Kim Oh: Real Dangerous Ride Part 2

When I got home, I slung both bags onto the couch and went to my bedroom to dig out the laptop I used I get the hand-me-down every time we upgrade Donnie's machine. Usually, whenever I have someplace to get to, that I haven't been before, Donnie Google Maps it for me. But I could manage all right without him, if I had to.

A little bit of clicking and touchpadding, and I had what I wanted on the laptop screen was the street view of the address Dalby had hired me to deliver the backpack to. Some kind of store, not too old and shabby certainly not as derelict looking as that place in downtown L.A. where I'd hooked up with him and Morton. Nothing unusual about it. With my fingertip, I drew a circle on the touch pad, panning the view around the full 360 degrees and back to the building cars frozen in place on the street, a few pedestrians caught in mid-stride all perfectly normal. Which was what I wanted, of course.

I checked the address again, on the slip of paper that Dalby had given me. That made me smile again The address, where I'd make the delivery, was in San Francisco.

I love it when things work out that way, like the bits and pieces of the universe were lining up for my own personal benefit even if it was just a couple of the bits. Most of the time, it doesn't . . . but every once in a while . . .

That was what I hadn't told my brother Donnie, when I'd come home and found him all packed up, ready to go off to that techie conference. I'd had to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out that I was going up there to San Francisco as well. Granted, he'd be flying and I'd be riding the Ninja the whole way so he'd be getting there a lot sooner than I would but it was still a cool thing that it'd just happened to come about that way. Neither one of us had ever been there before, but I'd been able to figure out with Google Maps that I'd be dropping off Dalby's backpack over on the other side of the city toward the ocean, north of Golden Gate Park.

But as soon as I'd made the delivery, I'd be free to zip east toward the bay, and to the fancy hotel where Donnie was staying. And I'd be able to surprise him he'd be totally not expecting me to show up there. I'd be cool about it, of course, and not do any embarra.s.sing big-sister stuff in front of all his new geeky friends. But maybe there would be just a little bit of time he'd have free, so maybe he and I could have lunch or dinner I'd always heard that the Asian food in San Francisco was killer, not that I'd necessarily be able to appreciate the difference between it and what I'd already gotten used to here in L.A. And if there wasn't time, which would be cool, too I'd just get a kick out of seeing the look on his face when I tracked him down in the hotel lobby, or wherever.

I didn't have much more of a plan than that I figured I'd play it by ear when I got there.

It'd be a long ride, though. Something like twelve hours, Los Angeles to San Francisco, a.s.suming you didn't get held up along the way. And as much as I loved the sportbike, I knew from experience that being on it for that long would be pretty wearing. Better if I waited until morning to get started.

Traveling light's kind of a specialty of mine I was able to cram into my own backpack everything I figured I'd need for the day or two I'd be in San Francisco, before turning around and heading back home. So my best pair of dress jeans made the cut, plus my travel skincare kit that long a ride on a motorcycle really beats the c.r.a.p out of you. My makeup was so minimalist, I could stuff it in one of the backpack's tiny outside pouches.

I went and stood in front of my closet, hesitating for a moment then reached in and pulled out one more thing. A white cotton shirt, an expensive one, that I hadn't even worn yet. I'd been in the Beverly Center a couple weeks ago, to pick up a new AirPort Time Capsule at the Apple store it was for Donnie; I'd managed to talk him down from the three-terabyte model to just the two-terabyte and for some reason I wandered into the Ann Taylor store. I'd felt like an imposter there, but then I found the pet.i.te sizes. And the white really did look good against my skin tone the advantage of being genetically Asian, even if I came up short on the cultural side. I really hadn't bought anything like that for a long time since before I'd gotten into the business of killing people, actually.

I took the shirt off the padded hanger and folded it up as carefully as I could before sliding it into my backpack. It'd get wrinkled, I knew, by the time I got to San Francisco, but I figured I'd be able to find somewhere to get it pressed. Plus, if I wound up taking Donnie out someplace nice, I didn't want the poor kid to be embarra.s.sed by his older sister.

