JULY 13, 1977
SOUTH BRONX, NEW YORK
City brought his bike to a stop, leaning it at a sharp angle as he put one foot on the road. He grinned, twisting the handlebars, revving the bike constantly as he spoke.
“Damn, girl, we’ve been looking for you all over!” Hopper thought he could detect a faint southern twang in his voice. “Didn’t your momma ever tell you not to go off with strange men, huh?”
Hopper felt Martha tense beside him. She’d been in the Vipers for a long time as she’d fought to look after her brother. She’d have gotten very close to the gang members, including the youth who called himself City.
Behind City, the other six bikers lined up in a row, revving their engines like their leader. One man on the end seemed a little overenthusiastic, the rear wheel of his bike kicking out from underneath him, tipping the bike sideways before he had a chance to correct.
Hopper didn’t know much about motorcycles at all, but these were light, and tall, with long suspension rods. They were designed for rough terrain, to be ridden in a certain way. Their torque was high, the controls twitchy.
Hopper glanced sideways at Martha, catching her eye.
“When I say run,” he whispered, his voice inaudible to City over the noise of his bike, “you run, okay?”
Martha frowned, but nodded, just a little.
“Whoa, hey now,” said City, “you don’t keep any of them secrets from your brothers now, Martha W. See, we gotta take you back to the Saint. I figure you can ride with me, you know what I’m saying? You’re gonna have to hold on real tight now.” He revved his bike again, once, twice, three times. Behind him, the others laughed and did the same.
“Run!”
Hopper darted to his right, heading toward the awning overhanging the sidewalk. Past the street ahead the fence posts of a city park gleamed in the dark, indicating a much larger space than the one they’d found earlier. Reaching the fence, he glanced behind, only to find Martha nowhere in sight.
“Shit!”
She’d run in another direction. Ahead, he saw three of the bikes peel off, tires skidding, as they tried to make a tight circle in order to start their pursuit, while the other three and City were already speeding down the middle of the street toward him.
Hopper ducked through the gate, nearly stumbling as the path began to slope down almost immediately. Ahead, the park stretched out into the darkness, a few worn and narrow paths winding a tortuous route between mature trees, the ground uneven and sharply sloping in places.
Hopper half ran, half slid down the embankment, using one of the trees to arrest his momentum as he stopped to pick a direction. Already the whine of the bikes was close; he turned, and saw City and his three companions shoot through the gate, the bikes leaving the ground as, perhaps unintentionally, they jumped the slope and landed on the flat area of the park. One of the riders tipped sideways upon landing, but the others didn’t wait for him to right himself. Spotting Hopper, City kicked the gears and lifted himself in the saddle, hollering in delight as he charged toward him.
Hopper ducked behind the tree as City went past and then doubled back, weaving from tree to tree as he attempted more tight turns, his companions having as much difficulty negotiating the terrain as he was. As Hopper had suspected, the motocross bikes were a real handful in inexperienced hands—fine for speeding down a paved street, but, while they were designed for just this kind of arena, for the Vipers the machines were awkward among the trees and slopes of the old park.
“Hopper!”
Hopper stopped by another tree, the lights from the motorbikes playing over the park around him as the Vipers righted themselves. Over on the other side of the park, Martha waved, her white jeans and white jacket clearly visible in the darkness. Then she ran forward, arms wheeling for balance as she negotiated the steep path. A moment later she was lit by more headlights as the other three Vipers appeared at the entrance, pausing to spot their quarry before revving once more and entering the park.
Martha reached Hopper just as City did, the gang leader lifting the front of his bike, the wheel spinning in the air at head height. Hopper dived in one direction, Martha in the other, then he scrambled to his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust from the parched ground. City got his bike turned around and pointed toward Hopper, the headlight turning the air into a choking brown haze.
The other Vipers yelled at each other, their wheels spinning as they charged toward Hopper and Martha. Hopper put a tree between him and his pursuers, and Martha did the same, the pair hugging the bark as the bikes shot past, filling the air with more dust and debris. Hopper turned, watching the headlights spin as the Vipers were forced to slide to a halt and manhandle their bikes back around to resume their chase. Lost in the cloud of dust, Hopper took the opportunity to change positions, moving to a different hiding place behind another tree. He leaned out and motioned Martha to stay back, but with the air full of dust, he wasn’t sure if she could see him.
Bikes revving, City called out—not to the two fugitives, but to his fellow gang members. Then, engines whirring in quick bursts of power, the Vipers advanced, slower now, the wobbling headlights lighting up the dusty air.
It was as Hopper hoped—the Vipers had lost them. Unfamiliar with the motocross bikes, they’d had to concentrate just on staying upright, rather than on tracking their quarry, their tires tearing up the ground and providing even more cover for Hopper and Martha.
Hopper crouched on the ground, his hands feeling over the loose surface. There were plenty of pebbles and stones, but what he was really after was something much larger.
He found it. It was embedded in the ground, but came out quite freely. The rock was about the size of a baseball. It would do just fine.
As the bikes approached, Hopper hefted the stone, throwing it in a high arc, over the illuminated clouds of dust. It disappeared into the night, and a second later came down with a crash in some unseen bushes.
Immediately the headlights of the bikes turned, pointing in that direction. As one of the riders revved his engine, Hopper stepped out from behind the tree—he was now behind the last rider. As the Vipers in front cautiously rode toward where they’d heard the sound, Hopper grabbed the last man by the collar of his gang jacket.
