monosyllabic code names, inspired by Hollywood directors. O’Neal had worked for “Fritz” (after Lang) as well as “Ray” (after Nicholas). He’d heard rumors of a “Hitch” as well as a “Brian” (after De Palma). Some Guild wags joked that Brian was actually the
Deputy directors like O’Neal typically took on the names of famous actors, dead or alive. O’Neal took his name from Ryan; in the past he’d worked with an Eli (Wallach), a Van (Hefflin), a Sam (uel L. Jackson), a Myrna (Loy), a Bob (Culp).
The code names made it easy to keep Guild members straight. The code names also provided a nice protective layer of absurdity. Even if you were to stumble upon their plans, what were you going to say? Some dudes named “Oliver” and “Kevin” were plotting to assassinate a Rwandan president?
Mann’s code name, however, was both clever and a big fuck-you to the boys’ club that was the Guild. She chose it in honor of Anthony Mann, western and film-noir director extraordinaire, and claimed to be a huge fan of his work. But O’Neal knew it was just her way of saying:
No doubt about it, Mann was extremely talented. She worked with efficiency and innovation and with small, agile units. Not only did she smash through the glass ceiling of their peculiar little business, but she did it without leaving a fingerprint.
Fact remained, though: they were all injured and tired and punchy and twitchy and in no condition to be conducting an operation like this. But Mann didn’t give a shit. She didn’t care how tired you were or what your plans might be or what day it was. When Mann had a production and tapped you, you dropped everything and hung in there with her until it was complete.
So here they were.
Securing the perimeter in the lovely San Fernando Valley in a brand-new white van, new communications gear. And boy, it must have galled Mann to break the new gear out of storage.
Awaiting the arrival of a new A.D.—henceforth to be known as A.D.2. (Underlings never received cool code names, just job descriptions.)
Trying to stay awake.
Waiting for eight p.m.
Which apparently… was when everything was going to happen.
Mann was keeping the details of this mission extremely close to her chest. All O’Neal knew was that there were two other teams out there; one offensive, one defensive, and O’Neal’s job was to observe and block communications as needed. Police squawks, cell-phone calls, people with digital cameras, whatever. Complete blackout, on demand. Now he was in the van, awaiting her command.
Hardie needed to get out of this police car immediately.
But he had nothing.
No shirt, no shoelaces, no socks, no underwear, no weapons of any kind. Nothing on his body but a pair of bloody, ripped, dirty jeans on his legs, and a pair of his own shoes—minus the laces—on his feet.
He was handcuffed and sitting inside a suspect-transport enclosure, which was locked and moving through the streets of L.A. on the way to the North Hollywood station.
Let’s face it: there was nothing he could do.
He eased back into the seat and closed his eyes when he felt it dig into his ass cheek. Took him a minute, but he remembered.
The tiny spring-loaded plastic vial.
The one he’d plucked from the white death van. Hardie had figured if they were forced into a corner again, he’d spray that shit all around and play the game of See Who Wakes Up First. Use their own poison against them. He’d forgotten about it, though—not that it would have done any good back in the hotel room, as they pretty much pounced the moment he stepped out of the bathroom.
Now, though. In an enclosed space…
The barrier between the backseat and the front was a hard layer of bulletproof plastic, with a group of air holes the size of quarters in the middle.
Hardie remembered what Topless had said about the stuff in the vial. The dose was designed to kill a man in two stages—first knock him out, then convince his heart to stop beating for a short while. If he sprayed this stuff in the car, all three of them would die. Hardie first. That wouldn’t do any good.
And if he waited until he was in an interrogation room, same deal. And even if he lived, there was no way he could fight his way out of a station house. Nor would he want to, because then he’d be hurting cops.
So it was now or never. While they were still on the street, where he maybe had a chance at controlling things.
Otherwise, it was like letting the Hunters just die.
God knows if he thought there was even a chance they’d believe him, Hardie’d tell them everything. Much better to have a SWAT team descend on the house and deal with the situation. But Hardie knew he was in the worst position possible—the guy absolutely nobody would believe.
He used his fingers to slide the vial out of his back pocket.
The way it worked seemed clear enough. A simple pump on one end would send the poison mist shooting out on the opposite end. But how was he supposed to lift it to the holes in the plastic barrier?
Ungracefully, he supposed.
Hardie started turning around in the back and the cop in the passenger seat immediately noticed and warned him to sit the fuck down now. Hardie ignored him and focused on the strange task of kneeling on the seat, then raising his cuffed hands—along with his ass—to the barrier. Again the passenger cop screamed, asking what the fuck he thought he was doing, and the driver joined in and began braking the vehicle—which was good news, all things considered. Hardie felt the edges of one of the air holes with the tips of his fingers and quickly put the vial through, took a deep breath, and closed his mouth and eyes and pushed it.
The effect was immediate. The car, with an unconscious driver slumped over its wheel, lurched to the right and came to a bone-rattling stop on the side of a parked car. Hardie’s cuffed hands were crushed by his own ass against the barrier. The vial slid out of his hands. He continued to hold his breath.
Come on come on come on…
Falling forward, Hardie led with his right shoulder and landed on his side. He flipped around and smashed against the window with both feet. First time nothing. Second time nothing. Third time was a charm.
The rest Hardie accomplished by rote, walking himself through his improvised plan step by step. It was the only way to do it. Skip to the end and realize how impossible this all seemed, and you might just lose hope.
So go ahead, Charlie.
Kick away the jagged glass from the frame. Sit up. Lunge yourself through the opening. Land on your shoulders. Breathe. You’re outside. You can open your mouth now. Suck in that air. Stand up. Come on, stand up. Get to that driver’s-side door. Turn around. Grab the handle with your fingers. Open it. Really yank it open. Cops never lock their doors because they have to get out quickly at any given moment, and the perps are always locked up in the back, so what does it matter? Open the door and let the driver come tumbling out, because many cops don’t wear their seat belts, either.
He’s down on the ground now. Good. Take the keys from his belt and uncuff yourself. You’re not going to do anybody any good with hands behind your back. Unsnap. Jam the key in. Twist. You’re doing fine, doing fine… and look, you’re free.
Now throw away the cuffs and give this poor bastard his life back. Don’t worry about 911. They’ll come soon enough, with all these bystanders with cell phones. Focus on the CPR. Chest compressions…
Survival rates for people experiencing cardiac arrest outside of in a hospital: eight percent.
Hardie knew that the mouth-to-mouth part wasn’t key. An EMT had told him so over a beer once, many