I zipped the bag closed and set it by the front door, ready to go. Then I went to bed early, with Dalby's backpack and my .357 next to me just in case I had any unexpected visitors during the night. But I wasn't really worried about that.

I switched off the lamp on the little bedside table and closed my eyes This was going to be so cool.

FOUR.

Somebody was following me.

I knew that, even though I couldn't be exactly sure who it was.

You know how you can just tell about things like that? You're walking down the street, maybe one of those neighborhoods where you're being there isn't exactly the smartest idea you've ever had. In my line of work, I've gone to places like that more than the average person but everybody winds up doing it, at least once or twice. That's how people learn to be a lot more careful.

But you know the feeling. The skin tingles across your shoulders and down your arms, and the hair stands on end, along the back of your neck. All the shadows around the corners of the buildings you pa.s.s grow darker Of course, that's how it is at night, when you're all by yourself, except for whoever or whatever it is you think is tailing you. But you can get the exact same feeling in the bright daylight, in the middle lane of a crowded freeway. I know, because that's what I was getting now.

I leaned forward, closer to the Ninja's gas tank, bringing my helmet's face shield below the top edge of the windscreen. These sportbikes, you have to lay yourself just about flat to get out of the airstream's rush. I peered into the mirrors, first the right and then the left, to see if I could spot anything suspicious behind me Nothing.

Nothing except the usual sort of traffic you'd expect, filling all the lanes of the Ventura Freeway, heading north out of Santa Barbara. Just a mix of cars and trucks, some of them coming in from one on-ramp after another, others working their way over to the right and exiting, curving down the off-ramps to the surface streets. There had been at least a couple dozen or so vehicles that'd stayed with me the whole time since I'd left Los Angeles, taking the San Diego Freeway out from the city a couple of SUVs, big double-trailered eighteen-wheelers barreling down the middle lane like freight trains, all sorts of sedans, from beaters to glistening Mercedes. Some of them were probably heading all the way up to San Francisco, same as I was, and other points along the way. When you're talking that many miles, there are going to be a lot of different destinations.

Just about every time I figured some other vehicle had been pacing alongside of me for a while, or had been close on my tail for ten, twenty miles or so, I'd work my way over to the right-hand lane and start slowing down a little bit. That way, I could check 'em out, or let them travel ahead, until I was reasonably convinced they weren't interested in me. So far, nada.

Which was fine by me. Hanging on to the handlebar grips, I kept the throttle rolled on. I flexed my leather-jacketed shoulders up and down, trying to work out a minor kink in my spine, before it became a major one. I don't particularly care for Harleys or anything like them just too big for me; every time I've tried one, I've felt like a mosquito balancing on a tennis ball but after a couple hours on the Ninja, the attraction for them becomes apparent. Instead of having to keep going fast enough that the wind holds you up as you're leaning over the tank, on those cruisers you can just lean back like you're at home, with your feet up in your recliner chair. Must be nice.

That was the main reason I was glad the backpack I'd gotten from Dalby and that I'd be delivering in San Francisco was so light. As a general rule, I don't care for having anything actually strapped onto me even a small pack can really cramp your mobility, and if it weighs much at all, then your balance while riding is thrown off. If you wind up having to slam through a tight curve, that extra ma.s.s can be the difference between pulling it out and taking what bikers call a low-sider, going down with one leg between the machine and the asphalt grinding away at you. I've done that before, and it's not fun.

Traffic started to slow, the cars and trucks packing closer together. My right hand instinctively eased back on the throttle, and I downshifted a gear to keep the high-revving engine from lugging. That gave me a chance to raise my head higher over the bike's windscreen and scan my surroundings more thoroughly. I wasn't interested in the palm trees lining the streets past the freeway's edge, or the banks of ice plant that sloped alongside the off-ramps my focus was on the vehicles around me.

Still just the usual mix about the only thing unusual was a paramedics van, over in the left-hand lane, closest to the center divider. It had its siren and lights off, just keeping pace with the vehicles around maybe the guys inside were just heading back to their dispatch station.

