted off. Max took a moment to recover from the shock, then he splashed rapidly to the shore and heaved himself out onto the bank. The gunman couldn’t have failed to notice the geese taking wing and would know it meant only one thing.

  Max heard a gunshot and a bullet hissed past his head. He scuttled across the bank, keeping low. There was another gunshot. This time, something zipped through the flap of his jacket. Max ducked lower and hurled himself into a clump of bushes, tumbling down the hill on the other side. But he was going too fast to control his descent, and he rolled over and over, smashing through the undergrowth, narrowly missing several tree trunks before coming to a stop in a heap at the bottom of the slope. Battered and bruised, he staggered to his feet and stumbled away.

  Every part of his body was hurting now – his legs, his arms, his chest, his lungs. A fast jog was the most he could manage. Sprinting was out of the question. If the gunmen caught him in the open, even saw him from a distance, Max knew they would quickly catch up with him. So he had to make sure that didn’t happen. He had to stay undercover, yet keep moving at the same time.

  Sheltered by a line of trees, he headed west across the park, emerging only when he had no alternative. Each time he encountered a patch of grass or other open terrain, he tried to find a way round it without coming out from cover. He crept through woods, dashed from bush to bush, did anything he could to stay out of sight.

  Then he came to another of the empty roads that crossed the park. All his cover was gone. There was a fence along one side of the road, a broad area of grass on the other. He hesitated. If he kept going, he would be dangerously exposed, but if he stayed put, he risked being caught. He hadn’t seen or heard the gunmen since he’d left the lake, but he knew they would still be searching for him. They might not be far behind.

  He checked the road. Like all the others, it was quiet at this time of night. If he was quick, he wouldn’t be out in the open for long. Glancing carefully around once more, he started jogging along the verge between the road and the fence. His clothes were still sodden, his trousers and shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

  He’d gone less than fifty metres when the car came out of nowhere. He didn’t hear it, didn’t see it until he looked over his shoulder and the headlights blinded him. It was moving fast along the road, too fast to outrun. He knew they were going to try and knock him down again, make it look like a hit-and-run accident. He did the only thing he could in the circumstances: he veered across the verge and clambered over the fence. Looking back, he saw the car come to a stop, two men in suits jumping out. Max accelerated, surprising even himself with his turn of speed. But he knew it was his last gasp. He co
uldn’t keep it up for long, he was too drained. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself through the pain barrier.

  He was in a field covered with thick tufts of grass. No shrubs or trees. No cover of any kind, except the darkness all around. It was that, he guessed, that was stopping the men from opening fire again. They couldn’t see him well enough to take aim.

  They were over the fence now, about sixty metres back. Max tried to speed up, but his legs wouldn’t respond. Nor would his lungs. He was struggling to breathe and his pulse was hammering away furiously, making his head throb. The men were gaining on him. For a fleeting moment, Max wondered why he was still running. What was the point now? Then he pulled himself together. Don’t be so gutless, he thought. There’s still hope.

  The field started to slope uphill. That hurt even more. Max was in agony, gasping painfully for air, his legs leaden and on fire. Something loomed up out of the darkness in front of him – another fence, this one higher than the first. He didn’t have the strength to climb it, or to keep running. He slumped to the ground and leaned back on the wire mesh. Waiting for the gunmen to come and finish him off.

  He closed his eyes, feeling his heart pounding, hearing the wheeze of his own breathing. Then he heard something else, something shuffling around on the other side of the fence, and he became aware of a pungent smell – an animal smell of dung and musk. He opened his eyes and twisted his head round. There was an animal pressing against the wire mesh with its muzzle. No, not one animal, but several, maybe more. Big animals with long, shaggy coats. He was beside the buffalo enclosure that Herb Feinstein had told him about that morning.

  Max saw a metal rod directly in front of his eyes and took a second to work out what it was. A bolt. This wasn’t a fence. It was a gate. And beyond the gate was a herd of buffalo. He looked round. The gunmen were coming up the slope, walking slowly now – they didn’t need to run any more. There was just enough light for Max to see the pistols in their hands.

  He reached behind him, grasped hold of the bolt and rammed it back hard, pulling open the gate and rolling sideways out of the way as the buffalo charged through into the field. For such huge animals they were surprisingly fast. They surged by with a thunder of hooves, crammed tightly together in a moving wall of solid muscle. The two gunmen didn’t stand a chance. The buffalo hit them like a tidal wave, knocking them to the ground, then trampling over the bodies. Max heard a muffled cry, then nothing.

  He waited for the stampede to end, the buffalo to disperse across the field, then got up and walked over to the bodies lying sprawled in the grass. Neither man was moving. Max couldn’t tell whether they were alive or dead, and didn’t want to touch them to find out. He wanted only to get away from the area as quickly as possible. But he couldn’t just leave the men there, either. What if they were only injured and needed urgent medical help? Would their mobile phones have survived the stampede?

  Bracing himself, Max crouched down by the nearest body. He patted the man’s jacket and felt a lump in one of the side pockets. The man stirred and Max pulled back abruptly. So he wasn’t dead. Max didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed, but he waited a moment, then leaned over again and gently removed the phone from the man’s pocket. It seemed to be intact. He dialled 911.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ he said when the emergency operator answered. ‘Outside the buffalo enclosure in Golden Gate Park. The animals are loose too.’

  Max rang off and tossed the phone down. Then he ran across the field, scrambled over the fence and disappeared into the trees.

