Springboard

“You could have shot me back in Nebraska,” Kent called. “Why didn’t you?”

“Why would I have done that? All I wanted was my guitar. I got it and left — no reason to kill you.”

Kent nodded to himself. Yes.

“Cops’ll be coming,” he said. “You can’t get out.”

“And what will they see when they arrive? A man crouched behind a truck, holding a pistol. They are just as likely to shoot you as me.”

“I’ll explain it to them.”

“You have command presence, yes. But how long will it take? Once your gun is lowered, then it is me against a local policeman or two. My chances are passable.”

Kent sighed. The man was right. A local cop, even two or three, would show up, see Kent, and immediately order him to drop his weapon — only cops and bad guys had guns in this city, and they couldn’t tell which Kent was at first glance. They’d have to disarm him. Even if he convinced them he was on their side and there was a bad man with a gun hiding behind the veterinarian’s office, Natadze could come out blazing and take them down before the real danger sank in. Kent didn’t want that.

“You could back off. Allow me to leave. Save the lives of those police officers. They could be men with families. A woman officer. Do you want that on your conscience, Colonel?”

Kent almost grinned. Here was a man with brass balls. A killer, attempting to negotiate his way free by threatening to blame his future killings on the man trying to capture him.

“Cops know the risks of their job,” Kent called. “No deal.”

Natadze laughed. “I did not think so. Still, no harm in trying.”

He was going to make a run for it!

Kent knew this — how he could not have said, but he knew it.

He took a deep breath—

Natadze burst from behind his cover much faster than Kent was prepared for — he must have backed up to get a running start — because he was sprinting like a champion. Before Kent could line up his sights, Natadze was halfway to the truck, and firing, one-two-three—!

Kent ducked as the bullets spanged off the truck’s hood. He had maybe a second before Natadze blew past, and even with spray-and-pray, the man could hit him—

He dropped prone, looked under the truck, and saw Natadze’s churning legs. He led the runner and squeezed off four rounds, tracking the movement.

The first two missed. The third bullet hit Natadze’s right leg, just above the ankle — Kent saw the hole appear in the cloth—

Natadze went down, his speed causing him to skid as he hit on his hands and knees. His gun was in his right hand, and he couldn’t get it into shooting position because it was pressed against the concrete, grinding away as he skidded—

— Kent rolled away from the truck, still prone, keeping his own pistol extended as he angled out. Two revolutions and he was clear of cover and lined up for a body shot—

“Let it go! Let it go!”

But Natadze collapsed onto his right side and tried to thrust his handgun out at Kent.

“Don’t do it—!”

Time, already running slow, nearly stopped altogether. He had him, no question, and Natadze had to see that, but he still kept moving, bringing his piece around, a bug mired in molasses—

“DON’T—!” Kent screamed.

In that bullet-time slo-mo, he saw the other man grin, and he read his mind: Shoot me or die, Kent — that’s the choice.

Kent’s breath was already held and his front sight was dead-on Natadze’s center of mass.

He fired twice—

The.45 slugs hit Natadze right over the sternum and the impact was enough so that his muscle spasm curled him into a fetal ball.

The gun fell from his hand. He managed to roll onto his back.

By the time Kent got there, there wasn’t much left in Natadze’s clock.

He had enough air and energy to say, “Good shot. You… you t-t-take the guitar. S-s-souvenir…” He exhaled his last breath. Kent had heard enough death rattles to recognize this one.

He squatted to make sure. No pulse.

He heard the police sirens dopplering in. He stood, tucked his gun into his holster out of sight, and moved away from the dead man. He stood there with his hands held wide, by his shoulders, as the first SFPD car screeched into the parking lot. He stood very still.

25

Hanging Garden Apartments

Macao, China

Wu was not a man given to rash action. He had never been one to just leap off a cliff in the hope that the river below was deep enough to keep him from breaking a leg. No, Wu was the kind of man who climbed down the escarpment, waded into the water with a long pole, probed to find the exact depth, marked the spot, and judged whether or not he could hit that precise place when he jumped. If he could not, he stayed on the cliff.

And yet, here he was, lying on Mayli’s bed as she finished her shower, enjoying the fragrance of sandalwood incense and the memory of their recent actions, considering telling her things that a careful man would never reveal.

Why was that? What has happened to you, Wu, that you would even dream of taking this road?

Well, Mayli was more than passing adept as a lover. She already knew what Shing was up to, of course. That was part of her job, to get Shing talking about anything and everything. That and keeping an eye on him, and keeping him happy.

But she had also been probing, albeit subtly so, to find out what Locke was up to, and even carefully working Wu himself. Nothing blatant, nothing slap-your-face obvious, but it was apparent. She wanted to know what was really going on.

He could keep her in the dark. Take her along and continue to enjoy her company without ever filling in the blanks. But she was a smart woman, and eventually, she might figure things out, and then she’d be dangerous. He might have to… take care of her, and that would be such a waste. She was the best Wu had ever been with when it got right down to it.

But: The thought of not seeing her again, of her being married to that smug idiot Shing had, oddly, become… repellent. Why should Shing have such a delicious treasure? Why should that narrow and shallow lout be polishing Mayli’s pearl, when Wu was a man much better able to appreciate her in all her dimensions?

He was not a man to delude himself — love was not a factor here, nor did he want it to be. But he knew exactly what she was. She was a trophy woman worthy of a great man. With her close at hand, she could be valuable in so many ways — not just as a lover, but as an ally he could rely upon — as long as their interest lay in the same direction, of course.

A man wanted a mate who not only would help him, but who could help him. Mayli was nothing if not wise in the ways of men.

As rich as he was going to be, she would prefer his company to that of the callow computer-nerd Shing. Yes, Wu was older, but he was fit, adept, and a woman like Mayli would always be drawn to such as himself. He could buy her houses, cars, yachts, cover her in precious gems, give her anything her heart might desire. And if she wished a lover on the side? What did that hurt? She would be happy, and it would not detract from their time together.

Did he not deserve a way to relax, to keep the tensions at bay? It was a small thing against the totality of what lay ahead. Great men had burdens, but they were not bound by the same constraints as the ordinary.