I let a little bit of tension ease out of my shoulders. Maybe just maybe this wasn't going to be a bad job after all. I checked both my mirrors, left side and right nothing but regular freeway traffic, cruising along, none of the cars or trucks or vans doing anything crazy. So maybe that creepy Dalby guy I'd talked to, and gotten the job from, back at that run-down office building in L.A. maybe he was just another paranoid one-percenter, all cranked up in his own mind about how people were out to get him. I mused about that, as I rolled on the throttle a fraction to keep up with traffic. It was probably just something that came with the psychological territory, when you're that rich you start thinking that everybody's out to get you and steal all your candy. I'd seen it before one of the drawbacks to this line of work is that you wind up dealing with a lot of people, with a lot of money. They're the ones who can afford to pay people like me for what we do. Your average steamfitter or truck driver or housewife usually is going to settle his or her problems on their own, rather than hiring a professional hitman. That's the kind of do-it-yourself att.i.tude I admire about average people. Shows initiative. Fortunately I guess I've never had to deal with the issues of having too much money though I'd be willing to try.

The freeway traffic started to speed up again, just a little. We were getting past the city's off-ramps, and a good number of vehicles had peeled off and headed down to the surface streets. The s.p.a.ce between the remaining cars spread out a little, which I liked when you're on a motorcycle, the last thing you want is somebody right on your tail. I can stop a lot faster than they can, especially if they're futzing around with their stereo, or worse, their cell phone. A little extra room might just be the half-second I'd need to zip out of the way, to one side or the other, before some moron could climb up my exhaust pipe.

So that was the real reason I didn't dial my tension level all the way down. Even if I'd managed to convince myself that this job actually was turning out to be a piece of cake, with the bad guys who were supposedly going to knock me off and steal the backpack just being bits and pieces rolling around inside my client Dalby's imagination . . . even if that were the case, there was still just the simple reality that I was on a motorcycle, on the freeway. Any one of the surrounding cars or trucks or vans could kill me in a second, without even intending to. Just the facts of life or at least the end of it.

Plus . . . I still couldn't shake the feeling, that creepy-crawly uneasiness, that somebody was watching me. And they had been, since I'd first climbed on the bike, started it up, and headed out of Los Angeles. Maybe Dalby's rich-guy paranoia had rubbed off on me. I didn't have anything to lose or get stolen from me the way he did, but somehow I'd started thinking like that.

Screw it. I decided not to waste any more time trying to shake it off. I'd learned a long time ago, head trips like that just came with this territory. The trick was to not let them get out of hand and swell up so big inside your skull that you wound up frozen on the spot, unable to move, because you just knew that everything you saw was out to get you. That's how people like me, in my line of work, wind up sweating and wide-eyed in a little room in a fleabag hotel with the door barricaded and an a.r.s.enal laid out on the bed. And a SWAT team with flashing lights on their patrol vehicles down in the street below, and a police psychologist with a bullhorn negotiating with you while a department sniper draws a bead on your skull from the roof of the next building over . . .

It was something Cole had warned me about. You didn't want to stay in this business too long get in, build up your bankroll, then get out. Or you'd wind up crazy as he'd been. And he was dead now.

The same way I'd be dead, too, if I didn't start paying attention to what I was doing. I'd gotten a little too far into my head, thinking about stuff, the way you can get when you're just cruising in traffic. Going with the flow that's when you get into trouble.

Which I nearly did. I had to grab a handful of the bike's front brake when the truck in front of me suddenly slowed down. The bright red of his taillights cut through all my deep musing, pulling me back up into the real world. I came within a couple yards of his rear b.u.mper, which is way closer than I like to cut it.

Something else was going on, and I didn't like that, either.

