Chapter 2

It was misty in San Francisco.

The mist was nothing unusual, because it was a regular occurrence in the Bay area. Something to do with the humidity coming in from the Pacific and meeting the cool air sweeping out from the US landmass, or vice versa. Whatever the phenomenon, it had coalesced into low-lying clouds. Today it had formed out on the water, a huge embankment that had followed the shorelines, obscuring from view the world famous Golden Gate Bridge before pushing in to shroud Alcatraz and on to similarly veil the Bay Bridge. Above the mist I could still make out the tallest points of the Bay Bridge, against the backdrop of a starry sky. The thrum of traffic over the bridge was muted, a background accompaniment only. On the Embarcadero traffic was light, and none of the famous cable cars was in sight. Pedestrians were few as well, but there were street people camped out next to a large fountain that looked as if it had been erected using the leftover concrete from an overpass. Most of the street people were tucked under sleeping bags, shopping trolleys piled with their belongings forming windbreaks behind them. One of the homeless guys was an early riser like me, and he was rooting through some boxes outside a pizza shop. He had shuffled past a minute earlier without noticing me, which went a long way to prove my disguise was working.

I was wearing a thick parka jacket picked up from a military surplus store, plus jeans and a pair of boots that looked like they’d seen a thousand miles, and a wool cap pulled down around my ears. I’d gone unshaven for three days. To complete my disguise I’d rooted around in an open Dumpster and allowed the stink to permeate my clothing. I was sure that no one but another hobo would come within ten feet of me from choice.

It was very early, an hour or two before dawn, but I wasn’t feeling it. I’d only flown in from Florida two days before, and my body clock swore it was actually midmorning. I was wide awake and intent on the job at hand. I saw the man I’d been waiting for immediately.

He was a large man. Maybe a shade over six feet, but big in other ways: big shoulders, big arms, big chest and waist. He was also big in the local criminal underworld, but still a few rungs from the top. He was dressed for purpose in a windcheater jacket: not a defence against the chill but to conceal the gun holstered beneath his left armpit. His name was Sean Chaney, a strong arm of the resident criminal fraternity. He looked half-asleep, which suited me fine.

As he moved by, I fell into step a dozen yards behind him. He didn’t glance at me, and wouldn’t be concerned if he did. All the homeless people here knew who he was, what he did for a living, and didn’t hassle him for change. He walked alongside the Hyatt, a huge structure of tiered rooms and balconies to make the best of the view across the bay. The Embarcadero Centre was on our right; a three storied shopping mall that spanned several blocks of the city. Apart from security lighting all of the shops remained in darkness and there was no one else around. My boots scuffed the ground, and to me sounded like cannon fire, but Chaney seemed oblivious and carried on to the corner of the hotel where he took a left. Coming round the corner after him, I saw him check his watch and his pace picked up.

Valets on the hotel door watched Chaney stride past, but didn’t give me as much as a glance: it said something about human nature to me. There was a junction in the road here, a boarding point for the cable cars that carried tourists up and down Nob Hill, but Chaney didn’t approach the stop, instead making for the stairs down to the underground BART system. I counted to ten then followed. He was already past the ticket machines heading for the southbound platform. There was no one else in sight, but I wasn’t worried. The big man was rubbing his eyes and yawning expansively. I fed coins into the machine, took my ticket and then shuffled towards the platform. This time Chaney did look at me, but it was a glancing blow that didn’t stick. He went back to yawning, turning away from me with lack of interest. I slouched against a wall, at the opposite end of the platform.

The Bay Area Rapid Transport system is on the ball at all hours of the day and night, and it was little more than a minute before the train squealed into the station. Chaney was at the doors in a second, rocking on his heels while he waited for them to open. He squeezed inside even as the doors hissed open. I waited a few seconds more, then clambered aboard the second carriage along. A middle-aged Chinese woman sitting in my carriage gave me a brief fearful look, before quickly averting her eyes. She was sitting with a couple of bags on her lap and as I moved past her she pulled them tight to her chest like a shield. I cringed inwardly, thinking about how I’d frightened the woman, but it was neither the time nor the place to reassure her she was in no danger. The only person in danger on this train was Chaney.

The next carriage along was deserted.

I moved through it as the train pulled out of the station and began swaying along the tracks.

Coming to the next connecting doors, I paused.

Peeking through the glass I could see Chaney midway along the carriage. He was facing my way, but had taken out his cellphone and was involved in checking the screen for messages. He didn’t see me, and was totally unaware of the other person who had entered the carriage from the far end. He’d obviously had it too easy of late and had lost the intrinsic paranoia necessary for a criminal.

My friend Jared Rington moved along the carriage with a measured pace, but even from this end I could see the muscles working in his jaw, an old knife scar standing out as a white slash against his tawny skin. Rink hadn’t gone to the trouble I had. He wasn’t disguised, and didn’t see the need. He wanted Chaney to know who was coming for him, and who his executioner was going to be. The only modification to his usual colourful attire was a pair of black leather gloves. Chaney had his back to Rink, but my friend isn’t the type to do a hit from behind. Rink’s voice was muffled, but I still heard his sharp command: ‘Stand up, you piece of shit.’

Chaney dropped his phone and went for his gun, already turning as he rose.

Rink struck him with the edge of his hand, a chop to the side of the big man’s neck. Uncontrolled, the blow could kill, but Rink had tempered the force. It was still enough to stagger Chaney and while he was weakened, Rink took the gun from him with a practised twist of the wrist. Chaney grunted something, continued his turn and tried to grapple for the gun. Rink hit him again, a sweeping elbow strike that made contact with Chaney’s face and knocked him back a few steps. Rink followed him, bringing up the Glock he’d liberated to point it directly at Chaney’s forehead.

Time I did something.

I hit the button and the door swept open.

As I entered the carriage my view of Rink was slightly obscured by Chaney’s thick body. I had a horrible feeling that Rink would shoot, and the bullet would go directly through Chaney’s skull and hit me. I sidestepped, placing myself in the open next to the exit doors. Rink was taller than Chaney, and I knew he’d seen me from the slight narrowing of his eyes. That was all the notice he gave me, though, because his attention was on the man he was about to kill.

I brought up my SIG SAUER P226 and pointed it at Chaney’s back. My other hand I held open to Rink.

‘Don’t do this, brother,’ I said to him. ‘Chaney’s a piece of shit, but he doesn’t deserve this.’

Rink didn’t even look at me. Nausea squirmed a passage through my gut.

‘Don’t,’ I said again.

‘What’re you going to do, Hunter?’ Rink’s eyes never left Chaney. ‘Shoot me?’

‘I don’t want to,’ I said.

‘That’s something, at least.’ Rink ignored me then and took a step nearer Chaney.

The enforcer reared back on his heels, bringing up his hands in a placating motion. ‘Whoa! What’s this all about?’

‘I’m about to kill you,’ my friend snarled.

‘Rink. Don’t do it.’ I hurried towards him. ‘Don’t cross the line, brother.’

‘It’s too late for that, Joe.’

I knew then that there was less than a heartbeat to spare.

I fired.

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