Just that action was enough. The man’s hand slipped on the handlebars, the bike skidding out from underneath him. Hopper jumped out of the way, releasing his grip on the man’s jacket as the bike fell sideways, throwing the Viper clear. Wasting not a moment, Hopper fell onto the man’s chest, knees first, driving the air from his lungs. He grabbed the man by the front of his T-shirt, yanked him up, and delivered a sucker punch. He felt the man’s nose shift under the impact, then the warm splash of blood over his knuckles.
Standing, he stepped over the Viper and went to the bike, which was running at full revs as it lay, unattended, on its side. He righted it, took control of the throttle, then glanced back. Martha emerged from behind a nearby tree and got on the rear of the bike.
Hopper looked down, sorting the positions of the gear and brake pedals. Martha wrapped her arms around his middle and almost yelled in his ear.
“You sure you know how to work this thing?”
“It’s been a while,” said Hopper. While this particular motorcycle was alien to him, he’d ridden a few in his time. And once out of the park, riding the sensitive machine would be easy.
At least, that was the theory.
Martha tapped him on the shoulder. Up ahead, the lights of the other bikes swung around as City began to lead his group back toward them.
Hopper squeezed the accelerator, kicked the gear pedal, and hung on for dear life as the bike leaped forward. Figuring that sheer speed would keep them upright, he twisted the throttle and aimed for the park entrance; as they passed through the gate, he clipped his shoulder on the edge, sending them on a wobbling trajectory. Hopper swore and increased the throttle even more, and as soon as the bike’s spinning tires hit the hard tarmac of the street, they got full traction, the sudden increase in speed surprising both himself and Martha, who shouted something in his ear.
But they were upright and still moving.
Hopper took that as a win.
Hopper pointed the bike west; then, with the Harlem River in sight, he turned and followed parallel to it, taking a narrow street that ran between empty, overgrown lots on the riverside and railway tracks on the other. Earlier, Hopper had piloted a random course across the grid of streets, the speed and agility of the bike allowing a clean getaway from the other Vipers. Now, here, in a straight line on a deserted street, the motorbike ate the miles with ease.
As they headed south, highways and feeder roads began to crisscross above them as several main routes converged on a bridge ahead, the streets now clogged with cars, horns blazing, lights flashing. Nothing was moving, but Hopper hoped that if they encountered any jams, the bike would see them through.
It was the University Heights Bridge they came to, the area in front of it a messy hash of junctions where several streets converged. Hopper slowed as he brought the bike up an on-ramp, skimming past stopped cars until he was forced to bring their journey to an end.
This was no ordinary traffic jam. The bridge was closed—more than that, it was barricaded, heavy portable fencing having been dragged across the street, closing it off to traffic, forcing the jammed cars around in a curve to direct them away from Manhattan. In the space beyond the fences, huge spotlights had been set up, with four generators the size of small vans purring by the side of the roadway.
And farther ahead still, where the bridge proper began, stood a row of mounted police. They stretched across the width of the bridge in both lanes, the cops clad in riot helmets with mesh visors down, long wooden batons held in hands protected by armored gloves. The horses—somewhat less protected than their riders—nodded and stamped in the warm night air.
“Finally, the authorities,” said Hopper. “Hang on.”
He squeezed the throttle and edged the motorbike along the row of stopped cars, then pivoted and slotted between a gap in the fencing. He headed straight for the row of mounted police.
“Stay where you are!”
Hopper slowed, turning the bike as he brought it to a halt. On the end of the row of police, one officer had a megaphone to his mouth. He brought his horse forward a little, the animal turning sideways in protest.
“Get off the bike and stay where you are!”
Martha swung herself off the back; Hopper checked over his shoulder, then kicked the stand down and got off himself. He and Martha exchanged a look, then Hopper walked forward.
“Stay where you are and keep your hands where I can see them!”
Hopper stopped and lifted his hands out to his sides. He had to give it a shot—technically he was a wanted man, but in the current chaos he reasoned there was more than a fair chance the cops guarding the bridge had enough to worry about without recognizing his name.
“My name is Detective Jim Hopper! I work at the 65th Precinct in Brooklyn, homicide!”
The mounted officer lowered his megaphone and moved closer to his companions, leaning forward as he spoke to the one closest, who then turned his horse and trotted back down the bridge. The rest of the cops adjusted their positions to fill the gap.
Hopper sighed and began to walk forward.
“Hopper, wait!”
He turned to look at Martha, then heard the hoofbeats behind him. Turning back to the front, he saw two of the mounted cops coming toward him.
He stopped and held his hands up.
“Listen to me! I’m a police officer! I need to radio back to my precinct! I have important information that needs to go to the federal authorities.”
The two mounted cops began to circle Hopper, isolating him in the center of the bridge, forcing Martha to back away.
“Hands on your head! On your knees!”
Hopper looked up at the cop, but he couldn’t see his face under the visor. The cop raised his long riot baton.
“Get on your knees!”
Hopper sighed and complied, locking his hands behind his head and lowering himself to the warm tarmac. So much for not knowing who he was.
The row of mounted police parted again, and a police cruiser appeared, lights strobing, followed by a larger black police van. The cruiser and van pulled up and several officers, wearing the standard street uniform of light blue short-sleeved shirt and dark pants, got out of both vehicles and ran over, some holding pistols, covering Hopper.
“Hey, get off of me!”
Hopper turned his head and saw that Martha was already in cuffs, two uniforms dragging her over toward the big van. As he turned back around, a fist connected with his jaw.
Hopper’s world went sideways as he tipped to the ground. Dazed, but not out, he felt hot liquid on his face, and his mouth was filled with the taste of pennies. Then his face was pushed into the road as the cops dragged his wrists together and cuffed him before pulling him up.
Hopper’s feet didn’t touch the ground as they carried him to the van and dumped him in the back.