When you're on the freeway, you get used to the constant noise surrounding you like you're at the beach, and sometimes you're listening to the waves rolling in and crashing on the sand, and other times you don't even hear that at all. But even on a sportbike like this Ninja, sitting right above the whine of the high-revving engine and with your ears covered by a full-face helmet, you know that traffic sound the overlapping roar of all the other vehicles filling the lanes is just a constant part of the environment. And you know when something in it changes, even just a little bit I heard, somewhere behind me, some other engine suddenly snarl louder. Sounded like a big one, too, something with a lot of torque a real muscle car, cylinders bored out to the limit and a barely legal straight-cut exhaust system. Whoever was behind the wheel downshifted hard, flooring the gas at the same time for some serious drag-race acceleration.

Glancing at my left mirror, I caught a glimpse of something sleek and red, with an old-school black manifold intake sticking up through the hood, and the windshield tinted shadowy dark. The car shoved its way into the middle lane, whipping around some SUV's right rear fender with only a couple inches for clearance.

I generally give morons like that a wide berth. Some guy with more testosterone than brains, who's seen way too many Fast & Furious movies and has mistaken all those high-speed special effects for actual reality I don't need the trouble of dealing with him. Especially if he's coming up right behind me sometimes those guys have a real hostility toward motorcycles, like they have a simmering grievance against anything that's faster off the line than they are, and they're just looking to hand out some kind of payback. I flicked my signal on with my thumb, then eased from the middle lane and over to the right, slowing down behind a Honda Civic with a child seat in back and a BABY ON BOARD sticker in the rear window. I'd just as soon have Mister Rocketman zoom on by me I don't have an ego thing about getting pa.s.sed and have his accident a dozen car lengths or so ahead, where I could just roll by it and keep on going.

That was the plan, at least but it didn't work out that way, this time. Another downshift, and the muscle car powered back into the left lane, skimming past the center divider and around another couple cars that had blocked it. Then a yank on the wheel sharp enough to get a blaring horn-blast from the sedan it barely squeezed past and it was in the center lane again, right next to me. Turning my head, I could see now that the speed demon was a shiny new 700-plus horsepower Dodge Challenger SRT h.e.l.lcat with the HEMI engine. Not cheap, but everything you need to get yourself and a whole bunch of other people killed real fast.

Which seemed to be the driver's agenda today. Through the dark tint of the pa.s.senger-side window, I could just make out the driver's silhouette and then he was on me.

Literally I heard the sharp machine-gun rattle of the Challenger's right front wheel across the white plastic dots between the lanes, then the gleaming red flank of his fender piled toward me.

Thank G.o.d I'd paid Julie for the anti-lock brakes on the new bike. My gloved right hand grabbed the front brake and squeezed it hard enough to smoke the tire. The sudden deceleration lifted me off the bike's seat, along the tank, and toward the windshield, while I jammed my boot down on the rear brake pedal.

When you slam to a halt like that on a motorcycle, the real danger is the back wheel breaking loose from its traction on the pavement, and the machine whipping around and slingshotting you ahead of it. I've done that, and it's not fun. The side of the Challenger was looming up ahead of me, inches away now, and my heart jumped into my throat as I felt that tiny shudder underneath me, of the rear tire fighting to keep its grip If I'd hit an oil patch at the side of the freeway, I would've gone down I know it. But the little side-to-side motion of the Ninja's rear wheel died as fast as it started, and the traction held. I kept piling on the brakes, flattening myself against the tank, and hoping to hang onto the bike, no matter what happened next.

I saw the Challenger's rear fender, taillight flaring, swerve toward my front wheel. I leaned the bike over to the right, just as I heard the thwack and crunch of the car's b.u.mper making contact. That was enough to push me over against the guardrail, cracking the bike's fairing and sc.r.a.ping my leg along the bolt-studded metal. But I'd scrubbed off enough speed by then, that I was able to keep the bike upright as it finally came to a halt.

That's the kind of action, over in a couple seconds, which gets your pulse racing fast enough to make you dizzy. There isn't time to see your whole life flash in front of your eyes, even when you're as young as I am. With the side of the bike resting against the guardrail, I sucked in a deep breath, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

"You all right?"