  THIRTEEN

  MAX WAS A quarter of a mile from the buffalo paddock when he heard the distant sounds of sirens and guessed that the emergency services were on their way. He was shaken by what had happened. He hadn’t wanted to injure the gunmen, but they’d left him with no choice. He’d acted purely in self-defence; opening the gate had been an impulse decision, the only action left to him. He’d thought it might create a diversion, give him the chance to slip away. It hadn’t occurred to him that the buffalo would charge out and trample the men. In retrospect, he would do the same thing again, he realized. They’d tried to kill him. Why should he feel sympathy for them? If they’d had their way, it would be Max lying there dead in the enclosure.

  He jogged across the fairway of a golf course, then paused in a copse to strip off his wet clothes, wring the water out of them and then put them back on. They were cold and clammy. He shivered and kept running, knowing he wasn’t out of danger yet. There had been four men in total pursuing him across the park. Two of them were no longer a threat, but what of the other two? Were they still searching the area for him?

  Max stayed vigilant until he reached the edge of the park and came out onto a well-lit street. Even there, he didn’t feel completely safe as he headed east towards the downtown area, walking as fast as his exhausted body would allow and keeping his eyes skinned for any signs of the other two men.

  As he walked, he thought about what had happened in Haight-Ashbury just an hour or so earlier – the shock he’d felt as he watched Tony Halstead being gunned down, his father taken away. He could still see his dad’s face, his expression as the car went past. The memory cut into his heart like a knife. He’d been stunned by his dad’s appearance, how frail and ill he looked. Where had the men taken him? Why had they taken him away at all? Why hadn’t they simply killed him in the house in Shrader Street? There had to be a reason.

  Had they gone to Rescomin headquarters? It was possible, maybe more than possible. Max had intended going there, in any case, to see if he could find out what had happened to the consignments of Episuderon that had been sent there from Woodford Down Laboratories, but looking for his dad now gave him another good reason to check it out. And he couldn’t afford to delay. If his dad was there, Max had to find him quickly.

  Should he try to do it alone? Maybe not. Maybe he should go back to the hotel and consult Chris and Consuela, let the police look for his father. But would the police be interested? Would they believe Max’s story, which had all the hallmarks of fantasy, the product of a teenage boy’s over-active imagination? A man who’d disappeared two years earlier in Central America suddenly resurfaces in San Francisco and is kidnapped by gunmen working for Julius Clark, one of the world’s richest, most respected businessmen. Did that sound likely?

  And could the San Francisco police even be trusted? Clark had friends in very high places, his tentacles of power stretched everywhere. Rescomin was an important company in the city. Who was to say whether the local police weren’t in Clark’s sphere of influence. Max had learned over the past few months to rely on no one except his closest allies. The betrayal by Jimmy Abbott, whom Dr Halstead had trusted implicitly, had only reinforced those lessons. Trust no one. If you want something done, do it yourself.

  He increased his pace, looking back to see if there were any buses on the horizon. He’d passed a couple of stops, but seen no one waiting at them. Maybe the buses in San Francisco didn’t run this late. Then over the road, he saw a yellow cab dropping off a man and woman outside a house. He sprinted across and caught the driver before he pulled away.

  ‘I need to go downtown,’ he said. ‘Can you take me?’ He pulled out a wad of damp dollar bills. ‘I can pay.’

  The driver looked at the money. He barely glanced at Max, didn’t seem to notice – or care about – his rather bedraggled state. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘Where d’you wanna go?’

  Max gave him the address and collapsed back into the seat, finally able to relax, finally feeling safe. But it was only a brief respite. His mind was focused on what he was about to do – on the dangers of venturing into his enemies’ lair. It was a terrifying prospect, but he knew he had to take the risk.

  The Rescomin headquarters was in the Financial District, on the east side of the city, a densely built-up area of office blocks and skyscrapers. None of it was on a New York scale – the buildings were mostly less than forty storeys high – but there were enough of
them to create an oppressive feeling of size, of soaring glass and concrete towers broken up by deep, shadowy canyons.

  Max got out of the taxi on California Street, paid the driver and gave him a generous tip, which he hoped would make up for the mess his wet clothes had left on the rear seat. The area was quiet, empty of people and traffic. There were metal tracks running along the centre of the street, but it was too late for the cable cars to be running and most of the buildings were in darkness, although their corporate signs and logos were still illuminated. There seemed to be a lot of banks in the office blocks, with the ground floors occupied by the kinds of smaller businesses that were always found in financial districts – courier services, restaurants, copy shops, florists.

  Rescomin Tower had a small plaza in front of it, containing a fountain and flowerbeds and four massive stone urns, taller than a man, that overflowed with ferns and trailing vegetation. The building itself was a smooth, shiny glass box stretching high up into the sky. Max counted the storeys: there were thirty-five, the bottom two of which were taken up by an opulent, brightly-lit lobby. What interested him most was the reception desk near the rear wall. A uniformed guard was sitting behind it, a barrier to one side giving access to the lifts that could not be reached without the guard’s authorization.

  Max wasn’t surprised by the security – it was no less than he’d expected in a corporate headquarters. He’d have to find another way of getting inside.

  Walking across the plaza, he went down the street at the side of the building – straight into a strong headwind that knifed through his wet clothes, chilling his body and making him shiver. At the rear of the tower, there was a ramp leading down into a subterranean section, probably a car park, and a row of big industrial waste bins. Next to the bins was a high metal roller door that looked like a loading bay entrance for delivery vehicles, with a smaller door in the wall beside it. Max looked around. He could see no sign of any CCTV cameras. He tried the door. It was locked, so he went to the waste bins, lifted the lid of one and rummaged inside it until he found a thin strip of metal that had been thrown away. He returned to the door and used the strip to pick the lock.