The Sacred Vault

The bullets got closer. As did the far wall—

He didn’t stop.

Another sheet of plastic burst apart as he ploughed the Honda through it into open air, the hillside whirling below him . . .

He landed with a painful slam on the roof of another house, the next in a steeply stepped terrace running down the hillside. But he knew even as he clenched the brake levers that he was going too fast to stop before the edge.

Falling—

A hard landing on another house. The tyres tore at the roofing felt, skidding, but he still couldn’t stop . . .

‘Shiiiiiit—’

Eddie hit the last roof, finally halting less than a foot from the edge. He looked down at the treetops below, suppressing a shudder.

Noise to his right, glimpses of lights bouncing down the hill through more trees. He projected their course to a street at the foot of the hillside. Above, police sirens wailed in useless confusion as the cops arrived and once more found themselves with nowhere to go.

Eddie surveyed the rooftop. Where could he go?

A balcony jutted from the wall below, giving the house’s occupants a panoramic view of the bay. Steeling himself, he blipped the throttle and rode the bike off the edge of the roof, dropping on to the balcony with a bang that shook the extension so hard he was afraid it would tear from the wall.

But it held. Relieved, he turned his head to see that the house was occupied, a man and woman goggling at him from an expensive sofa.

He knocked on the glass. The couple looked at each other, then the man hesitantly slid open the door. ‘Hello?’

‘Evening,’ said Eddie. ‘Can I come through?’

Another uncertain exchange of glances, then the man stood back. Eddie guided the bike inside. ‘If you need to get the carpet cleaned,’ he said, noticing he was leaving a dirty track, ‘bill the International Heritage Agency. Tell ’em Eddie said it was okay.’

‘I’ll . . . I’ll do that,’ the man said. The woman opened a door, guiding him into a hall. A second door led outside. Steps headed back up to the road above, but Eddie realised he could cut across the steep hillside to reach the path the robbers had followed.

He looked down the hill. The lights were almost at its foot. Thanking his hosts, he hauled the Honda round and started after them.

The bikes reached the bottom of the slope. A tall chain-link fence separated the rough ground from Sansome Street, but Fernandez had prepared the way by cutting the padlock securing a gate. The lead Honda bashed it with its front wheel and the gate flew open. The other bikes streamed through. The Nemesis’s exit was less subtle, Zec simply smashing down the entire fence.

Fernandez glanced back up the hill. No sign of the pest. He smiled, checking the street to the north. They had a clear run to the marina, and the police would have to go many blocks out of their way to round the natural barrier of Telegraph Hill.

‘Almost there,’ he told Zec triumphantly as the Bosnian sent the Nemesis surging up the street after the bikes. ‘A nice easy end to your last job, eh?’

‘We’re not clear yet,’ Zec pointed out.

Fernandez smirked. ‘You always were a pessimist, Braco. Smile! You’ll be home with your wife and boy soon enough. And rich!’ Over the engine noise he heard a siren, but it was some way behind them. ‘Who can stop us?’

Nina turned north. The fog was thinning, letting her speed up as she cut through the traffic, siren blaring.

Boyce was on the radio again. ‘This is the mayor. We’re on Sansome - where are those officers?’

‘Units on Calhoun Terrace have lost contact, repeat, lost contact,’ the dispatcher reported.

‘Where’s that?’ Nina asked.

Boyce pointed up and to her left. ‘Top of the hill. There’s a six-block stretch without any streets; it’s too steep.’

‘Not if you’re driving an off-roader. How far to this marina?’

‘Nine or ten blocks.’

No way of knowing how far the robbers were ahead. All Nina could do was go even faster.

Eddie’s Honda slithered down the last few feet of the slope, weeds crunching under its wheels. The headlight picked out a mangled chain-link fence. He rode over the flattened barrier, getting his bearings. A siren was coming from the south . . . and a familiar V8 growl fading to the north.

Revving the engine, he set off in pursuit.

The Nemesis reached the Embarcadero, the long, broad road running along the edge of San Francisco Bay. The marina was just a few hundred metres away. The bikes were already there, pulling on to the boardwalk. Fernandez pointed for Zec to follow.

Two powerful speedboats waited at a jetty. All they had to do was unload the Codex, get aboard, then make a fast escape across the bay, one boat heading eastwards for Oakland while the other made for Marin Country to the north. The fog was an unplanned bonus - it would make the vessels even harder to follow, the treacherous conditions grounding the SFPD’s helicopters. No need to use any expensive missiles tonight.

Zec swerved the Nemesis on to the boardwalk and skidded to a stop. Fernandez jumped out. Most of his men had already run to the boats; one hung back, waiting for him. ‘Braco and I will unload the case,’ he said, flipping up his visor. ‘Make sure nobody interferes.’ He gestured at the biker’s MP5K; the man’s helmet bobbed in acknowledgement. ‘Braco, come on.’

The Spaniard and his second in command ran to the back of the Nemesis. The case containing their prize lay inside, scuffed but otherwise undamaged by its roller coaster ride across the city. They lifted it out—

Engine noise, approaching fast. The strident rasp of a Honda XR650R.

‘I don’t believe it!’ said Fernandez, exasperated. An all too familiar single headlight was racing straight for them. He called to the remaining man as he and Zec carried the case to the jetty. ‘Kill that bastard!’

The biker took up position between the Nemesis and the approaching motorbike, readying his gun.

Eddie spotted the lights of the stationary Nemesis by the waterfront. Figures faded into view through the murk as he approached.

One was in a firing stance—

Another burst of bullets seared at him.

He dropped as low as he could as a round cracked against the Honda’s front fairing, blowing out the headlight and spitting fragments into his face - and another shot tore into the front wheel. The tyre exploded, rubber flapping as it sheared off the steel rim. The handlebars were wrenched from his grip as the bike went into an uncontrollable slide.

Eddie threw himself off. He yelled in pain as he hit the boardwalk and skidded across the wet wood, clothes ripping. The Honda tumbled onwards . . .

Straight at the Nemesis.

The gunman tried to jump out of the way—

Too late. The bike slammed him into the parked 4x4 with back-breaking force. The Honda’s fuel tank ripped