Check this the Challenger's driver actually had slammed the car to a halt, just in front of me. The freeway traffic streamed past as he pushed open his side door and slid out from behind the steering wheel.

"Me? Oh, I'm just fine " I confess, I was p.i.s.sed. "But what the h.e.l.l's wrong with you?" I'd already yanked off my helmet and held it by the strap as I leaned the bike onto its kickstand. "You could've killed me "

Already, you can probably tell the mistakes I was making here.

Don't get mad. More good advice Cole had given me. Survival's a cold thing.

That was my first screw-up. Something that comes with the motorcycle territory some idiot driver just about leaves you as a b.l.o.o.d.y smear on the asphalt, usually from just sheer carelessness, it tends to jack up your pulse rate.

The second screw-up was related to the first. More Cole: Something that doesn't usually happen? It's happening for a reason. And it's never a good one.

I should've remembered that. When a car driver nearly kills a motorcyclist, he always. .h.i.ts the gas and drives on he gets away from the scene ASAP. Sorry, but that's just the way it is. Especially if the guy is already in motion, like on the freeway. Unless there's actual metal-to-metal contact, something that leaves real evidence, like a crumpled fender with blood on it, so he might wind up in court on a hit-and-run charge he's gone, and the last he sees of you is a crumpled heap in his rearview mirror.

So there should've been an alarm bell ringing in my head that this guy had actually pulled over to the side of the freeway and gotten out of his muscle car to see if I was okay. Somebody does something like that maybe once in a million times, and when they do, it's a retired schoolteacher with an activated moral sense, not some testosterone case with a souped-up Dodge Challenger.

I mean, I could tell the guy was a typical moneyed meathead just from the way he looked as he came striding past his car's rear fender and toward me and the Ninja. Way taller than me, but would've been just about as skinny if he hadn't been bulked up with the kind of biceps and pecs that come from too much CrossFit and designer steroids. Expensive jeans, artfully faded and ripped at one knee, black T-shirt one size too tight, and those Nikes you have to make a reservation six months ahead to buy. He pushed his European shades up on top of his head as he approached.

"Really?" A smirk formed on his sharp-angled features. "I could've killed you? And that'd be a problem?"

"Yeah " I glared back at him, as the traffic in the right-hand land kept whizzing past us. "For me "

"No." The guy shook his head. "This is your problem."

He was quick, I gotta admit I didn't even see the blow coming. And it wasn't just because I'd let myself get angry and off my game. Somewhere along the line, this guy had gotten professional coaching, so he didn't signal his moves. One rapid-fire snap, and his fist hit the side of my jaw hard enough to lift me off my feet and send me flying backward.

I wasn't thinking much when I landed on the pavement, alongside the guardrail. The sneak punch hadn't knocked me out completely, but I wasn't going anywhere soon. I was vaguely aware of the clear blue sky in my field of vision, but I couldn't tell if it was above me or if I was falling down it like a hole in the ground. Maybe there was a tiny room inside my head, where part of me was thinking that this was all a little extreme for a case of road rage usually there's some shouting and arguing before a driver actually fires on you for what he believes is the crime of getting in his way.

The sky and the blazing Southern California sun was blocked for a moment as the guy stepped over me. Then I sensed his blurry outline as he leaned down one of his hands grabbed my shoulder and rolled me onto my side, as he stripped the backpack off me.

"Hey! Are you all right?"

The same d.a.m.n question. Every time you're lying there on the ground, obviously not enjoying yourself, and somebody out of the blue wants to know how you're doing. I'm fine, I was tempted to say, if I could've spoken at all my jaw was throbbing with a dull but ma.s.sive ache right about now. Just working on my tan.

But it was coming from somebody different. Not the guy with the Challenger and the muscles, who'd flattened me at least that had changed. I'd flopped again onto my back when he'd let go of me and managed to groggily raise my head, just enough to make out another vehicle, which had stopped up ahead at the side of the freeway. It was the paramedics van I'd pa.s.sed a little while ago. The crew inside must've seen what had happened, with me being shoved over to the side, and they'd pulled over to check if anyone had been injured. Which was nice of them, I had to admit but then again, that's the line of work they're in. I could see that the van's driver and his partner had climbed out and were heading toward me.

