There was an army of cops outside the warehouse by this time. A perimeter of cars and guns and officers watching, waiting. Not one of them saw Cobra escape. By the time they got the alert from inside, there were half a dozen people bursting through the warehouse doors, no way to know who was who, where to aim, when to fire. Cops jumped into their cars and set the red lights flashing. Sirens started to howl like hunting dogs. Other cops, in armor and armed, began ducking and dodging through the city-lit mist. But Cobra was already out of sight. No one had a clue which way he’d gone.
No one but Bishop. Bishop was sprinting toward the construction site, his teeth clenched, his eyes blazing, his arms pumping, his hand gripping his .38. He was through the perimeter in seconds, never slowing. His heavy boots flashed over the pavement. It seemed he willed them to be weightless in his rage to outrace the fugitive.
Because he knew where Cobra had parked his bike. He had seen the mark on the map in Shotgun Alley. He knew Cobra would reach the machine and be off before the cops could organize, be gone before the cops could marshal their unwieldy cages and head after him. He knew that Cobra would get away unless he—Bishop—could get to his own bike first, unless he could cut the outlaw off. He knew he was the only one who had even half a chance to stop him.
He pumped harder, ran faster, leapt over the curb, off the pavement, into the rubble of the construction area. His boots smacked onto the broken stone as he pistoned past the rising network of girders and concrete. Still, it seemed a slow, slow journey, a long, long run. Crazy, horrible, bloody images in his mind the whole way. Cobra on the loose. Cobra springing out of nowhere, Honey hunted, Honey seized in the dead of night. She flashed before him, tortured, mutilated. Bloody on the floor with Cobra standing over her, howling in triumph. The outlaw knew everything now, and he would live for revenge. He would live to kill her. She would never be safe again, if he got away. She would never be safe, unless Bishop could bring him down.
There it was, finally: his own bike, his black-and-chrome Fat Boy, standing tilted at the edge of a streetlamp’s glow, at the far border of the construction site. He cranked himself harder, went faster, was there. Too motored up to slow down, he had to grab hold of the machine, grab the seat, the bars, to keep from barreling right over it. The bike was jolted. His helmet was jarred off the brake lever. It fell clattering onto the stones. He didn’t care. He didn’t pause. He jammed his gun down into a jacket pocket. Swung into the saddle. Flipped the bike on. Throttled it high.
And in the selfsame moment, he spotted Cobra. He saw the streak of his silver Softail under a streetlamp straight ahead. The outlaw came racing around a corner on the opposite side of the construction site. He turned onto the street, heading away from the Basin. The chopper’s headlight was off, and as the bike sped out of the lampglow it became a featureless blur of motion in the mist. But Bishop could track it as it raced perpindicular to him, raced to cross his path, to pass him by as it vanished into the city.
Bishop worked the Fat Boy into gear. The bike shot into motion so fast he damn near lost it. It hit the dirt. It left the ground. It leapt through mist and darkness and dove down into rubble and dust. The earth seemed to slide out from under its tires. For a moment Bishop felt as if he were riding on his side. Then the bike sliced forward, slowly rising, righting itself. He gunned it, angling across the site, trying to get to the other side before Cobra got past him.
Bishop went faster, then even faster over the rough terrain. He felt a wild and reckless stillness in him. He felt distant from himself, another man. Something drifted through his mind: dreamy murder like a wisp of smoke. He wanted—he didn’t know what he wanted. There wasn’t time to know. The idea was already gone and he was thinking nothing, just working the Fat Boy through a brutal acceleration, trying to feed the cold fire from his veins into the machine.
The bike struggled, bucked, jackknifed over the broken field. He wrestled it down, forced it forward, forced it on. There was Cobra on the street ahead, nearly past him. But now, at the corner of his vision, he caught sight of an obstacle, an outcropping of the half-finished building here, a girder slamming through the darkness directly toward his face.
There was no time to swerve. He didn’t want to swerve. He wanted Cobra, that’s what he wanted. He bore down on the outlaw even as the girder filled his view. He ducked low, pressed himself hard against the shuddering bike. He felt the engine’s vibrations in his chest. He felt the steel beam brush over his back, whisper over his leather jacket. Then he was under it. He raised his head, looked up. Cobra was gone.