"Back off, jerks "

More weirdness from the Challenger guy, giving a murderous glare to the paramedics. He had the backpack dangling from one hand. The arrival of the paramedics had distracted him from whatever his next move was going to be.

I didn't care what the guy was trying to accomplish. My head was still spinning, with the scene around me fuzzing in and out of focus. But I was conscious and functioning well enough to roll over to one side, pull the .357 out of my jacket, and let off a shot in the general direction of the Challenger guy Amazing how quickly everything changes when you fire a gun. Even if you don't hit anything. There's the world before you pull the trigger, then there's the way it is afterward.

If nothing else, it gets everybody's attention. The guy's line of sight jumped toward me, his eyes widening as they caught hold of the big ugly weapon wavering in my grasp. That startled him enough that he nearly dropped the backpack. Before I could get off another shot, he scrambled away from me and toward his car.

I got to my feet, still wobbly. The only thought inside my head was that the guy had my delivery with him and if he got away with it, jamming on the Challenger's accelerator, then I wasn't going to get paid.

Which wasn't going to happen, if I could help it.

He'd left the engine running, but he didn't have time to get the car into gear, before I was at the pa.s.senger side window. There's a lot of solid ma.s.s to a .357 it's a big chunk of metal in your hand. And more than enough for me to bring the b.u.t.t of its grip hard against the window gla.s.s. The first blow was enough to spider-web the window, cracks running to the corners. The second blow sent pebbly bits of gla.s.s across the car's front seats. I leaned forward, holding the gun muzzle only a few feet away from the guy's face. He froze, hands gripping the wheel.

"Don't even think about hitting the gas," I told him. "I'll blow your head off before you touch the pedal."

"You're making a big mistake " His eyes narrowed to a seething glare.

"How many times have I heard that before." I reached in with my free hand and grabbed one of the straps of the backpack beside him. "And not just in the movies."

I straightened up, pulling both the .357 and the backpack out with me. "Get out of here " I waved him on with the gun. "If I see you on the road again, trust me, I'll get really b.i.t.c.hy about it."

That was just a quick calculation on my part, letting him go instead of putting a bullet between his eyes. I knew those paramedics were behind me, watching everything that was happening here. As a general rule, I try not to kill people when there are witnesses around. It complicates things.

He gave me another hard, lethal look then made his own calculation, about how much further he could push things. His right hand grabbed the gearshift and slammed it hard into first, just as he punched the accelerator. The Challenger took off so fast, my hair whipped across my face. I stepped back and tracked the car with a level swing of the .357 in my grip, just so he'd have one last good look at it in his mirror.

FIVE.

"You're bleeding "

I had managed to chase off the Challenger guy, and I was still holding on to the backpack that I was supposed to deliver in San Francisco, but I was functioning on autopilot. When time's critical, and you need to get business done fast, sometimes you have to whip out the piece without thinking.

"Come over here " One of the paramedics, baby-faced with a dirty blond crew cut, tugged at my arm. "We'll get that patched up."

That should've been my first clue. Same as my not picking up on there being something fishy with the Challenger guy, when he'd pulled over and stopped, rather than just speeding off after he'd run my motorcycle over against the freeway guardrail. Paramedics aren't cops they're not required to hang around when there are guns going off. And I was still holding one, dangling down at my side, with my other hand clamped tight on one of the backpack straps. These guys should've been inside their van, with the doors slammed shut, calling the police to get on the scene ASAP.

"Where?" I raised the backpack so I could run my hand over the side of my jaw, aching from where I'd gotten slugged. "Where am I bleeding?"