No, wait—not gone. Just past the point of interception. But still there, still streaking through the mist and toward the corner.
Bishop angled after him. His bike hit flat ground, seized some kind of traction. It exploded forward, off the rubble, onto the pavement, onto the road behind the silver chopper. The Fat Boy slid wide as Bishop brought it to bear on the outlaw’s tail.
As he did, Cobra slanted round the bend, out of sight. Bishop got a good glimpse of him as he made the turn. He saw the gleaming bike leaning under the intersection’s streetlamp. He saw the outlaw, his angular face bare to the wind, his hair swept back, his craggy features flattened with the force of his speed.
Then he was gone and Bishop was swerving after him.
They roared down a side street, machine after machine. It was tight here, dark. A narrow canyon between empty buildings. Headlights off, the bikes plunged into shadow. Bishop felt the onrushing air pull at his cheeks, bite at his eyes, blur his vision. But all the same, with a surge of animal joy and hatred, he made out the dim shape of the silver chopper and saw he was gaining on the rear tire inch by inch.
They broke from the street onto a broader avenue. The scene before them fanned wide. Bishop glimpsed a gravel pit to his left, gray as ash, its monstrous elevator piercing the mist to rise against the stars. Ahead, at some distance, was the curving line of the baseball stadium. And to the right, under the sliver of moon, were broken piers and an expanse of night-black water. Beyond it all rose the city skyline, a jagged panorama of pinnacles and higher pinnacles etched in light and more golden light. Cobra streaked into this backdrop and then turned right, heading for the water.
Bishop was just behind him. He pressed down, pressed himself nearly flat against the handlebars, trying to pick up speed, trying to pierce the wind. He took the corner wide, making a broad arc out to Cobra’s left. He barely slowed. He twisted the throttle. He spurted forward again, his front tire beginning to draw level with Cobra’s rear.
That was what finished it: Bishop pressing in to Cobra’s left. The outlaw must’ve been hoping to break in that direction, to cross the marina, find the freeway, the bridge. But Bishop was there.
A second later, a road opened to the right. Cobra began to go for it. But he saw—and, drawing level with him, Bishop saw—the whirling red flashes of the hunting cop cars down that way. Cobra hesitated—and he ran out of room.
The avenue ended. There was a curb, an empty lot, and then the ruined piers and the water. Bishop saw it. He wrenched his bike away, away from Cobra, away from the onrushing gutter. He braked hard. The tires skidded out from under him. The Fat Boy laid down a curling line of smoke and rubber as he tried to right it, to rein it in. He almost did, too, he almost stopped it. But not quite. At the last moment, he lost his hold. The bars slipped from his hands. The bike spun out from under him. He was pitched sidelong through the air, an awful instant out of all control. Then the pavement; the impact jarred him to the bone. His body slid over the tearing macadam. He rolled to absorb the impact. There was another terrible second when he didn’t know if he was hurt or if Cobra was getting away or if Cobra was there, right there, moving in to attack him—
Then he was up, he was on his knees, scanning the darkness wildly. He found him, found Cobra. Cobra was down.
The silver chopper hadn’t stopped in time. It had hit the curb head-on and flown forward. Cobra stayed in the saddle, riding over a black rainbow of empty air. He and the motorcycle came crashing down together into the vacant lot that fronted the water. His rear tire blew. The bike whirled away from him. Cobra was hurled across the lot’s broken concrete. The machine gun, which had been strapped to his shoulder, tore loose, tumbled into the rubble. Cobra rolled, and when Bishop saw him, he had come to rest on his back, spread eagle. He was lying still, one hand extended toward the weapon, the weapon inches out of reach.
Bishop, rattled, struggled to his feet. He felt dazed and dull. He felt the stinging scrapes on his forehead, on his hands. He felt a line of hot blood touch the corner of his eye, running down.
He heard the sirens baying. They were coming closer. He sensed the cop cars searching the area, saw their red, rotating glow begin to tinge the mist. He saw the mangled wreckage of the chopper in the vacant lot. He saw the downed biker splayed out beside it. The gun. He saw where the lot ended beyond them and went down over a dirt hump into blackness, the blackness of the water. He made out the gnarled shapes of what had been piers and posts out there. They rose above the gently lapping surf, above rippling reflections of moonlight and city light that surged and ebbed under the red mist’s drifting tendrils.
Now, as Bishop stood there, he heard Cobra moan where he lay. He saw the outlaw shift slightly, his chest rise and fall. He was still alive.
Some sort of choking thrill, some sort of choking urgency, rose from Bishop’s chest to his throat. But he didn’t know what he was thinking. He wasn’t thinking anything. He just knew Cobra was still alive and he knew he had to get to the HK first. That’s all.
He started forward. He moved wearily, stiffly. His body felt hollow and strangely precarious, as if something had been knocked loose inside it. But he didn’t hurt much yet; nothing had been broken, he could move. He stepped up onto the curb. He walked over the rubble toward the outlaw and the weapon.
He was a step away when Cobra stretched his arm out, fast, and seized the machine gun with one hand.
Bishop reacted on the instant. He kicked. His boot struck Cobra’s wrist, and the gun skittered over the gravel. He jammed his own hand into his jacket pocket, felt for his .38.
Cobra twisted off the ground and lunged at him. Grabbed his legs. Brought him down.
Bishop grunted as his back hit the concrete, as the air rushed out of him. He had his gun half drawn, but he lost it—it was knocked from his grasp—as he struck the earth. Cobra was on top of him, was clawing his way up him to strike a crippling blow. With pulsing desperation, Bishop realized he was about two seconds away from dead.
He lifted his torso—like a man doing a sit-up. He caught Cobra as he came on. He glimpsed the outlaw’s contorted, striving face and drove his stiffened fingers into it. He was aiming for Cobra’s eye. He was close enough. Cobra let out a high-pitched scream and tried to recoil. Bishop grabbed him by the hair, struck again, hammering the heel of his palm into his nose. Blood burst out from under Bishop’s hand, spit over Cobra’s cheeks. Cobra screamed and wrenched himself away, rolling and stumbling across the lot.
Bishop rolled in the opposite direction. He jumped to his feet. There was no time to look for the gun. Cobra was on his feet, too, crouching low, pissed off and coming at him. Blood was pouring from the outlaw’s nose, running down over his mouth. He grinned at Bishop and the blood stained his teeth. His emerald eyes were shining in the night.
Bishop grinned back at him. There were sirens growing louder in the air all around them. There were red flashes growing brighter, coming closer. But Bishop didn’t hear or see them anymore—them or the night or the skyline or the glimmering water, either. He saw Cobra, Cobra’s crouching body, his grinning, bloody face. He felt his own body coiling and full of clean fire, perfect for the task at hand.
The two men circled for a second, then Bishop went in. His kick to Cobra’s knee snapped out and back like a whip, and though somehow Cobra managed to dodge the worst of it, Bishop followed after it, jabbing and slashing with his open hands. He felt his fingertips sink into the soft flesh of Cobra’s throat and felt his elbow sweeping across the mess of blood beneath Cobra’s nose. He felt his boot, in tight now, driving down into Cobra’s instep and then his knee coming up into Cobra’s groin.
And it felt good. It felt good as good to hurt the other man. He was in a place inside himself of blazing light and high silence, immensely present in a sweet, white killing zone. He felt invincible and murderous and fine. This—the destruction of his rival—seemed to him everything he had wanted forever. He attacked and attacked with a sense of pure release, as if he were the energy blasting out of an atom.
And now Cobra was on the ground, gagging and bleeding. Scrabbling across the gravel—like a beetle, thought Bishop in triumphant scorn. Bishop, pale-eyed, dreamy-eyed, was stalking after him—slowly, relentlessly, stoked and stoned on the rush of violence, on the pleasure of watching his enemy crawling and then staggering in a panic to get away.
Bishop, implacable, pursued him step by step. As he came, he caught—or thought he caught—a whiff of something, a dense and floral scent drifting beneath his nostrils, a smell so achingly sensual it nearly made his eyes roll with the pleasure of it. He knew what it was. It was Honey. It was the way she had smelled lying next to him in bed, fresh from sex, her perfume mingled with her sweat. It came back to him and she was almost there, he could almost feel the touch of her, almost hear her whispering to him, whispering, If Cobra dies, we can be together…we can be together, if Cobra dies…
In that moment—that moment when Bishop lost his focus—Cobra scuttled suddenly slantwise, found his lost machine gun, and grabbed it.