"Come on." The paramedic pulled me toward the back of their van. "It'll be okay. Nothing major "

I looked at my fingertips and didn't see any blood on them. What that meant, my stuck-in-neutral brain couldn't figure out. The adrenaline surge that had gotten me up on my feet, gun in hand, and s.n.a.t.c.hing the backpack from the Challenger guy that'd ebbed away, as fast as it'd come on. Some functioning part inside my head wanted to just climb back on board the Ninja, kick it into gear, and boot out of here as fast as possible. Another part figured that might not be such a good idea just yet, with the pavement still tilting and swaying under my feet. Wouldn't do any good to say the least for me to wobble back out into the middle of the freeway traffic and get flattened by some eighteen-wheeler.

Whatever given the state I was in, I couldn't even make the call. I let the paramedic lead me to the rear of the van.

Something was going on back there something I hadn't been expecting. My brain-rattled head cleared enough that I could see the van's rear doors were both flung open, and another couple of guys were unloading some big ungainly object. That made four of them, when you counted the driver I could still see behind the wheel, plus the one who was steering me over there. Way too many with that big a crew riding around in the van, plus whatever the h.e.l.l that thing was they'd brought with them, there'd barely be room to lay somebody out on a stretcher and get them to an emergency room. The oddball details were piling up faster than I could keep track.

Now I got a better look at the mystery object. The two guys who'd pulled it out of the van were now busily setting it up, unfolding bits and pieces and locking them into place. Shiny white, roughly square-shaped, with multibladed propellers at each corner it was some kind of an aerial drone, like you see on the news or on some website with lots of embedded YouTube videos. Not the military sort, those Predators that show up in coverage from some c.r.a.ppy part of the world, that shoot missiles at pickup trucks full of bearded men with Uzis and Kalashnikov rifles, and leave nothing but black, star-shaped burn marks on the ground. This one was more the sort you usually see with a video camera attached underneath, that can hover right outside the window of some posh hotel suite and peer inside, so high-tech paparazzi can get shots of celebs climbing on top of each other. The camera was missing on this one, though, with a pair of small grappling hooks in its place.

I didn't have time to wonder why a paramedics van would be carrying around a drone. Maybe these guys were off duty, and they were all heading out somewhere to play around with their expensive toy. The one who'd led me over to the van now pushed me down sitting at the edge of the open rear doors.

"Look " I started to stand back up. "I need to get going "

"Don't worry." The guy reached behind me, toward the equipment racked inside the van. "This'll fix everything."

Next thing I knew, he'd shoved me by one shoulder, flat down on the van floor. With his other hand, he slapped a breathing mask over my nose and mouth and held it there tight. I could hear, from somewhere behind me, the hiss of a pressurized gas cylinder's release valve being opened up.

That's probably the main thing about being the size I am which is not much. Even a weedy guy like this could get the upper hand on me. Or at least until I can do something about it. Maybe if I were bigger, they wouldn't automatically figure they could get away with it, and that'd save everybody a lot of trouble.

Whatever it was being pumped into the mask on my face, it had a sweet, solvent-like odor like somebody had squeezed a dozen tubes of airplane glue into a five-pound bag of sugar. For a second, with the first inhalation I took, my vision unfocused, and the van's interior pulsed outward as though it were a rubber balloon. My hands went limp, dropping both the .357 and the backpack's strap. I would've been completely gone if I'd taken a second breath of the gas Instead, I turned on one side and slammed my knee hard into the other guy's groin as he leaned over me. That produced a sudden and gratifying gasp of pain from him his eyes went wide in shock as he doubled over. The hand that had been clamping the mask to my face now folded around his crotch. Which was mainly what I'd wanted to happen the mask flopped around on the van floor like a tethered b.u.t.terfly, as I cleared my head with a deep lungful of air.

If I'd still had the .357 in my hand, I would've made sure that this guy wasn't going to cause me any more trouble. I wouldn't even have had to fire it just stick it in his face. But before I could jump down to the pavement and find where I'd dropped the gun, he recovered enough to throw an arm around my neck and wrestle me onto my back. I grabbed at his forearm with both hands, prying it far enough away from my throat so I could keep breathing.