Bishop moved fast. He was on the other man in an instant. He drove his boot into Cobra’s side. Cobra grunted and went over. He hit the ground hard and rolled. He was at the edge of the dirt mound beyond the vacant lot, and then he was over it, rolling down the dirt slope, tumbling into the water. He landed on his face with a splash. He fought to his hands and knees, gagging and retching salt sea and blood. The gentle surf rose and fell around him. He gasped for breath, then gagged and retched again.
Bishop was still coming on. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of his .38. He bent and swept it up and kept walking to the top of the dirt mound. He planted his feet. He lifted his gun in an outstretched arm and aimed it at Cobra below.
Cobra was still on all fours down there in the water. Up to his ass and shoulders in the shimmering Basin tide. Bishop looked at him in disdain from on high. Calmly, he aligned the gun barrel with the outlaw’s head. Once more, he smelled Honey. He felt her flesh against his flesh.
If Cobra dies, we can be together…
Bishop’s finger tightened on the trigger.
On his hands and knees, Cobra turned to look at him. He saw the bore of the weapon trained on his face. He smiled. He nodded and smiled as if he knew it all, understood it all, even to that faint woman-scent at Bishop’s nostrils.
“Go ahead,” the outlaw shouted. “She’s worth it.”
“I know,” Bishop shouted back.
Cobra laughed and Bishop laughed, and the two men understood each other.
But for another second, Bishop held his fire. He didn’t know why. His finger squeezed the trigger, but not quite hard enough. Another second went by and another. Still, Bishop didn’t fire.
We can be together, he thought.
He thought, Don’t cross the line.
That was the end of it somehow. Somehow, in that last moment, he came to himself on a trembling breath. He blinked. His homicidal smile faltered.
“Fuck!” he whispered—as if he were his own better angel stumbling in horror on the scene.
His gun hand grew unsteady. For a few more seconds, as Cobra grinned up at him, he wrestled with the impulse to shoot him dead. He frowned, half convinced it was a weakness in him not to just blow this useless piece of biker trash away.
But it would be murder. With the guy just kneeling there, helpless like that. It would be cold-blooded murder. And Weiss—fucking Weiss—would never forgive him for it.
“Oh hell,” he muttered.
His trigger finger relaxed. His arm began to lower. The impulse to destruction passed like drunken madness. That was it, that was all. He was himself again. He was going to walk away from this. He was going to walk away from Honey and the killing passion and the entire business. And as for Cobra, fuck him. He would leave him to the cops. He would leave him to the law of the land.
Cobra, panting, smiling up the hill, was witness to Bishop’s moment of recovery. He seemed to understand this, too, to understand the whole thing. His body buckled with relief. His features flooded with comprehension and even a kind of inspired gratitude. It was an event on the order of the religious, of the miraculous. He’d been about to die like the dog he was, die as he deserved, and in an instant of unlooked-for redemption, he’d been spared.
He rose up onto his knees as if to sing in thanks and praise and hallelujah—and instead yanked the machine gun up out of the sand and seized the opportunity to open fire.
The HK sent a burst and then another burst of bullets into the night as Cobra swept it around in one hand to bring the flaming barrel to bear on Bishop’s chest.
Bishop let out a cry of surprise and fear. In a panic, he pulled the trigger of his pistol six times with lightning speed.
Only one of the slugs from the .38 hit Cobra, but it hit him smack in the face. His sharp, arched, craggy features seemed to implode into the red-black hole. The light went out of his eyes and his gun hand flew up and the HK discharged harmlessly toward the sky.
Then the outlaw tumbled sideways. He crashed down into the water. The surf bubbled and churned and closed over him. His body sank beneath the waves.
Another moment and he was out of sight. Bishop lowered his arm to his side. He hung his head.
The mist went scarlet and dark, scarlet and dark around him. The air was full of sirens. There were doors, car doors, opening, shutting. There were heavy shoes tramping over the broken cement.
By the time the cops reached Bishop at the top of the mound, Cobra was gone. There was nothing left below them but the plash and recession of the moonlit tide.